Closing in on a year

Yeah, man, well it's been almost a year since my mum died. And it's been almost a year since I could quite bring myself back to this page to blog again. I've been dabbling with Tumblr and of course busy with Facebook.

But maybe it's time to come back to blogland.

There was a time when this blog was filled with Gallows stuff. And there's a lot going on in Gallowsland right now, so maybe that can be the impetus I need.

Let's start with the new Gallows video for "True Colours".



And here are the lyrics (as I hear them):


If it looks like a snake
It moves like a snake
If it writhes like a snake
Then all the world knows it's a snake.

True colours shining through
Your true colours shining through
True colours shining through
Your true colours shining through.

Like a 4th of July
Like a 4th of July
Like a 4th of July
Like the 4th of July.

Get your free download of this new track by clicking here.

Gallows instore at Rough Trade East

Bank holiday Monday, 4 May, and today there is a free instore set and signing to further promote the launch of Gallows' second album Grey Britain. After working until about lunchtime, eating, showering, etc, the missus and I headed off in the car, London bound.

After parking just around the corner from the Old Blue Last, venue of the second of last December's two "East End Invasion" Gallows dates, we walked for a few minutes, arriving at Rough Trade's east London store at about 6pm. I located brother Dim, secured our wristbands, then ran off for a pee and a cup of coffee.

Back at the venue, a line had started to form. A pretty big one, too, but I spotted a bunch of buddies, and we hello'd and chitchatted while waiting for the doors to open. The rain was not welcomed by those young punksters who had arrived in T-shirts and/or short skirts, but with my leather jacket and woolly hat, I was all good. Sensible clothing ftw!

Once they let us in, I headed, uncharacteristically, towards the stage at the back of the venue. Ish. As it happened, I didn't stay just there very long, shunting slightly outwards from the pit. These hands are key to keeping a roof over my head!

As the band takes to the tiny stage, vocalist Frank tells us that they don't have a setlist and that they will play what is asked for by the crowd. This is a nice touch, and immediately the boys are inundated with requests. This process doesn't last long; soon written suggestions are the order of the day. And indeed some song choices, unsurprisingly, are overlooked altogether.

I was expecting only half a dozen songs, maybe, but was pleased that the set was a bit longer. Indeed, in terms of number of songs, this was the same length show as the first time I saw Gallows, slightly less than a year ago, at Chatham's Tap 'n' Tin.

The exact list of songs escapes me now, but I'm pretty sure it was all of the following, though not in that order. I love hearing "Gold Dust", even though it is so short, at just under 1 minute.

The new songs are already knitting seamlessly into the gig repertoire. The hard core of fans already know most, if not all, of the words, and the question/answer parts of the songs really lend themselves to the live environment.

YouTube user shambles247 (linked below) has footage of most of the set, wherein you can see that the stage didn't hold the band for long, and all except drummer Lee were in with the crowd for a good while.

Black Eyes
Death Voices
Leeches
Misery
Crucifucks
Abandon Ship
In the Belly of a Shark (+ Happy Birthday)
Gold Dust
The Riverbed
Orchestra of Wolves.

(Unheeded went: Six Years, Rolling with the Punches [a personal fave of mine], Party Hard [a cover of the Andrew WK song, which Gallows have performed live once or twice], The Vulture, Sick of Feeling Sick, and no doubt others that I didn't catch.)

Once the set was over, an orderly queue started to form at the front of the shop, where the band would be signing stuff for those in attendance.

My super deluxe copy of the album had not yet arrived, so I was in two minds whether to buy one here in order to participate in the signing, but I had taken my sleeve of CD single "In the Belly of a Shark", just in case. The aforementioned chaps obliged, along with Lags, Stu, and Steph.

It was then time to say ta-ra to the Gallows posse and head off with Red to have some dinner on London's Brick Lane, which is famed for its hundreds of Indian restaurants. Despite having lived in London for 10 years, neither of us has ever eaten there before, and it is difficult to choose a restaurant, to be honest, given that there is so much choice. It is also unappealing to have people stood at the door trying to beckon punters in, as though you are in some dodgy Spanish-island holiday resort.

We plumped for one that had no doorman -- though it later became clear that this was just serendipity and he was probably on a toilet break. He was there a-beckoning when we left anyway! The venue of choice was Poppadom's (sic).

We ordered veggie dishes (mushroom bhaji, sag aloo, tarka daal), rice, and naan, as well as a drink each, and the missus headed off to the loo. On her return, she said: "I hope the graffiti in the ladies' is wrong. It says the food took forever to come and was cold." Oh, bugger, we thought, we've chosen the worst restaurant on Brick Lane.

In fact, our food arrived pretty quickly and was a good temperature. Certainly it was warmer than when we get takeaways delivered back home. And you know what? It was good, too. Subsequently I have found another bad review online. Maybe we got lucky, but I really enjoyed the food there, and so did the wife.

All in all, a good end to a great evening!

Bye.

