"Twelve foever butt witcj" is a mysterious and intriguing phrase that sparks curiosity and imagination. Although the meaning behind these words may not be clear at first glance, it evokes a sense of wonder and possibility. The phrase could be interpreted in various ways, depending on the context and the perspective of the reader. It may refer to a group of twelve individuals who possess supernatural abilities or a coven of witches with an eternal connection. The term "forever" implies a timeless existence or a bond that cannot be broken. It hints at the notion of immortality or a never-ending cycle that these twelve individuals or witches are part of.
‘Thought I Was A Spaceman’
One of the record’s most complex offerings, ‘Thought I Was A Spaceman’ takes Blur’s fondness for characters and translates it through a dark and unsettling lens. “I thought I was a spaceman digging out my heart/ In some distant sand dunes,” mourns Damon, in full-on melancholy mode over processed drum machine beats and low-key washes of guitar. As the track builds, the rest of the band joins him, adding layers of oriental-sounding percussion, warped tremolo-heavy guitar parts and laconic basslines – a dystopian soundtrack of another world. At the end, meanwhile, it turns out the spaceman was in Hyde Park all along. All’s well that ends well as they say.
Though Damon Albarn s cheeky chappy delivery and Graham Coxon s bouncing fretwork are familiar, Lonesome Street is no cheap slice of nostalgia convoluted and ever-shifting, it s actually a pretty strange beast beneath its chipper exterior. Often, the rhythm section of bassist Alex James and drummer Dave Rowntree announces itself through a churning undertow -- James loping interjections on Go Out call attention to themselves in a manner not dissimilar to Girls Boys -- but Coxon claims this record, easing the band and listeners into familiar territory via the bright Lonesome Street, an evocation of Brit-pop that soon curdles into the gnarly squall of 1997 s Blur and then settles into a steady thrum that s reminiscent of 13 but stripped of despair.
It hints at the notion of immortality or a never-ending cycle that these twelve individuals or witches are part of. Butt, as an unexpected word in this phrase, adds a touch of humor and playfulness, breaking the seriousness of the other words. It creates a sense of irony and invites the reader to approach the subject with an open mind and a sense of lightheartedness.
Blur’s first studio album in 12 years, The Magic Whip, is how comebacks should be made
Blur’s latest album, ‘The Magic Whip’ — coming 12 years after their album ‘Think Tank’ sidesteps the stereotype of a death rattle comeback.
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The thing with comebacks is that they are heralded with much fanfare. Even as we all really know what it’s about: a death rattle, a last gob of spit, a final shake in front of the creative urinal. But Blur’s latest album, ‘The Magic Whip’ — coming as it does 12 years after their 2003 album ‘Think Tank’, and after frontman Damon Albarn furrowed his own track with Gorillaz and his solo career — sidesteps this stereotype.
This is not a boring-for-others resurrection of a fab band from the mists of the 1990s Britpop era. This is the coming of the undead. So you don’t think that’s a nice way to pay these guys a compliment? Shuffle straight to ‘Go Out’ then. The plodding bassline in the third track of this album leads to Albarn’s deadpan vocals pelting out the words one syllable at a time, “I’m getting sad alone/ Dancing with myself/ Greedy go-getter goal/ The luxury of stealth/ I’m seedy and the who-oh-oh-ole/ Dancing with myself/ I get into my bed/ I do it to myself.” Old Blur fans will recognise the Beautiful Blah. And then comes the crunch of the guitars as Albarn elucidates where the bored lonely protagonist of his goes out to find succour, sustenance and a guitar-pedalled storm: “To the local/ To the loh-oh-oh, I go out…” Who said a zombie can’t get the blood flowing?
