Dejan

Somebody can tell me which "monument" is the one @ the beginning of the 'you find me' video ? p.s. and the you found me song is about.....what ?

album in streaming: http://www.myspace.com/whitelies

i agree 100% with you

this is the problem

sounds like justin timberlake song produced by timbaland (even the title). [and we are talkin about U2] if this is not embarassing enough......

THIS ALBUM IS A JOKE. PURE TRASH

Sea Wolf originally was the stage name for singer-songwriter Alex Church Brown, and was his step away from his original band Irving' which was due to many of the songs he was writing were no longer fitting to Irving’s style. So Church began performing as Sea Wolf with a constantly rotating ensemble of backing musicians, playing locally in California and recording demos in Seattle. Signing to Dangerbird Records in 2007, Sea Wolf released an EP called 'Get To The River Before It Runs To Low' and now its time for their debut album 'Leaves in The River' to be released in the UK. Church currently plays with Lisa Fendelander (Keyboards), Theodore Liscinski (Bass), Catherine Odell (Cello), Scott McPherson (Drums) and Aaron Robinson (Guitar). The album tells cryptic tales of gypsies and low rivers, of wolves and wandering men, with warm vocals over detailed arrangements. First-person narratives are entwined with mystic imagery and displaced confessionals, as this troubadour guides us through ornate musical territory. Seattle producer, Phil Ek known for his work with The Shins and Band of Horses, helped accelerate Church's goals for his project. Jacquire king who has previously mixed records by Tom Waits and Kings of Leon also lent hand and added a new element to the compositions. 'Leaves in the River' has a gentle opening, with sounds that are Celtic and mystical, and a resemblance to Sigur Ros, which then moves into a beautiful folk melody with acoustic guitar, Church's stunning vocal and the instrumentation builds up with tinkly piano and simple percussion. Church's vocal has.phpects of Chris Martin and Romeo Stobart as he sings "...I saw her blush when I asked/If she always talked like that/She said it only happened when she drank..". The song consists of ten short verses none of which repeat, this is typical of Church's fable telling songwriting. 'Winter Window' has a very Spanish folk sounding intro and moves into a funky beat, the song you would expect senoritas to be dancing too. The cello and guitars weave over the steady drums, and as the chorus breaks out the sounds of claps and melodica echoes as Church sings "...I thought I love you and our love would be forever/How could I hit you, the only one who ever loved me?"/Said the man, said the man to his shadow...". 'You're a Wolf' brings you back to that Coldplay sound, with similar vocal and musical arrangement. This track gave them the success they needed in the US, when it was originally released on there EP. Its a track that can often be heard playing on Colin Murray and Gideon Coe's Radio shows here in the UK. The song is more commercial, with its insistent guitar creating a wonderful atmosphere for the menacing cello to play over. 'You're a Wolf' shows the relationship between Ek, King and Church with comparisons to both the Shins and Kings of Leon in certain.phpects of the general mixing of the song. 'The Cold, The Dark & The Silence' has a sombre core and the sentimental track utilises gentle pulsing beats, tricking you into seeing a poppy side to it. The lyrics are quiet, and follow less of the previous fable telling but are snappy and catchy "... When the cold, the dark, and the silence come/it's like a sudden rush of water through your heart and lungs..." The Closing track is calming, ethereal and has gentle haunting sounds. 'Neutral Ground' shows Church's vocal at its best, stripped back as it melts into this luscious lullaby. Sea Wolf are a band who shine when it comes to subtle beats and rhythms, the sound is minimal in places but has full effect on each listening. With a mixture of profound and poetic lyrics, Sea Wolf have something special to offer. Sea Wolf took its name from Jack London’s book which allows you to understand the sense of what the band is about, nomadically-minded. The sense of nature is present through most of Church's songwriting and then framed in outstanding instrumentation from his talented band. 'Leaves in The River' is a joy to listen to from start to finish.

RED CORTEZ is: Harley Prechtel - Cortez Vocals/Piano/Guitar/Harmonica Ryan Kirkpatrick Electric Bass/Upright Bass/Vocals Diego Guerrero Drums/Percussions Calvin J. Love Guitar/Keys Music is a participatory profession. You have to be willing to put it all on the line every night, fighting insomnia for endless hours in a cramped van and eating whatever looks passable in the snack aisle of the Flying J. Red Cortez breathes every moment on earth as though it is an opportunity and a gift. They are inspired to channel an acute sense of immediacy. An unwavering urgency is what sets Red Cortez apart. My favorite track @ the moment is "All The Difference". The singer's voice is rough and i love it. I suggest y'all to check out this band: http://www.myspace.com/redcortezband http://www.redcortez.com

vertigo is a classic compared to this new one. even the title is ridiculous

this first single is embarassing

This is a place to talk about Lily allen. RELAX

THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT!THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT!THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT!THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT! THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT!THERE IS ALREADY A THREAD ABOUT IT!

and where's the problem ?

