Archive for Music

Elton Reimagined: Jess Robinson’s Joyful, Bonkers, Brilliant Tribute

July 27, 2026 at 5:19 pm · Filed under Edinburgh Fringe Festival, Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2026, Interviews, Music ·Tagged , , , , ,

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Jess Robinson has never been content to simply imitate. She transforms. Whether she’s channeling divas, pop icons, or political figures, Robinson’s work is about reinvention — finding the emotional truth inside the performance. Her new Fringe show, Elton Reimagined, takes one of music’s most flamboyant legends and rebuilds him through a kaleidoscope of voices. It’s cabaret, comedy, and confession rolled into one glitter‑drenched hour.

We talked about voice, vulnerability, and the joy of going all‑in.

Elton John is a towering musical figure. What made you want to pull him apart and rebuild him?

Partly because I love him, and partly because I was curious. I’ve spent my whole career asking, “What if?” What if Barbra Streisand sang this? What if Kate Bush got hold of that? What if somebody looked at a familiar song through a completely different lens? Elton’s catalogue is so rich that it can survive being stretched, twisted and reimagined. The songs are incredibly well written — you can take them a long way from the originals and they still stand up.

You’re known for vocal precision. What’s the hardest Elton vocal trick to nail?

Oddly enough, it’s not really Elton’s voice. I don’t do men… well, not in that way. The challenge is finding the point where Elton disappears and somebody else arrives. People think impressions are about getting the voice right, but they’re actually about making hundreds of tiny decisions — where someone places a vowel, how they shape a phrase, how much breath they use. It’s like being a vocal detective. And because these are songs people know so well, the audience can tell instantly if you’ve got it wrong.

Cabaret lets you play with theatricality. What’s the moment in this show where you go full spectacle?

Lady Gaga performing Crocodile Rock definitely qualifies. Without giving too much away, there’s a point where I look at myself and think, “Well, this escalated quickly.” The audience is swept along in total giddiness.

Elton’s music is emotional, flamboyant, and deeply personal. Which song unlocked the show for you?

Your Song. I know that’s a slightly obvious answer, but there’s a reason it’s become such a classic — it’s deceptively simple. Once I found a version that felt fresh and personal, I suddenly understood what the whole show was trying to be. Everything else grew from there.

You’ve always blended comedy with musicianship. How do you keep both in balance without one overpowering the other?

For me, the music always comes first. The comedy invites people in, but the music has to earn its place. I never want the audience to think, “That was a funny impression.” I want them to think, “Wow, that’s so clever,” or “[sniff] — I didn’t expect to feel something there.” The biggest compliment is when people laugh one minute and find themselves unexpectedly moved the next. That’s the sweet spot.

What’s the unexpected angle on Elton that audiences won’t see coming?

How vulnerable he is. We tend to think of Elton as the glasses, the costumes, the confidence and the huge personality. But underneath all that, there are songs about loneliness, longing, heartbreak, insecurity and survival. The older I get, the more interesting I find that side of him.

Cabaret crowds are wonderfully chaotic. What’s the energy you hope they bring?

Everything I had in mind when I created the show — abandon, joy, playfulness, curiosity, and a willingness to come with me. There are moments where people think they know where we’re heading and then suddenly we’re somewhere completely different. The best audiences are the ones who surrender to the journey a bit. Also, laughing in the right places and standing ovations never hurt.

What’s the costume, prop, or musical flourish you’re most excited about?

Probably the fact that we’ve gone all in. There’s no point doing Elton by halves. There are feathers, surprises, glorious new arrangements I made with Matthew Floyd Jones, and a fun but mildly terrifying moment with a washing line and 25 quick‑fire impressions picked on the spot by the audience.

If Elton himself walked in, what moment would you want him to see?

Barbra Streisand singing I’m Still Standing — it’s an emotional rollercoaster. It’s camp and musically clever. And then he can stay for the finale. Not because it’s the biggest moment, but because it’s where all the threads come together. It’s joyful, emotional, slightly bonkers and completely sincere — which feels quite Elton, actually.

What’s feeding your creativity right now — albums, artists, obsessions?

At the moment I’m in one of those lovely periods where several creative worlds are colliding. Earlier this year I published my book Life is Rosi, which tells the parallel stories of my grandmother and me through our diaries at the age of twenty‑three. I’m exploring whether that might become a stage show or a film, which is exciting. I’m also recording my favourite reinterpretations from Elton Reimagined for an album release — and the fact that it’s coming out on vinyl makes me disproportionately happy. There’s something wonderfully tangible and romantic about vinyl that feels right for these songs. Beyond that, I’m always fascinated by voice, storytelling and transformation. Whether it’s a song, a character, a memoir or an impression, I’m interested in what happens when you take something familiar and look at it from a completely different angle. In fact, I also have a TED Talk coming up in September, which I’ll be honing and rehearsing during the Edinburgh Festival.

Jess Robinson: Elton Reimagined 🎭 Assembly George Square Gardens | Edinburgh Fringe 2026 🕗 7:30 PM | T

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Midweek Song List – 15 July 2026

July 15, 2026 at 12:11 pm · Filed under Midweek Song List, Music ·Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Regular readers will know we’ve been knee‑deep in the Battle of the Somme lately. We’ll pick that thread up again next week, but while the Great War is still echoing in the background, have a look at this remarkable interview.

Last Sunday — 12th July — carried its own historical weight. England quietly celebrated its 1099th birthday, the moment in 927 AD when King Æthelstan pulled the old Heptarchy into a single kingdom. East Anglia, Essex, Kent, Mercia, Northumbria, Sussex, Wessex: seven identities folded into one.

It was also the anniversary of the Battle of the Boyne, William of Orange’s victory over James II in 1690 — still marked by huge parades across Ulster, the biggest indigenous folk festival in Europe.

History done. Time for music.

GARY GLITTER – “I Love You Love Me Love”

 

We’ve featured Glitter before — a deeply flawed and predatory figure, but undeniably central to glam rock. “I Love You Love Me Love” slows the tempo right down, which only makes the handclaps and chant feel bigger. The exaggerated movement, the glitter, the theatre — all the reasons he was dubbed “Mr Glam” are baked into this track.

LÉGION ÉTRANGÈRE – “Le Boudin”

 

A couple of weeks ago we had The Black Watch Pipes & Drums on the list — the first military band ever to appear here. This week, we’re back in uniform with the French Foreign Legion. “Le Boudin” is their official march, hypnotic and relentless. Even with shaky French, it pulls you in.

MY DYING BRIDE – “The Poorest Waltz”

Doom metal slows everything down — the riffs, the mood, the heartbeat. My Dying Bride, Bradford’s finest, helped define the genre. “The Poorest Waltz” is a perfect example: mournful, theatrical, and heavy without needing speed. Give it a listen and tell us what you make of it.

