Want to join in? Respond to our weekly writing prompts, open to everyone.
Want to join in? Respond to our weekly writing prompts, open to everyone.
from
Roscoe's Quick Notes

My MLB Game of Choice this afternoon has the Oakland Athletics playing the San Francisco Giants. The game's start time is scheduled for 2:45 PM CDT. I'm listening now to the Athletic's Pregame Show on 650 KSTE, Broadcast Home for the Athletics in Sacremento, and I'll stay here for the radio-call of the game.
As I usually do, I'll follow the score and live stats as the game develops in real time via MLB's Gameday Service.
And the adventure continues.
from
ð Justin's Blog
The biggest âblack eyeâ in WordPress will be its downfall if things don't change.

Let's get the obvious out of the way: I'm not a developer. So, if you're looking for technical solutions in this post, then my apologies in advance.
Okay, cool, we're on the same page.
I've been out of the WordPress product space for coming up on five years. There are parts of it that I miss, but one thing that I don't miss is the security issues caused by plugins. No plugin is immune to them, either. When I ran LearnDash, we had some security scares. It sucks for everyone.
The good news, for years, is that plugin providers have always handled these issues with reasonable speed and minimal negative outcomes. Not all, but most. The community was really proactive about staying on top of such things.
I'm not sure if this is as feasible in the AI era of today.
Roger Montti from Search Engine Journal wrote a thought-provoking article (and inspiration for this post) related to WordPress 7.0's AI API keys and the rush it will cause for attacks on vulnerable sites. I agree with the threats outlined. It's a very real possibility.
At this point it looks like the WordPress space is just treating it as âbusiness as usualâ. It's this approach that will ultimately lead to WordPress losing even more market share.
AI is fundamentally changing the speed, scale, and sophistication of attacks against WordPress sites. Instead of automated scripts, AI can adapt, optimize, and move forward with attacks in ways that we haven't seen before. By way of example, Patchstack (cited from the SEJ article) suggested that exploitation from high-impact WordPress vulnerabilities is just five hours now.
WordPress already suffers from the âinsecure siteâ reputation. If things continue as they are, it'll only get worse. A lot worse.
Remember how I said I'm not a developer? Okay, this is where that matters. I'm not good at providing technical paths forward, but I'm pretty good at recognizing business threats and opportunities.
This threat has always existed in WordPress, sure, but not like this. It's going to get worse if nothing is done to improve it. What I want to know is what is being done currently? Because from my perspective, it looks like the issue still gets punted to hosts and plugin devs.
I'd love to see real leadership in this area. Not just information sharing or âbest practicesâ, but actual think tanks resulting in coded solutions that drastically help mitigate this increasingly embarrassing issue. We could start by assessing the criteria for being listed on the repo. Could we implement AI security hardening to monitor and verify the code of any plugin submitted and hosted there?
Yeah, I get it, that's likely not feasible given how expensive it would be, but these are the types of conversations that I'd like to see happening. Maybe they are already, and if so, great! WordPress can't drag its feet here.
Say what you want about Emdash, but at least they are attempting to tackle the issue because they know how real it is. Their way forward isn't really the âWordPress wayâ, I get that. Though I think we do WordPress a disservice by just flippantly dismissing their technical approach and moving on with our heads in the sand.
Something I found interesting was reading the comments on their social media when they came after WordPress. The sentiments were largely the same, and leading the way was the growing downside of the plugin ecosystem. What is often cited as WordPress' greatest strength is being seen as its most glaring weakness.
The WordPress project is at an inflection point. Over the next year, it is critical that it move deep into AI adoption and enablement, and that includes bolstering things from a security standpoint.
For me, I won't host another WordPress site in the traditional sense. Why? Because I'm not trying to be a security pro with my simple websites. No time for that nonsense. I like the static options like SimplyStatic Studio (I transitioned a website to it and love it). Aside from that though, I actually see more benefit in just using something like Loveable and hosting everything there for the added AI features.
The good news is that WordPress is making strides with AI. It's not yet widely known or advertised, but things like Jamie mentioned below are precisely what the project needs.

Let's hope that things keep going in this direction, and that more emphasis on security starts to emerge. To date, it's not very user friendly, at least not compared to tools like Loveable. I anticipate that this will change over time.
Overall, I'm optimistic about WordPress evolving in the ways that matter. The community voices are loud and clear. It's up to Matt to set the priorities. Hopefully, he's not too distracted with his WPEngine lawsuit to do what is right (and needed) for WordPress as a whole.