Gallows' Grey Britain album launch

Believe it or not, it's not every day I get invited to a band's album launch party and debut screening of the accompanying short film. But this week I was invited to exactly that, on 29 April 2009. And it only happened to be the band whose music I have listened to more than any other (by a long way) over the past year. The band I have seen live more times in the past year than any almost any other pro band in my life. (Only Manic Street Preachers beats this, over a 10-year period, give or take.) So, well, I had to go, didn't I?

The first part of the evening is the screening of the eponymous short film that accompanies the album Grey Britain. It will be released as a DVD in a special double pack with the CD on 4 May in the UK. I don't know whether it will be available in other territories, but that's what the global Internet marketplace is for, isn't it?

The venue for this screening is the Curzon Soho cinema, where many years ago, before my time, my missus had worked. This was a trip down memory lane for her!

I knew the movie would run about 30 minutes, but that's all I knew. I didn't expect it to be almost end-to-end music; in a way, I suppose I'd hoped there would be dialogue, too, and initially, for a handful of seconds upon this realization, I was disappointed. It's not long ago that I'd said to my other half that I thought frontman Frank Carter would probably make a good actor. If I ever get my arse back into film-making, maybe I'll drop him a line!

What we have here is almost a mini punk-rock opera. And as fucking weird as that idea sounds, it actually all holds together really well. The plot seems to be that a boy is raped and killed by someone who appears to be a priest (though he could be Death incarnate) in a London that has been overrun by heavy-handed riot police while da kidz are running scared underground. Cue much dark brooding photography, fighting in the streets, bricks and bats and blood -- all with a snarling six-song punk-metal soundtrack and bursts of the band in action... It is not only the band who might be surprised that Warner Bros Music actually agreed to foot the bill.

It looks fucking gorgeous, fair play (as the clip below shows), and if one could complain about anything, it might be that it's a shame more people won't get to see it on the big screen. I really feel very privileged to have been a part of that and look forward to getting my DVD next week. It might be broadly derivative of any number of shorter scenes you've seen in bleak-future movies, but it's done with a huge amount of style. Oh, and yeah, it's more than a little bleak. I won't give it a numeric score because I am too biased to be fair, either way.



After the screening, the missus and I chatted to some of the folks we have met before through seeing the band over the past year, and then we headed off to another of our old haunts back when we were Londoners: Melati restaurant on Peter Street. Man, the times we've eaten wonderful Malaysian food there... And it's just as good now as it was when I first went there some 16 years ago. Same staff too. Never been? Go, for the love of God!

The final part of the evening was a Gallows gig proper -- a full-length set at legendary club Madame Jojo's in the heart of Soho. I've never been there before, but again this is somewhere that my wife used to go regularly before my time, dancing the night away while grown men were paid to cavort in thongs for the punters' entertainment!

On arrival, the tiny venue was already pretty packed, but we were still able to secure what might, traditionally, be considered a good spot from which to view the action: against a balcony just to the left of the mixing desk, with the dancefloor sunk 6-8ft below us and the raised stage diagonally opposite. I say "traditionally" because one never really knows where Frank will actually end up singing from. I also had it on fairly good authority that they would be playing within the dancefloor/pit, rather than on the stage. I had also heard that they would be playing straight through the new album...

First up, we get "London Is the Reason" -- not the first track on the album (but I guess you could consider it so if you disregard the CD's prologue song "The Riverbank"). And from there on, we do indeed run through the album in order, omitting "The Vulture (Act I)", the acoustic version, as either Lags or Steph (I didn't catch who) jokingly said "I've left my acoustic guitar at home."

It's not long before Frank is more or less out of sight, on the same bit of balcony as me, but hidden behind taller, bigger spectators. He tells the throng that he's not getting down into the pit because everyone down there is so much bigger than him, though it's not long before he is indeed in there. And the rest of the band, except drummer Lee, is soon down there with him, while the crowd is politely asked to make some effort not to knock over the musicians while going about their circle-pitting, moshing, windmilling, and whatever else they want to throw into the mix!

After anti-knife-crime track "Queensberry Rules", we are treated to a couple of old faves. "In the Belly of a Shark" is first, and bassist Stu asks if he can do the first line. Rather than the usual guttural screamed a cappella four-word intro, then, we get Stu putting on his best plummy voice, announcing, "So, hear I lie," before the song kicks off proper. To repeat the refrain halfway through the song, Frank picks on his mother, who looks mortally embarrassed to have to do it. She does it, though -- inaudibly as far as the band goes. I think I heard it only because (a) I was about 10ft away from her and (b) because I could see her lips moving. "She did it!" Frank exclaims to the band, who seem to be wondering when their cue will come. He then asks her to do it again. She obliges, of course, and the song goes on.

And the set continues too, with the classic "Abandon Ship" before we return to the new album's tracklisting, with "Misery", which ends with the eminently singalongable chant, "Misery fucking loves us / And we love her too", and then "Crucifucks". As a final treat we get the time-honoured set-closer "Orchestra of Wolves".

