Charlottefield What Are Friends For

"Time was," said the old timer, leaning back in his winged chair, in his wallpapered sitting room; "time was when all this music was simple. These days, it's just the same old thing, but a bit more complicated."

His grandson shifted awkwardly; not only did he resent having to spend this time being berated for his tastes, but he knew exactly what was coming as well.

"You know, my boy, first it was those sloppy young men from Liverpool and the others that led up to this beat music coming in. Are they still going? Never thought much of ‘em, meself. Then you had those boys from America come over here and think they can show us up. So we showed them, alright: we made their music but we made it better'n them, faster, harder, you know, so that nobody could hear the words anymore. So we invented this here punk rock, and they copied us, see? Or the other way round. An old man forgets. Only they made it different, so we copied them, see, and it got all a little out of hand."

"Time was," he continued, "time was all you needed to make math rock was a passing knowledge of Shellac and an unhealthy obsession with Ian MacKaye. Time was, if you occasionally varied from four to the floor you'd get labelled a longhair and only students and music writers would listen to your records."

He coughed, a racking cough which caused grandma to shout at him from the kitchen to take his medicine. The grandson barely flinched, and took another bite of the slightly chewy ginger biscuit that was resting on a small china plate in front of him.

"You young'ns these days, though, my boy… No-one cares who sounds like who, long as it vocalises your existential dread and deep emotional confines. May well be it sounds like Battles with lower production values and the singer from any one of a slew of late 90's screamo bands. Doesn't matter if they've got a ridiculous name and wear eyeliner nowadays, does it my boy? I had a go with your, wossitcalled, eye-pop when you went out to see your grandma…"

"Oh granddad!" the teenager interjected.

"Don't worry laddy, I only got a little bit of jam on it, and that soon came off. I had a listen to the music on it; it's not bad you know. What's the singer called?"

"They're called Charlottefield granddad."

"Charlotte Field eh? Nothing to do with that Field Music group is she?"

"Charlottefield, granddad, it's all one word, they're a band."

"Ah, yes, I remember Charlottefield. If I recall aright, they were around a couple of years ago weren't they? I seem to remember they sounded a bit like Cat On Form, but a bit more melodic and not quite so hardcore. Had a singer that sounded like, ooh… that fellow from Earthtone9 was it, or maybe I'm just mixing them up with that nice Henry Rollins. More Fugazi than Minor Threat, I'd say. I remember them – yes, they still sound the same. Not bad, as I recall – a bit uninspiring on the odd occasion but generally a bit ahead of the rest of the pack. Certainly more interesting than those Deep Elm chaps, or them whojamaflips… Jade Tree. A bit more of a groove and some nifty instrumental work. Worth checking out, I'd say, granddad gives ‘em six stars, sonny me boy. Now nip out and help your grandma in the kitchen, there's a good boy."

And the grandson wandered off, eye's rolling. Whatever, he thought, old folks have no idea…