:: battle royale :: Hail hail the sun machine - refracting playfully on gold oceans of colonial electro-rock. Do what thy wilt shall be the whole of the law - but the wind still cries sorry - too late and to the wrong person. Poetry for weddings that were too busy having fun to happen but admitted later, to a mutual friend, that it would have been nice to have been asked. Concentric desires, parallel lives, the flowers of romance but, somewhere in international waters - Liberation.



Slamdunkin funk pop with Fender Twin semi-acoustics ghost riding away on top. Recorded on the roof September 11 2001. Summery drink-in-hand riff-orama a la Jacques Brel's La Moribond - the original Seasons In The Sun. A happy song, lyrically uptight, or soundtrack for a picnic at the world's end. Bah.



Stark verse turned inside out - poeticising all the dark elements of those 'gardens sweet with ripened vines' moments. Where other songs would try to bring everything safely back to earth, this feels the need to get more intense. Pure pop going bang bang.

alt. fan. suicide

The internet as lost highway; fade in as a detective is travelling down it - with one last job to do. "I've been your wish list, baby. I've seen myself in you," he explains to himself over some missing Pixies freeform jazz half tuned-in on his radio. He never sees the motivations of his webcam femme fatale, but we can.

baby shark

A holiday romance on Lesbos - cod ska sunseeker and sensitive soul Catullus takes ecstacy on a paraglide and sings Look Down In Anger at 18-30 philistines and the wasted hearts they cruelly leave alive in a sea of groped parts.

never be a teenage riot

Last of the two minute fuck-this moments recorded in the Archway bunker. Classic stripped down rock from the phantom back catalogue, lyrically as optimistic as you want it to be.

we wuz kinged

Some folks proclaim to make the stars. And some folks rule with divine sanction. Which might or might not be a parallel, but it all sounds a bit rum to these ears. A teenage Joan Jett runs away to join Pere Ubu instead.

the dog and pony show

Gather round me children. I will tell you where men go when men go. Presbyterian youth club rock with divine intervention on the microphone from devout Pentecostal Charismatic Angela Penhaligon. It's just something to say that we were beautiful. And that I loved you. We were carving something. True.


battle royale

A bloody Valentine's card found in the Morne-plaine trenches, a bombastic intro of glass candle grenades.

Sung in French, as White Fiat could've been - not to distance myself from the lyrical content but just to get a kick out of the idea.

perfect on purpose

Twilight zone space jazz that can't hold it's booze, can't last the distance and can't seem to feel no more. Swaggers home thinking of Missus Triffic, only to slump on church steps. Sees the light, goes inside, asks what it's all about, bud.

b special

Eloquent hardcore moderne to bend innocent heads and hips into kinetic spasms forever, as music should. Jawdroppingly spot-on lead guitar if I do say so myself.


her hips is rebel magic

Origin Du Monde voodoo roots rock'n'roll song by a parallel Beatles in a Cavern on Mars. The Carl Stalling guitar orchestra charge half a league onward through the shrill, demented choir of effects pedals from Venus.


missus triffic

Kooky supervixen pop - staying in to watch Black Narcissus. Mid- summer night sex theatre, worryingly close to it's groovy big sister. People might talk, they already are. But when it feels this sweet, funk 'em.

adieu madras

Recorded asleep. Partly. An old French colonial lullaby with homespun harmonium, a double-barrel Marble Index shivering through the gates of an Edward Gorey kindergarten. Sad.