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Peter Doherty strips “The Drugs Don’t Work” back until there is almost nowhere for the song to hide. Richard Ashcroft wrote one of The Verve’s most emotionally direct songs around grief and the helplessness of watching someone you love deteriorate, and Doherty’s fragile delivery gives those words a different... show more

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287,327 次观看 • 1 个月前 •via X (Twitter)

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35 条评论

Henke_hoops 的头像

Henke_hoops1 个月前

Strips it right down to being fucking dreadful. That’s astonishingly bad.

Mike 的头像

Mike1 个月前

Jesus, talk about murdering a song, is this guy tone deaf?

Grumblestiltskin 的头像

Grumblestiltskin1 个月前

Strips it down to just the colon? Is there a point we admit this bloke can’t sing or play guitar?

₿rowny 的头像

₿rowny1 个月前

If this was me I’d do everything in my power to have it removed from the internet. Fucking diabolical.

Raoul Duke 的头像

Raoul Duke1 个月前

It’s not about grief and watching someone deteriorate. It’s about his own drug taking. He said it clear as day in an interview before it was released. It’s a whiny, self pitying, anti drugs song.

Jimmy Win 500 的头像

Jimmy Win 5001 个月前

It’s like 4am at the after party and someone grabs a guitars, butchers a song but everyone’s too fucked to tell him to shut up…

Ziggy Pop 的头像

Ziggy Pop1 个月前

You do know there’s videos of Ashcroft singing it without “sweeping strings and carefully layered production “, yeah? Might wanna check them out, if not.

Endatheworld 的头像

Endatheworld1 个月前

Fcuk the haters, Pete is a beautiful human being. Great cover of a great song by a great man

James Bishop 的头像

James Bishop1 个月前

The drugs would literally have to work to make anyone thing that was a decent cover.

roseabouttown 的头像

roseabouttown1 个月前

What a terrible day to have ears

Bigbert 的头像

Bigbert1 个月前

Fucking woeful 🤣

Richard 的头像

Richard1 个月前

What a load of pretentious bollocks. He's just taken a song and destroyed it.

wigmanruggers 的头像

wigmanruggers1 个月前

Fucking dreadful. Ashcroft knocked this out of the park when he supported oasis. Totally stripped back. Unbelievable

Stephen 的头像

Stephen1 个月前

Surely we've all reached that point where we can admit Pete Doherty is fucking appalling? Both vocally and guitar. Just abhorrent.

Becky Tallentire 的头像

Becky Tallentire1 个月前

This feels like a case of the ‘Emperor’s New Clothes’. It’s really, truly, utterly awful. Somebody should tell him not to do it again - ever! 🙉

JD Kelleher 的头像

JD Kelleher1 个月前

Yeah but what happened, Pete?

letfunbegin 的头像

letfunbegin1 个月前

I love Pete and he's prone to doing a spontaneous cover, but this didn't land bless him. its too perfect a song to half arse.

Barry McGowan Art 的头像

Barry McGowan Art1 个月前

Anyone that's been in a pub band knows this scenario - some young drunk cub want to get up for a song and against your better judgment, and the imploring/veiled threats from his mates & family, you concede and let him play. One song maximum, then off ye get son.

MARTIN STONE 的头像

MARTIN STONE1 个月前

Everything about this is shite And the crowd is full of cunts.

sAm 的头像

sAm1 个月前

Nowhere for the song to hide?

Daniel G 的头像

Daniel G1 个月前

The drugs definitely didn't work for this fella. Dogshit.

PMA-XRP 的头像

PMA-XRP1 个月前

Is that your way of saying it was total shite . Because I agree. It was 💩💩💩

JC! 的头像

JC!1 个月前

Awful .

