Profane Grass - I'm Coming Out As A Fan of New Age Music

Profane Grass is the exact opposite of a Sacred Cow. A Sacred Cow is something that's so revered as to be generally above criticism in the eyes of all but those who go out of their way to be iconoclastic. Profane Grass is something that all agree is awful, and heaven help he who disagrees.

Most of the time, I disagree. Heaven help me.

In terms of art consumption, for the richest, most rewarding and most interesting experience, you should generally accept the existence of Sacred Cows and question the existence of Profane Grass. Embrace Sacred Cows, and the absolute worst that could happen is that you'll find yourself slightly underwhelmed. Reject Profrane Grass, and the absolute worst that could happen is that your prejudices will be confirmed, but having taken the time to sample the water yourself, you'll emerge stronger, more discerning, and more open to new ideas.

But if you make it your mission to topple the Sacred Cows and openly accept the existence of Profane Grass, well! Who knows what you could be missing?

I spend more each week on incense than I do on milk. I insist upon sleeping beneath a sizeable dream catcher. My favourite t-shirt, bought in the Green Fields of Glastonbury, depicts a Stonehenge union between the Earth Spirit and the Seed of Man.

This is the story of how I embraced the New Age spirit, quite by accident, over the course of about a decade.

I should make it clear. I have very little interest in New Age ideas as religion, philosophy or as a political movement. If you look at the New Age Wikipedia entry, you'll find that not only is the movement considered offensive by certain indigenous American cultures, but also that it draws from so many different sources and means so many different things to so many different people that, as an ethos, it must sit somewhere on the scale between “vague” and “meaningless”.

No disrespect intended to those who base their lives on New Age teachings (who must be some of the nicest people you can meet), but my interest in New Age extends to the imagery and, above all, the music.

The focus of this piece will be on the music, but a brief word on the imagery. What's not to like about stars, moons, planets, dolphins, rainbows, dragons, wizards, crystals, unicorns and waterfalls? New Age art can hardly be said to be in good taste, but come on. It's brilliant! If I lived alone, my walls would be full of lurid airbrushed and computer generated disasterpieces. Seeing as I live with a young woman with quite impeccable taste and a zero-tolerance policy on dragons, I'm instead limited to certain small corners of the house in which to unleash my inner Zen (or something).

But New Age Music! As a term, it's become synonymous with the sterile and static Muzak usually associated with elevators, waiting rooms, and those strange CDs with names like “Pan Pipe Reflections” that used to be sold in service stations and gift shops. It's thanks to this misconception that New Age Music might be considered the quintessential Profane Grass. The term is often deployed as a shortcut to describe the sort of music that makes your mind rot and your thoughts stagnate.

But it's so much more than that. Wikipedia describes New Age Music as “peaceful music of various styles intended to create inspiration, relaxation, and positive feelings while listening”, and I cannot understand how anybody might have a problem with that. Some fascists insist that all music must sound a certain way or perform the same basic function. Evangelical metalheads might insist that, if it's not metal, it's not music. Nosebleed ravers might shirk away from the sort of music that doesn't invite dancing. People with Paul Weller haircuts might decide that only guitar music is “real music”. Also, Nick Hornby.

The fact is, music is capable of so much that only the foolish would insist that it must do certain things or sound a certain way. There's plenty of room in the world for music that specifically sets out to be relaxing. Therefore, there's plenty of room in the world for New Age Music.

But where do you draw the line between New Age Music and, say, ambient music, chillout music, or even some forms of minimalist electronics? This is the the crux of the problem. New Age Music might be used as a derogatory term to describe underwhelming, unadventurous and uninspiring examples of the above. Similarly, musicians might object to the label in fear of the connotations, or they might not wish to imply a connection to the New Age movement.

Light In The Attic Records are about to release a stunning two disc collection of Private Issue New Age Music recorded between 1950-1990. It's called I Am The Center, and it sounds incredible. They attempt to recast New Age music as a more mystically-minded branch of outsider music, a “reverberation of psychedelic music”.

“This is analog, homemade music,” they say, “communicating soul and spirit, often done on limited means snd without commercial potential, self-published and self-distributed.” In short, the compilation attempts to recast New Age Music as “great American folk art”, and why not?

