Perhaps my biggest musical obsession over the past 12 months (beyond all the usual suspects) has been John Darnielle's Mountain Goats. I will continue to shout into the empty vacuum about their glory as long as I have breath in my body.
Anyway, they're back with a new album called Days, and it's obviously quite brilliant.
Here's the lead single, based on an occasion back in the 1990s when actor Charlie Sheen saw a Japanese Horror film which he believed was actually a snuff movie, so he reported it to the FBI.
It wasn't, but it makes for a good story... and a great tune.
Instead, I am playing with some lovely Mountain Goats over at The Vinyl Villain. Thank you to the Blogfather, JC, for hosting today's rambly witterings.
Here's The My Top Ten Traditional Christmas Song...
And here are some more of my favourite records of 2025, to listen to while you cook your turkey.
I wouldn't normally do this on Christmas Day, but I'm worried if I don't, I won't get them all in before next Thursday.
11. The Mountain Goats - Through This Fire Across from Peter
Balkan
Another concept album, knocking on the door of the Top Ten,
this one involving a dream that novelist / songwriter John Darnielle had, involving
a shipwreck and a desperate ordeal for three survivors (including the titular
Peter Balkan).
I’m only just beginning to scrape the surface of this one –
the latest Mountain Goats album was released in early November – and its
position so high in the countdown is perhaps more reflective of my growing
fascination with the work of Mr. Darnielle and a lot of time spent listening to
the Goats’ back catalogue this year (I’m even thinking of putting together an ICA
for JC… if I ever get the time).
10. Jonathan Richman – Only Frozen Sky Anyway
It’s a while since I’ve listened to any new releases from
Jonathan Richman – in fact, I don’t think I’m familiar with any of the albums
he’s put out this century, only the stuff from his prime in the late 70s early
80s, and the classic 1990 release Jonathan Goes Country.
I was suckered into falling for this one through his cover /
reinvention / Jonathanisation of the Bee Gees’ Night Fever, but there’s much
more joy to be found here. The critics tell me the album dwells on death and
mortality – but isn’t that to be expected from an artist with six decades in
the music business? I can’t say I noticed it anyway, I was more taken with his
customary wit and wisdom (making me wonder why I haven’t paid more attention to
his more recent output), deep philosophical insight (which you can take or
leave, it never feels like he’s pontificating) and splashes of Spanish, as on Se
Va Pa'Volver and Little Black Bat.
9. Divine Comedy – Rainy Sunday Afternoon
Another late entry to the countdown, released at the end of
September, yet already confirming itself as a glorious addition to the
Neil Hannon songbook. It’s a deeper and more personal record than his rather
frivolous last recording, Office Politics – incredibly, that was six years ago,
but Neil kept himself busy writing the soundtrack to Wonka in the meantime.
Unlike the Jonathan Richman record, I could
definitely spot mortality as a major theme here – understandably, as it turns
out Neil lost both his father and his favourite dog while working on these
songs. Yet it’s never a depressing record – there’s a lightness, a joy to be
found in even the most contemplative of tracks. Just none of the pure comedy
moments Neil often throws in to satisfy his Noel Coward urges.
It always amazes me that The Divine Comedy came to fame at
the height of Britpop, since Hannon’s songwriting belongs to another era
entirely. Coward yes, but Cole Porter too.
You can pretty much tell AI didn't come up with that image, can't you? What can I say, I'm an old-fashioned guy, and I wanted a picture of a square dude holding a camera. Unlike yesterday when I showed you one of the residents of Albert's Square holding a camera.
All in aid of - with great thanks to our resident Maths teacher, George, for suggesting the theme and many of the tunes - songs about Square Numbers. Working our way from the square of 15... down to the square of 1.
Roland arrived at Grange Hill a year or so before I went to High School. He didn’t have a good time of it, being the fat kid who everyone picked on… his only friend being annoying Janet with the whiney voice. He was singled out by school bully Gripper Stebson, who made his life a misery, and towards the end of his first year, he ended up in hospital after running out into the road in front of a speeding car.
I missed the episode where Roland got run over, so somehow I managed to convince myself things had got so bad he’d tried to commit suicide. The internet tells me, years later, that it wasn’t actually a suicide attempt, but Grange Hill went to some dark places, so I’m not 100% convinced.