Latest Andrew Bird's blog from Ny Times ‘Hot Math’ As I write this I’m listening to the first track from “Useless Creatures,” a new instrumental record I am working on that’s now ready to be mastered. The song is called “Master Sigh.” Some head-voice singing and whistling through a looping pedal merged with ambient loops made at my barn. It’s wordless, drumless and fluid — a “sonic Jacuzzi” (I had a music history professor in college who snarled at us freshman for listening to music as if it were some “sonic Jacuzzi.”) Despite my years of trying to make a living at music, thankfully that Jacuzzi hasn’t been drained of its hot, frothy, swirling, soothing power. The main record in this project, “Noble Beast,” is finished and mastered and ready for consumption January 20. It includes “Natural Disaster” (the song that began with the trip to the Natural History museum) and “Oh No” (the song I chronicled from idea to completion in my previous posts). [Editor's note: Listen to the audio clips at right to hear how "Oh No" progressed.] This instrumental companion record is something I’ve be been meaning to make for years. The title self-mockingly alludes to my uneasiness about the usefulness of instrumental music. Like some heirloom chicken that stumbles over its own plumage or a pug struggling to breathe or a hairless cat, bred for aesthetics … Not that such creatures are useless. They’re cute as hell, but sort of beg the question. Who’s to say a creature is noble? Anyway. So of course I don’t consider instrumental music useless. It’s good to remind myself when I’m having a crisis of purpose and feeling useless that at least I can make something beautiful. The piece on “Useless Creatures” I’m most excited about is called “The Barn Tapes.” Three summers ago I had an engineer friend come out to my barn in western Illinois with an old quarter-inch tape machine. We opened all the doors and windows, hooked up my violin to six amps placed throughout the barn, put microphones inside and out and made four hours of ambient loops. They are static in the sense that almost every note in the scale is in each loop and there is almost no forward motion, just this swirling mass of sound. This creates a sense of time slowing down. So I made a loop for every note in the 12-tone scale, major and minor, with the goal of assigning each to a key on a keyboard, creating a new instrument. I’ve always loved the sound of a tape machine slowing down or speeding up as it creates a satisfying bend or warble to the note — much like that sound in an old film when the projector falters a bit. We never made a keyboard but instead transferred the 24 loops to 2-inch 24-track tape and then played it back through an old Neve console and “performed” the mix with the faders, using both hands and occasionally my nose to crossfade between loops. The pitch manipulation happened at random because the tape stock we used was 15 years old and warbled quite a bit. We also used the vari-speed function on the tape machine to slide between keys. The result is 10 minutes and 30 seconds of cumulous clouds of sound with sparrows and crickets and cicadas swelling with the faders. I hear those summer storms coming over the Mississippi or passing north over Wisconsin in mid-August. I’ve included a link to a home video made by Xan Aranda during one session with Dan Dietrich engineering. There’s another track called “Hot Math” — a lo-fi recording I made myself in my barn. It’s an example of a West African polyrhythmic groove I’ve been into for years and in this case I was clearly enjoying myself. This is elusive stuff. It just doesn’t work by choreography; you just have to be in the right mood. It goes on for seven minutes and I intended to shorten it but it just feels too good; besides this is my “indulgent” record. We mixed all this in Los Angeles at Bob Clearmountain’s studio with David Boucher, with whom I made “The Mysterious Production of Eggs.” He is tireless and steady and always pushing me to do better. Some of this record consists of “jamming” — like “Hot Math” — while some is through-composed — though none of it is written down. “The Carrion Suite” is a four-part piece with Todd Sickafooose playing bass and Glenn Kotche playing drums. We ran through it twice and went for it. It’s the most classical sounding of all the tracks. It’s a collection of all the ideas that come out of me when I’m warming up at sound check. A little Dvorak mixed with gypsy-Nuyorican jazz and Afro-Cuban Bach…. Sometimes writing a pop song almost seems like a noble pursuit, perhaps because there’s such restraint involved resisting the urge to wail or cut loose and “shred.” This may be one reason why I chose to call the “song” record “Noble Beast.” When I start writing and recording a record I try to make sure that the songs I write don’t get in the way of making music. So there’s a dance between words and music and it seems to help having a companion project like this to diffuse the tension between the two. Next time: Did writing these posts for Measure for Measure while I was writing and recording my record end up affecting the songs themselves?

