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The video for <a href="https://www.facebook.com/SlimeMusic">Slime’s</a> 2Player single dropped yesterday, with <a href="https://www.facebook.com/SlimeMusic#!/pages/WE-ARE-the-Collective/195145270530468">WE ARE the Collective</a> directing and producing the project. Shot in a café in Sunderland, the video mirrors the subtle themes of loneliness conveyed within the track, with lyrics ‘Won’t you come around for a little while’, tenderly rested on an understated black and white graphic. The sedate slope into the abyss of elderly isolation is effortlessly captured, as the simplicity of the old woman eating alone airs a thousand young fears of slipping into this waking nightmare. Although the video lacks any degree of grandeur or remarkable production, it is intelligently intertwined with the muffled pain of the music. Consequently the graphic acts as the medium of the muted melancholy Slime seeks to achieve. Given the genre and the raw talent of director Joel Chima, the gentle negotiation of a somewhat taboo topic is explored deftly within the narrow parameters of Slime’s rather unique sound. Less is most certainly more. 
 
 
 
 
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Video: Slime – 2 Player (feat. Vondelpark)

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1978/79 – The Winter of discontent. 2010/2011 – The Winter of extremist ascent? It is without question we live in a time of unbridled cynicism. Firstly, the Casino bankers drop us into a financial crisis deeper than a Chilean mineshaft. Then, students siege the Millbank building in central London, depicting a clearly disillusioned and downtrodden youth. Finally, the insult to an already gaping injury, our darling Jack Duckworth is cruelly carted off our television screens.
In all seriousness, Caviar Cameron may yet live to lament the decision to put a proverbial cap in the ass of the working class student. However, that is an argument for another article. The right wing has also followed suit in voicing its dissatisfaction at the current economic, political and social climate of ‘Broke Britain’. Indoctrinating the latest wave of Lacoste clad lethargic lowlife across the Tinpot towns of Britain, the EDL, as ever, continues to sustain its sterling job of ‘defending’ our England.
Fortunately, this empire wasn’t built on fascist propaganda, quite the contrary. Nor was it erected by millionaire footballers, performing a ‘Bukkake’, on any budding Kerry Katona they find to participate in such a sanctified ritual; or the bankers funding such frivolity for that matter. No good sirs, this realm was built on willow and cork.
An old Spanish proverb, or Harvey Dent, depending on your predilection, once said ‘The night is darkest before the dawn’. In times of seemingly infinite depression, it is often advised, in the medical profession, for a patient to craft themselves a positive imagery of the future. To articulate myself in Orwellian philosophy, ‘What is happiness but the near future?’
So, peering around a sick soaked kitchen/ lounge area, laden with sweaty adolescents, a broken Velux window and an impending fine off a landlord, involving bathtubs and a nightclub roof, I, akin to many in Britain, am in dire need of a little positive Zen. Enter the Ashes stage right.
The modestly sized urn, contested between the bitter sporting rivals of England and Australia since the 19th century, will bask in warmer climes than the Lords trophy cabinet this winter. As the 66th duel between Strauss and Ponting commences. A sport all too readily written off as jingoistic brouhaha by many, Cricket, I hasten to remind its sceptics, can be traced back to solid Tudor roots in the 16th century.
It is a game of convoluted rules, mind boggling jargon and contrary to popular belief, an athletic level of physicality and a chess player’s degree of strategy; despite George Best’s claims that it was ‘The only sport you can get fat whilst playing’. Only a man of pious cricket faith could elucidate the magnitude of ‘6 Jaffa’s in the corridor of uncertainty ‘or a ‘slog into cow corner’. Given the archetypal aspersions surrounding ‘The National Sports’ players within the Premier and Football leagues, it is refreshing to see that Cricketers in this country are seldom reported to be partaking in 14 hour coke fuelled sex binges at their captain’s house.
Although it is not a game wholly exempt from controversy. With the topical betting scandal in Pakistan, gang influence within the Sub-continent and, of course, the passing of Preston’s prodigal son, Mr Flintoff, through professional ranks this decade, Cricket has had its moments of disrepute. Though, there is an undeniably assured purity in the event of any Ashes series, which is now infrequency in the money obsessed epoch of 21st century sport. The expectant air cradling this latest series is, also, more pragmatic than that which culminated in the despondent disappointment of last summer’s Football World Cup. The opening venue in Brisbane, known as ‘The Gabbattoir’ for its barbarous atmosphere, despite the high octane rivalry, will see fans freely mix and drink together, without a hint of trouble; though the jocular ‘sledging’ will be at a premium.
Living in a country so preoccupied with the self serving continuation of social disparity, Cricket can offer many of the disenchanted citizens a much needed respite this winter. The Ashes will once again serve up its eternally endearing ingredients of drama, scintillating sport and above all else, an unparalleled combination of competition and respect.

