Gay for Simon Neil / Biffy Clyro

"I just want to / Feel your body
I want you to / Know your quarry"

Got Any ABBA? The Rules of DJing at Weddings

My mate/fellow disc jockay is playing his first wedding this weekend and asked me for some tips. In lieu of any new ideas/content, I thought I'd post it here. Once I've reassembled Niall and Gaby's wedding mix (from two weeks ago in Brighton), you'll be able to hear my theory put to practice here - PLUG! - and if you're friends with them go here to see THE Florence and the Machine congratulate them (sort of) on choosing You Got The Love (not her version) as their first song. Kudos.

• If it's not too late, find out what the happy couple like and play that. The old rule of getting the ladies dancing is doubly true if one of them is a bride.
• Be prepared to play cheese, but don't play stuff (unless asked) too far from your comfort zone. If you think tunes are absolutely gash then you - and the guests - won't have any fun. 
• A related note - play requests if you can, but if you don't have songs just tell people you don't. If you have a comrade to fend off the requests, even better. Bloody requests.
• Take risks. You'd be surprised at what a drunken, captive, all-ages crowd will go for, so try it and be ready to mix out if it bombs (my crowd wasn't feeling the Theme From Shaft!). If you're going late, go hard - by then the old folk will be ready to go home, and the youngsters will be ready to GET DOWN.
• Having said that, play a set with a fairly broad age appeal. 80s is a good place to start as it appeals to the young(ish i.e. 30-odd) and their aunts and uncles alike. Have some Northern Soul or (original) R&B or Beatles on hand in case a granny wants to shake her tailfeather.
• Billie Jean. Everyone likes it - literally.

And no, I haven't got any Mavericks.

Gay for Fischerspooner (#1 Crush)

At Manflet we usually reserve our "Gay for" column for hetero man-crushes based as much on respect and admiration as the wrong twinges in our groins - but digging out tunes for a party in tribute to Electroclash, the gayest genre of the Naughties, has flipped us into all-out bum-lust.

The object of our infections is Fischerspooner, the New York artcore scene's answer to the Pet Shop Boys; specifically, frontman Casey Spooner, who comes across (you) like Neil Tennant dragged from his dressing up box into a dungeon where the walls drip with semen, blood and engine oil.

As a performance artist cum actor cum honey-tongued singer, Spoony C embodies a modern day Renaissance man, only wrapped up in glitter, drag and drama.  Like he told Suicidegirls, "I need it all. I need sensuality, I need intelligence, I need expression, I need physicality." Well said, Casey - now shut up and lick me.

Fuck Killing In The Name, what are we sending to Number One next Christmas?

OK, so we got Rage Against The Machine to the top of the Christmas singles chart - but let's not get complacent. If we're to silence the critics who are citing the tradition of novelty festive number ones, and painting Zack De La Rocha as a kind of politically-conscious Mr Blobby, we have to make sure this isn't a one-off. We have to prove that this was not just one in the eye for Simon Cowell or a neat illustration of the potential of grassroots marketing through social media, but evidence of a real alternative that can do what the fuck it likes - with nothing more than 79p and impeccable taste. That's why Manflet is already making suggestions for Christmas Number One 2010:

Nirvana - Smells Like Teen Spirit
Appeals to the same generation that backed Killing In The Name: old enough to remember when the seasonal chart-topper was less of a shoe-in (if no less shit) than during the Xmas Factor era, but young enough to care what happens next year; with plenty of free time to spend on Facebook and, because we usually illegally download our music, loads of spare cash to waste on tracks we already own. And as with De La Rocha's, um, rage, Kurt Cobain lends a voice to our frustration with the music industry, his refrain "here we are now / entertain us" throwing down the gauntlet to whatever chump Cowell is fast-tracking to fame at the time.

Radiohead - Creep
Ticks all the same boxes as Nirvana, but with the added bonus that the songwriter is still around to enter into intelligent debate. And just like RATM, Radiohead are likely to lend the campaign some gravitas by dedicating proceeds to some charity that you and I are too selfish to donate to. Plus, can you imagine what fun the YouTube mentals could have making video clips of Simon Cowell mouth along to the lyrics "I'm a creep / I'm a weirdo"? LOL!

