Sunday, 20 December 2015

Tread On My Dreams




I reckon Yeats could take Biggie in a battle-rap.






Friday, 18 December 2015

Moisturize



Today the sun shone like a soul on fire, baking the leaves as they two-stepped in the breeze. The colours were so bright the blind could sense them, a day when smiles were the currency of strangers. None of which mattered to me because i couldn't get out of bed. A glass half-empty day. A glass completely empty day. I didn't even have a glass by my bed day. I woke up fully-clothed today. A day when people unbeknown to me took on the strength of Supervillains. Today a look in the eye of the Tesco's lady cleaved me in two, landing flush, the look that made me hit the canvas. I thought i'd come out fighting. But something in me plugged a thumb over the end of my snorkel. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Suffering makes the heart grow stronger. What if tomorrow is not another day. What if it's the same.



On days like these, it's L'Oreal Men Expert Hydra Energetic.






*



Time got lost today. Took a wrong turn and fell off a cliff. Days like this go on forever. All noise was music. The sirens and the horns and the bickering in the supermarket isles. Sounding seamlessly in time in an unending hymn of praise. Today my ipod shuffle could've manned decks for eight hours in Amnesia. Today i threw shapes on lampposts, singing in the rain while it splashed over my face, a horizontal rain that gushed from the clouds but the clouds were other people and the rain a strange kind of water i'd not felt before, chemical composition good vibes. Today all the courage i so coveted was an unused sub, warming the bench looking forlorn. What use is courage when there's nothing to be afraid of. In the land of the blind the one-eyed man is King. Today i was everyone. And everyone was me.




Today screamed L'Oréal Men Expert Pure Power.






*



Today the glass was twice the size it needed to be. Watching snooker in black and white on a state of the art Hitachi. Should i have been under water i would not have kicked to come to the surface. Sadness and happiness held no sway today, written in a language i couldn't understand. If i was suffering i would've learnt. But i don't think i was, and i don't think i did. Not good, and the opposite of evil. These days are days to be afraid of. These days will make me old. Because i won't remember them.



L'Oréal Men Expert Wrinkle De-Crease days.






Double-Edged Kid




I imagine one of the joys of having children must be making them believe whatever you do is normal.







Which is also why Larkin probably said that stuff about how much your parents mess with your shit.







But that script is also for the flipping. 



Since the power lies just as much in parents to turn their kids into absolute gees.








From now on, if i see lame kids i'm 100% blaming their makers.




Monday, 14 December 2015

It's A Fugazi



Some dude once came up to me and said bredda if your blog is called dropthebeatonit why the hell don't you put more tunes up. I laughed and self-effacingly protested the last thing the world needed was more Shania Twain thrust before them, knowing full well my predilection for flashdance mc hammer shit would go straight over the top of this guy's dome. But now and again i come across a tune that gives me a love i feel morally obliged to spread.



If you see a homeless-looking dude on the streets of Melbourne, Australia with an outstanding collection of adidas sweats, odds-on you'll be staring at Chet Faker.






This guy is the dope. A couple of weeks ago i posted a Nick Mulvey tune saying no man had given me this much boner since Jay Kay dropped Space Cowboy back in '98. But Chet is making me think weird thoughts. Where Mulvey would probably kick off the morning-after by bringing you a steaming mug of PG tips, Chet would wake you up on the blower to some other dude, and then bust out to meet him without so much as a softly-whispered adieu. Listen.






Live version is incredible.








The evidence is there. Chicks want him. Guys wanna be him.



Comments section is gold.






















And the video for Gold.








Boiled Vegetables



If you're stuck for real quality on Netflix, look no further.








I haven't seen it admittedly. Word on the street is that it's feel-good.







But regardless of the documentary or the subject of it, who i've met a couple of times and seems very nice, it's the review that has me salivating. I think this has to be the best all-time review in the history of all-time reviews. It's the only one on there, single-handedly responsible for the film's one star rating. But it's remarkable; a study in precision, syntax, and restraint. Whoever wrote it deserves a pulitzer.







Friday, 11 December 2015

Let's Go Exploring



On the days when i fumble over the existence of God, the one our father told my brother and i about growing up, when the picture painted by that big floppy book i was given on my first communion comes across on the tenuous side, i reach for another slightly bigger floppy book, cast my eyes over the pages and feel the removal of all doubt wash over my mind in a wave of clarity. God is Bill Watterson.






God wrote Calvin & Hobbes over a decade from 1985 to 1995. By the time he finished it was in 3,600 newspapers around the world and his book sales around the 50million mark. Nevertheless God was a hermit, never went to collect any of the awards he won, rarely did any press, content to merely sit at home at his drawing board and paint a picture of the world as seen through the eyes of a six year old and his imaginary stuffed tiger. Google him and you'll find one photo of him. One. The only one that exists yo.






You don't see Calvin & Hobbes dolls, or calendars, or films because God turned down literally billions of dollars in merchandising and tv rights, insisting his creation should remain only in its original format. The syndicate that owned all his rights were so fucked off at this potential source of revenue squandered, that they considered firing him and getting someone else to write the comic in his place. The problem being the only person in the whole world who could do that job was... God. So they relented, billion-less, and let him carry on.



But as time wore on God became more and more disillusioned by the powers that be. Where the comic had been always so full of life and enchantment and childhood innocence, day by day it was taking on a more cynical tone.










I don't even fucking understand some of the later ones.







In July of 1995 he announced that he would be stopping Calvin & Hobbes at the end of that year. It was an absolute bombshell. Millions of families, children and parents alike, feared the apocalypse of their breakfast reading rituals. The news was unfathomable, the equivalent of Messi announcing his retirement, uninjured, playing the best football of his life, aged 27.


As Christmas of that year went by, a time when Calvin would usually embark on his standard yuletide morality crisis of trying to secure as much sweet loot as possible while still lobbing snowballs at his neighbour, God chose instead to have a dig at the season's mindless consumerism.







Christmas rolled towards New Year and fans all over were getting tetchy as hell, it was squeaky bum-time. How would it all end. What famous last words would the world be left with. How would God distill all he had dedicated the last decade of his life to, into one last hurrah.  NYE was the last strip. Falling fittingly on a Sunday, God had an entire half page to play with.


I think it ranks alongside the greatest parting shots in all of art. The Last Judgement on the wall of the Sistene, the last sentence of 100 Years Of Solitude, Red walking down the beach at the end of Shawshank, Rocky's speech to a stadium of Soviets post taking out Ivan Drago in the 12th.



Every time i read it, it makes me smile.






And just like that... he was gone.




Ending that motherfucker in the only way possible. With a new beginning.