NEW ALBUM NOBLE BEAST in streaming: http://www.myspace.com/andrewbird Andrew Bird Discovers His Inner Operatic Folkie (Ny Times article) Andrew Bird hates rehearsing. He counts on the sense of peril that he gets onstage — that feeling that everything can unravel in an instant — to keep him inside his music and prevent him from succumbing to self-doubt. So last month, when Bird was preparing to go on tour with his new backing band, he decided that instead of practicing the songs from his new album, “Noble Beast,” they would play two surprise shows at the Hideout, a working-class-bar-cum-indie-rock-haven in a deserted industrial neighborhood in his hometown, Chicago. It was a ridiculously small venue for Bird. In September, he drew some 13,000 people to the open-air auditorium in Chicago’s Millennium Park. The Hideout’s official seating capacity is listed at 73, though a few hours before the doors opened one of the bar’s owners told me, only half-jokingly, that the actual number depends on who’s onstage. “When Andrew plays,” she said, “we can squeeze in a lot more because so many of them are skinny girls with glasses.” Word of the shows spread quickly; the Hideout had not even announced that Bird was going to be playing before the tickets were all gone. These recent shows notwithstanding, Bird doesn’t perform that often in Chicago anymore: His manager and publicists don’t want his base to take him for granted. There seemed to be little risk of that on the frigid Monday night in mid-December when Bird, who is pencil-thin with messy dark hair and sharp, angular features, stepped onto the stage of the Hideout in a wrinkled blue Oxford shirt and a thrift-shop blazer and promptly started whistling mellifluously into a microphone. The crowd — plenty of skinny girls with glasses but also no shortage of unshaved young men in knit caps drinking Old Style beer in cans — was soon bobbing and swaying to Bird’s quirky, soulful melodies. Onstage, Bird was engaged in something of a musical high-wire act, whistling, singing and manically shifting from violin to guitar to glockenspiel. All the while, his feet were busy working the pedals of an electronic looping station that recorded and then played back his musical progressions in short intervals. He layered one musical passage on top of another, gradually nudging each song toward its crescendo. Bird’s sound is not easy to categorize. His songs are swelling and orchestral, the legacy of years spent studying classical violin at Northwestern University’s prestigious conservatory and elsewhere. He has been compared with the Irish rock singer Damien Rice, but Bird’s sound is also distinctly American, part of a new wave of folk — free folk, psych folk or freak folk, as it has variously been called — that has grown in popularity in recent years. His songs have a pastoral, homespun feel, but they also have a darkness and emotional complexity not typically associated with folk rock. The Hideout shows represented a sort of special sendoff for Bird. Tours are nothing new for him, but most of the audience understood that this one was going to be different. Bird’s label, Fat Possum, is expecting “Noble Beast” to be his breakthrough album, to transform him from cult phenomenon to pop star. The CD won’t be released until Jan. 20, but an early and aggressive marketing push is already paying off in commitments from a few major retail chains, airtime on several influential rock radio stations and an offer to appear on “Late Show With David Letterman.” Bird has made seven albums on three different labels, and pressed numerous live EPs himself, but he has never had this kind of promotional support behind him. An executive at one of his previous labels once told Bird that he had to stop riding around towns on his bike and putting up posters and start acting like a rock star. “My reaction was, ‘Are you kidding me?’ ” Bird recalls. “ ‘That’s your marketing plan? Me sitting around and acting like a rock star?’ ” At 35, Bird has spent almost 15 years working relentlessly for the sort of exposure he now seems poised to enjoy. “Six years ago, when I was still struggling, I just wanted to go anywhere in the world and play for 300 people,” he says. And yet when I first met Bird a couple of weeks before the Hideout show, he didn’t have the air of an underappreciated artist finally about to be given his due. On the contrary, he seemed worried about losing control over a career that he is accustomed to micromanaging. He wondered, for instance, if “Noble Beast” was perhaps being promoted too aggressively. Bird’s publicist had wanted him to play one of the first shows on his coming tour at Radio City Music Hall (capacity: 6,000). Bird was concerned that it was too big a venue, that he might fail to make a connection with the audience and that things could easily spiral downward from there. They compromised on Carnegie Hall, which seats about 3,000. “A lot of bands get hyped and go from playing for no one to playing for thousands of people, most of whom are standing there with their arms folded saying, ‘O.K., are you really as good as everyone says you are?’ ” Bird told me. “I’ve never had to deal with that. I’ve gotten here by winning one person at a time.” BIRD GREW UP IN the northern suburbs of Chicago. His mother, an artist, had visions of all of her children playing classical music, but Bird, the second-youngest of four, was the only one who took to it. He began violin lessons at age 4, using the Suzuki method, which stresses learning by ear. In high school, while Bird’s friends were listening to the Smiths and the Cure, he was listening to Mozart’s Requiem. At Northwestern, though, he began to chafe against his classical training. Bird resented the conservatory’s self-gratifying ethos, the prevailing view that the headier the piece of music the better, even if it alienated the audience. He wanted to improvise rather than play written notes. “There is something comforting about going into a practice room, putting your sheet music on a stand and playing Bach over and over again,” he told me one night at a hipster dive bar in Chicago’s Wicker Park neighborhood. “But at the same time, it’s not demanding much of you.” Bird moved to Chicago after graduation. He was intent on making his living playing the violin, but he had no desire to audition for classical orchestras. He cobbled together a modest living performing anywhere he could — weddings, funerals, Irish pubs, even a weekend Renaissance fair in Wisconsin. Musically, Bird remained something of a misfit. He had lost interest in classical concertos, but he couldn’t relate to the stark, self-consciously simplistic sound of the post-punk scene that flourished in Chicago in the 1990s. Bird turned elsewhere for inspiration, greedily soaking up a dizzying array of musical genres, from Gypsy to calypso to swing to folk to the so-called hot jazz of the Roaring Twenties. “I was on a binge for four or five years, just devouring everything I could get my hands on,” he told me. In his early 20s, Bird got the break that every aspiring musician hopes for: a young executive at Rykodisc, Andrea Troolin, dug his demo out of the slush pile and offered him a record contract. Bird organized a band — Andrew Bird’s Bowl of Fire — to back him, and they drove down to New Orleans to record their first album, “Thrills,” in five adrenaline-fueled days. They had a tiny budget, and Bird, who was obsessed with early American jazz at the time, insisted that they make the record the old-fashioned way — with everyone gathered around a single ribbon microphone, playing each song until they got it right, however late into the night they had to work. Bird recorded two more albums with the Bowl of Fire. It can be hard to tell, listening to those records, that they are the work of the same artist who made “Noble Beast.” The songs zigzag wildly across Bird’s eclectic record collection. His subtle, lilting voice is rendered almost unrecognizable as he channels everything from raspy bluesmen to Berlin cabaret singers. None of the Bowl of Fire’s records sold. The band’s tours became increasingly depressing affairs. “We’d roll into town, and there would be no posters advertising our show and no radio stations playing our songs,” Bird told me. “Forty people would show up, and we’d get paid $500, if we were lucky.” In the winter of 2002, with his career going nowhere, Bird decided to change his surroundings. He gave up his small apartment in the city and moved into a barn on his family’s farm in rural Illinois. During his self-imposed exile, Bird came back to Chicago one night to open up for a local folk band, the Handsome Family, at an old Irish dance hall. The rest of the Bowl of Fire wasn’t available, so Bird reluctantly agreed to play alone. In addition to his violin, he brought with him a looping station that he’d been fooling around with on the farm. For the first time, he tried whistling onstage, an act of desperation to keep the audience entertained. “I was worried they were all thinking: Where’s the band?” Bird recalls. The show went surprisingly well, and Bird, encouraged by the response, decided to go out on his own. Within a matter of months, he was recording his first solo album, “Weather Systems,” and was soon back out on the road, this time with only his violin and his looping station. He played as many shows as he could, often opening for bigger artists like Ani DiFranco. “They were guerrilla attacks,” Bird says. “I would play for 30 minutes for 2,000 people, none of whom knew who I was.” After each performance, he would race out to the lobby to man his own merchandise table, filling his pockets with the cash from CDs that he bought at a discount from his label. Then he’d get in his van, drive off to another town and do it all over again. Bird’s second solo album, “The Mysterious Production of Eggs,” released in 2005, garnered critical praise — including an 8.3 out of 10 rating on the music-criticism Web site Pitchfork, a powerful taste-maker in the indie-rock world — and became a modest sleeper success as word of mouth spread. Bird gradually built a following, while at the same time honing his sound. “In his first couple of albums, you can hear a lot of his influences,” says Troolin, who left Rykodisc many years ago but has continued working with Bird as his manager. “I think it was a matter of him getting that out of his system in some ways and figuring out what an Andrew Bird song sounds like.” ONE DAY IN CHICAGO, I went with Bird to test out the new speakers he’ll be using on his “Noble Beast” tour. He is going to be touring with a full band — a drummer, a guitarist and a bass player — and he wanted to make sure his violin wasn’t going to be drowned out by the rest of the ensemble. Bird, who plays upward of 200 shows a year, was in the midst of a rare stretch of uninterrupted down time at home. His tours are exhausting. The shows are physically demanding, the rhythm of performing emotionally destabilizing. “There’s this huge outpouring of energy, and if you’re lucky a catharsis, but then there’s this big gaping hole when you’re done,” he told me. But slowing down and re-entering reality was proving to be even more difficult for him. Bird is something of a loner. When he’s not on tour, he spends much of his time by himself in the barn on his family’s farm, where he does most of his writing and composing. Being back home, bumping into old friends whom he hadn’t talked to in months, was reminding him of what he gave up to play music. He was feeling, as he put it, “a little bit like a ghost in my own town.” Bird’s life in Chicago seemed particularly tenuous to him at the moment; he had just come off a difficult breakup and was living for the time being with