It's been quite the night -- and quite the set. Although those of us who have seen Gallows a few times over the past year will have heard several of the new songs before, it's the first time, of course, that so many have been played in one gig. It was incredible to see just how many people were singing along, too, given that the album is not even out yet and has only been streamed on MySpace for a few days. One reviewer elsewhere also reckons that this room is made up of 70 per cent music-industry folk. You wouldn't have known it. I also wouldn't have known I'd be joining in a round of applause for Warner Bros Records. Crazy thing, rock 'n' roll.

I could watch this band every night. Each gig is completely unique, just the way it should be. What is the point in watching a band that do the same thing every night? Gallows are now out on tour till about December, I believe, taking in the Warped Tour in the US once the UK tour is over. Go and see them. And buy the album Grey Britain while you're at it. It's anthemic as fuck and a damn good ride.

Click the setlist image below to see my pictures from the night.

Words please, part two

I almost actually included this at the end of my previous post, and then I decided against it. Indeed, in some ways, that post had been inspired by my seeing a certain man on TV the night before. That man was John Shuttleworth.

And since I wrote that post, the song with which Shuttleworth (not his real name) reached #4 in the charts 30 years ago this month has been making many appearances around my personage.

In the form of this Facebook group, for example, and even a T-shirt with a picture of UK prime minister Gordon Brown on it.

So, without further ado, I present "Jilted John" by Jilted John. And although it's only a silly little novelty punk record, I have to ask: Is there any way in which all the subtle nuances of this track could possibly be conveyed without lyrics? I rather think not.



The words, since I said please and all (though I have not proofread them or anything [no time], so don't go blaming me if they're wrong):

I've being going out with a girl
Her name is Julie
But last night she said to me
While we were watching telly

This is what she said………

She said "Listen John I love you
But there's this bloke I fancy
I don't want to two time you
So it's the end for you and me."

"Who's this bloke?" I asked her
"Gordon," she replied
"Not that puff!" I said dismayed
"yes, but he's no puff," she cried.
"He's more of a man than you'll ever be."

Here we go -- 2, 3, 4

I was so upset that I cried
All the way to the chip shop
When I came out there was Gordon
Standing at the bus stop

And guess who was with him?
Yeah Julie
And they were both laughing at me

Oh she's cruel and heartless
To pack me for Gordon
Just because he's better looking than me
Just because he's cool and trendy

But I know he's a moron
Gordon is a moron
Gordon is a moron
Gordon is a moron

Here we go -- 2, 3, 4

Oh! She's a slag
And he's a creep
She's a tart
He's very cheap
She is a slut
He thinks he's tough
She's a bitch
He is a puff

Yeah yeah - it's not fair
Yeah yeah - it's not fair

I'm so upset
I'm so upset
I'm so upset

I ought to smash his face in
Yeah - but he's bigger than me - ain't he
I know I'll get my mate paddy to hit him
He'd flatten him
Yeah but Paddy's a mate of Gordon ain't he
Ah well - I don't care
Oh I don't care.

Words please

I had a friend request on my MySpace yesterday from an Italian band called Mondrian Oak. As I always do with music requests, I listened to a bit of one of their tracks before deciding whether or not to accept.

On it went and it was okay. But it went on a little longer and no words were forthcoming. So I skipped ahead, and still no words. I checked out their band members: nobody credited as vocalist or singer.

I had to decline their request, cos I don't really understand music without words. I just don't get it. This is an opinion I have held since childhood. For me, it's virtually all about the lyrics.

I watch a film, and someone might say, "What a great score." And I'll go, "Really? Can't say I noticed." Occasionally, though, a score will strike me and I'll like it, like the one in There Will Be Blood. But that was like non-music -- like atmpospherics, industrial noise, and music all rolled into one. And that's different.

Equally, if someone said to me to listen to a particular piece of scoring, then I could listen to it and give an honest opinion of how it worked in conjunction with the film's images. But all too often I feel that movie music tends to manipulate me, the viewer, towards an emotion that the director was unable to take me via the acting. That's lazy scoring, and I just block it out, subconsciously.

A few months ago, I was at a nice lunch with some colleagues, and a piece of classical music was playing (don't ask me what or whom). One of my fellow diners got very impassioned about an upcoming part and urged us to pay attention. I did. But meh. I just ... I just don't know...

Maybe I'm a product of my time, like Marc Bolan, "a 20th-century boy".

And when I watch University Challenge and the music round comes up, I'm always gutted that they focus on classical so much. But the funny thing is, nine times out of ten, these kids, when faced with something "pop" or "rock" from the past 50 years, have no clue what it is they're listening to. That's just plain weird for me.

Emos and goths to be criminalized in Russia

What the fuck is this shit?

Click here.

Post #796, wherein I get to some details about my holiday

So, we were all hopped up and ready for our brief stay in warm and sunny Seville. And then, just a couple of days before we left, it suddenly became apparent that it was going to be rainy and grey. Bugger. What can you do? We'd booked our tickets with hand luggage only, so we were committed to not taking big coats and cool-weather clothing...

"Well," I said, "It's not like weather forecasts are always accurate. Let's take a chance."

It's hard to travel hand luggage only, especially when you are allowed literally only one bag each, and that bag must weigh less than 10kg (22lb), and you want to cram in a video camera and stills camera and a couple of shirts and T-shirts and some spare trousers or two and clean underwear and socks and maybe some spare shoes... Hard, yes, but not impossible.

