Dave McCullough - Singles Column - Sounds - September 6 1980

 

Rock Foulies - Sounds - December 24 1977

 

Dave McCullough - Singles Page - December 16 1978

 

John Mendelsohn - The Stooges debut album - Los Angeles Times - 1969

Well, we can't always be right. I have a few like this (dismissing Nirvana not once but twice - the first time for being too fussy-sounding, the second for their knackered war-horse riffs)

John M appears to have changed his mind at some point because he was the one wot played the Stooges to David Bowie when the latter was over in America touring - with world-historic consequences

I seem to be one of the only people in the world who enjoys "We Will Fall"  - even fans of this album think that that tune is its sole doldrum

Jack Good - Beyond Realism in Recording - Disc (1960)

The current number one recording in the States is a disc that would never have got past the selection committee in any British recording company. Of that I am sure.

Not that it could possibly have been made over here. No self-respecting British recording engineer would have made a record like this. He would rather resign his job. Nor would any British A and R man conceive a record in terms of the one that tops the American charts.

It just breaks all the technical rules, and runs counter to every idea of progress in recording techniques.

This record is fuzzy, muzzy and distorted. According to present day technical standards it is appalling. If this record is good, then for the last ten or so years the pop industry has been wearing blinkers.

However, for my money, the disc is not just good, it's sensational and revolutionary. It is now released by Top Rank and is called "Quarter To Three," by Ulysses Samuel Bonds.

A few weeks back, I commented on the difficulty for a first-time winner to achieve a hit follow-up, and I quoted U. S. Bonds as an example of one of the artists who bit the dust on his second attempt. "New Orleans" was a knock-out, but what a disappointment when "But Not Me" followed. It didn't mean a light.

Bonds was marked down as a flash in the pan. "Quarter To Three" changes all that. The pan is sizzling up to flash-point again. This disc is so exciting that for your health's sake, you should restrict the number of plays you give it to three times a day -- and never during or after meals!

But it is not the record itself that is the most important thing. It is the light it throws on the limitations of the current approach to the business of making pop records.

For some years now, the technical side of recording has been concerned exclusively with realism. The tremendous progress in recording techniques and equipment has made this trend inevitable.

Records have been made of ping-pong matches, railway trains and even road drills. And they sold in thousands. People who would write fierce letters to the council to complain about road drills in the street outside their homes, flooded to pay two pounds for the privilege of hearing them reproduced to the last thud and splutter in their front rooms.

Exactly the same thing happened when painters discovered perspective. They became so engrossed in the fun of cheating the eye into believing it was not looking at a painting, but through a window, that they forgot all about making pictures.

After realism -- exact reproduction of nature -- follows surrealism, where the techniques of realism are transferred to a world of fantasy. The eye of the old man in the painting is still painted with eye-cheating accuracy. But it just happens to be painted in the middle of his forehead. Surrealism came to recording with Rock'n'Roll.

Echo-machines, limiters, equalisers, tape delay, were all employed to transform the sounds being made in the studio into noises that were even more real, more compelling. more immediate and exciting than reality itself.

Echo-chambers gave small voices the sound of rich reverberating ones. A tap on a drum was converted by the engineer's magic, to the sound of a ten-foot giant hitting a six-foot tom-tom. A new sound-world of fantasy was built up. But the style was only realism, carried to a higher plane of imagination.

Now Ulysses Samuel Bonds introduces a new era of pop-recording. Realism and Surrealism is old hat. Impressionism is the thing.

"Quarter To Three" is clearly not interested in reproducing the sounds of a band and a voice, of a group chanting and clapping in the background. These things are only useful as a canvas upon which an impression can be painted of the changing textures of sound itself . . . the thickness of it, the muffled reverberations, the vibrant roughness of it.

This is a whole new sound world. Not perhaps the sound of music, but the sound of sound. And the possibilities for development are endless and fascinating.

And after that? Abstract and Formalist recording must inevitably follow. And then ? Action Recording, of course.

(one of record producer / TV producer JACK GOOD's weekly columns in Disc magazine, 1960)

Dave McCullough - James - Sounds - October 29 1983

 

David Stubbs - Cocteau Twins - Melody Maker - November 9 1991

 

Dave McCullough - singles column - Sounds - November 24 1979

 

David Stubbs - Singles column, with Disco Inferno and Main as SOTWs - Melody Maker - November 23 1991

bonus beat - Disco Inferno featurette by Dave Simpson

 

Jon Savage - Singels / Signels column - Sounds - November 5 1977

 

Anti-Pantheon One-Off - Bob Dylan on Elvis Costello, from The Philosophy of Modern Song

Yeuch thanks but no thanks Bob for that glimpse into your psyche 

Apart from that, simply one of the worst bits of music-writing I've ever read. 

