Separating the sweet, juicy flesh from the stone and skin of this week’s major label releases.

Another week, another Monday. Another soul-grinding day of pretending to like your colleagues. Even Dave in security, who will tell you all about his weekend’s sexploits despite the whole office knowing he hasn’t seen any ladybits in fifteen years.

Well come ye here, settle down in front of the glowing slavemaster, and bury your face in this week’s Mango…

Three reviews, each represented as a thought that the thought-havers who buy them might have thought.

Firstly: Keep Calm And Carry On, Stereophonics. We’re unsure, but the title of this latest album from the Welsh subpubrockers may have been chosen as a message to someone browsing the racks of a music store. A moment of blind panic, as he sees the word ‘Stereophonics’, and wonders whether the band’s continuing existence is a sign of The End Times. The innocent browser, frozen in his horror.

Then, those soothing words catch his eye: ‘keep calm and carry on’. Ah, yes. Released from his binds of terror, the man is free to move on.

Because they really are terrible, aren’t they? Most of the songs on this album wouldn’t be too bad, in the right context. I Got Your Number, for instance, might be quite catchy if it had been sung by McFly. But when Kelly Jones gets his raspy, smoky, constipationy vocal cords around it, the thing goes downhill quicker than a fat man in a barrel.

But do you know what’s the worst thing about this album? Well, we give to you the words of Trouble:

I’m in trouble, you’re in trouble. Deep, deep trouble’s gonna burst our bubble.

Stereophonics: now taking inspiration from Shampoo. This album is represented by the thought:

Christ, those lasses from the 90s have really aged badly. On this song, which I can only assume is a re-release of their biggest hit, the blond one sings like a constipated Ent.

I hate myself, please take me to this album on Amazon.

Secondly, Winter Songs, Ronan Keating. Ronan, who Wikipedia claims is 32 years old, releases an album of Christmas-themed songs. There is no way this can end well.

Softer than an angel’s feather. Sweeter than fudge dipped in icing sugar. More shit than the elephant enclosure at Whipsnade the day after an accidental release of Dulcolax into their drinking water.

None of these comments made it into the album’s press release, and that’s a shame. Because people do need to be warned about albums like this. “Parental Advisory: Terrible Lyrics“, perhaps. Or, “Do not drive or operate heavy machinery while listening to this album, as it may cause you to enter a psychotic fugue state and plow your car or heavy machinery into innocent people”.

Oh, but it’s a stinker. How the hell do you suck every last atom of emotion from the classic Homeward Bound? How do you make Little Drummer Boy even more sickly cloying than anyone else has previously managed? That includes the saxophone version by Kenny fricking G.

In fact, that’s the absolute worst thing we can say about this album. Keep the snark, here’s your take-home message. Ronan Keating’s new album: worse than a recording of Little Drummer Boy by Kenny fricking G.

Here’s your thought:

Okay, I’ve got all my little pottery dolls lined up here. Each one’s got a little cup of tea, lol so cute! And I’m sucking on a lovely fudge-wrapped sugarcube. Now let’s listen to the new album by Ronan Keating, my fave, I love him lol! Oh. Oh God. Oh my God. That is even worse than the sax version of Little Drummer Boy by Kenny fricking G.

I promise I will not drive or operate heavy machinery, please take me to this album.

Thirdly, Against All Odds, N-Dubz. Ah, the Dubz. Riding in on a big, strong horse to rescue this week’s reviews from total tedium (presumably, a tricked-out horse, with green LEDs under its belly and 18 inch chrome horseshoes).

Grime, garage, urban, nuskool flip flop: call it what you will, it is presented here with levels of charm and – steady yourself – sophistication that put it well beyond their competitors. And if you don’t agree, our very own Stuart Heritage can tell you that Dappy will be round your house to make you look small, then bury you. Scary.

This album is represented by the thought:

Dappy’s got a silly hat! It’s silly! He’s the nuskool flip flop version of that knobfiddle from Jamiroquai.

I enjoy music for the emotions it makes me feel, like happiness and giddiness. Please take me to this album.

Have a good week, Mangons.

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Separating the sweet, juicy flesh from the stone and skin of this week’s major label releases.

There have been many songs written about Monday, but they all seem to use the working week’s start as a metaphor for sadness, despair, and classroom shooting rampages.

Well, no more: your Mango thinks this is a pretty damn fine day, actually (much better than stupid Thursday. More like ‘Turdday’ if you ask us) and we have done a little song of our own to show you how brilliant it is. Come follow us to the post-jump world, where we’ll show it off…Oh, Monday: you’re the one day,
When we really come alive.
Oh, Monday: such a fun day!
Makes us want to jive.

With your football and your horseplay,
And of course the Mango: fine art!
Stupid Thursday is like Michael Bublé,
To your Django Reihnardt.

Quite brilliant, you’ll agree. If you’d like to contribute to the nascent pop masterwork (we’ve got a band name and everything: Floating The Mango), then do leave your lyrics and/or the instrument you play in the comments box (bear in mind we already have a drummer, an accordonist, and a bloke in our local pub who can fart a middle C that would make you weep).

