Lyle Christine



You’d be right to ask “whom?” indeed. Lyle Christine is not a musician who is comfortable writing about himself in the third-person, but until Spotify increases its shillings and groats royalty rate, Lyle can’t afford a marketing team to take care of important business such as the “artiste biography“.

What you’ve missed: Glasgow-based musician has recorded a few albums of varying quality; what to expect in future: more albums of varying quality resulting in a completely uniform typical normal distribution graph which can be etched under my gravestone summary:

Here lies another random, average, ordinary, regular son-of-a-bitch who once existed but now doesn’t“.

“Glasgow-based“? That’s right eagle-eye, I’m a country boy from Fife originally, hailing from a small village called Kettle where the world’s lettuce is wrapped in cling film and popular children’s entertainers drive about in Jaguars while coked out their skulls. I should have stayed there; what more does a man need than high-quality lettuce, high-quality cocaine and sub-dross mawkish folksy drivel that hypnotises 5-year olds?

Moving on, I have recorded 8 albums and currently in production are album 9 and an acoustic album. Album 9 will be great, which gives me leverage that a shitty album 10 will keep the normal distribution grave-graph looking… normal. The acoustic album will not be anything like MTV’s (I’ve)Unplugged(my brain) series from the 1990s – it will be modern: I’ll be rapping over a sparse snare/kick backing track in some cringe patois, mewling about a girl I saw while waiting in a queue in Tesco, probably sporting a backwards baseball cap. It will be devoid of any substance, intelligence, emotion or originality; based on current stupidity trends, it will probably make me the world’s first quadrillionaire.

Final words of advice… keep your skillet good and greasy.

Lyle Christine: patience of a toddler...
radioactive levels of cynicism

Here comes...

An uncomfortable chat about "the music, man"

Stop… look… listen… and learn. Christ, I honestly don’t care what’s in your Spotify playlist or your YouTube favourites folder, and you probably shouldn’t care what my albums are about: my albums are about nothing, they’re small breezes that disappear as quickly as they appear… my albums are farts. I’m merely a crumbling humble urchin cursed with a condition of compulsion which forces me to squeeze out an album every year or so. I love writing and recording music; I have never cared for the mainstream and I have no desire to become acquainted with the bovine, herd-oriented, hive-mentality bland masses; I have never been to Glastonbury. I have a list of bands that I hate that is as long as the horizon is wide… but it’s not important to publish that. What’s important is good advice:

Keep Kicking Against the Pricks; Don’t Let the Bastards Get You Down; Keep On Truckin’