Real Britannia

<a rel="attachment wp-att-2506" href="https://admin.crackintheroad.com/life/2478-obituary-beckhams-football-career/attachment/beckuse"><img class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-2506" title="beckuse" src="https://api.crackintheroad.com/uploads/2010/08/beckuse.bmp" alt="" /></a>It was Jefferson that once said, “When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot in it and hang on”. A phrase David Beckham has taken all too literally in the twilight years of a career rhapsodised by pundits and fanatics alike. Far removed from the twinkle of the Tinseltown lights Beckham was ostensibly fated to identify from a young age, there has been a football career unique in its recitation from any other. Beckham was a pioneering football prodigy, one of the few players to ever cross the white line whose every career decision felt like it had some mystical bearing on your own existence.
Originally beginning his fledgling career at the lesser prestige of Tottenham Hotspur, the grand overlord of the contemporary kick about, Sir Alex Ferguson, spotted a competitor steeped in technical proficiency. He consequently poached, then introduced him into the grassroots of the most refined assemblages of footballing aptitude in a generation; Manchester United. My Father once described him during a loan move to Preston North End as “Devoid of pace, yet overcompensated with the best right boot in the business”.
Alongside his wing wizardry, David happened to convey an angelic formation of features. It was sheer providence that dictated his rise with the stellar ascent of the Spice Girls; cue one Miss Victoria Adams. The rest as we know is history. An English Georgie Best with a penchant for a public photo, yet an evidently less fervent passion for the bottle was born. If Best was ‘El Beatle’, then Beckham was surely the Paul to George’s John. Both men were coincidentally products of the red side’s paranormally proactive legend machine.
There was THAT goal at Wimbledon, the halfway line crack that made the Premier League customary Neil Sullivan look like a hungover 14 year on a Sunday morning. We all recollect graphically, the sensational and almost supernaturally struck free-kicks that seemed to home like scud missiles past flabbergasted ‘Keepers across the land. This earned David international recognition and a hefty helping of publicity.Then came the contemptible kick out at Simone in 1998. Beckham saw red, and consequently witnessed David Batty make a mockery of the term ‘Penalty Kick’. Becks could be forgiven for a feeling of prejudice, as his juvenile shoulders unjustly took the weight of the perpetual malevolence that follows an English World Cup exit. Truth was, and for the record still is, they simply were not good enough. Like a phoenix from the proverbial ashes of national dismay, Beckham rose to orchestrate a benchmark of British footballing history. The ‘99 treble. Emanating from a family inclined to disregard Mancunia’s most successful club, it was through resisted awe I watched Beckham regurgitate with almost celestial class, an array of sumptuous set-pieces, pinpoint passing and most markedly, the unwavering desire to track back any given distance to recoup a lost ball. A celebrity at this point? Probably. A Sporting Superstar? Most definitely.
The Nou Camp is of course the Elysium of purist football and philosophy, and has in turn been auspicious in offering sanctuary to the likes of Cruyff and Messi.  Even the most partisan of Catalans must threaten a smile at the contemplation of Becks whipping over a trademark corner, for the Baby Faced Assassin to convert with the most ruthless conviction. The European Cup had been pilfered in an outstandingly galvanising fashion. The Red Nosed Dane executed gymnastics of jubilation, as Manchester readied itself to regale their next wave of European Champions. They say the music died on an aircraft with Buddy Holly and The Big Bopper in ’59. The same went for Mancunian football (the red half) in ’58, as a tragic quantity of the Busby Babes, a symbiotically youthful team of inconceivable talent, met an icy and harrowing end. Empowered by the fertile loins of Fergie’s youth system, the rebirth was spectacular, and the focal point was one D. Beckham.
Though it must be declared, nothing lasts forever. The Greece qualifier was a final international hurrah at Old Trafford in 2001, accumulating in Beckham curling home a last gasp free-kick, an art comparable to any surrealist offering from Dali. The Stretford End went delirious as Becks had guided his Golden Lions to another World Cup. It must be said that these feats of phenomenal sport were now almost expected by the national faithful. It wasn’t too long after this that the rumours of Fergie’s boot kicking antics came to the fore. Beckham’s wounds seemed to prove such, and hence followed a premature passage from the hallowed turf of Old Trafford as Leytonstone’s prodigal son bidded ‘Hasta Leugo’ for the final time. A Schoolfriend  had just purchased a draw full of DB7 clothing. This range of garments in hindsight, along with the autobiography, was an ill advised marketing decision. You can imagine a 12 year olds sentiment.
