Posts Tagged ‘fight club


Escape Monday: After The Apocalypse

6b08cfd4c3e8c68a81de33732e058d1b-565x405I’ve decided to start a new project on the site, I’m calling it Escape Monday. The idea is to post stuff every Monday to distract you, even if it’s just for a minute, from the fact that tragically, the weekend has ended.

The images below struck a chord with me because I daydream about stuff like this all the time.

This is the world Tyler Durden imagined in Fight Club. A post-apocalyptic garden of Eden where the few people who have survived have returned to their hunter / gatherer roots among the crumbling cityscapes.

To quote Mr Durden himself:


Fight Club For Chicks

I don’t know how I missed this band. It’s a double edged sword because part of me is like “What the fuck how could these guys slip off my radar? What kind of music junkie am I?” but the other part of me is like “FUCK YEAH A NEW BAND THAT ISN’T SHIT!”

Because a lot of them are shit, trust me, I wade through piles of it on a monthly basis so that you don’t have to.

Which brings us neatly to today’s band, Nico Vega, who dropped their eponymous debut album two years ago. I got my hands on it last week and can’t stop playing it.


Album Review: The Dead Weather – Sea Of Cowards

If Marla Singer from the movie Fight Club started a band, it would sound like The Dead Weather. They’re dark, edgy and angry and with their second album they’ve perfected their particular brand of radio-unfriendly blues / tripped-out reggae / 70s rock and infused it with enough wailing feedback, weird synth effects and creepy organs to bring the last acid trip you had flashing back hard and fast.



Their previous effort, 2009’s Horehound did very little to impress. Musically, it sounded like everyone on the album was pulling in different directions, a common short-coming suffered by supergroups. The songs were loose and rushed and whatever inroads they made with regard to originality and style were overshadowed completely by singer Alison Mosshart’s toneless wailing and the disjointed, hookless attempts at songwriting that defined a lot of tracks on the album.


When I Grow Up, I Wanna Be Alan Knott-Craig

A long time ago, I was a journalist working with a team of people from all over the world and I felt pretty fucking special and amazing.

We got paid every week in cash, huge wads of R200 notes carefully counted, stacked and packed into brown paper bags.

See, what we were doing wasn’t exactly legal. It would bore the hell out of me to have to explain it as I’ve probably told this story a hundred times, so instead I want you to think of the scene in Fight Club where they’re in the boutique store selling soap.