I promised myself 2010 would be different. It wouldn’t be like previous years, where I just wallowed in old music. No, I’d keep up to date, I’d get my Google Reader game in order and start checking out MP3 blogs again, I’d scour what.cd for bands that had three downloads but an interesting name, I’d start taking attention of hype rappers and scene indie bands and what was at #1 that week. I would again be able to take part in year-end conversations about whether Taylor Swift is good or bad for America, rather than just tossing off a ballot that goes “Yeah, I danced to that Lonely Island track once, fuck it that can go in”. 2010 was going to be a year where I looked to the future. And then Orazio fucking Strano turns up. Keep reading →
People who say “actually, you just have a cold” when you tell them you’ve got the flu are the “this isn’t champagne, you know, it’s asti” of the post-Ocado generation. Regardless of this, I have the flu. I’m bunged up, I’m going through tissues like it was free leech day on Empornium.us, I’ve got more painful lumps in my throat than Bobby Heenan (too soon?), and I’ve got a splitting headache. I’m working through the pain Zoltan Gera-style to bring you this post, ignoring stuff I’d promised other people, and various letters with red writing at the top, in order to do so. So I needed some relaxing music. I got on Spotify. I found the world of “Lush Lullaby”. I will never sleep again. Keep reading →
Despite containing no posts of any real worth, January 2010 was ILB’s biggest month to date, averaging 764 hits a day. So as a thank you to our loyal readership, February 2010 is gonna get HEATED. Or maybe it’ll just be perfunctory links to rap MP3s, disparaging comments about the physical appearances of female music journalists, and Youtube clips of dead wrestlers. Comme ci comme ca or whatever the phrase is.
Here’s a picture of Bret Hart and Stephen Gateley to help you along your way
You were a Maori who had the first post-”Odelay” crossover pop hit and according to Wikipedia a decade later you did a song with Lucy Lawless, and now you’re dead. Sleep tight sweet prince, hope they have elephants and tigers and acrobats in the afterlife.
Seriously,we have nothing specifically against Sean Adams: we’ve met him and he appears to be a sound guy. But he quite clearly is an utter fucking moron, or else he wouldn’t have his own category. Keep reading →
There’s a certain symmetry between the British left and the BBC (no shit, huh?). You spend so much of your time defending both of them from brickbats delivered by thrusting Thatcherites and godless-in-both-senses-of-the-word Randians and random Americans who have for some reason decided to take a massive interest in the goings-on of a country halfway across the world and with a quarter of its population, that you never stop to think “Wait… what the fuck am I actually standing up for here”? Keep reading →
I do love how that bone cancer patient lookin’ boy has just oh-so-casually got a bottle of Highland Spring dead centre of his profile there, as if he just needed to remind people that he was Scottish and wasn’t sure if some tiffin and a bag of heroin would show up in photos taken with a flash. Anyway, Alan McGee was a man from the 90s who was responsible for some bad music and is now an “industry figure” who exists mainly to cosign bullshit like The Holloways and occasionally turns up in The Guardian’s music section claiming that some random recently deceased British music figure was “the original punk rocker”. Big Al also maintained a Twitter account which, until this week, nobody had absolutely any reason to follow unless you were one of those weird fucks who will follow any “industry” “figure” regardless of if you like them or care for what they say (also, shitmydadsays isn’t funny. Just want to throw that out there). However, for one solitary week, he became entertaining. Keep reading →
You want part two of a rundown of the most read ILB posts of the past year? We’ll give you part two of a rundown of the most read ILB posts of the past year: Keep reading →
I’m as stunned as you are. Ich Luge Bullets, more out of blind luck and the fact that we can’t afford a PS3 to occupy our time than by design, has made it through to its second year. I’d like to say we couldn’t have done it without you, our loyal readers, but to be fair you haven’t really done anything for me. That talentless cunt that draws The Oatmeal probably gets hella Paypal payments winging their way into his Dorito-crumb encrusted pockets, and the most I’ve got from you is… zero? Depends whether that dude we ripped off for pizza has started self-googling yet.
Anyway, one of my favourite ever pieces of ILB writing was our 2008 review in which we counted down the 20 most read ILB posts of the previous year. And why fuck with the classics? We hereby present to you part 1 of the 20 pieces of Passantino script that had you kids on the internet going “lol” and blithely pressing “thumbs up” on Stumbleupon, to no visible effect on our hit rates. Keep reading →
Big Dave Meltzer would probably criticise the lack of psychology in the luchador’s appearance, but we fucks with this hard. The inevitable 3,000 word-long ILB review of the album is gonna be coming at some point soon kids. Keep ‘em peeled.