‘Goldenballs’, the newly crowned England captain, flew the nest to Madrid, with a WAG and film-star rank of recognition in tow. He fitted like a piston to a rod in the ‘Galacticos’ engine, as Real’s consistent conception of monopolising European football by buying the biggest and the best had brought Beck’s to their shores. In the balancing act of being David, there was of course international football to consider, as in 2002, the land of the rising sun was to play host to the greatest sporting show on earth. It seems to have been a recurring theme in his career; to reappear from controversy by communicating through his preferred medium of boot on ball. Perchance it is a gauge of the greats, that their destiny is almost scripted with a poetic irony from Beckett or Berkoff above. Of course we drew the Argentineans in the groups and of course Beckham avenged the indignity of his dismissal four years previously by slamming home a penalty to subdue the ‘Argies’ once more; Thatcher sunk the Belgrano, but Beckham had submerged far more. Metaphorically speaking, it is a rarity that a man can even the scores on an inequitable event of a past conflict, yet the repeated resurrection Of DB7, at this point DB23, was, to say the least, a meal ticket for the tabloid presses.
Inevitably, few chimes sounded before Beckham was again involved in National consternation. A penalty miss against the English kryptonite of Portugal in Euro 2004, saw him take partial blame for another preventable exit. Déjà vu transpired in 2006, as the injured skipper looked on with an expression of excruciation whilst his Lions limped out against the Portuguese. Those infamous English nerves once again capitulated during the pressure cooker of a penalty shootout. It was a dejected and weeping Beckham that faced the Vultures of the Tabloid’s the next day. True to his unpredictable temperament, he acted as a sacrificial lamb, giving up his beloved England captaincy, and quelling the general bloodlust that more heads must roll from the ‘Golden Generation’. His epoch as ‘Le Grande Fromage’ of British football came to an abrupt halt. The sensation of deterioration was sustained in his Madrid career, as the only dressing room in Europe with more stars than an astronomer could decipher, was proving a colossal challenge for the schoolmasterly merits of Mr Capello; the now sardonically placed villain of the piece.
It is a measure of the man, as despite the harbingers of doom circling manically over Beckham’s fragile career, he once again exemplified a Casanova like covetousness for his profession, confirming to Capello his steadfast skill. Real went onto conquer the league; Beckham went on to cement his name in footballing folklore. It was at this crossroads, Soccer’s James Dean, given a capricious career that would have given Spielberg a potential blockbuster, fittingly, set course for the municipality of angels. A decision perceptibly pressured by the label lust of his highly maintained missus. Unfortunately in all walks of humanity, when there is ascent there must be descent. Heroes do not exist, and if they do, they assuredly fade away. It is at this point that the plunge of our icon begins. A brief loan spell at AC Milan was engineered before the debacle of this year’s ‘African adventure’. It was a blatant attempt to prove his worth to one time nemesis Capello. Won over before, the San Canazian, a man of devout Catholic  faith, was almost convinced again, before the unrelenting adversary of any veteran footballers career brought the curtain crashing down on the illustrious 115 cap campaign; the Achilles Tendon.
Beckham delineated the ‘adroit persona’, and a maturity some thought may never come to fruition as he chaperoned the England team in South Africa. He worked as a mediator, given the England gaffers none too extensive knowledge of English vocabulary. Although given the performances, one can’t imagine him needing any more lexical variation than a few choice profanities. Becks has also invested his energies into spearheading the 2018 bid for World Cup football in Britain. He was forced to unwittingly act as the makeshift spokesman following the destructive nature of Lord Triesmans aristocratic faux pas, as it was theatrically embellished in the time honoured form of double crossing mistresses and Russian bribe Roubles. It is with understated anti-climax that Capello has dropped the guillotine on this, pardon the cliché, immortal career, without so much as a text message to the most capped outfield player the country has ever created.
David Robert Joseph Beckham OBE royally accredited, is a man who embodies the dogma of Kipling’s ‘IF’. He has never, throughout a career I have not even begun to scrutinise, lost the common touch. Experience has taught us that he is capable of swaying the self assured mentality of the Italian, though time eventually diminishes every man. The romanticist in me yearns for Becks to play on, yet if the Arch has seen the last swing of that fabled right boot, there shan’t be a man in the English territories that won’t exclaim, “The Boy Done Good!”
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Obituary: Beckham’s Football Career