The first longer bit is almost as bad. 

Bonus Dylan shitewrite, mystifyingly singled out for its excellence, by UK reviewer: The Clash, "London Calling". Not actively execrable like the Costello but surpassingly mediocre. 

Jon Savage - Sex Pistols - Never Mind the Bollocks - November 5 1977 - Sounds

 

Brian Eno - Scents and Sensibility - Details - July 1992

 

David Stubbs - Spacemen 3 - Recurring - Melody Maker - February 23 1991

 

Vladimir Nabokov reviews the Western Canon

Vladimir Nabokov's opinions on various writers, culled from Strong Opinions.

Auden, W. H. Not familiar with his poetry, but his translations contain deplorable blunders.

Austen, Jane. Great.

Balzac, Honoré de. Mediocre. Fakes realism with easy platitudes.

Barbusse, Henri. Second-rate. A tense-looking but really very loose type of writing.

Barth, John.

"Lost in the Funhouse." A particular favorite. Lovely swift speckled imagery.

Beckett, Samuel. Author of lovely novellas and wretched plays.

Molloy. Favorite work by Beckett.

Malone Dies. A favorite work by Beckett.

The Unnamable. A favorite work by Beckett.

Bely, Andrei.

Petersburg. Third-greatest masterpiece of 20th century prose. A splendid fantasy.

Bergson, Henri. A favorite between the ages of 20 and 40, and thereafter.

Blok, Alexander. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, and thereafter. Passionately fond of his lyrics, but his long pieces are weak.

The Twelve. Dreadful. Self-consciously couched in a phony "primitive" tone, with a pink cardboard Jesus Christ glued on at the end.

Borges, Jorge Luis. A favorite. How freely one breathes in his marvelous labyrinths! Lucidity of thought, purity of poetry. A man of infinite talent.

Brecht, Bertolt. A nonentity, means absolutely nothing to me.

Brooke, Rupert. A favorite between the ages of 20 and 40, but no longer.

Browning, Robert. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, and thereafter.

Bryusov, Valery. Indifferent to his works.

Camus, Albert. Dislike him. Second-rate, ephemeral, puffed-up. A nonentity, means absolutely nothing to me. Awful.

Carroll, Lewis. Have always been fond of him. One would like to have filmed his picnics. The greatest children's story writer of all time.

Céline, Louis-Ferdinand. Second-rate. A tense-looking but really very loose type of writing.

Cervantes, Miguel de.

Don Quixote. A cruel and crude old book.

Cheever, John.

"The Country Husband." A particular favorite. Satisfying coherence.

Chekhov, Anton. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, and thereafter. Talent, but not genius. Love him dearly, but cannot rationalize that feeling.

Chernyshevsky, Nikolai. His fate is moving, but his works are risible.

Chesterton, G. K. A favorite between the ages of 8 and 14. Essentially a writer for very young people. Romantic in the large sense.

Conan Doyle, Arthur. A favorite between the ages of 8 and 14, but no longer. Essentially a writer for very young people. Romantic in the large sense.

Conrad, Joseph. A favorite between the ages of 8 and 14. Essentially a writer for very young people. Certainly inferior to Hemingway and Wells. Intolerable souvenir-shop style, romanticist clichés. Nothing I would care to have written myself. In mentality and emotion, hopelessly juvenile. Romantic in the large sense. Slightly bogus.

Dostoevsky, Fyodor. Dislike him. A cheap sensationalist, clumsy and vulgar. A prophet, a claptrap journalist and a slapdash comedian. Some of his scenes are extraordinarily amusing. Nobody takes his reactionary journalism seriously.

The Double. His best work, though an obvious and shameless imitation of Gogol's "Nose."

The Brothers Karamazov. Dislike it intensely.

Crime and Punishment. Dislike it intensely. Ghastly rigmarole.

Douglas, Norman. A favorite between the ages of 20 and 40, and thereafter.

Dreiser, Theodore. Dislike him. A formidable mediocrity.

Eliot, T. S. Not quite first-rate.

Emerson, Ralph Waldo. His poetry is delightful.

Faulkner, William. Dislike him. Writer of corncobby chronicles. To consider them masterpieces is an absurd delusion. A nonentity, means absolutely nothing to me.

Flaubert, Gustave. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, and thereafter. Read complete works between 14 and 15.

Forster, E. M. Only read one of his novels (possibly A Passage to India?) and disliked it.

