I like him but in small doses. There’s something airless about his music, relentlessly frantic, as unyielding as Nancarrow, as funky as rickets.
Too much music.
James Brown
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clive gash
- wannabee enfant terrible
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Re: James Brown
It takes a big man to cry, but it takes a bigger man to laugh at that man.
Diamond Dog wrote:...it quite clearly hit the target with you and your nonce...
...a multitude of innuendo and hearsay...
...I'm producing facts here...
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Goat Boy
- Bogarting the joint
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- Location: In the perfumed garden
Re: James Brown
I don't feel that at all about the records. I think there is plenty space for those things to breathe.
Griff wrote:The notion that Jeremy Corbyn, a lifelong vocal proponent of antisemitism, would stand in front of an antisemitic mural and commend it is utterly preposterous.
Copehead wrote:a right wing cretin like Berger....bleating about racism
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naughty boy
- hounds people off the board
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Re: James Brown
I get the criticism. The funk stuff is hard work, in some ways. It’s tiring.
Matt 'interesting' Wilson wrote:So I went from looking at the "I'm a Man" riff, to showing how the rave up was popular for awhile.
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Goat Boy
- Bogarting the joint
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- Joined: 20 Mar 2007, 12:11
- Location: In the perfumed garden
Re: James Brown
So's sex
Griff wrote:The notion that Jeremy Corbyn, a lifelong vocal proponent of antisemitism, would stand in front of an antisemitic mural and commend it is utterly preposterous.
Copehead wrote:a right wing cretin like Berger....bleating about racism
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fange
- 100% fangetastic
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- Location: 香港
Re: James Brown
I definitely understand the 'frantic' label, but most of the songs have their own inner release valve in the form of the bridges or instrumental breaks every couple of minutes.
Jonny Spencer wrote:fange wrote:I've got my quad pants on and i'm ready for some Cock.
By CHRIST you're a man after my own sideways sausage, Ange!
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Jimbo
- Dribbling idiot airhead
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mission
- Posts: 2246
- Joined: 04 Apr 2008, 13:39
Re: James Brown
Frantic schmantic.
This music is clean. This music is pure. This music is elemental. It pulses and weaves around a rocksolid core of fuckitudunality.
I should, for the record, state that I am a drummer and there is a way of hearing that we drummists have that is denied those who do not approach music by tapping and smacking and waltzing upon the one.
I have spent entire days of my life with Volume 6 of the singles (1969-1970) on repeat. And I will again. This shit is the shit - it's Godhead.
Melodies are created in different ways than you fucking hippies like them to be. It is via accretion and interplay. It is the work of the bass, slipping and shimmying all through the tunes like the pulse in your adolescent cock.
But you are there for the rhythms, rhythms hewn from chickenscratch guitar, hihats like God's clock and the snares - the snares, my droogs, they snap and pop like the spinning lights wheeling on the back of your eyelids the first night you spent drunk and cranked on biker speed, throwing yourself back against the wall when you stepped out of the club into the clean, cold, night air and shut your eyes momentarily because you were too happy and loose and things were teetering on the edge of being too much.
And then you have Mr Brown, just willing it all along - stopping his fucking horniness every now and then to be one of the more quotable lyricists in recorded music. At least, around my way.
My four children all know exactly what is to happen when I tell them to hit it and quit it. Everyone I have ever worked with knows ain't nothing going on but the rent. Goot Gawd. Filthy McNasty.
This music is clean. This music is pure. This music is elemental. It pulses and weaves around a rocksolid core of fuckitudunality.
I should, for the record, state that I am a drummer and there is a way of hearing that we drummists have that is denied those who do not approach music by tapping and smacking and waltzing upon the one.
I have spent entire days of my life with Volume 6 of the singles (1969-1970) on repeat. And I will again. This shit is the shit - it's Godhead.
Melodies are created in different ways than you fucking hippies like them to be. It is via accretion and interplay. It is the work of the bass, slipping and shimmying all through the tunes like the pulse in your adolescent cock.
But you are there for the rhythms, rhythms hewn from chickenscratch guitar, hihats like God's clock and the snares - the snares, my droogs, they snap and pop like the spinning lights wheeling on the back of your eyelids the first night you spent drunk and cranked on biker speed, throwing yourself back against the wall when you stepped out of the club into the clean, cold, night air and shut your eyes momentarily because you were too happy and loose and things were teetering on the edge of being too much.
And then you have Mr Brown, just willing it all along - stopping his fucking horniness every now and then to be one of the more quotable lyricists in recorded music. At least, around my way.
My four children all know exactly what is to happen when I tell them to hit it and quit it. Everyone I have ever worked with knows ain't nothing going on but the rent. Goot Gawd. Filthy McNasty.
Goodness gracious me.