BILL WITHERS – “Ain’t No Sunshine”

 

Withers’ voice is one of those instantly recognisable instruments — warm, weary, human. “Ain’t No Sunshine,” from his debut album Just As I Am, remains one of the great soul laments. The Old Grey Whistle Test performance we’ve linked is from 1972, when we were far too young to remember it, but the emotional punch is still there.

THE EAGLES – “Hotel California”

A song that’s become shorthand for American excess and disillusionment. The guitar interplay in the outro remains one of rock’s great moments.

HEART – “Stairway to Heaven” (Live)

 

Heart’s Kennedy Center performance is one of the rare covers that genuinely honours the original. Ann Wilson’s vocal control is extraordinary.

PAUL HEATON & JACQUI ABBOTT – “Since You’ve Been Gone”

 

Heaton and Abbott continue to produce warm, sharply observed pop with real heart.

MORRISSEY – “Everyday Is Like Sunday”

 

A bleak hymn to seaside desolation. One of his finest solo tracks.

W. BRENT SAWYER – “Both Sides Now”

 

A gentle, melancholy take on Joni Mitchell’s classic.

JOE STRUMMER & THE MESCALEROS – “I Fought the Law”

Strummer revisits a song he helped immortalise. The Mescaleros era suited him — loose, global, political.

SPLODGENESSABOUNDS – “Two Little Boys”

Chaotic, affectionate, slightly unhinged — exactly what you’d expect from Splodgenessabounds.

THE SMASHING PUMPKINS – “Jellybaby”

A deep cut with unmistakable Corgan DNA.

 

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From Bubblegum to Posthumanism: The Strange, Brilliant Lineage from The Archies to Gorillaz

July 15, 2026 at 11:30 am · Filed under Music ·Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

There’s something quietly astonishing about the fact that one of the most influential ideas in modern pop culture — the virtual band — didn’t begin with a grand artistic statement or a futurist experiment. It began with a cartoon. A cartoon built to shift bubblegum pop to kids on Saturday mornings. A cartoon so smooth and frictionless that, without meaning to, it exposed a truth about pop music that took the rest of the world decades to catch up with: the performer is a story, and the story doesn’t actually need a body.

To understand how odd this is, you have to remember what The Archies were. They weren’t a band. They weren’t even pretending to be one. They were an extension of Archie Comics at a time when American TV was churning out cheap animation by the yard. Don Kirshner — still smarting from his battles with The Monkees, who famously rebelled against their own manufactured origins — wanted a musical act that couldn’t answer back. No tantrums. No artistic differences. No late‑night phone calls from a drummer who’d found God or cocaine. The Archies were his solution: a band that couldn’t mutiny because they didn’t exist.

And then, somehow, they worked.

“Sugar, Sugar” didn’t just chart. It bulldozed the competition. Biggest‑selling single of 1969 in the United States. Bigger than The Beatles. Bigger than The Stones. Bigger than every flesh‑and‑blood act trying to define a year that supposedly belonged to Woodstock and authenticity and the counterculture. The Archies were the opposite of all that — a corporate confection — and they still won. Not by accident. By design.

Part of the appeal was simple craft. Kirshner hired the best: Ron Dante, Toni Wine, Andy Kim. People who could write and perform pop songs with the kind of precision that made the whole thing look effortless. But the other part — the stranger part — was the absence of human mess. The Archies were clean. Safe. Permanently wholesome. No scandals waiting to erupt. No egos to manage. No politics to navigate. They were avatars before anyone had the language for it, and their emptiness became a kind of strength.

Audiences didn’t just accept the fiction; they leaned into it. The Archies proved that listeners were perfectly happy to invest in performers who weren’t real. In some cases, happier. Fiction doesn’t age. Fiction doesn’t contradict itself. Fiction doesn’t get arrested or give a disastrous interview. A cartoon band can be whatever the audience needs it to be, forever.

Looking back, The Archies were the first real sign that pop music could detach itself from the human form. They were the prototype for everything that followed: Alvin and the Chipmunks, Josie and the Pussycats, the hologram of Tupac, Hatsune Miku, and eventually Gorillaz — the first virtual band to turn the whole concept into something genuinely artistic rather than a marketing exercise. But the lineage starts with a bubblegum single written for characters who only existed as ink on paper.

The Archies were never meant to be profound. They were meant to be safe. Yet in that safety, they cracked open a door to something radical: the idea that the performer is a story, and the story doesn’t need a body.

That’s where this whole strange, brilliant lineage begins.

The 1970s–80s: When Fiction Learned to Perform

Once The Archies proved the model, the 1970s and 80s began to test its boundaries. Some experiments were timid; others surprisingly ambitious. But all of them pushed the idea that music could be performed by characters — and that characters could be performers.

Josie and the Pussycats sharpened the formula. A girl group with adventures, branding, and a recognisable aesthetic. Music became identity; identity became costume. Jem and the Holograms went further, exploring the tension between authenticity and spectacle long before Instagram made that tension universal. The Banana Splits blurred the line between live action and cartoon absurdity, offering music as chaos. Alvin and the Chipmunks — bizarre, squeaky, enduring — became one of the earliest examples of fictional performers with real chart presence.

Even The Monkees, though not animated, belong in this lineage. They were manufactured for television, their personas scripted, their image curated. Their fictional selves became more “real” than the musicians behind them. In a sense, they were a virtual band with bodies.

These projects weren’t just children’s entertainment. They were early rehearsals for a world where the performer is a construct, and the construct is the point. They hinted at something deeper: that audiences were willing to invest emotionally in characters who were never meant to be real.

Japan: Where Fiction Became Emotional

By the 1980s, Japan was already thinking several steps ahead. Anime introduced idols whose emotional lives were scripted yet felt real. Characters like Lynn Minmay (Macross) didn’t just sing; they shaped the narrative world around them. Her songs charted in real life. Fans cared about her heartbreaks, her triumphs, her growth.

Later, Sharon Apple — a literal AI idol — explored the idea of a performer whose perfection was both mesmerising and terrifying. Fire Bomber blended rock music with sci‑fi mythology, creating a band whose fictional concerts felt more vivid than many real ones.

Japan’s contribution was crucial. It proved that virtual performers could have interiority — not just branding, but emotional arcs, psychological depth, and adult audiences. The Archies had shown the commercial model; Japan showed the emotional one. Fiction could feel real. Fiction could matter.

https://youtu.be/HyHNuVaZJ-k?si=fruWkqChUQve_XT7

Gorillaz: The Virtual Band as Cultural Critique

Then came Gorillaz, and everything changed.

Damon Albarn and Jamie Hewlett didn’t create a cartoon band. They created a world — grubby, dystopian, playful, and politically charged. Gorillaz weren’t avatars for anonymity; they were avatars for commentary. Their music videos, interviews, websites, and lore formed a coherent universe where the band members were flawed, chaotic, and strangely human. Murdoc’s narcissism, 2‑D’s fragility, Noodle’s evolution from child prodigy to warrior — these arcs gave the band emotional weight.

