Dinosaur Pile-Up
City Screen Basement
Imagine the worst gig you have ever been to. Chances are it was a shambolic event, maybe a PA broke or the singer stormed off. These are pretty standard grievances which go hand in hand with the clichés and pitfalls of rock ‘n roll, but my main gripe will always remain the middle of the road.
Dinosaur Pile-Up are a fairly interesting new band, dark basslines and crunching guitars mixed with enough shoutalong choruses to peacefully blend mass-appeal and blogger’s delight. Couple this with a tiny, intimate venue and enough hype to pack it to the rafters and it seems the scene is set for a myth inducing event soon to be the parable of the word on the grubby street. But, unfortunately everything runs smoothly. Too smoothly.Following a slew of dire indie-by-the-numbers support bands DPU take to the humid stage surrounded entirely in a pincer movement of hungry punters. Despite their rapidly increasing repertoire of anthemic gems every track seems to slide easily into the next with the minimum of banter or elation, the non-plussed crowd never really entering the spirit. Take nothing away from Dinosaur Pile-Up’s musicianship, every song is played expertly and with a minimum of fuss but by busting out easily their best track (the fantastic ‘Love is a boat & we’re sinking) in the opening ten minutes they crash the nail directly into their own coffin. Even drunken students wandering the stage and thrusting behind band members cannot bring excitement to what is a very disappointing and dull gig.
Sunday, 15 March 2009
Monday, 2 March 2009
The Bar Is A Beautiful Place (short story)
“I think I actually, like, fell asleep in the middle.” This clearly gains a positive reaction as someone actually lets out a noise certainly on a par with an elated pig inhaling. I stand up and unsteadily head through the strobe lights towards the bar, wrapping my ankles on a stray jacket and almost nosediving onto the gooey floor.
The bar-woman is stern faced and addresses me with as few syllables as possible. I point fixedly a drink offer for ‘Tuesday Madness’ and she returns after a few minutes with a double whiskey. Her features melt and contort in the uncomfortable heat. Heading back to my seat something completely unfathomable happens and I wake up in gutter around 4am smelling distinctly of urine and cigarettes.
The next night is planned much better and I am sitting alone quite happily in a 50s theme establishment with my head on the sleek surface of the bar humming ‘American Pie’. The staff are clearly well-trained and a different member of staff attends to me every half hour or so to check for vital signs without even the slightest hint of a smile.
Thursday night is the low-point of a week devoid of anything other than low-points. I can’t seem to reach anything beyond the stage of mildly intoxicated and every single one of my friends is an intolerable bore. I get a taxi home alone around 1am and sleep soundly. I dream of floating in a swimming pool in a shining light as the sides slowly deteriorate and dissolve in the chlorine until I lie in an endless ocean staring at the light and rotating slowly akin to a giant microwave.
I am invigorated and hopeful as the doors open and my eyes adjust to the intermittent lights and my nose composes itself from the sting of dry ice. After several drinks I am exposed to everyone’s greatest wit and observations, laughing like a hyena at a story about a friend of a friend who once got his head stuck in a blender and someone’s far cousin who once fell into a grain silo. As the day fades into the Sabbath my body relaxes accordingly on a subconscious level and I happily play out the rest of the night in a soft, comfortable corner sipping cheap wine and meeting those who happen to pass my way with kind words and clever remarks. Recognisable faces are met with dramatic exclamations and wonderfully insightful conversations bordering on the two-minute mark before excuses are made and we part company.
I stand in the shower for close to an hour, head rested on the wall, my fingertips contoured at steep echelons before stumbling into my room and collapsing on the bed. Most of daylight passed without me and I am greeted by a strange feeling of disorientation at the sight of the setting sun. After a few minutes enjoying a level of hush I make my way to the kitchen for a glass of water, dusting the crust from my eyelashes and coughing out the taste of cigarettes.
The bar-woman is stern faced and addresses me with as few syllables as possible. I point fixedly a drink offer for ‘Tuesday Madness’ and she returns after a few minutes with a double whiskey. Her features melt and contort in the uncomfortable heat. Heading back to my seat something completely unfathomable happens and I wake up in gutter around 4am smelling distinctly of urine and cigarettes.