Steve Berry 的头像

Steve Berry1 个月前

Utter shite the guys never been talented. I don't know what anybody sees them, he can't sing. He can just about play the guitar. He's just lived off the back of Amy's legacy, if there was a case for someone completely and totally famous for being useless, he's up there with Bez from the happy Mondays

Dave Sutherland 的头像

Dave Sutherland1 个月前

Absolutely dreadful cover and dreadful singer. Tbh

Jim Royle 的头像

Jim Royle1 个月前

Singing in a thousand different keys, none of them the right one.

james 的头像

james1 个月前

Terrible rendering of a great song . Doherty is overrated at best a chancer at worst

You Know. 的头像

You Know.1 个月前

The demo version original on the CD single by Richard Ashcroft is far superior to this contrived nonsense.

Eileen @crazycatlady 的头像

Eileen @crazycatlady1 个月前

Don’t ever mention Ashcroft’s name in the same sentence as Doherty’s One is a washed up clown the other is a musical genius

george dors 的头像

george dors1 个月前

hes a murderer so he can fuck off and die on drugs-FUCK HIM

T r u s t F i l m s 的头像

T r u s t F i l m s1 个月前

God that was dreadful just like him

Phillip Michael Hunt 的头像

Phillip Michael Hunt1 个月前

Jesus Christ, I used to do better in my bedroom when I was first learning to play the guitar

Jamie The Irish Red YNWA 🇮🇪 的头像

Jamie The Irish Red YNWA 🇮🇪1 个月前

Shite

James Landry 的头像

James Landry1 个月前

Some covers are so bad they are good..(Biz Markie BATJ) This one is so bad that you want to batter the guy with the guitar

James 的头像

James1 个月前

Its shite

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Batfox Pictures

21,411 次观看 • 1 个月前

“Africa” Shouldn’t Have Worked. Somehow, It Became Unforgettable. There is something slightly ridiculous about the fact that Toto’s “Africa” became one of the most recognizable songs in popular music. Not because the song is bad — quite the opposite — but because almost nothing about it follows the usual recipe for a massive pop hit. The lyrics are strangely specific and strangely vague at the same time. Kilimanjaro appears. Serengeti appears. Mount Olympus gets mentioned. There are missionaries, drums, wild dogs and a river. It is not really a story you can follow from beginning to end. It feels more like someone remembering a place from photographs, dreams and half-understood images. And yet you know the song within seconds. That is the trick. Toto didn't need to make Africa feel real in the documentary sense. They made it feel somewhere. The song creates distance before it gives you geography. You hear the percussion, the keyboards, the layered vocals, and your imagination does the rest. It is almost like a memory of a place you've never visited. That may explain why the song has survived so strangely well. People don't necessarily have a personal connection to the Africa described in the lyrics. They have a connection to the sound of “Africa.” The song has become its own location. Listen to the chorus and you can hear why. It doesn't behave like a normal verse-to-chorus payoff. The melody keeps climbing, the harmonies widen, and the percussion gives it that feeling of movement without ever becoming frantic. It sounds enormous, but never desperate to prove that it is enormous. The production is doing something clever too. There is a lot going on, but very little feels crowded. Every part seems to have its own little space. That precision is one reason the song can sound completely at home on an old radio and still work through modern speakers. But the most interesting thing may be the song's emotional logic. The narrator isn't simply saying, “I love Africa.” He wants to go there. He wants to understand something there. He wants to be part of something distant from himself. There is longing in the song, but the object of that longing remains slightly out of reach. That makes “Africa” less about a continent than about distance itself. We have all had something like that. A place we've never seen. A person we've never met. A life we imagine would feel different if we could only get there. We fill the unknown with details because the unknown is easier to romanticize than the ordinary life sitting in front of us. Maybe that's why “Africa” became so much bigger than anyone could have expected. It doesn't give you a place you can fully understand. It gives you a place you can imagine. And imagination has a strange advantage over reality. Reality eventually disappoints you. A song can keep the place perfect forever.