The reason I’m telling you about Roland is that when I started High School, the bullies and the wags soon twigged to the fact that I share the first three letters of my Christian name with the Grange Hill character played by Erkan Mustafa. And even though the end of my name was different – who cares? Rol became Roland… and the sound of kids mimicking whiney Janet’s catchphrase, “I only want to help you, Ro-land…” was soon echoing through the halls of our Secondary. And I hated it.
Author and neurobiologist R. Douglas Fields created the acronym LIFEMORTS to summarise nine triggers in our brains that cause us to get angry, lose our shit and full on HULK out. Last time, we looked at the first of these – L for Life or Death Situations. Today, we’re looking at I… for Insult.
I’d argue that many times, getting hit by a stick or a stone – even if it caused us the long term inconvenience of a broken bone – is preferable to many of the insults we’ve received in our lives. The insults the cut us to the quick. The insults that we lay awake at night recalling. The insults that leave permanent scars.
Unsurprisingly, scientists have studied the way our brains react to insult, and they compare the effect to a “mini slap in the face”…
The researchers found insults uttered by a fictitious person triggered short bursts of brain activity in the front part of listeners' brains, regardless of who the insult was directed at, themselves or somebody else.
These very rapid responses, which the researchers say are akin to a slap in the face, did not diminish over time; offensive statements continued to grab the brain's attention, generating large responses of similar magnitude, regardless of how often the invectives were heard.
Insults elicited a larger response in brain activity than compliments, and they continued to do so throughout the session, the experiments showed.
Ouch. Insults have a bigger impact and stay with us longer than compliments. So much for “names will never hurt me”!
It's a telling reminder of how our brains tend to fixate on negative events more intensely than they do positive things – what's known as the negativity bias.
Get that – what they’re basically telling us here is that our brains are much more likely to brood over negative things than they are to get zuzzed up by positivity. Our brains are essentially miserable emo/goths. It’s a wonder we’re not all on Prozac.
The reason our brains don’t like being insulted goes way, way back to the dawn of man when our very survival often depended on being part of a fledgling community, and hierarchies became suddenly very important. The higher you were up the hierarchy, the more chance you had of surviving. Of getting food and water, or having others help you by sharing resources and skills. Of finding a mate and being in with a chance of passing your genes on to the next generation. However, even back then, there were lots of buffoons who made it their business to try and batter other people down, and if they couldn’t do it physically, maybe they could do it verbally. The insult became as much a threat to our position in society as the stick or the stone… and our brains, whose primary job is to keep us alive, began to realise that insults could be deadly.
When Swanny chanted out, “I only want to help you, Ro-land,” and the other kids laughed, he was knocking me down the hierarchy ladder, and cementing his own position near the top. And this made me angry.
According to Psychology Today though, Anger is the absolute worst response to Insult. Whereas the strongest way to respond might well be… acceptance.
When someone insults us, we ought to consider three things: whether the insult is true, who it came from, and why. If the insult is true or largely true, the person it came from is reasonable, and his or her motive is worthy, then the insult is not an insult but a statement of fact, and, moreover, one that could be very helpful to us.
Which seems fair enough… although in that case, it is really an insult? Aren’t we just talking about constructive criticism there? Some people have a hard time with that too – any form of criticism – but it still differs from an insult.
On the other hand, if you think that the person who insulted you is unworthy of your consideration, you have no reason to take offence, just as you have no reason to take offence at a naughty child or a barking dog.
I think that as we get older, it becomes a lot to ignore insults from dingbats who aren’t worth expending a breath on… but when you’re a teenager, that’s much harder. Everyone’s opinion matters to you in the deadly hierarchy of the school yard.
As kids, we’re more likely to return the insult… I know you are, you said you are, but what about me? That doesn’t quite work when the insult is linked to your name though. I suppose I could have tried to come up with an equally stinging riposte linked to Swanny’s name – yeah, well, you look like a swanee whistle (maybe I could have imitated the sound of a swanee whistle every time he walked past?) Or could I have compared him to a Swan Vesta – you’re a hothead, Swanny… where’s your vest? It’s hardly Oscar Wilde or Dorothy Parker, is it? And chances are he might just have (to use another swan analogy) broken my arm in return.
