The proposition for the RPM Challenge seemed simple enough: for the month of February, you are to write and record ten songs and/or 35 minutes of music. In other words, your album. The creators likened the challenge to a kind of musical NaNoWriMo, where participants are required to write a 50,000+ word novel in the space of 30 days. In both scenarios, the idea is daunting but doable. Even if you failed to accomplish the task at hand, you would still hopefully emerge with some creative work that you wouldn't have attempted otherwise. This positive reasoning does little to beat the ongoing sense of resistance and confusion as to why they had to choose the shortest month of the year to do this.

I'm no stranger to the idea of establishing creative parameters. Paul Weller discussed it himself during his episode of The Mastertapes, locking himself up in an office, attempting to churn out tracks for the 1982 Jam album, The Gift. Perhaps the idea of working to a deadline diminishes from the romance of the creative process, but it's intriguing how quickly the mind can generate ideas with such firmly set limitations. It needn't be time restrictions either, you might only need a single word that resonates with you and if you allow yourself to take a few moments to explore the concept, something will invariably emerge. Using the methodology of Julia Cameron and Natalie Goldberg, it's necessary to write fast, write without thinking and block out the voice that says you cannot do this.

Both these challenges draw upon this compounded appeal of not only being creative, but also being prolific. It carries this implicit hope that you've managed to sort out your doubts, motivations and work in an almost mechanised fashion. It's entirely possible, you need only to listen to the impressive claim of Severo Lombardoni, the producer of the iconic Italo Disco label, Discomagic: "My setup allowed me to produce 50-60 albums a month. I even did 5-6 albums a day!" We're talking about pop music that was manufactured on the largest scale imaginable, but the sheer breadth of its catalogue does little to detract from its creative merit. It's much like an archaeological dig, where people are still searching and uncovering this music, they're making mixes and dance tracks. Their love of it is ultimately inspiring a new musical culture.

I'm drawn to analysing the nature of creativity, but I know for some that understanding creativity spoils the magic somehow. I'm often reminded of Joe Strummer's remark to Melody Maker's Caroline Coon: "If I told you how I write, when I next do it, my words will haunt me and destroy me completely..." There was a process, there must have been, yet the artist's reluctance to discuss it makes the music-making process even more mystical than it probably should be. I'm also wary of the fact that a lengthy dissection of the music-making process can be an act of procrastination. After all, it is much easier to get fired up by a TED Talk than to go through the grief of picking up a guitar and actually working out a new song.

If anyone else were to ask me whether they should take part in the RPM Challenge, I would say "Do it, create, because it's the most important thing." I'd be sure to add the words of a fellow singer who recently said to me, "Your work only exists because of you." I'm yet to fully appreciate why those words reassured me as they did, but it somehow goes to the heart of what it means to honour your ideas and will them to existence. Sure, there may be some vain component in the whole creative process, there may exist some hope that someone else will connect with your work, free of obligation or personal association. Yet, I maintain that it's the most important thing because you can never truly appreciate the breadth of your influence. Create, because you will ultimately inspire others to create.

Behind the scenes of Ratcat's That Ain't Band videoclip (via)
Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Mod Podcast #62
Au Pairs - You
Screaming Tribesmen - Ice
Ratcat - Skin
Spivs - Boys of Desillusion
Rotjoch - Too Many Weirdos
Ricky and the Teendreams - Alison, Please
Mood Six - Memories
Uncanny X-Men - I Wanna Be Your Baby
Gyllene Tider - Tuff Tuff Tuff (Som Ett Lokomotiv)
Various Artists - She's a Machine

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I have always been aware that when it comes to music from another country, there's always that slightly tacky, yet romantic prospect of the musical pilgrimage. I knew this, having pined for London each day between the ages of 5 and 20. The slightly-embellished story I've always told is this: upon my return to England, the first thing I did was take the southbound District Line service to Earl's Court tube station to visit Freddie Mercury's former home at Garden Lodge. Having initially taken a bus in the wrong direction, I had time to quietly contemplate what I would inscribe on Freddie's door. Yet as I stood before that ever-familiar dark green door with its loving messages scrawled and scratched over every square centimetre, I thought: "There's no way I could possibly articulate this..."