his brother. In a music workshop in the neighborhood of Humboldt Park, Bird plugged his violin into his looping station, his looping station into his amplifiers and his amplifiers into two eight-foot-tall fiberglass speakers shaped like horns. (Imagine the familiar Victrola phonograph icon, reinterpreted by Lewis Carroll.) The sun slanted through a giant wall of windows; outside, the streets were covered in a light dusting of snow. In conversation, Bird is earnest and soft-spoken, so it was more than a little startling when he suddenly and almost violently thrust his bow across his violin a few times, producing what could have been the opening of a Mozart composition. “The first notes I still play when I start a sound check are classical,” he said. “Those are my roots.” Compositionally, Bird takes simple melodies and gradually extends them into complex arrangements. These melodies pop into his head unannounced. The way it usually works, he will suddenly find himself whistling a new one — Bird is constantly whistling — or even chewing his food to it. He never records melodies or even writes them down. He assumes that if they’re worth remembering, he’ll remember them. The longer they remain lodged in his head, the more likely it is that they will eventually be fashioned into a song. “It’s like I’m my own Top 40 radio station, playing the things that get under my skin,” Bird says. “The ones that really stick are the hits.” Bird’s approach to songwriting is similarly intuitive and impressionistic. Often, a word or phrase will catch his eye for no apparent reason. Or he might hear a sound — the creaking of a door, the wailing of an infant — or experience a feeling that he’ll want to match to words. He is more interested in how the words in his lyrics sound, in the mood they create and sense they relate, than in their literal meaning. Bird is essentially inverting the typical songwriting process. The classic singer-songwriter sits down with a notebook to write a song about something. Bird assembles his songs out of his mental collection of resonant words and phrases. So even when the subject of a song is conventional, the lyrics aren’t. Take, for instance, “Not a Robot, But a Ghost,” on “Noble Beast.” It’s a breakup song, anchored in the disconnected feeling Bird experienced after the end of his most recent relationship — or more specifically, how he felt when he heard a powerful piece of music while in the throes of that post-breakup funk: having been moved by the music, he no longer felt like a robot, but he still felt like a ghost. Recording is a miserable process for Bird. He frets about sounding too careful, about not being at his best without an audience to engage and impress. To preserve a sense of spontaneity, he never goes into the studio with finished songs. He eats lunch standing up and works 15 hours a day — “until I’m just stupid and in a daze” — so that he won’t have time to question everything he’s doing. He produces his own albums and is often displeased with what he hears; he twice scrapped “The Mysterious Production of Eggs” in its entirety. Bird approached “Noble Beast” a bit differently. He was determined not to labor endlessly over it, beginning the studio work last spring in Nashville and finishing it this fall in Chicago. Bird’s ambitions and talents can send him in a lot of different directions. His last album, “Armchair Apocrypha,” is sprawling, “erratic and ecstatic,” as Bird puts it. On “Noble Beast,” he worked hard not to let himself get carried away, to keep his songs as simple and direct as possible. He wanted the record to be characterized not by the countless peaks and valleys of his live perform­ances but by a single, unifying palette. Having spent much of his career deliberately avoiding repetition, Bird cautiously embraced it on “Noble Beast.” The result is a focused record with a couple of genuinely catchy pop songs. Fat Possum’s hopes are high. The label is expecting “Noble Beast” to sell at least 25,000 copies during its first week, more than twice what “Armchair Apocrypha,” Bird’s biggest record to date, sold when it made its debut. Bird’s trajectory, his gradual climb to success, is unusual for a business in which careers tend to be made on the back of a big break. But his increasing popularity may also say something broader about the shifting dynamics of the industry. The rock-music business has long been dominated by major labels following a simple formula: They saw what bands were selling and looked for others that sounded just like them. And because these same labels held what often seemed like exclusive access to the key retailers and influential radio stations, it was difficult for independent record companies and more inventive, esoteric artists to find traction in the general public. But with the precipitous drop in record sales, the major labels have lost much of their leverage, and with it, their ability to determine what records will become popular. “Andrew is worried that if he goes too mainstream, he’s going to offend his hard-core fans,” says Steve Martin, one of Bird’s publicists. “I told him that mainstream no longer exists.” As the sun was setting, Bird improvised a song based on a melody that had been in his head for a couple of weeks. He began by plucking out a rhythm on his violin. Once he had started the melody looping, he set the violin on his shoulder and started scraping the bow across the strings, his eyes squinting shut as he entered the thrall of the music. He tapped the foot pedal once more and delivered a sustained, almost eerie whistle into a small microphone wedged into the tailbone of his violin. The room gradually filled with sound as he constructed a song, bit by 15-second bit. Then, with one more click of the pedal, silence was suddenly restored. Bird opened his eyes. “I can gratify myself for hours with this setup,” he said.