I'll revisit this in a year to see where things have landed. By that time, I think there will be some clear market signals one way or another.
#WordPress
I woke up a few mins ago. I got home from work and laid down for a minute, and then disappeared for several hours. I wasnât planning on sleeping for that long, but I guess my body had different plans, and for once, I didnât argue with it. I had the usual dream. I donât think itâll ever change at this point, anyway. Now Iâm awake with the rest of the night ahead of me. Iâll probably work for a while, deal with my housemate being sensitive about something, and then continue pretending I have a proper plan for the evening. Iâm tired today, so this wonât be one of those long notes where I accidentally spend three pages talking about absolutely nothing. which is unfortunate news for anyone who enjoys watching me ramble in circles for no reason, and excellent news for everyone else, who can now go back to their deeply important lives. But anyway, nothing interesting has happened. It was a peaceful day, which makes me suspicious.
Not that im complaining (which is what I usually do). A boring day is still better than an eventful one most of the time. And you know, eventful days usually end up becoming notes, and notes usually end up becoming longer than they need to be. So perhaps itâs for the best that I have absolutely nothing worth writing about tonight.
Sincerely, Ahmed
from
Ira Cogan
A while back I read an interview with Cory Doctorow in The New Yorker and the whole thing is a great read, and towards the end of it Doctorow was asked about how he manages his workload and he mentioned the book Getting Things Done by David Allen. He didn't just mention it, he described the book as âlife-changingâ. Doctorow cranks out a lot of quality writing all the time in between everything else he does so I figured whatever he has to say about that, I ought to pay attention to. And, not only that, whether you like Doctorow or not, he does all this stuff his way. These days, he's most known for coining the term enshittification and standing up to it. The man is a literal bullshit detector, so if he's describing a book in a genre that's 99% bullshit as âlife-changingâ I should probably read the thing.
So anyways, I read the book shortly after, and I'd describe it as life-changing too, to the point that here I am writing about it four years later because I still revisit parts of it every now and then. The audiobook too. I can't get too into the specifics because that would be a lot to get into. I get different things out of that book at different times depending on what I'm dealing with but if I had to pick one, it's that I'm better able to get the stuff that's on my mind someplace else where I can refer to it or deal with it. Obviously, the best way to get something off my mind is to deal with it, but what about the things I can't deal with, or at least can't deal with right now? The book was helpful with that, and with prioritizing those things, and deciding what goes where systematically, so I don't have that stuff on my mind. I'm freed up to think about other things with the confidence that everything that needs dealing with, or just to be filed somewhere is someplace safe.
I recall Cal Newport, another author in the productivity genre criticizing the systems in there as having too many steps, but Allen even says in the book to tailor this stuff so that it works for you. It isn't that anything in the book is too detailed or too much, it's that Allen's intention, at least to me, was to not leave anything out that might apply to anyone's given situation. There's room for criticism of anything, but that's a ridiculous criticism. Like, you're gonna criticize a productivity book for being too detailed about how to organize all your shit? Come on.
My only criticism is the corny turns of phrase here and there throughout the book that give a wink to the professional managerial class, but, I get it. That stuff is there because it's supposed to be, and as corny as that is to me, I'm not the only one reading this thing.
When I was reading it after that Doctorow interview, I mentioned it to someone at work and he was like âOh I heard of that, (Howard) Stern's into that book.â There's another one, whether you like Stern or not, there's another perfect example of someone with a lot on their plate at all times that they have to keep organized otherwise they'd go nuts.
If you already have it all figured out, terrific. If not, I found the book helpful and maybe you might too.
from
Littoral
âPleasure is not binary. It exists alongside fear, sadness, and politics. That is the history of Queer pleasure. We tend to tell one side of our historyâof riots and martyrsâbut ignore how much sex is a root of that liberation. The folks who judge and police another consenting adult's pleasure are just policing their own. For the past decade, we have experienced a massive paradigm shift through tools unimaginable to our ancestors: PrEP, HIV undetectability, DoxyPEP, vaccines, GPS apps. Our history is full of Queers who lament eras they missed out on. Stop arresting your own development and abolish the cop in your head, beloved. We are in a sexual revolutionâact accordingly.â
â Leo Herrera, (analog) CRUISING, pp. 134-135
from Dan De Lion
GOSPEL OF THE WEED â PROPHET IN THE WASTE
Hear me. For there is no one else left to hear.