It's an alluring idea, to think that a place can be charged with significance and you might be able to sense that. I'll always recall the story I heard on a radio documentary about John Lennon's childhood home, Mendips. Now a museum, the caretaker described one particular young Japanese tourist who visited. Initially quiet, calm and polite, upon entering John's bedroom, she threw herself onto his bed and started wailing uncontrollably. Other visitors described how moved they were to be there, they described this feeling that took over them once they entered the house. In that way, the musical pilgrimage manages to align itself with the spiritual quality of a pilgrimage in the religious sense. Perhaps if I were more intuitive or had a greater sense of imagination, I could sense an importance, as opposed to simply being informed of one.

I love to consult the pilgrimages of Pete Frame's Rockin Around Britain, simply because the extreme level of research renders the spirituality of the musical pilgrimage void. I mean, I can't anticipate that anyone would venture out to the Permawrap cling film factory in High Wycombe simply because Howard Jones once worked in the stock control department. If anything, the fact that Frame has compiled such an enormously comprehensive resource indicates that culture is being created everywhere, in cities and villages, in halls and studios, even in squares and tube stations. It's a fact, but we're not always so inclined to react to any given locality in such a drastically emotional way.

Saying that, I'll rarely miss the opportunity to embark on one of these musical adventures. Not so long ago, I was sitting in a hotel room in Milan when my brother suddenly said to me: "Wait a second. Aren't the Paninaro kids from Milan?" I rushed to the baby laptop and replayed the promotional clip of the Pet Shop Boys' Paninaro - it became apparent that we had accidentally stumbled upon a place filled with musical consequence. I read out slabs of text, describing the 1980s youth culture. They seemed so glamourous, what with their insatiable appetite for American culture, designer denim and sandwiches. "They congregated around the sandwich bars at Piazza San Babila..." It seemed clear there was no turning back now: we were on a mission to find us some Paninaro kids.

The first thing we did the next day was venture out to Piazza San Babila. There was no abundance of sandwich, indeed there was nothing to indicate that anything had ever happened there. We walked over to the subway, recognising its inclusion in the Pet Shop Boys' video. Rafts of bored business men and tourists congregated together tightly, forming a queue by the gates and spilling out into the square. As we settled down to a bottle of milk at a nearby supermarket café, I thought about the Paninaro kids, who they were and what they might have become. One of them might have been in that crowd waiting for the subway to open, but we never would have known it. Perhaps if there were a plaque or something, a token boy in appropriate vintage attire, we might have felt differently about our failed excursion.

I've found, with my recent love of Kino and Viktor Tsoi that I've developed this desire to venture off to Russia and test this whole theory about musical pilgrimages. I'd love to go to Arbat Street in Moscow and be confronted with that heavily graffitied wall in Tsoi's honour. I'd love to deal with that struggle again, that difficulty in trying to honour the beauty and the relevance of their music. I'd love to go to Club Kamchatka, the Kino museum café bar in St Petersburg that was once the boiler room of the apartment block where Tsoi worked and lived. I might not ever develop a real appreciation of what it was actually like to be in the depths of the Russian underground rock scene, what it might have been like to see a gig or source a bootleg cassette, but I appreciate that are people who attempt to create such opportunities to remember those moments we unfortunately missed the first time round.