I'd hate to impose a definition of my own, but perhaps New Age Music could be used as a vague and adaptable means of describing the sort of instrumental music that sets out not just to help you to relax and unwind, but also to meditate; to transcend; to consider that there's a whole world out there, or to invite you to consider the possibility of a higher power.

When listening to I Am The Center, an immensely varied collection of 20 beautifully moving meditations, I hear roots. It makes me think that New Age Music is so hot right now, darling. The likes of The Orb, The Future Sound of London, Biosphere, Brian Eno and more contemporary explorers such as James Ferraro, Tim Hecker, Oneohtrix Point Never, Four Tet, Com Truise, Boards of Canada and Pye Corner Audio each owe a substantial depth to these gorgeous meandering instrumentals.



Of course, critics will pass off the notion that they might sound “a bit New-Agey” as irony, deploying an impenetrable mess of pseudo-academic drivel to “explain” their appreciation. But judge this music on its own merits, and the rewards feel endless. There's a whole world out there, and Constance Demby's Om Manu Padme Hum is one of the most affecting pieces of music I've heard in a very long time. It's like finding an old photograph album, presumed lost, of a trip that changed your life.

It feels liberating to be able to declare yourself a fan of New Age Music without a single quantum of irony, but how did this happen? How did I evolve into a New Age Music fan?

Let me count the ways.

1. I'm a migraine sufferer. They've never been as frequent as they were when I was a child, but they've never been as bad as those I started to get when I first left home and went to university. They were the absolute pits. The usual instinct is to clench your eyes shut, bury your head in a dark room and try to sleep through the worst of it. But these evil migraines actually intensified when I was supine, and somehow got even worse when I shut my eyes.

To prevent myself from going mad, I used to try and lose myself in music, and my most reliably transcendent album, at the time, was U.F.ORB by The Orb. If New Age Music sets out to take you out from your body and ease your pain, then that's exactly what The Orb used to help me achieve.



2. I come from a prog family. The surreal photography of Storm Thorgerson and the Hipgnosis crew and the fantastic landscapes of Roger Dean undoubtedly sowed the seeds that would eventually grow into a deep appreciation of New Age art tropes.

3. I stumbled across a soul-stirring broadcast on Information TV called The Landscape Channel. It sets nearly static images of landscape to earthy and relaxing instrumental music. The Landscape Channel is to New Age Music what CBGB is to punk.

4. Some of the best times of my life have made me associate The Glastonbury Festival with pure, unbridled happiness. Happiness itself, then, is to be found on the doorstep of the tie-dyed folk, the sort of people who speak of crystals, auras and wood-turning.

5. I saw a film called Beyond The Mind's Eye, a showcase of “state-of-the-art” computer art from the early nineties with a Jan Hammer soundtrack. That film flicked a switch in my brain, kickstarting what will be a lifetime fascination with early computer-generated imagery, much of which, of course, has an undeniably New Age look and feel.

For the ultimate in Profane Grass, look to New Age Music. Too long has it been a byword for everything that we're supposed to hate, for Mike Oldfield.

But I can't hear much difference between the more becalmed electronic sounds that have always seemed to be popular and that which is commonly derided as “New Agey”. And I don't think this comparison makes a mockery of low-key electronic music at all. Rather, it puts New Age Music on a plinth that it's been unfairly denied for too long.

If I were to throw a New Age coming out party, would anyone come?

Introducing PROFANE GRASS - With MGMT!

I find myself inherently distrustful of critical and popular consensus.

Don't get me wrong, there are things out there that receive huge amounts of praise because they deserve huge amounts of praise, just as there are things that receive huge amounts of criticism because they deserve huge amounts of criticism.

However, whilst I'm fine with the existence of sacred cows, I'm somehow less accepting of whatever the opposite of a sacred cow might be. Profane Grass?

This is almost certainly hypocritical, but let me explain my position a little. It can certainly be fun, invigorating and beneficial to reappraise a sacred cow, but for me, it just feels like life's too short for such behaviour. Why put so much effort into arguing that people are, for whatever reason, “wrong” to like something?