Peaches - Jump On Santa's Sleigh (Fuck The Pain Away)
Get this: we get Peaches to re-record her filthcore electroclassic with radio friendly lyrics about reindeers and snowmen and shit. She ditches the merkin and shaves her armpits and we market her as Lady Gaga's older, less edgy sister. Next, we book her on Wogan's Radio 2 show for a chat and a live performance. Take it away Peaches: FUCK THE PAIN AWAY FUCK THE PAIN AWAY FUCK THE PAIN AWAY...

Highway to... Heaven?

Life was tough as a teenage Christian metal fan. That is, a Christian who was also a fan of metal, not a fan of Christian metal - although they must've had it really hard, as the scene at the time pretty much consisted of Stryper, four gay ponies in spandex wasp outfits.


Not that I cared what anyone else thought of me (anyone who's seen my photo album can attest to that), especially not small-minded middle-class baptists. They could tut-tut all they liked at my Sunday best - Faith No More and Pantera t-shirts (a favourite all-over print featured both the words "Cowboys from Hell" and, tucked away on the side, subversive messages like "Sex"). But, like every good metal fan, I just loved to be hated.

But I did worry about what God thought. Say, when I settled down to pray, having spent the last hour screaming along to Nine Inch Nails: "God is dead /and no-one cares /if there is a Hell /I'll see you there". I used to wonder, if this really is the devil's music, and I have to give it up for Him, well... what if I can't? And so I've spent half my life convinced that I'm going to Hell, and not reveling in it the way a Slayer fan should.

Today's metal fans needn't worry - they can have their crucifix-shaped cake and eat it (although they should worry about indulging in such sacrilegious foodstuffs). Some of the best bands are God-botherers - Underoath, As I Lay Dying, Norma Jean - and they're as aggressive and uncompromising as the Satanists. In a scene still dominated by people who aren't keen on organised religion, being badge-wearing born-agains is the ultimate rebellion. A niche within a niche that defies all expectations, and guarantees that even your fellow Kerrang! readers will hate you? A metaller's dream.

Texan metalcore outfit Oh, Sleeper are leading the charge. Their debut "When I Am God" became my new favourite album long before I learned of its spritual undertones. (This might sound stoopid, given its title, but the use of religious imagery in metal is usually blasphemous.) The sing/scream style of Micah (good biblical name) Kinard gives voice to an inner turmoil, a spiritual struggle within, and makes the fairly hymn-book lyrics sound totally badass: "So when Hell is at the gates /who will stand and meet the waves /and take the fight to their graves /to end the dark campaign?" They're clever too - just check out Kinard's explanation of the broken pentagram symbol that adorns the cover of their new concept album "Son of the Morning" here. Smart.

Not so smart is Brian "Head" Welch. He dropped out of nu metal goons Korn to do a whole shitload of crystal meth, and then dropped the drugs for God. His music is a straight splicing of his former band and Marilyn Manson, his lyrics the worst kind of "walk in my shoes" testimonial, and his only real gift to the world is this unintentionally hilarious interview (taster: "So in my head I was like, 'OK, I'm going to accept Christ in front of everybody right now and I'm gonna go home and snort drugs until I don't wanna do 'em anymore'... ")

Both Welch and Oh, Sleeper headlined Tomfest 2009, the only festival I seriously considered this year. But I only found out about it the day before it started, and flights to Washington state, US, were on the pricey side. The line-up featured over 130 of the brightest and best underground metal acts (and "Head"), and they were all Christians. No doubt it would've been hard to get a drink and I would've had to take my own laughing gas, but even so, I'm sure it would've kicked Ozzfest and the Warped tours asses (but without using the a-word).