The Tsoi Wall by Charlie Radosna

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Soviet Pop Podcast #58
Yury Mukhin - Humouresque
Display - Foreign Lady
Electroclub feat. Victor Saltykov - You Marry Him, Do Not Go
Kino - Your Number
Aquarium - Rock n Roll's Dead
Rodionov - Electronic Jockey (Horse Racing)
Rodionov - Baroque (Fencing)
Forum - On the Next Street
Arsenal - Festival
Aavikko - Machu Picchu

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I've always struggled with the concept of artistic fulfilment, I could never figure out what it was or how to get it. You could imagine that I was surprised when I came across a recipe for how to attain creative satisfaction from one of the panellists of Melvyn Bragg's In Our Time. The ingredients are really quite simple: all you need is creative control, remuneration and recognition. It's a nice thought but there are so many questions that follow this premise, all the questions involving quantity, ego and expectation. It reminds me of those local musicians who never managed to "cross over" and "make it" in other cities or countries.

To be honest with you, I have a real fascination with those musicians who were never promoted here. I am in love with those songs that I was never meant to hear. My friend Dimitri offers me this insight into what it was like to be a French child of the 1980s. He shares rare music videos, songs that many French people cannot even recall. He accompanies each song with this extraordinary understanding of its social context and critical reception. At the same time, he manages to describe the personal legacy of these songs: every song has an association.

 Muriel Moreno of Niagara

In exchange, I offer up my Australian childhood songs, awkwardly conscious of the fact that my exposure to local musical culture peaked when I was a child. I developed a liking for Ratcat, The Screaming Jets, Southern Sons and Diesel from watching Video Smash Hits. However, my exposure to local music ultimately ended when I quickly fell in love with English pop music. Throughout my twenties, there has been enormous pressure to support local music and as the pressure has intensified, my curiosity has dwindled and died out. I now live with this thought that I have purposefully ignored so much of what has been happening around me, just to indulge in this dream of living in another place, in another time.

I recall one of our last conversations, it was a cold night on Lygon Street and we were sipping these extravagant iced mochas. You were telling me of the intimate going's-on of Melbourne's 2002 Garage Rock movement. It was akin to my appreciation of London in 1977, Bristol in 1981, Milan in 1983 or Leningrad in 1984. There's this core group of tirelessly cool musicians who manage to create a community, unified by this distinctive sound and attitude. With the right sources, you can daydream about what it must have been like to be in that club, what it meant to be among the few people who understood the significance of actually being present.

"That's a good quality to have." I said, in between sips. "To be able to deconstruct an emerging scene, to recognise and define the consequence of the present. I think that's pretty special..."

Perhaps, it's not about the breadth of the acclaim, it's not about whether you're huge in Melbourne, Milan or even Mexico. When it comes to the recognition component of that artistic fulfilment recipe, I think it's about creating some kind of legacy. Whether that's in the form of a personal or cultural legacy, I think every artist has that desire to have their work placed within some sort of a context. Maybe it's up to us to create those histories, not only for our own understanding of how it all went down, but for the artist, too. We should let them know that we care, we should let them know that we've committed them to memory...

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: French Pop Podcast #57
April March - Brainwash Part II
BB Brunes - Houna
Mai Lan - Schumacher
Exsonvaldes - L'aérotrain
Aline - Elle m'oubliera
Les Calamités - Vélomoteur
Yelle - A Cause Des Garçons
Corynne Charby - Boule de Flipper
Images - Love Emotion
Soko - I'll Kill Her

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In a Haze Between the Popular and Obscure...

It was a very old tweet written by Zach (@randomrecs) but it was a quip compelling enough for me to jot down and keep: Why is it that music writers only want to rehash the canonised legends or dig up the super obscure? After reading that, I felt a momentary jab of identification and it was a jab, because it was a bit painful for some untold reason. It's true, I ruminate about Queen as I seek out Форум, I dance to The Strokes as I think of Nemesy. I want to successfully articulate the consequence of those big bands that changed everything, while at the same time I long for that sense of ownership that derives from musical obscurity. So what becomes of those bands that fall between those two polarities? What are those bands that fall between those two polarities?