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<a rel="attachment wp-att-2101" href="https://admin.crackintheroad.com/music/2100-review-the-magic-numbers/attachment/magic-numbers"></a>If there is one subjective observation to be made about The Magic Numbers, sibling rivalry is not an issue here. Since the breakthrough album ‘The Magic Numbers’ way back in 2005, that coincidentally hit number 7 on the UK album charts, the Ealing four piece have purveyed a concoction of easily definable yet gallingly inconsistent tunes. The 3rd studio album ‘The Runaway’ is a clear attempt to break out of the pigeon hole the industry has bequeathed upon them.
Unfortunately it has not had the desired effect. A congruent constellation, and I do not mean in an out of this world sense, of Indie foot tappers and over syrupy jargon (certainly more of the latter) has once again left the sibling guild of the Stoddarts and the Gannons agonisingly short of the mark. Their jovial demeanors are an almost phantasmal memory. Only a handful of tunes, such as the abstractly attractive Folk fired ‘Restless River’ act as an abject atonement fighting hard to bandage an LP utterly determined to disintegrate. ‘A Start With No Ending’ is the most melodic of the tracks, coupled with energy akin to the more invigorating days of ‘Those The Brokes’.
Otherwise the Harmonies are heedless, an evident element throughout, and thoroughly palpable in cuts such as ‘The Pulse’. It makes for a confused and conflicting cacophony, ironically, a sound none too contrasting from a sibling squabble. No mean feat for a song touted as Indie Pop. The disjointed theme spills over into the hesitantly ‘Eagles-esque’ ‘Why Did You Call?’ There’s an oxymoronic ideology to this album. The Magic Numbers seem comprehensively resolute on maintaining the most timid of themes. The album reaches its colourless crescendo in the form of ‘I’m Sorry’. Saxophones and Harmonica’s are trodden into the dour descanting and battered bassline, as all of the prior promise is stomped out by another exasperatingly disorganised track. This band, although never a behemoth of their scene, are now in arduous danger of being catapulted into the already bustling Indie abyss.
The Magic Numbers once sang ‘If there’s time for me, there’s time for thee’. Judging by the latest installment of The Numbers none so magic miscellany of the morose, Indie Pops perpetual under achievers are fast losing the fanatics patience. Their apparent ability to formulate the ‘homogenous album’ now seems an eternally elusive endeavor.

Review: The Magic Numbers – The Runaway

So did you hear about Robbie getting back with Take That? How about you grow a pair, stop living in the 90’s and enter yet another fabulous Crack In The Road competition.
A potential phoenix from the Method ashes, excuse the provincialism non Prestonians, Fuse could well become the next epicentre to those who worship in the dark art of dub infused delirium. Up and coming Dubstep phenomenon Sukh Knight, as reviewed at World Headquarters by my esteemed compatriot Joel, has teamed up with Grime guru P-Money to totally obliterate Lava in Preston on Friday 6th August.
P- Money, renowned for his ‘beefin’ with Ghetts, as well as his lyrical prowess on the Tim Westwood Radio 1 show, has collaborated astutely with the block rockin’ beats of Knight, to produce tunes such as ‘Slang’ and ‘Left the room’. This pairing has received regular airplay on Radio 1Xtra and is creating quite a stir amongst the underground circles.
For the opportunity to obtain two free tickets to this event, all you must do is send an E-mail to samheaney2009@live.co.uk simply stating ‘I want free tickets’. The competition will end at midday on 4th August and the winner will be announced within an hour of the competition closing.

