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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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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