The fundamental problem with the put-down, however brilliant it may be, is that it equalizes us with our insulters, bringing them up to our level and us down to theirs. This gives them, their behaviour, and their insult far too much legitimacy. Returning the insult also risks injuring the insulter (who, in all probability, is fairly fragile) and inviting further attacks.
Depending on the power differential in the relationship, fighting fire with fire is rarely a smart move… not when the other side has bigger fists and is more than prepared to use them.
If you can’t use humour to deliver a stinging rebuke then, perhaps you can use it to defuse the situation in another way? When Swanny piped up, “I only want to help you, Ro-land,” maybe I should have replied, “Cheers, Swanny – any chance you can do my Maths homework for me?” Or turn the mockery back on myself to show him it didn’t bother me at all. “Ouch – that hurts. I’m going to have to go do what Roland would do in this situation… eat a few pies and wash them down with a gallon of Irn Bru.” Of course, it’s all very well thinking of witty ripostes after the fact (shades of L'esprit D'escalier), particularly 40 years after the fact! But I think eventually this was the strategy I began to adopt in terms of dealing with insults. I got in there first. I insulted myself, put myself down, before anybody else could. Take the insulter’s power away by showing them I had an even worse opinion of myself than they did. It works… to a point… but no wonder I ended up with low self-esteem.
Leeds was the first city I knew. My dad worked in Leeds when I was a kid, back in the days when getting there from Huddersfield was a much shorter journey. As I grew older, Mum used to take me to Leeds Comic Marts every other month, and when I started work, I'd often catch the train from Bradford to Leeds to spend my wage in the city's many record shops. It was later that I discovered Manchester (too big and scary for a little Yorkshire lad) and later still, Sheffield (Leeds without the pretentions). Nowadays I work in Leeds myself, or close enough, but the only reason I have to visit the city centre is the occasional gig. I don't feel as welcome there as I once did... it's all too new and shiny and ever-expanding... but then, I've never been a city boy.
Still, I was encouraged to breath life into this old blog series after listening to the wonderful Cherry Red compilation, Where Were You: Independent Music From Leeds (1978-1989). Not only does that collection feature some of the best bands to ever call Leeds home, including The Wedding Present, The Sisters of Mercy, Cud, The Mekons and The Sinister Cleaners... but it also features quite a few songs about Leeds. Like this one!
Named after an Eddie Cochran song, Pink Peg Slax were a Leeds rockabilly band who scored quite a few sessions with John Peel and Andy Kershaw in the 80s, though they never broke through to the big time. They were also responsible for this little beauty...
Mandi and Debi Laek are two sisters from Leeds whose quirky tales of life in Leeds have drawn comparisons to The Kinks, The Jam, Brian Wilson and Syd Barrett.
Mark Knopfler wrote the following tune about Harry Phillips, a Leeds sculptor who never got the respect he deserved... because he wasn't from a trendy town.
Here's a contemporary American band that 30-something hipsters like Ben are into, despite the fact that they're named after that old sitcom about growing up in the 60s. The song is all about being on tour, mostly in Leeds, but far away from home...
Last night in Leeds
Ad and I found ourselves wandering the city
Looking for pizza
All we found was complacency and somewhere to sleep
I'm still waiting for the map to say home's a week away
Back in the UK, Geordie folkster Richard Dawson is someone I've been listening to quite a bit lately since Michel Faber sang his praises in Listen. Here, Richard talks about missing his daughter after driving her away to University...
But my favourite song about Leeds is still this one, from Californian songwriter John Darnielle. It's a song dedicated to Goth God and "Leeds lad" Andrew Eldritch... although he was actually born in Cambridgeshire. Nevertheless, it always makes me smile...
Because I couldn't find a picture of Herb Alpert taking a photo, here's Herbie the car. He's going bananas for today countdown of songs with herbs in them...
(Oh, and in case you were wondering about Marlene yesterday, the surname "Dill" is apparently "from a pet form of the personal name Dietrich", according to the people who know about such things.)
