Anyhoo (yes "anyway" was already taken).

Very briefly. Listen [background]. Do try not to guffaw too much. Plays absolute hell with cooking. Or doing anything else.

I'm not about to do this and obviously don't tell anyone, but a recent foray to the nearest Fopp outpost in this hinterland led to the discovery of a cheap copy of a Will Young's Keep On album. Somehow I managed to find myself buying it, weirdly enough without having to bury it amid copies of Rambo or Rocky or some such pointless violence in an effort to negate it (hmm, what is butch and dull? And doesn't allow any option for watching it for the bodies? And isn't laughably macho?), which is usually rendered pointless by the tendency of shop assistants to flirt over the till regardless of purchases. It's odd; he has a face like a smug Cosmo (or is it Dibbs?), a voice part lisping duck (think a well-phelgmed oboe in Peter and the Woof) and musically he didn't even have the grace not to do well as the merchandising for some manufactured pop advertising programme (did he win? Who knows? Cares?). And yet that was a while ago, and he is just a person, albeit one whose maternal grandfather was the Cheshire Cat. Given the same university, same grade (how do I know that?) thing there must be something mundane about him; he might even verge on human. Disliking someone or something because of how they used to be perceived probably isn't a good thing and perhaps isn't entirely fair. And so the music.

Firstly, it works better when heard without a vixen solicitously scatting over the top. Secondly, it's better than you'd think. Yep, there's a feeling of generic pop and an aura of borrowing, giving it the air of a young compost heap, but there's more to it than that. There may be bits that sound like Billy Joel but there are others that sound like the far reaches of Jamiroquai or patches of either Sinatra. It even has something that just made me think of the theme to Pigeon Street (along with a somewhat ill-advised tin whistle, an instrument that I thought had been sunk permanently by Titanic. Cutting the ramble that lead me here, think how much better the cloyingly Fenian* Titanic would have been had the theme tune not be foghorned by Celine Dion but sung by Mrs Doyle: My heart will ga awn, ga awn, ga awn).

* Firefox's spellcheck does not recognise the word, suggesting I replace it with Armenian, Athenian or Slovenian. Is it pure coincidence that people of all those descriptions would probably see themselves as recently oppressed? Whereas I meant it to reflect the unthinkingly Eire-uber-alles attitude which is prevalent among some Americans and thus in some Hollywood films. Sorry, that should have read Irish-Americans, because their family's only been out of the country for 8 generations and being three-eighths-Italian, a quarter-Quebecois and most of the rest not so Irish really isn't important when one thinks about it, and it doesn't matter much that the only cockles and mussels alive alive-o to have featured in their lives so far came from Squibnocket. Yes, that was a rant, and no, I won't tell you who it was about.

Back to the music, it's surprisingly good. Said he typing this and suddenly hearing the lyrics which had passed me by earlier (largely because I assumed they were just words chosen to make the right sounds in the right places). I might to go away and actually listen to the words now. Or, you know, not.

But as I said before, whatever you do, don't tell anyone (WY to QOTSA? Intriguing).

And having scanned a map of the Eastern Seaboard (is that as in sideboard, South Eastern Electricity Board or the height of the hull above water? And why is it only America has seaboards? What's wrong with 'Atlantic coast'?) to find Squibnocket, that allows me to artfully segue to Strange Maps, which is the type of site I'd expect to find on Dan's sidebar, had he still a sidebar, and which is not only extremely diverting if not outright fascinating, but handily sums itself up in the name.

Anyhoo,

Anything Az can do I can do better (maybe) and so I present Atlas by the Battles (the 'the' might be superfluous but it sounds more natural).

Not only is it a song you'll not forget in a hurry (it's a bit like being made to stand in a corner and not think about orange penguins), which is odd considering it has no known words, but I just quite like the video. Simple idea, simply done and yet fascinatingly complex. Even the glass can't help bouncing along. There's a few more tracks on Myspace, which also features a good use of the brilliant word 'fwount' and Shameless Complacency has a few mp3s to tide you ever till the album's out.

Speaking of things bouncing, I think we've had this year's summer if the weekend's hail, sleet and snow are to be believed. It even included a reprise of conical snow or hail shaped like re-entry capsules, of which pictures will be forthcoming, assuming any survived the rampant shivering, lest you remained unconvinced by the dodgy pic from a couple of years ago.

