A kid carries his walkman on that long bus ride to Omaha

I’ve always been somewhat old fashioned when it comes to portable music devices. Maybe you could call me technology-phobic, but mostly it’s just a distrust of this little gadget with too many buttons and functions, that turns something so simple into something so frustratingly difficult. It’s not an unfounded fear, after all, your portable music device is your own pocket sized best friend, and arguably the best friend you’ll ever have.

For my 10th birthday my parents bought me a black Sony Walkman. It was the best present I’d ever received and everyone knew it. From that day on I was unreachable to the outside world, constantly wearing headphones, and an obsessive hoarder of cassettes. Perhaps the seeds had already been sown, but that Walkman certainly helped me on the way to the unsociable act of replacing people with music. Wherever I went, Walkman went too. One day the belt clip broke and I had to be inventive; now pockets, bags and even underwear had to allow Walkman space.

At 14, a glowing school report bought me a celebratory Discman. It was a novelty that lasted longer than most. I no longer had to spend hours making tapes on the living room floor, I could just throw my favourite CD’s in my bag and still make it to school in time for registration. The fact that it refused to fit in any pocket, no matter how hard I tried didn’t seem to matter either, I went very few places without my tip-ex stained record bag anyway. My relationship with Discman was a happy one, perhaps the only happy relationship of the mid-teenage period, but like everything, even Discman must die, and eventually the CD skipping as I walked to and from the bus stop became constant… and irritating. Discman went to bottom drawer heaven and trusty old Walkman was my best friend again.

The new millennium dawned with the arrival of a little silver box. It was back to taping my favourite songs on the living room floor, but with Minidisc-man it seemed all the more sophisticated. Minidisc-man didn’t eat battery’s like Discman did, and with me travelling further for my college education and spending an increasing amount of time out of the house and in the company of hot young boys in bands, seemed like the perfect portable music playing companion. The problem came when Minidisc-man and I didn’t have any chemistry. Sure, he was shiny and silver, and could fit in almost any pocket… but there was just nothing endearing or terribly practical to win me over.

My true love began to make me mix tapes as a token of his undying affection and Walkman and I were inseparable again. He was now almost a decade old and had some problems with the occasional cassette. Sometimes he would make a chugging sound, but never gave up on me. We went out into the big, wide world together, and no matter how many mix tapes from significant insignificants and four and a half hour train journeys I presented my poor old Walkman with, he chugged along constantly and faithfully. Then one day, after almost 13 years of loyalty, Walkman just stopped. My Father was kind enough to loan me his cheap, modern Walkman, but it didn’t compare… and to be honest, I think I’ve wore the poor thing out(you could say, they don’t make them like they used to!) I returned his faithful friend to him before it died completely and tried to show some respect for my beloved 10th birthday present Walkman. Here my dilemma began.

These days, everyone and their dog have one of these fancy ipod thingies. I’ve never seen one close up, but from where I’m standing they look like jolly scary little buggers, with lots of buttons and things that make no sense when all I want to do is listen to something that will make my shitty day seem bearable. I unwillingly convinced myself that a mini ipod would be the answer to my predicament. They’re tiny enough to fit into the pocket of any particular garment enveloping my size six waist, come in pretty colours and can hold so many songs that I couldn’t get bored for at least a week, maybe longer.

Asking for advice it seems, leads me further into my dilemma. My good friend, miss bad-influence tells me no. Miss bad-influence tells me that a big white dentist surgery like ipod is far superior, and for only a few dollars extra holds a million more songs so I’ll never, ever get bored. Confused? Me too.

I wish my black Sony Walkman had some life left in him, but I understand that I should move forward like the rest of the world. I can use an ipod. I can love an ipod. I just need a little reassurance, and a little faith... but mostly lots and lots of reassurance. And quite possibly a bank loan.

Roddy's Record Review

Once upon a time it was hard to believe Roddy Woomble could tie his own shoe laces or button his own shirt, let alone write and record his own solo record.

The highlight of his career had been lying on stage, screaming wildly into the microphone, one shoe on his foot, the other somewhere to the right of his head, while Rod Jones jumped limply over him. This was of course in the good old days of Idlewild.

So imagine my surprise when Roddy, believed to be on something of a hiatus after Idlewild's last album didn'’t quite live up to... well, whatever it was that the album before that didn't quite live up to, announced his solo project. Roddy it seems, had collected a bus load of Scottish musicians, including bandmate Rod Jones, Karine Polwart, Ailidh Lennon and David Gow of Sons and Daughters and Michael Angus of Foxface, amongst others, and headed for the Yorkshire countryside to begin working on what would become his debut solo release, My Secret is my Silence. Strangely, I now have visions of the film Withnail and I.