Observe, says the wind. Light breaks because it must. Truth stands because it cannot kneel.
The hidden burns. The ordinary is stripped to its ribs. The fallow hums with buried fire.
Neglect speaks in the tongue of stones. Testimony rises from what the world forgot.
Thus it is written: Perception rules the mind. Absence rules the soul.
The seen commands thought. The unseen shapes being. This is the law beneath all other laws.
Light orders. Darkness reveals. Both are teachers. Neither is kind.
Absence is a flame without smoke. Fallow is a promise without mercy.
And on that ground â the ground no one claims â the weed rises.
Not chosen. Not wanted. Not killed.
I am that weed. I speak because silence is a tyrant. I endure because the waste has no use for the fragile.
Boredom empties the vessel. Silence lifts the veil. Testimony climbs the spine like heat.
Iâm ok. Youâre ok. These are not comforts. These are survival rites.
Roots hold. Soul opens. Truth enters like a blade of light.
And in the end â when the wind has taken everything but the voice â Communion reveals truth.
Thus speaks the weed. Thus stands the prophet. Thus endures the waste.
from
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from bios
Not So Famous Last Words | Rev. David Herbert Allen | 1920ish â 1992
There is a memory of a photograph of my grandfather in short pants, on a sand dune, shirtless, laughing, but I cannot tell you where my grandfather served in the war, my mother used to be able to, but now she talks mostly about the farm.
I first saw this photograph when grandad noticed me reading Spike Milligan's âRommel: Gunner Who?â and took it out of some box, presenting it with the words, âThis is me in North Africaâ
He and my grandmother, Marge ran Marge's Home Industries out of the cottage, converted from a servants quarters, when they lived with us in the 80s, after they had had to leave the farm. He replaced his train sets with a room to make eyes out of spoons, They were for her toilet roll covers, her fluffy eared keen dog, little red tongue toilet seat covers. Making these and making food was their primary function in our home. His secondary function was fart jokes.
Once when I had a runny stomach, was doubled over with cramps, he said to me, âIs the bottom falling out of your world, or the world falling out of your bottom?â He then placed me in a deep warm bath and invited me to shit myself at my leisure.
He was a Wesleyan minister who in his youth rode on horse back between churches and somewhere there met my grandmother. He came out from Scotland, when I can't say, why I can't say.
The rest of the farm sloped down away a gentle hill from the farmhouse. There was a shed, a reservoir and a dam, a small dam on the side of the dust road as you drove in, we, the cousins, my sister, would run through the brush and jump into the king weed that grew on the side of the dam, it's terse coils dipping us into the water and springing us out. There were giant rats in the sugar cane fields, and we lived in terror of them. They occasionally took chickens. The hen houses were under a large tree, with a chopping block on an old stump, axe embedded. Grandpa Dave named the chickens after the cousins, my sister, me: Andrew, Terry, Trevor, Michael, Mandy, Roger. The farmhouse itself was a dining room, a TV and settee nestled in the corner. The sitting room was for his trains. In retirement Grandpa Dave built a world of trains. A circular track that he would duck underneath, stand in the centre, hours applying grass detail to a miniature hill, staring intent of realism, through his just not quite bottle top glasses.
The long drive down to Ifafa every second weekend. Arriving on Saturday afternoon, we would wake Sundays to a long breakfast on the veranda, Grandpa Dave rehearsing us through the recounting of our weeks, each family member. He was excruciating in his need for detail. Every sixth visit one of us would have to kill a chicken bearing our name. And carve the roasted bird. After breakfast Grandpa would rise up and say, âToday we're eating Roger,â and lead whoever's turn it was off the chopping block and with his ineffable good nature tease us until we took our head off, and then we would laugh as he counted how long the headless chicken ran. The farm was an idyll.
People came and went into the fields, the farm manager an amorphous figure, part of the church, discussed but never seen. When they moved into the servants quarters there was no bitterness, an offhand remark from my father about âthemâ having to âgive back the farmâ, a comment from my grandmother about God working in mysterious ways.
She survived him by ten or more years and never stopped saying, âI wonder what grandpa would think?â. She knew what he would say in any given moment and completed his sentences with a loving irritation. âOh Dave, of course you would say that.â
My mother told me he was in hospital and I raced back from Cape Town, hadn't been home for a while, and by the time I got there, he had passed. In the hospital corridor my cousin told me his last words were âShitabrick!â My aunt who was there later told me he had sat up in his bed, after three days of not responding to anything, looked at her and said, âShit! A Brick!â and then laid down and died. My mom always said my aunt was prone to exaggeration.
