The glorious return of Bitter Recriminations

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John Mc
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Re: The glorious return of Bitter Recriminations

Postby John Mc » 30 Jan 2013, 09:52

It was on such a dismal winter’s evening such as this, many years ago, that I first experienced that fateful and unexpected encounter, the dark shadow of which has been the cause of the tale that I now feel compelled to tell. Overhead, on that distant January evening, a dense blanket of drifting yet persistent cloud almost obscured the gibbous moon, whose faint and pallid illumination barely revealed the twisted and leafless branches of those ancient trees that stood between the far off hills beyond Arkham and my library window. A chill and miasmic blanket of low-lying mist further obscured the shape and features of the gardens between those same tenebrous flora and the lead-framed windows, upon which, and within the relative sanctuary of the room wherein I was sitting, the curtains remained merely half-drawn.

Inside, a roaring log fire scarcely warmed the shadowy corners of the dark, book-lined room. The hounds had long been retired to their distant kennels, and even old Matthias, my fat and indolent aged cat, had forsaken his favoured spot upon the hearthrug for the discreet privacy of his basket within the kitchen nook, doubtless a place of nostalgia for the old fellow – if indeed the feline mind is capable of such remembrance and potential sentimentality, for it was indeed in that very spot where he had been weaned many years ago as a kitten. But as Matthias will feature only fleetingly in our tale, I am content to leave him there in slumber.

It was in this remote circumstance that I sat, in solitary contemplation, book in hand, and a generous glass of a very modest Sauternes on the small side table adjacent. My very few semi-intimate acquaintances, from the local Black Cat Good Fellows League, had mostly all departed for the gloomy winter months for more salubrious and healthy climes. I could scarcely blame them. My last, and most recent, contact with them had been to submit a modest proposal by mail, a list of a few popular tunes that they might potentially use in their occasional musical soirees. Although it was a small gesture, I felt hopeful of receiving perhaps some encouraging reply from the collected members, especially after having given my suggestions quite some considered thought and care in their selection. To date, I had heard nothing in reply, although I was optimistic of receiving some very positive response once the members had given my suggestions their collective consideration. In the meantime, however, the quiet and uneventful routine of my days in this dark winter season continued.

I myself, as a gentleman from a noble and ancient line, with few surviving relatives, was not unused to enforced – nay, I must admit it! – with increasing frequency, often voluntary – solitude and introspection, and yet, still, the insistent isolation of my own dwelling place and its gloomy situation, coupled with the naturally enervating and spiritually draining aspect of this melancholy season, all played not infrequently upon my own refined and highly strung disposition. This evening was no exception. Outwardly, I remained composed. My inner self, however, struggled hard to resist a subtle existential unrest and discomfort. The soothing traceries of the French Symbolist, however, had provided some real, albeit momentary, distraction.

And then…. Came a knock. Distant but undeniable, upon the door, clear and resounding through the spaces of my remote and barely inhabited mansion…

I put to one side that slim volume of Mallarmé that I had not long since taken from my shelves, and had so recently been idly perusing, upon the rosewood table by my barely touched glass of Château d' Yquem. I shuffled my feet into my embroidered Turkish slippers, and stood, taking my handy swordstick from its resting place from my side (for I am a cautious man, and have learnt that it is best to be prepared for such contingencies as life may sometimes unexpectedly deliver). I opened the library door, and strode, confidently yet a little apprehensively down the hallway.

‘Who’s there?’ I called. My nerves alerted by the unexpected sound, I sensed, subtly and almost impalpably the presence of some stranger, whose mission I could not gauge. There was a deep silence.

And then! A series of thunderous blows, a veritable pounding upon my sturdy oak door! ‘Who’s there?’ I called again, an involuntary slight nervousness betraying itself, as, without conscious realisation, I half-drew my swordstick, the impulsive determination aroused to defend my domicile. It was then that I heard a ghastly howling, an eldritch sound that conjured in me such a feeling of horror and inhuman dismay that I feel barely capable of conveying. It was as though the very forces of Chaos and despair themselves were made incarnate and unleashed in the form of some crazed elemental force, both mindless and yet with some monstrous intent…

But I digress.

What were we talking about again?
quix wrote:If you want to really live then you have to open yourself up to love... some you'll win, some you'll lose... but what is the point if being human if you don't dare?

