I remember, when I was about fifteen, suddenly arriving at the terrifying realisation that all the good music that was ever going to be written, that ever *could* be written, had been. That was it. Music was over. How, after human beings existing for so long, and with so many great songs having been created, could people keep on producing amazing music?

With a boundless pessimism people who know me in real life will recognise all too well, I settled on the answer: they couldn’t.

Yes, I probably spent a bit too much time in my head as a youngster.

But it’s a notion that resurfaces with me quite regularly, which is a bit of an issue when you’ve got a music blog you’re trying to keep going.

You know, you get the tube to work and rather than go through the hassle of elbowing people in the chin so you can extricate your headphones from your bag, you stare at a Columbus Insurance ad on the wall of the carriage. I mean, it’s only another fifteen minutes before you reach your destination - it’s quite nice just to unfocus the old pupils and space out for a while. It’s the rush hour equivalent of loosening the belt, and it’s far less indecent.

But then you remember times when, not too many years before, you’d get public transport, look at people not listening to music or reading a book - people who were just staring at nothing - and you’d think: “how can they do that?” How can they spend this precious time, when they could be listening to anything they want, reading anything they want, just staring at a cartoon dog holding a pair of skiis?

And you realise that now you’re one of those people, and you blame it on the fact that since there’s so much music out there being flung at/offered to you - in countless emails from PR folk, by music blogs and aggregators, by friends, by the radio, by Twitter, by Spotify - you can’t listen to it all. You can’t do it justice. And so to avoid the heinous mistake of wasting precious time investigating something you might not enjoy, you listen to none of it.

You open 2% of the emails, listen to 2% of the streams, follow up 2% of the recommendations… and if you don’t hear something you like in those miniscule percentiles, that’s it. Your faith in the ability of music to take you out of your world for even four minutes at a time, to transform your mood, is vanquished. All the decent stuff has been produced already. Music’s dead.

THANK FUCK, then, for the days when, remarkably, something makes it through these seemingly insurmountable barriers and reminds you, you bloody dolt, that music will never die. And that, in the same way humans will keep improving technology and medicine and all that boring crap, they will also keep writing beautiful, affecting, unexplainably poignant songs which revive your faith in what - excusez le pretentiousness here pour un second - is pretty much the greatest artform we have. Not that my jaw will ever fail to clench if I hear people refer to it as such.

And *then* you think: how odd to be so passionate about something and have such little faith in it, even after all these years.

I would like to dedicate this self-indulgent brainweep to Julian Casablancas’s “Out Of The Blue”, from his debut solo album Phrazes For The Young, because sadly - or gladly - I literally don’t have the words to say how much and in how many ways I currently love the living shit out of it.

Buy Julian Casablancas MP3s, including “Out Of The Blue”, at 7Digital.com

That little snapshot up there is from Snoop Dogg’s new video, “Gangster Love” “Gangsta Luv”. It’s an odd moment - amongst all the usual lady-based booty-quaking and gyrationalisms, there’s Snoop in the back seat of his whip having noodles chopsticked into his mouth by an Asian “lovely”.

I suppose after a few years in the game you probably run out of ways to humourously objectify women, so it’s heartening to see Snoop and his video director switching things up a bit.

Kudos also for the moment when, while zipping along in a speedboat with another buttock-flaunting entourage, Snoop smacks two ladies on their badonkadonks - and knocks them overboard. Nary a raised eyebrow from Mr. Dogg, of course, despite said ladies’ almost certainly not living to shake their bumcakes again.

Snoop Dogg - Gangsta Luv on MUZU.

“RATE AND SUBSCRIBE”

My Chemical Toilet’s roving review machine John-Scott Croly went to check out some up-and-comers on the latest Levi’s Ones To Watch Tour, so he did.

The band selector for the Levi’s OnesToWatch tour (for argument’s sake let’s call her Jean) is seemingly able to predict with unerring accuracy the bands that will be soundtracking our iPod commercials and adorning our NME-reading teenage relatives’ bedrooms walls twelve months down the line. Given the name and premise of the tour, this surely makes her very good at her job.