But the exact opposite behaviour – defending the Profane Grass – that's very much my bag, baby. This is the first of a (hopefully) regular feature in which I'll take something that seems generally agreed to be awful, and I'll tell you why you're wrong!

Science is on my side! Popular Science Magazine have just disabled comments on their website. They did this because it's been discovered that negativity can erode the popular consensus. Of course, they're talking about things that actually matter – such as evolution and climate change – whereas I concern myself with books, films, music.

But I couldn't help but wonder. If the public opinion of scientific theory could be swayed by overwhelming negativity, could the same apply to art?

Probably not. But it's food for thought. What if there are things out there – things that are generally considered to be “awful” - that are actually really good? What if Profane Grass only exists not because people have genuinely taken the time to make such an assessment based upon immersion and independent thought, but because people have found their minds to be swayed by overarching negativity?

Right now I'm practising bad science. However, defending the indefensible is fun and good for your soul. I'm reluctant to believe that there's anything out there that's genuinely devoid of worth. If the sign of a discerning critic is to slaughter a sacred cow, then surely he who venerates the Profane Grass must have God on their side.

I hope to cover many, many acres of Profane Grass, but I'm just so busy these days that I might not. Still, nobody's going to die if I neglect this place for long periods of time.

As an introduction, though, know that the new MGMT album isn't nearly as bad as most everyone says it is. In fact, it's really rather good.

I know it's been out for less than a fortnight, but I'm really good at recognising lazy criticism these days, and Those Who Know Better Than All Of Us About These Things have already declared this one to be a “failure”. But why? Well, if you read pretty much every review that's been written, you'll read the same narrative again and again.

Critics love a good narrative, and MGMT's is too tasty to resist. A band has two phenomenally successful earworms before dedicating themselves to meandering psychedelica? Hold me back! Hold me back!

Chart success, of course, is only ever treated as an important indicator of quality when it can be used as a weapon. That MGMT probably won't write a song as universally appealing as Kids or Time To Pretend ever again doesn't make them a failure of a band. Nobody's ever argued that cult appeal is a bad thing. Except, of course, where the Profane Grass grows.

MGMT (the album's eponymous – also apparently a bad thing) is a dense, dazed, queasy and meandering album. Many reviews have argued that it's devoid of melody, thereby proving that there are music critics out there who don't know what a melody is. The AV Club went as far as to declare that MGMT doesn't have any music on it. There goes that bookmark. How can anyone trust the judgement of a site that apparently doesn't even know what “music” is?

Essentially, the music of MGMT has been compared unfavourably to the second half of their first album, to the entirety of their second album and, most egregiously, to the music of the Animal Collective. So where do you stand if your appreciation of MGMT extends beyond their two megahits? More importantly, where do you stand if you recognise Animal Collective as part of the holy trinity of bands who serve to give your life meaning?

Detractors of MGMT (the album and the band) seem to think that people are still showing up expecting immediately appealing synthpop. Some people almost certainly are. But what about those with different expectations? What about those who have endless time – ridiculously late nights – to dedicate to sprawling fuzzy psychedelic jams? What about those who want their music to sound like a melted Beach Boys CD, or the aural equivalent of a drunken stupor on a hot afternoon? Do the opinions of these people not count?



It's absolutely fine for those who dig nothing of MGMT beyond those songs to dislike their more outlandish side - which, having overpowered their “accessible” side since day one, can be said to be their modus operandi. However, you must never, ever, ever let anybody tell you that you're "wrong" to like this album.

This dense music takes time to absorb, to inhabit, to explore. There are melodies here – beautiful sundrenched melodies, happily floating in space – and they're not even buried that deeply. And these songs might, on a first listen, sound aimless, but in time tight and hypnotic grooves begin to reveal themselves. Put simply, these aren't the random sound collages the critics would have us believe. They're positively laden with hooks, and if you allow yourself to be snagged, you will be snagged.

But before you're snagged, you must free your mind and allow it to drift. I recommend tea, incense, solitude and incense. It's that sort of album.