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Matty Red Sox
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Re: The glorious return of Bitter Recriminations

Postby Matty Red Sox » 30 Jan 2013, 11:14

Yep, I'm still winning. The rant above was frickin' prog.
the Eagles suck.

The Modernist

Re: The glorious return of Bitter Recriminations

Postby The Modernist » 30 Jan 2013, 11:16

Matty Red Sox wrote:Yep, I'm still winning. The rant above was frickin' prog.


:lol:

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Count Machuki
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Re: The glorious return of Bitter Recriminations

Postby Count Machuki » 30 Jan 2013, 18:46

:lol:

John Mc, you'll win this thing...nevermore!
Let U be the set of all united sets, K be the set of the kids and D be the set of things divided.
Then it follows that ∀ k ∈ K: K ∈ U ⇒ k ∉ D

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Re: The glorious return of Bitter Recriminations

Postby Apollo's Frock » 30 Jan 2013, 18:58

John Mc wrote:It was on such a dismal winter’s evening such as this, many years ago, that I first experienced that fateful and unexpected encounter, the dark shadow of which has been the cause of the tale that I now feel compelled to tell. Overhead, on that distant January evening, a dense blanket of drifting yet persistent cloud almost obscured the gibbous moon, whose faint and pallid illumination barely revealed the twisted and leafless branches of those ancient trees that stood between the far off hills beyond Arkham and my library window. A chill and miasmic blanket of low-lying mist further obscured the shape and features of the gardens between those same tenebrous flora and the lead-framed windows, upon which, and within the relative sanctuary of the room wherein I was sitting, the curtains remained merely half-drawn.

Inside, a roaring log fire scarcely warmed the shadowy corners of the dark, book-lined room. The hounds had long been retired to their distant kennels, and even old Matthias, my fat and indolent aged cat, had forsaken his favoured spot upon the hearthrug for the discreet privacy of his basket within the kitchen nook, doubtless a place of nostalgia for the old fellow – if indeed the feline mind is capable of such remembrance and potential sentimentality, for it was indeed in that very spot where he had been weaned many years ago as a kitten. But as Matthias will feature only fleetingly in our tale, I am content to leave him there in slumber.

It was in this remote circumstance that I sat, in solitary contemplation, book in hand, and a generous glass of a very modest Sauternes on the small side table adjacent. My very few semi-intimate acquaintances, from the local Black Cat Good Fellows League, had mostly all departed for the gloomy winter months for more salubrious and healthy climes. I could scarcely blame them. My last, and most recent, contact with them had been to submit a modest proposal by mail, a list of a few popular tunes that they might potentially use in their occasional musical soirees. Although it was a small gesture, I felt hopeful of receiving perhaps some encouraging reply from the collected members, especially after having given my suggestions quite some considered thought and care in their selection. To date, I had heard nothing in reply, although I was optimistic of receiving some very positive response once the members had given my suggestions their collective consideration. In the meantime, however, the quiet and uneventful routine of my days in this dark winter season continued.

I myself, as a gentleman from a noble and ancient line, with few surviving relatives, was not unused to enforced – nay, I must admit it! – with increasing frequency, often voluntary – solitude and introspection, and yet, still, the insistent isolation of my own dwelling place and its gloomy situation, coupled with the naturally enervating and spiritually draining aspect of this melancholy season, all played not infrequently upon my own refined and highly strung disposition. This evening was no exception. Outwardly, I remained composed. My inner self, however, struggled hard to resist a subtle existential unrest and discomfort. The soothing traceries of the French Symbolist, however, had provided some real, albeit momentary, distraction.

And then…. Came a knock. Distant but undeniable, upon the door, clear and resounding through the spaces of my remote and barely inhabited mansion…

I put to one side that slim volume of Mallarmé that I had not long since taken from my shelves, and had so recently been idly perusing, upon the rosewood table by my barely touched glass of Château d' Yquem. I shuffled my feet into my embroidered Turkish slippers, and stood, taking my handy swordstick from its resting place from my side (for I am a cautious man, and have learnt that it is best to be prepared for such contingencies as life may sometimes unexpectedly deliver). I opened the library door, and strode, confidently yet a little apprehensively down the hallway.

