A little while ago, Miss Yasmin and I were discussing the idea of designing a Tarot deck. That was bouncing around in my brain today when I did this. Hope you like it.
'Hierophant' 8x10 Digital Painting by Chris Richards 25/10/2009
Got feedback? Fling me an email, or leave a comment.
Ok, If you didn’t know already, I have been DJing and doing other musical stuffs for a good few years now. Lately I’ve been getting back into it, and as a result you can now download one of my megamixes! Hurray! The site address is over here at Uploaded.To, an online file storage and download site who provide their services for free and are therefore awesometastic people.
If you have any feedback, please feel free to leave them in the comments section of the post. An dlastly, if you know someone who might enjoy listening to it, either point them to the download url or make them a copy – because it’s always more fun to share your toys. 
It’s a rainy Sunday afternoon. The sky in beautiful Brisvegas is dark and heavy with the sort of clouds that promise much, but deliver little. Here and there, a patch of silver shining against the gray as a futile shaft of light or two momentarily pierce the penumbra.
I love afternoons like this. The kind where you can just kick back on the verandah, nursing a whiskey, watching the clouds rolling across the sky. The perfect excuse to just sit, motionless, for hours on end.
It’s also times like this that some appropriate music comes in handy . . .
I love these guys. Champions of the introspective post-rock genre. This track is called Superheroes Of BMX, from their EP+6 release.
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Sometimes I think it’s amazing that a band that operates as a collective with nineteen members in it would be able to function at all, nevermind as well as Canadian group Broken Social Scene. This is Anthems For A Seventeen-Year-Old Girl.
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The amazing Kaki King, performing a track called Goby. Did you know that the producers of the film August Rush used her hands for the closeups of Freddie Highmore playing guitar? Amazing.
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Another amazing guitarist – incidentally, the guy that taught Kirk Hammett (Metallica) and Steve Vai how to play guitar. I’ve been a longtime fan of his stuff – in fact, he was one of first people to influence me to play guitar.
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Tricky was originally thrust into the listening ears of the public contributing some rhymes to Massive Attack’s seminal Blue Lines album. This track is off his solo album Maxinquaye, abd features the gorgeous, honey-toned vocals of Martina Topley-Bird.
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Another slowed-but-smooth classic. Portishead, along with the previous band, pretty much defined trip-hop for a lot of people, including me. This is from their second album.
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Acid jazz has always been a favourite genre of mine, and this is a perfect laid-back track for a laid-back day.This is Jimi Tenor, from his album Innervision.
I’d love to hear form you with your ‘rainy day tracks’ – fling me a reply or a URL to some music or a video.
“They don’t just put somebody with one little hit on the cover of Rolling Stone fucking magazine, man!”
– Jeff Bebe, lead singer of Stillwater, in Cameron Crowe’s Almost Famous
I beg to differ. The covers of the last two issues of Rolling Stone:
Hmph.
-Chris Richards
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Follow my rancid little diatribes as the invincible @godofbacon on Twitter.
ALBUM REVIEW: THE BLACKOUT – “THE BEST IN TOWN” (EPITAPH)
Well, blow me down. Here was I thinking that emo/screamo stuff was strictly a phenomenon confined to disaffected American kids. How wrong I can be sometimes. These guys come from somewhere unpronounceable in Wales (Merthyr Tidfil, I think), and it sounds like they could show their American contemporaries how to do things. In fact, I’d go out on a limb and compare this release to the impact of Manic Street Preachers’ “Generation Terrorists”, another album by another awesome Welsh band which reviatlises a genre rife with cliches by giving it a bloody good kick in the teeth.
On “The Best in Town”, their first album for Epitaph, the Blackout blast through ten songs that deal with the usual topics of heartbreak, betrayal, isolation, and frustration with romance and society. They have a familiar sound (sweetly sung vs. rabidly screamed vocals, heavy riffing, cavernous drums, and great walls of processed guitars), but this belies a fresh and vigorous feel that keeps your attention rivetted throughout.