Alright, we must drag ourselves to consider this week’s trio of releases.

Firstly: If On A Winter’s Night, Sting. The tiny tantrist from 80s pop pioneers The Police has decided to go medieval on our asses, releasing an album of lute-backed songs about winter. If the Twelfth Century had middle-ranking sales executives called Steve, this is what they’d play at their dinner parties, as the guests tucked into a delicious hedgehog soufflé.

It is, incredibly, even more terrible than you’d think, beginning with the song titles. Only one of the following is made up: There Is No Rose Of Such Virtue; The Snow It Melts The Soonest; Lo How A Rose E’er Blooming; Lawks Me Bum’s On Fire (Then Sit Thee ‘Pon The Snow, Sire).

And the music…oh, the music. Every song has a different vocal style, like Sting thought they were so boring he’d better perform each as a different zany character. Check out Soul Cake (sung by a medieval Bob Marley). Or Cold Song (Frank Sinatra singing opera very, very slowly). Or Cherry Tree Carol (sung by a castrato who’s being tickled).

Our favourite: Lullaby For An Anxious Child, which seems to be sung from the point of view of an asthmatic Italian pervert peering through the anxious child’s bedroom window.

This album is represented by the thought:

Forsooth, thine dinner party is surely proceeding in most merry a way, Sir Steve. I congratulate mineself. But shouldst I perchance play now the sounds of Sting? No, not his new one, for it doth give mine ears much anger. Just go with Fields Of Gold, for the ladies do so love it.

I want my friends to think I am sensitive, please take me to Sting.

Secondly, Bad Boys, Bryn Terfel. Grrrrrrr. Bryn is angry. He’s pissed off. He’s up for a fight. Just look at that album cover: Bryn, up close and in yer face, looking ANGRY. Looking PISSED OFF. Looking LIKE A STATUE OF ROSS KEMP MADE OUT OF GRIZZLY BEARS AND CROWBARS. Blimey, this is going to be a thrilling album: probably some kind of hard’n'fast thrash metal? Or house music so deep and intense it’ll make your ears resign, jump off your head and go live in a Trappist monastery?

Can’t wait for this one, let’s see..

WTF? We can only repeat: WTF?

It Ain’t Necessarily So from Porgy And Bess, sung by a tortured bison? Stars from Les Miserables, sung by Africa’s gayest hippopotamus? And a load of operatic toss sung badly by a fat bloke from Wales who looks like Meatloaf’s uglier brother’s ballbag? WTF?

This album is represented by the thought:

Right, let’s stick this one. Look at that cover! I am going to look so fricking awesome walking away from the jukebox here in The Ruptured Spleen pub when they hear what will surely be some pounding speed metal, or some other tough-sounding genre of music.

WTF?

I want my friends to think I am cultured and that, please take me to Bryn.

Thirdly: Slow Attack, Brett Anderson. Hooray! As a sweet antidote to the poison of Sumner and Terfel, please welcome swoopy-voiced androgynous 90s hearthrob, Mr Anderson!

Well, nearly. It’s certainly not a terrible album – just make sure to skip past the first track, Hymm, which is a bit too close to Coldplay for aural comfort – but it does leave us with the feeling that it’s not all it could be. Like sitting down for a meal in a posh restaurant, then being told by the waiter that your dinner will be cooked by some work experience boys from Walsall.

It’s fey, it’s folky, but it’s a sad waste of a fine voice.

Oh, Brett: this could have been wonderful. Consider yourself lucky to have landed in a week such as this, where you are the cleanest piece of sweetcorn in the musical turd.

This album is represented by the thought:

Just my luck. The wife pays for a birthday meal at the Ritz, and it turns out that, in an improbable turn of events, they have asked some completely unsuitable boys from an industrial town to be the cooks tonight. Could it get any wor…oh, tosspants, they’ve just put Slow Attack on.

Screw my friends, there’s no way I’m buying either of those. Brett, please.

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Separating the sweet, juicy flesh from the stone and skin of this week’s major label releases.

Yes, yes, we know you’ve missed us. We are well aware of the weeping, the wailing, and the mass suicides. But quit it already, because we’re back after a brief and unexplainable (without breaking certain injunctions which were secured “in the interests of national security”) holiday.

It’s your Mango!

We shall return to the customary routine: some music is reviewed, and then represented as a thought that the think-creators who buy it may think. If that makes you feel like your brain is a half-set jelly sinking into wet sand, you’ve got it.

Firstly: Cosmic Egg (Deluxe Edition), Wolfmother. Between 1970 and 1971, Black Sabbath released the albums Black Sabbath and Paranoid. During the next two years came Master Of Reality and Paranoid. The world was shocked, awed, and somewhat resigned to the fact that a whole genre of music had been created and reached its apotheosis in just four years.

Then, at the beginning of the next millenium, three Australians decided they could add to the holy quatrus, and released a self-titled debut album that was inspired by, and – let’s be honest – copied gratuitously from, the holy texts of Sabbath.

