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Diary of first time father Alan Beck (previously Gasolineros guitarist)
Monday, March 29, 2004
Toothsome
Sometimes you see a face that just stops you in your tracks. On my 21st birthday, there was a man at the bar in The Sun in Splendour pub in Leamington who had the left side of his face an inch lower than the right. He looked like he'd been 10 rounds with Salvador Dali. Last night, I saw another such.
I was in a curry house in Stoke Newington when a bloke walked in and sat on the next table. He was in his late 40s, a bit dishevelled and eating on his own; nothing so unusual about that. Until he opened his mouth.
On the right side of his jaw he had upper teeth and no lower, and on the left side of his jaw had lower teeth and no upper. This asymmetric dentistry left him resembling nothing so much as a lunching camel. Spitting lamb vindaloo around. Quite grisly.
Meanwhile, a much more attractive sight tomorrow night will be Sophia playing at the Carling Academy, Islington. Main man Robin Proper-Sheppard produced our first single, and his band have a new album out - People Are Like Seasons. It's a triumph.
A diverse, eclectic collection of songs ranging from the masterful Wild Horses-esque epic of "Fool" to the bristling Velvets stomp of "If a Change is Gonna Come", it's quite brilliant and you should buy it. So there.
Sometimes you see a face that just stops you in your tracks. On my 21st birthday, there was a man at the bar in The Sun in Splendour pub in Leamington who had the left side of his face an inch lower than the right. He looked like he'd been 10 rounds with Salvador Dali. Last night, I saw another such.
I was in a curry house in Stoke Newington when a bloke walked in and sat on the next table. He was in his late 40s, a bit dishevelled and eating on his own; nothing so unusual about that. Until he opened his mouth.
On the right side of his jaw he had upper teeth and no lower, and on the left side of his jaw had lower teeth and no upper. This asymmetric dentistry left him resembling nothing so much as a lunching camel. Spitting lamb vindaloo around. Quite grisly.
Meanwhile, a much more attractive sight tomorrow night will be Sophia playing at the Carling Academy, Islington. Main man Robin Proper-Sheppard produced our first single, and his band have a new album out - People Are Like Seasons. It's a triumph.
A diverse, eclectic collection of songs ranging from the masterful Wild Horses-esque epic of "Fool" to the bristling Velvets stomp of "If a Change is Gonna Come", it's quite brilliant and you should buy it. So there.
Friday, March 26, 2004
Tat, or rather not
Calling your band Tat could be brave or foolhardy. No doubt it'll be catnip to any journalist with a grudge and a taste for one-word reviews. But Tat are anything but.
A four-piece outfit led by 18-year-old Tatiana DeMaria, they're a refreshing burst of pop punk from bouncy beginning to cymbal-splashing end.
OK, so there's a heavy seasoning of Green Day about some of Tat's songs, but last night at the Carling Academy she carried them off on a wave of youthful, unselfconscious joy that was utterly infectious and just, well...fun.
True, bandmates Tim, Robin and Spreader may have been around the musical block, but there's no sense of the care-worn pro here. The whole band are having a ball and it shows.
They've just supported The Offspring in front of 15,000 at Paris, Bércy, and the industry buzz is deafening, so catch them now or you're going to have to stand a lot further away in future.
Calling your band Tat could be brave or foolhardy. No doubt it'll be catnip to any journalist with a grudge and a taste for one-word reviews. But Tat are anything but.
A four-piece outfit led by 18-year-old Tatiana DeMaria, they're a refreshing burst of pop punk from bouncy beginning to cymbal-splashing end.
OK, so there's a heavy seasoning of Green Day about some of Tat's songs, but last night at the Carling Academy she carried them off on a wave of youthful, unselfconscious joy that was utterly infectious and just, well...fun.
True, bandmates Tim, Robin and Spreader may have been around the musical block, but there's no sense of the care-worn pro here. The whole band are having a ball and it shows.
They've just supported The Offspring in front of 15,000 at Paris, Bércy, and the industry buzz is deafening, so catch them now or you're going to have to stand a lot further away in future.
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
Cohiba, cohiba
Mmm...cigars...isn't it?...Bizet's Carmen...rolled on thighs...Malcolm Allison...marvellous...straight from Havana...screw top tube?...of course you do, sir...glass of Douro?...marvellous...Groucho Marx...Orson Welles...Clint all squinty with a slim panatella...Clinton!...no, no...ah but...Walter Raleigh...quick puff, jack high, save it for later, scupper the dagos...Churchill...beaches...so many, so few...filling up...proud to be...*sniff*...hankie...
...marvellous
© Ron Manager, 2004
Mmm...cigars...isn't it?...Bizet's Carmen...rolled on thighs...Malcolm Allison...marvellous...straight from Havana...screw top tube?...of course you do, sir...glass of Douro?...marvellous...Groucho Marx...Orson Welles...Clint all squinty with a slim panatella...Clinton!...no, no...ah but...Walter Raleigh...quick puff, jack high, save it for later, scupper the dagos...Churchill...beaches...so many, so few...filling up...proud to be...*sniff*...hankie...
...marvellous
© Ron Manager, 2004
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Brick Lane
It's long been a centre of cultural diversity, Brick Lane. Huguenot immigrants fleeing Catholic persecution settled there in 18th century and built a thriving silk trade, Jewish refugees from the pogroms of Eastern Europe made it their home in the 1800s and more recently, the Bangladeshi community has taken root to give it the "curry alley" feel we know today.