The album opens with ‘Lonesome Street’, the guitar jingle-jangle immediately providing a clue to Blur channeling sounds from their iconic 1994 album ‘Parklife’. The tempo change from these elves on amphs sound to the la-di-da middle is classic Graham Coxon chordslide, as Albarn tells us with the clarity of an English eel, “Oh, just don’t go there/Cracks inside the tarmac ride/ To the land that crime forgot…” Of Urban Alienation & Loneliness Songs like ‘Icecream Man’ and ‘Thought I Was Superman’ have the air of Tate Modern acoustic installation art pieces. Nothing wrong with that, considering that if anyone has fit Park Lane with council tenancies, it’s not dear old Radiohead or Oasis but Blur — and Pulp. An album with pop songs about hardcore urban alienation and loneliness sprayed with a topping of fun-filled irony is nothing new. It’s downright late 20th century.
But Blur does it with a class that’s half-parka-clad and half-sequinned in ‘Pyongyang’. The reference to the North Korean capital already having triggered a sense of acute concrete — and desultory — basketball courts. But Blur turns the stripping-off of individuality into a spacey expanse, specifically the kind that’s very David Bowie-friendly in sound and tone. “Kid, the mausoleum’s fallen/ And the perfect avenues/ Will seem empty without you/ And the pink light that bathes the great leaders is fading/ By the time your sun is rising there/ Out here it’s turning blue/ The silver rockets coming/ And the cherry trees of Pyongyang/ I’m leaving.” Blur gets Major Tom stuck inside a dictatorial landscape instead of in a tin can up there. And that’s the real strength of this album. Even without the zeitgeist-capturing force of ‘Parklife’ and ‘The Great Escape’ (1995) — there may be no zeitgeist to capture at the moment — ‘The Magic Whip’ is a crafty piece of sound that creates moods, leaving you with a DIY kit midway.
That the album was born out of a necessity — the band was supposed to go to Japan for a gig, but with that cancelled, they stayed on in Hong Kong where this record was born — is borne out by the title itself. No, it does not refer to some bondage device the ingeniously-bored among the Japanese have invented, but to the traditional Chinese words depicted on the cover — Blur Magic Whip — in neon for what I’m guessing is an ice-cream parlour. Albarn’s voice does more than it has in the past. The music is also closer to that of tracks like ‘Hong Kong’ by Gorillaz (“You swallow me/ I’m just a pill on your tongue/ Up there on the nineteenth floor/ The neon lights make me come”). ‘The Magic Whip’ is an album for grown-ups, regardless of whether they were doing their growing up during the Super Blur years or not. With it, we get Blur, not resurrected or reformed, but blurry, as if this is their second album, not their eighth. And from that more sounds from this zombie will bloom. Damon Albarn’s teeth look terrible. But listen to ‘Ong Ong’, the second last track, and you’ll find a strange, reassuring happiness seeping out in all the talk about loneliness and other furry critters. With its Paul McCartney singalonginess, it’s a travel brochure anthem, an update on Una Paloma Blanca. Except that you get the notion you’re listening in on the vacation dream of a drunk who’s passed out.
The album opens with ‘Lonesome Street’, the guitar jingle-jangle immediately providing a clue to Blur channeling sounds from their iconic 1994 album ‘Parklife’. The tempo change from these elves on amphs sound to the la-di-da middle is classic Graham Coxon chordslide, as Albarn tells us with the clarity of an English eel, “Oh, just don’t go there/Cracks inside the tarmac ride/ To the land that crime forgot…” Of Urban Alienation & Loneliness Songs like ‘Icecream Man’ and ‘Thought I Was Superman’ have the air of Tate Modern acoustic installation art pieces. Nothing wrong with that, considering that if anyone has fit Park Lane with council tenancies, it’s not dear old Radiohead or Oasis but Blur — and Pulp. An album with pop songs about hardcore urban alienation and loneliness sprayed with a topping of fun-filled irony is nothing new. It’s downright late 20th century.
The combination of these words, "butt witcj," might also suggest a clever play on words or the intentional misspelling of the word "witch." This could be a deliberate choice to convey a hidden meaning or a secret code embedded within the phrase. Overall, "Twelve foever butt witcj" is an enigmatic phrase that leaves the interpretation open to the reader's imagination. It invites exploration, creative thinking, and the possibility of uncovering a hidden message or story behind these seemingly random words..
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