Of course I’m fully aware that in all likelihood each tour’s band roster is carefully selected by a team, nay, committee of achingly hip cultural Nostradamuses - but it’s fair to say that whoever these people are, they’re getting something right.

Previous acts to play on the Never-Ending Tour of Denim-Endorsed Musical Foresight™ have included White Lies, Passion Pit, Dananananaykroyd, Black Lips and The Temper Trap. And whether you care for these bands or not, their subsequent success is indie-sputable.

So it was with a curious ear I ventured down the steps of legendary Soho haunt The Borderline. I’d barely heard even whisperings about any of the bands on bill. A friend at the NME had only heard of one of them. Would this night’s show be a non-stop cavalcade of clever clairvoyance, or had Jean been headhunted by the Wrangler Corporation for their forthcoming ‘Next Big Thing’ tour? Well, chuffing well read on and you’ll find out.

Now, gig reviews by their very nature tend to be one-sided affairs so I took along a pal to help give things more of a balanced view. I’ll intersperse the remainder with some of her helpful observations (e.g. “Ooh, ooh! I like his hoodie - make sure you put that down!”, etc).

First on were North American drone-poppers Little Death. I was impressed by the jittery feedback-drenched guitars, singer Nathan’s yearning vocals (think Tim Wheeler meets Win Butler) and the, like, properly fit bass player.

My gig buddy, on the other hand, was distinctly unimpressed. She had only this to say: “I like that none of them are left-handed, it makes the stage look neat and tidy”. Powerful stuff indeed, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Next up were Kurran and The Wolfnotes (pictured above; Miranda’s opinion: “Good teeth”) – the States’ answer to a question about Noah and The Whale that no-one really remembers asking. I’m jolly glad someone did though, because their blend of skiffle-y stylings and Cosmic Rough Riders-y harmonies made my tummy feel a bit fuzzy.

Headliners (sorry, ‘co-headliners’) Exlovers were last on, as is usually the fashion. “No lefties here either! Gosh, isn’t she thin? They’re quite loud aren’t they?!,” gasped my companion. And loud they were, for the most part at least.

Early My Bloody Valentine and Sonic Youth are obvious influences here, worn proudly on their (no doubt Levi’s-sponsored) sleeves. The pop gems were played in earnest, with fragile boy-girl vocals evocative of a time when ‘twee’ wasn’t a swear word and they didn’t sell cardigans in Topman.

So, did we witness the makings of a new generation of indie glitterati? How the fuck am I supposed to know? Judge for yourself by jabbing your mouse finger indiscriminately about the helpful MySpace links that Stuart will undoubtedly provide underneath my musings.

And Jean, if you’re reading, get in touch. We could make listen to beautiful music together, months before anyone else.

Very well, John-Scott, here are those linkings:

Little Death on MySpace

Kurran & The Wolfnotes on MySpace

Exlovers on MySpace

Levi’s OnesToWatch official site

Not that you’ll be thinking in such an analytical fashion when you see her with a big “V” on her face for no particular reason in the vid for “Stranger Than Kindness”. Nay, you’ll be doing your darndest not to shityapants.

Merry Halloween, everyone!*

*I know it’s not Halloween for a couple of days yet, but the chances of me getting time to post again before Saturday are, how you say, “slim to fuck-all”.

John-Scott Croly skipped along to Wimbledon’s Watershed to see Band Of Skulls (above) support some people called The London Punks t’other day week.

Hotly-tipped Southampton blues-rockers Band of Skulls were this show’s not-so-secret support act, squeezing in a quick one on their way back home for a well-earned weekend off. They blew the sweaty roof off the Watershed’s dank back room - not that any of the 20 or so glass-eyed punters noticed.

Without their own following, the trio had to make do with the headliners’ early crowd - a smattering of arm-folders and phone-fiddlers who steadfastly refused to be won over, seemingly out of some kind of fierce-yet-misguided loyalty to The London Punks.

To add insult to injury, I managed to piss off drummer Matt when we spoke briefly outside. Turned out he wasn’t too happy with my drunken admission to illegally downloading their album. Oops. All in all, a shit night for Band of Skulls - a shame really, because they were fucking splendid.

