cheer up you miserable fuck

I saw this British guy named David Ford open for Aimee Mann on Saturday night. He wore a little hat and did some lovely things with a loop machine, building and layering sounds so he only had to play a riff once, and he got a very intense look on his face when he shook his little percussive egg which I found to be more comical than he probably intentioned.

I think he was a little too earnest and emotional* for me to be able to take most days. I like a little more irony and a little more wordplay, because I am a nerd, but there was a charming, self-effacing Britishness to him that pleased me; anyway, he sang one song that I'm pretty sure he stole directly from my head, in that every single solitary word of it was something that I've been saying to myself for months and months on end. The song's called Cheer Up You Miserable Fuck.

Again, I'm not certain if I was taken enough with him to buy his album, and listening to his songs on his website, I was struck by how much more interesting they were in person when he was scrambling around, pushing buttons and playing into a tiny piano and determinedly shaking his egg, but still, I do like that song. I think I'll put it on my Depression Mix.

*There's a word for this but I'm not qualified to label people's music.





Oh, yeah, I don't think it's right for me to displace D's message on her own blog. I'll repost it so it's on the top, as is proper: Go to Beg Yr Pardon#9 on Tuesday or you'll get beat up by small, intuitive women with fists of steel.