The intro to Dylan & Caitlin doesn’t sound too dissimilar to what you’d expect from the prelude to a Tom Jones track. As the Manics latest single unfolds, things don’t really get much better. In fact, I’d say hands down this is the worst track the Manics have ever done. The drawn out drab riffs are sterile and soulless, the lyrics are drenched in mediocrity, and one things for sure. If Richey were still around the Manics wouldn’t be making tracks that bored housewives could (almost) jovially wash the pots to. In essence that’s what it has come to. Kitchen sink music. Now, none of the new releases from Resistance is Futile, have been spectacular, yet, I was particularly let down by this slightly rhythmic diatribe that makes up the languid efforts of the track. Almost every other collaboration has been flawless. Of course, none have come close to sharing the same blissful reverence of Little Baby Nothing. I should have accepted many albums ago that they’d never get even close to assimilating that sound, but I retained a little bit of hope (ever the optimist). Yet this is most definitely the final nail in the coffin of promise for any future releases by the Manics. They’ve lost the crucial element that set them apart from every other dreary Welsh outfit out there. The ability to narrate absolute despair and anguish through their music, with Richey’s disappearance I can’t say I’m all too surprised that they lost their essence. Richey had a spectacular way or describing female experience better than any female lyricist out there today. It’s pretty frustrating attempting to match the stark poignancy of Richey’s words. I’m pretty sure the Manic’s felt that too. So, yes Dylan & Caitlin is a pretty sad track. It’s a track to mourn everything that the Manics once were.  

ameliavandergast:

They Live, despite being released 27 years ago is still the best cinematic portrayal of humanity there is to date, it doesn’t take alien intervention to bring society to its knees and transform us into shadows of our former selves, we are more than capable of doing that to each other.

The film provided a clear insight to how sickeningly malleable the human race is and exposed the fact we are living in the ideology where complying to social standardisation is seemingly inescapable, if we stopped to question whose rules we are following, we would start to see we aren’t following from anyone’s example, and even if you win the rat race you’re still a rat…..if politicians are anything to go by. 

 Yet ‘Corporate ability’ is drilled into people so hard, you’d swear it was a scene from Full Metal Jacket.
We really are fucking deluded if we have started to believe that an amassed population is better than an autonomous one!

We have stopped investing in art and individuality, so caught up in notions of normality, that the only genius coming from this generation is coming from the Apple genii, mere rats in a cage for a $700 billion dollar company that serves this fair society with its dodgy overpriced electronic products.

Can anyone really be proud of the dystopian reality that we have created?

Perhaps that last coffee was one too many? I ponder the paradoxical statement as I flip the switch and wait for the whistle. Hands trembling as I spoon heaps of sweetness into my favourite mug.
It was just me and the candlelight now as we both tried to outshine the gentle moonshine.

4am. Still no sleep, but sleep doesn’t matter when you’re on the brink. The brink of anything, madness, genius or disaster, it’s all the same.

The milk truck is driving by, it’s haunting echo chilling me in the same way it has since I was three.
I’m still here and so is he. Like a staring competition with a cat. There’s no telling who will last the longest. Contemptuous, feverous passion runs through my veins demanding to be expelled, I’ve cast enough shadows with my words to know that this was my time for the big screen. I wanted to instil the notion of chaos into the minds of the idle.

It’s time to dig up Joan Rivers.

She’s perfect.

She’s only one who can pull this off, the only one who can make my character come alive with her haunted jibes. Just imagine the irony. I mean, that’s cinema now, right? Something to stroke your beard about. If you don’t have a beard, you’ll have to find a piece of overrated cheese to suckle upon whilst you contemplate the complexity of your brand-new discovery.

No, I’m going to be different.

I’m going to leave no room for contemplation, there will be no complexity only deviation.

I feel a bead of sweat escape my forehead after lingering what seemed a lifetime on my brow. It crashes on the papers strewn across my desk, my archaic mess of words, compulsions and revulsions.

