If we weren’t as calm as a Hindu cow these days, we’d be pretty irate right this minute. Just yesterday we were hanging out with the Finn – in Pizza Express, which is basically as fast-food slumming-it as Hampstead gets (we are pretty classy when it comes to treating our way-better half), ahead of seeing Leo DiCaprio get done by a bear and a whole series of unfortunate circumstances generally speaking at possibly the most pimped-out Everyman’s you ever did see (THEY BRING YOU PROSECCO TO YOUR SOFA) – going into a heavily-abstract monologue as to why we’re just so fucking chill these days. Happiness, contentment, all that shit we’ve been farting on about for these past few weeks. It’s incredible to actually be able to sleep unmedicated for what feels like the first time in ten-ish years over the past few weeks, and we certainly feel better for it. Everyone should be able to dream. Anyway, that all went to shit today open discovering two things that operate in tandem with each other: firstly, people ask us for shit that they get paid to do themselves, in reference to the seven different managers in touch with us between the hours of 7am and midday (although some might say that asking other people to do the things they get paid for is what they get paid for, so there you go). Points for efficiency there chaps. This in itself isn’t necessarily a bad thing; we consider ourselves to be rather generous in this respect, but mainly in the context of how we actually derive pleasure from doing things for people we like, and are constantly flattered at the sort of esteem we might be held in if we are indeed the go-to guy for this sort of stuff. However, if this is meted out with the other ongoing occurrence today – that we have discovered a whole bunch of shit that certain people said they would do, which for some reason they just haven’t – you can see why we’re tempted to turn into a fucking bastard about it all. But we’re not going to do that. We are going to immerse ourselves in the world of Newcastle’s Coquin Migale. Firstly, the name is boom. We at first thought Coquin Migale was some kinda Hispanic chicken, which temporarily opened our mind up to all kinds of shit that we simply hadn’t thought of before. Then we Googled “Coquin” and it turns out it’s sort-of French for a rascal, scoundrel, or generally speaking a jammy bastard. So we are dealing with a Migale, but in the vein of some kinda lucky guy. Case closed. Secondly, the music is hazily delicious but doesn’t rinse the whole psych-indie thing where everyone dresses like a goddamn tree and tries to be all Tame Impala about it. Whilst this does have sprinkles of the aforementioned, alongside with more contemporaries of that sort such as Temples, we’re getting more of a cross of the pop-rock of Lower Than Atlantis and previous Killing Moon compilationees Cold Ocean Lies here, as well as some of the more tripped-out moments that we hold dear as far as Rare Monk are concerned, and indeed those we have recently begun to appreciate Foals for. And, again, they’re from Newcastle, which we feel pretty strongly about. Not least of all because British Airways fucked up our connecting flight there a couple of weeks back. And we still want our money back you chumps, don’t think we’ve forgotten about it. On a far-more serious note, keep your eyes peeled for some Radio 1 and new release information coming up about this lot imminently. Or this week, rather.
Coquin Migale – LUV