MGMT might not be an example of Profane Grass. It's only been out for a fortnight, after all, and reappraisals might be made by one and all once these grooves become more ingrained. The signs don't look good, though, and I fear that we might have to wait until the critics are unleashed upon their next album before it's begrudgingly acknowledged that MGMT wasn't that bad.

Until then, though, I will proudly fight for MGMT's corner. I'm going to tend to this Profane Grass, give it the love it deserves, because there's a huge hole in my life that's filled quite perfectly by music of this nature, thanks.

First Listen - Boards of Canada - Tomorrow's Harvest

I've said before how much I dislike doing things for the first time. Reading books is fine, and watching plays, but when it comes to films and albums, your first impressions are to be distrusted at all costs. Your first exposure to something  is an experience to get out of the way as soon as possible. Only once it's been overcome and your mind's free of preconception and prejudice can you truly appreciate what's there to be appreciated.

First listens are problematic enough when it's an album by The National or My Bloody Valentine, but when it's your very favourite band? How are you supposed to approach something so weighty?

One of two ways. Either you make the circumstances as informal and off-hand as possible or you go to great lengths to make things special and memorable. Having pre-ordered it the night it was announced, I had always assumed that my first listen to Tomorrow's Harvest – the new Boards of Canada – would be on headphones, in the dark, on vinyl. Yeah. I'm one of them.

I'd completely forgotten, though, that my vinyl pre-order also came with an MP3 download code. And last night I found myself alone in the dark, a little drunk, a bit sad and quite scared. Perfect circumstances, I thought, to listen to Tomorrow's Harvest for the first time.

But it seems I was more drunk than I previously thought. Because I woke up this morning with no recollection of having listened to the album. However, I find that I'd posted a stream of hysterical messages on Twitter, along with a series of images sourced from lord knows where.

Looking at those messages and images this morning, I realise two things. First of all, that I must have had rather a lot of wine last night. Second of all, that I must listen to Tomorrow's Harvest again as soon as possible.

“62 minutes and I'm in love with life again (if a little terrified of the future)”

“IT'S THAT GOOD. IT'S FUTURE FEAR AND PAST YEARNING UNITED IN PRESENT BALM”

“Hey, Boards of Canada? You make EVERYTHING seem OK. I need you. As it happens. Who knew?”

“Oh lord. This is already filling the hole only partially filled by Pye Audio Corner and Ghost Box over the past 8 years.”

“NO MUSIC HAS EVER BEEN OR WILL EVER BE BETTER ARGH I'VE MISSED THEM SO MUCH”

“THIS IS WHY MY DREAMS HAVE BEEN SO MONOCHROMATIC FOR THE PAST 8 YEARS DON'T LEAVE ME AGAIN”

That, evidently, is how you handle first listens. It turns out you have to be drunk and it has to be dark.

Ready Player One - It's Egg Hunting Season!

In little over a week, the whole Boards of Canada Easter Egg Hunt has progressed significantly. At the time of writing, we have five of the six numbers – but we're still no closer to discovering what it all means.

It turns out that The Record Store Day Incident (as it's now being called – how Fortean!) was just the kick-off. Whilst everyone initially thought that there'd be a different code on each of the six records (of which only four have apparently been found), instead it appears that each code will reveal itself in a different way.

First there was all the rigmarole on the band's YouTube channel. Since then, subsequent codes have been variously revealed through clever gif manipulation; through broadcasts on NPR and on Zane Lowe's Radio 1 show (number stations!) and, best of all, through the above advert that was broadcast on The Cartoon Network (of all places).

The most intriguing event, though, has been a projection on the building opposite London's Rough Trade store (where the second vinyl was found). The staff of the store claimed total ignorance. And, despite rumours circulating that the door of the building would open at midnight (for the first Boards of Canada gig since 2002?), very little came of this.



Still, it seemed to confirm not just the authenticity of this whole thing (as if there remained any doubters), but also the unbearably exciting notion that something's happening.

Unfortunately, despite the fact that my love for Boards of Canada runs through me like the lettering on Blackpool Rock, my part in this will only ever be as an observer. With a string of six numbers making up a 36 digit code, it's obvious that this will ultimately present a mathematical problem.