When it comes to music writing, I can only assume that it all comes down to a question of legacy and legitimacy. There is an unspoken expectation that we are all acquainted with Revolver and Pet Sounds, there is an assumption that we know what happened at Newport and Altamont. Documentaries, books and articles are constantly reinforcing the classic rock canon, establishing and re-establishing that familiar sense of retrospective consequence. It's nothing that I particularly resist or resent, in fact I give into it quite freely. If the University of Rochester's History of Rock Coursera course taught me nothing else, it reminded me of how comforting it is to have that shape, to have that firmly established understanding of cultural importance.

Perhaps we just like to hear the same stories over and over again. Perhaps we are shaping this history in an attempt to legitimise pop music in a way that it can stand alongside classical music. If I were really cynical, I would think the whole process of purposefully establishing musical histories reeks of insecurity: either it's the insecurity of the authority (desperately urging you that this is an artist of historical and cultural importance) or else it is the insecurity of the audience (unsure and unknowing, unclear of why they have to care for this artist exactly). But then I remember what I do on here. I just share and talk about the artists and the songs I love. I talk about the histories of various genres of music and some of those genres are obscure, so obscure that their histories haven't been properly documented yet. It's hard to describe why I love that, but the idea of uncelebrated pop fascinates me endlessly.

Why do I wish to rehash canonised legends? Because they're important to me. Why do I wish to dig up the super obscure? Because they're important to me too. Saying that, I admit that I am suspicious of the popular or that which I ought to embrace, according to some important cultural stakeholder. Perhaps those are the bands that fall between those two polarities, those contemporary groups who are not completely assured of a long-term legacy. I say that because I've witnessed that shame that comes from liking those once-popular-now-embarrassing bands. Only recently I was told of a friend-of-a-friend's deathly embarrassment, after her music press boss ridiculed her for still liking the band, Editors. It all seemed horribly ironic, since that same musical publication once campaigned heavily for that band's popularity. The incident makes me feel irked and yet, it effectively demonstrated why I'm so reluctant to take up their musical recommendations. Quite simply, I feel awkward connecting with the musically fickle.

 

Viktor Tsoi in Moscow, 1986.

  Ideally, personal taste should be autonomous, it should remain unaffected by popular taste. There are instances where this actually happens, where you manage to develop a strong bond with the music itself, completely free of any knowledge, recommendation or hype. But whether you like it or not, every single band exists on this scale between popularity and obscurity. There will always be a historical and cultural context: Did people like their music? Did people buy their music? Is that music hard to get now? Yet what seems frustrating about it is that no matter how much we write, no matter how often we go over that historical and cultural context, there's no way of properly calibrating that scale. What might seem ridiculously obscure to one person might be more than familiar to another... and yet, oddly enough, that doesn't seem to be the point of all this.

It's about appearances. It's about establishing a sense of authority. It's about reinforcing this impression of discernment and good taste. Returning to those far-flung polarities of the very popular and the very obscure is an easy way to do that. I'm looking forward to the day when I'm more inclined to take the trickier route, to embark upon lengthy, unapologetic essays about artists who are neither popular or obscure. I wish to celebrate artists like Milli Vanilli, in a way that doesn't undermine my taste or my identity. I want to do it in a way that isn't ironic or defensive. That's a difficult thing to do, a near impossible thing to do in fact: to encourage a reader to cast aside their historical understanding of a group, to ask them to faithfully suspend their cultural pre-judgement and just listen to the music. That's something I'd really like to do.

