For mythology, just add milk

November 15, 2009

I went shopping (in Whole Foods in Kensington) and I bought some milk, and some earnestly packaged cereal.

Whole Earth cereal prides itself on being organic, ethical- implying healthy living and a sense of wellness. Where Kellogg’s cereals are explosive, multicoloured, and playful affairs, Whole Earth suggests a rarified breakfast made of natural products. The packaging isn’t garish. Instead, the solemnity of farming procedures is countered with animated adjectives like ‘crispy’ and ‘crunchy’. There is no distance between your witnessing the natural state of the corn in the packaging to it arriving in your bowl. The arrow pointing towards the corn is very important- with Kellogg’s cereals, there is no way of telling whether the corn involved is corn at all. Instead of blindly consuming ‘pseudo-corn’, Whole Earth invites the consumer to replicate the thoughts and feelings of the farmer as he surveys his crops: there is a direct connection between consumer and the product, a sensuous pride in your harvesting the supermarket shelves efficiently. It suggests that luxury is experienced by a return to a hearty, rustic, existence like the dignity of serfdom.

Whole Earth cereals are free from the burning sensation that we associate with gluten. Instead of being abrasive and sugar coated, Whole Earth cereals ease you into your morning- a breakfast show hosted by Terry Wogan rather than the Chris Moyles employed by Kellogg’s. Instead of dulling your brains or mutilating your senses with E numbers, the implication here is that Whole Earth cereals are exclusively fibrous. They will help your metabolism, instilling an order in your body, rather than declaring war on your colon. We imagine imperfect, natural, rough qualties coarsing through us. We congratulate ourselves for having made ‘the right choice’.

Ultimately, natural sense data is only afforded to the consumer if you have the money to pay for it. Health- and 4 grams worth of fibre- is for the rich, emulsifiers are for the poor and ugly.



November 14, 2009

‘We are not satisfied with the life we have in ourselves and our own being. We want to live an imaginary life in the eyes of others, and so we try to make an impression. We strive constantly to embellish and preserve our imaginary being, and neglect the real one. And if we are calm, or generous, or loyal, we are anxious to have it known so that we can attach these virtues to our other existence; we prefer to detach them from our real self so as to unite them with the other.’

Blaise Pascal is eating up my time, and he denigrates the worth of my blog.


November 13, 2009

The New York Post is the Daily Mail is Tunbridge Wells is the lingering bile of Eisenhower-era instructional films.


November 11, 2009

Jamaica/Jamaica is the place to go.

I fucking love Calypso.


November 11, 2009

You haven’t lived until you’ve witnessed a lisping Bengali pharmacist criticise, and ritualistically persecute, a Somali woman for having unruly kids. On this occasion, they hadn’t taken their seats when told to and had knocked over a few bottles of surgical spirit. Both parties defended their own positions using swaggering Cockney terminology translated directly from their own languages.

E1 is more fun.

Times New Viking

I managed to miss the deadline for all the albums and singles I was reviewing for Artrocker issue 96. My apologies to all involved, especially one Cindy Suzuki who wrote up everything that I failed to. However, my review of Times New Viking’s gig at Cargo in late September did make it in. Therefore, I implore everyone to spend a measly £3.50 from any good newsagents and turn to page 75.

My favourite line was, unfortunately, cut from the article:

‘Over the course of their four albums, Times New Viking have fashioned a hazy porridge of sound, like a serving of Nurofen and clotted cream guzzled from a retro blender.

I agree- that sentence is unadulterated, yet entirely accurate, wank. The problem with being post-ironic is that you’re never appreciated in your own lifetime. Poking around the wildly kitsch junk shops just off the Bethnal Green Road is a truly joyful experience. However, it doesn’t mean that that sensation can be translated into print. No matter how tempted, or enthralled, you are by the products of late-’50s and early-’60s consumerism and commodity fetishism, it may prove to be for the best to retain those desires as private obsessions.


November 4, 2009

Again, I stole this from Vice. This time from their music blog.

Mayhem are ultimately the product of seasonally affective neo-Nazism. There’s a reason The Byrds didn’t sound like this, or act, like this particular bundle of Norwegian youths. Euronymous and his brood soundtrack numerous squirming Sadean fantasies- attempting to cut teeth with scissors, the sound of nails on a ‘chalkboard’ made from assorted bodyparts extracted from your ‘loved ones’, miscellaneous ‘Patrick Bateman-isms’. This is the sound of the hellish nightmares of a stern-faced Catholic childhood- all half-formed humans squirming in an endless abyss, with a break clause in fucking infinity.