Sady Masochism

 

If there’s one thing that ILB has long been a major proponent of, it’s the wonderful writing that’s emerging from the Guardian’s arts department these days thanks to the two types of people employed there: jaded sexually frustrated middle aged white boys who used to write for IPC publications in the early 90s, and the utterly hopeless-but-nubile Oxbridge graduated females in their 20s they’ve taken on hoping for a “driving the cheerleader home after she babysits your kid” style sexual experience. Ain’t nobody getting laid there, though, and ain’t nobody enjoying reading a single damn word of their work.

Comment Is Free, though, has straight-up shifted the game, widening the net to include “writers who the editors want to fuck but are too awful to contemplate letting into the magazine”, “writers who are so utterly wrong-headed that their insanity leads to 400 comment long clusterfucks that drive hit rates up” and “Max Gogarty”. Sady Doyle has hit us with the middle one, making us long for those halcyon days when Max, 19, hit the road.

If there’s one thing that ILB has long been a major proponent of, it’s the wonderful writing that’s emerging from the Guardian’s arts department these days thanks to the two types of people employed there: jaded sexually frustrated middle aged white boys who used to write for IPC publications in the early 90s, and the utterly hopeless-but-nubile Oxbridge graduated females in their 20s they’ve taken on hoping for a “driving the cheerleader home after she babysits your kid” style sexual experience. Ain’t nobody getting laid there, though, and ain’t nobody enjoying reading a single damn word of their work.

Twitter morelike Twatter… wait did we already use that one?

We get it, you’re a busy guy. You’re using Twitter to stalk ex-girlfriends, scout out potential “friends of friends”, and observe as people in your office engage in high-scale bouts of passive aggression rather than, you know, mentioning their problem to the person in question. You probably don’t have time to follow any music hacks on there. So ILB manned-the-fuck-up and got our research on.

In celebration of: angry young man Joe Mofrad

ILB has always been one to shout out exciting new talent, be it toilet circuit-touring indie act, eight-bars-on-a-100-CD-run mixtape rapper, or Wigan Athletic striker Amr Zaki. So let us give some credit to certainly my favourite 20-year-old in the world right now, Joe Mofrad.

Let’s all stand around and eagerly anticipate the launch of new pop culture magazine Disappear Here

 

Disappear Here… is a new magazine about pop culture. It is about music, fashion, film, literature, and all that falls in between. It is about the best, newest and most exciting bits of everything. And it looks beautiful. It is not like any other magazine. 
 
Editor-in-Chief: David Whitehouse
Editor-at-Large: Peaches Geldof
Editorial Director: James Brown
Staff Writer: Dan Jude
Art: Stuart Tolley
Publisher: Andy Varley 

This cannot be a good thing.

Make-up and stickers and ponies and Myspace.com: the week in Laura Barton #1

Ich Luge Bullets, recently described a “hideous cunt“, has always been one to shout out the rich tapestry of talented, hard-working, insightful, and completely unwilling to take advantage of nepotism and the school tie network members of the UK music press. But we’ve all got jobs to go to, bills to pay, a hustle to get on: you’re not going to get the chance to read every single piece that gets written week in, week out.

Therefore, we here at ILB are proud to present the latest exciting feature for this soon-to-be forgotten 200 hit a day blog, “Make-up and Stickers and Ponies and Myspace.com”, where we helpfully run down the week’s contributions to journalism by certainly my, and hopefully your, favourite music writer, married-to-the-game bon mot dropper Laura Barton of The Guardian.

Late of the PR

Signs of Ich Luge Bullets takin’ over, DJ Khaled style:

Keepin’ It Nonpositive, the worst singles of the decade: Christina Aguilera – “Candyman”, (#17, March 2007)

Like maybe every other music journalist ever, I’m prepared to cut Christina Aguilera a lot more slack than she actually deserves.

You have an awful MP3 blog, part 1 of 2: How to embarrass yourself via social bookmarking.

The least important, and therefore most concentrated upon, part of setting up a new music website is working out what your spiel is supposed to be.

You ain’t a crook son, you’re just a shook one

The Vanilla Midget of the crit game, Giles Coren, on the warpath over at The Times. Ignoring the devolution into txtspk capitalisation, the pointless use of the phrase “dual valency”, and homeboy’s refusal to actually submit his e-mails through a spellchecker before he sends them, I’m just stunned that anybody would get so butthurt over the fact that their sub-Two Ronnies song routine wordplay got dicked about with. Dicked about, as fluent Yiddish speakers will know, can have two meanings.

BONUS FACT: I’ve met two women in my life who find  Giles Coren attractive. One of them has since been sectioned under the Menthal Health Act.

Jude Rogers: I can’t believe it’s not butthurt

Dumb shit like this is what will, thankfully, kill off the broadsheets’ obsession with blogging.