Unsurprisingly, the dirt is flying and virtually the entire commentariat is wondering whether this book will actually bring down the presidency as Wolff has publicly claimed.
The media aristocracy have never forgiven Trump for making them look so foolish during the 2016 general election, so they’re busier than ever repeating the mantra that the President may be mentally unstable, and therefore unfit to hold office.
This is clearly just the latest attempt to dislodge a democratically elected head of state from office, now that the whole Russia collusion narrative has blown up in their faces. Alas, for them anyway, this latest co-ordinated attempt to unseat Trump will end in much the same way.
As the sparkling madness of the festive season fades to January grey, many of us are already beginning to think of summer escapes to warmer climes as we gaze across the British new year’s bleak concrete vista.
Just like buying a car or perhaps even renting one, the ritual sun-pilgrimage bristles with fiendish legal and financial traps, forever eager to ensnare the unwary. Luckily the BBC is poised to help all of us paella-munching mortals with a brand-new series of Rip-Off Britain: Holidays. Naturally, this valuable public service necessitates not just one, but three highly paid presenters jetting off to Tenerife so they might capture the welcoming warmth of this desirable destination as a backdrop for each short segment introduction.
I’ve no doubt that the idea of a more modest, studio based consumer show was discussed in depth, but eventually abandoned. After all, creative integrity is the lifeblood of these selfless angels of the small screen, who work tirelessly to ensure we don’t squander our hard-earned during our flight from the factory and the call-centre for two warm and blessed weeks of the year.
Just look at the havoc populism has wrought on our once stable, orderly and deeply contented Western societies. The seismic shock of Brexit, the Trumpocalypse, the rise of Front National and Germany’s current coalition woes are just a few examples of populism’s pernicious and harmful effects.
At every turn we see populism on the rise, more often than not defined as an entirely negative cultural and political force.
We can be certain in our analysis because our moral, intellectual and social betters inside the commentariat bubble have declared it to be so. You know the people I’m talking about; those highly educated, highly paid and infallible analysts who told us Britain would sink into the ocean the day after a Brexit vote. The ones who were certain Donald Trump had a less than 2% chance of becoming president. The ones who wrote off Jeremy Corbyn as a joke.
As an avid movie fan, I thought that statement would be a painful one to write, but to be honest I’m glad to have finally gotten it out of my system. I feel free, cleansed, liberated. Already I can feel my mind repairing itself, my critical faculties renewed and reinvigorated.
The break has been coming for a long time, and it’s not the latest round of revelations, accusations and denials swirling around Los Angeles that have hardened my resolve. Instead it’s the increasingly shrill, haughty, condescending and downright hypocritical finger wagging from an embattled and self-regarding gated community.
Who the hell told a bunch of pampered actors that they have a duty to harangue the unwashed masses about exactly what they should think on any given social, moral or political issue?
If the late 1980s can be identified as a period of cultural and musical fracturing, then the early 1990s is surely defined by a marked and probably permanent acceleration of that divergence. With the mainstream on corporate life support and the homogenized march of nu metal through the alternative scene, the nineties are seldom remembered as a cultural or musical high point by anyone who wasn’t actually young during that period.
Nonetheless, there were some glimmers of hope in the dark, and here are my favourite albums from the first half of that difficult decade.
At the risk of committing gothic rock heresy, I’ve often thought that Fields of the Nephilim were seriously overrated. However, they proved more than capable with this absolute beauty, and what I believe is by far their strongest release. For a start they seriously dialled back on Carl McCoy’s voice effects, resulting in very pleasant surprise for many listeners. McCoy’s much improved vocals are seamlessly blended with a much more creative use of guitar, bass and keyboards to produce a languid and often haunting audio experience.
Musically speaking, Elizium takes its time, perhaps reflecting a personal and musical maturity that was wanting in the promising but not-quite-there Nephilim album. Elizium is best played loud, especially during the slower, more sweeping sections of this often ignored and unjustly forgotten album.
Confirmed alcoholic Vincent Furnier (aka Alice Cooper) finally stopped drinking in 1983, and that personal journey partly explains Cooper’s creative rebirth and undoubtedly contributed to the two best written, arranged and engineered albums he’s ever released. Once you’ve gotten past the admittedly questionable cover, Hey Stoopid is an unapologetic orgy of rock production gorgeousness. With a really, really big sound and plenty of Cooper’s old theatrical flair, this album is like a connoisseur’s wine cellar, where all the mediocre stuff has been served to guests and the quality stock is kept safely hidden away. Tracks like Might as well be on Mars and Love’s a Loaded Gun remain true to the time honoured Cooperesque ethos, while dishing out newer and hitherto untasted dollops of bitter anger and lasting regret.
In the final analysis, Hey Stoopid just sounds so freakin’ good that it can get away with just about anything.
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