At times, it feels as though you’re listening to a strange metal hybrid with many of the songs leaning towards the metal side of things, but this can be countered by the fact that these guys certainly know how to pump out a good riff, and they let the riffs fly with glorious abandon. The tracks “Shut-the-F**k-Uppercut,” “The Fire,” and “We’re Going to Hell…So Bring the Sunblock” are prime examples of this metal edge, but still gleam and glimmer with a melodic feel. “Save Our Selves (The Warning)” and “Children of the Night”, onn the other hand, tend to lean towards the emo-pop side of things – slick production, almost cliched lyrics – but there’s enough growl and fire to zap these weak spots and turn them into elements of power and beauty. The metallic riffs that pop up in even the most melodic songs help keep things interesting. In fact, the only time the album falters is when the sap gets a little too thick in the track “Silent (When We Speak)”, which veers dangerously towards power-ballad territory.
On the whole though, “The Best in Town” shows this young band breaking free of the inherent limitations of an accepted and established style by deconstructing each part, seeing how it works, putting it back together with a healthy dose of C-4 plastique and sending it back out into the world to unexpectedly explode in your face. And the end result is an album which should leave sad sacks like A Simple Plan and 30 Seconds To Mars scratching their heads and saying “Why the hell didn’t *WE* do something that good?” Pretty damn awesome.
MUSICIANSHIP – 9/10
SONGWRITING – 7/10
PRODUCTION – 9/10
TOTAL – 25/30
OMG Moments: 4
Check it out at http://bit.ly/jHErk
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Chris Richards
Follow my rancid little diatribes as the invincible @godofbacon on Twitter.
One of the most enigmatic episodes in her career, an incident that still amuses and perplexes admirers and critics alike, is the strange call placed to her mobile phone amidst the shooting of her debut into the adult video world – the now famous, homemade, seemingly unauthorised film in which, in the absence of a more complex or coherent script, she engages in rather half-hearted sex with her then-boyfriend.
Boasting a grainy, inferior, almost monochromatic quality that augments its’ authenticity, the crudely-titled ‘One Night In Paris’ – the obvious ambiguity of the proper noun accentuated by the preceding preposition and its’ implication of penetration – opens with a single-shot sequence that follows the 19-year-old heroine through her first attempt at pleasing a man on camera. Kneeling before the hotel room sofa in which her partner is ensconced and wearing nothing but a pair of black lace-trimmed boyshorts, she handles his belt buckle and zipper with remarkable dexterity; cupping his impressive erection with the spindly fingers that have become her trademark. Her lips, lustrous and succulent, are eager to accept his manhood, her hungry tongue caressing the engorged member.
And then, just before the action peaks and the scene reaches its’ predictable climax, her phone rings.
An intriguing and controversial figure, the young heiress, actress, singer, model, author, businesswoman and self-professed spoiled princess seems to enjoy keeping her fans, as the phrase has it, in the dark. Speculations concerning the identity of the caller include, in no specific order: her mother, unaware, of course, of the whereabouts or actions of her daughter at the time of the call; her father who, having received information regarding the apparent intention of the unruly scion to document her lovemaking routine for future distribution on digital video, was determined to issue a last-minute warning – a harsh admonition which, as friends of the family would later tell the press, contained the implied threat of disinheritance; an anonymous co-conspirator, hired by the party girl herself to give her a premeditated, well-rehearsed, perfectly-timed ring that would, she hoped, enhance her image as a busy, popular socialite; a random friend; a telemarketer; and, naturally, a wrong number.
In any event, the call, though understandabloy distracting, managed to solicit from the rising starlet the conditioned, practically reflexive response that provided her only line in an otherwise non-speaking part: “Let me get my phone.” Equally spontaneous was her partner’s reply, an unforgettable retort that injected the conversation with a certain sense of balance: “Fuck your phone.”
Regardless of the on-screen impasse between female interlocutor and her male counterpart, the dialogue itself is nothing short of brilliant. The show-stopping imperative, a forceful command cleverly disguised as a polite request, is followed by the exclamatory complaint of an emasculated bedfellow, a resounding cry of genuine, almost tragic frustration. A snappy, powerful, wonderfully succint exchange, it testifies, more than anything, to the sinister omnipresence of wireless technology in our lives; its’ merciless invasion of the inner sanctum of our sexual privacy, and the helplessness of humanity at the face of an endless, relentless disruption of intimate activities.