And why's it have to go and get cold again? The weekend's weather convinced me I need a haircut (if the hailstones go in but can't get back out, then it's probably time to trim. Cue flashback to a happier time when a then current flatmate discovered that the pellets from his bb-gun would drown in my hair if fired at the back of my head, which he thought was one of the best discoveries known to mankind, until of course I realised that if I shook them loose away from him I could slowly collect all his ammunition thus depriving him of his entertainment; it was a good plan until he bought another bag of pellets), yet if I do I'll freeze.

[The weekend has now been extended to include Tuesday as there's some mightily big snow going on outside, but unlike the hail it's not settling].

Which somehow brings me to books (I'll think of a link in a minute). Recent reading has seen the end (finally) of Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie, Tales of the City by Armistead Maupin and The Liar by Stephen Fry. I'd been reading MC for so long I kept forgetting what had happened in it, which will have done nothing to improve my final perception of it. In some ways it is quite engaging and yet there are still patches which feel like walking across hot tar, the story plodding unwillingly along, gripped by a mess of the past. Towards the end there was more natural rhythm to it, but there where still sections where I was aware of reading enough to get the gist from each paragraph, skipping onwards tired of the flourishes. Superbly crafted sentences are fine as long as they communicate more than their own worth. If reading them means the plot dies forgotten or they have to be elided to maintain the momentum and interest then there's something slightly wrong with their use. Beautiful or useful might be the maxim for interior design, but I suspect both are necessary for literature.

Maupin's efforts are much more readable, but very probably intentionally to be taken less seriously. It was quite odd reading the book while remembering little grains of it. I'd either completely missed or forgotten the pun of the Halcyon-Days, yet remembered the comments about the pronunciation of Beauchamp, just as I remembered wondering what snowpeas are (mange-tout according to Google), what the anagram was and the curious incident of the jeans in the shower (why, apart from remembering it as being a bath, did that, of all the scenes in the book, stick?). Reading something apparently for the first time while being able to remember it is disconcerting. I can only conclude my mother got it out from the library years ago and I ploughed my way through it before she noticed. It's really odd that despite all the sex, drugs and Fol de Rol the bit I remembered mostly firmly was wondering why someone would use a nail brush on a pair of jeans. I didn't even notice (or remember noticing) which part of the jeans he was scrubbing, simply the strangeness of scrubbing wet jeans while wearing them. It's like reading Thomas the Tank Engine and yet only remembering the colour of one of the ballast stones under the rails. Most odd.

And the last book to be completed was Stephen Fry's The Liar, which having read Moab feels a little autobiographical (ok, make that 'very') and in the process manages to cast doubt on his autobiography. It's a fun book, very readable, and yet it's obviously Fry; the characters sound like him, even when they're not meant to, although that perception is perhaps reinforced by having heard parts of the book recycled by him in other places.

I should now add a sop to continuity by mentioning my current book, which was to have been The Life of Pi, had it not been apparently 'borrowed' before I finished the author's introductory note. I may have to mount a discreet raiding party to recover it (can one mount a party?).

And a prize (possibly) to the first person, who isn't Sin, to guess which of the four books mentioned here are on loan from him (I'm not quite sure if that's loan in the Labour sense of the word).

Reverting back to the top of the post, what are the lyrics to Atlas? Any improvements on "Brigitta woman... near as stand off... Singer is hurt, 4 AM"? It's nearly as bad as Blur's Song 2, does not feature the line "is there any jam?" regardless of how many times I think it does (a plague on all your Buzzcocks).

Anyhoo,

Not only did last [last] weekend involve much Wiiing (what else is there to do when the only cloud in Southern England is blocking the lunar eclipse?) but it also involved much filmage.

First came the post-emotional breakdown in Sainsbury's (er... did I miss something? Well, obviously because one minute one friend was there, next she'd fled to the carpark, all while I was trying not to disapprove of GA buying solely purple packaged food) main feature, The Butterfly Effect, as recommended by the occasionally distraught one (I'll have to give her a new blogname as I've forgotten her old one. So what? Jetty after her name? Sweetie-Darling after her speech? Evil Harridan of Capitalism Number 2 after her work? Zingiber officinale after... do I have to spell this one out? Or how about what she always corrects people with? I mean if someone calls her something and she always replies "No, it's X", then X must be her name, right? And so we have it: Titian).

