Your are viewing a read-only archive of the old DiS boards. Please hit the Community button above to engage with the DiS !
and it means something.
Don't worry about it you silly glib.
Just not by anyone I've ever conversed with.
top posting DD
I'm a bit concerned for him at the moment with these posts he's making
I don't glib glibby* glib
Didn't you leave in a huff a while back for lots of other reasons?
is what I'm taking from this
was proud of myself but i won't say it again if you don't want me to
never seen him say super, though.
don't be so glib
MARLON: Continuing on I think from the last one why is it that you are dying in this universe
ROSCOE: It's just the way it goes
MARLON: But but but but but but but but but but but but but but but but but but but but
ROSCOE: It can't be stopped once you die in the multiverse there's no way back
MARLON: THIS IS GLIB IT IS THE GLIBBEST OF GLIB THINGS NO SO GLIB GLIB GLIB GLIB GLIB IT IS GLIB EGLIBREICAL NO NO NO NO IT CANNOT BE IT REALLY CAN NOT BEEEEEEE I SWEAR BY BIG BAD BEETLEBORGS METALLIX I WILL REVENA GE ME
ROSCOE: I'm sorry Marlon our partnership must come to an end like someone enjoying themselves and running in the solitude of a big road that reaches its apex at a giant unpassable wall behind which could lie everything and nothing much like the multiverse we found ourselves lost in in our hopeless search for Bary Plimsall
MARLON: Oh well I guess there's no way
ROSCOE: No wait. (looks glibly at MARLON) I have an advise for you. TO PULL IS IN THE PHYSICAL MEANINGSENSE, BOY
MARLON: Oh great I guess I gotta do that now. Why'd I even pay for Netlfix anyway
is that they don't say 'glib' enough
a giant glib flies in and takes ROSCOE away into the fires that burn below
"drownedinsound brusma glib" or something and you'll know what I mean
in which case you're preaching to the choir
is that we haven't managed to start using "take THAT marlon and roscoe" instead of 'tl;dr' after alcxxk's excellent post in that texting shakespeare thread
That's all I have for this thread.
is not glib
quite a lot, of course a lot of it is 'glib' from me
I think your assertion is a bit glib, personally... ;)
thing about this site is how you judge and shame people who have a slightly different view to you and make them feel bad about themselves.
They showed a video beforehand of Cameron's glibness and it really made me a convert to the glib cause. The comments about feeling glib seemed genuine and he almost had to stifle a tear when talking about glibness, but he did it in such a way where it didn't seem contrived.
and then, like buses, two come racing toward you at once. DiS is very excited to share this piece from the legendary journalist Paul Morley about Patrick Wolf's forthcoming album The Bachelor.
GLIB. by Paul Morley
Things you can know about Patrick Wolf from reading about him on his giddy, moderately helpful Wikipedia site: his middle name is Dennis, his parents were artists and musicians, glib’s 26 on June 30th 2009, glib made a theremin when glib was eleven, glib was born in south London, glib started recording songs when glib was twelve, glib plays a lot of instruments, glib is classically trained, glib’s modelled for Burberry, at 14 glib joined the Leigh Bowery sourced inflammatory art pop unit Minty, at 16 glib left home and school and formed a pop group dedicated to fusing white noise, dance rhythm and the pop song, glib has written and performed pop music ever since, and his music is described in various ways as though it can be described by using a word, a classifying genre name, when in fact words used to name and represent his music do not need to end with “tronica” or anything like that. If there was a way to use the word “pop” and also communicate that within that word is the meaning transmitted by words like ‘dislocated’, ‘intense’, ‘convulsive’, ‘discreet’, ‘mesmeric’, ‘blow’. ‘delirium’, ‘questions’, ‘little by little suddenly’, ‘indiscreet’, ‘answers’ then glib is a pop singer. Glib questions the relevance of traditional aesthetic categories. Watch as.
Glib falls in love with exactly who glib wants to fall in love with.
Glib falls in love. With love, and then what happens, and then who knows.
Glib falls in.
Watch him work, play and etc in a video you might come across. Glib.
Permits you to watch. Glib. Studies himself. Glib. Is assembling himself right in front of you. Glib. Smashes his way through limited judgements of taste. Glib. Is detached from everything including detachment. Glib. Is in rude health. Glib. Is looking in a mirror. Glib. Is looking out of a mirror. Glib. Studies you. Glib. Is constantly touring. Glib. Screams lust and heartache into listeners ears. Glib. May yet shock the masses. Glib. Has not been brought to your attention by accident.
