More random musings from Fat Roland. On his mind this month (as far as we can tell) is Underworld
Let’s take a moment to appreciate Underworld. By Underworld, I mean the stream-of-consciousness techno band who became best buddies with Danny Boyle. Unfortunately, when you google Underworld, you get a radically different result. There’s a film series of the same name that seems to comprise PVC-clad vampires waggling sticks at the moon. No doubt some readers regard this as the greatest film since ‘Police Academy’ or that one with the Spice Girls. But no, shut up, I’m talking about Underworld, the dance music outfit whose current members are a writhing stripy guy and one who looks like a gardener and stands behind the synthesisers.
Underworld are brilliant. More brilliant than the edible sofa I recently invented, which we don’t have time to get into right now, but it’ll save you a fortune in snacks. The band’s first album as a techno outfit was ‘Dubnobasswithmyheadman’. This spellcheck-troubling masterpiece has tracks about loving skyscrapers, about getting kicks on channel six, about everything and more everything. The cover image looks like a photocopier having a midlife crisis. Their biggest hit, ‘Born Slippy’, wasn’t even on an album, despite singlehandedly reinventing movie soundtracks by just saying “lager” over and over again.
Seriously, it feels like leather, but you can take a massive bite out of the arm and it tastes like cherries and chocolate. What? Sorry, we’re not talking about my sofa, I forgot…
Underworld never slowed down. More albums, film scores, the bestest Olympics soundtrack in a very short list of best Olympics soundtracks, and a stupidly prolific series called ‘Drift’ which was the audio equivalent of Jack Torrance hammering “all work and no play” into a hotel typewriter until the next ice age.
It would be wonderful, though. Netflix’s inane scrolling boxes up on your big screen. Saggy indoor trousers on, slightly stinky from food and body dribbles but not quite ready for the washing machine. You reach for your Domino’s app, but no. Lick that sofa. Chomp the cushions. Settee for supper. This bit tastes like ham. That bit tastes like mint Cornetto. Another bit tastes like farts because you haven’t cleaned your sofa since you got it, but let’s not think about that too much.
If you’re reading this at Christmas, throw that carols CD in the trash and stick ‘Beautiful Burnout’ on the record player instead. That percussion! And if it’s the new year, your life punctuated by failed gym visits and broken booze promises, dive into Underworld’s back catalogue and marvel all over again. I’m the ‘Spoonman’. ‘King Of Snake’. Luna luna luna luna… dining chairs made of breadsticks. And other glorious nonsense.