Competition: Win P-Money and Sukh Knight Ticket

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Traditionally, University is a hotbed of drug use and experimentation. From a student’s first spliff, to narcotics of a more extreme nature, the youth that makes up our ‘Chemical Generation’ are not afraid of extending their moral boundaries. However, it was this year that a drug of intelligent chemical manufacture and retail, managed to utterly revolutionise the student experience.
‘Mephedrone’, or as it is affectionately known by its users as ‘M-Kat’ (it also has a plethora of other nicknames, from ‘Bubble’ to ‘Miaow ‘) changed the landscape of youth culture and drug abuse. As this most powerful of substances was, for an unfathomable period of time, available over the counter.
An undergraduate friendly amalgamation of legality and cheap mind distortion consequently remoulded nightlife in the North-East. The effects of this drug alter from person to person, though commonly it induces a chatty and friendly state of euphoria. For a time in the Bigg Market area, the bouncers were out of a job. (Insert Raoul Moat joke here)
‘M-Kat’ fused vast swathes of people, who would have previously never even shown so much as a nod of acknowledgement to one another, into full blown conversations on the Chinese foreign policy or the best method of how to perform cunnilingus, believe me I’ve heard it all. This drug is also highly addictive, whether under the effects, or soberly craving a ‘rail’.
Closely related to both the dysfunctional ‘Amphetamine’ and ‘Cathinone’ families, users will often ‘fiend’ for more and more powder whilst under the influence to keep the high going, and to stave off the inevitable fall from elation. This is achieved either through snorting, which is fairly self explanatory, or ‘bombing’; a method where the user wraps the drug up in cigarette skins and swallows accordingly.
Conversely, it has an ugly side to it, crashing comedowns after ‘sessions’ are frequent. This drug has solely de-railed close friends’ lives and left certain acquaintances in very dark places. I do not for a minute condone or glorify the use of this substance, yet this article is written to combat the complete misrepresentation of the ‘Plant-Food powder’ in the mainstream media.
Firstly, it was only marketed as ‘Plant-Food’ to comply with the medicines legislation, with an ironically Machiavellian label quoting ‘Not for human consumption’ used to round the issue of arrest. It has now been re-classified as a ‘Class-B substance’ and for good reason. Gone are the days of coming home and trooping out with an associate, whom shall remain nameless, to the ‘Kardbar’ for his Friday night sack of contentment. Bagged and wrapped in an informative leaflet on ‘Mephedrone’, and all delivered with the customary beam of a shop-keeper who still couldn’t believe his luck.
Tabloids such as the ‘The Sun’, with their ever misinformed balderdash, peddled falsities and dubious tales of the ‘Toot’. Yes, a handful of young and ordinary students tragically lost their lives. And that is incontestable. However, the full stories of ‘Mephedrone’ being taken with a cocktail of other recreational drugs, were never fully reported, nor were the medical histories of the deceased. They were instead shunned for the Hollywood headlines, and the crusades against this ‘evil’ drug that appeared to be rotting the future of our nation from the inside out.
Perhaps the saddest thing about this whole situation is the mere fact that the drug wasn’t proscribed sooner. The tag of legality gave previously ‘Alcohol only’ youngsters, whom wouldn’t touch a drug for fear of regulatory retribution or societal rejection, an exciting dimension. A freedom which would allow research into the effects of something other than the booze, without an inkling of trouble. It’s the sight of this type of person, that carried the ‘Beacon of Hope’ within an otherwise ‘Wired’ generation, trying to re-arrange their jaw structure whilst removing their top lip with the bottom, that just doesn’t sit well. From pretty to Picasso in 10 minutes.
The long term effects are also worrying. Already proven as a vascular-constrictor, it is not totally out of the equation for this flare up of powdered mayhem, to seriously affect the health of its users in the none too distant future. I pray this is perceptive paranoia. It must be stated; the vast majority of people who enjoy this drug, do so sensibly and restrain themselves from the minority, who indulge in 3 day binges minus sleep. Not to say that this is wrong, though given the lack of professional insight into the drug, it could be described as playing with fire.
Love it or loathe it, ‘Mephedrone’ has undeniably altered the manner in which drugs are viewed by the average student. It has also created a divide between those who abstain and those who indulge. It has pulled us together and dragged us apart. And for the most part, redefined student night-life across the UK.
It is probably nothing to be particularly proud of, nonetheless, many of this year’s University and College intake, have played their own little part in shaping drugs culture for the perennial wave of Freshers in years to come.