It’s ironic, of course, that the great intruder, the encroaching celebrity who plagues our airwaves with her ubiquitous presence, has fallen victim to an invasion of privacy similar to the one which she inflicts upon the public on an almost daily basis. In that sense, Paris Hilton becomes the perfect sorceress, the alluring yet evil woman whose private practices fascinate, impinge on, and ensnare the community in which she lives. “Despite her personal insignificance,” Rene Girard is famous for saying, “a witch is engaged in activities that can potentially affect the whole of society.”
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Chris Richards
ALBUM REVIEW: Morrissey – Years Of Refusal (2009, Dekka/Polydor[UK], Attack/Lost Highway [US])
I’m not ashamed to say that I love Morrissey. I think he’s awesome. But some of the love wore off a bit after the last album. But this one proves that I was a foolish, foolish man to doubt. This effort is a beautiful, great, thundering guitar-thumping rock epic, truly worthy of the man himself.
On the surface, Morrissey’s ninth studio album sounds like he’s realised that he’s got a lot more to give than the last album. He really sounds revitalised, ready to flex those rock muscles after the rather limp ‘Ringleader of the Tormentors’ with a frantic urgency, a completely revitalised voice and a beautifully written album redolent with the full force of his chest-beating, grudge-bearing, elegantly-worded best.
Morrissey’s voice is amazing. It’s more powerful than any of his recent releases – you can really hear it on ‘It’s Not Your Birthday Any More’, a searing track co-written with longtime collaborator Alain Whyte. The lyrics are as powerful and biting as ever, burning with the amazing wit, verbage and style he’s been famous for, and it all comes together beautifully. He sounds like he’s stripping off a piece of his soul. You really believe in his plaintive, tortured, beautiful wail with every word you hear, with every sentence he writes.
Speaking of writing, it won’t take you long into the album when you realise it turns out that even though Alain Whyte doesn’t actually play on the album, the songwriting partnership is still as strong as ever. The elegance of Morrissey’s songwriting is in the perfectly-worded one-line observation, delivered with a charming accent and a hidden sneer. And it’s here with an absolute vengeance on this album. There’s almost a concentrated effort of fire and venom – He sounds like a man with a verbal score to settle, and it’s what makes this album so damn GOOD. It definitely as though he’s gone back to the days of the fiery proselytising of 2004’s “You Are The Quarry”.
This latest album has an amazing rock production value, thanks to the powerful yet-polished sound added by the late, lamented Jerry Finn , the producer of all sorts of stuff from the gleeful exuberance of Green Day’s ‘Dookie’ to the hefty rock-solid sound on The Living End’s awesome debut, with stuff like The Alkaline Trio, Madness and Bad Religion in there as well. And now his final album is worthy of a place up there with the best of them before suffering a fatal cerebral haemhorrage. Before I sound too arselicky, let me just say that this is not just another Morrissey album, not by any stretch of the rope. He’s updated the powerful polish-and-punch of 2004’s ‘Quarry’ With something special.
As I said, an album worthy of the man himself – big whinger that he is, I love him all over again.
Songwriting: 10/10
Production: 8/10
Musicianship: 7.5/10
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TOTAL – 25.5
OMG Moments – 6
Check it out at: http://bit.ly/M1smk
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Chris Richards
Follow my rancid little diatribes as the invincible @godofbacon on Twitter.
You know what? At the end of the day, I’ll defend my right to call gay men “fags,” because despite whatever authority we’ve given the word, it’s still just that: a word.
I don’t believe in the power of words. My parents raised me in a bakery, where ‘cunt’ is literally a word your mother and father would use to describe the weather or the car: ‘That cunting car won’t start!’ And I come from a Catholic education where the nuns were always telling you, ‘Don’t do this, dont say this.’ So any time anyone tells me I shouldn’t say something, my reaction is, ‘Why not?’