Freud, Sigmund. A figure of fun. Loathe him. Vile deceit. Freudian interpretation of dreams is charlatanic, and satanic, nonsense.

Galsworthy, John. A formidable mediocrity.

García Lorca, Federico. Second-rate, ephemeral, puffed-up.

Gogol, Nikolai. Nobody takes his mystical didacticism seriously. At his worst, as in his Ukrainian stuff, he is a worthless writer; at his best, he is incomparable and inimitable. Loathe his moralistic slant, am depressed and puzzled by his inability to describe young women, deplore his obsession with religion.

Gold, Herbert.

"Death in Miami Beach." A particular favorite.

Gorky, Maxim. A formidable mediocrity.

Hawthorne, Nathaniel. A splendid writer.

Hellens, Franz. Very important.

La femme partagee. Like it particularly.

Hemingway, Ernest. A writer of books for boys. Certainly better than Conrad. Has at least a voice of his own. Nothing I would care to have written myself. In mentality and emotion, hopelessly juvenile. Loathe his works about bells, balls, and bulls.

The Killers. Delightful, highly artistic. Admirable.

The Old Man and the Sea. Wonderful. The description of the iridescent fish and rhythmic urination is superb.

Housman, A. E. A favorite between the ages of 20 and 40, and thereafter.

Ilf and Petrov. Two wonderfully gifted writers. Absolutely first-rate fiction.

Ivanov, Georgy. A good poet but a scurrilous critic.

James, Henry. Dislike him rather intensely, but now and then his wording causes a kind of electric tingle. Certainly not a genius.

Joyce, James. Great. A favorite between the ages of 20 and 40, and thereafter. Let people compare me to Joyce by all means, but my English is patball to Joyce's champion game. A genius.

Ulysses. A divine work of art. Greatest masterpiece of 20th century prose. Towers above the rest of Joyce's writing. Noble originality, unique lucidity of thought and style. Molly's monologue is the weakest chapter in the book. Love it for its lucidity and precision.

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Never liked it. A feeble and garrulous book.

Finnegans Wake. A formless and dull mass of phony folklore, a cold pudding of a book. Conventional and drab, redeemed from utter insipidity only by infrequent snatches of heavenly intonations. Detest it. A cancerous growth of fancy word-tissue hardly redeems the dreadful joviality of the folklore and the easy, too easy, allegory. Indifferent to it, as to all regional literature written in dialect. A tragic failure and a frightful bore.

Kafka, Franz.

The Metamorphosis. Second-greatest masterpiece of 20th century prose.

Kazantzakis, Nikos. Second-rate, ephemeral, puffed-up.

Keats, John. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, and thereafter.

Khodasevich, Vladislav. The greatest Russian poet of his time.

Kipling, Rudyard. A favorite between the ages of 8 and 14. Essentially a writer for very young people. Romantic in the large sense.

Lawrence, D. H. Second-rate, ephemeral, puffed-up. Mediocre. Fakes realism with easy platitudes. Execrable.

Lowell, Robert. Not a good translator. A greater offender than Auden.

Mandelshtam, Osip. A wonderful poet, the greatest in Soviet Russia. His poems are admirable specimens of the human mind at its deepest and highest. Not as good as Blok. His tragic fate makes his poetry seem greater than it actually is.

Mann, Thomas. Dislike him. Second-rate, ephemeral, puffed-up.

Death in Venice. Asinine. To consider it a masterpiece is an absurd delusion. 

Poshlost. Mediocre, but anyway plausible.

Maupassant, Guy de. Certainly not a genius.

Maugham, W. Somerset. Mediocre. Fakes realism with easy platitudes. Certainly not a genius.

Melville, Herman. Love him. One would like to have filmed him at breakfast, feeding a sardine to his cat.

Marx, Karl. Loathe him.

Milton, John. A genius.

Odoevsky, Vladimir. Indifferent to his works.

Yury Olesha. Some absolutely first-rate fiction.

Orczy, Baroness Emmuska.

The Scarlet Pimpernel. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, but no longer.

Pasternak, Boris. An excellent poet, but a poor novelist.

Doctor Zhivago. Detest it. Melodramatic and vilely written. To consider it a masterpiece is an absurd delusion. Pro-Bolshevist, historically false. A sorry thing, clumsy, trivial, melodramatic, with stock situations and trite coincidences.

Pirandello, Luigi. Never cared for him.

Plato. Not particularly fond of him.

Poe, Edgar Allan. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, but no longer. One would like to have filmed his wedding.

Pound, Ezra. Definitely second-rate. A total fake. A venerable fraud.