M-Kat: A Student Perspective

In Preston it is quite a rarity for the gifted youth within its limits to gain any kind of exposure or recognition. The Open Mike Night at the Mad Ferret, hosted by ‘Vox Population’ however, was an energizing platform for some of our fair city’s most fervent bands and acts to display their excellence. All the performances had their good points, ‘though this is who I deem the most worthy of this bountiful line-up.
Vox Population 
This young four-piece with a genre frustratingly difficult to define, so I’ll take a stab at a Post-Punk- Strokes meet the Chilli- Peppers, with the odd riff out of the Hendrix school of axe-wielding, launched a stirring 3 song set to head-up the show and didn’t dishearten the core of Preston’s music scene gathering in the ‘Ferrett’. What was initially prominent was the meticulous endeavor put into the instrumental side, as each member excelled on their respective musical medium. Dan Morris conveyed an almost nonchalant demonstration of drumming aptitude coupled with a bassist in David Mettham, offering a near faultless display, and at the same time purveying a Cobain like image – no mean feat for a bassist. Tom Lawton’s riffs were inspiring and something only previously deemed plausible for a lad of his age on Guitar Hero. Whilst the front man Laurence Holt provided a first-rate exhibition of zeal and vocal class to carry off this band’s indie anthems, he also made for an endearing MC. It is unquestionable that they are not the finished article yet, but this was one of the most positive performances of the night.
One Man and His Beard 
This man made for the cult-hero of the night. A figure that can only be described as a local take on ‘Seasick-Steve’ shuffled onto the stage and gathered one of the largest followings of the night. He played with a genre that I will term as a perverse rendezvous between rock, pop and spoof in a public toilet, yet it made for a thoroughly entertaining and enjoyable display. A rousing rendition of ‘The Telephone Only Rings When It’s Bad News’ dedicated to Fabio Capello (showing the audience his finger was firmly on the pulse of popular culture), really warmed this most unperturbed of crowds up. This man may not be looking at headlining at Glastonbury anytime soon, yet his seasoned performance gives him commendable recognition amongst the foundations of the Preston music scene.
MC Rival and Clarky 
Now these boys are something a little bit special. ‘Nervous?’ I asked them moments before they were to take the stage, they turned to one another simultaneously and laughed, keeping just on the right side of arrogance, as this almost telepathic understanding of one another would so effortlessly transfer onto the stage. A beat-boxing and bar-spitting combination, refreshingly alternate from the half-hearted attempts reigning from elsewhere in Preston, which can only be described as grossly negligent to their ‘grime’ genre. The others define ‘Chav’. These two define ‘excellence’. The bass offered from ‘Clarky’s’ larynx would rival (no pun intended) any Bose sound-system as even the most intricate parts of his beat-boxing – down to his imitation of the ‘vinyl scratch’ – are difficult to tell apart from the genuine article. He is beyond a talent in his chosen field and we must expect big things from our phenomenon of orally constructed beats. He was essentially complimented by the lyrically diverse and well selected verse structure of ‘MC Rival’, whose strengths lie in his versatility, at either a slower, more Americanized rap delivery, or the ability to switch, in tandem with ‘Clarky’, to a 16 bar Dubstep beat. This whips the crowd into frenzy, with a rapid discharge of shrewd rhyme sheathed in the raw brogue of the Preston streets. This duo ooze flair, poise and dare I say it ‘star quality’. They are the urban salvation of Preston, offering a refreshing dimension to that of what is already shaping up as a varied and exhilarating nucleus of performance acts. Watch this space.
Mobius Loop 
Explaining this group’s genre is a whole new ball game. They can be loosely termed as a Reggae/Blues/ Acoustic/ Funk outfit, and even more loosely, as they are utterly incomparable, a northern take on Gogol Bordello? It was worth a try. It’s where to begin with this band? Firstly they look absolutely incongruous on stage together, as if a music teacher has handed out the last instruments in the box and told them to collaborate – and collaborate they have! Easily the most pleasurable live act I have seen since Evolution Festival, as this band manage to intertwine the African sounds of the Congas and Bongos with the brassy harmonies of the Trombone, it somehow works. Front-man Tom Robinson balances his Brass expertise with a soulful voice, thanks to a gargantuan set of lungs, and the rest play around this, although it is evident the band play stood next to one another, perhaps a symbolization of their philosophy of unity. Sean O’Hara offers a rhythmic beat on the bongos with an additional helping of panache from Dave Watkins on acoustic bass. This band is clearly a serious outfit, and given the inventive nature of their music, are a sure fire tip for future success. There was even a point where I swore I heard shades of the Stone Roses; this lot express themselves as more of an experience than a regular gig slot.
Other notable performances were- 
The Bear Around Your Neck, perhaps the only man in Preston ever witnessed to actually pull off retro knitwear and loafers, as this one man band playing Harmonica and Acoustic guitar wouldn’t sound alien on the soundtrack of Skins 5.
Tom Metcalfe with an absurdly adroit flamenco solo, in terms of instrumental competency was by far and away the highest standard of the night.
The real victor was the Prestonian talent that had the podium to be showcased. Long may these brilliant events continue.

