Death, O where is thy Sting? He's out the back playing a zither. (I Corinthians ch15 v55)

It's bewildering and terrible how many celebrity musicians we have lost in recent times.

We're galled. We hammer our fists against the wall of death, our favourite pop names in mispelled graffiti. It's so easy to ask why. Why do people die?

Well, I've found the answer. David Cameron.

Think about it. David Cameron siezed power here in the UK in May 2010. Before then, there hadn't been any significant pop music demises for years. But with Cameron's stone-dead face looming over the despatch box like a rubbish cloud, all the chart stars we love have passed beyond.

If you don't believe me, here's a list of sad losses from May 2010 until yesterday.

It's hard not to read at this litany of sadness then look at David Cameron's gravestone complexion and not begin to wonder...*

- Donna Summer (damn you, Cameron)
- MCA (Cameron again)
- Davy Jones (Cameron)
- Whitney Houston (why, Cameron, why?)
- Gerry Raffety (Cameron's fault)
- Hendrix (have you no shame, Cameron?)
- Mike Starr (Cameron)
- Bert Jansch (there's no stopping Cameron)
- Ari Up (for goodness sake, Cameron)
- Aaliyah (Cameron)
- Malcolm McLaren (blame Cameron)
- Teddy Pendergrass (Cameron's guilty)
- Johnny Cash (stupid Cameron)
- Sparklehore (Cameron, Cameron, Cameron)
- All of the BeeGees (cause of death: Cameron)
- Captain Beefheart (Captain Cameron)
- Loleatta Holloway (oh Cameron, not her)
- Guru (killed by Cameron)
- Michael Jackson (at the hands of Dr Cameron)
- Thin Lizzy's timpani player (Cameron)
- Tom Chaplin from Keane (there's no end to Cameron's destruction)
- The Wanted (can anyone stop Cameron?)
- Roy Orbison (Cameron, public enemy number one)
- Sonia (you can't stop Cameron from deathing you)

* list may contain inaccuracies

Further Fats:: A piffling statistical analysis of the 27-club

On the left is the glorious, scrumptious cover for Battles' Dross Glop, a collection of 12" remixes of their 2011 album Gloss Drop.  The remixes feature twiddles from people like Hudson Mohawke, The Field and Kode 9.

On the right is the same album cover with ten changes. Can you spot the difference?

Simple, really. Ten differences in the right-hand picture. How hard can it be? Circle the answers on your computer monitor.

Don't feel you have to squint like Godzilla stalking a really fit flea. Click the picture (or here) for a proper big version, which you can then download or resize or print or whatever.

Want the answer? See here.

Happy difference-spotting!

Further Fats: When I first discovered Battles in 2007

It has been one of those weeks where I've been tempted to tape up my hopes and dreams inside a bin liner and brick them to the bottom of the Mersey.

Firstly, there was the tossbag of political moisture that was local election day. I've always been politically astute: I cried when John Smith died, I proudly voted against Blair Blue-Balls in 1997 and I've attended several counts in musty old town halls.

However, because Nick Clegg broke the entire of politics in 2010 by saying he was the progressive alternative then putting a bunch of Eton toffs in power with my vote, I don't believe in our system anymore*.

This picture shows pretty much how I felt about walking into a pointless polling station and being given pointless bits of paper. Still, my favourite (and mad) new Twitter feed, Manchester's drunk mayor, is giving me hope.

Secondly, the Hounds Of Hulme album has reached tug-o-war phase. I can't tell if a track is good anymore. I might as well dip my head into the washing-up and listen to the forks piercing my eyes. It's nearly finished, though, and you should like the band's Facebook page for news**.

This has brought on a wider malaise where I can't string one creative idea onto another. I'm performing 20 minutes of idiot fiction at Sounds From The Other City tomorrow (I'm not on the bill but honestly I am performing), but I've so little faith in the paltry new material I have***, I think I may request everyone sits in silence, crying. With forks in their eyes.

