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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