Well now they’re back, with a new album which plays like a primer in the development of music from 1971 to 1995. The first few tracks are unreconstructed Sabbath. We’re then led through the early 80s via Hair Rock, the late 80s world of U2, finally ending up in the 90s courtesy of a mystifying Soundgarden/Stone Roses/Crowded House mashup which – do not take this as hyperbole – made us use sharpened sticks to push dogshit into our ears in the hope that we would become bereft of the sense of hearing. Scientists predict that Wolfmother will discover The White Stripes sometime in 2015.

Do you want a thought about this? Okay then, here it is, you perverts:

Oh, the new Wolfmother album. Wonder if they’re still using the mighty Sabbath as a template for their music. Hmm, first few tracks don’t sound too bad, hope it…aaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrr……..ohhhgodthat hurts………..nnnngggggggghhhhhhhh…………..ahthatsterrible……..uuuaaagggggggggghhhh…..

Secondly: Coming Home, Soldiers. Yes, it’s awful. Of course it’s terrible. And sure, you’ll be reaching for the razor blade before the first two bars of the opening song. But that’s not the point; you’ll  be a better person for buying this. You’ll have done your bit. So go ahead: push aside your prejudice against versions of classic songs which have apparently been produced by three-year old girls made of sugar and fudge, and buy it. For the boys.

This album is represented by the thought:

Well, that’s not a bad version of He Ain’t Heavy. What’s next? Oh cocksocks, it’s Tears In Heaven. Okay, I’m taking this one for the lads in Basra…bring it on, I can take ……aargghh, man down…

Thirdly: One Step Beyond (30th Anniversary Deluxe Edition), Madness. Answering the question of “what’s been released this week which anyone who likes music should buy?” it’s Cockney skastars Madness’s debut album in all its deluxe glory (including a second disc which collates B-sides). If you don’t want this, it’s only because you haven’t heard it.

This album is represented by the thought:

Jesus cracking Christ. Wolfmother, then Soldiers, now what? A recording of Janet Street-Porter passing a kidney stone? An album called “Nick Griffin Sings The Songs Of Yoko Ono While Being Buggered By A Jewish Indian”? OMG it’s Madness! MADNESS!

Farewell, Mangons, until the next time.

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We seem to have neglected the wonderful world of glitch recently. To a lot of people, it sounds like a needle has been dragged across a record and the results recorded. We like the sound of something that sounds a bit raw, uncommercial and generally exciting. Fuck your cleanly polished studio sounding production where the vocal goes through seventy two filters to make it sound as clean as a whistle.

Going through various stages, there is everything here from Nedry. Sassy sounding vocals go alongside the sweeping sounding electronics that slowly build momentum before crashing in to one final rhythm.

It’s rather good you know and we can’t wait for their debut album to be released in the impending weeks. The release should make you smile that little bit extra. Dubstep, electronic, glitch and Portishead style vocals are all here.

For more:

www.myspace.com/nedrymakesmusic

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Separating the sweet, juicy flesh from the stone and skin of this week’s major label releases.

It’s Monday. We feel your pain.

But as you waddle into work, weighed down by the enormous turdload you have spent the weekend saving so that you may spend an hour of the boss’s time reading a newspaper this morning, do not despair.

Because when you make it back to your desk, feeling like Octomom after she pumped out her kids, there’ll be a nice little surprise waiting for you.

Here’s your Mango!

As per the usual norm, we review some of the upcoming week’s musics, and then represent each as a thought. Naturellement.

This week, in memory of the mighty John Hughes, The Mango will be viewed through 80s-tinted spectacles, and each thought will feature a mutilated quote from one of the great man’s films.

Firstly: Play Some Pool Skip Some School Act Real Cool, Bruce Springsteen/Various Artists. The Gods are surely mocking the world’s 30-year old men this week.

First, they take away John Hughes – the man responsible for 50% of their teenage years’ most lasting memories. Just days later, as if in an attempt to even the score, they give them a tribute album to Bruce, responsible for another 7% (a copy of Born To Run, a tennis racquet, and a dream of being American).

The other 43% by the way? Masturbation.

PSPSSSARC, as the world seems unlikely to begin calling it, is a collection of covers which span a large part of The Boss’s output and which feature some wildly differing musical styles.

Laugh as British 70s revivalists The Glam Chops sing Born In The USA over a Gary Glitter drumbeat.

Cry as Butcher Boy delivers a tender version of Streets Of Philadelphia.

And consider taking an axe to your iPod as several interchangably bland people suck all emotion from their chosen songs (we’re looking at you, Orange Nichole and Thewintersleep).

So, credit to Bruce for the diversity shown in choosing the acts, but debit for not being firm enough to say no to a few of them (38 tracks is far too many when the quality is so variable).

This album is represented by the thought:

“Six bucks and my right nut says Springsteen didn’t listen to his staff when they told him some of these are just rubbish.”

Secondly: Under The Covers Volume Two, Matthew Sweet & Susanna Hoffs. Interestingly, 74% of the 43% of memories mentioned above feature Susanna.

Which means that the ex-Bangles singer was responsible for more dirty socks in the 1980s than the combined efforts of sweat, grass and Glastonbury.