Gorillaz used fiction to say things real bands couldn’t. About fame. About capitalism. About the loneliness baked into modern life. About the absurdity of celebrity culture. And crucially, they made the artificial feel more authentic than the real.

They weren’t hiding behind animation. They were using it as a weapon.

Gorillaz were the first virtual band to be taken seriously by critics — not despite their fictional nature, but because of it. They exposed the hollowness of celebrity culture. They revealed that the “authenticity” of real performers is often just another performance. And they showed that fiction can be a more honest medium for truth than reality.

The Strange Cousins: A Wider Virtual Lineage

Gorillaz didn’t stand alone. They arrived into a landscape already shifting.

Dethklok, from Metalocalypse, was a parody death‑metal band whose fictional albums charted in real life. A satire of masculinity, violence, and the absurdity of celebrity culture — yet musically competent enough to earn genuine fans.

Hatsune Miku became a decentralised pop star. A vocaloid idol whose fans write her songs, design her outfits, and effectively co‑create her identity. She is the purest expression of the idea that the performer is a platform.

K/DA, spawned from League of Legends, blended K‑pop aesthetics with gaming culture. Hyper‑stylised, algorithmically precise, and designed for global virality.

VTubers emerged as a massive modern movement where performers appear only as animated avatars. Identity becomes fluid, curated, and often anonymous. The performer becomes the character; the character becomes the performer.

And then there are the hologram tours — Tupac, Whitney Houston, ABBA Voyage — where the dead perform for the living. A new frontier in the commodification of presence.

Together, these projects form a constellation of experiments that treat the performer as fiction — sometimes shallow, sometimes profound, always revealing.

The Social and Philosophical Themes Beneath It All

Virtual bands aren’t a gimmick. They’re a mirror — sometimes a slightly warped one, but a mirror all the same.

They reflect the world we’ve built for ourselves: a place where identity slips and shifts, where the version of you online can feel more solid than the one walking around in daylight, where “authenticity” is something we negotiate rather than inherit. For a generation raised on avatars, handles, curated feeds and half‑imagined selves, the idea of loving a band that doesn’t technically exist isn’t strange. It’s familiar. It’s almost logical.

And here’s the uncomfortable bit: the human performer has always been a kind of fiction. We pretend otherwise, but every band — every singer, every pop star — is a story stitched together from branding, mythmaking, PR, and whatever scraps of real personality survive the process. Virtual bands don’t hide the artifice. They underline it.

This is why Gorillaz feel oddly honest. Albarn and Hewlett never pretended their creation was anything other than a construction. They leaned into it. They made the characters the point. They made the fiction the frame. And in doing so, they exposed a truth that most “real” bands spend their entire careers dodging: performers are stories. Some stories happen to have bodies. Some don’t. The difference is smaller than we like to admit.

The Arc: From Bubblegum to Posthumanism

The Archies were the seed. Japan tended the soil. Gorillaz grew the forest — wild, self‑aware, and impossible to ignore.

What started as a throwaway cartoon gimmick slowly turned into a genuine artistic medium. Not overnight, and not because anyone planned it that way. It evolved because people kept finding new uses for the idea: satire, storytelling, emotional weight, whole fictional worlds that could say things real bands couldn’t. Somewhere along the line, the joke stopped being a joke.

Virtual bands aren’t just a novelty anymore. They’re a commentary on the world we’ve built — a world where “real” and “unreal” bleed into each other, where the boundary between the two is thin enough to poke a finger through. Half the time, it doesn’t matter which side of the line you’re on.

And maybe that’s the point. When so much of modern identity lives online, when so many of us spend our days juggling versions of ourselves, the virtual band ends up feeling oddly honest. No pretence. No mythology about authenticity. Just the story, presented as a story.

In a strange way, they might be the most truthful bands we have.

By Pat Harrington

 

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Counter Culture – Midweek Song List 08/07/26

July 9, 2026 at 10:20 am · Filed under Midweek Song List, Music ·Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,

Our last Song List went out on Wednesday 1st July , and it happened to fall on a grim anniversary: 110 years since the first day of the Battle of the Somme . The campaign dragged on until 18 November 1916 , leaving a combined British, German and French casualty figure of well over one million, with 300,000 deaths . The Tyneside Irish and Tyneside Scottish battalions of the Northumberland Fusiliers were hit hardest — around 8,000 casualties on day one .

Numbers like that are obscene. They should echo whenever a politician starts rattling sabres and urging the UK to back another round of US military intervention somewhere in the world .

With the anti‑war homily out of the way, we bring you music .

Louis Armstrong – What A Wonderful World

We begin with Satchmo — born 1901 in New Orleans — a man who didn’t just play jazz, he re‑shaped it. Armstrong’s trumpet style, forged in the clubs of Storyville, helped drag jazz from ensemble playing into the era of the virtuoso soloist. By the time he recorded What A Wonderful World in August 1967 , he was already a global icon. The song itself was written as a counterpoint to the turbulence of the late 60s — Vietnam, civil rights struggles, assassinations. It topped the UK charts in April 1968 , offering a moment of calm in a year that had very little of it. You like it for the voice — gravelly, warm, unmistakable — and for its unhurried optimism .

Benedict Cork – Have A Good Life (See You Never)

Our first reader recommendation. Cork, from Hertfordshire , is one of those artists who seems to have arrived fully formed: sharp songwriting, clean production, and a knack for melodies that stick. The track is a bittersweet pop gem — upbeat on the surface, quietly bruised underneath. You noted that if there’s any justice, he’ll become a household name . Hard to disagree.

The Offspring – Blitzkrieg Bop (Ramones cover)

This came from a reader answering the question raised in issue 153. You’d featured Agnostic Front’s cover of the Ramones classic and asked who’d done the most memorable version. The Offspring’s take is fast, faithful, and full of energy — a US rock band covering a US punk anthem, keeping the spirit intact . The original Blitzkrieg Bop (1976) was the Ramones’ opening salvo: two minutes of pure down‑stroke guitar, shouted vocals, and the birth of American punk. The Offspring lean into that heritage rather than modernising it, which is precisely why the cover works.

Johann Sebastian Bach – Prelude No. 1 in C Major

A palate cleanser. Bach wrote the Prelude as part of The Well‑Tempered Clavier (1722), a collection designed to show that music could be written in all 24 major and minor keys — revolutionary at the time. The piece is deceptively simple: arpeggios rising and falling like breath. You joked that if you’re not calm after listening, you may need urgent medical help . It’s the kind of music that resets the room.