“Africa” Shouldn’t Have Worked. Somehow, It Became Unforgettable. There is something slightly ridiculous about the fact that Toto’s “Africa” became one of the most recognizable songs in popular music. Not because the song is bad — quite the opposite — but because almost nothing about it follows the usual recipe for a massive pop hit. The lyrics are strangely specific and strangely vague at the same time. Kilimanjaro appears. Serengeti appears. Mount Olympus gets mentioned. There are missionaries, drums, wild dogs and a river. It is not really a story you can follow from beginning to end. It feels more like someone remembering a place from photographs, dreams and half-understood images. And yet you know the song within seconds. That is the trick. Toto didn't need to make Africa feel real in the documentary sense. They made it feel somewhere. The song creates distance before it gives you geography. You hear the percussion, the keyboards, the layered vocals, and your imagination does the rest. It is almost like a memory of a place you've never visited. That may explain why the song has survived so strangely well. People don't necessarily have a personal connection to the Africa described in the lyrics. They have a connection to the sound of “Africa.” The song has become its own location. Listen to the chorus and you can hear why. It doesn't behave like a normal verse-to-chorus payoff. The melody keeps climbing, the harmonies widen, and the percussion gives it that feeling of movement without ever becoming frantic. It sounds enormous, but never desperate to prove that it is enormous. The production is doing something clever too. There is a lot going on, but very little feels crowded. Every part seems to have its own little space. That precision is one reason the song can sound completely at home on an old radio and still work through modern speakers. But the most interesting thing may be the song's emotional logic. The narrator isn't simply saying, “I love Africa.” He wants to go there. He wants to understand something there. He wants to be part of something distant from himself. There is longing in the song, but the object of that longing remains slightly out of reach. That makes “Africa” less about a continent than about distance itself. We have all had something like that. A place we've never seen. A person we've never met. A life we imagine would feel different if we could only get there. We fill the unknown with details because the unknown is easier to romanticize than the ordinary life sitting in front of us. Maybe that's why “Africa” became so much bigger than anyone could have expected. It doesn't give you a place you can fully understand. It gives you a place you can imagine. And imagination has a strange advantage over reality. Reality eventually disappoints you. A song can keep the place perfect forever.

Music over time🎻

21,135 次观看 • 11 天前

The Rain Song is one of Led Zeppelin's most atmospheric and emotional tracks. It's the second song on Houses of the Holy (1973), and it shows a softer, more orchestral side of the band. Jimmy Page wrote the music using a tuning he created specifically for the song (DGCGCD), which gives it that dreamy, open sound. He played it on a Danelectro guitar and layered in a Mellotron to mimic string sections. Robert Plant's lyrics move through the emotional seasons of a relationship, mirroring changes in the weather-from cold and distant to warm and full of promise. Robert Plant performing The Rain Song with Saving Grace at the Baloise Session Music Festival in Basel, Switzerland, on October 25th, 2024.

The Rain Song is one of Led Zeppelin's most atmospheric and emotional tracks. It's the second song on Houses of the Holy (1973), and it shows a softer, more orchestral side of the band. Jimmy Page wrote the music using a tuning he created specifically for the song (DGCGCD), which gives it that dreamy, open sound. He played it on a Danelectro guitar and layered in a Mellotron to mimic string sections. Robert Plant's lyrics move through the emotional seasons of a relationship, mirroring changes in the weather-from cold and distant to warm and full of promise. Robert Plant performing The Rain Song with Saving Grace at the Baloise Session Music Festival in Basel, Switzerland, on October 25th, 2024.