This is the second collaboration between Sweet and Hoffs (Swoffs, anybody?), and again, much of it sounds like a poor man’s Paul Westerberg with singing by… well, that lady from The Bangles.

Yes, her voice is unmistakable, and quite emotive for people of a certain age. Try listening to Everything I Own without thinking of Manic Monday.

That song is a standout, along with You’re So Vain and I’ve Seen All Good People. The whole album is fairly pleasant listening but, again, would have been much better with more aggressive editing.

This album is represented by the thought:

“Screws fall out all the time. The world – oh, and this album – is an imperfect place.”

That’s us for this week. We’re off now for a Hughes marathon: the rebellious The Breakfast Club; the hilarious Ferris Bueller’s Day Off; and the unstoppable, funny-but-sad Planes, Trains And Automobiles.

Remember, Mangons: always make sure that they’re pillows.

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Separating the sweet, juicy flesh from the stone and skin of this week’s major label releases.

It’s important to start every day with a good breakfast. A fry-up has its place, but to have one every day would be foolish and lead inevitably to you becoming fat, wheezy and Scottish.

No. So how do we fuel ourselves on the bacon ‘n’ eggs off-days? With a lovely bowl of hot and steaming Ready Brek, of course. Stir in some fruit slices, and you’ve got a meal that’ll keep you full, satisfied and surrounded by a disconcerting orange glow for hours.

Our favourite Ready Brek topping? Mango.

Welcome again to the Monday Music Mango, wherein we review several new releases. And then represent each as a thought, quite naturally.

Firstly: Julian Plenti Is …Skyscraper, Julian Plenti. Julian is actually Paul Banks, singer and guitarist with New York indie band Interpol. His first solo album is no huge departure from the regular sound, being an album with some obvious influences, including The Stooges, Joy Division and, we swear, Jethro Tull (go ask your grandparents).

A wonderful album, with sleepyheaded yet uplifting vibes. Come back again please, Julian.

This album is represented by the thought:

“You know, a rainy British summer really isn’t that bad so long as it’s spent with cold beer, hot Ready Brek, and Mr Plenti’s lovely music.”

Secondly, No One’s First And You’re Next, Modest Mouse. An EP collating B-sides and some unreleased tracks from every American frat house’s favourite safely-quirky rockers.

The Mice found fame and platinum-coated fortune with 2004’s Good News For People Who Love Bad News (and then, retrospectively, 2000’s The Moon & Antarctica).

Since then, they’ve ploughed a fairly consistent musical furrow: take Jello Biafra’s wobbly vocals, throw them over one of Morphine’s discarded drumbeats, then get The Edge to add some choppy guitar riffs.

If that sounds like “the worst thing it is physically possible to imagine without thinking of the words Chris, submoob sweat and Moyles“, you’re right. Yet somehow, the Mice pull it off, and despite our cerebral cortex telling us not to, something in our primitive brainstem makes us like them.

This EP is represented by the thought:

“I am exhausted, but today I have to get to Abercrombie And Fitch to buy their latest stripy polo shirt, some cream Chinos and a brown leather belt for that party tonight. Damn, if only America had Ready Brek, that would give me the kickstart I need.”

So there you have it, fellow Mangons. We liked all of this week’s musics, which is something of a first.

Don’t worry, it won’t last long; we hear David Attenborough’s got his latest isn’t-nature-amazing meisterwerk coming out soon: The Secret Microbial World Thriving On Chris Moyles’ Submoob Sweat (in HD).

The soundtrack to which is reported to be an endless loop of Janet Street-Porter being brought to orgasm by a dental drill.

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Separating the sweet, juicy flesh from the stone and skin of this week’s major label releases.

You may have heard that Michael Jackson, King Of Pop and Prince Of Perverts, moonwalked off this mortal coil recently. Or you may not; for all we know, you could be a clam  surviving in a deep ocean vent on a diet of plankton and whale poop. But then you wouldn’t be reading this, unless there’s some seriously freaky evolution going on down there, away from the eyes of humanity.

This is getting confusing: Jacko’s dead, but the world is still producing music. It’s your mango!

We represent each release as a thought, as is customary. But this week, in honour of our soon-to-be bivalve masters, each thought is one which might be thinked by one of those clever little critters. Kicking things off (no offense intended, our legless overlords):

Firstly: Lungs, Florence And The Machine. First album from Florence Welsh and her backing band. And, Gods, it’s boring. Kind of Dido, kind of Everything But The Girl, kind of Avril Lavigne. If that list doesn’t put you off, then you should report to the nearest branch of Homebase, rent one of their chainsaws and cut your ears off at the neck, you awful plebsack. Best bit of the album? The bit in the single, Dog Days Are Over, when she uses the same little run of notes as in that song that Susan Boyle sings, and your brain is anticipating a dub of applause to cover the wobbly high note.

This album is represented by the molluscian thought:

“Wow. A hundred thousand years up there, taking them from drumming with rocks through to The Beatles, and this is progress? You have got to be kiddi…ooh, some shark shit.”