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Mixed Bag Podcast #56
Internet Forever - Cover the Walls (Dreamtrak Diamond Sound)
Pompeya - Untitled
Santigold - Disparate Youth
Entrepreneurs - Fuck Tactics (feat. FOE & Ghostpoet)
Clean Bandit - A & E
Marcella Wright - Origins
Chromatics - Back from the Grave
Daniela Poggi - Break-Up (Hysteric Edit)
Veroniqué - Jungle Man
Kino - The Last Hero

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I have just made the most startling discovery: a vast majority of the songs I love feature the chord progression Bm G A. You may think I'm joking, but seriously, The Beat, Girl You Know It's True, Listen To Your Heart, Hate You, I've Been Thinking About You, Lost in the Night and about 70 other songs I fail to mention (but can now play on guitar) follow this musical sequence. It compels me to ask, in a style not too dissimilar to a question that may be posed by Carrie Bradshaw: Am I just falling in love with the same song over and over again?

Yes, quite possibly, but it isn't a question that particularly offends me. Sure it might get a bit awkward if you realise that you're not looking for the perfect song, you're only looking to subliminally reinforce an already-existing musical quality. This notion of subliminal reinforcement is hardly surprising within the confines of a genre such as Mod Revival or Italo Disco, where, to a new listener "everything sounds the same". What's interesting is the idea that an already-existing musical quality can transcend genre and the very thing that attracts you to Garage could be the same thing that attracts you to Eurobeat.

Perhaps it is a far-fetched theory, but I think there is definitely something in it. The phenomenon is central to the practice of those friends who have the ability to accurately predict and recommend songs I would love, with almost 100% accuracy. It's quite possible that they, too, have somehow tapped into that key and that chord progression, that sound which is going on far back in the bassline. It's a worthwhile thing to remember, when listening to the most disposable of pop or the grittiest of metal, when you strip it down to its most fundamental level, it's all the same... and to be loved, it really needs to contain Bm G A.

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Italo Disco Podcast #50
Costas Charitodiplomenos - Lost in the Night
Mike Rogers - Just a Story
Dyva - Leftover Love
Stage - Ocean of Crime
Radiorama - Fire
Hiroko Murata - Valentino
Kay Franzes - Shadow in the Night (Special Club Mix)
Modern Talking - Atlantis is Calling (SOS for Love)

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"You wouldn't believe this conversation I had with this dude tonight. He was trying to convince me that the Kooks were more indie than the Arctic Monkeys." As soon as he said it, I couldn't help but pull an expression of bemused disgust. It was a baffling thing to consider, the prospect of an actual scale of indieness where some artists rank higher than others. The worst part of it was that I felt compelled to construct a counter-argument, citing the significance of dancingmonkey.com in the early promotion of the Arctic Monkeys. It was a site with white background and black text, featuring a list of links to MP3 demos. It appealed to the idea that the music could speak for itself and the incredible interest generated was achieved independently of record company interference. The Kooks would later post their demos onto Megaupload in early 2006, yet irrespective of the charm of Lonely Cat, the distribution of their demos could hardly be described as a significant landmark in the history of indie music.

When I regained my composure, I asked him how the actual argument unfolded. What became apparent was this person had a completely different idea of what indie meant. Once, the term indie was short for independent, encompassing groups without an affiliation with a record company (or else, groups with an affiliation with an independent record company). However, for this person, the term indie simply meant better. For me, it seemed wildly inaccurate to associate such a loaded term with a single word (and a superlative at that). But then again, I had to consider that for many, the term indie is synonymous with credibility. It is suggestive of being a lone independent artist, creating in retaliation of commercial appeal. The discernible fan, too, is required to maintain a certain degree of credibility. Cultural commentators such as Pitchfork and Flavorwire establish their own credibility by dissecting the term ruthlessly and bemoaning the idea that fashion, cynicism and laziness are killing indie music in 2011.

There are times when a faithful adherence to indie culture can go terribly wrong. The infamous viral video of "I'm Amy and I'm an Indie", from BBC Switch's Are You One of Them? is cringeworthy, to say the least. She comes across as suffering a complete lack of discernment: although she would obsessively adhere to every code associated with indie culture, she would do so without any real understanding of its significance. She would still manage to make some blunders, indulging in music in direct conflict with the indie credos, namely Razorlight and ahem, Ronan Keating. Although she is a rather innocuous 17 year old girl, it is embarrassing to watch her identifying the silly customs of a highly pretentious and highly protective subculture. It is embarrassing to watch her, because her heightened awareness of every nuance of the subculture reveals how indie kids assimilate, silently and without question.