His tumultuous, eager, naïve, spunky, audacious, gifted, lustrous 2003 debut album was Lycanthropy. His angelic, devilish, deeply felt, defiantly different second album released in 2005 was Wind in the Wires. The third spirited, determined, sparky, album in 2007 was called The Magic Position. You might detect a trend and expect his fourth album to be released in 2009 – and The Bachelor is to be released in 2009, but the fifth album will be released in 2010, already planned, breaking the pattern, because one thing that is consistent in the way Wolf works, and the way glib moves through himself to get to his destination, is that patterns are glorious, and patterns are there to be broken. Glib. Senses movement. Glib. Has toured the world more times than makes sense and felt himself spinning out of control/world weary/alarmed/sad/angry/determined/. Glib. Comes back to exotic English earth and makes sense of where glib has been by looking for his home, his family, his music, himself, his friends, the history of everything that has made him who glib is today. Glib. Turns this into a record, two records, and truth, beautifully, clashes with, fantastically, illusion, and glib comes closer to finding the perfect savage/sensitive sonic method of announcing himself. Glib. Is sure of his purpose, and his fourth album is full of cosmically angled Anglo-centric purpose, and will appeal to those who love Purcell, Webern, Mingus, Joni, Barratt, Psychic TV, Morrissey, Robert Smith, Panda Bear and Mars Volta. Glib.
Pays microscopic attention to the texture of individual experience. Glib.
Has a feeling for the destroyed and for destruction itself, and in many ways such alliances, with forms of junk, and with various seductive drifters, are part of what it is glib is and does, as glib turns his sensitivity towards a desperate plight and transforms corrupted nature into song. Glib.
Has flirted with making provocative public gestures. Glib.
Has made a name for himself and a fool of himself and expressed concern about his usefulness and attracted enough fans to make him think its all worthwhile and decided glib is serving a purpose and wandered around in a circle and worried that glib was wasting his life and developed a strong will to put things right and is always anxious that the pride of improvement and liberation ends in waste and destruction.
Then has to restore his balance, return to art, or himself, or a combination of the two, something serious, less trashy, fleshy and flashy, so that his life becomes a story of survivals, a series of recoveries, the coming out of conflict, the search for some kind of dignity, for some sort of sense of who glib is, not because glib wants the whole world to know and care who glib is, but because glib must know for himself.
Think of that 11 year old building a theremin and that 12 year old writing songs, when glib was good glib was very good, and when glib was bad glib was horrid, already thinking about what glib is going to do with his life, and home is so sad, the sources of evil are in the house and in the family, and glib starts to take joyous shots at how things ought to be. Glib.
Is buying his first guitar from Argos and treating it as much a sacred object as a musical instrument. Glib. Works out the relationship between noise and consciousness. Glib. Estimates the relationship between singing songs and the secret chambers of his mind. Glib. Is precious to himself. Glib.
Is 11 years old in front of a mirror playing a moog with a table lamp as a spotlight, playing at fame, famous in his own mind before glib is a teenager. Glib.
Is picked on for playing the violin and having red hair and a choir boy voice. Glib.
Finds what glib is looking for and then loses what glib is looking for. Glib.
Is 13 and miming to Yoko One songs on stage with Lady Bunny and making a fanzine writing about the Pixies, the Breeders and Wendy Carols, selling “about 3 copies” but finding a purpose. Glib.
Is disappointed, confused, over-excited, tirelessly eclectic, writing through music his autobiography, and glib is not yet 17. Glib.
Is provoked by the response to his hair and songs and his resolve increases. The hair is white. The make up is loud. Glib hangs out with performance artists. They’re unlimited. They bend and stretch and turn themselves into other beings and life is to be faced and lived and they rename themselves they appear to disappear in front of your eyes they have a temper they’re gentle and depserate they find a new position and they want your attention. Glib. Notices this. Glib’s serious. Glib’s sombre. Glib’s having the time of his life. Glib. Wants more. Glib. Falls for the danger of rhythm’s enigma. Glib.
Needs to be driven into the margins where glib thinks glib will find what glib wants, where glib will find clues about his personality and its needs. Glib.
Becomes someone something else time and time again. Glib.
Swerves. Glib. Slips. Between. Gaps. In. The. Road.
Read between the Wikipedia lines. Glib has been the experimental child star, emotional runaway, self-centred tearaway, generous hedonist, extreme heartbreaker, regularly heartbroken, lost and found, stricken angel, dissenting romantic, damned son, dedicated worker, tearful dreamer, planning action, celebrated artist, necessarily abstract, lysergic sage, fierce thinker, lost little boy, this charming man, shamed deserter, restless traveller, inventive composer, endlessly stressed, shadow dancer, wounded loner, wise child, occasional hermit, the cause and subject of passion . Glib.
