Apparently, I buy too many records

My wife Helen, like every other woman i've ever lived with, believes that I buy too many records.

Which, as every record-buying man knows, is a ridiculous belief.

I will concede, however, that I do indeed buy a lot of records and that I don't afford them the same amount of listens and attention that I did 20 or 30 years ago.

To this end, I have decided to blog about the records that I buy, in order to help my appreciation of them - and perhaps to show Helen that I don't buy that many records after all.

Because i'm crap with deadlines the blog posts will be sporadic and probably be about a month or 2 behind but that's just the way i am! The posts will not necessarily be actual reviews (most likely comments, at best) and will generally be pretty damn short due to the reasons outlined above. As a writer in a previous existence i have decided not to worry about writing as art in the pieces but, instead, to attempt to convey feeling over semantic (and often grammatic) perfection.

And 'OCRB'? It stands for 'Obsessive Compulsive Record Buying' - a little known mental health affliction that is potentially damaging to the bank account but ultimately life-affirming. It is sad.......but a nice form of sad.

Friday 17 June 2011

Tropic of Cancer: The sorrow of two blooms (Blackest ever Black)

Back in about 1985, i would regularly dance with my backcombed hair rigid, my fringe floppy, my eyes closed and my pointy boots pointing. To say i was a goth would be understating it rather - not that we would ever admit it ("we're not goths, we're individuals - and so are all my friends that look like me and listen to the same music as me"),


 but it has to be said that a lot of that music that i listened and danced to still sounds pretty good today - bauhaus, sisters, the cult (early), the cure, cocteau twins, dead can dance etc - and Tropic of Cancer are aware of that too. 'Cos they've made a record which should've been released on 4AD in 1985. It is such a perfect artifact from that bygone historical era that i had to check that it wasn't actually a re-release. The drum machine thunders deeply in the background, the guitars and keyboards chime away and the vocals swoon all over the place. Makes we wanna backcomb my hair; dig out the old raincoat, makeup bag, winkle pickers and black drainpipes and mope all the way to the shops. But i wont. 'Cos my kids would disown me.
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