Titian just so happened to have a copy of this film floating about in her work's car. So after I grilled the dough balls (bloody no visible flames electric oven), which wasn't helped by unintentionally Wiiing for slightly more the 4 minutes cooking time, and so served them well browned charred face down, we watched the film with occasional cookery breaks.

It feels quite like a few other films with endless time loop or parallel narratives stuff, Final Destination levels of gore, played straight with just a little light molestation. It's like a NSFW version of The Goonies. And it's not helped by the cast; you can Ashton Kucher is being serious as he's got his sincere beard (which he wears like Greek actors wore mood masks). Basically the whole thing would have been better off written as a sub plot in an episode of Buffy. Not even being made to sit through the deleted scenes until Titian found the ending used in the cinema could provide us with any sense of fulfilment.

Of course having looked things up later it now turns out that the story is an allegory of the life of Christ (the character's surname is Treborn but apparently the studio wouldn't agree to calling the lead Chris). So much self-denial, abnegation, lots of suffering generally transferred from the outer players to the central character, who then has to sacrifice his own life to save the others (depending on the edit you watch); no wonder it's odd. And it has to be a fairly poor film if GA and I agree it was bad (I still haven't forgiven her for ruining a childhood birthday by earlier telling me that Look Who's Talking 2 was a good film).

Eliding the following yet unrelated unless one of is the second son of God conversation, the next film was Rebel Without a Cause. Titian had departed by this stage and GA went to bed half an hour in, leaving me to try and make sense of it on my own. Having watched half before bed and half early the next morning (thank you downstairs for having your radio on loudly throughout the night. I do so enjoy walking to the sound of my muppet-like fellow man on Five Live) I probably didn't have the best viewing experience. Nor was my perception of the film helped by constantly expecting the characters to break into song, probably thanks more to West Side Story than Grease, but not by much.

It was quite interesting finally connecting the cultural references which allude to the film, although I'm not sure of the exact significance of lead character being dressed in red, white and blue for much of the film. I couple of things struck me as I watched it (and I was aware of watching for the sake of experience rather than because it drew me in). He's a unwilling rebel without much of a rebellion. They all live in a Malloryed world, where they do things because they're there and because they can, but most of all they do things to be seen to be doing things. It's posturing. It's an act, which is possibly why the reversion to imagining the future with child-like safety and simplicity, the honesty of sheer pretence, suddenly strikes so dramatically.

But it is very hard to watch the film without inferences and then having to struggle with deciphering how much was an intended subtext, how much was originally visible, what impact did it have at the time, what perceptions are caused by solely modern interpretations and what would have been expected by contemporary thought? Because depending on one's starting point the film offers two narratives. Where both intentional and are both accessible from the either mindset? What influenced the structure of the film? Did studios lean or is this the original vision?

I'm aware this won't make much sense without having seen it, but in order not to sway you much I'm avoiding specific aspects of the plot. But it's very hard to ascertain whether the thoughts it provokes were planned and whether they might have changed with the context. If you haven't a clue what I'm talking about, watch it.

And the third film of the weekend was an inflicted Dark City, for the second time (second time watched, second time inflicted). I dozed through much of it. It is reminiscent of several films, despite most of them having been made later. If you're into mechanofantasy, where everything in the distorted world seems to have more pistons than strictly necessary, then watch it, otherwise only watch if you really have nothing better to do and your arms can take no more Wii. Like onions it does not improve with repetition as it consists of an idea and a twist and is nowhere near layered enough to improve with rewatching (it didn't help that all I remembered of it was the twist).

Basically it felt mediocreally French and reminded me of The City of Lost Children and The Fifth Element, but most of all The I Can't Name This Because It Gives The Ending Away (GAGEAGN).

In other film news, I saw, yet again, Gosford Park when it was on Channel 4 last weekend (I know I used last weekend above to mean a different one, but I didn't complete the post and something scared me out of blogging for a while). And this is despite owning it on DVD (which I bought hesitatingly sight unseen on the recommendation of a friend and so discovered that sometimes recommendations from friends can be good things). I haven't got much to say other than ponder the sanity of watching the with-ad-breaks version when I can choose not to (bigger screen) and so infer that I probably like it. But then it's a good film, well acted and decently scripted, which is complex enough to not be fully understood on the first viewing (it's based on a party; one never knows who everyone is nor everything that went on at the end of a normal party so why should one expect to at the end of a film of a party?). It also does an excellent line in insults and slights, much like someone else.