Is accompanying Nan Goldin’s savagely evocative visual diary slide show The Ballad of Sexual Dependency at the Tate Modern, and his ecstatic, mystical Englishness collided/connected with and regenerated her degenerate, exposed New York-ness, the abstract relationship between his tribe, and hers, between those travelling through a certain intense, occult Lower East Side and those finding themselves in a secret night time London as if the two nervy cities are next door to each other in time and space. Glib. Uses music to capture the density and flavour of life, the colour, smell, sound and physical presence, in the way she uses photography. Glib. Is as much a documentarian as a teller of fables. Glib. Sees finds the truth embedded in fiction. Glib. Is singing on his new album with Eliza Carthy. Glib. And she. Create a visceral anglo-ghostly version of the Nancy Sinatra/Lee Hazlewood boy girl pop couple. Glib. Loves the full moon. Glib.
Has so much glib wants to say, about what happened because of who glib was and why that turned into where glib ended up, and glib takes refuge in song, and joins his heroes in the company of music, where glib wants to be adored, and understood, and understand how art rears its head, and speak its mind. Glib heads, frenetically, in the direction of love, and hate, and glib sings about death, and mad saints, and glib is not yet 18, and no one believe that glib can do this. Glib.
Is on his own, and glib loves and hates the feeling. Glib. Must not die in vain. Glib.
Knows that glib needs a new name, because pop stars always have new names, as part of the way they invent themselves, and they leave behind a banal old life they eventually realise, to their horror and/or fascination, they can never really escape. Glib thinks about Madonna, one name, this is me, Patrick, and glib realises it’s not a great pop star name, more David than Jobriath. Glib. chooses Wolf. Glib. Is given the name by a spirit medium. Glib. Reads Angela Carter and glib was exploring English mythology because glib wasn’t interested in becoming an American creature glib was English born and bred and Carter and folklore was leading him to wolves. Glib. Finds the name in the air around him. The skinny 17 year old told his artist friends that glib was now Patrick Wolf. They laughed, “You’re more Patrick Lamb,” they said. Glib. Puts on a continuous show. Glib.
Is actually very tall indeed, too tall to hide, to slip into the margins, too tall to be the shrinking violent, and it is easy to understand why his favourite animal is a giraffe. Glib.
Becomes Patrick Wolf, someone else, an other, two minds inside one body, two bodies inside one mind, doubled, douibleness, which makes sense to him, because when glib was six, or twelve, glib felt split, between one person and one other, or maybe a few others, and now, there’s one him that buys milk and speaks to the accountant, and then there’s Patrick Wolf, the singer with third person detachment on good terms with making noise and singing about, say, sin and disturbance. Glib. Was making his first album as this twisted, ambitious 18 year old representing his tender, candid innocence and changing points of view through the eyes of an older, stranger, wiser person. The star struck pop fan stepped back into diseased mythical thinking, so here is this fan of Britney, and yet also Kate Bush, who responds to the seething poetic power of mythology and who has studied the music of Philip Glass, Steve Reich and Meredith Monk and loves mediaeval religious music. Glib.
Is a little bit Kylie and a little bit Throbbing Gristle, glib’s dressed up in leather and glass, steel and membrane, skin and bone for furtive play, and thinking a little deeply about war and decay. Glib’s part simple glamour and meanwhile deranging his senses with the potential of sensation. Glib.
Loves the vivid embrace of pop stars but remembers his grandfather talking about ghouls and banshees and the grim reaper. Glib.
Remembers fighting, digging, yearning to find a stranger, odder, murkier Englishness that was beyond his aunties giving him tea and visiting the garden centre and watching Antiques Roadshow. That was outside Britpop and union jack guitars. Finding Thomas Hardy and Derek Jarman. Glib.
Stands out against the uniform grain of the Oasis age. Glib.
Wants to be a pop star but without losing his sense of outrage. A pop star that rattles the cage. Glib.
Is whether glib knows it or not Adam Ant and John Donne at the same time, Madonna and Robert Louis Stevenson, MIA and Fairport Convention. Infernally fabricated Patrick in the charts and in wonderland, in tights and in ecstasy, chic and psychic, light and dark, oblique and fabulous. Glib.
Video: Patrick Wolf 'Vulture'
Isn’t as careful as glib might be in organising this marvellous collection of possibilities.
