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September 25, 2006 | by  | in Music | [ssba]

Timothy Blackman, Giraffes, Wharves and Sinking Sand EP

The music starts…

Strum, strum, strum.”

Strum, strum, strum…”

Bea: “Oh yeah, dig that Thom Yorke fella…”


Bea: “Ooh…key change!”

“Strum, strum…pick a little…”

Bea: “Who else do I like? That’s right, love Bright Eyes…”

Followed by a sonically perfect imitation of Conor Oberst with a cold and a Nu Zullun’ accent. Then it’s Elliot Smith in the blender and so on and so forth. Yeah, I’m being facetious. This is by no means bad. It was apparently recorded on a laptop in a tin shack, but that’s not a detriment. There are moments of scratchy acoustic brilliance, and he has the restraint to avoid some of the more overblown idiosyncrasies that people such as the aforementioned Mr. Oberst indulge in (and as soon as Tim writes the equivalent of ‘Lua’ he’s welcome to be as self indulgent as he wishes). But this is kind of the equivalent of when you’re at a party and a really, really overexcited guy with about thirty badges all over him comes up to you and wants to talk: and he’s all like “dude, so what music are you into? Have you heard of The Clash? They’re pretty cool.” And then he starts listing all his favourite bands, all the while bouncing gently from side to side and looking anxiously at you and you just want to grab him and say hey, just calm down, it’s gonna be alright… you’re gonna be fine.


About the Author ()

BORN WITH a cigarette in one hand and The Trial in other, Bea meant to go on as she started. Music wasn’t her first love, but her first love ended in a fight over rightful ownership of a Velvet Underground LP and the kitchen knife, so she chose the kinder option and stuck with it. In her spare time she enjoys casting aspersions, skulking, and making sweeping statements. She never checks her facts: figures it’s a way to live a little, to have arguments with people, then meet them. She’s currently writing a collection of short stories inspired by Schopenhauer’s manifesto of suffering and the Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster. When it gets published, she’s pretty sure that boy will want to hold her hand.

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