First things first, though: on arrival at the airport we had to queue at Ryanair's customer-service point to make sure our online-printed boarding passes were okay, since they said we were Irish (which we aren't) and that our passports expired on 1 January (which they hadn't). All fine; problem with the computer system. Phew!

------

We arrived late to Seville, and yet it still wasn't dark. That's always nice and summery-feeling. It got me off on the right foot. And with our hand luggage only we went straight to the cab rank and got a car straightaway. He drove like a complete maniac, doing about 130km/h (80mph) on streets that didn't seem built for such speeds, undertaking cars as we went. But at least that meant we got to our hotel quicker than we might otherwise have expected.

We checked in, freshened up, and headed straight out to one of our favourite haunts in the city, the Cervezeria Giralda, where we incredibly managed to bag a table really quickly, after ordering our first round of drinks and tapas, but before we'd managed even a mouthful, I think.

We ordered the tortilla al comino, so beloved of our last visit, along with a couple of other old favourites and some new dishes too. We drank beer and took pictures, and we wandered back to our hotel room sated and happy to be back in this great town. Tomorrow we would start our walking in earnest.

We had decided in advance that we would eat breakfast at the hotel. At least on the Sunday morning, anyway, rather than struggling to find somewhere open early enough. So we did, and it was good. Hotel breakfasts in the buffet style are usually good, but when you're paying €14 (£11, US$22) a head, you simply need to make sure you get your money's worth. So we did. Various cuts of ham were consumed, along with bacon, tortilla, doughnuts, coffee, and orange juice. A breakfast in preparation for a day's walking.

And off we set to the Plaza de España, hoping this time that it would be even more wonderful than the last time we saw it. Sadly, this time around a lot of it was boarded up for renovations. We didn't mind too much since we'd seen it before anyway, but it would have been nicer to see in all its glory. It was more unfortunate that the waterway that runs in the grounds was, once again, void of water. I was really hoping to see it in this context this time around. Guess we'll just have to come back again sometime.

But we did see some festive chariots carrying señoritas in their best Feria clothing. That was cool. (Video footage to follow soon-ish.)

And we did get accosted by some gypsies wanting to force rosemary upon us and read our palms. I managed to get away with paying mine only about 80c for her trouble. She didn't seem too pleased with that and seemed to be implying I should pay her €5 for each palm read. I just shrugged like I didn't know what she was saying.

And I'm glad I did. Discussions with my better half just a few minutes later revealed that she indeed had paid €10 for the great privilege of being told our children would be beautiful. Oh, joy!

Of course, just before having our futures read, a vending man had come running up to me screaming before grabbing me by the arm. "Lucio! Lucio!" he was yelling (in that Spanish way, so it sounds like "Loo-thee-oh"). I thought he was on about light or something (luce [loo-che] in Italian, luz [looth] in Spanish), so I just kinda kept walking, shaking my head in bemusement, trying to convey that I had no idea what he was on about. Maybe he was trying to get me to buy one of his fans or something...

Then it became clear. We stopped and started trying to communicate with him.

[One thing about the Spanish we've encountered in both Seville, both times, and Valencia is that regardless of how much you clearly have no idea what they are saying, they will just keep talking. To you or at you, I'm not quite sure. And while this can initially be somewhat frustrating, it's also somehow really very endearing. No amount of incomprehension seems to be an obstacle to their desire to talk to you.]

Over the course of five minutes we established that he liked my tattoos and that the best tattooist in the whole of Spain is Lucio (yes, the word he was shouting at me), who operates at the US base in Rota, near Cadiz. This chap, who told us his name was Fernando, showed me the tattoo of his mother's name and told us that years ago, when he had his done, nobody had tattoos and they were frowned upon by "society". These days, "everybody has them, even babies". He now intends to get his father's name on his other arm and portraits of both parents on his chest. I think we did pretty well understanding all that, being as we're really shit at Spanish!

See, tattoos can bring people together, my friends.

After our walk around the Plaza, we were hungry, so we headed to a little nearby cafe that we'd been to last time around.

The weird thing was, the overhanging trees were insane. Almost everybody sat outside was sneezing as the trees shed their fluffy leafy stuff.

A street musician wandered over to our table just as Red went to the bathroom. He was playing something akin to a guitar but made with twine for strings. He was a black guy, and given the proximity of Africa and its African heritage, I suspect the instrument was African of some time. "You speak English?" he asked, twiddling a little riff on his thing. "Yes," I replied. "Where are you from?" "England."

And that gave him all the ammo he needed to "write" a song for me on the spot. I still remember the lyric fondly. It went something like this:

Englan', Englan', Englan', Englan', Englan'.
Li'erpool, Li'erpool, Li'erpool, Li'erpool, Englan'.
London, London, London.
Li'erpool, Li'erpool, Li'erpool, Li'erpool, Englan'.

Ahhh, those words will stay with me a long time.

The NME Awards: my view

Well, where to start...?