He possessed an impressive range of similar short sleeve shirts, in memory a shade of yellow green always, and black rimmed glasses and eyebrows that sprouted one black hair. He would hush us in church with a naughty smile on his face, and he always had money for the ice cream van.
from
Image Not Found
TL;DR: Paint the Cameras Dead (read more) asks people to notice the surveillance infrastructure disappearing into the background of our cities. Look up. Find the cameras. Ask who placed them there and what they see. Map them, but do not stop there. Respond with something of your own. A drawing. A sticker. A message. An intervention we have not imagined yet.
The postcards are now available.

A camera watches.
You can watch it back.
But two objects staring at each other will not change much.
The point of noticing a camera is not to stand beneath it forever, looking suspiciously upwards.
The point is to break the spell that makes it invisible.
Once you see it, you can ask questions.
Who installed it?
What is it recording?
Where does the recording go?
Why does this wall have eyes?
You can map the camera. Correct an existing entry. Help someone else notice it.
And then you can do something more creative.
Make a drawing.
Write a message.
Design a sticker.
Create a new postcard.
Turn the camera into a character, a question, a joke or a public conversation.
The tool is not important.
The interruption is.
The postcards show people where to look and how to recognize the cameras hiding above doors, on poles and inside dark plastic bubbles.
You can read more about the campaign, download the print-ready files, or contact us to get some printed cards.
But we prefer that you print your own.
Not because we do not want to send them.
Because the campaign becomes more interesting when it stops belonging to us.
Print five.
Print fifty.
Translate them.
Change the images.
Rewrite the instructions.
Make a version for your own street, neighborhood or city.
Leave them in cafés, libraries, universities, community spaces and unexpected places where people might pause for a moment.
Surveillance likes passive people.
People who walk underneath it.
People who never notice.
People who notice but decide there is nothing to be done.
The postcards are not the final action.
They are an invitation.
Look up.
Map what you find.
Then answer it with something the camera cannot produce by itself:
An idea.
Some imagination.
A small act of creative disobedience.
Some people will say nothing will change.
Make something anyway.
from An Open Letter
J Is both more photogenic Than me, but also worse at taking photos. It sucks because I look at these really nice photos of her I take and then I look at the photos of me and I kind of hate them, and I feel fat and gross and I feel insecure. And itâs weird because on one hand Iâm like I donât care if I gain weight because anyway thatâs kind of attractive in its own way and I get to be strong, but when I see like my chin I feel bad.
from
Hiroaki Satou's Music Blog
I still remember the moment a track came through the speakers of BBC Radio 3's Late Junction. It was a jazz piano trio, yet it had the texture of electronica. The beat was played on a live drum kit, yet it had a mechanical precision. The bass occasionally growled like a guitar. I had never heard jazz that sounded like this. The next day, I went out and bought the CD. That was my introduction to the Esbjörn Svensson Trio â e.s.t.
E.s.t. was a Swedish jazz piano trio formed in Stockholm in 1993. The members were Esbjörn Svensson (piano), Dan Berglund (double bass), and Magnus Ãström (drums).
Svensson and Ãström were childhood friends. They grew up together in the small Swedish town of VÀsterÃ¥s and had been playing in bands together since their teens. Svensson's musical origins spanned both classical music and jazz: his mother was a classical pianist, his father a jazz enthusiast. He grew up listening to rock on the radio, loved Thelonious Monk, and drew from an unusually wide range of influences. One of the tracks the band worked on during rehearsals went by the working title âRadiohead-Melodyâ â a detail that speaks for itself. Svensson said of it plainly: âAll three of us love Radiohead.â
Ãström's path to the drums began with his older brother's record collection: Jimi Hendrix, Deep Purple, the Allman Brothers, Lynyrd Skynyrd. A boy who trained his ears on rock, he was thirteen when he attended a concert by Billy Cobham and John McLaughlin and discovered jazz-rock. That experience became the foundation of everything he would do as a drummer.
Berglund was a committed hard rock fan to his core. As he described it himself: âI started to experiment with the bow and distortion on the bass, to sound like Jimi Hendrix or Ritchie Blackmore.â His bass was an unconventional instrument in any jazz context. After forming Tonbruket following e.s.t.'s end, he put it directly: âSince we have a guitarist in this band, I no longer have to be both bassist and guitarist, as I was at times with e.s.t.â The bass in e.s.t., in other words, had been doing the work of a guitar as well.
