One of my favourite records at the moment is Howling Willie Cunt’s ‘World of Filth‘.

A few years ago I discovered that I have a slightly embarrassing love of songs with unashamedly crude lyrics.  While Judge Dread was my rude lyricist of choice for some time, he’s since been replaced by Howling Willie – actually an alias of this rock genius, although he’s never officially admitted it.

‘World of Filth’ contains such inappropriately-named tracks as ‘Say It With Herpes’, ‘Homosexual Punchbag In A Wheelchair’ and ‘Cunts on Roads’.  Although I’ve never found myself laughing out loud while listening to the record, the combination of offensive lyrics and jangly country music normally succeeds in bringing a smile to my face.

Not knowing much about country music, it took me a while to realise that the tracks on ‘World of Filth’ are not original.  Most (if not all) are re-tellings of existing standards:

e.g.

• Cunts On Roads = Country Roads
• White Guys = White Lies
• Columbian Lineman = Wichita Lineman
  

Then there’s ‘Caffeine Bomb‘, a vast improvement on the Wildhearts original, while ‘Country Boy‘ is a glorious pastiche with echoes of everything from The Magnificent Seven to Guns N’ Roses.

The genius of this record, then, lies not in the music.  I don’t really think it lies in the words, either, which are silly but not clever.  The brilliance of ‘World of Filth’ is the delivery, the way things are done.

Cover versions are interesting to people because they combine something familiar with something unexpected.  They are a deviation from something we already know.

In some cases, the success of the cover version relies on our knowledge of the original.  Punk covers are like parodies of the originals – deeply referential, usually quite one-dimensional.  Me First & the Gimme Gimmes are good at this kind of cover.

At other times, the cover version supercedes the original, and takes on its own life.  Many people say they like ‘Hallelujah’, but only the Jeff Buckley version.  So a cover version can be an improvement on the original.  But, if you know both songs, the second version is still referential, defined by its relationship with the original.

Some cover versions I like:

• Save Ferris – Come on Eileen
• Barbara Gaskin & Dave Stewart – It’s My Party
• Joey Ramone – What a Wonderful World
• Muse – Feeling Good
• Chesney Hawkes – Surrender

Stories have cover versions too.  To appreciate Roald Dahl’s ‘Three Little Pigs‘, you really need to know the original folk tales it departs from.  Cruel Intentions is a cover of Dangerous Liaisons, they say. 

Maybe every re-telling is a cover version.  So, Disney’s output consists almost solely of cover versions. 

But is it as simple as that?  Are adaptations, re-makes, parodies, dramatisations, translations, spoofs, tributes, all cover versions?

I’d like to think about this some more, later.

When Ramesh gave up recorded music for Lent, I started to think a little bit about how we interact with sound. Then, this week, two chance conversations sparked further thoughts. The first conversation was about MP3 players. Somebody was saying that he could not relate to the urge to listen to music when out and about. The second was a conversation about John Cage’s famous piece of “silent” music, 4?33?. When the subject came up, I remembered that I had performed this piece once, as part of a small ensemble.

Playing a piece of silent music draws attention to the key quality of any performance: it is unique, unrepeatable. Nobody knew what would happen during the performance: we might hear creaking doors, the weather outside, traffic, or some other interruption. Alternatively, like John Cage in the antechoic chamber, we might hear only the sounds of our own bodies. What was heard and felt during that performance was determined by the unique combination of audience, ensemble and location. The piece seemed like a gimmick on paper, but in practice it was a fascinating experience.

Like many others, I am guilty of using an MP3 player to drown my experience in a fabricated soundtrack, which sometimes leads me to feel like a character in a film, and at other times makes me feel swamped, my experience of the world numbed by the artificial sound.

My noise preferences depend on my mood. On occasions, the loud conversations of fellow passengers on the Croydon Tramlink irritate me, interrupting my thoughts or my reading. On others, I am eager to hear what is being said, happily eavesdropping on other people’s lives. (And it really is amazing how easy this is to do; the kinds of things people are willing to bellow into a mobile phone on a packed tram on a Friday morning).

Sometimes, though, I am influenced by another noise. I take my seat and try to read, but am distracted almost instantly by the interruptions of my own mind. Whenever I read I want to write, but everything might be a waste. The difficulty in these situations is knowing what voices to listen to – what will be the most valuable use of my time. Today my gaze landed on a woman engrossed in her Sudoku. What is the difference between reading Midnight’s Children and completing a puzzle? Both activities exercise the brain, both provide distraction, and both compete, with varying success, with the noisy voices of commuters.