They have Risen. 9 o'clock Nasty

I'm used to 9 o'clock Nasty. I don't mean that entirely in a bad way. I knew then in the before times. Before sickness and recovery for me. Before the band for them. Years ago we sat in bars and challenged the world. We were like dogs that chase cars and having caught them, know not what to do and bite at tyres in mute, stupid joy.

When I was in care they brought me music and they brought me cheese. I hate cheese, which is probably why they brought it. They have the humour of children. I have written about much of their music. In truth I much prefer them as musicians to as people. A few weeks ago Pete Brock dropped me off copies of all their upcoming releases and a painstakingly written note from Ted with neat capital letters, setting out which song I should review when. I laughed and I ignored them for a few days but eventually they sucked me in. I tell you this to put my partiality on show. Yes I have a bias. Reader beware.

December, the note said. Rise Up. So I listened to Rise Up.

Fuck me, this one got my attention. Saccharine sweet in places, you find yourself humming it in your most personal and private moments. This is a song that creeps up on you and tightens around your spine. It’s the closest thing to actual pleasure 9 o’clock Nasty have ever given me, and I really do not understand quite how to express my feelings. I think it made me feel a little horny. It certainly made me question authority.

Protest songs are the backbone and the ribcage of much of the best music ever written. This is not a true protest song. Or at least not as I understand it, but it is the closest thing I have heard to one for a long time.