Produced by John McCusker, this rather quaint picture of a recording session has created a unique British folk album, somewhat reminiscent, perhaps not entirely coincidentally, of a bleak winters'’ night in front of a roaring fire, in the company of friends, glass of whisky in hand.

I have to admit that, Roddy, you have surprised me. You might now look, and quite possibly smell, like a young version of Last of the Summer Wine's Compo, but your first solo album isn't half bad.

Broken Records Zine Review

Broken Records is a memoir of the years twenty-four-year-old Jessica spent working as a record store clerk. During this time she graduated high school and college, was almost arrested and single handedly prevented runaway truck carnage and an in-store blood bath. The Broken Records store was the backdrop.

The importance to her of the time spent working at Broken Records and the relationships formed with co-workers is obvious as she writes of the problem of CD trade-ins, memorable sales of pornography and a hilarious late night road trip with the life size cardboard version of the local Elvis impersonator.
The characters of her co-workers and regular customers also come under scrutiny. A roll-call of fellow employees (they all love Star Wars) are introduced alongside store regulars the Prog and Porn Guy and the Aging Hipster.

Jessica writes with a fury of wit and inspiring honesty about the everyday life of a record store clerk. Whether the daily task or the 'did that just happen?' ridiculous, her individual style makes this zine impossible to put down until the end.

Broken Records even comes with its own soundtrack. The 17 track CD compiled by Jessica herself features many of the bands/artists mentioned in the zine (disappointingly Barbara Streisand, Genesis and Chicago aren’t included!). The CD does include Throwing Muses, PJ Harvey, Sonic Youth, The Cure and The Clash. Each track comes with a short explanationto its importance.

By the end of this zine you may have learned that despite previous media representations, there are women out there who make damn good record store clerks, do own every Clash album on vinyl and happen to posses a far superior musical knowledge than their average male counterpart.

Broken Records is available at all good distros. For a full list visit the Broken Records MySpace page.

Because I am so sick of those Gok Wan programmes

It only recently occurred to me that the media’s representation of the female form may be a little sizest. I haven’t been living under a rock for my whole life. This is just the start of the controversy.

We don’t all conform to the ideal size seen in magazines and on television. The curvy actresses and voluptuous footballers’ wives the media saturates us with present an image unachievable to many women. But unfortunately, I’m not talking about those who find themselves on the heavier side of the enviable figure.

Women who consider themselves overweight have endless resources designed specifically to help them lose those excess pounds. Celebrity endorsed diet plans and advice columns, television programmes that teach you to dress yourself thinner or extreme cosmetic surgery makeovers. All geared towards slimming you down to the socially acceptable average.

But what if you’re not over weight? What if you look at those glamorous footballers’ wives and long for a curvy body like theirs? Instead you look in the mirror at your non-existent curves and wonder why no one ever assumes you’d rather not have to. It might not be a problem of epic proportions, but there are some women out there who have just as much trouble gaining weight as others do losing it.

Often labelled as anorexic or frowned upon for their slender limbs, skinny women aren’t allowed to complain about their body shape. But long gone are the days when Twiggy was lusted after by men and women alike. Skinny is no longer fashionable and an alarming number of young women are going to great lengths to achieve a more rounded figure.

I am one of these ‘lucky’ skinny women. I can eat as much pizza and cake as I like and not put on a single pound. How easy my life must be, I hear you all say. However, the reality is much less perfect. Protruding collar and hip bones certainly aren’t sexy and the ability to fit through railings is a party trick best kept quiet. Many of my clothes have had to be altered accordingly. Despite the occasional identity crisis caused by the pages of glossy magazines, I’ve learned to live with my shape. I’m never going to have a curvy, womanly figure and this is something I’ve had to learn to accept, however grudgingly. I find myself reasoning, if Keira Knightley can work with it, so can I.

On Thursday 31st August, 2006, iconic supermodel Kate Moss appeared on page 3 of British gutter press, The Sun. The launch pad for every cheap glamour model since the late seventies, page 3 has become synonymous with the vulgar busty blonde topless shot, ogled by workmen in white vans across the nation. Kate’s appearance here, however out of place, was a landmark. Small breasted and slender, Kate’s poise and natural beauty proved that being a curves in all the right places shape was not the be all and end all of what it takes to be happy and sexy.