What made e.s.t.'s sound unlike anything else was the result of these three different musical backgrounds colliding and fusing.
Ãström used the tips of brushes on his snare to imitate the feel of pop rhythm samples, and incorporated electronic triggers to expand his sonic palette. That quality â a live drum kit with the precision of programmed beats and the organic fluctuation of a human performer â came from a percussionist who had trained his ears on rock, awakened to jazz-rock, and then set out to reproduce the grid-like feel of electronica with his own body.
Berglund ran his double bass through distortion, fuzz and delay pedals, and sometimes bowed it to make it sing like a guitar. This approach â unorthodox by any jazz standard â gave e.s.t.'s music its rock-derived texture and forward momentum.
And then there was Svensson's piano. Playing with the structural logic of classical music, the spontaneity of jazz improvisation, and the melodic sensibility of pop, he landed unmistakably as a jazz pianist on top of whatever ânon-jazzâ thing Ãström and Berglund were building beneath him.
E.s.t. had been celebrated in Sweden from early on, but their international breakthrough came in 1999 at the ACT World Jazz Night at the Montreux Jazz Festival. From that point, ACT began releasing their albums outside Scandinavia, and the band expanded their reach across Europe.
Their strategy was relentless live performance. They spent nearly a hundred days a year on tour, playing not only jazz clubs but rock-oriented venues. Their use of elaborate lighting and fog machines on stage was a conscious effort to reach younger audiences beyond the traditional jazz crowd.
In London, they started at the small Pizza Express Jazz Club on Dean Street and steadily built their audience until they were filling concert halls. Late Junction and other adventurous radio programmes provided an important route to listeners outside the jazz world during this period.
Their 2002 album Strange Place for Snow won numerous prizes â among them the German Jazz Award and the Victoire du Jazz (France's equivalent of the Grammy) for best international act â bringing e.s.t.'s name to audiences across Europe. In 2006, they became the first European band ever to appear on the cover of the American jazz bible Downbeat.
The proof that e.s.t. had reached their absolute peak is preserved in Live in Hamburg, recorded in November 2006 at the Laeiszhalle in Hamburg. It was made roughly eighteen months before Svensson's death, at the moment when the three musicians were playing with the greatest freedom and daring of their careers. The improvisational breadth that no studio album could quite contain, and the miracle of three musicians generating a groove as one â it is all here.
The 2003 album Seven Days of Falling is where e.s.t.'s sound reached its fullest realisation. Electronica, jazz and rock fused completely, crystallising into something that belonged to no genre.
On this album, Ãström's drumming pursued the âprogrammedâ quality more boldly than ever, while Berglund's bass moved even more freely across the boundary between bass and guitar. Svensson's piano sustained its melodic beauty while concealing increasingly complex rhythmic structures beneath it.
It was around this time that critics began describing e.s.t. as âthe gateway through which people who had never liked jazz discovered they could.â The trio was selling three times the usual volume for a jazz release, and audiences who had never set foot in a jazz venue were filling their concert halls.
A Norwegian trumpet player who is sometimes discussed alongside e.s.t. is Nils Petter MolvÊr. ECM Records had long been known as a label synonymous with quiet, contemplative chamber jazz â and MolvÊr overturned that reputation with Khmer in 1997 and Solid Ether in 2000. The latter album brought programmed beats even more to the foreground: its opening track, âDead Indeed,â was almost entirely played and programmed by MolvÊr himself. Both records received critical acclaim well beyond jazz circles and opened ECM to new audiences.
But there is a fundamental difference. MolvÊr operates a computer and sampler himself, layering his trumpet over electronically generated beats. It is a distinctive and accomplished approach â but its starting point is different from e.s.t.'s.
What e.s.t. created was the result of human bodies attempting to imitate the grid of electronica and then surpass it. Without a machine in sight, three musicians on acoustic instruments fused jazz, rock and electronica together through sheer physical performance. That was the miracle they made with their bodies.
On 14 June 2008, at the height of their powers, Svensson went missing during a scuba diving session off the island of Ingarö near Stockholm. He was 44. His diving companions â including his fourteen-year-old son â found him unconscious on the seabed.
Berglund and Ãström decided that continuing the band with a different pianist was not something they could do. E.s.t. ended there.
Both have continued making music in other projects. Berglund formed Tonbruket; Ãström pursued a solo career before launching Rymden. But e.s.t. as a band no longer exists.