Secondly: The Duckworth Lewis Method, Duckworth Lewis Method. We hate cricket. We don’t understand it, it goes on for far too long and its fans are obsessive bores who can make grown men weep by spending literally fourteen hours repeating the same tired old story: “The batsman’s name was Holding, right? And the bowler’s called Willy. So the commentator goes, ‘The batsman’s Holding, the bowler’s Willy!’ He just said their names, but it makes it sound like…you know. Dya geddit? Do you? DO YOU?”

So, how can this terrible game be made even more soul-scouringly dreadful? Why, by inviting London butter-mountain and laughter-free shouty bloke Phil Jupitus to guest on a cricket concept album made by that nutsack from The Divine Comedy, of course.

The result is predictably horrific. Do not let people tell you that this is the sound of summer days spent lying in a field being fed strawberries by your girlfriend. It is not. It is the sound of a cold November evening when you’ve ducked into a pretentious jazz club to escape the rain, and your girlfriend is a hacksaw-voiced harridan with the sexual allure of a Kerry Katona statue sculpted from frozen sick.

The worst track on this album is Jiggery Pokery. And that’s an honour which is akin to being called ‘the most bigoted article in today’s Daily Mail‘; you’ve beaten some serious competition to get there. They probably thought that they were chanelling Noel Coward, but sadly, seem to have got a crossed connection and ended up with Richard Stilgoe.

If you want the world’s best song ever to reference cricket, please listen to Roy Harper’s awesome When An Old Cricketer Leaves The Crease. Don’t buy the album, though: get Valentine instead. You’ll love it, and that’s a Mango guarantee.

Avoid this album like you would a Frenchman. It is represented by the crustacean thought:

“What in Christing ballwanks is this? Please, put that Florence and The Machine CD back on. You’re first against the wall when we rise (literally. Ahaha.) to power.”

Thirdly: Story Of A Heart, Benny Andersson Band. If you want a real piece of perfect summer listening, then check out the former ABBA songmeister’s album. We never knew what Swedish folk music sounded like until hearing this (surprisingly like German drinking songs is the answer), but our hearts are now taken.

See you in the park on Friday afternoon. We’ll be the ones with a big, silly smile.

This album is represented by the razorlike thought:

“At last. Now this I can shake my valve to.”

There you go, good people. We’re now off to chuck all the clams out of our fridge and into the neighbour’s bin. Because they are coming.

We’ll see if we’ll see you next week.

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Separating the sweet, juicy flesh from the stone and skin of this week’s major label releases.

It’s Monday, which means back to work and all those people you’d prefer not to spend time with. Apart from that new Belgian lass that’s just started on the second floor, we heard she’ll do it in the cleaner’s closet for a fiver and a waffle.

It’s the Mango! The best disease-free way to start your week.

Three new releases coming up this week. Reviewed and then represented as a thought, for all the obvious reasons.

Firstly: Boys, Cortney Tidwell. A Nashville native, but don’t expect songs about stetsons, guns and horses. Sure, Cortney can turn on the country when it suits, but most of this album sounds like a collaboration between Bjork and The Cocteau Twins, produced by Joy Division. Which is not a bad thing at all.

The album has emotional highs; take for example, the punningly titled track Being Crosby. But the overall feel is a little more on the downside (track eleven: Oh, Suicide). This collection of sweetly sung sad songs is worthy of your attention.

This album is represented by the thought:

“Oh, sweet Cortney. You fill the gaps in my life which Nietzsche alone cannot reach.”

Secondly: Rock And Roll Survivors, Fanny. Musical inventiveness, a deft ear for intriguing chord progressions, and truly innovative use of technology. This album has none of these, but the band’s called Fanny! LOLZ!!! Genitalia are hilarious.*

This is a reissue of a 1974 album by one of the very first female rock bands.

As you probably already know, Fanny were formed by American sisters Jean and June Millington, with Alice de Buhr and Nickey Barclay. The history books (Wikipedia) do not record how the girls came up with the idea of naming their band after a lady’s wiffwaff, though of course, it was famously revived in the 90s by Gavin Rossdale. In a very clever reworking of the original concept, his band Bush not only took their name from the female organ but were also fronted by a complete twat.

Advice to anyone wishing to carry on the tradition: it would work even better if the lead singer was sort of in charge of the band, like in Chubbie Checker And The Fat Boys. We’d pay a fortune just to hear the announcement: “Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome onto the stage: Susan Boyle’s Hairy Chuff“.

70s rock, a little bit glam, a little bit folksy. Go buy it if that’s your thing. This album is represented by the thought:

“Okay, got that Fanny record. Gonna put it right here, inside my gatefold copy of ZZ Top’s ‘Legs’.”

Thirdly: Farm, Dinosaur Jr. Influential sludgerockers’ second album since the reunion of the three original members. What would you expect from Dinosaur Jr.? Lots of volume? Check. Loads of melody? Check. Percussion that sounds like a tornado ripping through a drum warehouse? Check. Guitar solos that are so wonderful they can cause spontaneous orgasms? Check (See You).

Yes, it’s all here, and if you don’t buy this before next Monday, you won’t be welcome back. We’re not kidding, stay away.