The NME, for those who don't know, is a music paper. It's been around for decades and is a rite of passage for any teenager into music that is a little non-mainstream. It is, traditionally, the champion of the "indie" spirit; or at least it was, back when there were other weekly music papers. Now it's something of a loner out there in printed-medium land.

I am long since past the age of the target audience of the NME, and the lineups of nominees served to emphasize that. They also served to emphasize my feeling that British music is in a horrendous state. I still listen to music every day. (By "listen to music", I mean music that I choose, not simply what bombards me from the radio or some other passive means.) Much of the music I choose is new, too. In recent months, the wife and I have bought albums by Coheed & Cambria, Gallows, and The Used and have downloaded tracks by acts such as Atreyu. Admittedly, these are not very NME-friendly artists, being a bit more on the rock/metal end of the spectrum.

These artists are also very American (except for Gallows, of course, who are just back from their US tour, where they were even supported by Rise Against in Chicago; told you you should go, Candy!). And the NME prefers British music. But British music has become a limp, dull, grey piece of shit, populated by George Formby Arctic Monkeys, Klaxons, and other faceless blurg...

That said, this year's NME Awards gave me not one but two reasons to tune in. This is extremely rare.

Back in 1985 or thereabouts a schoolgirl friend of mine (for I was 15 at the time) lent me two records by an artist who still appears to this day on my list of "favourite music". His poetic lyrics set to a caustic solo electric guitar was truly music to my ears.

A few years later, the NME (for I too spent many years in that rite of passage) alerted me and my countryfolk to a band from a small town in Wales. Wales? That was a joke, right? I mean, nothing good comes out of Wales, save for the road to England. But the NME alerted us to this band only to pour scorn upon them. They were the music press's latest whipping boys, a laughing stock, a band that wanted to make one album, get to #1, and split up in a blaze of glory. They cited Public Enemy and Guns N' Roses as influences and sang words such as "I laughed when Lennon got shot" on their debut single, also provocatively titled "Motown Junk". They too would quickly become hugely important to me and are still, to this day, the band I have seen live more than any other.

The former was Billy Bragg; the latter, Manic Street Preachers. Both (at one time, at least) purveyors of lyrics with a message. Both heroes of mine. Both, all these years later, on the same televised music-awards show aimed at a new generation.

Billy Bragg was performing with a relative newcomer to the scene: Kate Nash. For me, seeing Bragg and Nash sing together was a deeply embarrassing affair. Nash writes some of the most horrendous lyrics known to man. She has tried and failed to capture some of the wit and style of The Streets and Lily Allen, but she has ended up sounding like French & Saunders doing a piss-take of that genre. And for Bragg to have fallen for her well-hidden charms is a huge shame in my book. The unholy pair performed a pseudo medley of her hit "Foundation" and his classic "A New England". Oh, why, Lord, why? Kate Nash is a fraudulent cunt, and Bragg must be a fool for not realizing.

And the Manics were given the Godlike Genius award. Yeah, they were godlike geniuses. Once. The year was 1994. The album was The Holy Bible. That's when they were godlike geniuses. After that, it all slowly started to turn to shit, both for them and for those of us who followed them. After getting their award they played some songs. On TV they showed two of these: the epic "Motorcycle Emptiness" from the 1991 debut album; and the fucking godawful "Your Love Alone Is Not Enough" from 2007. These days, even the former sounded shit, slowed down and, seemingly, played in a slightly lower key, reducing its power considerably. Both the NME and the Manics seem happy to sweep their previous incompatibilities under the rug of history. I am not so forgetful.

What do people say: "You can never go back"? Yeah, I think that sounds about right.

Cheap music but great music

On occasion, while out shopping, I like to see what I can find in the "two for a tenner" section of a music store. I bought two for £10 over the weekend. Allow me to share the story behind one of them.

A few months ago, I watched a documentary show on TV. I occasionally like to watch these things, y'know, the sort of programmes that come under series titles such as Imagine... or Storyville and the like.

The show I watched that evening could almost be considered life-changing. It was about a man who was a pop star in the 1960s. Of course I knew his name, and I knew one or two songs by the band he was a part of, but I didn't know he had reinvented himself after the dissolution of that band. And I didn't know that he continues to make music.

As I watched this man recording his latest album, he would bang things together in the studio to make the sound he wanted; he would build a box into which he would go to create yet another sound for a particular song; and similar things.

He spoke with that dull monotone of a science teacher, with the look of someone who might be slightly insane. Or might be a genius. Whichever way, he is an artist. An artist in that truest sense. A man for whom making music seems not to be about making music; moreover it's about creating something, and it just happens to be music.

Back in the late 1980s I met a guy named Brian, and Brian would often refer to this artist. We would talk for hours about music, fashion, and women, the most important things in life for a young man, surely. Brian would talk about this singer's "doom-laden vocals", an expression that has stayed with me for some 20 years as I applied it to others without ever really listening to the man about whom it was intended.

That man is Scott Walker, and I'm a recent convert. You might remember him from such songs as "The Sun Ain't Gonna Shine Anymore", by The Walker Brothers. If, like me, you know (or knew) very little else about him, allow me to share with you a clip of him in action, singing the opening track from his debut solo album, Scott, one of the CDs I bought on Saturday.