I know, I've still enough gumption to be able to plug my stuff here, but seriously... I'm bringing forks****.

And finally, the death of Adam Yauch. I used to be a pretty neat vinyl beatmatcher before the universe went digital, and I'd spin back beats to create new ones because that's what the Beastie Boys did. "Don't you tell me to smi.. Don... Don... Don't you tell me to smile..." 

The Beastie Boys (pictured, top) didn't just inform my musical world: they defined the universe in which I operate. This "Fat Roland" creature I foist upon an innocent world wouldn't exist without them.

In summary, I need a plan. And here it is. If I turn up at Sounds From The Other City tomorrow and find my slot replaced by the Beastie Boys featuring guest rapper Nick Clegg, I'm changing my name to Dorothy and moving to the Shetlands.


There. I said it. You can shorten it to Dot if you want.


* Why did I ever believe in the Liberal Democrats as a left-leaning force in politics? I'm such an idiot.

** Seriously, you should. The more likes I get, the less I'll bang on about it. Even I find this self-promotion tiresome, so goodness knows what it's like for you, you poor reader, you.

*** beware false modesty. I'm going to blaze it tomorrow.

**** I'm bloody not, because if I do, I'll lose them and I won't be able to eat pies.

Further Fats: "It's not funny"... the Beastie Boys cancer announcement in 2009

I've been quiet in The Happy Land Of Bloggy, but it's not been without good reason. Here is a list of ten things I have been up to instead of wiping my word genius on your eyeballs.

1. Building a lifesize model of the universe from Plumber's Mait putty.

2. Starting a religion made of cats. It's difficult to make an abstract concept from a real thing, so I've had to build a robot that can bend reality.

3. Constructing a cellar for my cellar. I really felt my cellar was lacking somewhere from which to walk downwards from my cellar. Have been taking advice from moles.

4. Writing an extensive Wikipedia article about the 56BC FIFA World Cup, printing off the resulting page and making it into a papier-mâché football which I then burned.

5. Deleting words from the Oxford English Dictionary that we don't use nearly enough, such as "vine", "azure" and "micromelic".

6. Mastering the art of levitation, but cheating and so spending my time inventing an invisible table instead. Harder than I thought. The main material is fine, but B&Q don't sell non-see brackets.

7. Applying to Manchester City Council for planning permission to extend my brain. A bit frustrated that Ordnance Survey don't do detailed A4 site plans of the cerebral cortex. Embarked on a cartographic analysis of my cerebrum. On an unconnected note, also bought a dictionary.

8. Becoming Will.I.Am without the real Will.I.Am noticing.

9. Naming my first three children Boom, Boom and Pow. Not because of the Will.I.Am thing, but because that's the noise I make when I'm building a robot mole to transcend invisible reality using putty.

10. Making tunes. Which is kind of the real reason for this blog post, but you probably stopped reading ages ago so I might as well be farting at a cow for all this word vomming is worth. *I* stopped reading ages ago, and I'm the one tapping at the plastic letters. Oh the humanity.

The picture: click for bigger.

Further Fats: all 105 articles labelled "whimsy" (!)

Well. Not forever exactly. But the deadline for my F1 Losers League is tomorrow (Friday) night.

I have no interest in cars or in sport, but F1 somehow commands my attention. I like the racing, the personalities, and the tight-fitting overalls. My interest in F1 has developed into a geeky passion, so for several years I have run a fantasy league with a difference: your team has to be the worst you can possibly make it.

Crashes? Get points. Car behaving like a wheelbarrow? Get points. Bad helmet hair? Get points.

You enter once and this lasts for the rest of the season. But the deadline is tomorrow night, April 13th, at 11.59pm BST, so you'll have to get a move on.

It's free and no-one wins anything. It is a loser's league after all. To enter, (1) you just choose one name from each Group here, and (2) think of a good F1 Losers team name. Email me and you're entered for 2012 (more details on entering, including the email address, here).