The Interrupters – Take Back The Power

Our third reader recommendation. The Interrupters emerged from the Los Angeles ska‑punk revival, carrying the torch lit by bands like Rancid and Operation Ivy. Take Back The Power is built for movement: brass stabs, driving rhythm, and Aimee Interrupter’s unmistakable voice — the thing you singled out as especially powerful . It’s political without preaching, catchy without pandering, and exactly the kind of track that earns repeat plays.

Anonymous Ulster – Brothers From Across The Water

A nod to your fascination with obscure artists and genres . This track sits in the tradition of Ulster folk storytelling — rough‑edged, earnest, and rooted in cross‑border identity. It’s the kind of song that feels like it belongs to a place rather than a market.

Fugees – Killing Me Softly

Lauryn Hill’s vocal on this track remains one of the defining performances of the 1990s. The song itself began life in 1973 with Roberta Flack, but the Fugees’ version turned it into something else entirely — hip‑hop soul with a heartbeat. It’s a reminder of how reinterpretation can eclipse the original without erasing it.

Orange Juice – Rip It Up

Post‑punk meets pop in one of Scotland’s most infectious tracks. Released in 1983, Rip It Up was a pivot point: Edwyn Collins blending punk’s angularity with Chic‑style funk guitar. It’s a song that sounds like a band discovering colour after years of monochrome.

Morrissey – The More You Ignore Me The Closer I Get

Mid‑90s Morrissey: melodic, sardonic, and steeped in irony. Released in 1994, the track was one of his biggest solo hits, built around obsession, humour, and a hook that burrows in. It’s Morrissey doing what he does best — unsettling charm.

Slade – Mama Weer All Crazee Now

A glam‑rock riot from 1972. Slade specialised in songs that sounded like Friday night in a Midlands pub — loud, loose, and designed for maximum chaos. This track is pure energy: stomping drums, shouted vocals, and a chorus built for crowds.

Slipknot – The Devil In I

Modern metal with theatrical flair. Released in 2014, the song marked a shift in Slipknot’s sound — still aggressive, but more melodic, more controlled. It’s a track about identity, masks, and the parts of ourselves we’d rather not meet.

Will.i.am – Heart Breaker

A glossy, beat‑driven pop track from the late 2000s. Will.i.am’s production style — sharp edges smoothed into radio‑friendly shine — is all over this one. It’s sleek, synthetic, and built for dancefloors.

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01/07/26 – Counter Culture – Midweek Song List (155)

July 1, 2026 at 8:38 pm · Filed under Midweek Song List, Music ·Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,

The first day of July always carries a shadow. 1st July 1916 — the Somme — a day so brutal it still echoes. Nearly 57,500 British casualties before nightfall, 19,000 of them never coming home. The French lost over 1,500. Germany around 6,000. A century later, the numbers still feel obscene and carry a genetic impact we still feel the effect of.

From that solemn ground we step into music — the sublime, the ridiculous, and everything in between. July deserves range.

Nicola Benedetti – Spiegel im Spiegel

Arvo Pärt’s minimalist meditation, played with Benedetti’s trademark stillness. Written in 1978, it’s one of those pieces that seems to suspend time — a single line unfolding like breath, or prayer, or memory.

The Pipes & Drums of The Black Watch – Wha’ Saw the 42nd?

A regimental march with centuries behind it. The 42nd Highlanders — later The Black Watch — carried this tune across continents. It’s brisk, proud, and impossible not to straighten your back to.

Cockney Rejects – Police Car

East End punk at full throttle. Released in 1980, the Rejects were never subtle — and that’s the charm. A raw snapshot of street-level Britain before the decade turned sour.

Didi Dubbeldam & Jan van der Plas – Choo Choo Wa

Pure silliness. A children’s party favourite from the Netherlands that somehow became a global earworm. Proof that music doesn’t always need meaning — sometimes it just needs movement.

Amy MacDonald – Born to Run

MacDonald’s folk-rock energy meets Springsteen’s myth-making title. Not a cover — her own song — but carrying that same restless spirit she’s been bottling since This Is the Life.

John Mayer – Free Fallin’

A gentle, live reimagining of Tom Petty’s classic. Mayer strips it back to open chords and soft phrasing, turning a highway anthem into something closer to confession.

Gary Moore – Still Got The Blues

Moore’s Belfast fire meets American blues tradition. Released in 1990, it’s the track that cemented his reputation beyond hard rock — a slow-burn solo that still floors guitar players.

Randy & The Rainbows – Denise

Early‑60s doo‑wop sunshine. Blondie later reinvented it as Denis, flipping gender and adding French flair, but the original has that unmistakable Brill Building innocence.

Status Quo – Whatever You Want

The Quo at their most Quo. 1979. Denim. Telecasters. A riff that could power a small town. British boogie rock distilled to its purest form.

Al Stewart – The Year of the Cat

A soft-rock travelogue from 1976, wrapped in cinematic storytelling. Stewart’s lyrics wander through markets, strangers, and chance encounters — all carried by that unmistakable sax line.

Taylor Swift – I Can Do It With a Broken Heart

From The Tortured Poets Department. Swift at her most self-aware: glitter, exhaustion, and the pressure to perform even when life is cracking underneath.

Warning – Watching From a Distance

British doom metal at its most desolate. Released in 2006, Warning’s slow, aching chords and Patrick Walker’s vocals create a kind of emotional gravity few bands manage.

 

 

 

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The Quiet Power Behind Whale Fall: A Conversation with Bruna Longo

June 29, 2026 at 12:10 pm · Filed under Dance, Edinburgh Fringe Festival, Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2026, Interviews, Music, Theatre ·Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

Bruna Longo

What hits you first about Whale Fall is its emotional clarity. Bruna Longo — the show’s writer, creator, and solo performer — speaks about the piece with a directness that makes its themes feel close to the skin. She’s not dealing in abstractions; she’s tracing grief, memory, and the strange beauty in collapse and renewal with a kind of steady, unforced honesty.

In this conversation, Bruna lays out the ideas driving the work and the experiences that shaped it. There’s no grandstanding, no over‑polish — just a clear sense of why Whale Fall exists and what she hopes it stirs in the audience. It’s a piece built on substance, and her reflections carry that same weight.

You can explore the production further on the Fringe listing.

 

1.              You’ve spoken about creating this piece in the aftermath of your father’s death. When grief becomes the raw material of a performance, does the stage feel like a refuge, a reckoning, or something stranger altogether?

I wasn’t setting out to make a play about my father’s death, or even one inspired by it. I started researching death because I was trying to understand what was happening to me, to face it, to face my grief. I am very, very nerdy. And at some point, it became very clear that my way of moving through life, of dealing with everything, is through theatre. As I say in the play, theatre is my religare, my non-religious form of spirituality. But I always want to make one thing clear: the show isn’t a therapeutic exercise about my mourning process. It’s the result of a genuine curiosity about death and grief that grew out of the research I began to help me navigate that experience. The play isn’t the process itself, it’s what came from it. So more than a refuge or a reckoning, the stage is a place of congregation, a place where we come together to share our humanity. And I think that’s what this process ultimately became for me.