Proust, Marcel. A favorite between the ages of 20 and 40, and thereafter.

In Search of Lost Time. The first half is the fourth-greatest masterpiece of 20th-century prose.

Pushkin, Alexander. A favorite between the ages of 20 and 40, and thereafter. A genius.

Eugene Onegin. A great poem. Walter Arndt's translation is abominable.

Queneau, Raymond.

Exercises de style. A thrilling masterpiece, one of the greatest stories in French literature.

Zazie. Very fond of it.

Ransom, John Crowe.

Captain Carpenter. Admire this poem.

Rimbaud, Arthur. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, and thereafter.

Robbe-Grillet, Alain. Great. A favorite. How freely one breathes in his marvelous labyrinths! Lucidity of thought, purity of poetry. Magnificently poetical and original.

Rolland, Romain. A formidable mediocrity.

Salinger, J. D. By far one of the finest artists in recent years.

"A Perfect Day for Bananafish." A great story. A particular favorite.

Sartre, Jean-Paul. Even more awful than Camus.

Nausea. Second-rate. A tense-looking but really very loose type of writing.

Schwartz, Delmore.

"In Dreams Begin Responsibilities." A particular favorite.

Schweitzer, Albert. Detest him.

Shakespeare, William. Read complete works between 14 and 15. One would like to have filmed him in the role of the King's Ghost. His verbal poetic texture is the greatest the world has ever known, and immensely superior to the structure of his plays as plays. It is the metaphor that is the thing, not the play. A genius.

Sterne, Laurence. Love him.

Sue, Eugène. Melodramatic, second-rate.

Tagore, Rabindranath. A formidable mediocrity.

Tolstoy, Aleksey. A writer of some talent with two or three science fiction stories or novels which are memorable.

Tolstoy, Leo. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, and thereafter. Read complete works between 14 and 15. Nobody takes his utilitarian moralism seriously. A genius.

Anna Karenina. Incomparable prose artistry. The supreme masterpiece of 19th-century literature.

The Death of Ivan Ilyich. A close second to Anna Karenina.

Resurrection. Detest it.

The Kreutzer Sonata. Detest it.

War and Peace. A little too long. A rollicking historical novel written for the general reader, specifically for the young. Artistically unsatisfying. Cumbersome messages, didactic interludes, artificial coincidences. Uncritical of its historical sources.

Turgenev, Ivan. Talent, but not genius.

Tyutchev, Fyodor. A great lyrical poet.

Updike, John. By far one of the finest artists in recent years. Like so many of his stories that it is difficult to choose one.

"The Happiest I've Been." A particular favorite.

Verlaine, Paul. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, and thereafter.

Verne, Jules.

Around the World in Eighty Days. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, but no longer.

Wells, H. G. A favorite between the ages of 10 and 15, and thereafter. A great artist, my favorite writer when I was a boy. His sociological cogitations can be safely ignored, but his romances and fantasies are superb. A far greater artist than Conrad. A writer for whom I have the deepest admiration.

The Passionate Friends. Better than anything any of Wells' contemporaries would produce.

Ann Veronica. Better than anything any of Wells' contemporaries would produce.

The Time Machine. Better than anything any of Wells' contemporaries would produce. Especially good.

The Country of the Blind. Better than anything any of Wells' contemporaries would produce. Especially good.

The Invisible Man. Especially good.

The War of the Worlds. Especially good.

The First Men on the Moon. Especially good.

Wilbur, Richard.

"Complaint." A piece of great poetry.

Wilde, Oscar. Rank moralist and didacticist. A favorite between the ages of 8 and 14. Essentially a writer for very young people. Romantic in the large sense.

Wolfe, Thomas. Second-rate, ephemeral, puffed-up.

Zabolotsky, Nikolai. Enormously gifted.

Zamyatin, Yevgeny. Indifferent to his works.

Zoshchenko, Mikhail. Some absolutely first-rate fiction.

Interesting (and rhythmically pleasing) the way N repeats the appraisals. It creates a cumulative humor effect -  especially when he wheels out the same insults - it is somehow even more insulting, as if the writer wasn’t worth coming up with a unique and particular dismissal. 

Paddy Macaloon (and other Prefabs) reviews the singles - Record Mirror - April 7 1984

 

Green Gartside - Singles column - Melody Maker - 1982

 

Richard Meltzer blurb for Chris Desjardins collection

 

For someone who thinks rockwrite is a total waste of time, kinda funny that RM is most entertaining and insightful / inciteful when writing about rockwriters (e.g. those Lester Bangs memories, slagging off his more famous peers etc)