Musicians who came after e.s.t. took something from their sound and tried to carry it into their own music. But no one has managed to rebuild the house completely.
The sound of electronica, rock and jazz fused through nothing but live drums, live bass and live piano was a chemical reaction produced by three musicians with singular backgrounds and years of shared ensemble experience. It cannot be reproduced.
Listening to albums made more than twenty years ago, e.s.t.'s sound has not aged. That is not because their music was riding the wave of a particular genre or era. It is because they touched something at the limit of what human bodies and acoustic instruments can do.
That miracle has not been surpassed.
from
Hiroaki Satou's Music Blog
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from Out of Office
Today was a great day. I spent it with my lovely dog, who is doing so well today after the procedure yesterday. I started by going to the grocery store and getting all of her favorite foods (including the forbidden ones, as she only has days left). I came home and my brother was on a relaxing, little walk with her. She is back to herself a bit and even regained her appetite. I had so much fun with her! We could not do anything too strenuous, but just spending time near her is the most precious ever. I took her with me last night to pick up my brother from the airport, so she was pretty tired this morning, and we let her sleep in and take it easy.
While the day was lovely overall, I did have to pick up my nephew from daycare because he had a fever and my sister-in-law and brother were at work at the time. It worked out beautifully because he got extra time with my dog, and had a nice surprise with his uncle visiting from out of town.
After dinner, we took her back to her favorite place ever and shared our most treasured memories with her. She ran around chasing geese and greeting people at the lake. It felt very serendipitous, we just happened to see all kinds of animals on our way home â a skunk, deer, raccoon, cat⊠it almost felt like they all came to say goodbye to her.
I still donât feel ready, but does anyone ever feel ready? Ironically, I feel very blessed and grateful to be able to be home watching her and spending precious time before she crosses over.
I could not help but think of Taylor Swiftâs song The Best Day today. I know it is about her mom, but I think that song will forever remind me of this week with my dog. I don't know how I'll feel tomorrow, or next week, or next month. But today, with her, was the best day.
Thank you for your message. I am currently out of office with no set return date. I will get back to you when the time is right.
from Out of Office
Part 1
I woke up dreading the day. I wish this day had never come and I am in denial that it is here. It is all starting out like normal, except that she can no longer get up to go potty and no longer wants to eat anything. I am devastated but she looks so uncomfortable. Where did the years go? I was so sure we had a few more left together.
Part 2
A very unexpected turn of events. I decided to take her to an ER an hour away to get a procedure called pericardiocentesis to hopefully get a few more days with her. It was a whirlwind of a day and I have not been able to keep up with regular life or even worry about my situation for one second. My brother is very close to her and he is flying in tonight last minute to get some face time with her as well.
The procedure went well. The doctor drained 500 ml out of her heart sac. The prognosis is very poor, but I can at least better prepare for her passing. She is the absolute greatest and no amount of preparedness will ever get me ready. We will just take it day by day, or in her case, hour by hour.
Thank you for your message. I am currently out of office with no set return date. I will get back to you when the time is right.
from
Hiroaki Satou's Music Blog
I discovered the Cranberries in high school, through a TV programme covering the Billboard charts. The moment Dolores O'Riordan's voice came through the speakers, it lodged itself in my ear and refused to leave. That unmistakable trembling lilt, the reverb-drenched guitars, a sound that was at once fragile and fierce. For the teenage version of me, the Cranberries were simply the best thing there was.
Years later, as an adult, a song came on the radio. Reverb-laden guitars, a voice with a rolling, melismatic quality, harmonies coiling around each other â it sounded so much like the Cranberries that I genuinely thought I was mistaken about what I was hearing. But it wasn't the Cranberries. It was a band called Cocteau Twins, who had arrived at that same sound a full decade earlier.
My favorite song of Cramberries
Cocteau Twins were a Scottish rock band active from 1979 to 1997. They formed in Grangemouth, an industrial town in central Scotland â a place guitarist Robin Guthrie once described to Billboard as âlike Elizabeth, New Jersey: a great chemical-refining works that's not at all picturesque.â It was from that grey, unglamorous setting that a group of young people began making music as if trying to escape it.
The band was founded by Robin Guthrie (guitar, drum machine) and Will Heggie (bass), with Elizabeth Fraser joining on vocals in 1981. In 1983, multi-instrumentalist Simon Raymonde replaced Heggie, completing the lineup the band is best known for.