2.              Western societies have a habit of sanitising death — hiding it behind curtains, euphemisms, and professionalised rituals. What convinced you that theatre could reopen that conversation without slipping into sentimentality or spectacle?

I think if we go back to how theatre was born, we already have the answer to that question. It’s a place where humanity gathers to see itself reflected. And theatre is so raw. Even when we try to make it more like film, with special effects or technology, it’s still fundamentally human. That’s what makes it so powerful and, for me, what makes it the perfect place to face our demons and our fears, to talk about them, and to bring them into the light.

3.              The original version of Whale Fall unfolded inside a functioning funeral chapel in São Paulo. How does relocating the work to St Cuthbert’s Church — with its own centuries of burial and memory — change the emotional temperature of the piece?

We perform in a historic chapel in São Paulo that dates back to 1912. So just the fact that the first recorded church on the site where St Cuthbert’s stands today dates from the 12th century is already incredible to me. Brazil was colonized by the Portuguese in 1500, although, of course, Indigenous peoples had been living there for thousands of years before that. But the Indigenous peoples of Brazil had very different cultures from civilizations like the Maya or the Aztec. They didn’t leave behind monumental stone architecture in the same way, so the oldest stone buildings we have are mostly from the Portuguese colonial period. I love history and architecture, and even though I’m certainly not a fan of colonization, whenever I visit historic buildings, I have a deep respect for the lives of the people who occupied those spaces before me. So performing in a place as ancient as St Cuthbert’s certainly adds another layer to the experience. You’re aware that so many people have passed through that space over so many centuries, carrying their own stories, their own joys, and their own grief. I think there’s something very beautiful about adding our story to that long continuum.

4.              You imagine your own death as a way of mourning yourself — an impossible act in life, but a potent one in theatre. What did that imaginative leap reveal to you that ordinary grief could not?

Imagining our own death, and really imagining the decomposition process, is actually a very Buddhist practice. I’m Buddhist, so it was something I always knew was done, but I never thought I’d actually be able to engage with it. I was afraid, as I think most of us are, to bring that image into my mind. This play is very much in the tradition of memento mori, an artistic tradition that goes back to the Middle Ages, where artists depicted death and mortality to remind us that we’re alive. The full idea is memento mori, memento vivere: remember you will die, remember to live. That’s what imagining my own death has helped me do. Imagining my own death reminds me every day that I am very much alive, and it makes me want to be fully alive until the very last microsecond I live.

5.              The show blends autobiography, anthropology, philosophy, and physical theatre. When you’re working across so many registers, how do you keep the ritualistic core of the piece intact?

I always like to go back to the original meaning of things. So, what is a ritual? It’s a set of gestures, words, and formalized actions with symbolic meaning, performed by or in front of a group of people. And when you think about it, theatre is exactly that. Theatre is a ritual. Whale Fall  have different layers to it. The dramaturgy is built from ethnographic and anthropological research, together with some autobiographical elements. Then there’s the language of the performance itself. The physicality draws on traditions of physical theatre and also inspirations from Japanese theatre, although they’re not the kind of references an audience would necessarily recognize while watching the show. And then there’s the staging. The decision to perform inside a chapel wasn’t just an aesthetic choice; it was part of creating a ritual space. The scenes are structured in a very ritualized way. Music plays a fundamental role, as it does in so many ritual traditions. Those are the bricks the piece is made of. So the performance isn’t recreating any specific ritual, but it borrows the grammar of ritual to create a shared experience where we can gather and reflect on mortality together.

6.              You’ve said that death is perhaps the last taboo in Western culture. Do you think audiences are genuinely ready to confront it, or are they still arriving with the same fear and avoidance you’re trying to unpick?

One of my masters, the director Eugenio Barba, once said in a rehearsal that there is no audience. There is only that one person, and then the next person, and the next, and the next. I’ve carried that with me ever since. So I try to meet each audience member wherever they are. I’ve spoken to people after the show who told me it genuinely shifted something for them, that it helped them look at death with a little more tranquility than they had before. And then, about a month ago, I got a DM on Instagram from someone who had seen the show months earlier. They wrote, “I loved the show, but being inside the chapel in the cemetery was a horrible experience for me because I’m terrified of death.” They spent the whole performance feeling anxious, and yet they were still grateful they came. And I think that’s wonderful. If that’s what the show brought up for that person, then that’s what it brought up. I’m not trying to lead people toward one specific conclusion or emotional response. The only thing I hope is that people begin to think about death as part of life, as something worth bringing to the dinner table, into our everyday conversations. Where that reflection takes them is completely beyond my control. There isn’t a right or wrong way to experience the piece.

7.              The São Paulo Showcase is bringing a wave of Brazilian work to Edinburgh this year. What feels distinctly Brazilian about Whale Fall, and what feels universal — something that belongs to anyone who has ever lost someone?

Death is a universal experience. Everybody dies in the end: spoiler alert! But culturally, we relate to death in many different ways. There are a lot of similarities across Western societies, especially in big cities and metropolitan areas, but every culture has its own temperament, its own rituals, and its own emotional relationship with death. Part of the research behind the show was also ethnographic. I became fascinated by the different ways cultures around the world care for their dead and make sense of loss. The performance brings some of those funeral rites into conversation with our own Western, capitalist, highly industrialized experience of death to remind us that the way we approach death isn’t universal, it’s cultural. And once we realize that, we can start asking whether the relationship we’ve built with death is really the one we want. So, of course, the show brings my own perspective: a Brazilian-Italian Latina woman from one of the biggest cities in the world. But underneath all those identities, I’m just another person who’s going to die and going to lose people I love. And that’s the one thing every audience member and I have in common.

8.              You’re performing 18 shows without a break at the Fringe. How do you protect your own emotional and physical boundaries when the work itself asks you to revisit grief night after night?

That’s a fantastic question. People have asked me before how I deal with talking about my grief and my father every week, month after month. But the truth is, it’s not really about my grief, and it’s not really about my father anymore. And that’s very important to me. As I said before, the research began because of my father’s death and my attempt to understand my own experience of mourning. But once I decided to turn that research into a performance, it stopped being about processing my grief and started being about sharing the curiosity that had grown out of it: my curiosity about death, grief, and ritual. During the research and rehearsal process, there were definitely moments when it was difficult to face some emotions. But once the show opened, something shifted. It became about celebrating life. So, for me, it’s actually a very joyful show. I know that sounds contradictory because it’s about death, but I don’t experience it as a sad piece. I don’t feel like I have to protect myself emotionally from performing it. Physically, though, that’s a different story. Eighteen performances in a row is a lot, and I’m no spring chicken anymore. So I’m trying to get as strong as I can before Edinburgh. It’s a demanding show for my voice because I sing throughout it, and it’s demanding on my body, especially my spine. During the run, my plan is to sleep well, eat well, take care of myself… and wait until it’s all over before I start celebrating.