Rock'n Roll of All

28,045 次观看 • 10 个月前

“Cross My Heart” is one of those songs that sounds happier than it actually feels. The first thing you notice is the brightness. The keyboards sparkle, the rhythm keeps moving, and everything has that clean, polished sound that instantly places the song in the late 1980s. It feels like a song that should leave you smiling. Then Patsy Kensit starts singing. She doesn't attack the melody. She almost floats through it, and that changes the mood. There is something delicate in her voice that makes the confidence of the music feel less certain. The song says “trust me,” but her voice seems to quietly ask, “can you?” That tension is what keeps pulling me back. “Cross My Heart” could easily have been just another glossy pop song about love and promises. Instead, there is a strange vulnerability underneath the production. The brighter the arrangement becomes, the more you notice how much the singer is asking for reassurance. And perhaps that's what makes the song feel so unmistakably human. A promise is never really about knowing what will happen. If we knew the future, there would be no reason to promise anything. We promise because the future is uncertain and, for a moment, we want another person to believe in what we believe. The song captures that feeling without making a big drama out of it. There is no heavy sadness here. No heartbreak being pushed to the front. Just the excitement of wanting something to last, mixed with the quiet knowledge that you can't actually control whether it will. Even the production seems to understand that contradiction. Everything is bright and carefully arranged, but the emotional center remains surprisingly intimate. It is almost like looking at an old photograph where everyone is smiling, while knowing you have no idea what happened after the picture was taken. That's the part of 1980s pop I find most fascinating. The songs often arrived wrapped in bright colors, big melodies and immaculate production. But underneath all that polish were very ordinary human fears: losing someone, being forgotten, not being enough, wanting to believe that this time might be different. “Cross My Heart” doesn't sound old to me because of the production. It sounds young. And maybe that's why it still works. It captures that brief moment when love feels certain, even though nobody has been given any guarantee. Sometimes the most fragile promises are the ones we make with the biggest smile.

“Cross My Heart” is one of those songs that sounds happier than it actually feels. The first thing you notice is the brightness. The keyboards sparkle, the rhythm keeps moving, and everything has that clean, polished sound that instantly places the song in the late 1980s. It feels like a song that should leave you smiling. Then Patsy Kensit starts singing. She doesn't attack the melody. She almost floats through it, and that changes the mood. There is something delicate in her voice that makes the confidence of the music feel less certain. The song says “trust me,” but her voice seems to quietly ask, “can you?” That tension is what keeps pulling me back. “Cross My Heart” could easily have been just another glossy pop song about love and promises. Instead, there is a strange vulnerability underneath the production. The brighter the arrangement becomes, the more you notice how much the singer is asking for reassurance. And perhaps that's what makes the song feel so unmistakably human. A promise is never really about knowing what will happen. If we knew the future, there would be no reason to promise anything. We promise because the future is uncertain and, for a moment, we want another person to believe in what we believe. The song captures that feeling without making a big drama out of it. There is no heavy sadness here. No heartbreak being pushed to the front. Just the excitement of wanting something to last, mixed with the quiet knowledge that you can't actually control whether it will. Even the production seems to understand that contradiction. Everything is bright and carefully arranged, but the emotional center remains surprisingly intimate. It is almost like looking at an old photograph where everyone is smiling, while knowing you have no idea what happened after the picture was taken. That's the part of 1980s pop I find most fascinating. The songs often arrived wrapped in bright colors, big melodies and immaculate production. But underneath all that polish were very ordinary human fears: losing someone, being forgotten, not being enough, wanting to believe that this time might be different. “Cross My Heart” doesn't sound old to me because of the production. It sounds young. And maybe that's why it still works. It captures that brief moment when love feels certain, even though nobody has been given any guarantee. Sometimes the most fragile promises are the ones we make with the biggest smile.

Emotion & Music

81,087 次观看 • 15 天前

What makes Barry Gibb so captivating after all these years? It’s easy to say “the voice” or “the songs,” but I think there is something deeper. Barry’s falsetto has always sounded unusual—high, bright, slightly fragile, but never weak. There is something almost vulnerable in it. He can sing about love without making it sound like a performance of love. You hear longing, tenderness, regret, and sometimes even a little fear. That is difficult to fake. But his greatest strength may be that he understands what a song is supposed to feel like. He doesn’t seem obsessed with showing us how well he can sing. He knows when to hold back, when to let a phrase breathe, and when to let the melody carry the emotion. His best performances feel less like someone demonstrating a talent and more like someone telling you something he has lived through. Then there is the songwriting. The Bee Gees wrote about things that sound almost too ordinary to become timeless: love, loneliness, desire, heartbreak, hope. Yet they had a rare ability to take those simple human feelings and turn them into melodies people could remember decades later. That kind of songwriting is much harder than it looks. And there is another quality I admire in Barry now: he doesn’t seem desperate to outrun his age. He doesn’t need to pretend he is still the man he was decades ago. Time has changed his face. His voice has changed. The world around him has changed. But when he sings those old songs, the years don’t disappear. They become part of the performance. That gives the songs a different kind of weight. A young singer can sing about love with excitement. Someone who has lived through decades of love, loss, success, grief, and change can sing the same words with memory. That difference matters. Perhaps that is why Barry Gibb still has such a powerful presence. He doesn’t simply carry his own music onto the stage. He carries other people’s memories with him. For someone in the audience, a Bee Gees song might bring back a first love, a long-gone friend, a wedding, a dance, a summer, or a time in life that can never return. Barry sings the song. But the listener remembers their life. And maybe that is the real measure of an artist’s longevity. Not staying young. Not staying fashionable. But creating something that grows older with you—and somehow still feels like it understands you.