This album is represented by the thought:

“My ears are literally bleeding, my sphincter muscles have literally become jelly, but I literally cannot leave this gig before they play ‘Severed Lips‘.

*Dear Americans, in proper English, the word ‘fanny’ means a lady’s part, and not that enormous sack of shapeless lard you carry around behind you, wobbling and swaying and making us do acid burps. Do remember this the next time you are in England and wonder why people tut at you when you call down the street “Megan, come back here immediately young lady, or I swear, I will smack your fanny so hard.”

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It started with individual Pixies wandering around the venue prior to the show. This surpassed the already high expectations for the intimate gig: pressing the flesh is one thing, but crowdsourcing a setlist is quite another. Yet that’s what Pixies did: they invited the audience to request their favourite songs, and we met them all in the process.

Naturally we threw a curve ball at Kim Deal, having requested ‘Ana’: “But we don’t know how to play it! Seriously. You could put a gun to Joey’s head and he still wouldn’t know his way around that one…”

So instead, we opted for the best Pixies song out there: No. 13 Baby, which they played early on, followed by classics like Hey, Tame, Debaser and Bone Machine. Kim was cajoled by Black Francis into performing Into The White and Gigantic, despite telling us that she wanted a lazy night (giving us an impromptu performance of the River Euphrates backing vocals in the process – her reason for wanting to dodge that song in the set). It goes without saying that it was an awesome performance, and great to see Pixies at close quarters.

The band remains a powerhouse, and is very tight, despite one or two slips, notably the UK Surf version of Wave of Mutilation, which they had to restart after Kim forgot her way around it. The audience, which included Kevin ‘My Bloody Valentine’ Shields, helped her out: “It starts in F!”

All in all we’re honoured to have been invited to what was essentially a private party (replete with free bar) for Vaughan Oliver’s stunning artwork, where Pixies showed up and did their friend a favour by playing an on-demand set.

They really seem to be enjoying themselves these days. David Lovering showed us a trick involving rubber bands and talked to us about John Bonham. Joey Santiago made our spines shiver when he played that note in Hey. Black Francis kept us amused with tales of Kim being kicked off RockBand when playing Pixies songs. And Kim grinned from ear to ear the whole night.

It was a blast.

Check out a fan’s video of Gigantic:

You can also check out David Emery’s Flickr slideshow of Pixies at Village Underground.

Separating the sweet, juicy flesh from the stone and skin of this week’s major label releases.

Planes are falling from the skies, the government is shrivelling up like a salted slug, and Brangelina are rumoured to be living separately. All unmistakable signs of an impending Apocalypse. But fear not: hecklerspray presents the music which this week will be arriving to make your lives wonderful. Better. Marginally more bearable. Slightly less of an endless dreary drag towards the inevitable end, and eternity spent in a pauper’s grave.

It’s the Monday Music Mango! Whoot!

As usual, each of the musics will be represented by a thought.

Firstly, The Eternal, Sonic Youth, Album. Nearly 30 years after their birth, the legendary “noiseniks” (TM) are about to release their 16th studio album. We’d like to believe that Placebo, who also release a new album this week, will have been sent a copy with the words “Real Music” scrawled across the cover.

Because, you know, Sonic Youth are ace and Placebo are a bit shit.

Featuring the beautifully emotion-filled vocals of Thurston Moore and Kim Gordon, the rumbling tumbling drums of Steve Shelley and more weirdly-tuned guitars than you can shake a plectrum at, courtesy of Lee Ranaldo, it’s a return to their peak. Kudos to the the Youth, by the way, for being incredibly zeigeisty and including what must have been a very hastily written song about Susan Boyle (Anti-Orgasm). You’ll like this album.

Trust us, we’re hecklerspray.

This album is represented by the thought:

“Okay, got the new Sonic Youth album, the Converse sneakers and an awesome pair of secondhand courduroy trousers. Time to head head home and write some material for tonight’s poetry jam.’

Secondly, The E.N.D., Black Eyed Peas, Album. Starring pants-wetting, formerly-ladylumps-loving singer Fergie, bandwagon-chasing-then-catching-then-singing-about shouter Will.I.Am., and two other blokes with even more ridiculously self-absorbed pseudonyms, the BEPs have been producing their catchy pop-hop since 2003. And more power to them, for what the world absolutely needs right now is more songs about boobs. Despite the video for I Gotta Feeling, which seems to have been directed by Abercrombie & Fitch’s advertising agency, we have a soft spot for this sugary little album.

Standout track is Party All The Time, which we’d like to see subtitled as “When Kylie Met KISS“. This album is represented by the thought:

“Ladylumps! She means her tits!! LOLZ!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Thirdly, 20, Orbital, Album. 20th anniversary retrospective roundup by the overlords of intelligent electronica. Orbital make us want to cut our ears off and replace them with iPods playing Chime on an endless, uplifting loop. They make us want to tattoo the words “Orbital Exist As Gods Upon Earth” on the insides of our eyelids. They…we love Orbital, okay?

Go and buy this, listen to it in its fancy, dancey, feelgoody glory, then come back here and try to claim you haven’t just had your mind opened, probed with a lightsabre and stitched back together. Because you have. Just not literally.