9.              The press in Brazil described the piece as courageous, ritualistic, and among the year’s best. Does that kind of acclaim create pressure, or does it give you permission to push even further into the uncomfortable questions the show raises?

Honestly, I believe in acclaim as much as I believe in bad reviews. I try not to give either of them too much weight because I don’t think it’s particularly helpful or healthy. Of course, reviews and award nominations are fantastic for the business of show business. They help put bums on seats, they give the work credibility, and they make the show more visible, especially at the Fringe, where audiences have thousands of shows to choose from. That’s all incredibly valuable. But for me, as an artist, what really matters is what happens in the room, in that living moment. That’s theatre. Everything else is important, but it isn’t theatre itself.

10.           If an audience member walks out of St Cuthbert’s with one lingering thought — not a neat lesson, but a disturbance they can’t quite shake — what do you hope that thought is?

I want people to leave asking themselves: What kind of relationship do I want to have with death? There’s a Brazilian psychoanalyst, Rubem Alves, who wrote that instead of being something frightening or cruel, death can be a counselor. I love that. We already know we’re going to die: that part isn’t optional. So maybe, instead of trying to forget about death or push it away, we can let that awareness guide the way we choose to live. And that has very practical consequences too. When we allow ourselves to talk about death, we’re much more likely to take ownership of how we want to die. We can leave our wishes behind, have conversations with our loved ones and our doctors, think about palliative care or assisted dying if that is aligned with our values. These are conversations we tend to avoid because they’re uncomfortable, but they’re really conversations about autonomy.

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Sleeves of Shame: Steve Goldman on the Worst Record Covers in the World

June 26, 2026 at 7:07 am · Filed under Edinburgh Fringe Festival, Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2026, Exhibitions, Interviews, Music ·Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Steve Goldman has spent years rescuing the most bizarre, ill‑judged and unintentionally comic LP sleeves from the dustiest corners of vinyl history. His cult exhibition, The Worst Record Covers in the World, has delighted audiences everywhere from galleries to comedy festivals — and in 2026 it arrives at the Edinburgh Fringe. Ahead of the show’s run at Assembly George Square Studios, we caught up with Steve to talk design disasters, accidental folk art, and why these gloriously terrible sleeves still make us laugh. Full details and booking are available via the official Fringe listing.  You can also check out Worst Record Covers Instagram.

 

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  1. The Origin Story — You’ve said the whole thing began with Roadstar Peter Rabbit bought for 10p. Be honest: was that the moment you realised humanity had no aesthetic brakes, or the moment you realised you’d found your life’s work?

When it all began, 40 years ago I was just a whipper snapper and had no idea this would become my life’s work! I bought Peter Rabbit for 10p because it was such an extraordinarily bad cover. Subsequently I lost it. Then the internet came along, I thought “I’ll find it now”, but every time I typed in Peter Rabbit, Beatrix Potter links came up- and I thought I’d never see it again. Then about 10 years ago someone told me to look in discogs.com- so I did, and it came up straight away. It was a bit more expensive this time- £5, plus a fiver to have it shipped from Germany. When it arrived was one of the happiest moments of my life. And that evening I said to my family “do you know what, I think I’ll start collecting crap record covers”…. That’s the moment I realised I’d found a calling 

  1. The Stewart Lee Effect — Stewart Lee claims your collection made him “despair of humanity itself.” Do you take that as a compliment, a warning, or the highest possible endorsement?

When we created The Art of the Bizarre Vinyl Sleeve- the book of the exhibition- Stewart was kind enough to agree to write the foreword. (We actually asked three people- Stewart, Dolly Parton and the German singer King Sized Dick, and Stewart was the only one who bothered to reply)  In Stewart’s foreword he does indeed say that the collection made him despair of humanity itself. He goes on to say that he “began to hate mankind for it’s ineffable and inexcusable shitness, its natural tendency towards ugliness and stupidity…”.  And also that he began to hate me for my role in originating the project, and Simon Robinson, the author of the book. But he comes round, and by the end of the foreword he congratulates me and Simon on “Defining an as yet uncategorised new substrata of folk art”..which is the highest possible endorsement! 

  1. The Line Between Bad and Brilliant — You insist the covers must be unintentionally funny.What’sthe secret ingredient that turns a merely ugly sleeve into a transcendent act of artistic self‑sabotage? 

There’s no one secret ingredient: there’s so many forms of bad. I attach 22 sleeves, each one I think is funny for a different reason….. 

  1. Curatorial Ethics — You avoid anything gory, sexist, racist or hateful. In a world where shock sells, is it harder to find “clean” badness than it is to find offensive badness?

Yes that’s certainly true. There is a lot of offensive badness about. But just take a look at the exhibition and the book and you’ll see there are many rich seams of ‘clean’ badness.  

  1. The Psychology of Failure — When you look at these sleeves, do you see incompetence, innocence, delusion, or something more tender — the human urge to create, even when weprobably shouldn’t?

I see all of those things, but look at the attached sleeves- there’s so much more to love! 

  1. The Fringe Audience —You’veshown this collection everywhere from Halifax to Leicester. What is it about Fringe audiences that makes them howl the loudest? 

Ah, Fringe audiences are very lucky actually- they’re surrounded by a smorgasbord of people trying to make them happy. When we first exhibited in Huddersfield in 2021, we were just beginning to emerge from the Covid pandemic and people really needed a treat. The joy and release people experienced coming together in a room, howling with laughter at the music industry’s incompetence was a real tonic. It’s an absolute buzz to come to the fringe- this is our second year, and first year on George Square-  but I’m also very tickled when the exhibition lights up places that are well and truly off the beaten track like Warrington, Birkenhead and Mansfield, where the full exhibition is this summer. 

  1. The Collector’s High — After 700 sleeves, what still gives you that electric jolt — the “oh God, what is this?” moment that tells you a new horror has earned its place?

There’s one rule- if it makes me laugh, then it’s in. 

  1. Design Crimes — Which design sin offends you the most: the floating disembodied head, the badlycut‑outfigure, the tragic attempt at sex appeal, or the “we’ll fix it in post” optimism that clearly never happened? 

Actually they don’t offend me, they delight me! Yes, you’ve identified 4 themes there, but there’s so much more….. including ones where the design is just inexplicable., 

  1. The Stroke, the Charity, the Mission —You’veturned a personal health crisis into a fundraising mission for Different Strokes. How does it feel to watch people laugh themselves silly while supporting something so serious? 

