The Horror, The Horror

For approximately the fourtieth time in my life - and this is no exaggeration - Amy Winehouse is raping my ears with her disgusting voice. I categorically cannot see the appeal in a singing syringe. Whatever. I will be quickly shouted down by those amongst you looking for someone fitting the 'quirky /gritty/twisted /mistaken - tragic angel type.' There are millions of better people, with hatchet faces who I would rather hear right now. It tests my fucking patience. Don't go back to black Amy - go up your own bumole like a bees bonnet Ouroboros. Sing to your crack addled guts, eat your reptilian tail.
Enough. This isn't the thrust of this blog, today's blog - this greasy moment. There was a wicked night of grimey d'n'b at the Hare & Hounds on Saturday and it was over all too quickly. The bass wasn't like anything I'd felt before. Snares on top with a bit of mashcore; then below that the bass; then like a whale breaching booooooooooo there came the deeper bass and it fairly set me and Jin screeching like harpies. Or Amy Winehouse. It was rad. You had your supplement of main heads with neck tatts and chav wear - more than the A level d'n'b night we attended a while ago - but they were happy to slosh their sweat about like the rest of us when it came to it.
Time was Jazz used to fizz me up to the extremes and I'd stick my shirt in my pants, pull those very same pants up to my chest and play air sax. Now I've grown up a bit I seek the dirt sandwich that is drum and bass. Like I said to Jin - it infects me. No other music does that. Infects me. Except Winehouse - her music is a lethal pathogen.