The next night is planned much better and I am sitting alone quite happily in a 50s theme establishment with my head on the sleek surface of the bar humming ‘American Pie’. The staff are clearly well-trained and a different member of staff attends to me every half hour or so to check for vital signs without even the slightest hint of a smile.
Thursday night is the low-point of a week devoid of anything other than low-points. I can’t seem to reach anything beyond the stage of mildly intoxicated and every single one of my friends is an intolerable bore. I get a taxi home alone around 1am and sleep soundly. I dream of floating in a swimming pool in a shining light as the sides slowly deteriorate and dissolve in the chlorine until I lie in an endless ocean staring at the light and rotating slowly akin to a giant microwave.
I am invigorated and hopeful as the doors open and my eyes adjust to the intermittent lights and my nose composes itself from the sting of dry ice. After several drinks I am exposed to everyone’s greatest wit and observations, laughing like a hyena at a story about a friend of a friend who once got his head stuck in a blender and someone’s far cousin who once fell into a grain silo. As the day fades into the Sabbath my body relaxes accordingly on a subconscious level and I happily play out the rest of the night in a soft, comfortable corner sipping cheap wine and meeting those who happen to pass my way with kind words and clever remarks. Recognisable faces are met with dramatic exclamations and wonderfully insightful conversations bordering on the two-minute mark before excuses are made and we part company.
I stand in the shower for close to an hour, head rested on the wall, my fingertips contoured at steep echelons before stumbling into my room and collapsing on the bed. Most of daylight passed without me and I am greeted by a strange feeling of disorientation at the sight of the setting sun. After a few minutes enjoying a level of hush I make my way to the kitchen for a glass of water, dusting the crust from my eyelashes and coughing out the taste of cigarettes.
Thursday, 12 February 2009
Break Up The Makedown
Five Bands Went out at Their Peak
1) The Velvet Underground
'Squeeze' was not a VU album. Doug Yule was a tosser.
2) Life Without Buildings
Wonderous twee-indie from Glasgow (where else) with a kraut twist, lasting three excellent years before parting company. Their only studio album, 'Any Other City', is a classy muddled ranting masterpiece, perched somewhere between Camera Obscura and The Vaselines.
Complete with marvellously un-rockstar names such as Sue Tomkins and Chris Evans they were the antithesis of everything loathesome in the depressing Travis led early 2000s British indie scene. They were helped on their path to cult status by the fact that in 'The Leanover' they may well have had the best song ever at their disposal.
Tomkins has since taken her tender stream-of-consciousness style to the Tate with a series of spoken word pieces. Chris Evans floundered after the dissolution of TFI Friday, divorced Billie and blew a wad of money on Richard E Grant's coat from Withnail & I.
3) Neutral Milk Hotel
Could any break-up list ever really be complete without them?
Two albums of innduendo swathed, string laden beauties were enough for Jeff Mangum before he presumably collapsed under the weight of his own genius/insanity and went to live in the woods somewhere, crooning at insects about semen. Tremendous.
4) Death From Above 1979
Exploded out of Canada and onto the pages of every British music rag as a perfect antidote to the identikit floppy brown post-punk revival with 2004's most vital and violent album, 'You're a Woman & I'm A Machine'. Went on to bait the press at every opportunity by calling the British music scene shit and writing songs about menstruation and the joys of rejecting contraception. Hated themselves and everyone else and split up a year later.
5) The Replacements
The epitome of both rock n' roll excess and authenticity. Crafted both fantastic balls-out punk rock and desperate isolated tearjerkers, serving albums as emotional rollercoasters. A band of demented alcoholics who would much rather write songs about erections (Gary's Got A Boner) than sell out arenas.
Rejected the mainstream in the early 80s at a time 99% of American rock was begging for MTV commodification and a slice of R.E.M's major label college-rock cash, baiting the juggernaut with the bile spitting 'Seen Your Video' (from their magnus opus 'Let It Be) and making a beautiful anti-video for biggest hit 'Bastards of Young' by filiming a speaker for 3 and half minutes. Collapsed into a fitting heap in 1991 plagued by death and drug-abuse.
'Seen Your Video, It's only rock n' roll, We don't wanna know, It's only rock n' roll.'
1) The Velvet Underground
'Squeeze' was not a VU album. Doug Yule was a tosser.
2) Life Without Buildings
Wonderous twee-indie from Glasgow (where else) with a kraut twist, lasting three excellent years before parting company. Their only studio album, 'Any Other City', is a classy muddled ranting masterpiece, perched somewhere between Camera Obscura and The Vaselines.