The cleaner always used to try to contend with my mess. Until she unearthed the depths of depravity from the drawer under my bed. I don’t think I will ever see her again. It’s probably better she’s not around to see this.

A billow of smoke escapes my lips and consumes me in a cloud of toxicity before I grab my keys and leave. Her body lies only a mile away. It’s calling me, begging me to be exhumed.

There’s a chill in the air as my shovel hits the dirt. In the dead of night, there’s not a grieving soul to be found, my ears are filled with the discord of the wind in the trees, their hallowed echoes amplified in my pounding heart.

5 feet down.

Then I hear a dreaded sound. Footsteps in the distance.

Don’t come this way.

It was a beggar. Who beggared belief at the sight of a man who himself resembled a ghost ravenous at the thought of exhuming those tired timeless bones.

He wasn’t going to say anything.

Not after I chopped off his head.

I swapped the bodies and got out of there. I did him a curtesy really. A man like him ending in a marked grave; he should have thanked me. If only he had a tongue to speak. I bit it off. He was remarkably weak.

With my star by my side. It was time for us to shine.

Next stop Hollywood.

Even I have the sense to avoid Harvey Weinstein.

A week after the release of International Blue, and still not a day feels complete unless I listen to this track at least once. It’s safe to say, the Manics have made an anthem with this track.

Their latest single is a ubiquitous demonstration of the glorious fact that James Dean Bradfield has got his angst back, and it’s something that the rest of us needs to hear. They released the track in one of the greatest political disasters that this country has encountered in decades with a pacifying sound which was sorely lacking in their latest albums.

Whilst the lyrics are no way near as dark as ones that accompanied the Holy Bible album his project of almost contempt is a refreshing sound that shows you that there’s much more to come from the Manics.

I’ll admit, I thought they were about ready to hang up their hat but International Blue holds so much promise for the rest of Resistance is Futile album and the rest of their career. The instrumentals on this track are strong as they have ever been which brings an element of maturity to the track. The riffs contend with the notorious Motorcycle Emptiness solo, and they’re probably the highlight of the track for me, reminding me that James Dean Bradfield is more than just a solemn Welsh heart with vocals that possess the ability to abscond me from the deepest grips of apathy. He’s also one of the best guitar players out there. I stand by that statement, even if the riff to International Blue does kinda sound like the one from Dancing in The Dark which is accompanied by the signature upbeat ensemble.

Check out the Lyric video via YouTube

https://youtu.be/rXfnPGGfSh8

Straight of the bat, you’re going to want to know what sets this travel vlog apart from the myriad of others that are floating around YouTube demanding your attention. So, I’m going to cut straight to it. This 1-hour feature, isn’t something you pontificate upon, whilst stoking your chin trying to envisage yourself embarking on the same adventure. No Tequila and Soda’s Adventure to The Rock makes you frankly gutted that you didn’t get invited on the trip with the debauched duo.

Native Australian Sonny-Joe Flanagan certainly isn’t shy in front of the camera, in fact Australian viewers may already recognise him from his earlier TV appearance in the TV Series A Shared House. Flanagan is a man of many talents, he’s also stared in a variety of film shorts, that are written, directed and produced by his deft hands. With that in mind you’d probably expect a massage of the ego, a revel in his glory. But what this vlog offers, is something uniquely spectacular. It’s un-orchestrated chaos, fuelled with mishaps, mayhem, and an unholy amount of tequila as accompanied by his best friend Reese Bell, they embark on a 6200km road trip from Sydney to the home of Australia’s greatest natural landmark; the monolithic red rock that is Uluru. Perhaps what I love most about this vlog, is their infectious positive attitude, you wouldn’t see this pair in despair if the shampoo leaked in their wash bag, instead, they take every bump on the road as a positive experience, offering an outlook on life as they dish out tonnes of advice to travellers who are contemplating following in their footsteps to take on the momentous journey.