Incidentally, I found wonderful review of Gosford Park, which focuses solely on what may or may not be suitable for children. It's almost sweet and one suspects they only neglected to mention the corrupting flashes of ankle because of space demands. Reading what they consider to be violence is also fairly entertaining. And apparently it contains '7 religious exclamations'. Good Lord, are there no depths to which they will not sink? Best line of warning: We see a couple of nude cherubs on a ceiling.

In other news I finally fixed the dashboard lights dimmer in my car, meaning I can see how fast I'm going again. But to get to the dimmer, which the Haynes manual helpfully ignored completely, one has to unscrew the retaining screw at the base of the panel. The manual helpfully shows these by having first removed the panel below to expose them. Of course, what the manual does not show is how to remove the panel below which was currently covering the screws. So after much prising and gouging of plastic I got the cap over the screws for the panel below off, which helpfully matches the caps they use for slots unoccupied by unselected optionals extras (although the scuffs from the attempts of others gave it away).

So after unscrewing and working loose one panel, shedding dust along the way, got onto the nest two screws. More dust trickles out continuously. Much more prising (possibly quite literally a case of breaking and entering) sets the dimmer free. Well, I found where all that dust was coming from then. I'm not sure why the oxidised copper was only a very pale greenish white, but there was a heck of a lot of it. Chipping, scrapping and scuffing ensues. As does WD40ing.

I get the connection working again, but not stable and only at a fixed point which limits the point of having a variable resistor somewhat. Realising that the circuit is just as likely to conk out again in the future and now knowing how awkward it is to get to (who thought arranging interior panels to overlap like roofing tiles, only with hidden screws in as well, was a good idea?) I improvise with fuse wire. While I consider just hardwiring a bypass I wasn't sure of the current of the circuit and thought having an exposed fuse burn out while encased in hidden plastic might not be the best idea, instead cheating slightly and using the wire as a packing material to force the heavily corroded sledge in the resistor back out to a level where contact with the coil could be made. Connecting the battery back up to check while half the interior is still slumped forward I notice a light. A light intended to illuminate a switch for which all the wiring is in place. Only whatever the switch controls must have been an extra because there is no switch (despite all the wiring for it being present) and so the light which is currently lit has spent its entire lifetime hidden behind the plastic of the dashboard. It's quite odd.

Of course, having done all this and exposed its innermost quirks, a few days later the car retaliated. I tried to back up a bit to allow me to clear the car in front. the driver's side rear went up as the tyre went over the kerb. Except I was parallel with the kerb. I try again and the same thing happens. Getting out to check it's very obvious that there's nothing there. Trying again and once more the car finds an invisible brick to drive over. This is not good. I try letting it roll forwards but despite the hill it won't move. While I'm busy worrying about the suspension finally having broken through the rust other people appear to offer opinions, the car in front moves and the AA is called. Trying to go forward she hunkers down but nothing else happens. The car just won't move.

I wait for the AA man as I flick through the Haynes manual trying to work out what brakes it has on the back, how they work and so what might have gone wrong. It turns out that if I can't use a screwdriver I'm not very good at coping with car problems on my own.

The AA man appears, makes me try driving it back, then forward, telling me to push it harder, whereupon forward movement is achieved with a great scrambly, gravelly noise which scares me into stopping. Yep, the brake's locked on, as demonstrated by the neat tread pattern left in the gutter by both wheels (how'd that work, surely the rear should have blurred slowly forward and the front smudged together backwards?). While I'm pondering this and sitting in the car ready to engage brakes should it move, there's noise from the rear wheel as Mr AA works away. Then there's three clanging thunks and the car drops onto the engine compression. Taking it out of gear it freewheels enough to prove it's normal again and I stop it.

It turns out that the more mature car (or just those very dirty) when driven in wet weather (um, would wiper drowning rain and a flood or two count?) can result in the dampening and loosening of the aggregated gunk on the wheels, which can then accrete on the brakes and if not removed by further driving can then solidify binding the brakeshoes to the wheels thus rendering the car immobile. And leaving it to sit in the unseasonal sun for a week perhaps didn't help. Yep, thanks to the wonder of automotive engineering I reinvented the mudbrick.