What makes Barry Gibb so captivating after all these years? It’s easy to say “the voice” or “the songs,” but I think there is something deeper. Barry’s falsetto has always sounded unusual—high, bright, slightly fragile, but never weak. There is something almost vulnerable in it. He can sing about love without making it sound like a performance of love. You hear longing, tenderness, regret, and sometimes even a little fear. That is difficult to fake. But his greatest strength may be that he understands what a song is supposed to feel like. He doesn’t seem obsessed with showing us how well he can sing. He knows when to hold back, when to let a phrase breathe, and when to let the melody carry the emotion. His best performances feel less like someone demonstrating a talent and more like someone telling you something he has lived through. Then there is the songwriting. The Bee Gees wrote about things that sound almost too ordinary to become timeless: love, loneliness, desire, heartbreak, hope. Yet they had a rare ability to take those simple human feelings and turn them into melodies people could remember decades later. That kind of songwriting is much harder than it looks. And there is another quality I admire in Barry now: he doesn’t seem desperate to outrun his age. He doesn’t need to pretend he is still the man he was decades ago. Time has changed his face. His voice has changed. The world around him has changed. But when he sings those old songs, the years don’t disappear. They become part of the performance. That gives the songs a different kind of weight. A young singer can sing about love with excitement. Someone who has lived through decades of love, loss, success, grief, and change can sing the same words with memory. That difference matters. Perhaps that is why Barry Gibb still has such a powerful presence. He doesn’t simply carry his own music onto the stage. He carries other people’s memories with him. For someone in the audience, a Bee Gees song might bring back a first love, a long-gone friend, a wedding, a dance, a summer, or a time in life that can never return. Barry sings the song. But the listener remembers their life. And maybe that is the real measure of an artist’s longevity. Not staying young. Not staying fashionable. But creating something that grows older with you—and somehow still feels like it understands you.

Emotion & Music

38,542 次观看 • 21 天前

Neil Young Got His Biggest Hit. Then He Tried to Get Away From It. There is a slightly uncomfortable story hiding inside “Heart of Gold.” It is one of those songs that sounds as though Neil Young had been searching for simplicity all his life. Acoustic guitar. Harmonica. A few minutes of music. A voice that doesn't seem particularly interested in sounding polished. Then the song became his biggest American hit. Number one. And that, apparently, was part of the problem. Young later wrote that “Heart of Gold” had put him “in the middle of the road.” He didn't mean that the song had suddenly become bad. He meant that success had placed him in a musical territory he wasn't particularly interested in staying in. Soon afterward, he deliberately moved toward rougher, less comfortable records. Knowing that changes the way I hear the song. Because “Heart of Gold” doesn't actually sound like a song written by someone who has found what he is looking for. It sounds like someone who is getting tired of looking. That's an important difference. The narrator has travelled. He has been to Hollywood, crossed the ocean, spent years searching for something he can't quite define. The phrase “heart of gold” makes the search sound noble, almost romantic. But then comes the line that keeps disturbing the whole thing: He's getting old. There it is. Not triumph. Not arrival. Time. The song isn't really saying, I will find the perfect person. It is saying, I hope I find something genuine before I run out of road. That makes the 1998 performance at Shoreline Amphitheatre feel different to me. By then, Young had lived with this song for more than twenty-five years. He wasn't the young songwriter who had just stumbled into a massive hit anymore. He was an older musician singing words about growing older. And suddenly the simplest line in the song carries the most weight. The strange thing about “Heart of Gold” is how little it tries to impress you. Young's voice is thin, almost fragile. The harmonica doesn't decorate the song so much as interrupt the silence around it. Even the melody seems content to keep walking rather than make a grand entrance. Maybe that is why the song survived Young's complicated relationship with its success. People heard a gentle folk song. Young heard the road he had accidentally been pushed onto. Those aren't necessarily contradictory. A song can mean one thing to the person who writes it and something completely different to the millions who adopt it. That's probably what happened here. Young went looking for a heart of gold. America found a hit. He wasn't entirely comfortable with what it gave him, but the song had already escaped. And listening to him sing it decades later, there is something almost amusing about the whole situation. The song that made Neil Young famous for being simple became the song that complicated his career. Maybe that's the price of writing something honest. Sometimes you discover that the world wants the version of you that you were only passing through. And “Heart of Gold” was never supposed to be the destination.