Complete with marvellously un-rockstar names such as Sue Tomkins and Chris Evans they were the antithesis of everything loathesome in the depressing Travis led early 2000s British indie scene. They were helped on their path to cult status by the fact that in 'The Leanover' they may well have had the best song ever at their disposal.
Tomkins has since taken her tender stream-of-consciousness style to the Tate with a series of spoken word pieces. Chris Evans floundered after the dissolution of TFI Friday, divorced Billie and blew a wad of money on Richard E Grant's coat from Withnail & I.
3) Neutral Milk Hotel
Could any break-up list ever really be complete without them?
Two albums of innduendo swathed, string laden beauties were enough for Jeff Mangum before he presumably collapsed under the weight of his own genius/insanity and went to live in the woods somewhere, crooning at insects about semen. Tremendous.
4) Death From Above 1979
Exploded out of Canada and onto the pages of every British music rag as a perfect antidote to the identikit floppy brown post-punk revival with 2004's most vital and violent album, 'You're a Woman & I'm A Machine'. Went on to bait the press at every opportunity by calling the British music scene shit and writing songs about menstruation and the joys of rejecting contraception. Hated themselves and everyone else and split up a year later.
5) The Replacements
The epitome of both rock n' roll excess and authenticity. Crafted both fantastic balls-out punk rock and desperate isolated tearjerkers, serving albums as emotional rollercoasters. A band of demented alcoholics who would much rather write songs about erections (Gary's Got A Boner) than sell out arenas.
Rejected the mainstream in the early 80s at a time 99% of American rock was begging for MTV commodification and a slice of R.E.M's major label college-rock cash, baiting the juggernaut with the bile spitting 'Seen Your Video' (from their magnus opus 'Let It Be) and making a beautiful anti-video for biggest hit 'Bastards of Young' by filiming a speaker for 3 and half minutes. Collapsed into a fitting heap in 1991 plagued by death and drug-abuse.
'Seen Your Video, It's only rock n' roll, We don't wanna know, It's only rock n' roll.'
Wednesday, 11 February 2009
Pulled Apart By Foreskins
Sky Larkin/Pulled Apart By Horses
Brudenell Social Club, Leeds
31st January
The great myth of ‘no great bands come from Yorkshire except those lads what done gone did that scummy man song’ can finally be dispelled. The Long Blondes had the look but failed to write any really great songs. !Forward Russia! had the storming live shows but lacked crossover success. Sunshine Underground had the anthemic choruses but lacked the cult respect to create a fan-base.
Tonight’s bands seem to remedy every ailment that has plagued the North East, Pulled Apart by Horses seem to improve with every show, enduring themselves with a charismatic and chaotic mix of enormous choruses and pompous-rock bluster, climbing both speakers and audience members on a power-chord fuelled bender, peaking with a stonking rendition of ‘I Punched A Lion In The Thr
oat’ in all its RSPCA baiting genius. They certainly have an impressive array of tunes at their disposal, from the slackeriffic ‘Meat Balloon’ to the pneumatic rocker ‘The Crapsons’ which could well be a lost Nirvana b-side from 1992.
Sky Larkin are an entirely different beast, more likely soaring on penny sweets than cider with a sugary set of pop classics in waiting, channelling the talents of ‘The Vaselines’ and ‘Public Image’ into one compact package. Tonight’s show serves as a homecoming after a UK Tour, evident from the camaraderie shown between overwhelmed front-woman Katie Harkin and the packed crowd. As encore ‘Keep Sakes’ slithers through its casio-led Breeders esque charms, both Pulled Apart By Horses and several ecstatic audience members join them for a rapturous climax. If there is any justice in the world, 2009 could well sway from the year of female identikit electro-pop to the year of full blown fun-grunge!
Pulled Apart By Horses - High Five. Swan Dive. Nose Dive.
Pulled Apart By iTunes
Sky Larkin On iTunes
Brudenell Social Club, Leeds
31st January
The great myth of ‘no great bands come from Yorkshire except those lads what done gone did that scummy man song’ can finally be dispelled. The Long Blondes had the look but failed to write any really great songs. !Forward Russia! had the storming live shows but lacked crossover success. Sunshine Underground had the anthemic choruses but lacked the cult respect to create a fan-base.
