Wind power will leave us in the dark. The absurd attempt to minimize the Great Power Cut of August 9 continues, because the truth undermines the Green Dogma swallowed whole by our Government and most media.
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We are seriously supposed to believe it was caused by lightning, which strikes power cables all the time. My own research suggest it has more to do with the self-harming policy of scrapping reliable, heavy-duty coal and gas generators. Wind power, unreliable at all times, lacks this inertia. So does the power we suck into Britain through undersea cables from nuclear France, nuclear Belgium and the largely fossil-fuel-powered Netherlands. The Dutch may soon be a less reliable source of power as they have adopted the same mad anti-coal policies we follow.
Today, we operate the system with lower levels of inertia than we have in the past. How very true. There has been a frantic campaign to destroy coal-fired generation, with perfectly sound stations closed down and irrevocably blown up why not at least mothball them? But what for? On its own terms, the policy is futile. Plans are well under way to increase this by GW — a total of 1,GW. India, rapidly expanding, is also increasing coal generation and last March reached GW.
If the warmists are right about the cause of climate change, we could close every coal and gas station and it would make no difference to the impact of Chinese and Indian coal-burning. We would just spend longer in the dark. We are like a thirsty man refusing to take a drink from the tap, because of a water shortage, while his local water company leaves hundreds of leaks unrepaired, allowing thousands of gallons to drain away each hour.
It is a futile, self-harming gesture. Is there anyone in our political system prepared to end it? Or must we get used to power cuts? The smug face of modern morality. Making my way to the buffet car on an Edinburgh-London express, I passed a sprawled young woman. Her feet encased in enormous, thick-soled bovver boots were firmly planted on the seat opposite. She had an expression of unutterable smugness on her face.
I think this pretty much sums up modern morality. What you think makes you good, not what you do. Our airports are tougher than jail.
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He wears his influences on his sleeve, a one-man Pretty Ricky singing over the trap beats of today. It might feel like a cheat to enjoy his music: Are you really enjoying Jacquees, or just the memories of the artists he reminds you of? But that question sells him short. A luminous piece of funk-pop with a patently unbelievable premise, it tells the story of a transcontinental booty call to a woman in the Land of the Rising Sun.
They use every trick in the book to make you feel uncomfortable and afraid. The grinding guitar tone sounds like chewing on tinfoil. The breakbeats summon cyberpunk dystopia and memories of nu-metal white dreadlocks. The main argument against Danish post-punks Iceage is that they rarely engage emotionally, preferring indifferent posturing. Any possible sonic anchor the drum beat, the hammering piano is buried under further layers of noise—and because the recording was all-analog, nothing is snapped and quantized against a grid or overdubbed to oblivion.
She spends Whack World jumping into different personas, from mush-mouthed Soundcloud rap to Chance the Rapper-style whimsy to cartoonish country twang.
Here is what we played in chronological order:
With only a minute to get your feelings out, why spend any time worrying? The band is known for a singularly anthemic blend of black metal, shoegaze, and post-hardcore, combining these guitar-oriented subgenres into a light-drenched collage that is greater than the sum of its parts. Against this steady Americana, frontman George Clark eventually dives into a howling vocal line, while distorted guitars well up with face-melting intensity around him.
One has the sense the track might begin at any given point and continue on three and a half minutes from there. Pusha takes a victory lap over earth-shaking s and a sermonic sample about choosing Jesus over drugs, deployed here with more than a little irony. Push nods their way too, with mentions of the glass pipes and burnt spoons they use to get high. Is Barnett sneering at a lover, or herself? There are few guitarists capable of squeezing so much feeling out of their axe, and here, the Australian songwriter shreds with the energy of someone flipping the bird out the window of a speeding car.
The Korean composer and multi-instrumentalist has an affinity for the simple pulses and ringing chords of midcentury American minimalism. Her palette mixes traditional instruments like the double-reed piri and yangguem hammered dulcimer with jazzy western ones like saxophone and vibraphone, arranged into sonorities that shimmer in the air. With tense, trance-era arpeggios peeking out through a low-pass filter, the song builds to insurmountable heights, eternally delaying the satisfaction of a resolute beat drop. How do you reintroduce yourself after a year slumber? Savage understands that this is a false dichotomy, promoted by powerful forces invested in keeping us divided.
The chorus turns on the eternal question, or one of them: What comes after death? Both impressionistic and fatally specific, the second single from the upcoming bilingual double album Chris exposes existential terror as exhilaration, a kinetic energy that unfolds over deep ripples of bass and a drum machine that hits like a defibrillator. In that awkward stratosphere, he carves out a precariously beautiful central melody.
Pavement always shadowboxed with radio-ready allure abashedly, and it was that wry, reluctant kind of catharsis that allured indie fans in the first place. But Thug is the true star, with a verse that seems to never end, like the full uncut version of source material that would be edited down on a more standard-issue guest appearance. He leaves the hook in the dust, rapping for two and a half minutes about everything from slapping Donald Trump to the way his mother folds his clothes.
Even for a stylist as wild as Young Thug, this kind of pure indulgence is rare, and it is thrilling. At the end of the day, everyone wants to feel infinite. Subdued snaps and bouncy low-end capture the rush of speeding down an endless California freeway; a gorgeous riff buried deep in the mix sounds like a thumb piano heard from a distant room at a mansion party.
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The slick sonics drip with Bay-to-L. Her nerve and demeanor is charismatic from the word go. Do you want you a cookie? The balance feels impossible, but she threads it all the same. The beat moves like a jackhammer, charging up a turbulent sound sliced by samples and mic checks.
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