‘Who’s there?’ I called. My nerves alerted by the unexpected sound, I sensed, subtly and almost impalpably the presence of some stranger, whose mission I could not gauge. There was a deep silence.

And then! A series of thunderous blows, a veritable pounding upon my sturdy oak door! ‘Who’s there?’ I called again, an involuntary slight nervousness betraying itself, as, without conscious realisation, I half-drew my swordstick, the impulsive determination arou
sed to defend my domicile. It was then that I heard a ghastly howl

ing, an eldritch sound that conjured in me such a feeling of horror and inhuman dismay that I feel barely capable of conveying. It was as though the very forces of Chaos and despair themselves were made incarnate and unleashed in the form of some crazed elemental force, both mindless and yet with some monstrous intent…

But I digress.

What were we talking about again?


Super read. "eldritch" "gibbous" - new words to me like others too, you are an author, no? if not you should be. Anyway a different and refreshing 'rant' - thank you.

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Loki
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Re: The glorious return of Bitter Recriminations

Postby Loki » 31 Jan 2013, 00:56

Matty Red Sox wrote:I am still winning rantwise, right? You stupid fucking fucks.

I should win Most Succinct Recrimination. 8-)
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sloopjohnc
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Re: The glorious return of Bitter Recriminations

Postby sloopjohnc » 31 Jan 2013, 14:27

I wish Django was still around, just for his bittersweet and mock-poignant bitter recriminations. John Mc's reminded me of his.
Don't fake the funk on a nasty dunk!

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Re: The glorious return of Bitter Recriminations

Postby funky_nomad » 31 Jan 2013, 14:31

sloopjohnc wrote:I wish Django was still around, just for his bittersweet and mock-poignant bitter recriminations. John Mc's reminded me of his.

I miss his votes more than any of that...
Just a penitent man

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Minnie the Minx
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Re: The glorious return of Bitter Recriminations

Postby Minnie the Minx » 01 Feb 2013, 04:05

About an hour before the cup began I sent Andrew a PM asking if I could pull out as I was too fucking busy. Then I felt bad and said no, no, I'll do it. And I actually got quite excited by my list, too.

Pearls before swine, that's all I can say.
You come at the Queen, you best not miss.

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Re: The glorious return of Bitter Recriminations

Postby sloopjohnc » 01 Feb 2013, 05:35

Minnie the Mincepie wrote:About an hour before the cup began I sent Andrew a PM asking if I could pull out as I was too fucking busy. Then I felt bad and said no, no, I'll do it. And I actually got quite excited by my list, too.

Pearls before swine, that's all I can say.


I thought your list was pretty good.
Don't fake the funk on a nasty dunk!

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Butch Manly
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Re: The glorious return of Bitter Recriminations

Postby Butch Manly » 03 Feb 2013, 11:29

sloopjohnc wrote:I wish Django was still around, just for his bittersweet and mock-poignant bitter recriminations. John Mc's reminded me of his.


Aye. This is still the benchmark for me - Django's less than bitter recrimination from three years ago:

It's been a bit of a rough night for me.

I read the results last night and then shut down the lap top. I was at the dining room table, and just stayed there for a minute or two with my eyes closed. I heard my wife moving around in the room above, and so got to my feet and slowly climbed the stairs. I came to the bedroom doorway, but hesitated in the shadows watching her for a moment. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, with her back to me, staring at the rain coursing down the window-pane. I didn't think she knew I was there until she spoke.

"You're smoking again."

I looked down at the thin, blue smoke curling up from between my fingers, following my arm which hung limply by my side. I made a hollow noise, which might have been intended as a laugh as I enterd the room.

"I didn't even think about it. Old habits die hard."

"The results are in, then?" she asked, still not able to meet my eye.

"Yeah. It's not what we hoped for, babe."

She may have nodded once, it was difficult to tell in the halflight. Outside, on the other side of the street our neighbour Dave walked past with his Jack Russell. The movement in our window caught his eye, and he looked up at the two of us, stopped in his tracks. "Any news?!" he called to my wife. She didn't answer, instead reaching over to pluck the cigarette from between my fingers, and placing it between her own lips. Our neighbour switched his gaze to me instead. I just shook my head from side to side, and broke eye contact with him.