All of which means I now have a car with no obvious problems (the pheasanted-radio doesn't count), which is very worrying because that means instead of providing a constant stream to be coped with, the car is storing them up and I'm worried I won't be able to fix whatever it is with gravity, a screwdriver (occasionally used handle end first) and WD40.

So what else newsworthy (I use the term loosely) has happened? Not much. There's more stuff on Flickr, but those of you who care probably know that, and those who don't don't.

I'm sure I've forgotten something.

Anyhoo,

Me too.

By God my arms ache. I think I have Wii wrist, Wii elbow, Wii bicep, Wii shoulder, Wii neck, Wii intercostal and Wii shoulder blade on the right and most of those on the left as well; even my lumbar muscles are currently aware of their own existence. Which made driving home in a car without power steering immense fun (as did the continual absence of dashboard lights and the fan suddenly going on strike with a puff of birch leaves after hitting a proud manhole cover in the middle of a vertical lake; fortunately the rear wiper kept the centre of the rear screen clear of cooling rain).

I only thwacked the glass coffee table once in the follow-through after a particularly good serve and even though I hit the overhead lampshade I wasn't the one to dent it. I suspect Nintendo have shares in Ikea.

So yeah, it's one of the few consoles that would even register on a possible possession list, and it does take advantage of my innate inability not to move around when playing games (you have to lean into the corners; always caused hilarity during four-on-a-bed Mariokart). One slight disadvantage is that it isn't really suitable for flats. Not only does one need wide open spaces and high ceilings, but one also needs a complete lack of neighbours to become irritated by the thudding, growls of irritation, squeals of delight and funky little victory jigs (GA started the trend; I merely improved on the idea).

All of which is slightly annoying because things I disapprove of on principle aren't actually meant to be fun. Heck, it's even fun when one lapses into mock light-sabre battles with the just the controllers (and so end up complaining about the incompetence of younger generations in being unable to comprehend the physics of fighting realistically while making the appropriate jshum noises).

Still no idea if it's a wee, double-u-two, double-u-double-i or the sequel to the Women's Institute though.

Anyhoo,

PS. I did eventually figure out that remembering to twist the racket for backhand might be quite a good idea (having killed most of the crowd off to the left). Rather annoyingly my return rate in the tennis is about the same whether I'm playing competitively or just waving my arms about while chatting and forgetting that there's a game going on, but at least one doesn't have to spend large chunks of the time delving in bushes and scaling chain link fences to retrieve the balls.

PPS. A comment on Dan's blog mentions doctors having to deal with the aftermath of Wiiing; having had a friend set up my Mii (little character which is used in the games) which supposedly looked like me, I reckon there may also need to be swathes of psychiatrists needed to sort out the resulting depression and body dismorphia.

Fulfilling the stereotype, I noticed an entry on one of the Guardian's blogs [it's vanished so here's the Londonist thing it linked] about this year's entries in the Eurovision Song Contest and was bored enough to plough into the Youtubed mire. Not only does previewing the entries eliminate most of the point of the Eurovision, which is to watch in ever mounting awe (largely in the old fashioned sense), noting musical influences (often through singing the words to that ripped off), suppressing sniggers at the highly rehearsed impromptu moves, and trying to guess which countries have a local Wogan (that and avoiding asking "is that a country now?"), but it simply extends the agony. Predictions so far: the continent will experience a spike in electricity demand during the Polish entry as most of the audience puts the kettle on or goes to the loo. This year's Ye Gods Award will go to Ireland, whose entry may cause Wogan to collapse into a coma unable to unpatriotically lampoon what ought to be a nil-pointser except it'll gain the pisstake vote (can you tell Ireland don't want to win the bankrupting ordeal?).

And seeing this year's Israeli entry is a cover of the Sugababes' Push the Button (well, the highly phlegmed Hebrew bit might be), albeit using the Mushrum Kloud remix version, and so is unlikely to gain the Iranian vote (what's the betting they'll be in it by 2010?), what other songs lurk out there? Greece could do drawn inspiration from the theme to the Italian Job with The Cyprus Adoration Society, Malta could do Boom banga bang and never forgiven you for it, France could do I want to teach the world to sing: en français, naturellement, the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia (the one not in Greece) could do Neighbours (yeah, ok, half the continent could do that with One Big Country/Many Little Countries as a B-side), Moldova could do Over Here, No, Down a Bit and we could do Don't Mention the War (whichever one you choose).