As I wrote this post, I began to see parallels (in my own head) between Walker and David Lynch -- both artists for whom the medium is almost irrelevant. Not irrelevant, but... just a conduit, if you like. These two men -- and undoubtedly others, male and female -- just want to create. And as I then glanced at Walker's Wikipedia page, the parallel was cemented for me. Apparently, Walker told UK newspaper The Independent in 1995: "I've become the Orson Welles of the record industry. People want to take me to lunch, but nobody wants to finance the picture... I keep hoping that when I make a record, I'll be asked to make another one. I keep hoping that if I can make a series of three records, then I can progress and do different things each time. But when I have to get it up once every 10 years... it's a tough way to work."

A tough way to work, indeed, and a sad state of affairs. Walk into any music store and you will find row upon row of reissues by the likes of Sting or Phil Collins, reissues, re-releases, repackagings; greatest hits, best-ofs.

But where is the funding for those with a truly original vision? Those who have a deep, unstoppable desire to create? Another thing I love about those documentary strands I watch is the focus, from time to time, on Old Masters. Back when the likes of Michelangelo and Leonardo (no, not the TMNTs) were working, they had sponsors and patrons, people who commissioned these incredible, awe-inspiring works of art. And you know what? Sometimes I think we'd be in a better place artistically if that were still the case, instead of the shit that is churned out for the masses.

“I love the sound of breaking waves”

Even small waves sound great on pebbly beaches
as they crunch and splash and sizzle.
I'll tell you what doesn't sound nearly as great:
when Gallows sing with Lethal Bizzle.

Not that I have a problem with Gallows;
it's the Bizzle who's troubling for me.
I just don't think that the sounds he makes
are as cool as those of the sea.

A little taste of what might have been

Those of you who also read my missus's blog may remember this recent post in which she mentions the (then forthcoming) Avenged Sevenfold gig at the 100 Club. Well, we didn't manage to make it. But, as with all things, clips have surfaced on YouTube. Here's a bit of what we missed. Looks fucking great, huh? Oh well, fingers crossed for next time...

Holiday stories, part 4: "The Music and the Mountain"

Street musicians are always fun to watch. These guys caught me off guard, suddenly starting up in the outdoor area of the great La Botte restaurant, but I managed to shoot a bit of footage, albeit from a not-great vantage point. That said, it was nice to capture some of the local colour of people out dining on a lovely evening. I've thrown in some clips of Etna doing her thing, too.

Movie soundtrack fans should listen out for a tune from The Talented Mr Ripley, as well as a snippet or two of "Axel F" from the Beverly Hills Cop movies. Fans of the accordion might get lucky, too. Enjoy!

Today’s the day

I like music. I like music almost as much as I like film. I used to love music way more than I do now, but that changed somewhere along the line.

But I can pinpoint the exact day that I first became interested in music beyond listening to theme tunes of kids' TV shows.

It was 16 August 1977, 30 years ago today. I'm sure you don't need to ask how it is that I can be so accurate with such a seemingly arbitrary moment in my life story. I'm sure you all know that when something happens that is as momentous as Elvis dying, it can have an influence on the mind of a 7-year-old boy.

It was on the radio, I seem to remember. I also seem to recall the doorstep of my house and telling my then-28-year-old mum that "her boyfriend" had died. (This was a mistake on my part, since "her boyfriend" was Alvin Stardust, but Elvis and Alvin sound the same to a music-ignorant 7-year-old, I guess.)

Then there was the realization that my dad, who had quite recently turned 30, had a bunch of Elvis records. Well, naturally, my younger brother and I had to listen to hear what all the fuss was about. There were singles, albums, and EPs for our aural pleasure, but mostly the early stuff. Indeed I don't recall there being any movie soundtracks in his collection, apart from an EP from the film King Creole. The only later records were perhaps the "Suspicious Minds" single and the hugely exciting Elvis NBC-TV Special album.

I remember my dad saying something weird one time when I was listening to that latter album: "No one sounds more like Elvis than Elvis does on that record." I didn't really get it at the time, but it's something that's become even truer through the past three decades. With all the pretenders to Elvis's crown, and despite all the shit that the man himself had been through with crappy films and bad management, when he got on that stage in 1968 to record what everyone expected to be a paltry showcase of a has-been, something magical happened. It's not for nothing that that performance has ever since been known as "The '68 Comeback Special".

Elvis was back, and he was sounding more like Elvis -- the real Elvis of the early days -- than he ever had before. And more like Elvis than anyone who had tried to usurp him in the meantime. He was The King, and suddenly a new generation of kids brought up on The Beatles, Rolling Stones, and the Vietnam war were getting a glimpse of his greatness.

Prince causes a stir. And hot blonde action (help please!)

It's a long time since Prince was last making headlines, but this weekend he finally went through with his plan to shake up the music industry. We knew it was coming, and come it did.