I would love lots of entries in 2012, although I only usually get a few. You should do it though, because it gives me an excuse to photoshop lots of silly picture captions.

In the next 24 hours, formula one will become infinitesimally different because, yet again, the F1 Losers League is here.

Further Fats: Save Takuma Sato! (in which I took a year out from doing the League)

Orbital's history in brief: rave band reinvents the techno album, gets a bit political, conquers the rock festivals, release one album for every first-era Doctor Who, play their last ever gig on John Peel, disappear into side-projects, start gigging again then begin to worry fans that their eighth outing could be a Paul McGann.

It's not.

Their eighth album is Wonky in name but not in style. There was a time when Orbital couldn't put a foot wrong, so is their long-playing comeback worthy? What does God say? Much more importantly, what do I say?

I wrote this as I listened to the album for the first time tonight. Let's explore Wonky track by track.

Track one: One Big Moment teases you with looping voice samples of Duck Feet-era whimsy before hitting you, at precisely 70 seconds, between your techno nostrils and declaring Wonky as the best Orbital album for yonkers.

The processed mayhem is a delightful statement of intent so early on.

Track two: The scuzzy LFOs of Straight Sun mix Snivilisation wafer-thin monophonic synth lines with more plodding, stomping Blue Orbital, and it's no less pleasing for any of that.

Tracks three and four: The slow builder Never makes a feature of those trademark half-bar bridges that litters their music, while the proggy New France seems to be Zola Jesus filtering Rihanna's "ay ay" vocal cut with an intense synth rock sweat-in. Both work with limited ideas to great effect.

Track five: Distractions is the least immediate track here, a pastoral meander perhaps, although the furious drums suggests a possible live favourite at work.

Track six: I'm not sure if Belfast has Beaches, but Stringy Acid mixes two very different Orbital periods whilst apparently intending to emulate the sound of seagulls being shot. It's the one full-on floor filler on this album.

Track seven: The Hartnoll brothers attempting dubstep on the multiple-personality Beelzedub (a remake of Satan) is a bit like your dad wandering into a club and breakdancing, body-popping and footstepping the rest of the dancefloor into a week next Tuesday. It's a bit all over the place, but still, y'know, better than 99% of all dubstep tracks.

Track eight: Title piece Wonky has Lady Leshurr busting rhymes whilst she plays Whac-a-Mole with cats. Its toe-dip into new territory reminds us Orbital were often as much of a house act as a techno group - and also that Paul Hartnoll had a rather successful collaboration once with David Gray. Larks.

Track nine: Where Is It Going? brings us back to the theme of the album: emotive, punchy classic Orbital, deceptively simple, positively angelic. The whole album, although not perfect, is a brilliant return to form and is the sound of two guys finding their mojo once again. Although you find yourself yearning for a long epic to finish with: Wonky is suddenly gone and the title of the last track is left dangling in the air.

If this is their Paul McGann, then I'm already really looking forward to their Christopher Eccleston. Wait. Haven't they had him already?

Orbital's history in brief: they're back and they're better than I expected. Wonky is one of their best.

Further Fats: Some lists containing rhyming Autechre, Orbital in colour, and the entire history of dance music

It seems an appropriate day to unleash a new competition here on Fat Roland On Electronica: you have the opportunity to become The Orb's lodger for the rest of your life.

Many will remember the Noel Edmonds programme in which a contestant called April First (may need to be a bit more subtle - ed) won a trip to Blackpool with Charles Manson. Well, this is like that but with ambient music and it's permanent.

All you need to do is fool in the comment box below-- WHOOPS! fill in the comment box below (seriously - ed) with your waist size, any possible material allergies you may have such as sackcloth, and whether you'd be amenable to donning a corset for extended periods of time.

Keen observers of my Twitter feed will know I woke up on Friday to find The Orb in my living room doing their French homework. I was a bit confused so I offered them breakfast. They just misbehaved.

"The Orb are now in my garden on tiny bikes trying to do wheelies. They keep falling over. Stick to what you're g