http://www.dominorecordco.com/uk/albums/15-10-08/tonight-franz-ferdinand

[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2GcQQFdUvmw]YouTube - Sea Wolf - Winter Windows[/ame] I suggest y'all to check out this record:its AWESOME!!!! http://www.myspace.com/seawolf [ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L4pmhK6W1tM]YouTube - Sea Wolf - The Garden That You Planted[/ame]

[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EBAzlNJonO8]YouTube - Fever Ray 'If I Had A Heart'[/ame] Fever Ray's debut album is released on March 18th 2009 by Rabid Records in Sweden, Cooperative Music in the rest of Europe, March 24th through Mute in the US and through Etc Etc in Australia & New Zealand. Watch this space for more information. ‘If I Had A Heart’ is the first single from Fever Ray: a stirring mantra, a boundless loop, a deep sleep spreading over fields and endless oceans. A dark evocation of hope and a demand for “more, give me more” Music and lyrics by Fever Ray, and the track was produced by Fever Ray & Christoffer Berg. The video for ‘If I Had A Heart’ was directed by Andreas Nilsson. To be released digitally December 15th. Karin Dreijer (The singer from The Knife)

MIND YOUR BUSINESS and stop bitchin please

[ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JgGG31fXDb4]YouTube - Tonight: Franz Ferdinand - Official Trailer 1[/ame] [ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UGlva_1zZlE]YouTube - Tonight: Franz Ferdinand - Official Trailer 2[/ame] [ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uqJRnopvVIU]YouTube - Ulysses - Franz Ferdinand - Official Music Video[/ame]