So does that mean you can now worship both God and heavy metal? Hell yeah!
† \m/ †

Gay for Cedric Bixler-Zavala (or: De-clothed in the Homo-torium)

OK, so rock has always flirted with the homoerotic, with prog the biggest sausage-fest of the lot. All that self-gratification - wanking off your instrument for no one's pleasure but your own, while a sweaty, writhing mass of men look on longingly...

Well, even with all the latent gayness at the Mars Volta gig at Somerset House this week, my subconscious managed to take things too far. About four minutes into a seven minute instrumental psyche-out, I shut my eyes for a moment. And what should pop into my mind but an image of - what's that? Lead singer Cedric Bixler-Zavala... doing... me?

Never mind that he looked like Gary Sinise with Anita Dobson's hair, or that he was wearing a shirt that a dart player would be proud off - but probably couldn't fit an arm into - or that my idea of sex with him was face to face (were we just rubbing our bits together?) and looked a bit like jazz dancing; that split-second between me and the Texican troubadour was totally freakaay. Man. 

Who's Sad?

Why am I crying at Michael Jackson's memorial service?

I mean, apart from the obvious - the death of an extraordinary man, a family's loss, the fact that one of my cats just scratched me...

I thought I was above - opposed to - these public outpourings of grief. When Princess Diana died, I was the guy reminding people that she was actually a bit of a slut who needed her hair sorting out. When Our Jade died, I was the guy pointing out that she was at best a moron, at worst a racist (but I didn't mention her hair). Yes, I was that guy.

But this is different. For one thing, Michael Jackson actually did something. There's no point me adding to the column inches/bandwidth by going over that again... but one of my earliest memories is of sitting in the dining room with my family and listening to Thriller and Off The Wall. Again and again and again.

Wrap up a lifetime of moments like that in a funeral service with a song from Stevie Wonder and a eulogy from Magic Johnson and you get me right now - a wreck. And no amount of Mariah Carey or on-screen messages telling me the Great British Foreign Holiday will be on some other time, or Paul Gambaccini saying things like "Usher has caressed the mother", can change that.

I hope you get to read this post before one of the hard, unsentimental bastards who also make up Manflet delete it (or me, when I come to my senses).

RIP MJ xoxo

Western Philosophy

For years, I've resisted the seemingly natural, universal human emotion that is Hating Kanye West.

Sure, he's arrogant, even more so than other rappers - but, I figured, with good reason. While he's not the genius he clearly thinks he is, he is still capable of genius. Last year's 808s and Heartbreaks, for example, is not only one of the most emotional and experimental hip hop albums, but one of the most affecting works of pop ever. Even my parents love everything he does (apart from "the language"), so *hearting* the man my mum calls "Kanny" is a family affair.

Even if I could find it in me to hate Yeezy, it would be a pointless pursuit. As he explains in his book Thank You And You're Welcome, "I would rather be hated for who I am than loved for who I'm not". And "love your haters - they're you're biggest fans".

But this book could mark a turning point in my feelings towards West. According to him, this "entertaining volume of 'Kanye-isms' - the creative, humorous and insightful philosophies used in creating my path to success... captures the same wit, playful irony, and piercing insight found abundant in my lyrics". Well, if you usually turn to Dr Phil or Tyra Banks for your piercing insight, there's every chance that these 50-odd pages of trite self-help slogans could be your path to enlightenment. The only thing stopping the rest of us free thinking, sentient beings from ramming this book up the author's ass is the fear that it's so unsubstantial that he wouldn't even feel it.

You can "read" sample pages here or even buy a copy from Kanye's website, if "believe in your flyness... conquer your shyness" sounds like the kind of homespun homeboy philosophy you can embrace, so I'll focus on what I found to be the most disappointing spread, entitled "Embrace your flaws". Here West recounts the story of having eight teeth removed and braces fitted as a child, to illustrate the point that "I don't believe in accepting a changeable condition... sometimes it takes a little polishing to truly shine". One wonders whether his mum, whom the book is dedicated to, was thinking exactly the same kind of bullshit while she was wheeled into the cosmetic surgery operating theatre where she died.