Reincarnation is a nice idea, and I like to think that, before you regenerate, you get to choose certain traits – like an RPG character creation screen. Well, if I'm given a second chance of life, above all I'd like to try my hands at being somebody with an inherent interest in science, technology and mathematics.

At the moment, though scientific and mathematical theories can pique my interest, I feel as though the very wiring of my brain prevents me from truly comprehending anything I read about – let alone from forming or applying any of my own theories.

It's always been like this. At school I pushed myself to get an A in GCSE Maths, but I was really only learning by rote exactly the information that would be required to pass that specific exam. I had no underlying understanding or appreciation of the information, and I promptly forgot pretty much everything I'd learned the second I finally put my pencil down at the end of the exam.

Still. I might not have developed a very scientific mind, but I think I've more than made up for that through my love of music, films, history, words, grammar and stories – by which I mean books.

So whilst I can't play an active part in the Boards of Canada Easter Egg Hunt, I can at least enjoy it as a bloody good story.

And as a bloody good story, it's particularly enjoyable because the whole thing reminds me of a bloody good story I read recently.



Ready Player One by Ernest Cline is a very popular book indeed. It's so popular, that people dress as it for Halloween. Not as characters from the book, mind, but as the book itself.

I don't think even Twilight elicited that level of devotion.

Ready Player One takes place in 2044. The world isn't quite a post-apocalyptic wasteland, but society and the economy appeared to have collapsed and things are quite awful. So most people spend their time inside a ridiculously immersive virtual reality environment called OASIS.

Designed by an obsessive savant called Halliday, I really wish that OASIS actually existed in real life. It's a seemingly infinite universe in which you can be whoever you want, do whatever you want and fully-explore the locations of pretty much any sci-fi or fantasy universe you could care to mention.

Before passing away, Halliday reveals that he's hidden an Easter Egg somewhere in OASIS, and whoever finds it will inherit his vast fortune. The novel details the exploits of a player called Parzival and his friends in their quest to track down this elusive egg.

As the novel goes, it's far from perfect. It's told in the first person – from Parzival's perspective – and it's implied that he's telling his story so that future generations will understand “what really happened”. But if that's the case, I've no idea why he feels the need to pepper his narrative with such excessive cultural-economic infodumps. It's fascinating for us early 21st century readers to get an insight into his world, but surely Parzival's intended audience would already be painfully familiar with the world he's describing? After all, they've never known any other.

The world-building, then, is clumsy at best, and the final “message” appears to undermine absolutely everything that's come before. But still, Ready Player One remains some of the best genre fiction I've read in recent years.

This is partly because it's so engaging. The idea that your obsessive knowledge of pop culture might save the world (a virtual world at that) is very appealing to anyone who likes films, music and video games as more than just part of a lifestyle.

But the most remarkable thing about Ready Player One is that everything Parzival achieves he does so under his own volition - using a combination of knowledge, intuition and incredible courage. Parzival is therefore a real hero, and a most refreshing change from the “chosen one” trope that still seems to dominate genre fiction.

Honestly, is there anything more boring than a meek hero who has greatness thrust upon him? I'm certainly had enough of that idea. From now on, I only want heroes who know what they're doing, know why they're doing it and, crucially, who want to do it.

Which is why Ready Player One is such an engaging, refreshing read. All this useless knowledge I've built up over the years? It might not always be useless.

So my lack of mathematical knowledge might force me to take a regretful back seat in this Boards of Canada Easter Egg Hunt. But you never know. One day, there might be something greater at stake – the fate of the world! - and it might depend on deep knowledge and appreciation of my specific interests.

But until then, hey! New Boards of Canada album!

Probably. All of this has to lead to something.

The Return Of Boards of Canada

It's funny, sometimes, how things pan out.

I was listening to The Conet Project. I'm still listening to The Conet Project – it's about 4.8 hours long. So far I've recognised numerous sequences from Boards of Canada songs. It seems that every time a sequence of numbers appears in their music, it's a Conet Project sample.

But anyway, just as this spark of familiarity flared, I noticed on my Twitter feed that Boards of Canada are back, and they're back in the best way possible.

It seems that New York's Other Music was visited by a representative from Warp Records at about 15.00 on Record Store Day. They dropped off a record – just one – a supremely cryptic dispatch from Boards of Canada. This record was bought almost instantly by a Reddit user.

