July 2002. Sloppy
sloppy timetable for updating - if you're reading this on-going
story. If you haven't been - best go to the beginning.
Aimed to intersperse it with other things but enjoying it. And
trying to get thrown hither and thither in a social whirlpool.
Trying. What's happened to taxi fares? Eighteen - Farringdon to
Archway. Eighteen frickin quid. Tss. I blame accountancy irregularities
and thwarted expectations in the dot coms. Oh, friend Mr Whetter
and his 'Black Madonnas' are in The Face magazine next issue.
Good band. Ooh
look - more people I haven't
seen for ages half smashed and carrying on! Getting hitched and
stuff. It's just like Hello or somesuch -
June 2002. Noticed
this in the Local Gazette
- "Paint everybody - grey. Yeah. Grey. Yeah! Between
Ken Clarke And Hilldale. Our nation's elected representatives
awoke on the Parliamentary lawns this week 'still trippy' after
Arthur Lee - sensitive chanteur with seminal psychsters Love and
the subject of an Early Day Motion by the MP for Ealing North
Stephen Pound - suggested mescaline as the appropriate gateway
to the alternate dimension New Labour promised in their original
manifesto. Pound, on record as a fan of 'collecting comics' and
'walking', fell to his knees at the sight of Lee. Tim Yeo - still
watching his own soul ascend - and Alastair Campbell (cradling
his head 'post-spin') aside - everyone retired to the chamber
in time to catch Roky Erickson from the Thirteenth Floor Elevators
approach the bench to praise a more transparent and 'holistic'
democracy. Harriet Harman thanked the member for Texas but pointed
out that even one rock of crack cocaine, when mixed with mescaline,
was still harmful during the first eight weeks of pregnancy. Dissenting
loner voice Eric 'Bickle' Pickles toted an imaginary gun at the
whole stunt as a precursor to techno and therefore 'stank' and
break from the fussballs, I guess.. um .. we wuz rubbed.. that
geezer's an.. er. fowling ball-ponce.. er.. the ump needs better
eyeballs .. er..
30th May 2002. A
couple of days ago I was going to write this - "I don't know
about you but this warmer weather keeps elbowing me in the sides
and whispering - HUMAN BIOLOGY.
Personally I carry Dettol and a wire brush in my bag at all times,
for purification should my guard be down and I find myself gripped
by bad thoughts. You might be different. One of those Flash
Dans, Glad Alices, woo-woo kids. Loose. A swinger. At it. Morning,
noon and night. You will then, I have no doubt, be joining the
cool, upcoming Playlouder
Singles Club. Well, good luck to you. That's all I can say. Running
around meeting people is no way to meet people. Just lie about
monged under a tear-soaked pillow cursing this shitty world and
let nature take it's course." Then the weather changed and
I discovered that the aforementioned club will be an orgy of downloadable
mp3s and live gigs. London is safe - cocoa, jim-jams and pillows
in a strangely obedient way.
a zillion US readers courtesy of the new BTG site. Nobody does
it wetter. Welcome. Post-structuralist
Celinian Vonnegutian fun.
Or something. You tell me. On-going and at some revolving-point.
No connection between this chapter and recent reports of three
women in the UK convicted of making "crush" pornography.
Or maybe there is. Could go for a Hollywood ending or move into
your neurotic European art-house zone. There's a third way, kids.
And an expanded song
cycle. Void fill. Necessary. Good. Heavily hit and graced the
speakers of the more discerning West Coast grindhouses. Buy.
May 2002. This
week - Daniel Miller sells Mute Records to EMI. Not sure why this
is saddening, it's only a business. Sole proprietors have the
same raft of financiers to deal with as majors. But they seemed
a symbol of something independent, familial, in it for the art.
And I've met people who work for both these organisations and
the pleasant anecdotes always seemed to come from the Mute offices.
Like the idea of creative jobs but hard to see anything interesting
being made for anyone but Gawd. Say this as I've reached a point
in this story where I have to know where it's going, and I had
to know the next section before doing this one. An index.
Fortnightly seems to be the cruising speed. Vroom.
April 2002. This
Sunday 28th there is an actual fact anti-Le Pen demonstration
outside the French Institute in London. Might go along - register
remote protest, sit around a solidarity fondue, holler at any
postal voters furtively returning overdue Tintin videos - who
knows. And local elections in the UK too, don't forget. It's all
go. More ongoing
fiction, shall pepper around it with decidedly non-French things
- and this was written before unconnected events in the news recently.
April 2002. Hey,
it's my birthday soon and I need a pseudonym-de-plume from you.
Mail suggestions. Feedback is mostly from Google strays to complain
about the lack of barnyard eye-pop. I'm doing my best. Shoot to
hell besmirching words, let's picnic. No sign of DPS3 on Peoplesound.
Not sure why I keep this part in diary form, the highlight of
the week has been a much needed haircut (Mr Toppers Goodge Street,
the place since what's-her-name left Fish).
Royale' is now in the hands of Consignia, destination Peoplesound.com.
I left out most of the electronic 'experimentation' - sometimes
it feels like everyone is doing the same experiment when it comes
to electronica - and kept to songs proper - it's a filling, non-flashy
third slice. Or just as flashy as the other two. Sheesh, can it
rollick. And as nourishing as a novel, friends. Roll up. Response
from friends has been good - 'real
beauty in this madness' 'sexy and sweet'.
some sleevenotes. Thank you again for visiting this site or downloading
songs. You grow up fast putting the contents of your - what a
girl called Amerikan Science once described as - 'friendly neighbourhood
artschool bum' inky jotters - on-line. The default artschool approach,
whilst not being opposed to cold academia, was simply to take
anything real you might be feeling and to use it, whatever it
may be. It hardly reaches 'primal scream', but the internet does
tend to fill you with odd desires and ambitions, then flashes
of self-consciousness - a mixed bag of benefits and risks. Learning
not to care is the preferred solution, so long as you keep quality
in your thoughts.
Right now how I feel
is not the kind of thing anyone would want to read. If you've
ever finished something important to you - you don't feel like
having a launch party - you feel quite empty, grieving - like
the come-down after a good holiday or a break. I've been writing
off-line, but back soon - I'd like. Thanks again.