1)WHATEVER 2)Yes.And this is the second one

I LOVE THIS GIRL http://link.brightcove.com/services/player/bcpid1659851007?bclid=1755457108&bctid=6681228001 (video interview ^) word mag interview Here is the news. Lily Allen is not only blindingly attractive but she's extremely funny, quite posh, likes smoking fags, laughs like a madwoman and rarely drinks anything more intoxicating than Coca-Cola. If I were 15 years younger, wealthier, two stone lighter and significantly more alluring than I actually am, I still wouldn't have a chance – and I find that strangely comforting. We meet at the Ivy Club, the private members wing of the celeb-eatery mainstay. The premises are accessed through a magnificently over-the-top florists, right at the top of a long series of illuminated glass steps. If you wanted to make a film about decadent '70s glamour, then you'd be right at home. Lily meets me by the lift – she is a member and enjoys it here very much as the people in charge are very careful about who they invite to join and, crucially, "the fashion pack cocaine addicts haven't discovered it yet". Lily Allen is 24 years old, and sometimes she really seems it. Some of her insights are still backlit by the first giddy flush of adulthood (religion – confusing and silly; war – bad; drugs – sometimes bad, sometimes not), that time where no one really challenges what you say because they're either your peers and they think exactly the same way, or they're not your peers and they don't want to disabuse you of the last tattered vestiges of your innocence. At other times, you get swept away by the impression that this person has seen and done and tasted and experienced an unimaginable amount more than most other people in their early twenties. Like many 24-year-olds, Allen has indulged in illegal substances, had a couple of dodgy relationships and worked in a record shop. Unlike most other 24-year-olds, she also enjoys a globally successful pop career, is Grammy nominated, DJs for "shitloads" of money at the sort of parties the rest of us only ever read about on the bus, and once recorded a folk album with an ex-member of Joe Strummer's last band. She became famous for all the right reasons and a few of the wrong ones, but the reason she's still here is because she's really good at it. A fact compounded by her new album, It's Not Me, It's You, which is genuinely wonderful. "I get slagged off for going to premieres and showbiz parties," she says, "but my mum's a film producer and my dad's an actor! Those parties are where my family are. It would be more weird if I didn't go, wouldn't it? I know I've been dealt very strange cards. But this is me. This is what I was born into." My two favourite Lily Allen stories from the last 24 hours are the following: you were working with Damon Albarn and you accidentally flashed him. The other one is that you're organising a sports day to beat knife crime. Is it hard existing between the two absurdities of those stories? I have no idea how I can be those two people. With the flashing, I was working with Damon in the studio but we didn't come up with anything. I was leaving and it was a bit embarrassing. He was saying he would burn off what we'd done and I was saying I'd work on this and that, but really we both just wanted it to be over. I was wearing this pink vintage shirt that only had three buttons on and when I stood up they all went at the same time. It was the angle I was sitting at, I'm sure. I've not worn it since. As for the sports day, Boris [Johnson] wants me to be an ambassador for youth opportunity. It's not really a sports day; it's more a day where, instead of gaining the respect of your peers by stabbing people, you gain it by... Being good at the egg-and-spoon race? No! By winning things – being the best at something. (Pause) It's not going to solve the problem overnight. Him on your new album deals with God. Have you found the Lord? No. I'm confused by religion. I was brought up in a Catholic school and they told me gays were bad, adultery was bad and drugs were bad. At the same time, all my mum's friends were gay, my dad was having various affairs and there were drugs in the house when I was a kid – so it was a bit cruel. Why is Songs Of Praise always Christian? Where's the Hindu Songs Of Praise? The Islamic Songs Of Praise? We all pay our TV licence! I don't like Christianity much. Where would you rank it in the world's leading religions? Well, Hinduism is cool. I'll put them up near the top. But it's too dangerous for me to rank them. I'll get into serious trouble. Have you made it up with Elton after the GQ awards? We never fell out – that was such bullshit. We're friends! I told him to fuck off, but I tell everyone to fuck off all day long. He manages me, pretty much. Todd, my manager, works for his company, so it would be quite awkward if we fell out. I'd hate to fall out with him and still have to give him fifteen per cent of everything I earn. Do you worry about the future of the music industry? I do! I was having dinner with Mick Jagger the other night and I said to him, "I fucking hate people like you!" Snappy opener. No, we were talking about the music industry and I told him it really irritates me that I'll never make anything like the amount of money they have and he said, "Well, when we started out there was no money either; then, in the '70s and '80s, there was this huge boom. But it's gone down again now."' But I often think, "I'm really famous and I sell a lot of records, why aren't I a multi-millionaire?" Don't sign a record deal – that's my advice. Do it yourself. And definitely don't sign a three-sixty deal! Actually, I want to start a management company called Seven-Twenty... In The Fear you suggest that "everyone's at it" – ie, killer drugs – from "older politicians" to "young adolescents". At first it sounds bad, then you think, "Well, at least we know that older adolescents aren't at it too." Oh well done! It just made the line scan, OK? The point is there's a lot of hypocrisy attached to drug culture – especially from the journalists who write about it as they're all drug addicts and alcoholics. The only story is that drugs are bad and they will kill you. You will become a prostitute or a rapist or a dealer. But that's not true. I know lots of people that take cocaine three nights a week and get up and go to work every day, no problem at all. But we never hear that side of the story. I have no statement to make, I just wish people wouldn't sensationalise this thing that just exists. Some people are bad at taking drugs. But some people are bad at driving and kill themselves and others that way. I don't take drugs. I used to. But I get very anxious around people who are on drugs, because it reminds me of being a kid. I can spot the signs of people being a bit gakked up very quickly. It terrifies me. That's why I took cocaine when I didn't even like it. I felt like a lonely child when everyone else was doing it and I wasn't. What should people watch out for if they fear someone they know is getting "gakked up"? Sniffing. A lot of smoking. Talking about themselves a lot in a loud voice. That's the one I used to suffer from a lot. But this record is not a manifesto. I just want people to listen to it. I want them to think, "Oh, she's not as shit as people think she is." I was going to call the album, Brillyallent. But I thought I was leaving myself open to too much criticism – "Not Brillyallent". How are you getting with on your label's new owners, Terra Firma? I read that about Damon's champagne! [Albarn poured scorn on EMI's new owners in Word 71; their sole contact with him had been to send a crate of booze.] I never even got the champagne. The only thing I get is emails saying, "Where's your fucking album? We gave you £150,000 last year. Where is it?" I read a piece with Miles – my record company boss – in Music Week the other day, talking about me as his thing for "Quarter Four". It made me feel disgusting, like some cheap product. It's really sad for EMI. I hate Terra Firma. They're wankers and they don't know what they're doing. They will fail. They don't know how to run a creative business. They are killing us, frankly. Have you noticed a change? Yeah. I got £50,000 for my first album and I sold a lot of records. I worked really hard and was put up in nice hotels and treated well and went on to sell two-and-a-half million albums for EMI. So I expected the next time round for things to get better. But they got worse. I get emails asking if I could go to go to Paris for a week to work with some hot producer. I ask for a hotel and I get a two-star place in the eighth arrondissement on my own. I'm like, "Do you want me to get raped and killed?" Maybe that is what they want? Terror Murder! The annoying thing is, I know that twenty years ago I'd have been booked in at the Ritz with five grammes of cocaine on my table and ten bunches of flowers. Some new clothes. A chauffeur on twenty-four-hour call. Now I'm lucky to get an Oyster card. I'm not snobby, but if I have to go away for work, why can't it be nice for me when it's making you money? I make no money from selling records – obviously – but they're still arsey about hair and makeup! They don't understand anything. They have all these annoying people running the company who have no idea what it's all about. I look at Universal and see they're doing it well. So that's what I think of them. It's an uphill battle. I wish I could get dropped. But it won't happen. But it's not EMI that are the arseholes – it's Terra Firma. The people who work with me from EMI are brilliant. What's your message to the world? Stop killing each other. (Pause) And come to my sports day!