Actually supporting Different Strokes was an afterthought suggested by my wife! But it’s raised over £3000 so far, and it’s made people realise that strokes aren’t exclusively suffered by the elderly. One in four strokes happen to people of working age, like me. Our needs, and the challenges we face are very different from people who have strokes later in life. We’ve launched Worst Record Covers in the World calendars for 2027 – I’m hoping if those sell well we can do a bit more to help Different Strokes. 

  

  1. The Philosophy of Bad Taste — At what point does bad taste stop being a joke and become a cultural archive — a record of who we were, what we thought looked good, and how magnificently wrong we often were?

At the moment when I thought of exhibiting The Worst Record Covers in the World! 

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24/06/26 – Counter Culture – Midweek Song List (154)

June 25, 2026 at 6:10 pm · Filed under Midweek Song List, Music ·Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

The Last Song List of June already. The month has vanished in a blur of heat, headlines and half‑finished to‑do lists. At this rate we’ll be carving pumpkins, then turkeys, before we’ve even caught our breath. Still — if the calendar insists on hurtling forward, we may as well soundtrack the journey.

This week’s dozen tracks span Glam, Punk, Rock, Soft Rock and a few glorious outliers. As ever, the joy is in the contrasts: theatrical glitter, snarling punk reportage, Celtic‑tinged rock, and a couple of songs that simply refuse to age.

THE ADVERTS – Gary Gilmore’s Eyes

Written in 1977 at the height of punk’s moral panic era, this remains one of the movement’s most unsettling and brilliant pieces of social commentary. TV Smith took the real‑life story of US murderer Gary Gilmore donating his organs after execution and flipped it into a first‑person shock narrative. The Adverts’ version is the definitive one: brittle, urgent, and utterly uninterested in subtlety. Punk doing what punk does best — forcing you to look.

ANONYMOUS ULSTER – I Can’t Breathe (A Song for Henry Nowak)

Anonymous Ulster has carved out a niche for songs rooted in place, politics and people. This track sits firmly in that tradition — a modern folk lament with a documentary instinct. Musically it draws on the long lineage of protest ballads; lyrically it’s very much of the present moment.

LARKIN POE – Black Betty

“Black Betty” began life as an African‑American work song, first recorded by Lead Belly in the 1930s. Larkin Poe’s version is a ferocious, slide‑driven reinvention — Southern Gothic blues filtered through modern swagger. They don’t just cover the song; they reclaim its rawness.

THE MONKEES – I’m A Believer

Neil Diamond wrote it, the Monkees turned it into a global pop phenomenon in 1966, and it remains one of the most perfect three‑minute singles ever recorded. This version captures the band at their peak: sunshine harmonies, jangling optimism, and a melody that refuses to leave your head.

DEATH IN ROME – Wrecking Ball

Death in Rome specialise in neo‑folk reinterpretations of modern pop, and their take on Miley Cyrus’s “Wrecking Ball” is one of their most striking. Stripped of its pop‑anthem sheen, the song becomes something darker, more fragile, almost liturgical. A reminder that a strong melody can survive any genre migration.

GARY GLITTER – The Wanderer

Originally recorded by Dion in 1961, “The Wanderer” is one of early rock ’n’ roll’s great swaggering struts. Glitter’s 1970s glam‑rock cover transforms it into a theatrical stomp — all glitter suits, platform boots and exaggerated bravado. Whatever one thinks of the man (and there is plenty to think), this version is a fascinating example of how glam repurposed 1950s rock tropes into something bigger, brasher and knowingly artificial.

KAISER CHIEFS – I Predict A Riot

A mid‑2000s indie anthem that captured the chaos, humour and low‑level menace of British nightlife. Released in 2004, it helped launch the Kaiser Chiefs into the mainstream. The version here shows why: sharp, punchy, and delivered with a wink.

REEF – Place Your Hands

Released in 1996, this is one of the great British rock singles of the decade. Reef fused grunge‑era heft with West Country warmth, and Gary Stringer’s voice — gravelly, elastic, instantly recognisable — remains the band’s secret weapon. A song built for festivals, car stereos and communal shouting.

ROXY MUSIC – Virginia Plain

Roxy Music’s 1972 debut single is a jolt of art‑rock electricity: no chorus, no repetition, just a glamorous sprint through Bryan Ferry’s pop‑surrealist imagination. The abrupt ending is part of its charm — a door slammed mid‑sentence. Few songs dare to stop so decisively.

THE SAW DOCTORS – I Useta Lover

A 1990 Irish classic that blends pub‑rock energy with wry storytelling. It became one of the biggest‑selling singles in Irish history. The Saw Doctors’ charm lies in their ability to make nostalgia feel rowdy rather than sentimental, and this track is Exhibit A.

SUTHERLAND BROTHERS & QUIVER – Arms of Mary

Soft Rock at its most tender. Released in 1976, the song became an international hit, though it never quite propelled the band to the fame they deserved. Its gentle harmonies and wistful melody have inspired multiple covers — but the original remains the gold standard.

U2 – Where The Streets Have No Name

The opening track of The Joshua Tree (1987) and one of U2’s defining statements. Built on The Edge’s cathedral‑like guitar delay, the song aimed for transcendence and — unusually for such ambition — achieved it. Live, it becomes a communal ritual.

YES – Owner of a Lonely Heart (Live)

The original 1983 studio version was Yes’s unexpected leap into synth‑rock modernity. This live performance shows how the band re‑engineered the track for the stage: sharper edges, more muscular instrumentation, and that unmistakable Trevor Rabin guitar tone.

AND OUR QUESTION OF THE WEEK

We adore the abrupt, almost mid‑air ending of Roxy Music’s Virginia Plain. What other tracks — in any genre — finish with that same sudden, glorious full‑stop?

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An Evening with Toyah, Songs and Stories

June 17, 2026 at 10:14 pm · Filed under Music ·Tagged , , , , , , ,

Airdrie Town Hall, Saturday, 20th June

Toyah, picture by Andrew Hunter

Toyah Wilcox has had a fascinating career spanning acting, singing and TV presenting. At this most enjoyable show, she recounted her career including many amusing and entertaining anecdotes along with singing some of her greatest hits including “It’s a Mystery”, “Echo Beach” and “I Want to be Free”. A large screen in the background showed the original pop videos.

In the upper circle was her husband Robert Fripp of King Crimson, who often provided a foil to Toyah’s stories. During lockdown they produced a highly popular series screened across social media called “Sunday Lunch”. In one episode Toyah persuaded him to dance in a tutu in their back garden, which he regretted doing. It was only when “Rolling Stone” magazine credited his contribution to “Sunday Lunch” with a revival in interest in prog rock that he felt better about it!

