Christ on a bicycle – what a year that was!
For Samuel J. Snort Esq, the presiding genius of all things rock and, yes, roll, 2005 was the year when the big beat began to mean something again, when every other day produced a sonic moment to rush the senses, when the radio could save your life on a moment-to-moment basis, when the stage played host to some of the meanest live muthas in creation, when the Devil reclaimed all the best tunes and God was kept outside the red velvet rope, when revolutionary politics and dope and fucking in the streets were once again the staple diet of every thinking person, when the crash of a power chord could shake the system and every roll of the drum was a call to arms, when the real movers and shakers were the guys and gals with guitars and amps and millions of people rose up at their command and demanded an end to war, right here, right now, ‘cos we’re not going to take it anymore muthafuckers. Er, no, hang on, that was 1965. Or was it 1945?
Penile Rust
Jeez, sorry about that, these terrible flashbacks can take a man by surprise, especially when the Beep has just called around with 20 Jazz Woodbines and a copy of that lovely new Island anthology. Which is wrong, of course. And I freely admit it. 2005 is no time to be living in the past – weren’t the Tull great, by the way? – and Sam is keenly aware that many of the new generation who read hotpress probably take yours truly for an aging rock dinosaur, a doddery old greybeard with too much fuzz in his head and too much rust in his dick and who, way back in the mists of time, gobbled too many tablets, smoked too many joints, and, really, never fully got over the trauma of Elvis joining the army. Which is bollocks and I will happily prove it today by listing just a handful of some of my favourite new pop acts of the year. For a start, there’s that Antony and The Johnsons bloke – what a grand big lump of a songbird he is, eh? And then there was Arcade Fire, of course. And The Magic Numbers obviously. Not to mention My Morning Jacket, Franz Ferdinand, M.I.A., Babyshambles, The Kaiser Chiefs, the enigmatic eels, the brilliant Circulus and the mighty Black Mountain. And that’s just for starters. I could go on and on – but, frankly, my willowy assistant Astrid isn’t here to turn over the page in Mojo’s Top 50 albums of 2005 and I’m kinda tied up at the moment. Literally.
But, hey, that’s another story; today I simply want to say that, in this, the most exciting year for popular culture since the invention of the toasted sandwich maker, there can be only one credible contender for the man of the year. And it is none other than Bob Dylan! Yes, for only the 42nd year in succession, the ultimate gong goes to my old mate, the Zim. For sure, there will be those of you out there staking a big claim for the likes of LCD Soundsytem, Edan and Lightning Bolt (yep, Astrid’s back). Or maybe, er, Green Day, Horslips or Enya (yep, Astrid’s gone away again) but when it all comes down to the crunch who will gainsay that, in whatever, category you care to mention, His Bobness triumphs every time. Book of the year? Had to be Chronicles, hailed by all the critics for the fact that it showed Bob could string a few coherent sentences together and, therefore, wasn’t Tarantula – The Sequel
And, of course, it told you all you ever wanted to know about the making of Oh Mercy, which wasn’t a whole lot if we’re perfectly honest but, hey, this is Bob and if he wants to write oodles about steamy conditions and daft codgers down below in New Orleans before the flood, well, who are we to argue? TV event of the year? Had to be No Direction Home, mad Marty’s scorching journey into the heart, soul and every so slightly deranged psyche of Bobbie boy at the height of his transformative powers, single-handedly discovering electricity and plugging the whole world into the supernatural grid. See Bobby, high as a satellite, giggling like a loon! Hear him caterwauling with Joan Baez! Look on in horror as Allen Ginsberg dances like David Brent in The Office! Gig of the year? Bob at The Point on the Saturday, when he played piano the whole time, sang the same verse of ‘Stuck Inside Of Mobile’ twice and shocked the audience by addressing them with a direct question: “Anyone here from Boston?”
And you know what? For one night, we were all from Boston. Album of the year? Yep, The Zim again. Pedants may point out that he didn’t actually release an album this year – as if that was any realistic impediment to picking up the Grammy he so richly deserves. No, genius marches to the beat of a different drum, and it’s testament to the unique richness of Zimmy’s mind that, after giving the whole thing due consideration, he realised that the only meaningful commentary on the foul year of 2005 was a great, big, resounding, all-embracing silence. Brilliant!
Hip Readers
Already, Bob Dylan is looking like a shoo-in for the title of Artist Of The Year in 2006. Although Sam, finger on the pulse as ever, would like to alert hip readers to another candidate coming up fast on the inside lane. His name? Bruce Springsteen. To coin a phrase, this boy could be the future of rock ‘n’ roll. Remember where you read it first.