"Damn it!" he whispered as if to himself, and kicked his dog as hard as he could, punting it high into the cold January night, the dog's yelp trailing off like a distant police siren as it arced down to land steets away. Dave put his hands in his pockets and trudged away, his head down.

It was still silent in the bedroom. I hesitantly put my hand out to touch J's shoulder but withdrew it before contact was made.

"What beat you?" she asked.

"It doesn't matter, babe. Let's just move on. Hey, why don't we go away for awhile?!" I moved quickly around the bed so she was looking at me as I spoke and tried to put my arms around her, but she tore herself away, and it was only then that I realised she'd been crying all this time.

"Tell me!" she cried, "What beat you? Krautrock? That's always been your weak spot. Or an alternative take of a Velvets classic, maybe? I've told you before, you need to listen to unreleased stuff, bonus tracks, bootlegs.... What was it? Tell me."

"It was..." I couldn't look at her, so turned back to the window. I could see Dave down in the street, on his front step, talking to his wife, who had her head in her hands. I could see her "Django for the cup!" banner lying shredded at her feet. "It was.... Amy Winehouse."

J was silent for a breath or two, but when she spoke again a note of ugliness had crept into her voice. "Oh, well, Amy Winehouse! There you are then! I suppose we should count ourselves lucky you didn't go up against Duffy! Or....."

"Don't say it!" I cried, tears springing in my eyes, "Please don't say it!"

"...or Florence and the Machine!"

I stumbled back like I had been slapped. "Jesus, you can be vicious when you want to be." I whispered. "I tried my best!" I sank down onto the bed and wept.

After a time, she came and sat beside me. I slowed my ragged sobbing down, and used my shirt cuffs to dry my reddened, ovine face. Together we looked out of the window at the night sky, the only sound the noise of Dave being bundled into the back of an RSPCA van, and the eerie creaking of his wife swinging on the streetlight where she had hung herself.

"Looks like it might snow tomorrow.", I whispered.

J placed her hand on her belly where our unborn daughter slumbered unawares, a clean white sheet of parchment unsullied by the viscous black ink of disappointment. She carefully cleared her throat before she spoke.

"I'm not sure I believe in tomorrow anymore."



FIN.
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Matty Red Sox
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Re: The glorious return of Bitter Recriminations

Postby Matty Red Sox » 03 Feb 2013, 12:15

Yeah, yeah... I am STILL winning the rants this year. Ha!
the Eagles suck.

Bungo the Mungo

Re: The glorious return of Bitter Recriminations

Postby Bungo the Mungo » 03 Feb 2013, 12:26

Clint Planet wrote:
sloopjohnc wrote:I wish Django was still around, just for his bittersweet and mock-poignant bitter recriminations. John Mc's reminded me of his.


Aye. This is still the benchmark for me - Django's less than bitter recrimination from three years ago:

It's been a bit of a rough night for me.

I read the results last night and then shut down the lap top. I was at the dining room table, and just stayed there for a minute or two with my eyes closed. I heard my wife moving around in the room above, and so got to my feet and slowly climbed the stairs. I came to the bedroom doorway, but hesitated in the shadows watching her for a moment. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, with her back to me, staring at the rain coursing down the window-pane. I didn't think she knew I was there until she spoke.

"You're smoking again."

I looked down at the thin, blue smoke curling up from between my fingers, following my arm which hung limply by my side. I made a hollow noise, which might have been intended as a laugh as I enterd the room.

"I didn't even think about it. Old habits die hard."

"The results are in, then?" she asked, still not able to meet my eye.

"Yeah. It's not what we hoped for, babe."

She may have nodded once, it was difficult to tell in the halflight. Outside, on the other side of the street our neighbour Dave walked past with his Jack Russell. The movement in our window caught his eye, and he looked up at the two of us, stopped in his tracks. "Any news?!" he called to my wife. She didn't answer, instead reaching over to pluck the cigarette from between my fingers, and placing it between her own lips. Our neighbour switched his gaze to me instead. I just shook my head from side to side, and broke eye contact with him.

"Damn it!" he whispered as if to himself, and kicked his dog as hard as he could, punting it high into the cold January night, the dog's yelp trailing off like a distant police siren as it arced down to land steets away. Dave put his hands in his pockets and trudged away, his head down.