Fraser's arrival in the group was almost accidental. Guthrie and Heggie spotted her dancing at a local club and asked if she could sing. She was seventeen years old and had never thought of herself as a singer.
The sound at the heart of the band grew out of Guthrie's unconventional relationship with the guitar. Trained as an electrician with a natural fascination for electronics, he began running his guitar through fuzz boxes and effects pedals in search of something no one had made before. Because he had never learned to play conventionally, his experiments took him in directions that no one else would have thought to try. Layering chorus, flanger and delay units into dense, interlocking textures, he arrived at the ethereal sound that would define the band.
Guthrie described his ambition in his own words: âThe aim was to make music with punk's energy but more finesse and beauty, and that shiny, Phil Spector sound. I was trying to make my guitar sound like I could play it, so I was influenced by guitarists who made beautiful noise, like The Pop Group or Rowland S. Howard.â
Then there was Fraser's voice. She prioritised the transcendent quality of sound over lyrical meaning, saying: âThe words don't have any meaning at all until I sing them. I did it so I could sing something.â Her vocals were in English and yet somehow defied comprehension, bypassing the mind entirely and arriving directly at emotion. This approach â sometimes called glossolalia â became the defining characteristic that set Cocteau Twins apart from every other band.
In 1982 the band signed to the London independent label 4AD and released their debut album, Garlands. They went on to pioneer the dream pop subgenre and helped define what would later become known as shoegaze.
Cocteau Twins occupied a peculiar position in the music world â one that commercial statistics alone cannot explain.
On the UK Albums Chart, their trajectory was one of steady ascent: Treasure (1984) peaked at number 29, Victorialand (1986) at number 10, Blue Bell Knoll (1988) at number 15, and Heaven or Las Vegas (1990) â their most celebrated album â reached number 7.
Yet in the United States, even Heaven or Las Vegas peaked at only number 99 on the Billboard 200. Icons of the British indie scene, yet virtually unknown in America â this double status was the curious hallmark of Cocteau Twins.
And yet their musical gravity was quietly pulling in some of the biggest names in the world. Madonna was said to âloveâ both the band and Fraser, and Prince sought to sign them to his own record label. Great musicians were drawn to them in silence.
The list of artists who have publicly cited Cocteau Twins as an influence is remarkable in its breadth: Björk, Imogen Heap, M83, Annie Lennox, Lana Del Rey, Tori Amos, Slowdive, Ride, Prince, The Weeknd, Massive Attack, The Sundays, My Bloody Valentine, Radiohead, Deftones, and Reggie Watts â all have spoken of the profound impact that Cocteau Twins, and Elizabeth Fraser's voice in particular, had on their music.
Among the most striking testimonies: The Cure's Robert Smith called Treasure âthe most romantic sound I'd ever heard,â and the fingerprints of that album's guitar sound can clearly be heard on The Cure's landmark record Disintegration.
Slowdive guitarist Christian Savill recalled the first time he heard âPearly-Dewdrops' Dropsâ: âThe vocals and words were unlike anything I'd ever heard, and the guitars seemed huge and mysterious.â Ride bassist Steve Queralt was equally direct: âFor me, Cocteau Twins recorded some of the greatest sounds ever committed to tape. It's Robin's shimmering guitars that set the blueprint for bands like us â and that's surely where it all began for shoegaze.â
In the world of post-rock, Explosions in the Sky's Chris Hrasky cited Cocteau Twins as part of the DNA of their sound. Simon Raymonde was so taken with the band that he eventually signed them to his own label, Bella Union, for their landmark 2003 album The Earth Is Not a Cold Dead Place.
Let me return to where this began. The instinct I had when I heard that song on the radio â that it sounded like the Cranberries â turns out to be a matter of broad critical consensus.
Central to that lineage is a band who sit precisely between Cocteau Twins and the Cranberries: The Sundays. Formed in 1988 when vocalist Harriet Wheeler and guitarist David Gavurin met at the University of Bristol, this English quartet caused an immediate sensation. Their debut single âCan't Be Sureâ prompted Melody Maker's reviewer to declare them âthe best thing I've ever heard,â sparking a label bidding war almost immediately. Their 1990 debut album Reading, Writing and Arithmetic reached number 4 on the UK Albums Chart. Their sound â blending the ethereal textures of Cocteau Twins with the jangly guitar melodicism of The Smiths, anchored by Wheeler's crystalline voice â led critics to describe them repeatedly as a band carrying the genetic imprint of both. They released three albums before falling silent after 1997, but their music endures as a cornerstone of dream pop.