But moving on: genes for jeans. I apparently have the wrong ones, because I cannot find a pair of jeans which are not repulsive in the extreme or fit so badly that I look like a MC Hammer tribute act. Even the astoundingly boring M&S stuff induces such a abominable degree of abdominal crushing that I end up thinking peanut butter on kippers is a good idea. And before any of you suggest I might be trying on the wrong size, the M&S 34 slinked downwards yet the 32 was a misaligned corset, although the 31 and 33 inch inside legs both were the same length, so I guess the makers have mislaid their vacuum packed two-hundred-and-ninety-nine-million-seven-hundred-and-ninety-two-thousand-four-hundred-and-fifty-eighth of a second of light.

But getting away from the tear inducing (that's as in liquid not rent asunder) jeans - the lachrymosery was swiftly cured by being classed as a 32 in Gap (I know they are probably just outpsyching me by using a generous cut, but it works as long as I don't remember I used to be an unbuyable 30) - I just want some that aren't hideous or which make me look likewise. Thanks to the enduring whimmery of an industry which thought reinvention too taxing and so which settled on the eternal accessorising of the wheel, it seems nigh on impossible to buy just jeans. Trousers made of demin cannot now be bought without smiley faces on the pockets, whiskers round the genitals (medically known as the "crotchal area") or artistically engineered fur-lined ventilation holes (those I already have combine trends by having ventilation holes in the crotchal area). It would also be nice if they were not cut for those who have suffered vastly more gravity than I have and hence did not look like blue jodhpurs.

And yet I refuse to believe that the more callipygian among us are either expected to submit to distressing pre-stressed flammery (coffee-stains are very now) or look like a half-launched spinnaker (or both). While I may not be the purest paragon of pulchritude (ooh nice, if only I could learn to say the last word without finding myself saying "putridtude") the sideview of my thighs and buttocks is more a P than the D, B or O apparently used as a model by most shops. Is the obesity epidemic really so bad that now even adult clothing comes with room to grow?

I tried to get all 2.0 and so found a video which told me I need a low-rise bootcut as well as why the wider woman should not tuck, but I'm not sure I want to take advice from a man who is such an ardent devotee of the attention grabbing use of complementary colours that his skin is enhanced to bring out his blue eyes (do I need to add a "think about it" or have you got there?). And what counts as low rise anyway? Because on me all trousers sit with the top of the waist band just below the top of my hip bone, and yet some people are odd enough to wear the waist at the waist or, odder still, think it should be supporting the mons pubis or otherwise girding their loins (always great to see them try to run up escalators).

So once more I turn to you, dear, faithful, occasionally deranged readers. Where do you get yours? Because I just want something fairly simple and not even the most boring and therefore reliable shop on the high street does them any more (and by the looks of things, mostly the novel interpretation of stitching, Burton's current stock probably will not survive for the best part of a decade unlike those I currently have on). So any ideas for where to get jeans that look like jeans and fit like jeans? Actually, opening it up a bit more, what defines if a pair of jeans fit (yes, this is me wondering if I've missed the memo telling me they're meant to look like that).

But enough of this because I'm fairly sure none of you will say anything (barring the one who invariably finds something to say regardless of how mundane the post). However a random fault in the digital transmission last weekend meant I saw part of BBC News 24's technology programme, which included a section of time wasting websites of the week. One is songtapper.com which Ronseally lets one tap out the rhythm of a song and it will tell you what it is. Presumably the point of it is that it helps if one cannot remember the name, but it's mildly diverting even if you can.

But only on the third attempt did it recognise the second song I tried (the first was Tom's Diner). I'm not sure if it keeps the midi files of the attempts after I've left the site but in case it does, here's the first it recognised. Can you tell what it is yet? Here's the answer, which it only got after I dropped the final line which proved too convoluted for something in the finger, aged spacebar, chunter-prone computer, the internet in general, their site and interpretative software chain.

I've just noticed the other results include the Raiders of the Lost Ark and There's No Business Like Show Business, which suggest it just grabs popular names and flings a few out in the hope of one will be right.

And as my lack of musicality is once more too apparent, I'm stopping (just as soon as I get it to give me a Vega).

Anyhoo,

PS. Just checked TD by SV was in the database: their version sounds like they're avoiding copyright issues. And I did one that sounds like the song yet it still thinks it's either Mariah Carey or Lilly Allen.