On the sleeve were a series of dashes, slashes and Xs, arranged thus:

—— / —— / —— / XXXXXX / —— / ——

On the record were about twenty seconds of music (which sound like a riff on the ambient intro to Everything You Do Is A Balloon) and a sequence of numbers (making it even stranger that I should have been listening to The Conet Project when I learned about this).



The numbers are 936557.

All we have beyond that is an upload to Boards of Canada's official Youtube channel – a new video for Julie and Candy from Geogaddi, entitled “1977 snow computing amateur footage beards synthesizer”. It was originally labelled with a series of dashes, which appeared initially at the 4:20 mark of the video, then, on the next day, at the 4:19 mark.



Consequence of Sound believe that they might be counting down to something. If a new album's in the pipeline, this suggests that it might be out in less than 300 days!

This has made me extremely happy for two reasons. First of all, a new Boards of Canada album. Get in.

But second of all, how often has it been said that the internet's stripped all mystery and romanticism from music? I'm looking at you, Twitter. Now that we're prithee to the every thought of every musician, it does feel as though we've lost something.

Also, we can now hear (and criticise) albums months before they're released. We can sing every word of every unreleased song ever played at a gig.

That Boards of Canada can retain this esoteric edge even in these days when everybody knows everything all the time is wonderful. Truly wonderful.

What's more, they appear to be using the internet not to spread information, but to spread mystery. It's been reasoned that there are six of these records (as there are five more dashes on the front of the record), and presumably they've been placed in locations all over the world.

Boards of Canada attract the sort of fans who'll pore over every clue they're given in an attempt to uncover whatever mystery's waiting to be uncovered. In releasing this dispatch in this way, they're encouraging people to get together online in order to pick apart and piece together what little information we have.

Case in point? On the same Consequence of Sound article as linked to above, it's already been pointed out in the comments that the sequence of numbers – 936557 – correspond to a turquoise sort of colour.

The significance of that is enough to indue a sharp take of breath for any Boards of Canada fan.

So next time anybody complains that music's been ruined irreparably by the internet, point them in the direction of Boards of Canada. It takes a very special kind of band to spread so much hype through saying so little.

Dancing To Architecture Part 2 - Gateways To Obsession

Continuing my dubious denouement of Nick Hornby's 31 Songs, I'd like to call your attention to something.

No, please, stay with me. This is interesting. You might like where I'm going with this.

This is Nick Hornby in reference to his love for Rod Stewart. Ignore his irritating and outmoded tendency to refer to all music that isn't jazz or classical as "pop music" and look at this:

“...the people who stick with pop music the longest...are those who entrust themselves at a tender age to somebody like Stewart, somebody who was clearly a fan himself. Those who fell for The Stones got to hear, if they could be bothered, Arthur Alexander and Solomon Burke and Don Covay...Zeppelin fans might have been moved to seek out Muddy Waters and Howlin' Wolf.”

Remember, Hornby believes that those whose opinions differ to his don't really like music. Witness:

“The antecedents of Yes and Genesis were Pink Floyd, and before that nobody much, really, and that was, in retrospect, part of the reason I didn't like them very much. The music felt airless and synthetic, and it seemed even then as if all the prog rockers would rather have been classical musicians, as if pop were beneath them, somehow. They led you up a blind alley; there was nowhere to go.”

OK. Ignoring, for one moment, the fact that Pink Floyd's very name is derived from two old bluesmen (the work of Pink Anderson and Floyd Council could therefore be considered as highly valid antecedents to Pink Floyd), what's wrong with a rock musician aspiring to be a classical musician? Nothing much, really.

Hornby claims to dislike prog rock because it's a “blind alley”. Once you've listened to the big names, there's nowhere else to go.

This is nothing short of absolute horsetwaddle. Beyond the classical and avant-garde composers from which prog rockers ostensibly took their cues (Hornby evidently believes that such music is beneath him), it's important to remember that a major antecedent to prog was psychedelica. Psych is to prog what punk is to New Wave; and psyche is an ocean of considerable depth into which millions of intrepid musical obsessives delve every day.