Neil Young Got His Biggest Hit. Then He Tried to Get Away From It. There is a slightly uncomfortable story hiding inside “Heart of Gold.” It is one of those songs that sounds as though Neil Young had been searching for simplicity all his life. Acoustic guitar. Harmonica. A few minutes of music. A voice that doesn't seem particularly interested in sounding polished. Then the song became his biggest American hit. Number one. And that, apparently, was part of the problem. Young later wrote that “Heart of Gold” had put him “in the middle of the road.” He didn't mean that the song had suddenly become bad. He meant that success had placed him in a musical territory he wasn't particularly interested in staying in. Soon afterward, he deliberately moved toward rougher, less comfortable records. Knowing that changes the way I hear the song. Because “Heart of Gold” doesn't actually sound like a song written by someone who has found what he is looking for. It sounds like someone who is getting tired of looking. That's an important difference. The narrator has travelled. He has been to Hollywood, crossed the ocean, spent years searching for something he can't quite define. The phrase “heart of gold” makes the search sound noble, almost romantic. But then comes the line that keeps disturbing the whole thing: He's getting old. There it is. Not triumph. Not arrival. Time. The song isn't really saying, I will find the perfect person. It is saying, I hope I find something genuine before I run out of road. That makes the 1998 performance at Shoreline Amphitheatre feel different to me. By then, Young had lived with this song for more than twenty-five years. He wasn't the young songwriter who had just stumbled into a massive hit anymore. He was an older musician singing words about growing older. And suddenly the simplest line in the song carries the most weight. The strange thing about “Heart of Gold” is how little it tries to impress you. Young's voice is thin, almost fragile. The harmonica doesn't decorate the song so much as interrupt the silence around it. Even the melody seems content to keep walking rather than make a grand entrance. Maybe that is why the song survived Young's complicated relationship with its success. People heard a gentle folk song. Young heard the road he had accidentally been pushed onto. Those aren't necessarily contradictory. A song can mean one thing to the person who writes it and something completely different to the millions who adopt it. That's probably what happened here. Young went looking for a heart of gold. America found a hit. He wasn't entirely comfortable with what it gave him, but the song had already escaped. And listening to him sing it decades later, there is something almost amusing about the whole situation. The song that made Neil Young famous for being simple became the song that complicated his career. Maybe that's the price of writing something honest. Sometimes you discover that the world wants the version of you that you were only passing through. And “Heart of Gold” was never supposed to be the destination.

Emotion & Music

12,827 次观看 • 11 天前

The opening of Idiocracy is one of the most prescient openings in comedy history. The only thing you’d have to switch around is which demographic is doing the surging, and suddenly it feels a lot less like satire and a lot more like what’s happening across the West right now.

The opening of Idiocracy is one of the most prescient openings in comedy history. The only thing you’d have to switch around is which demographic is doing the surging, and suddenly it feels a lot less like satire and a lot more like what’s happening across the West right now.

Sir Doge of the Coin ⚔️

27,485 次观看 • 20 天前