The Singles Jukebox

Scott brings us some spoken word…

[Video]
[6.43]

Scott Mildenhall: Blackpool isn’t quite all front, but nowhere works harder to sustain the illusion of glamour. No matter how translucent it may be, the commitment cannot yield. That’s one reason why you don’t need to believe in the magic to feel it. Walk the Golden Mile as a kid, and you’ll feel part of a space that exists outside of the ordinary, alongside streams of fellow travellers. Keep walking, and you’ll find it’s almost twice its nominal legth; a joke shop trick in a town full of the things. No doubt, this is a natural place for existential crises and epiphanies at any age. Though they may aim to blind, the Illuminations do their real duty on the detail, just like Yard Act. James Smith’s recollections of crisp-crumbed car coverings and own-brand synaesthesia upended are remarkably vivid and masterfully strung; vacancy giving way to pure articulacy. Carry on walking, and everything connects.
[9]

Julian Axelrod: There are so many elements of this song that usually turn me off right away: British talk-singing, indulgent runtime, mid-song meta reveal, etc. And yet, Yard Act are skilled enough to turn every slight into a strength. The unreliable narrator is more Ira Glass than Alex Turner, the bloat turns into a sprawl, and the dream twist has a charming stoner logic. Something about the band’s bleary vision pulls it all together, and every time the rambling monologue and ramshackle clamor converge into something resembling a groove,  you realize they’ve been in total control from the jump.
[8]

Katherine St. Asaph: i guess we doin podcasts now
[3]

Jonathan Bradley: Usually they’ll put some wine and cheese out at a book reading. Maybe a little Q&A with the author?
[4]

Jel Bugle: I enjoyed the story, and the sentiment of the importance of family. 
[7]

Nortey Dowuona: Cuz this wanker will become a fan by album 2!
[8]

Will Adams: Expertly paced for its first five and half minutes. “Blackpool Illuminations” begins as the kind of meandering, uninteresting story you’d hear from a stranger at the bar, responding with an “uh-huh” if they allow that much silence between sentences. But as it progresses, James Smith’s vocal starts to drift closer to the rhythm, until it locks into place and the rhymes arrive, while the jam-band backing becomes more psychedelic. The end loses me; a drug trip inspires a stab at profundity that the narrator had previously shrugged off, and we get a “fuck the haters” mic drop to end it. Storytelling is a craft; I suppose it’s not so easy to stick the landing.
[6]