With psyche, you've got a vast pantheon that thrived on both sides of the Atlantic. For just the very apex of the iceberg, think of The Kinks, The Beatles and The Who in the UK; Jefferson Airplane, Jimi Hendrix and The Grateful Dead in the US. Each of those bands offer a unique entry-point into a vast world of new musical discoveries, and you'll have a vastly different experience depending on where you happen to start. The Grateful Dead alone must surely have enough material to keep you happy for life.

And every single one of these musicians took inspiration from expansive swathes of roots, folk, country, blues etc; again from both sides of the Atlantic. Also, going on at the same time was a vibrant scene of bands who might only have recorded and released one single before fading into obscurity. So if the past holds no interest for you, why not explore the present? Nuggets is just a tiny, tiny bite of something immense. That's why they called it Nuggets. And trace a path forwards from Nuggets and you get to garage rock, punk, New Wave, indie...

So you see, even if you use Pink Floyd as an entry-point, you've got enough musical exploration to be getting on with to nourish you for a lifetime.

From this we can draw two conclusions. First of all we can reiterate that Hornby is a pretentious bore who, when you apply even a base amount of scrutiny to his assertions, clearly doesn't have the slightest idea what he's talking about.

Second, we can conclude that, if you like music enough, it really doesn't matter where you begin. Any band, scene, musician or genre can act as a viable entry-point into an obsession just as deep as Hornby's. Just as deep, but if you grew up with internet access, your love will likely be a lot more open-minded.

To illustrate my point, I'd like to talk about my own entry-point into what I already know will be a lifelong obsession with music (and not just “pop music”).

I believe I started with Radiohead. I still consider them my favourite band, and one major reason as to why I continue to value them above all others is because it's now possible to view them as the centre of an immense hub from which everything else I love stems. I could likely trace any band or musician I value back, in some way, to my early love for Radiohead.

It began when my brother bought the Paranoid Android single from a street vendor in Glastonbury (the town, not the festival). That song, and the two b-sides (Polyethylene pts. 1-2 and Pearly) would sow some highly potent seeds, but things wouldn't take off in earnest until the release of Amnesiac. You And Whose Army?, heard on a Q best of the year CD, was unlike anything I'd ever heard before. You could say it blew my mind.

I saved up for, bought and immersed myself in the album. It was the start of something beautiful, and I freely acknowledge the role of the internet in kindling my love. I would scour online archives for hours for any material pertaining to Radiohead, and as I went I was making an unconscious mental note of any and all bands or artists listed as influences or descendents.

In this way I got into Aphex Twin and, as a result, most everyone on the W.A.R.P roster. Brian Eno, too, and Jeff Buckley. Remixers such as Four Tet and Zero 7. Krautrockers such as Can, Faust and Kraftwerk. Contemporaries such as Martin Grech, Beck, Sigur Ros and Clinic. In recent years I've started to discover the daunting but enthralling world of jazz. Call me a philistine if you must, but I entered via the very sounds referenced by Radiohead – John Coltrane, Charles Mingus, Miles Davies – the same names that get everyone into jazz, surely; but I know that I might never have even considered making the leap were it not for Radiohead.

But perhaps most importantly, my love for Radiohead made me pay more attention to the music to which I already had access. Adventurous 90s guitar bands such as Blur, The Auteurs and Super Furry Animals wouldn't hold nearly as much sway over me were it not for Radiohead; whilst my parents' Pink Floyd and Genesis albums (on which I had basically been raised) suddenly seemed a lot more interesting.

So I got into prog rock. I even considered Radiohead to be prog rock. For a long time, I referred to myself as a prog rock fan. I still do, but for a long time I was all about the prog. The proggier the better.

And from there – well, see above.

If the potential for deep musical appreciation is within you, it doesn't matter in the slightest where you start. If it's in you, through an insatiable need for sustenance, you'll eventually find your way to achieving that ideal state – a love for music that's free from the artificial constraints of time, space and cool.

Nick Hornby thinks he's there, but he isn't. How can we tell? Well. Because he doesn't see how genres he dislikes (classical, prog etc.) can be worlds in themselves – worlds which are, importantly, inexorably linked to that which he values so much. And even if they aren't linked, they're no less valuable. And because he can't see that, well. I hate to say it, but it might be the case that he doesn't really like music at all.

