(If you send us a voice message, we might include it in an episode)
Take it to the George Orwell bridge! Take it to the Friendship bridge! This time ’round the musical merry-go-round, we discuss James Brown’s favourite bit of any song: the Middle 8.
This is a common part of many pop songs, which isn’t either the verse or the chorus. So, join us and take it to the Eshima Ohashi bridge.
Some REAL letters. As well as more AI ego trippin’ for Andrew and Sam, including some really plumming stuff.
Email us at firstname.lastname@example.org
Riffs of the week
- SAM – Peter Brötzmann – Machine Gun
- ANDREW – Kanonenfieber – Grabenkampf (00:30)
- Jackson 5 – I Want You Back (1.54)
- The Clash – Koka Kola (0.48)
- Queen – Death on Two Legs (1.44)
- Megadeth – Sweating Bullets (3.05)
- James Brown from this video
- The Charlatans – The Only One I Know – (2:44)
- The Kinks – Shangri-La (2:47)
- The Refused – New Noise (3:35)
- Led Zeppelin – The Crunge (3:17)
Ruddiger Broomhilder’s letter of the week
Dear Andrew Culture and Dr. Sam (Dr. Patio Rage),
It’s Ruddiger Broomhilder here, sliding into your inbox with the grace of a cassette tape into its deck. I’ve just tuned in to your latest “Beat Motel” episode, and boy, did it resonate with my eardrums like a perfectly distorted power chord!
Andrew, your tale of domestic wine-making mayhem struck a chord with me. It got me wondering, in the same spirit of experimentation, do you also venture to eat Chewits without peeling off the wrappers, or is that too anarchic even for your tastes? Imagine the time saved for more musical mischief!
And Dr. Sam, your enlightening riffs on fusion bass lines tickled my fancy more than a rare vinyl in a bargain bin! In your esteemed opinion, if jazz fusion had a rebellious offspring with punk, what might we call this genre-bending progeny?
I must dash – the unripe plums I’ve foolishly snacked on are staging a revolution in my belly, and I must heed their call. Also, I’m penning this whilst under the tender mercies of my dentist – quite a multitasking feat, don’t you think?
Anyway, keep the sonic wisdom flowing, and let’s continue to spread the gospel of the Beat Motel Podcast to all the hungry ears out there!
Ruddiger Broomhilder (who really needs to scoot to the loo now!)
P.S. Remember to give the show a shout-out from me to your listeners. I’d love for my circle of friends to join the Beat Motel fan caravan, and what better endorsement than from you chaps!
The letter from Mrs Broomhilder
Dear Andrew fuckwit Culture and that Dr. Sam fellow,
I am Mrs. Broomhilder, Ruddiger’s mother, and I am writing this email while in the middle of a living room that looks like it’s been hit by a shit-firing tornado. Why? Because my son, Ruddiger, is too busy filling his head with your Beat Motel Podcast nonsense instead of doing his chores!
Dr. Sam, you might be a doctor of who-knows-what, but are you a doctor of getting grown men to pick up a turd broom? Because that’s the kind of miracle I need right now. I don’t know what kind of bass lines you’re talking about, but how about a bass line that gets my son’s rear in gear?
And Andrew, oh, you should hear the things Ruddiger says about you. Thinks you’re the bee’s knees, he does. Well, here’s what I think: You might be charming with your words and your so-called ‘witty banter,’ but it’s high time you use that charm to remind your listeners about their REAL responsibilities. Like keeping their poor mothers from living in squalor!
I swear, if I find one more dirty plate under Ruddiger’s bed, I’m going to march him down to your studio, and he can live with you and your burnt bollocking stories! He’s obsessed, I tell you! Obsessed! It’s all Beat Motel this and Beat Motel that. Beat Motel won’t beat the dust off the shelves or scrape the toilet seat clean of crusty bits now will it?
Consider this a plea, a demand, or a curse – I don’t care which. Get my son to stop his podcast pining and start his damn vacuuming!
P.S. Ruddiger, if you’re reading this – the vacuum cleaner is in the cupboard, where it’s always been. Use it, or I’m giving your headphones to the dog to eat then shit out again.
I enclose a selfie because I know that’s what deviants like you live for.
Letter from Madame Nobs
Dearest Beat Motel Hosts (and Ruddiger)
Long time listener, first time emailer here. I think you missed a rich vein of excellent live albums lately. I am of course speaking of the twisted sister of the live album: the concert movie!
Like with live albums, there are of course concert movies and Concert Movies. Two immediately spring to mind; Pink Floyd’s Live at Pompeii and Talking Heads’ Stop Making Sense.
The first, yes, obvious and also fodder for the divorced dad crowd, but it is a band at the pinnacle of their power (That said, the less said about Mademoiselle Knobs the better!).
Stop Making Sense recently played at King St Cinema; I went twice. Once to watch it, and once to dance (I got hemmed in the first night!). I was the only one dancing at the back!
Oddly, the second night only, folks applauded after each song. I felt the urge myself, presented with a band in front of me it was a reflex. Was definitely a bit weird.
Twenty foot tall David Byrne in his Big Business suit was an absolute autistic delight though. Full body stimming in the aisle!!
Anyway, keep up the work and do call if ever you need to discuss the career of Canadian melancholists Godspeed You! Black Emperor at length.
Madame Nobs, the mad tran of old Ipswich Town