Kanye's feelings of guilt and culpability about paying for the combined breast reduction and tummy tuck that killed his mum are well documented. In fact, it is his exploration of these emotions on ...Heartbreak that made it a masterpiece, and songs like Pinnocchio Story that led me to believe that the artist had completely re-evaluated his life: "There is no Gucci I can buy/There is no Louis Vitton to put on/There is no YSL they could sell/To get my heart out of this hell/And my mind out of this jail". But it seems that silver-lining benefits like self-awareness, sensitivity and an awareness of reality were temporary and short-lived.

After all (page 21), "You should be happy right?"

Idol Threats

FUCK YOU AMERICA!

You've made the wrong person American Idol AGAIN!

Oh well. At least we don't have to hear Adam Lambert sing that godawful "winner's" song again, or see him straighten out and lose his "sparkle" - or whatever you call that Matt Bellamy-meets-Robert Plant-meets-Cher flamin' emo melodrama.

Hopefully my felt-tip fanboy picture will stop his guyliner from running. I'll send it to him along with a note warning him to avoid the inevitable draw towards musical theatre, and the peanut butter and painkillers that brought down the King he so resembles, and advise him to "do a Daughtry" (like that other legendary Idol loser) and form a band.

My Chemical Romance - watch your asses!

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Just Donk It

A few remixes churned out by donkdj.com, which (finally!) allows you to follow the example of the Blackout Crew and put a "bangin' donk" on your favourite tunes. If the hoodie-house collective have passed you by, then check out this five-part documentary which tracks them down to Bolton, the "Mecca of Donk".

Adamski - Killer

When getting your donk on, think outside the (big fish little fish cardboard) box. Blackout Crew have already covered "bassline!... electro!... techno!" and most house comes pre-donked. Killer is an exception to this rule, being song-based and slow enough to yield utterly ludicrous results. Seal's vocals pitch up so high that he sounds like Akon caught in his zipper, and the final breakdown is more of a meltdown - as the drum machines run each other down and happy-slap each other silly.

The Fugees - Ready Or Not

Blackout Crew didn't invent Donk; they just gave it a name. Back in the 90s, Original Donkaz like The Course kept clubs like Bonkers, um, tonking with their remixes of pretty much every song that hit the charts. Well crap time-keeping and what sounds like a technical error from donkdj.com means that their version of Ready Or Not is still the original and the best. Except for the Fugees one. And that Enya song it sampled.

Blackout Crew - Put A Donk On It

It had to be done. I ignored all the pop-ups warning me about potential over-donkings, and went for it. I was feeling reckless. Like a chav pimping up his Cosworth, I figured there was no such thing as too fast, or too loud. I even ticked the box for"extreme chipmunk". The results? Predictable, but no less satisfying for it. Donk to the power of Donk.

Queen - Bohemian Rhapsody

To be fair to the Blackout boys, most people miss the complexity of their magnum opus. The oft-overlooked mid section when the track breaks down to just nursery-rhyme MCing, acoustic guitar and the most delicate of donks is paedo-prog heaven. The only song I could find that could live up to this was Bohemian Rhapsody - which, here, is by turns messy and exhilarating. Picture Wayne and Garth shaved down to a grade one, doing donuts in the Mirthmobile until they puke blue WKD on each other.

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Cover Me

A manchild is born.

And to announce our birth, we decided against posting a crude drawing of a three-headed, bearded freakbaby being spat into the world, and instead made you a mixtape.

Called "Cover Me", it's a musical tribute to our fairy blog-mothers - grrl-ziners Pamflet - and features our favourite guys doing versions of songs by our favourite gals. Skip over to 8tracks and check it out.

Get all warm down there, and all confused up top, as Manflet's man Mike Patton croons, "I just wanna be a woman". Chuckle in disbelief as Attack Attack!'s frontboy, who sounds all of 12, brags "I kissed a girl and I liked it". And, at the end of it all, find yourself agreeing with the Deftones that "this is no ordinary love".

If you like this, and can get to London, you can catch the PamfletManflet DJ Team at, um, Catch on Kingsland Road. More details on the sexXxy flyer.

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