Stone-Cold, Floor-Slamming

More random musings from Fat Roland. On his mind this month (as far as we can tell) are “bangers”

Fireworks. Sausages. Old Ford Fiestas. If you’re clever with words like what me is, you’ll recognise these as “bangers”. Fireworks go bang when you put fire on them. Sausages go bang when you don’t fork them with holes. And old Ford Fiestas go bang when you drive them off a cliff. However, I have little interest in careening cars or meat tubes. 

My favourite kind of “bangers” are massive tunes. Killer beats, wicked synths, mad lyrics, total bangers. We’re talking ‘Block Rockin’ Beats’. We’re talking ‘Blue Monday’. We’re talking ‘Baby Shark’. Tunes that are so banging, MC Hammer could run amok in a hammer shop in Bangor and even he couldn’t touch how banging these bangers are.

As a serious consumer of electronic music, you may consider the term “banger” as trite. It’s the idiot idiom of shouty record label marketers, shouty party bores, shouty TikTok stars or Chris Moyles. I bet he says it lots. Some snobs prefer more erudite words such as “crepuscular” and “esoteric”  and “soundscape”. 

Pah. Guys like this start fights in comment sections, bashing people with their hardback thesaurus, like some kind of Cliche Guevara. They spout things like, “Well actually, I THINK you’ll find they’re called RECORDS not vinyls”. Mate, don’t be so superior. Embrace the common banger. Blow your cobwebs away with stone-cold, floor-slamming, phat-planet bangers. Banger after banger after banger.

Sigh. Who am I kidding? I am 50 years old. I am way too old for bangers. The other week, I blocked my shower plughole with nose hair alone. I really just want to play Lemon Jelly on cassette tape and watch all the episodes of ‘Antiques Roadshow’ with teapots in. I want to mould my sourdough starter into a cute little statue of Aled Jones, like all the old people do. I want gentle, un-banging hobbies like crown green bowling, watercolour painting and naked kickboxing. 

Wait. Not that last one. If I bang too much at my age, something might fall off. In the words of Dead Or Alive, my heart might go “bang bang bang bang”, and I don’t want to die before the end of this column because I’ll probably empty my bowels all over the page.

Let’s imagine a world without so-called “bangers”. A utopia of soft instruments like harps and oboes and, erm, the long metal one with the sideways blowhole. Imagine twinkling melodies floating from your hi-fi, like fireflies dancing on water. Aaaah. Relax into your squishy sofa, cup of tea in hand. Take a deep breath. And listen… 

“Baby shark, doo doo doo doo doo doo! Baby shark, doo doo doo doo  doo doo!” Ha! Tricked you! I threw a banger in your face. I banged you good and proper.

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