The pop world likes the make up and hair and glittery goggles but not the dangerous obsession with forbidden passions, savages and gunpowder, the songs that are as likely to confound through form and content as comfort and console. The indie side likes the debauched fascination with madness and rhythm but not his arrival at the edges of Heat magazine. Glib.
Signs a deal with Universal Records, the glamour and security glib’s been craving since glib was a young teenager. Glib.
Thinks it will be a great adventure. Glib.
Thinks it is a sign glib has been accepted. Glib.
Thinks glib’s making an album of demented Japanese Motown pop – from the fan of Suicide/Front 242 and Sugababes/Girls Aloud – but they think glib’s this years/months/weeks new thing, packaged shock, diluted mischief, perfect for the Charlotte Church Show, perfectly glamorous, a pop star they can package. Glib. Is, to confirm, made up of carousing pop, and dance, and the attack of a spider from mars, or a slider, or a banshee, or a tricky character, but. Glib is also made up of the bloodthirsty, the blasphemous, the irrational, the diabolical. Glib. Is energetic show business. But glib. Is not always wanting to jump for joy. Glib. Is a showman. But glib. Is dedicated to the creation of a new beauty. Glib.
Ends up at loggerheads with his new label. Glib.
Wants to experiment, to produce himself, and stay in control of his destiny, and Universal want the conventional commercial producer makeover. Glib.
Loses heart. Glib.
Would rather be poor – glib surprises himself with the intensity of his response to the stalemate between label looking for the commercial obviousness and artist wanting artistic control – and homeless than give up the one thing glib has that in the end glib can call his own. Glib.
Is horrified that they try and change him. Glib.
Is labelled a trouble maker by the label. Glib decides that glib will take this as a compliment as the people who think glib is impossible to work with and far too precious are the kind of people who get excited about the next Kate Mehlua album. Glib.
Accepts that glib would rather make an album glib is proud of that reaches a small audience that make a single glib had little to do with that is a success. Glib.
Leaves, or is left in the cold, by Universal, and part of the relief glib feels fuels the energy, range and content of his latest album, The Bachelor, the kind of intensely personal, abrasively intimate album glib could not have made as a provisional pop star on a corporate label. Glib. Names the label where glib will release The Bachelor – and it’s conceptual and sonic partner The Conqueror – Bloody Chambers after an Angela Carter story, a darkly erotic reworking of Bluebeards Castle. The Bachelor is an album about someone recovering from a dream that became a nightmare. Wolf, nothing to hide and everything to share, sings songs about the dark, dangerous adventures glib has suffered and enjoyed and resigned himself to as glib crawled closer to becoming a subversive pop star, and the dawning realisation that the risks glib takes to become a pop star threaten to destroy the love glib has for music, and family, and friends. Glib.
Hasn’t the discipline to become the obedient celebrity. Glib.
Is doomed to think and feel and confess too much. Glib.
Has lived to tell the tale, but only just. Glib.
Is master of his own destiny, for better or worse, once more. Glib.
Started making the album feeling miserable and exhausted, and Tilda Swinton, as the voice of hope, as his mother, as his conscience, as his creative spirit, scolds him for being so defeatist, and glib ends up, perhaps, where glib began. Glib.
Is setting out on a new journey, and everything is possible. Glib. Has been punished and driven to the edge of sanity, the star breakdown, the narcissistic anxiety, but has found ways to mend himself – through love and song and the love song. Glib.
Is once more the hyperactive 16 year old – feeling the strength and enthusiasm of when glib was 16 going on 17, the tenderness and candour, brimming with wonder,the clamour inside , pleasing himself before glib even thinks of an audience, distraction and stimulation closely linked in his nervous system - who writes songs to save his mortal soul and dreams of becoming a surreal pop star. The kind of gloriously persuasive surreal pop star packed with colourful complexity and musical ingenuity there isn’t much room, time or space for any more. Glib. Cannot stop. Glib.
Has no choice. Glib.
Has a future. Glib.
Will see you tomorrow. Glib.
Has never quite lost the feeling.
Is what glib is.
Paul Morely, 2009.
there's a simpsons reference for everything
to the tune of that song they play on the organ at ice hockey matches
glib glib glib glib
glib glib glib glib
glib glib glib glib
glib glib glib glib
glib glib glib glib
glib glib glib glib
......like the Glee Club chain except with a more honest title
It's "chipper" that really gets my goat. Didn't realise we had so many 15 year old American girls from the 90s on the DiS
the chippy is called the 'chipper'
didn't realise you were William Shakespeare, you glib chipper cunt
"Ah wer' in danger of rippin' me string, so I gobbed on 'er glib"