It was still silent in the bedroom. I hesitantly put my hand out to touch J's shoulder but withdrew it before contact was made.

"What beat you?" she asked.

"It doesn't matter, babe. Let's just move on. Hey, why don't we go away for awhile?!" I moved quickly around the bed so she was looking at me as I spoke and tried to put my arms around her, but she tore herself away, and it was only then that I realised she'd been crying all this time.

"Tell me!" she cried, "What beat you? Krautrock? That's always been your weak spot. Or an alternative take of a Velvets classic, maybe? I've told you before, you need to listen to unreleased stuff, bonus tracks, bootlegs.... What was it? Tell me."

"It was..." I couldn't look at her, so turned back to the window. I could see Dave down in the street, on his front step, talking to his wife, who had her head in her hands. I could see her "Django for the cup!" banner lying shredded at her feet. "It was.... Amy Winehouse."

J was silent for a breath or two, but when she spoke again a note of ugliness had crept into her voice. "Oh, well, Amy Winehouse! There you are then! I suppose we should count ourselves lucky you didn't go up against Duffy! Or....."

"Don't say it!" I cried, tears springing in my eyes, "Please don't say it!"

"...or Florence and the Machine!"

I stumbled back like I had been slapped. "Jesus, you can be vicious when you want to be." I whispered. "I tried my best!" I sank down onto the bed and wept.

After a time, she came and sat beside me. I slowed my ragged sobbing down, and used my shirt cuffs to dry my reddened, ovine face. Together we looked out of the window at the night sky, the only sound the noise of Dave being bundled into the back of an RSPCA van, and the eerie creaking of his wife swinging on the streetlight where she had hung herself.

"Looks like it might snow tomorrow.", I whispered.

J placed her hand on her belly where our unborn daughter slumbered unawares, a clean white sheet of parchment unsullied by the viscous black ink of disappointment. She carefully cleared her throat before she spoke.

"I'm not sure I believe in tomorrow anymore."



FIN.


:lol:

That really is wonderful.

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Butch Manly
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Re: The glorious return of Bitter Recriminations

Postby Butch Manly » 03 Feb 2013, 14:06

It's the "Django for the Cup!" banner.
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Re: The glorious return of Bitter Recriminations

Postby Minnie the Minx » 03 Feb 2013, 14:17

Clint Planet wrote:It's the "Django for the Cup!" banner.


The whole thing still makes me screech with laughter.
You come at the Queen, you best not miss.

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Re: The glorious return of Bitter Recriminations

Postby Butch Manly » 09 Feb 2013, 20:36

Cunts!


:x
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Re: The glorious return of Bitter Recriminations

Postby sloopjohnc » 10 Feb 2013, 04:14

Minnie the Mincepie wrote:
Clint Planet wrote:It's the "Django for the Cup!" banner.


The whole thing still makes me screech with laughter.


He's the best. I love the guy.
Don't fake the funk on a nasty dunk!

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watts
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Re: The glorious return of Bitter Recriminations

Postby watts » 10 Feb 2013, 06:59

I don't DO bitter very well. I am of course bitter about all manner of things in my life -- so I suppose I could, for comic effect delve into that more than ample reserve for a bit of bitter to dash around the place, but I've just no desire to wallow in it and frankly I don't know what would happen if I ever popped the cap and let a bit of it out....it could be a real disaster of a mess or it could be the makings of a great Pisco Sour...

Anyway -- I've absolutely no bitterness at all about the cup! I love the fucking cup! It is one of my favorite things about this place. Oh sure I've some mild annoyance at a few comments I received in round 1 maybe -- but bitterness? No, no bitterness at all. Especially not about my exit -- I really needed to lose this round. Anyway the cup brings me great joy every year. Thank you for that BCB.

My take on the cup every year is this...I don't really have much musical crossover with people here so the votes I DO get every year are like a gift from those who vote for me. So thank you for the gift of your vote -- it always brightens my night to see them -- each one feels like a kiss and a hug from a good friend and I appreciate them more than you can imagine.