This album is represented by the thought:

“Are We Here? asked the song. Who are ‘we’? And where is ‘here‘? Oh bollocks, here is the Ozric Tentacles tent, and our acid-soaked selves are missing Orbital at this festval which we are currently at. Shitwanks.

Farewell, good folk, until next week’s Mango.

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Separating the sweet, juicy flesh from the stone and skin of this week’s major label releases.

You’ll have noticed there’s a worldwide financial crisis going on. Well don’t worry, because we’ve generously picked out three of this week’s new music releases to uplift your spirits. Or else confirm your belief that the world is going to hell, and fast. Whichever.

All releases are represented by a thought which might be thinked by the thinkers who buy them.

Firstly: Fire, Kasabian, single.

The initial release from their upcoming album, The West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum. What would you get if you were to blend San Francisco, 1967, with Manchester, 1987, in a musical food processor? The answer is this single from the pals of celebritosser, Noel Fielding. Fairly harmless psychedila-lite, which does get a little tedious by the nineteenth time that big, catchy hook comes skipping round. This single is represented by the thought:

“Ooh, a new Kasabian single. I’d better check if it’s still cool to like them before I buy it, though.”

Secondly: Soul Of My Soul, Michelle Shocked, album.

Shocked is what happened when the innocence of 1960s female singer/songwriters (Joni Mitchell, et al.) found itself butting heads with the selfishness and warmongering of the 1980s. Here’s a little hint of what you’re getting into with Michelle Shocked: track 4 is called “Ballad Of The Battle Of The Ballot And The Bullet Part 1: Ugly Americans”. Couldn’t be less subtle unless it was “George Bush Is A Great Big Horse’s Winky And You’re All A Bunch Of Uselss Fat Spermwastes”. The album should please existing followers, being a familiarly cosy brand of country (albeit with a political message that may not sit too well with some fans of the genre). It is represented by the thought:

“Must remember to sign that anti-nuclear proliferation petition when I get into work on Monday. At the vegan healthfood and sandals store. Where I work.”

Thirdly: Passione, Paul Potts, album.

Long before Susan Boyle, Britain’s Got Talent had unearthed Potts, the original talented ugly. Whereas Susan’s thing is musicals, Paul’s is opera. Well, we say opera: Potts is to Pavarotti as Budweiser is to Stella Artois. Which reminds us of a wonderful joke: why is American beer like sex in a canoe?

They’re both fucking close to water.

Apologies, but we’re just trying to take away the suicidal wishes which naturally accompany thinking about Paul Potts singing. On an album produced by Simon Cowell. This album is represented by the thought:

“Okay: got my Jodi Picault novels spread casually across the coffee table; the Jamie Oliver recipe chicken’s baking away; and there’s Paul Potts’s ‘Chanto Pretensiori” loaded and ready. This dinner party is set to go.”

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Aimlessly listening to daytime Radio 1 can sometimes cause the tear ducts in your eyes to open and cover you in salty water.

The endless supply of diluted American hip-hop does nothing but confuse and annoy us. Instead of chugging down a bottle of $1000 champagne, we have to do with buy one get one free Lucozade.

Failing that, we’ll be presented with another new indie band who’ll take their influences from the exact same acts as everyone else. Original? No not, really. If anything it makes us look further afield for albums that aren’t afraid to do something different from the norm. Like, say, If You Were Fruit by The Lovely Eggs.

The Lovely Eggs have been on our radar since the end of last year. Since our initial warning of how immensely fun addictive their sound is, the band have been busy in the studio readying new tracks. After boiling, scrambling, poaching and frying up various songs, their debut album is finally ready for us to consume.

A few songs have been reheated and plonked on from previous releases that are becoming harder to find. I Like Birds (But I Like Other Animals Too) and Have You Ever Heard A Digital Accordion? return to make sure that people don’t miss out. The earlier records these songs originally featured on may soon be impossible to buy.

Comparing The Lovely Eggs to The White Stripes and The Ting Tings is only one way of giving you an idea of what they’re about. Quite literally, the only thing they have in common is that all three bands have one boy and one girl in the band. Unlike The White Stripes, Holly and David are an actual couple and haven’t got any sort of confusing brother and sister incest rumours going on.

It’s not just ye olde guitars, vocals and drums that the duo use. Samples of dogs, cans of drink being popped, bicycle bells, hums of bumble bees and glockenspiel are also included to create a 14-track debut album that clogs our heads with singalong lyrics and hooks that we can’t stop whistling. Sorry about that people in the library, don’t blame us.

Lyrically, the songs have no agenda. There is no insight into how The Lovely Eggs think the UK prison system should work, or how they would distribute taxpayers money. Instead, we hear how Holly and David sweat over cooking something for mice who have come to tea, whales swimming in the sea and cars that are red. If you are looking for an album that doesn’t take itself seriously, wants to have fun and doesn’t have any ego attached to it, this record is for you.