I’m certainly not a homphobe. I do know, however, that simply using the word “fag” doesn’t automatically make someone a homophobe any more than simply using the word “nigger,” irrespective of context, automatically makes someone a racist. I get that it’s sometimes tough to tell a person’s intent simply by his or her language – and that the knee-jerk inclination might be to make broadstroke declarations banning anything that anyone may find offensive – but that’s when it’s best to consider the source. I’m a blogger and a humourist. Only a moron – or, more likely, someone looking for something to be pissed about – would read one of my diatribes and expect not to have his or her magnanimity challenged. My stuff isn’t designed to be everyone’s cup of tea and neither is it supposed to change the world. If you really think a blog entitled “Ranting About Stuff – Because Fuck You, That’s Why” should be meta-tagged as ’self-help’ for Google searches, you need to have your head examined. It’s meant to be funny. It’s a fucking joke.
And if it’s one you don’t particularly appreciate, then by all means don’t read it.
Yep, they’re over. It’s back to school for my daughter. And, unfortunately, back to the usual routine of custody for my sorry, divorced arse.
Look, understand this – my daughter is the greatest thing inmy life, and I would readily stop bullets for her. On the other hand, my ex-wife is a vile, shrieking harpy with a heart of darkness and a voice that could strip paint off the walls. You may think I’m being judgemental, but unless you’ve met her you’ve no idea.
But this is immaterial to the matter at hand. Like most single dads, I managed to get the short end of the stick when it came to custody. I only get to see her every second weekend, plus one midweek visit, which is absolute bullshit. It’s simply not enough. It’s NEVER enough. I cherish the time I have with my daughter, and will fight tooth and nail to get as much of it as I can. School holidays are an offshoot of this – according to our parenting orders, I get her for half of all listed school holidays per school year. This is some pretty special time – a time when I can ignore all the stupidity in the world that gets my back up, all the pointless wars, environmental degradation, insipid TV and everything else. I get to concentrate on the one thing that truly matters in my life – my daughter.
It’s been an awesome holiday, but as with all good things, it ends all too soon, leaving me feeling unsatisfied that I’ve spent enough time with her, done enough for her, been a good enough father for her . . . bu tI welcome those feelings. They push me further, make me strive to be better than I was the last time we spent together.
Of course, there’s a part of me that constantly questions my motivations – am I being the best I can be because my daughter benefits from it, or am I being the best I can be because it proves I’m better than my ex-wife? It’s a conundrum that I don’t really have the self-awareness to answer.
All I can do is give completely and unreservedly of myself for my daughter’s sake and look forward to the next visit, which I will do everything I can to make it better and more satisfying for her.
So I’ll be angry or funny next time, I promise.
Well, fuck me backwards. God DAMN those blasted Bratz! Trying to take over from the venerable Barbie as the purveyors of ridiculous fashion, excessive lifestyle and painful spending habits. You wouldn’t think it, eould you? I mean, look at it this way – there’s an entire industry devoted to giving young girls a hard time before their 14th birthday, so why shouldn’t Bratz try to take a slice of the pie?
It’s kinda sad that parents have to cave into their kids, but it’s not surprising. After all, parents are getting lazier and lazier. It’s just so much easier to plonk a kid down in front of a TV for several hours rather than put some effort into them. And that’s when the trouble starts – kids’ minds are like sponges. They soak up everything uncritically. They haven’t learned to put filters on everything like at least 85% of parents . . . hmmm . . . I’m being generous here. For the sake of accuracy I’ll say 65%. So what if the kid sees something that they shouldn’t be seeing at that age? Like, oh, I don’t know, let’s say OVEREXCESSIVE ADVERTISING??!
So I’m not going to blame the toy companies – after all, they’re doing exactly what they should be doing – trying to turn a buck. I’m blaming the laziness of ineffective parents that cave into kids’ desires just so they’ll get some peace. A billion little Veruca Salts all screeching at their parents to buy them the latest toy so that they can feel validated. Then they wonder “Well, mummy tells me I’m beautiful and special. So is this Bratz doll. If I’m beautiful and special, why don’t I look like her?”
And that’s where the trouble starts.