Tonight’s bands seem to remedy every ailment that has plagued the North East, Pulled Apart by Horses seem to improve with every show, enduring themselves with a charismatic and chaotic mix of enormous choruses and pompous-rock bluster, climbing both speakers and audience members on a power-chord fuelled bender, peaking with a stonking rendition of ‘I Punched A Lion In The Thr
oat’ in all its RSPCA baiting genius. They certainly have an impressive array of tunes at their disposal, from the slackeriffic ‘Meat Balloon’ to the pneumatic rocker ‘The Crapsons’ which could well be a lost Nirvana b-side from 1992.Sky Larkin are an entirely different beast, more likely soaring on penny sweets than cider with a sugary set of pop classics in waiting, channelling the talents of ‘The Vaselines’ and ‘Public Image’ into one compact package. Tonight’s show serves as a homecoming after a UK Tour, evident from the camaraderie shown between overwhelmed front-woman Katie Harkin and the packed crowd. As encore ‘Keep Sakes’ slithers through its casio-led Breeders esque charms, both Pulled Apart By Horses and several ecstatic audience members join them for a rapturous climax. If there is any justice in the world, 2009 could well sway from the year of female identikit electro-pop to the year of full blown fun-grunge!
Pulled Apart By Horses - High Five. Swan Dive. Nose Dive.
Pulled Apart By iTunes
Sky Larkin On iTunes
Monday, 26 January 2009
Grammatics (2009)
Grammatics
Self-Titled (2009)
High quality production has many negative connotations within the music community – covering up weak tracks, selling out, major labels, emotionless chart ambition etc. etc, etc. Based on this it seems many bands rely on lo-fi sensibilities to create an idea of authenticity. Sweeping aside this theory are the soaring Leeds/York youngsters Grammatics. Tipped for success for nigh on two years now, the wait for an album seems like an eternity, but the quest for perfection is a time-consuming art and for once solid production only enhances the sheer intricate delights of these twelve tracks of pure epic perfection.
Grammatics are as distant a foray as possible from their former incarnation as mid-2000s Kerrang! also-rans Colour of Fire, ditching the power chords and shoutalong choruses for majestic soaring epics and beautiful heart-wrenching melodies. Although much of the material on the album has previously been released via countless singles and EPs the album is brilliantly cohesive and creates a true atmosphere of its own, switching between despairing hymns and hopeful major key masterpieces extraordinarily.
The true splendour of this album lies in its total lack of any real contempory comparison, a unique and near orchestral delight. A world has been created within sixty minutes closer to Beethoven or Bach than any of the overused indie-rock influences such as My Bloody Valentine or Joy Division.
All twelve tracks are lyrically poetic and imaginative, if a little self-important at times, cramming in detailed psychological insights in a Conor Oberst-esque falsetto. Indeed, the lyrical musings show an impressive knack for exploration matched only in ambition by the music itself. Broken Wing proves to be a particular highlight with a stirring build-up and immense collapsing finale. The art of accumulating to an enormous climax is perfected on Relentless Fours, with its thudding bass drum and repetitive guitar line and quiver inducing, knowingly wistful hook “Everyone loves a breakdown”.
Despite every pretentious pitfall faced by the statement it is certainly very difficult to refrain from labelling this album a real masterpiece.
Self-Titled (2009)
High quality production has many negative connotations within the music community – covering up weak tracks, selling out, major labels, emotionless chart ambition etc. etc, etc. Based on this it seems many bands rely on lo-fi sensibilities to create an idea of authenticity. Sweeping aside this theory are the soaring Leeds/York youngsters Grammatics. Tipped for success for nigh on two years now, the wait for an album seems like an eternity, but the quest for perfection is a time-consuming art and for once solid production only enhances the sheer intricate delights of these twelve tracks of pure epic perfection.
Grammatics are as distant a foray as possible from their former incarnation as mid-2000s Kerrang! also-rans Colour of Fire, ditching the power chords and shoutalong choruses for majestic soaring epics and beautiful heart-wrenching melodies. Although much of the material on the album has previously been released via countless singles and EPs the album is brilliantly cohesive and creates a true atmosphere of its own, switching between despairing hymns and hopeful major key masterpieces extraordinarily.