Out there at the moment, we are treated with music that tries to take itself seriously and subject matter that popstars shouldn’t be dealing with. Hooray for you and your ability to strum a guitar, we don’t need lectures in how to dispose of milk cartons.

Go and buy this bloody terrific album right now

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Separating the sweet, juicy flesh from the stone and skin of this week’s major label releases.

Welcome, hecklerspray devotees – and those unfortunates who have stumbled in while searching for information on New Kids On The Block/menopause symptoms – to a shiny new, weekly look at what aural filth the major record labels are going to be flinging at us in the coming week.

In typically amateurish ’spray fashion, of course, this inaugural Monday feature is actually appearing on a Tuesday.

We so bad.

If each piece of music ever written were a thought, then obviously Mozart’s Concerto in C for Piano, No. 8, Lutzow‘ would be: “How much longer til this posh bird lets me touch her boobies, I am so sick of this shit“. Freebird, by Lynnyrd Skynnyrd, would undoubtedly be: “Man, Skynnyrd rock so hard, my whole Goddamn truck is rattlin’. Hmmm, wonder if the chick with the Aerosmith bandanna and Confederate flag tattoo would let me touch her titties?”

And anything ever written, sung, or listened to by Ronan Keating? Why, of course: “Kittens. Tiny little fluffy kittens. With socks on. Tiny little fluffy kittens with tiny little woollen socks on and they’re… ooh, maybe that guy in the sleeveless t-shirt and backless chaps would let me touch his winkie?‘

We have three pieces of aural newies this week, each of which we have chosen to represent as a thought. For some reason.

Firstly: Island Records Folk Box Set – Meet On The Ledge, Various Artists, Album

Well, if this one doesn’t float your boat, then you’re obviously not setting sail for the New World in a ship made of wattle and beards, afloat on an ocean of real ale. So, well done you. Set to be played endlessly at parties you wouldn’t want to be at, which smell of armpits and sustainably produced  EnviroTofu, and are populated by people you wouldn’t leave your children alone with, being held in a… okay, it’s not our thing.

If you like it, that’s your problem, suffice it to say that it’s available now and that ‘People Who Bought This…’ probably also bought a book called Weaving Your Own Clothes From Twigs And Rizlas By Lucien Nettlewhistle. This record is represented by the thought:

“Oh look, this craft fair has a stall demonstrating how to make delicious Tofu and wildberry smoothies.”

Secondly: High End Of Low, Marilyn Manson, Album

Shock-rockin’, pale-faced, lady-man jizzsock Manson returns with a vengeance. Grrrr.

Songs such as Arma-goddamn-motherfucking-geddon (do you see how neatly he sums up the world’s feelings of impending apocalypse and certain death for us all? Please buy the Deluxe album version) seem likely to become the summer’s soundtrack for fifteen year old boys and dangerously unmedicated sociopathic men everywhere. This record is represented by the thought:

“Damn, I hate people. All of them, always downing on me, won’t let me be myself. WTF’s that all about? Wonder what mum’s making for tea tonight?”

Thirdly: Flight 666: Original Soundtrack, Iron Maiden, Album

Unkillable British beasts of metal, Iron Maiden, deliver unto us (and by ‘us’, we mean 38-year-old men with too much blue denim and not enough hair) their 849th album. This is the soundtrack to a concurrently-released documentary following them on their recent world tour. In true Maiden style, the album is released in approximately 1000 formats, including: ‘double CD in jewelcase with 16 page colour booklet‘; ‘limited edition double picture disc vinyl in gatefold sleeve with printed colour inner bags’; and ‘limited-run double disc printed on CDs made of unicorn’s horn which play once then disintegrate so every time you want to listen you have to rebuy the twatting thing: there, does that make you feel special now?‘

This record is represented by the thought:

“Human culture has never – AND WILL NEVER – rise above 1982’s seminal The Number Of The Beast. Which I of course have in the ultra-limited edition version, which is printed on stonewashed denim and completely unplayable in any device ever invented.”

So there you are, folks. Have fun with these.

Or block your ears up with candlewax in a desperate attempt to avoid ever hearing one single note of them. We’re easy.

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Here it is, the moment literally nobody on Earth has been waiting for – the Eurovision Song Contest 2009.

This year, Eurovision is coming all the way from Moscow. We’re not, by the way. We’re sitting on a sofa in what appears to be a US military-approved stress position hammering away on a grossly underpowered laptop. But that’s beside the point. Can the UK win Eurovision this year? No. No we can’t. But join us back here at 8pm so we can all watch the spectacular failure together.

The liveblog’s ready for you after the jump, incidentally. What are you waiting for?

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We may have mentioned this three or four billion times in the last three days, but when has that ever stopped us repeating ourselves?

Tomorrow evening at 8pm we’re going to be liveblogging the Eurovision Song Contest. Why? Because after taking a year off in 2008 we’ve apparently forgotten how utterly hellish it is to liveblog Eurovision. But that’s not the point – the point is that you should be here too. We’re just like Terry Wogan, you know. But only in the sense that we’re fat, red-faced and balding. We’re not as funny.

So will you join us? Oh say you will. The man to your right won’t be singing. That’s a good thing, by the way.