Vox Population Open Mic Night: Mad Ferrett Review

When considering the British summertime, we often think ill-equipped, home grown tennis players, strawberries and cream, embarrassment courtesy of the Australians and endless moaning at our geographical situation. A common theme of summer in the 
majority of this nation’s eyes is categorically not Heavy Metal.
The Bloodstock Open Air Festival transforms the picturesque setting of Catton Hall in Walton-Upon-Trent into a 3 day pilgrimage of all that is grungy, satanic and sadistic (musically) for those who relish the merits of this dark head- banging art.
This festival is only in its infancy, begun by Paul Gregory and Vince Brotheridge in 2005 (its predecessor was actually founded in 2001 and played indoors), and is the complete antithesis of the titanic efforts of Glastonbury and Reading. Although given its niche appeal and robustly passionate nucleus of Metal Heads , you get the feeling the Bloodstock patrons would like to keep their corner of Catton Hall forever sacred.
One of ‘Death Metal’s’ more sinister lyricist’s ‘Cannibal Corpse’ will be high up in the billing on the Sunday. For those who aren’t familiar with this Buffalo 5 pieces’ distinctive use of vocabulary, here is a snippet from their 1991 album ‘Butchered at Birth’ and their tour de force ‘Meat Hook Sodomy’; ‘Deterioration of grated genitals, dangling from the hooks, obscene feelings deep inside me, dislocating, separating a blood drenched body’. ‘Niche’ perhaps doesn’t do it justice. It would be unwarranted and likewise, a disservice, to categorize the entire occasion by one band, although any budding Lothario is well-advised to deter from such explicit lines.
Bands such as the ‘Black Spiders’, out of the ‘Motorhead’ mould of Hard Rock, with a weighty beat and axe grinding guitars give this festival its slightly more conventional edge, potentially attracting festivalistas who would have been previously sceptical about attending such an acquired taste of a gig. Furthermore, bands akin to ‘Amorphis’ offer the versatility. What began as a Finnish death metal outfit in 1990, now have a repertoire also touching on progressive and folk metal. These unusual bands are nothing if not captivating from their stories of life in the metallic abyss.
Festival’s such as Bloodstock offer a totally diverse experience to that of Leeds or V. Admittedly the music is poles apart and the Bloodstock audience thrives on their divergance from run of the mill festivals. Dare to be different this summer; the 13th 14th and 15th of August amongst the greenery of Catton Hall, is a prime spot to be.