Unfortunately I had some stuff happen offline that meant I didn't have time this year for the cup -- I thought I did when I signed up but then things changed and I found I really didn't. We've a situation of under employment here and as a consequence I'm moving house and dealing with a LOT of stress. The stress sucks but the impracticality of trying to stay in the cup was the real burden. For financial reasons we have to move and I have had to cancel the internet service at home -- tomorrow we're being disconnected. My cell phone gets shit reception here. It would have been an ALL CONSUMING task to keep going with the cup for me and I simply can't afford that level of commitment at the moment. So I thought about it long and hard and decided that I had to pull out.

I had originally picked out five fairly groovy tracks that led us out of the indie post punk stuff and into other arenas of my musical taste...

The Tear Garden – Romulus and Remus – link
Silver Apples – Oscillations – link
The Marmalade - Reflections of My Life - link
The Downliners Sect – Why Don’t you Smile Now? – link
The Groupies – Primitive - link

But I thought about it and those five choices just MIGHT be diverse enough and pander to the tastes of the board enough to squeak me through to round 3. I considered tanking it with a list of five fanfuckingtastic EBM tracks that no one here has heard besides James (LTOD) but that seemed grossly unfair to Matty, whose list I defeated in round 1 -- so I decided I'd just choose my last five tracks based on FLOW with no concern whatsoever about whether or not you lot would vote for them. And I decided I'd make sure they were all things I really deeply loved. And really all 15 of them are tracks I adore with all my heart and soul. My last five tracks were all things I'd love to fucking see win the cup -- five tracks I love 9 kinds of shit out of...So I submitted some of my dearest, most favorite songs and you obliged in voting me out-- thank you very much.... :(

:lol:

But seriously a huge thank you to the folks that voted for me in either round. And an especially nice smoochie to those fantastic people who voted for me in both rounds! You rocked my world. Thank you -- it made me feel really gleeful and happy. That rally of support and unexpected love for my indie post punk gloom and doom list -- especially coming from so many of you -- was fantastic. I really appreciated your support so much....it was thrilling to see so many votes roll in despite my efforts to tank this thing. It meant a lot!

I have SOOOO little in common with you guys musically I've never understood -- nor have my husband or friends -- why exactly I've stayed on here with you guys both here and over on Mojo now for over a decade. But clearly for me it's never been about the music -- it's been about the people. You are good people.

I really feel horrible to leave the cup -- I can't even vote in future matches. That's just fucked up. And I'm sorry guys. But I'm in the middle of a lot of stress at home at the moment and I need to move and to focus on my life and do what needs doing. If you lose -- pretend I voted for you. I likely would have -- I always pick the losers. :D

As of tomorrow I won't have internet access so...sadly I'm going to exit not just the cup, but BCB (and facebook too) for now.

Best of luck to all of you who remain in the cup, and of course my heart felt commiserations to everyone who tries and fails.

XOXO's.

-m

P.S. Here's some bitterness for you. It's the Cruxshadows - "Marilyn, My Bitterness". If I'd made it through to round 3 then I would have REALLY needed to tank my list and I'd have probably had to do those EBM tracks... If so, maybe this would have been among them. Ha! Anyway it's a kick ass track and I love it. Enjoy.

--m

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Re: The glorious return of Bitter Recriminations

Postby fange » 10 Feb 2013, 07:36

Ride on, martha watts.
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Re: The glorious return of Bitter Recriminations

Postby T. Willy Rye » 10 Feb 2013, 15:37

I love the cup and was thrilled when the masked man announced he would helm another year of BCB's most honored tradition. I received a favorable draw for the first round and found the general regard for my list to be on the whole positive. Today, however, finds me in a different mood: despondent, the jilted once favored son, the entire experience has left an acrid taste in my mouth. I believe now is the time to address a long held suspicion of mine: the Cup and BCB itself are corrupted, tainted to their very cores.

For the three years I have gleaned musical pearls from BCB, I've learned valuable information--in fact more than any one person should know about the Beatles, the Stones, and inexplicably the Pretty Things. Although I have fomented a few valuable acquaintances, there has been a certain dismissal for avenues in which I found myself enthralled. For every embraced Soul Jazz Grooves thread, there were five or six quickly dismissed threads such as Jim Nabors: How to Buy?, 60s Female Spanish Pop Singers, and the unjustly neglected Post Some African Stuff Already. I couldn't put my finger on it, but the general tone of disapproval was palpable.