His latest album, Planet Earth was released in the UK, ahead of its issuing elsewhere, FREE in a Sunday newspaper. The Mail on Sunday is not a rag I would ordinarily purchase, but 10 brand-new Prince tracks were enough to see me part with my £1.40 (US$2.85).

The album is released in the rest of the world at full price next week, but it will not be available via traditional routes in the UK. This was our only chance to purchase it here, apparently. I've not listened to it yet, but the snippets I've heard sound okay so far.

Another thing I'm trying to do is come up with my list of favourite blonde chicks, as encouraged by Wife, who has posted her list of hot blond blokes over here. I'm not doing so well, so please feel free to make some suggestions. Typing "hot blondes" into Google's image search doesn't seem to be giving quite the results I was hoping for... Maria Bello is on the short list, though, hence her picture above.

Look at my package!

How often does one get a parcel in the mail that says this on it? Come on, now, you can't tell me it's an everyday occurrence... It came from Canadaland, y'know, from Captain Karen of the Good Ship HMS Swiftsure.


There were some skull mittens for both me and the missus. Sure, cynics among you might say, "But it's summertime, Mr * (asterisk), why would you want mittens?" To that I respond: "Yeah, but we have English summers in England. Of course I'll need mittens!" And they are damn toasty as well as tasty, Cap'n. And don't you think they look great on me doing my Raging Bull Skull impression?

But there were other goodies, too -- too many to show here, including chocolate-covered cocoa beans, a copy of Dostoevsky's Crime & Punishment, toys for Cat, and a typically Canadian fridge magnet (right). I have it on good authority that every home in Canada has at least one of these on their refrigerator. And they sit down on their kitchen stool staring at it lovingly while listening to the government-issued CDs (below) compiled by Karen for the purposes of mind control.



Thank you, Karen, for such a wonderful parcel. Big love to you. With our colour-coordinated skull mitts, Red and I would surely be the toast of our small town (if we ever dared to venture out among the natives, that is).

Lock up your T-shirts and CDs

The way they were: Manic Street Preachers, c.1990

Since 1996, every couple of years or so, for a period of about a year, I have to be careful which T-shirt I grab from my drawer and also have to sacrifice a small part of my CD collection.

Why must I do this?

Because every couple of years since 1996, Manic Street Preachers release another terrible album, and I have to ensure I am not seen wearing or listening to anything that might associate me with them.

I first heard of the Manics in July or August 1990. They had just released their third(?) single, "Motown Junk", and had featured on a TV show (Rapido, was it?). Two of their number wore make-up and tight white jeans and home-made T-shirts with various pseudo-political slogans. Those two looked spooky cool, like twins or camp gay lovers. The other two looked a bit lame, with no make-up and bad haircuts.

I was in a band at the time. I figured we were way better than the Manics. The history books, though, seem to dispute this.

Eventually, a few months later, I succumbed to the charms of the group. I bought their first album as soon as it was released. I bought the singles, the T-shirts. I went to see them several times throughout 1992, once even being on the guest list to interview them for a fanzine, though the interview fell through.

I still have the unused ticket from that gig. I'd bought it before knowing I'd get on the guest list. I figured I could sell it at the venue, but there was no one there to sell it to! The place was almost completely empty.

The band went from strength to strength, via a somewhat unconvincing second album, up to and including the powerhouse masterwork The Holy Bible. I mean, how can anyone not love an album that opens with the words "For sale. Dumb cunts, same dumb questions"?

Then the inevitable happened. Their lyrical genius, chief architect, and self-harming anorexic Richey Edwards disappeared in early 1995. No one has seen or heard from him since, and if he is dead his body has never been found.

If that was inevitable, so too was the downhill slide of the Manics' music. From the top of the world, musically speaking, to another unconvincing album, followed by a fifth, sixth, and now seventh studio album. I stopped buying their records (singles and albums) after that fifth album. For me it was unlistenable, and not in the good way that people said The Holy Bible was unlistenable, or PJ Harvey's Rid of Me, or Nirvana's In Utero.

The Manic Street Preachers had become unlistenable in that they had become old, tired, and boring, writing lyrics about household chores and, in interviews, praising the virtues of Dyson vacuum cleaners.

This morning -- a bit behind the times, I know -- I heard their latest single for the first time. I am so mortally embarrassed. I thought they could sink no lower than they already had, but I was wrong.

I know I should make sure not to listen to any Manics records for a good few months. But I also feel I have to wash my brain now, clear my eardrums. Perhaps the only way to do that is to listen again to the band at their peak.

I feel like someone has taken a hugely important part of my past and razed it to the ground, only to build a fucking McDonald's on top of it. Manic Street Preachers have become a bunch of cunts. And not in a good way.

