a good noun these days is hard to find

This is why a bunch of people you know all have the same name. Unless you know a bunch of people called Tonya, because that is a shit name. It is also why some songs have the same title, because, of course, anything else but ‘albatrosss’ would be unfathomable for Public Image Ltd’s 10 minute 35 second epic EVEN THOUGH Fleetwood Mac used the word a good 11 years prior. Albatross. Albatross. Albatross. Albatross. The words have lost all meaning! Jimminy Jillickers.

In the interest of weeding out the superfluous of life it is necessary to wonder: do I need so many songs with the same fucking name? Have we run out of words? Must existence be this complicated? Probably. Even still, battle it out for precedence!

All I Need – My Bloody Valentine (1988)
VS
All I Need – Air (1998)
I feel guilty even posing this question, soz Kev. I can’t even remember the last time I listened to an Air song in its entirety save for Playground Love which pretty much only exists as mood music for Trip Fontaine sexual fantasies. To be fair, it’s not you, Air, it’s the people that I imagine that say they like you - je detest Francophiles hell more than any other ‘philes’ save for the paedo brand. Don’t make me hate Gondry, guyz plz. Using ‘French’ as a euphemism for rich or cultured or stylish or not fat doesn’t disguise the fact that you live in Hoppers Crossing and get glammed up in a dress and heels that flap around the soles of your hooves (it's heel toe, ladies) to go to Chadstone. Chadstone for fuck sake. Or that you live in Toorak and do exactly the same but with more money, more money that you could have spent on cool stuff not ‘lunch with the girls', read: binge drinking actual Champagne. Actually, that is exactly what I would spend my money on if i was rich. That and clothes for my pets. What a dream. Back to topic, there’s not much that could beat My Bloody Valentine so don’t feel bad, Air. You were way decent at V-Fest. Although I can't say I was paying a lot of attention. I think I was too caught up in the novelty of sitting on a SEAT in an AMPHITHEATRE watching a BAND at a FESTIVAL. Plus I was drunk and only wearing three different colours. And I had just lost my puffin brooch. Emotions were high. Nothing more to say, Au revoir.
VICTOR: MBV


Feel the Pain – The Damned (1977)
VS
Feel the Pain – Dinosaur Jr (1994)
Finally, a glitch in my faultless reasoning; Dinosaur Jr > everything. If there was ever any doubt that this band is unsustainable without Lou Barlow then here it is packaged up into a 3 minute 37 second onomatopoeia. I feel the pain! I’d liken it to a punch in the mouth if it wasn’t so fucking BORING. More like a wet towel and I don’t mean a nice cooling washcloth for a lady when she feels a little faint and has to lie down, i mean a moist, warm, mysteriously stained affair, flung, FLUNG at your eyes leaving you feeling like you’ve just been interfered with by a member of the belt adjusting elderly public. Plus the film clip is about golf! I cry myself to sleep and yes, realise it’s by Spike Jonze but lets not implicate him here; would you stand up to J Mascis, especially in your pre-Malvovitch/Coppola reaping of laurels juncture? You made me do it, Sir, you “screwed us both”. Plus the Damned one is real sexy. Sexy like if you were new to town and chance upon (or were you chosen by) a mysterious totally bad-ass stranger with strange blood-like marks on his t-shirt who invites you out to a club tomorrow night and as you’re walking down the stairs in slo mo you feel real out of place with your plaid skirt and turtleneck seeing as everyone is smoking and dancing and eye fucking the shit out of each other and while you’re impressed and intrigued and eager to begin your Sandra Dee type transformation you know there’s something weird going on with these kids, something sinister but ultimately like totally hot. (Vampire fantasy #1).
VICTOR: THE DAMNED


Dreams – Fleetwood Mac (1977)
VS
Dreams – TV on the Radio (2004)
Did you hear that? It was the sound of my non-prescription glasses smashing on the concrete outside my window. The sound of my skinny jeans ripping in non-fashionable places, the sound of my hair parting to reveal no fringe whatsoever. Whooopsy Daisy….
VICTOR: FLEETWOOD