Been re-reading this
website. It's strange seeing parts of your own greymatter at
work. Such are words. Some can be pretty fowl. The
is even more gut-level, I guess. Music being near as dammit
to emotion. 'Armistice Day, Romeo and Juliet and all music are
sacred' said Kurt Vonnegut. Nonetheless, the site's taking from.
The part I'm not so happy about is what you're reading right
now. This frontispiece. I try to avoid Dear Diary but reckon
it could do with a makeover. Hmm. The Geocities
site is corroding, backgrounds vanished. Any recommendations
on how to suck it off Yahoo and splatter it back up here in
one swoop very welcome.
to link Bathtubgirl
up front again. The lady's got the right sort of craziness in
spades. Drink from her delicious net chalice, it's Suds Not Scuds
and open for business. While
you're at it, go Playlouder
for opinions on your independent rock, dance, popular and not
so popular. Old muckers The
Charles Napiers recently got a letter from the no-nonsense,
grizzly Russ Meyer star they're named after.
Finally uploaded a
'What Is?' page, Over there. Top left. Intriguingly basic.
Correspondence as further notes for anyone remotely intrigued.
Archway bunker (below)
- goodbye. Shouldn't be sad to leave such an uninhabitable spot
and, anyway, most of the third CD is in the bag. Indeed, on an
imaginary round-table 'Late Review Cutting Edge MP3 Special' occasionally
tuning in, I'd say "flight to virgin space should underwire
and somehow slyly juxtapose the overall themes of the closer,
Mark. As Nabokov's Lolita was his mixed feelings for the America
that rescued him. But, y'know, above the Super Suds laundrette
It'll be difficult
not to remember draughty bunker as a guitar, a laptop, bewilderment
as 'Gas Mask' took off like a dancing hamster, it's six weeks
at number one on UK MP3 charts. Christelle - tHis websight
won;t reed haff aS go0d with!out yeWr cheking it fursT. Goodbye
et bon chance.
This week - an evening
of mixed avant garde and 'microhouse' hijacked beautifully by
'electrostalinist' and chum Vic 20 (below) who stood out from
the Wire-magazine fare like a gum-chewing smashed thumb. His conspiracy
theory synthpop, peppered with verbal assaults on Zoot Woman,
had audiences flummoxed and delighted in turns. Long may you point
your libellous Moog finger at the rich and influential, Mr Twenty.
Then a lastminute.com
weekender to Sweden with Vic and chum Dermot. "Why come to
Stockholm?" several of the natives pursued us with curious
gravity. As we dropped precariously back into Heathrow, gurgling
heavily on the old
Rescue Remedy and power-chilling to Michael Nyman's score for
Gattaca, my mind rifled through pleasant memories of an anti-G8
rally we joined for the ride, mountains of gravad lax, the Strokes
and 'Transformer' up loud in the Indigo Bar, the Restaurang bar
and the Moderna Museet's monsterously cool The
Path Of Resistance exhibition. And the chomping of wild strawberries
and the throwing about of beachballs in a Socialist utopia with
healthy packs of Timotei lassies and dumbbell-brained Dolphs in
an Expose - Deep Inside The Brass-Necked Nudist LoveKamps Of Gottenburg
(1963 v.o. 26 mins) style. No - fact.
4 Potheads, a high five to your kind link.
I found myself on a railway platform in a remote yet affluent
part of Surrey this week. Train problems. I saw a man descend
the steps through the slats of sunshine that reached right across
the station, for it was late afternoon. From the distance, he
seemed to me like a recently retired, self-made sort of cat. Blue
blazer with gold buttons. Deep tan. Cricket jumper slung across
his shoulders. Mobile phone. But as he got closer he started resembling
a cheat. A cad. A huckster. The tan was sunbed, the gold tooth
a bit garish, the furtive glance more that of the common weasel.
I imagined him roaming the Home Counties seducing rich widows.
"Oh Lillian, (chink of champagne flute) a very special lady.
I'm so glad that we found one another, even if it may be the autumn
of our lives. Lillian, what's wrong? You look suddenly unwell.
Lillian! (tap tap tap of mobile phone) Yeah Rick? It's
Baz. She's croaked, get the truck." As this - probably harmless
- gent passed I was smiling apologetically for this appalling
thought, listening to the White Stripes on the discman.
One More History Of The World A Poem. Apollo 8 takes off for
photographs of sand and rock on the moon. On impulse, a fluke
almost, they take one of the Earth rising. Suddenly the challenge
for us all is not only to remove divisions but also to maintain
our diversities in safety. Far below, riots are about to shake
Belfast. Things go up and down the popularity charts. Hip-hop
happens. People buy bits of the Berlin wall. Once people can afford
them, they start websites. Things go up and down the popularity
charts. Yugoslavia goes nuts. The music industry is worth thirty
six point nine billion dollars a year. The media says the popularity
charts need a new punk. At The Drive In sing who's in charge
in here cos I'd really like to meet him. The industry says
we need a new punk. Riots in Bradford.
who got pulled unexpectedly onto the stage at one of the Beck shows
last week? Who danced like a crab on a hotplate to 'Milk And Honey'
- or something - in front of a capacity Brixton Academy and a craning
camera crew? Go on, guess. Guess. Uh-huh,
chum George from that party several entries ago. I just watched from
the stalls shouting "You're a Scientologist plot, Hansen."
to describe the moment afterwards, the young lady gushed, breathless
and almost tearful - "It was mint, mate. Mint. "
found out I knew too many pomp rock anthems and powerballads for my
own good at the Popbitch
pop quiz. Pictured the place stuffed to the rafters with venom-dripping
Dorothy Parkers but they all seemed like nice, quiet, slightly introverted
writerly types. And what they say about them sorts is all true. Trust
me. Mint, mate. Mint.
an e-mail - please make short film for new show on Channel 4/E4. It's
been a while since I've got my Bolex out and strutted around the park
- so assembling some frighteningly talent-heavy friends of friends.
Min.. Alright, enough with the mint already.