Toyah also recalled her work with the late film director Derek Jarman which included “Jubilee” and “The Tempest”. Another major film role was Monkey in “Quadrophenia”, where she persuaded Leslie Ash to pogo punk-style to be noticed in one scene although this might be somewhat anachronistic given that it was a film set in 1965! It wasn’t always a comfortable life performing; her recollection of the filming of the video for her 1981 hit “Thunder in the Mountains” involved her riding what might be described as a cut-and-shut chariot that would send modern health and safety people into a fit.

Towards the end of the evening Toyah took questions that had been submitted by members of the audience during the intermission. The show finished with “I want to be Free” in which the audience were encouraged to sing along, which they did quite enthusiastically.

“An Evening with Toyah, Songs and Stories” was a most enjoyable two hours spent in the company of a most accomplished performer of many talents.

By Andrew Hunter

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17/06/26 – Counter Culture – Midweek Song List (153)

June 17, 2026 at 9:24 pm · Filed under Midweek Song List, Music ·Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

HELLO — and welcome back to the weekly wander through the musical back‑alleys, neon-lit side streets and occasionally questionable cul‑de‑sacs of popular culture. This week’s list is a proper patchwork quilt: punk reworks, glam stompers, synth‑era paranoia, a detour through Oz, and one of the greatest acoustic reinterpretations ever committed to tape.

As always, the aim is simple: songs that spark something — memory, curiosity, argument, or just the urge to turn the volume up until the neighbours start Googling “noise complaint template”.Let’s begin.

THE SONGS

AGNOSTIC FRONT – “BLITZKRIEG BOP” (Ramones cover)

The Ramones’ 1976 original is the Big Bang of American punk — two minutes of down‑stroke guitar, bubblegum nihilism and the most famous “Hey! Ho!” in history. Agnostic Front’s version drags it forward into the New York hardcore era they helped define. Where the Ramones were bratty and pop‑leaning, Agnostic Front are all grit, concrete and sweat‑drenched basement shows. Their cover isn’t reverent — it’s a reclamation, a reminder that punk didn’t stay in CBGB’s; it mutated, toughened, and found new teeth.

THE ANIMALS – “HOUSE OF THE RISING SUN”

A folk standard with murky origins — possibly New Orleans, possibly England — but it was The Animals who electrified it in 1964 and turned it into a global phenomenon. Eric Burdon’s vocal is still astonishing: raw, haunted, almost sermon‑like. Alan Price’s organ part is one of the most recognisable in British rock history. Sixty years on, it hasn’t aged; it simply stands there, timeless, like a building you can’t believe humans ever managed to construct.

BROKEN PEACH – “PERSONAL JESUS” (Depeche Mode cover)

Depeche Mode’s 1989 original was all swaggering blues‑industrial minimalism. Broken Peach — Spain’s theatrical, Halloween‑costumed, cabaret‑punk collective — take it somewhere else entirely. Their version is part performance art, part rock revue, part fever dream. The harmonies are tight, the staging is knowingly eccentric, and the whole thing feels like Depeche Mode reimagined by Tim Burton after too much espresso.

NOEL GALLAGHER – “THERE IS A LIGHT THAT NEVER GOES OUT” (The Smiths cover)

A bold move: covering one of the most beloved songs in the British indie canon. The Smiths’ 1986 original is all doomed romance and Mancunian melodrama. Noel doesn’t try to recreate that. Instead, he leans into a stripped‑back, orchestral hush — voice, guitar, and a soft swell of strings behind him. The result is unexpectedly tender. Without Marr’s shimmering arpeggios, the song feels more fragile, more human, almost confessional. A rare case of a cover that doesn’t compete with the original — it converses with it.

INXS – “NEVER TEAR US APART”

Released in 1987, this is INXS at their most cinematic. A slow‑burn ballad built on strings, saxophone and Michael Hutchence’s velvet‑and‑smoke vocal. It’s a song that feels like a memory even on first listen — a kind of widescreen romantic fatalism. Decades later, it remains one of the band’s defining moments, a reminder of Hutchence’s ability to make intimacy sound operatic.

METALLICA – “WHISKEY IN THE JAR”

A traditional Irish folk song, famously electrified by Thin Lizzy in 1973. Metallica’s 1998 version — from their covers album Garage Inc. — is heavier, chunkier, and unmistakably theirs. It’s Metallica having fun: big riffs, big drums, and James Hetfield leaning into the swagger. The song’s journey from folk ballad to hard‑rock anthem is a perfect example of how tradition survives by being reinvented.

NENA – “99 RED BALLOONS” (Long Version Mix)

Cold War paranoia wrapped in synth‑pop sugar. Released in 1983, “99 Luftballons” became a global hit in both German and English. The long version stretches out the tension — more synths, more atmosphere, more of that strangely upbeat dread. It’s a reminder of a time when nuclear anxiety sat right next to chart‑friendly pop, and nobody thought that was odd.

THE SOUND – “GLASS & SMOKE”

Adrian Borland’s band never got the recognition they deserved during their lifetime, but their influence has only grown. “Glass & Smoke” is quintessential post‑punk: brooding, melodic, emotionally flammable. Borland’s voice carries a kind of heroic vulnerability — the sound of someone trying to hold the world together with bare hands.

T. REX – “TELEGRAM SAM”

Marc Bolan at full glam‑strut. Released in 1972, “Telegram Sam” is all swaggering riffs, nonsense poetry and glitter‑dusted attitude. It’s not trying to be profound — it’s trying to be irresistible. And it succeeds. A reminder that glam rock, at its best, was both utterly ridiculous and utterly brilliant.

TIFFANY – “I THINK WE’RE ALONE NOW”

Originally a 1967 hit for Tommy James & The Shondells, Tiffany’s 1987 cover turned it into a mall‑pop juggernaut. Her version is pure late‑80s: synths, drum machines, teenage yearning. It’s impossible to hear without picturing denim jackets, food courts and the last golden age of bubblegum pop.

THE WIZARD OF OZ – “IF I ONLY HAD A HEART”

From the 1939 film that practically invented modern cinematic fantasy. The Tin Man’s song is whimsical on the surface, but there’s a melancholy undercurrent — a character longing for something he believes he lacks. It’s one of those rare musical numbers that has lived far beyond its film, becoming part of the cultural bloodstream.

NEIL YOUNG – “HEART OF GOLD”

Released in 1972 on Harvest, this is Neil Young’s only US No.1 single — a fact that still surprises people. It’s folk‑rock perfection: harmonica, acoustic guitar, and Young’s unmistakable high, quivering vocal. A song about searching — for meaning, for goodness, for something unspoiled. Half a century later, the search still resonates.

And that’s your lot for this week — a playlist that zig‑zags across decades, genres and emotional weather systems. If one of these tracks sends you down a rabbit hole, mission accomplished. If several do, even better.

As always, we end with a question — and this week it’s an easy one to argue about:

Which cover version in this list improves most boldly on the original?

See you next week for more cultural excavation and sonic archaeology.

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