10. Makes a lot of parkin.
Parkin is a ginger cake. Some debate on the interweb about whether ginger is a herb or a root veg. That doesn't matter though, because we're not here for the ginger, we're here for the basil...
Mountain Goats mainman spent his lockdown watching action movies.
I'm coming to swat you down like flies
'Cause I got guys
Guys on every corner
This is the result: a visceral, pounding assault of guitar anthems with singalong choruses snatched from clichéd dialogue lines straight from the movies.
We're gonna need
We're gonna need more bandages
It's an album full of three minute revenge fantasies, but one that ultimately concludes that revenge is rather a pointless (if wholly satisfying, especially when experienced vicariously) way to carry on.
It's hard to judge Bill Callahan's records against anybody else's, since they dwell for me on an alternate plane of existence. Sometimes I find myself in a trance-like state when listening to Bill. His YTI⅃AƎЯ is strange, yet comforting. I'm not sure I can say any more. This is a beautiful record. I'll let proper reviewers try to explain to you what it's all about.
14. Del Amitri - Fatal Mistakes: Outtakes & B-Sides
The internet trolls tell me I shouldn't like Del Amitri. They're bland, apparently. So I certainly shouldn't like an album of "Outtakes & B-Sides", should I? Still. Irk the purists, and all that.
I thought this was every bit as strong as last year's comeback album. Where some hear bland, I hear biting cynicism, world weariness and mouth-watering misanthropy in Justin Currie's songs, from the chirpy "We're all going to hell" chorus of Happiness Is It to the weary wisdom of My Adulthood.
My adulthood is a masquerade I took
From the other adults that I knew
Little did I know, nobody ever grows
They just carry on as children do
Like I've carried all my adulthood
This thing I had to do
Suspend my adulthood, so every day I could
Be free from you
Hardly Coldplay, is it? And that's before we even get to This City Loves You Back, another worthy sequel to Nothing Ever Happens.
Beware, trolls - this is not the only B-sides collection you'll encounter in this countdown. And chances are, the next one will be even blander than this...
I'm fully aware you won't listen to any of those, but it kept me entertained for an hour or so.
They all came from my music library. I could have put Chevy into a streaming service and come up with a hundred more, but that would have been fake.
They are all phenomenal actually
I will make a CD with them on for it.
Once I get a CD recorder.
Or a CD drive for a laptop.
There's no need to be sarcastic.
I wasn't.
I genuinely appreciated them.
One more then...
I think you should go into work on your last day dressed in Fubu, pretending that that's who you were all along.
I had to google Fubu.
For Us By Us.
I thought it was like Fubar
Or Snafu.
Or just another one of your S&M things.
I only get my bits from M&S, not the full shop.
Have you been tested for dyslexia?
Yes. By the Marquis de Sade. (M de S.) It was a pretty grueling test.
I'm concerned about the company you're keeping.
You stay away from that boy, he's a bad influence.
I thought he was a Smooth Operator.
Did you have a special meal as a celebration for leaving the job?
Or just jam sandwiches?
That's how I picture all your meals.
Maybe the odd ham salad sandwich.
But mainly jam sandwiches and a coffee.
Breakfast, it's jam on toast.
Lunch: jam sandwiches.
Tea: confiture en croute.
I don't like jam sandwiches. I prefer my jam on scones.
So, jam on toast. Ham salad sandwich, scone for tea.
Clotted cream only at weekend.
Or Friday nights.
I eat blueberries too.
I like real blueberries. I prefer rhubarb jam.
As long as we agree quince is the king of jams.
It would be Top 5.
We stopped at a Farm Shop the other day. They're normally a good source of interesting jams. All they had was Strawberry and Raspberry. I burnt the place to the ground.
I'd leave them a two star review on Google.
Because you're a millennial. We did things properly in Gen X.
Joined the NF?
Yes! The New Frontier...
Would you consider this a Large Americano?
Small.
Regular at a push.
I'd finish that and then take the cup to the counter and say you're ready for the other half of your large coffee.
It was a thimble.
Surely that's a war crime.
Luckily. I carry my matches with me at all times.
I'd get the UN involved.
I prefer to keep my protests apolitical.
Boutros Boutros-Ghali would be furious at that comment.