The true splendour of this album lies in its total lack of any real contempory comparison, a unique and near orchestral delight. A world has been created within sixty minutes closer to Beethoven or Bach than any of the overused indie-rock influences such as My Bloody Valentine or Joy Division.
All twelve tracks are lyrically poetic and imaginative, if a little self-important at times, cramming in detailed psychological insights in a Conor Oberst-esque falsetto. Indeed, the lyrical musings show an impressive knack for exploration matched only in ambition by the music itself. Broken Wing proves to be a particular highlight with a stirring build-up and immense collapsing finale. The art of accumulating to an enormous climax is perfected on Relentless Fours, with its thudding bass drum and repetitive guitar line and quiver inducing, knowingly wistful hook “Everyone loves a breakdown”.
Despite every pretentious pitfall faced by the statement it is certainly very difficult to refrain from labelling this album a real masterpiece.
Tuesday, 13 January 2009
Get Wavving
2008 wasn't really the greatest year for music. The big guns omitted to put out any really great records and, the indie masses had to reply on decent offerings from middle-weight bands like frightened rabbit and m83 to keep them in their chosen state of mild indifference.
But underneath a sleek hipster visade a few really really great bands slipped under the radar.
For me 2008 was a year of noise pop. No Age sold a few records in the US and got a supporting slot with hyperbole art-poppers Los Campesinos! in the UK and Times New Viking made a few fans on the same lineup. HEALTH couldn't decide if they were a dance-punk or a noise band and ended up as a startling imitation of Liars (in the days they used to write actual songs).
And on the message boards, bearded sweater lovers went (quite rightly) mad for Women and Wavves.
These are two truly excellent bands, Women for their droning slow burning autistic masterpiece of an album and Wavves for putting the fun back in music with angsty beach pop anthems wedged somewhere between JFA and Iggy Pop.
What the next year holds for these bands and how they progress remains to be seen but for now i'm quite happy in a hazy bubble of fuzz and imaginary beaches.
Wavves - So Bored
Women - Black Rice
But underneath a sleek hipster visade a few really really great bands slipped under the radar.
For me 2008 was a year of noise pop. No Age sold a few records in the US and got a supporting slot with hyperbole art-poppers Los Campesinos! in the UK and Times New Viking made a few fans on the same lineup. HEALTH couldn't decide if they were a dance-punk or a noise band and ended up as a startling imitation of Liars (in the days they used to write actual songs).
And on the message boards, bearded sweater lovers went (quite rightly) mad for Women and Wavves.
These are two truly excellent bands, Women for their droning slow burning autistic masterpiece of an album and Wavves for putting the fun back in music with angsty beach pop anthems wedged somewhere between JFA and Iggy Pop.
What the next year holds for these bands and how they progress remains to be seen but for now i'm quite happy in a hazy bubble of fuzz and imaginary beaches.
Wavves - So Bored
Women - Black Rice
Thursday, 8 January 2009
To The Five Bollocks
5 To Avoid In 2009
January is a month perfect for dull overcast skies, returning shit presents and lists of top tips for the next year. Every music publication imaginable will be outlining their tips for success in the next year – expect to see Ian Curtis wannabes White Lies topping the majority. But as highlighted by the crock of shit that was last year’s NME tips list, featuring the awe-inspiring and ever so groundbreaking Ting Tings and Black Kids it seems more appropriate to outline the bands to hate on early. Stock up the stagnant bottles of piss now ready for festival season.
1 – Twisted Wheel
One sure sign of a terrible piece of lad-rock dross is a band having Oasis as an influence. Sure enough, like their gay-incestuous spiritual fathers the Gallaghers, Twisted Wheel are an incredibly poor Beatles knock-off. They even have the gusto to use the lyric – ‘Lucy in the castle’s gonna blow your mind’. If you’re going to swindle one of the most famous songs ever, at least change the girl’s name in the title you thick Manchester lad-rock dickheads. That said they are so bland and unoriginal they will probably go multi-platinum and headline V Festival.
2 – Esser
Formerly of pretentious indie wank outfit Ladyfuzz, Esser strides tentatively forward. It would be easy to be swayed by the Hoxton Rent-boy chic and claims that ‘pop is not a dirty word’. If you’re Duran Duran this might well be the case but with over produced and under-written sub-Penate tunes, live shows as enigmatic as cot death and a support slot for the Kaiser Chiefs, respect doesn’t seem on the horizon. Expect two top 20 singles and a second album sinking without a trace.