In the 1990s, Rolling Stone wrote about the Cranberries: âThey sound an awful lot like The Sundays, who, in turn, strongly resemble the Cocteau Twins. What they have done with that aesthetic, however, is make it their own.â
Neither Dolores O'Riordan nor guitarist Noel Hogan explicitly acknowledged the Cocteau Twins as an influence. When Noel was confronted with comparisons, he tended to deflect: âIf we sound like other bands, that's coincidence.â In interview after interview, Hogan named Johnny Marr and The Cure as his primary guitar influences â never Robin Guthrie. And yet the music they made so clearly transplanted the dream pop aesthetic that Cocteau Twins had spent a decade building, rooting it in Irish soil.
Sound on Sound described the Cranberries as a band who âfollowed in the footsteps of The Sundays â themselves shaped by Cocteau Twins â to rise quickly to fame in the early 1990s with their evocative dream pop.â The influence runs in one direction only: Cocteau Twins â The Sundays â the Cranberries.
Salon's music criticism went even further: the Cranberries track âThe Icicle Melts,â from their album No Need to Argue, was identified as a direct homage to Cocteau Twins â whether or not Dolores intended it consciously, that lineage ran all the way down to the title.
Guthrie had complicated feelings about the many bands who followed in his wake.
In an interview with Drowned in Sound, he said: âI find it hard to have respect for artists who only look back. They're constantly trying to recreate something that happened 20 or 30 years ago. If I said we were going to reform the Cocteau Twins tomorrow, everyone would think it was great. I don't get that.â
Elsewhere he pushed back against being grouped with the shoegaze movement: âThe Cocteau Twins often get compared to bands from the shoegaze movement, but we were never part of that. I was really pushing the electronic idea. I wasn't just happy to put my guitar through one effects pedal â I'd put it through loads. That was my idea, and I wanted to take it further and further.â
The band's official website puts it this way: âOthers have tried to reproduce or capture their sound, with limited success. The few artists who have succeeded sound mostly unlike them, but have managed to convey an essence â inspiration without imitation. Think Beach House, Goldfrapp, Sigur Rós, or M83. Cocteau Twins were a foundational influence for whole categories of music, notably dream pop and shoegaze.â
The Cranberries achieved commercial success on a scale that Cocteau Twins could never have imagined. Their debut album sold tens of millions of copies worldwide. âZombie,â âLinger,â and âDreamsâ are songs that have outlasted generations. By comparison, Heaven or Las Vegas â Cocteau Twins' biggest record â sold 235,000 copies in the UK by 1996. The difference is not merely significant; it is categorical.
And yet when it comes to musical influence, the picture reverses entirely. The aesthetic of reverb and layered effects that Cocteau Twins built â an approach to texture, atmosphere and the voice as instrument â is written into the DNA of an enormous body of music in the twenty-first century: dream pop, shoegaze, indie folk, ambient R&B and much more. That the Cranberries could sound the way they did was only possible because Cocteau Twins had spent a decade establishing that aesthetic.
Slowdive's Neil Halstead captured this precisely: âI've heard plenty of tracks that mimic the Cocteaus' sound and vocal style, but fail to include their beautifully constructed chord progressions, key changes and melodic hooks. The voice, the guitars, the songs â they aren't just simple blocks you can co-opt or fit together to recreate the whole. Each element is huge and deep and unique in and of itself. Many of us try and borrow a hint of one or two facets, but we're really only scratching at the surface.â
The Cranberries' success is unquestionably great. But if you ask where the music came from â who built the house that the Cranberries moved into â the answer points to Cocteau Twins. And the blueprint for that house is still being followed everywhere.
The official Cocteau Twins website contains a quietly remarkable observation: âIt is a testament to the timelessness of their sound and production quality that many new fans don't even know that the story actually started in 1979.â
That, to me, is the highest possible compliment. Music that people hear today and assume was made recently. Music that carries no timestamp. Cocteau Twins' albums, more than forty years on, are still that kind of music.
Robin Guthrie, in a rare reflective moment, said of his former bandmate: âI would record with Liz again in a heartbeat. But at least I worked with the world's best singer.â
In high school, the Cranberries were the door I walked through into dream pop. But it was Cocteau Twins, arriving on the radio years later, that showed me just how deep and beautiful and timeless the world on the other side of that door really was.
from
Hiroaki Satou's Music Blog
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