Back in a past life, I found myself in the habit of making little video mixtapes to listen to and glance at while doing jigsaw puzzles and overeating at Christmas, or to fill in embarrassing conversational gaps when entertaining visitors. These would run to anywhere up to 70-some videos, which I'd pull from various online video sharing platforms (multiple services are available), and painstakingly sequence them so that they flowed seamlessly from one to the other. I'd even manually pull the audio and adjust the median amplitude to more or less the same level for each track, and re-encode each video so that you could stick them on a USB drive and plug it in the back of an early-2000s semi-smart TV, press play, and you're all set for good few hours background entertainment.
I love you, dear reader, but not that much. So what you'll get instead this year is literally just a bunch of YouTube embeds of things from the last year or two that are sitting in my downloads directory. And you'll be jolly well glad of it! I'm an old lady with a lot to do in the short span of years before I drop off my perch, so I don't have time for perfectionism any more.
To be honest, it's not really a reflection of the music I've been listening to this year because, like every year since I was eight years old, ninety percent of what I've been listening to is the Beatles, but I think there's some interesting stuff there nonetheless.
I'd always liked R.E.M., but I blame Evan Prodromou for getting me really obsessed with their back catalogue in the 2000s (as my long-suffering work colleagues of the time will attest). However by then they'd put out some dud records, and seemed washed up. Then came Accelerate, and suddenly they were back to being as vital as ever.
The whole set from this made-for-TV concert is a beautiful thing. Michael is clearly relishing performing these new songs. There are some lovely moments.
I could never bear cover versions when I was a child. I didn't even much like live recordings. The original album version was canonical, and anything else somehow distressing. (I may have had some psychological issues at the time.) In my defence, a neighbour once played me his parents' copy of the hits of Lennon and McCartney as rendered by Herb Alpert and his Tijuana Brass. It doesn't seem to be readily available online, quite rightly, as that sort of thing can potentially scar one for life.
Nevertheless, there are times when one would like to separate the art from the original artist, and this is also, on it's own merits, a delight. I sincerely hope it gave Morrissey conniptions.
I adore Alvvays beyond words. I don't know how Molly and Alec, despite being considerably younger than I, and from Canada, managed to distil my entire record collection into three increasingly perfect albums. I saw them (twice) last year when they toured Australia. I was goosebumps and tears all the way though. Magical. The middle eight in this song is just perfection!
I'm a sucker for anything that sounds vaguely reminiscent of the Fall. Give me a relentlessly driving rhythm and someone shout-singing witty lyrics with minimal artifice, and I'm all yours. And this album is just perfection. Unfortunately, somebody at the record company appears to have persuaded Fontaines D.C. to work on their technical sophistication, and each subsequent album has been elevator music. It's sad.
Time for a commercial break.
My youth was the heyday of toy computers you plug into a TV set. I was fascinated by them, but never had one of my own. Instead, my friends had to be persuaded that watching me type BASIC for hours on end would result in a really cool game. It never quite did, but this jingle hasn't left my head for 42 years, and now it's in yours. You're welcome.
Another case of first-album perfection. In this instance, subsequent albums are by no means bad, and indeed perfectly charming Antipodean melodic waif-pop, but they lack the driving verve of the debut.
The Beths were a mainstay of my jogging soundtrack when I (briefly) took up the habit of scaring the ducks in Carlton Gardens around dawn. I will get back to that regime, I promise!
It's not a Katy mixtape without the Trashcan Sinatras. They remain dependably brilliant, but this first album hosts a special place in my heart. Maybe because it's the only one I have on vinyl instead of those abominable little drink coasters, maybe because I was young. I dunno.
Ah, Melbourne Central. From this distance (i.e 2024) seemingly designed by rodents who delight in scurrying about a dingy labyrinthine warren, crammed in with as many of their compatriots as possible, but back in the day keenly anticipated by urban sophisticates who enjoy standing about in public, in hair gel and blousy clothing, chewing face.
Joyful songs make me teary. This one never fails.
I swiftly (*cough*) acquired the album after watching this session. Iron & Wine have a substantial back catalogue, apparently. Time was you could depend on somebody ensuring that such a trove was backed up and readily available through (*cough*) informal distribution channels as part of a collective cultural conservancy mission. Sigh. What has happened to the civic virtues?
Ah, Kirsty! I've always suspected this song was about Shane MacGowan, but I've never found any evidence to confirm it. The video practically screams it. From one of the best albums of all time.
Another tears-and-goosebumps classic from Alvvays. This song struck me as a pretty clear homage to Kirsty MacColl, or at least she was a model for Molly's vocal style. Turns out I was right. I also think there's a touch of Harriet Wheeler from the Sundays in it. This is yet to be confirmed.
I just love the way that while the rest of the band maintains a resolutely solemn shoegaze stage presence, Sheridan is up the back, grinning from ear to ear and clearly thinking "I can't believe how good we are!"
The elder of my two younger sisters has always been (and I'm sure she won't mind me saying this) wantonly and wickedly annoying. She particularly delighted in performing, at every opportunity, silly schoolyard verse or advertising jingles. This one she would do with grand gesticulatory flourishes, as though she were an opera singer.
She also liked to sing along to the theme tune of the soap opera "A Country Practice", which has no lyrics. She would use the cast list from the opening credits as the lyrics. Very annoying. And quite funny.
Last year, the wonderful Deb Pickett, who I consider the guiding light of the Australian fediverse, asked "Who here remembers Hector the Cat’s Road Safety song?"
Confident that I had never heard of any Hector the Cat, and presuming it to be a Melbourne thing, I followed the link with no misgivings.
Oh. Oh, dear! One of the most invasive earworms in human history (again: you're welcome!), and another of my sister's childhood favourites.
I can't say I would ever listen to this for it's excellence as a piece of music. However, because of the delight that my father and I took from Get Smart when I was young ("Sorry about that, Chief."), and the fact that most of the locations in this clip are a short stroll from my flat (so as a recent immigrant to Melbourne I love them with the devotion of a fresh convert), it makes me smile.
The real deal. From my era.
Y'see what I'm saying?
"Providence blinks, facing the sun. And where are we left to carry on? Until the day is done…" Brilliant. One of my favourites to tunelessly sing along to while doing the washing up.
Smiths bass player Andy Rourke died in 2023. This is one of his most distinctive and memorable tracks.
Jeremy Brett could read the phone book, and I'd be spellbound. I stumbled across this clip quite a few years ago, so I don't know why I downloaded it again recently. I think because I'd just discovered this source of magnificent upscaled renderings of the Granada Sherlock Holmes series.
I've always held that if you're noticing the picture quality, you're not absorbed in the production. I stand corrected. Watching faint flickers of emotion play across his face in such detail is a master class in screen acting.
I have to admit, not bad for a third album.
Another best album of all time is Workers Playtime. It was a Triple J album of the week back when Triple J was still good, and I bought it with pocket money when I was in my last year of high school. Absolutely blew me away. Billy's not done anything better since, but that's fine.
The album was apparently written in the wake of a relationship breakup, and barring a few more typically political songs, it's suffused with a sweet melancholy that is so beautiful.
Also note that Billy has always been a good soldier, and is wearing a t-shirt protesting Section 28, which has distressing contemporary resonance.
So that's me done as a DJ for — I don't know — probably another few years. In the meantime…