The Eccentronic Research Council - 1612 Underture

Today we listened to the 1612 Underture by The Eccentronic Research Council on the way home.

There, one of the nicest things that's ever been said to me was said to me.

I've checked, and it is allowed to repeat compliments when said comments might not be taken as compliments by others.

I was told that this album is what it would sound like if my very existence were set to music.

So I suppose that, right there, here I have an album of the year by default.

But even without that personal touch, here we have glorious gobby Northern poetry as recounted by Maxine Peak set to an addictive atmospheric soundtrack of analogue synths and windswept field recordings.

And it's a concept album about the Pendle witches with a delicious album cover by Andy Votel.

And it has a song about the A666 – the road to hell/the road to Bolton – down which we drive every time I go to visit my dad.

And it contains such choice meaty cutlets as “We took photos with Apples, modern magic on a monthly tariff” and “Curse the smiling bus driver for being an abnormality of his profession”.

And it contains a three part, eight minute epic which opens with the wind and the rain and ends up sounding like an even blacker electronic Sabbath.

And it contains Another Witch Is Dead – apparently a traditional arrangement, here it's been re-imagined into an irresistible and sexy-as-hell hauntological disco smash.

So yes, this might well be my album of the year. Choice pick!

I might have uploaded a download link, but they've just started following me on Twitter and, as such, they could very likely press charges.

So instead, here's a link to a place from which you can BUY IT. WITH MONEY.

Worth every penny, mate!

I had nothing to do with the creation of this video. I just embedded it, sir!

Nathan Fake & Four Tet!

In the space of three hours I've listened to the new Four Tet and the new Nathan Fake.

This isn't a review! Nobody should ever write a review based on their first listen of anything. Think of this instead as an expression of how pleased I am to have such mind-expanding music so readily available.



Since 2006's bright and pastoral Drowning In A Sea of Love, I understand that every subsequent Nathan Fake album has been inching closer and closer to the dancefloor. It's not a journey I've been following – Steam Days is the first album of his I've heard since his debut. But even on the first listen I've been convinced to visit everything he's done in the interim.

The first half is strongly reminiscent of the work of AFX and Autechre. Layer upon layer of clipped percussion and bleepy analogue synths combine to form a sound that's somehow simultaneously cold and warming. It's cold in its mechanical construction, but in the sum of its parts you find such textures that sing of undeniably human emotions. This is the sound of robots struggling to comprehend love.

The floating Rue is the album's centre of gravity. It links the mechanical first half with the more organic and free-flowing second half. All electronic music used to be referred to as “dance music”. This is certainly music to which you can dance, but the songs are structured so amorphously as to sound less like floor-fillers and more like the glorious death rattles of experimental god emulators – like a natural, inexorable process that wasn't meant to be – a beautiful breakdown of order and rigidity – programmes transcending their programming and noticing, for the first time, the sunlight.



It's also been said of Four Tet's recent output that none-too-subtle shufflings are being made towards the dancefloor. Well, yes – the beats are more propulsive and less airy in their unhinged jazziness, but all I can say is that I'd probably go out more if they played this sort of music in clubs.

Pink isn't so much an album as a compilation of recent vinyl releases with two added tracks. However, things flow so beautifully that you wonder whether they were always intended to be taken in as a whole.

I'm sure that endless treasures will be found in the various valleys and vistas formed by these eight compositions, but at the moment I'm drawn to the closing trio. Pyramid is like the best party you've ever been to relocated to a desert plane beneath a stunning starry sky; Peace For Earth is a gorgeous digital canvas of analogue textures which could quite happily span for thrice its 11 minute length. Finally, Pinnacles is very aptly named: it could appear on a hundred albums and be regarded as the outstanding track. I've not been this taken by a single Four Tet composition since Slow Jam on Rounds.

So there you go. No matter what's happening in music, it seems that there's always something exciting going on in electronica. Both albums are available for less than £7 each on Boomkat. Support these digital dreamers so that they may buy congratulatory drinks for one another!