Pop music today is a colostomy bag, and Sean Wilde would like to burp it for you. God forbid it explodes all over your leggings, you wry thing.
Mr. Wilde began his first foray into melody during the summer of 2005. The former music journalist decided he wanted to whip up his own creations instead of scrutinizing others, so he wrote some regrettable lyrics on a piece of paper and suffered a six-month creative block when it all came to shit. Bless.
Following this unfortunate period in his life, Mr. Wilde immersed himself in classic films, toiled away on a drum machine and studied the cut-up technique of writing pioneered by William S. Burroughs among others. He then created the songs that would be the core of his delicious mantelpiece of an album, Jungle Red. Joan would be proud, really.
As a backdrop for his chapters of ascension, downfall and everything in between, Mr. Wilde employed the Linn LM-1, the drum machine of choice for lads from Sheffield and certain formerly nameless purple paisley wonders. Can you blame the man for wanting you to gyrate a little to his songs of claws growing and retracting under watchful eyes? No, you simply cannot.
From there, his songs utilize a mix of acoustic and electric guitars, analog synthesizers, glockenspiels, harpsichords, film samples, house music piano (Ride on time, ride on time…), 8-bit blippy bloops, music boxes, sitars and sampled noise. Mr. Wilde blames Blondie for influencing his eclecticism so wickedly. The kitchen sink was never too good for them!
Don't you dare worry about this man's magnitude. He learned it all from those early Bananarama music videos as a toddler, jumping up and down semi-rhythmically to those pristine Swain/Jolley undercarriages. The wild life, indeed. He has been known to incite adoration, arousal and animosity in audiences past and present. There is no gesture too taboo, no lyric too risqué, and nary a note too high for him. Save that thing Sheena Easton does at the end of "Sugar Walls." He will require lessons for that one, mind you.
"I have no desire to beleaguer the masses with mediocrity," adds Wilde. "There's too much as is. I walk the walk." And my, what a strutting rooster he is.
Stop waiting for that grating, vacuous pop tart on the tube to be hit on the head with a blunt instrument and suddenly turn into the next lady of the canyon. She's got a face that makes Caravaggio's Medusa look sexually viable, anyway. Open your eyes and listen to what is being presented to you here and now on this very page.
Listen to Sean Wilde. Consider it a proper education and due penance for what you're endorsing currently.
Copyright © 2008 Sean Wilde