3 – Sergeant
Here’s a refreshing concept - more lad-rock bollocks giving the North a bad name. File next to the Courteeners as tracksuit indie with absolutely no redeeming qualities what-so-ever.
4 – Dan Black
Marketed as a reputable alternative to Sam Sparro, Dan Black creates forgettable disco-pop with cringeworthy rhymes and half-hearted lyrics. The infuriatingly yoof demographic titled ‘HYPNTZ’ is a wonderous piece of irony at just how white Dan Black is. The Jay-Z sampling track delivers an abortion of corny lines with a camp rasp to make Los Campesinos! seem macho. Currently touted for success by the BBC and NME expect this to be the soundtrack to the summer you kill yourself with a mirrorball.
5 – Skint & Demoralised
The absolute abyss. Combining the worst elements of white-boy rap, lad-rock and shit mid 90s brit-pop choruses we have Skint & Demoralised. Every track is so terribly contrived that even with the odd swear thrown in for good measure, the hideous creations that go loosely by the name of songs can make Scouting for Girls look edgy. Desperate to be labelled Northern Soul, but with a voice of a useless crack-head, the tales of a useless crack-head and, well, the look of a useless crack-head S&D is more likely to be labelled a whiney, brainless sack of shit. Avoid like the plague.
Download (if you must)
Sergeant - Tonight
Dan Black - HYPNTZ
January is a month perfect for dull overcast skies, returning shit presents and lists of top tips for the next year. Every music publication imaginable will be outlining their tips for success in the next year – expect to see Ian Curtis wannabes White Lies topping the majority. But as highlighted by the crock of shit that was last year’s NME tips list, featuring the awe-inspiring and ever so groundbreaking Ting Tings and Black Kids it seems more appropriate to outline the bands to hate on early. Stock up the stagnant bottles of piss now ready for festival season.
1 – Twisted Wheel
One sure sign of a terrible piece of lad-rock dross is a band having Oasis as an influence. Sure enough, like their gay-incestuous spiritual fathers the Gallaghers, Twisted Wheel are an incredibly poor Beatles knock-off. They even have the gusto to use the lyric – ‘Lucy in the castle’s gonna blow your mind’. If you’re going to swindle one of the most famous songs ever, at least change the girl’s name in the title you thick Manchester lad-rock dickheads. That said they are so bland and unoriginal they will probably go multi-platinum and headline V Festival.
2 – Esser
Formerly of pretentious indie wank outfit Ladyfuzz, Esser strides tentatively forward. It would be easy to be swayed by the Hoxton Rent-boy chic and claims that ‘pop is not a dirty word’. If you’re Duran Duran this might well be the case but with over produced and under-written sub-Penate tunes, live shows as enigmatic as cot death and a support slot for the Kaiser Chiefs, respect doesn’t seem on the horizon. Expect two top 20 singles and a second album sinking without a trace.
3 – Sergeant
Here’s a refreshing concept - more lad-rock bollocks giving the North a bad name. File next to the Courteeners as tracksuit indie with absolutely no redeeming qualities what-so-ever.
4 – Dan Black
Marketed as a reputable alternative to Sam Sparro, Dan Black creates forgettable disco-pop with cringeworthy rhymes and half-hearted lyrics. The infuriatingly yoof demographic titled ‘HYPNTZ’ is a wonderous piece of irony at just how white Dan Black is. The Jay-Z sampling track delivers an abortion of corny lines with a camp rasp to make Los Campesinos! seem macho. Currently touted for success by the BBC and NME expect this to be the soundtrack to the summer you kill yourself with a mirrorball.
5 – Skint & Demoralised
The absolute abyss. Combining the worst elements of white-boy rap, lad-rock and shit mid 90s brit-pop choruses we have Skint & Demoralised. Every track is so terribly contrived that even with the odd swear thrown in for good measure, the hideous creations that go loosely by the name of songs can make Scouting for Girls look edgy. Desperate to be labelled Northern Soul, but with a voice of a useless crack-head, the tales of a useless crack-head and, well, the look of a useless crack-head S&D is more likely to be labelled a whiney, brainless sack of shit. Avoid like the plague.
Download (if you must)
Sergeant - Tonight
Dan Black - HYPNTZ
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