Bloodstock Festival

Tortured often comes before genius, especially in the case of Marshall Bruce Mathers III.
His meticulous lyrical selection and inimitable rap character ‘Eminem’, has indisputably carved his name alongside the Tupac’s and Biggie’s of his chosen genre. Unfortunately given the nature of human greed, fans and critics alike, always want Marshall to achieve the impossible.
Given the seismic shift of rap away from the raw and rugged project beats of its godfathers, to a more techno sounding vibe, Eminem has eschewed away from the mainstream culture and continued to imprint his originality onto an ever altering scene.
‘Recovery’ is the second album following Shady’s self inflicted asceticism from his ambivalent career. The sampling is as single minded and revolutionary as ever, with Haddaway’s ‘What Is Love’ Euro-dance ballad, flawlessly incorporated into the track ‘No Love’ with an audacity only achievable if you happen to be Eminem, or evidently ‘Lil Wayne’.
His persona has always suggested he strives to remember who aided him on his ascent to the top. The collaboration with Dr Dre on ‘So Bad’ is a nostalgic attempt, as master and scholar painstakingly pursue the now elusive zenith of previous Shady albums. A vignette each from Pink (‘Won’t Back Down’) and Rihanna (‘Love the Way You Lie’) supplement my personal judgment that Slim has not been completely proficient in evoking the wit and Biggie-esque dexterity to tell a story, that was a radiating feature in the superhuman compilations of ‘Encore’ and the ‘Eminem Show’.
Up to this point this review is objective; however I deem it necessary to award the track ‘Not Afraid’ its own paragraph.
It is a rarity for an artist to dissect their soul, re-constitute the former and construct from this an anthemic yet shrewd track which will sit eternally pretty in the chasms of time. ‘Not Afraid’ is a triumph. A triumph of human endeavour, a triumph of articulation and above all else a vital triumph of one man facing and seemingly beginning to conquer his demons. We as fanatics, probably assisted Eminem into the bottomless pit of depression and the vicious cycles of various addictions (I hasten to add he’s bright enough to accept this as an occupational hazard) yet this track acts as a vindication, as Eminem melodically and poetically portrays his rebirth through his timeless medium of the vernacular of the Motor City.
This album threatens to take its place amongst the greats yet infuriatingly never truly delivers. His pinnacle is a distant wonder. However, tracks such as ‘Not Afraid’ and the rage induced ‘Cold Wind Blows’ gives the world a tantalising glimpse into the illusory talents of the crowned King of Rap. There is most certainly a maturity there, it’s better than ‘Relapse’, as I said, we expect Marshall to achieve the impossible. One of the best albums of its genre this year, unquestionably. Nevertheless it just doesn’t live up to previous exploits; but how on earth can we ask that of this mercurial icon?
8/10.

Review: Eminem – Recovery

It would take a feat of lexical wizardry to concise the implications that ‘Rave in a Cave’ had on youth culture in Newcastle on the 5th of June. This event did nothing if not demolish the media’s hackneyed perspective of all teenagers being lager loving, knife flicking, sexual tyrants.
Five hundred teenagers and young adults at an illegal rave in the middle of a park in Newcastle at midnight; sharpen those pencils ye Daily Mail scribes. The events that unfolded were refreshing, and more vitally, vindicating for our peppered generation. It started with an enormous trek into the belly of this particular beast, the Jesmond Deane’s cave. Upon arrival there was a scene to assault the senses. Ironically, a tranquil tunnel littered with tiny candles, which looked as if it paved the way toward a Hindu shrine, serenely mapped the route toward the thumping sound system. The crowd was varied with (and before you suggest as much, this is not an obsession) ‘Rah’s’, ‘Scene kids’, general music lovers and the occasional ‘Charv’. Oddly enough, a great deal of the people making up this broad-based crowd were suspiciously sober, (us included).
The DJ’s were of a high pedigree; with a personal favourite being a house remix of Gabriella Cilmi’s pop hit ‘Sweet about me’. The music played was generally house beats with a modicum of Dub-step thrown in for good measure. Everybody danced long in to the night trying to stifle the beaming grins breaking onto their tee-total faces. No honestly. There was not an iota of trouble or even a glance of malice.
Broken Britain? I beg to differ Mr Blair. It’s the music, and events such as these that are putting Blighty back together again.

Crack in the Road

Slime2 Player (feat. Vondelpark)

Real Britannia

Obituary: Beckham’s Football Career

The Magic NumbersThe Runaway

Competition: Win P-Money and Sukh Knight Ticket

M-Kat: A Student Perspective

Vox Population Open Mic Night: Mad Ferrett Review

Bloodstock Festival

EminemRecovery

Rave In a Cave