From time to time, I arrest my desire to examine the meaning and currency of this feckless term. I occasionally give up the inclination to argue about it with friends and strangers alike. I even block out the aggressive posturings of the knowledgeable cultural guardsmen. I let all notions of competition and credibility melt away: I listen, smile and dance alone, taking in every moment of breathtaking pop.

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Indiepop Podcast #35
Summer Camp - Better Off WIthout You
Serenades - Birds
Andy Bull - Dog (feat. Lisa Mitchell)
General Electriks - Raid the Radio
Asobi Seksu - Thursday
CSS - Hits Me Like a Rock
Body Language - Social Studies (Plastic Plates Remix)
The Mynabirds - Let the Record Go

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It was one curious afternoon, months before I cancelled my gym membership. I was half-heartedly ambling on a treadmill, listening to Paul Artrocker's radio show on my then-intact iRiver. I had made the habit of listening to Artrocker in places that were completely incongruent with the Artrocker credos. This music was clearly intended for the emaciated cool kids of Camden. I had visions of them in their dimly-lit squats, hungover and hungry, sniffling and sitting on green milk crates. I wanted a place to sniffle and sit with my own fold of Camden cool kids. Instead, I could only listen to songs and details of their antics, as I ambled alone with an alarmingly high heart rate, half a world away.

Quite aside from my desire for a milk crate, Paul Artrocker happened to indirectly touch upon a frustration which I felt so keenly, one that was so relevant to my own isolated listening practices. Paul was to report of all the goings-on for the week in London. He was to detail all the gigs, instore appearances, club nights and related musical antics, but alas there was nothing to report. Nothing was going on in London town. As he appealed to the good listeners of Resonance FM to email with their forthcoming events, I couldn't help but detect that hint of dissatisfaction in his tone. It made me wonder whether it was even possible that my favourite city could be completely bereft of musical activity. Perhaps Paul had grown weary and disenchanted with the scene? It made me wonder: what can we possibly do when we think we're over it?


The prospect of getting over music is commonly brought up by those who don't really care about anything. Occasionally the words getting over would be replaced with the words growing out of, almost to suggest that engagement with pop culture has something to do with being a hormonal adolescent. It is a fearful and offensive prospect, to imagine that something so central to our existence is merely a phase. After all, to those who really care about music, it dictates who we spend our time with, how we spend our time and how we spend our money. Perhaps even more obviously, it is a sign of heartfelt allegiance. It is an indication that we identify with a gang who shares our tastes and ideals. We can wear badges on our blazers, indicating that we're a mod or a punk or even an artrocker. We can protest that this allegiance will be forever, but there is a part of us that can never truthfully guarantee it will always be this way.

I admit now, as I have admitted on previous articles on C&CM that there have been genres I have grown weary of. There have been times where I have lost my direction and focus. I can see now that my loss of passion had nothing to do with the scene, as such, but my unwillingness to further explore the recommendations of others. I know, particularly from the construction this week's Italo Disco podcast, that a scene need not have local gigs or club nights. It may be a scene that could be accurately described as "extinct", but even still, the mere act of discovering undiscovered music can be one that is so exciting and so thoroughly stimulating. The prospect of discovering the undiscovered is one that we should hold onto, tightly and to our chests, when we ask that question: what can we possibly do when we think we're over it?

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Italo Disco Podcast #30
B.W.H. - Livin' Up
Hugh Bullen - Alisand
Barry Leitch - Lotus Turbo Challenge II
Grant Miller - California Train
Jimmy & Susy - Come Back
Savage - A Love Again
Rose - Magic Carillon
Esavu - Sia Siou (Breaking Up)

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