But I believe I may have zeroed in on this musical tyranny. It resides in a secret cabal inhabited by Jeemo, Beno, and the Polish Girl. They have employed mission, who serves as their minister of (dis)information; the Squealer of their malignant farm. I'm sure you've observed his brand of plain spoken wisdom; however his message is there to obfuscate and steer you to a more homogeneous listening reality. I mean what kind of double-speak mindfuck is this?

mission wrote:I thought I had wandered onto the archived BCB Cups. I recognised A but I didn't remember seeing it this year. That's how crafty it is.

Undeniable tunes and more of them than B - A it is.


After reading this I nearly sold my children into slavery to promote A's greater good.

They even got to the normally lucid Davey:

Davey I'm Amazed wrote:Very close, but I'd probably reach for A if I was gonna listen to one I those now - despite the presence of a few favorites on B.


A list of 15 songs that contains a few of your favorites? How do you vote against that? What kind of Vulcan mind meld are they pulling here? (Sorry, I'm not really a Star Trek fan. Forgive me if I'm being sloppy with my allusion. I'm sure mission will be here to obliterate my faulty use of language any minute.)

I'm not sure which one of these shadowy muthafuckas is at the head of this oppressive organization, but my money is on Polish Girl. I believe she captains this ship with enmity towards creativity; she is the master of telepathy forcing us to gorge ourselves on bland tripe such as This Will Be Our Year or the well beyond its shelf life PWEI. It is also my contention that she calls the shots through an elaborate system of clandestine codes. When my list arrived, its potential was undeniable. These four resoundingly rejected it,however they are wily and realized that its first round exit would prove too conspicuous. Thus, Polish Girl's "the correct answer is" preceding my opponent's name was code to defer their plan to the next round.

They saw my list shining like a blinding beacon of hope and freedom against their despotic rule and decided to take action. Thus Polish Girl's concise and ominous A set their scheme into motion; my list never stood a chance.

I realize that some of you have stood up to these oppressors by bravely casting your vote for my list. Comrades, I fear for you, but admire your tenacity. Now is the time to organize and throw off the chains of these tyrants. I believe we can infiltrate their circle. I noticed Jeemo sniffing around the Jazz Worskshop; I have even engaged in small banter with him. He is the weak link--we can turn him.

Do not be cowed by their tactics! Last year they allowed Coan to reach the finals, before they used their prodigiously persuasive skills to swing the Cup to their chosen- Thesinger. I'm not sure who their chosen is this year; my gut says brassneck.

Oh no! They've found me-I don't know how. A voice on a megaphone thunders, "Come out peacefully and no one gets hurt!" I recognize that voice- it's Sloop's, but not the Sloop I know, an almost metallic sounding voice robbed of the warmth and humor that the well-meaning jokester I know possesses. I'm running to the basement. So many things to say. A well chosen obscure soul jazz track is not a crime-if you don't feel something below the waistline when that organ drops in on that Kastle track, you'd best see a doctor. Loki- it doesn't matter how many times Buffalo Stance shows up in the Cup- it's still great. Can't you see they are trying to distract you? Move on and keep fighting the good fight. Watts, are you sure you want to live in a world where this:

Chairmen Of The Board - Morning Glory link
The Zombies - This Will Be Our Year link
The Rolling Stones - Can't You Hear Me Knocking link
John Barry - Beat For Beatniks link
Slade - Coz I luv You link

is better than this:

Kastle- Gettin' Down (With Hoss) -link
The Fuller Brothers- Moaning, Groaning, and Crying -link
The Beach Boys- I Know There's an Answer -link
Jacqueline Taieb- Le Coeur au Bout des Doigts -link
The Dream Syndicate- Then She Remembers -link

Because I'm pretty sure in that world Michael McDonald has been made patron saint of ill conceived duets.

GoogaMooga wrote:Very close match-up, I voted B before, but I can't ignore A's five new songs, winners all, so A


Jackbooted thugs have invaded my house. It's only seconds until they find me. Nola Mike, Qube-wtf? I thought you had my back. Oh no! They see me. Lovers of freedom remain vigilant! BCB is worth saving! Must hit enterrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr



Hey, how come no love for Speed Up?