Ten thousand years I fall in love, one thousand years I fail in love

Having daubed red crosses on the windows and employed a manservant to shuffle awkwardly around the estate with a hand bell, we’ve crawled gingerly out from the covers this last day or so, scratching ourselves and feeling a little less groggy. We’ve been something of a sick house for the last seven days or missed pretty much all of the week between Christmas and New Year, which is a massive shame – I look forward to those seven lazy, loafe-some days almost as much as the feasting…

But here we are, on the brink of a another loveless decade.

I can’t be arsed to do a review of the year (let alone the decade), mainly because … well, I can’t be arsed, but also because, you’ve had enough of all of this malarkey by now, I’m sure…

For what it’s worth, I enjoyed the Modern English record (plus the various extras that have surfaced over the year); the Black Midi record was fine (but possibly not as great as their lean, haughty live set); also Amon Tobin’s Only Child Tyrant thing and Beak>’s last record (although I think that was last year).

Other than that the year has been soundtracked by a dizzying round of idiosyncratic nonsense from the Move, Sun Ra, Terry Riley and various Spanish artists (so pretty much like last year, then).

There was one lurid shaft of 2019 gold that has lit my way, though:


Proof that God still loves us…

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