Throughout their escapades, they hit various landmarks along the way, such as Lake Hart in Wirraminna after entering the border to South Australia, then onto Cooper Pedy the underground city where Mad Max 2 & 3 was filmed, along with other bucket list worthy destinations that will make you want to broaden your horizons and open your eyes to landmarks that you never knew existed. After 30 hours drive time they hit Uluru to give you their tour which is guaranteed to give you ultimate wanderlust envy.

The vlog is accompanied by an amazing native soundtrack, some questionable dance moves, prolific drunken revelry and even a famous camel. Just don’t expect an Attenborough-esque narrative to accompany the stunning landscapes that they capture the beauty of Australia on film. Together they prove that a road trip isn’t just reaching the destination, it’s embracing the chaos that happens on the journey.

Tequila and Soda’s Adventure to the Rock is now available to stream via YouTube on the link below!

https://youtu.be/VU_dUSWwxlE

               When I was younger I was fascinated by witches, enthralled by their iridescent white skin matched against their gleaming black hair as they pertained mystique, a toxic allure, and symbolism of female strength. They were talismans of enigmatically charged ungodly splendour. But what my world-weary eyes failed to see was that witches were all around me. Not the romanticised ideal of their Luciferian beauty, no not in this modern day, they remain hidden at all costs. Forced to linger amongst the depravity, revelling in the cesspits of humanity, all grandiosity lost.  Their orange peel skin is bronzed beyond any natural reflection, driven by their instability satiated by only their most archaic hostility. Their raw sensuality proves to be a perfect enchantment to cast a facade over their grotesque malady. Only when the veil slips you see the contortion of hate twisted across spited lips that decorate themselves with a lacing of foam, fresh from their last bout of nihilistic rage.They walk amongst us. Captivating pray with the most decadent of incantations. Their opalescent eyes gleam with magnanimity drawing you in with the force of the tide as they drown you in affection. Claiming souls that float with the flotsam, in a bid to become their next vice. That’s where she found me, with my soul soaked in the cheap gin, defiled by my own apathy.

               Before I knew It, I had a new force of gravity that pulled me out of my depth, away from any landmarks of familiarity. Until in I was in her foreign hands which carved me through carnality until I became statute. Stagnant. Sinking deeper into an echo chamber of misery that skewed my reality. There was no part of me that she didn’t eventually taint with serpentine venom. She drained me, until I could count my bones that lingered under my ashen skin and trace the absence of flesh with my fingertips.  

               In some ways a weight was lifted from me after she had become the architect of me. Every piece of me was stripped away until not a solitary thought was my own. I was her pet, to be abused amongst her myriad of familiars that filled the chasm of her world. I became a creature that couldn’t bear the light of day to beat down upon me, the sunlight illuminated my scars that stood in place of my sanity. It was by no coincidence that during my capture she grew, she gorged upon my innocence, unable to remember a time when she possessed her own. Her once perfectly taught stomach stretched as the ultimate illustration of greed. She was insatiable, her gluttonous ego lapped up my misery like a kitten sunken in a saucer of milk.

               There was no matching her cantankerous volatility so over time, unbeknown to her, I learned her weakness. I didn’t act upon it at first, I bided my time, collected thoughts that I could truly claim to be mine. I let her believe that she’d taken every string of my sanity. I’d gone past breaking point. I had died a thousand times and came out the other side with the ability to truly say I was alive. She’d grown addicted to my mortality, she favoured me, in a malignant way. My company was something she did scathingly seek. But that’s when I realised. She feared solitude and I was the only one standing in the way her crushing isolation.

               As she slipped into her vampiric sleep. I slipped away, into the light of day. I could hear the faint echo of her screams rattling in her welfare house in the distance. The woman I loved was nothing but a phantasm. If that doesn’t make you believe in magic I don’t know what will.

By Amelia Vandergast