Dancing on my grave is funny

I got it wrong. Hands up. I will admit it. I have been saying the Grants are the best unsigned band in the United Kingdom. No. They are the best unsigned band in the world. And the world is theirs; at the Queen is Dead (the unofficial Grants residency and fan club) last Friday, people were shocked to hear the band playing stadium-sized songs in a small club. Shocked. Clubbers came up to the DJ booth in awe of the band and I could only tell them the best songs were yet to come. For many it was watching a masterclass in how to do it right, especially when so many bands are doing it wrong. The Grants are working class and ambitious, and lead singer and songwriter Chris Grant is reminding me more and more of a young Noel Gallagher. Like Gallagher, Grant's main preoccupation is writing big songs capturing northern innocence. It's a soulful escapism that eschews the hard man approach to songwriting. As with the best bands I've known, I get excited to hear the new songs and their musical progression. If Courtney Love wanted a Crazy Horse garage band, she missed out with the Grants. They are a modern-day Crazy Horse, instigating frenzied feedback and subtle atmospherics while painting Chris Grant's songs with psychedelic colours. When the Grants get it right, it's like a showdown against apathetic rock'n'roll. People who have never seen them ask me "Why so serious about the Grants?" It's obvious they've never seen the band live, because they play as if it's the last happening on planet Earth. I took the band down to In the City and the heavy interest never unnerved them. I laughed as Chris announced to the crowd he felt like "cattle in a cattle market" before playing one of the most talked-about (not to mention atmospheric) sets of the event; conjuring up such a haunting and spooky vibe it will rank as one of the best performances in the history of Tony Wilson's festival. The Grants could be one of the few bands in the history of Liverpool - after Echo and the Bunnymen - to step out of the shadows of the Beatles. Why? Chris Grant's songwriting is equalling that of Ocean Rain-era Ian McCulloch and Will Sergeant, when the Bunnymen duo were writing unaffected, orchestrated, dark, paranoid and romantic songs. Echo and the Bunnymen created their own world for Ocean Rain and in every demo from the Grants (recorded in a Liverpool bedsit, then uploaded on to MySpace), I hear Grant's world. In the 80s, Ian McCulloch never minced words; he wanted fame, fortune, and he wrote classic songs and albums to back it up. Grant has absorbed some important lessons from the iconic Bunnyman. All Grant wants to do is write timeless music and the Grants want nothing less than to make their debut album The Greatest Album Ever Made. And they will. Chris Grant is an unstoppable force with his new songs. Nothing will stop the young man. He is even beyond the collapse of capitalism. Listen and post your 'feelings': http://www.myspace.com/thegrantsrock

who can tell me who's the chick @ the computer in that video ?