Around twenty minutes later the chin-strokers finally got what they wanted when unfortunately-monikered electro-skankers The London Punks ambled on to the stage. The (by now much denser) crowd were off their chops right from the get-go, but this time it was my turn to be nonplussed.

XFM-friendly debut single “Pretty Girl” was by far the best tune on the night, rattling along like The Faint’s contribution to a Madness remix album that (thankfully) exists only in my own twisted imagination. Other tracks showed promise but lacked substance; an impressively massive sound not quite masking the below-par tunes underneath.

The London Punks are busy talking up their big name connections - singer Nathan has previously released records on Basement Jaxx’s label Atlantic Jaxx, while guitarist Greg Wizard has worked with The Chemical Brothers and MIA. P’raps then it’s time to call in a few favours, because given a bit of help with some good old fashioned songwriting, these cats might just have their fifteen minutes yet.

Listen to Band Of Skulls at We7.com

Listen to The London Punks at We7.com

However, like the very best pop songs, Brit soul type McLean’s “Broken” manages to transcend the genre with which it would be most closely associated. It’s a heartbroken, overwrought fist-clencher which, in a landscape of overproduced, autotuned pop spaff with half an eye on ringtone sales, actually makes you believe the singer is properly, hair-tearingly lovewrecked. Marvellous.

It also has a very interesting history, having first surfaced way back in 2006, when McLean went by the name of Digga (since changed because an American artist went by the same name). Unbeknownst to me, it became an online sensation, racking up millions of plays on YouTube and prompting, seemingly, everyone with a webcam to produce their own version.

The earliest versions of the song I can find are from 2007 - this one alone has over 2.8 millions plays at the time of writing:

Which isn’t bad for a song that has never actually been released. Apparently it was all over urban and pirate radio stations, and I think I read somewhere that it even got play on New York station Hot 97.

The real mark of success in the noughties, however, is how many deep n’ meaningful slideshows a song can soundtrack on video-sharing sites. “Broken” soundtracks bucketloads of the things. Here’s one featuring tears, blood-stained roses and Cupid shot dead by an arrow in the back:

While it’s reasonable to assume the song is about a guy getting dumped by his missus, listen carefully and you’ll hear a lyric that sounds suspiciously like “every day I wish it had been me that had died,” implying that he’s angry with his other half for popping her clogs. Which lends the song a whole other “level”.

Plus, if you scroll through the comments under the various versions on YouTube - not an activity you’d normally dream of undertaking, I know - you might encounter the odd claim that this darker interpretation of the lyrics is closely related to events in Digga’s own life.

Woah.

Sometime in 2008 a new version of the song surfaced, with plusher production, a key change and running a touch longer:

It was only a matter of time before remixes started hitting the netz. This one makes it a bit faster:

This one makes it faster still:

This one tools it up for “the clubs”:

And this one adds what the original most obviously lacked - a big bloody donk:

I wonder what Digga thought as he witnessed so many people fiddling with his track, bearing in mind he quite possibly hadn’t made a penny out of it yet.

Likewise with the cover versions that started to hit YouTube - there are loads of them, and while they vary in quality they all exist because, ultimately, people love the song.

This one’s very good, despite (or because of) being recorded in a hotel bathroom:

This one’s quite good:

And this one isn’t any good at all:

Then there are the “remixes” featuring big names - in other words, the original with a guest rap tacked on here and there.

Here’s one with a bit of Lil Wayne purloined from somewhere:

DJ Ironik manages to trash this version - but it did actually appear on his own album, so perhaps Digga made a few quid out of it:

While Tinchy Stryder is slightly more bearable on this rendition - another official remix:

Tinchy’s rap appears over the NEW new version of the song, which is where this interesting little tale ends. Sleek, effective and with none of the swears or references to “smoking weed” that appeared in the original, it also has a polished video - the result of it being released, finally, as a proper single (through US label Asylum, a subsidiary of Warner Music no less - release date TBC, but probably around the end of November) under the artist name McLean:

If just a fraction of the people who have loved this song on the internet pay to download it, it will be massive. Similarly, since he’s now recording an album with big-name producers, it’s pretty hard to see how McLean, Digga, or whatever he chooses to call himself, can fail.

