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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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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