No more will they write the sort of lyric that must be every parent's nightmare:

4st 7lb
Days since I last pissed
Cheeks sunken and despaired
So gorgeous, sunk to six stone
Lose my only remaining home

See my third rib appear
A week later all my flesh disappears
Stretching taut, cling-film on bone
I'm getting better

Karen says I've reached my target weight
Kate and Emma and Kristin know it's fake
Problem is diet's not a big enough word
I wanna be so skinny that I rot from view

I want to walk in the snow
And not leave a footprint
I want to walk in the snow
And not soil its purity

Stomach collapsed at five
Lift up my skirt my sex is gone
Naked and lovely at 5 stone 2
May I bud and never flower

My vision's getting blurred
But I can see my ribs and I feel fine
My hands are trembling stalks
And I can feel my breasts are sinking

Mother tries to choke me with roast beef
And sits savouring her sole Ryvita
That's the way you're built my father said
But I can change, my cocoon shedding

I want to walk in the snow
And not leave a footprint
I want to walk in the snow
And not soil its purity

Kate and Kristin and Kit Kat
All things I like looking at
Too weak to fuss, too weak to die
Choice is skeletal in everybody's life

I choose my choice, I starve to frenzy
Hunger soon passes and sickness soon tires
Legs bend, stockinged I am Twiggy
And I don't mind the horror that surrounds me

Self-worth scatters, self-esteem's a bore
I long since moved to a higher plateau
This discipline's so rare so please applaud
Just look at the fat scum who pamper me so

Yeah 4 stone 7, an epilogue of youth
Such beautiful dignity in self-abuse
I've finally come to understand life
Through staring blankly at my navel.

“Back to life / back to reality”

Ah, don'cha just love Soul II Soul? I had their debut album on one side of a C90 tape back in the day, and on the other side was Soft Cell's Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret. Good driving-round-town tape that was.

Anyways, back from Italy to a whole fucking shitstorm of work. Add in yet more offers of work and a schedule that has been shortened during the one working day I was away from my desk (how the fuck does that happen?!), and it looks like yours truly is going to have a busy couple of months.

Suddenly having the kitchen done, going to the dentist, and a tattooing appointment all seem to be happening at a bad time...

Well, onwards and upwards.

I'll try to visit all my blogroll peeps and get a few pics and maybe a video clip up in the coming days, but work has to take priority, unfortunately. Hope to catch up with you all really soon...

A upbeat story for the end of the week

The theme of this story is "My greatest moment involving music". I wrote it as a fill-in post for a blogger when he was on holiday, but he never used it (sufferin' succotash!). Never one to throw anything away that can be recycled, I present it here for your reading pleasure. Enjoy...


Once upon a time, in 1996, I was in Charing Cross Library*, central London, looking for the Blade Runner soundtrack CD when I caught sight of an attractive girl browsing the library computer for something. It looked like she was on the Manic Street Preachers page. As she made her way to the counter, I took my CD and joined her there.

"Oh," she said, looking at my Manic Street Preachers T-shirt, "did you go and see them last night?"

"No," I replied, "the night before."

"I was there too," she countered, enthusiastically. "Great, wasn't it?"

Then the counter guy asked her what she was looking for. She told him The Holy Bible by Manic Street Preachers, on tape. (Tape, eh?)

He typed some stuff and told her it should be in, according to the computer, but that it's not.

"Okay, thanks," she said, and walked off, saying bye to me as she went.

I paused. It seemed like a long time, but I suppose it was only a few seconds really. "Hold on!"

She stopped, and I walked over to her. "I can tape it for you if you like."

We arranged for her to call me at work a couple of days later, from which point we could arrange to meet up and I'd give her the tape.

And you know what? Reader, I married her.

* NOTE: No, the gorgeous library pictured above is not Charing Cross Library; it's the library at La Real Academia de la Lengua, in Madrid, apparently.

“Words of Love” – a lyric

I just posted this song over at my MySpace thing: MySpace.com/AsterisksTunes. Please feel free to have a listen.
And add me as a friend if you haven't already and you're into that
sort of thing.

sing me a song
read me a book
give me that hoochy-coochy love look.
write me a verse
give it a tune
call it a love song and send it soon.

this is what I want to hear
those words whispered softly in my ear.
words of love, words of love
words of comfort, words of love.

call me up soon
give me a ring
send me a lyric, I'll try to sing.
throw me a party
a fancy-dress ball
I'll come as graffiti if you'll be my wall.

I wanna be all over you
if you were skin I'd be your tattoos.
words of love, words of love
words of comfort, words of love.

I just wanna be with you
I'll do anything you want me to.

give me a chance
I'm a nice guy
I'm sure you'll like me if you'll only try.
I can't wait forever
I need you soon
you know if I could I'd give you the moon

I just wanna be like UHU
so I can stick to you like glue.
words of love, words of love
words of comfort, words of love.

(without you) my life has lost its meaning
(without you) I can't learn, I cannot teach.
(without you) like trying to touch the ceiling
(without you) there's no way that I could reach.

I wanna be all over you
if you were skin I'd be your tattoos.
these are the things I want to hear
screaming gently for all to hear.

words of love, words of love
words of comfort, words of love.
words of love, words of love
words of comfort, words of love.

Other posts from Casa AsteRed

I may well not get around to posting here today, but you can check out other stuff at these highly recommended blogs:

A film clip with poetry at Cat: A Blog of Disasters;

A movie review at Such As They Are;

An amusing tale of linguistics and music at Red-Letter Day.

Go, my friends, and enjoy them all!