For a bonus, here he is doing an acoustic version for the Beeb - you might be surprised at his speaking voice:

Look at that image, and listen to this song, and like me you might just come to the realisation that Kid Sister is surely destined to be a bona fide, proper, soon-to-be-sullied-by-a-guest-rap-from-Akon pop star.

Her songs are ravey enough for clubs but accessible enough for the pop charts, she’s collaborated with Kanye West already and she gets remixed by people so cool you haven’t heard of them. Although she has been “up and coming” for a while now, so let’s hope her moment hasn’t passed. Her album Ultraviolet is out in November.

While I’m being nice I’ll also apportion two and a half props to RCRD LBL, which not only showcases splendid music but is also the kind of site pilfering bloggers like me like a lot - they provide handy, easily-shareable wee widgets like that one up there.

Sounds simple, but it’s a notion that still escapes a lorra record companies…

Jack Daniel, despite being dead, still gets to have a birthday. Or rather his “product”, Jack Daniel’s Tennesee Whiskey, does. That Jane Bradley went along to see Brett Anderson, Carl Barat and Jon McClure perform at a special bash t’other week, and this is what she thunkabourrit.

The Jack Daniel’s Birthday Set is an exclusive sort of affair. Tickets for it can’t be bought; it’s competitions winners and media only. There’s only capacity for four hundred in the Village Underground vaults, so you’d assume some elitism about the kind of riff-riff they let wangle their way in. Luckily for me, not so.

Every September, the folks at Jack Daniel’s organise shindigs like these to celebrate the birthday of the Tennessee whiskey wizard. The calibre of the “rock royalty” performing varies; previous celebrations have included Patti Smith, Juliette Lewis and Frank Black.

Apparently I was to be treated to an assortment of sterling musicians across a spectrum of genres, but as soon as I heard Carl Barât’s name being bandied about, I started to get suspicious…

The New Silver Cornet Band, from Nashville, have an impressive biography between them and provided the backing for the three headline acts. With a combined age of at least a few hundred, these granddaddies of rock have worked with Elvis, Bob Dylan and the Rolling Stones. And to open the show Wayne Carson, who wrote the much-covered “Always On My Mind”, performed it live for the first time ever. The sentimental Pet Shop Boys fangirl in me was swooning all over the show.

It didn’t take long for me to develop a whopper of a crush on Rosie Vanier, the leading lady of Rosie and the Goldbug, who played keyboards. Her voice is gorgeous, and for one so small in stature she has huge stage presence. In her frilly frock, cinch belt and glitter make-up, Rosie had far more charisma than Jon ‘the Rev’ McClure, the first of the headliners onstage.

With his Gallagher swagger and loutish arrogance, Jon McClure comes across like a cocky thug spoiling for a fight outside a takeaway at 2am on a Friday night. As a mouthy Northerner who has happily indulged in the occasional bar-brawl myself, I can’t judge him too harshly for this. He probably thinks it’s part of his charm. But without the talent to back it up, his droning voice and Bez-from-Happy-Mondays-ish bumbling around the stage just grated on my nerves.

Thankfully it wasn’t too long before Brett Anderson time. Many of my schoolgirl fantasies featured Brett’s razorblade cheekbones and shapely derriere, so I was eager to appraise whether the ravages of time and illegal substances had dampened this effect. Joy of joys, he’s definitely still got it.

Belting out the hits and pouting and posing just like he did in Suede’s heyday, it was like the last fifteen years had never happened. Although his flouncing diva-fit when the sound quality wavered made me cringe, he soon swallowed his strop for a storming rendition of “Trash” that made me nostalgic for 90s Britpop and the days of smooching floppy-fringed indie boys at rubbish Belle & Sebastian-themed discos.

I couldn’t tell you about Carl Barât’s performance, because the sight of his face and the sound of his voice make me feel physically sick, so I scurried outside to vomit and stayed there until he was safely offstage.

But many happy returns to Mr. Daniel, and I’m sure my sudden illness was nothing to do with my imbibing copious quantities of his whiskey.

This abruptly vomit-streaked review was brought to you by the marv Jane Bradley. Thank you Jane. Now have a Tums.