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  • Titel-Magazin
    TITEL kulturmagazin
    Montag, 21. August 2017 | 06:40

    Die neue Popkolumne aus London


    Music To Slit Your Wrists To

    Depression, eh? What a bummer. Depression is something that creeps up on us, slips its skinny little arms around our waist, whispers sweet nothings into our ears and refuses to let go for the next few days/weeks/months/years. If you’re anything like me you may come to communicate this feeling by wearing very dark clothes, not smiling very much, and responding to the question of »How are you?« with »I’ve been a bit down lately as I’ve been contemplating the futility of life since one day Simon Cowell will die«. By JOHN BITTLES


    Everyone will inevitably feel like this from time to time, but it can be awfully hard for the true connoisseur of depression to find music which adequately reflects their depressive mood during these extended spells.


    The radio won’t work since it is full of joyful ditties that will disgust the true depressive with their superficiality. In a rare moment of perceptiveness, lyrical centaur Richard Ashcroft rather insightfully whinnied »I need to hear some sounds that recognize the pain in me, yeah… But the airways are clean and there’s nobody singing to me now«. (The »yeah« is clearly superfluous.)


    Unsure of what to do, you whack on Pablo Honey and drone along to Thom Yorke with tears in your eyes as you moan in unison »I’m a creep/I’m a weirdo/What the hell am I doing here?/I don’t belong here! I don’t belong here!«


    Someday though – and this will happen to everybody someday – this normally reliable act of catharsis will fail to elicit the same response as usual. Like a recreational drug user who started out taking cautious puffs on the occasional joint at teenage house parties but now spends their evenings prowling the canals to score an eight ball of crack, you too will be ready to take the next step and progress into hardcore downer music usage. It’s either that or getting a full-time career with a spouse and kids and who the hell actually wants that?


    To obtain your next fix of depressive music it can be fun to eavesdrop on the bus or outside your local pub and take note of any music recommendations that come your way. However, this is in many ways a high-risk strategy and can often end in tears (the wrong kind). I remember one unnamed lost soul who definitely wasn’t me racing home from Woolworths (ah, remember Woolies?) clutching Parachutes after overhearing a random stranger declare ‘that band Coldplay are so fucking depressing I took a drill to my ears just so I wouldn’t have to hear them again’. Needless to say the eavesdropper in question was most upset when he realised upon playing the album that the person was alluding to a different type of depression altogether.


    I have therefore compiled a short list of albums to get you through those long gloomy nights of misery. Enjoy!


    The CureFaith. From their trilogy of misery this is a wonderful listen on grey rainy days when you feel all alone and are keenly aware of the absence of hugs from your life. If the final infinitely repeated refrain of There’s nothing left but Faith doesn’t loosen up those tear-ducts then you are, I’m afraid to tell you, already dead.



    Soko I Thought I Was An Alien. With song titles such as We Might Be Dead By Tomorrow, Destruction of the Disgusting Ugly Hate, and the truly wonderful I’ve Been Alone Too Long, this could well be considered the ultimate two packet of hankies album.



    Burial Untrue. With its dark, ghostly beats, accompanied by spectral voices which sound like they are coming from a void, (but which were actually recorded down a telephone line fact fans), this could well be considered the perfect album to represent your cool urban alienation.



    The Jesus and Mary ChainDarklands. Any album that kicks off with with a verse stating »I’m going to the Darklands, to talk in rhyme, with my chaotic soul, as sure as life means nothing, and all things end in nothing«, you just know is going to be the ideal album to take you on the fast track to wallowing in your own self-pity.




    Tricky Maxinquaye. The number of hours that I have spent sitting in a darkened room with a drink and a joint listening to this album while wondering why nobody truly ›gets‹ me is so sad and pathetic, the figure actually exceeds traditional units of time so we will say no more about this.




    Please note that neither this writer nor TITEL-MAGAZIN is able to accept responsibility for any feelings of overwhelming hopelessness, misery or despair which may arise through the consumption of these albums.


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