There have been homegrown industries, too. The Black Eagle Truman Brewery opened in 1724 and provided East End cheer for 250 years. Now the fermenters are silent and the 11-acre site hosts artists' workshops and small "creative" businesses (Shoreditch twats to you and me), but at least they're still making something.
The other industrious local of note, of course, was rather more destructive. Jack the Ripper. Figure of legend with cape, Gladstone bag and long, long knife glinting in the Victorian gloom and a carving up a number of local hookers. But I digress.
Cultural diversity. Yes, there's always been a place for it here, and last night at 93 Feet East was no exception.
The words "free night for unsigned bands" have been known to strike Ripper-esque terror into heart of the music lover, but we were there on good authority to hear The Xenith Sound. Young lads from Leeds with a growing local reputation and powerful friends in fellow Yorkshiremen The Music.
The rest of the bill comprised The Dead Rat Orchestra: atonal, avant garde and, frankly, beyond me. Six Toes: plangent guitar stylings in the place where Damien Rice and Turin Brakes collide gently and say excuse me. And the headliners, whose name shamefully escapes me, as did their music. With xylophone, squeezebox, analog synths, bass and drums and suited and booted and looking like Sparks, I had grounds for optimism. But no. Terrible songs, ghastly operatic shouting. Crap. Me. Bar. Now.
Now The Xenith Sound and The Music mine a similar seam of early-Verve atmospherics, shot through with a solid core of rock, so four more different bands on the same bill, you are unlikely to find. But the Leeds boys stood out and then some. Great band, great set and lovely guys. And with their affable and astonishingly helpful manager, Taff, they were a refreshing change from the London scene. We look forward to playing with them in June and July.
In other news, we've just had some photos through from Cesira of the Halfmoon show in Putney and they are awesome. She is one talented photographer. I'll be measuring her for a flightcase to take her wherever we go. We love you, girl.
It's long been a centre of cultural diversity, Brick Lane. Huguenot immigrants fleeing Catholic persecution settled there in 18th century and built a thriving silk trade, Jewish refugees from the pogroms of Eastern Europe made it their home in the 1800s and more recently, the Bangladeshi community has taken root to give it the "curry alley" feel we know today.
There have been homegrown industries, too. The Black Eagle Truman Brewery opened in 1724 and provided East End cheer for 250 years. Now the fermenters are silent and the 11-acre site hosts artists' workshops and small "creative" businesses (Shoreditch twats to you and me), but at least they're still making something.
The other industrious local of note, of course, was rather more destructive. Jack the Ripper. Figure of legend with cape, Gladstone bag and long, long knife glinting in the Victorian gloom and a carving up a number of local hookers. But I digress.
Cultural diversity. Yes, there's always been a place for it here, and last night at 93 Feet East was no exception.
The words "free night for unsigned bands" have been known to strike Ripper-esque terror into heart of the music lover, but we were there on good authority to hear The Xenith Sound. Young lads from Leeds with a growing local reputation and powerful friends in fellow Yorkshiremen The Music.
The rest of the bill comprised The Dead Rat Orchestra: atonal, avant garde and, frankly, beyond me. Six Toes: plangent guitar stylings in the place where Damien Rice and Turin Brakes collide gently and say excuse me. And the headliners, whose name shamefully escapes me, as did their music. With xylophone, squeezebox, analog synths, bass and drums and suited and booted and looking like Sparks, I had grounds for optimism. But no. Terrible songs, ghastly operatic shouting. Crap. Me. Bar. Now.
Now The Xenith Sound and The Music mine a similar seam of early-Verve atmospherics, shot through with a solid core of rock, so four more different bands on the same bill, you are unlikely to find. But the Leeds boys stood out and then some. Great band, great set and lovely guys. And with their affable and astonishingly helpful manager, Taff, they were a refreshing change from the London scene. We look forward to playing with them in June and July.
In other news, we've just had some photos through from Cesira of the Halfmoon show in Putney and they are awesome. She is one talented photographer. I'll be measuring her for a flightcase to take her wherever we go. We love you, girl.
Monday, March 22, 2004
Into the Vortex
At the Vortex Jazz Bar on Stoke Newington High Street last night to listen to Leon's dad Freddie King doing an impromptu vocal spot. A voice like molasses and smoke. Wonderful.
There was a valedictory air about the place as it's closing down forever in Stokey from 31 May and the news is not good about funding for the proposed new site in Dalston. An appeal is under way, but the tone of the head man was not optimistic. It'll be a shame to see it go. It's on my doorstep, really, and to my shame I've only been twice, but it's a great room with a unique atmosphere and, like so much in bewildering, art-soaked London, you never appreciate it until it's gone.
Something quite different tonight as Chiara and I head down to 93 Feet East to see The Xenith Sound, our partners in crime for our sojourn north in July.
We're playing with them at Fibbers in York and are planning to fit in some dates in Leeds and Sheffield around the same time.
Football round-up/shipping forecast: Hackney Marshes meets the Perfect Storm.
First half, backing, moderate or good. Second half, veering, good, later moderate, penalty poor. Extra time, storm warning, results variable.
Concentrate on the league, then, shall we?
At the Vortex Jazz Bar on Stoke Newington High Street last night to listen to Leon's dad Freddie King doing an impromptu vocal spot. A voice like molasses and smoke. Wonderful.
There was a valedictory air about the place as it's closing down forever in Stokey from 31 May and the news is not good about funding for the proposed new site in Dalston. An appeal is under way, but the tone of the head man was not optimistic. It'll be a shame to see it go. It's on my doorstep, really, and to my shame I've only been twice, but it's a great room with a unique atmosphere and, like so much in bewildering, art-soaked London, you never appreciate it until it's gone.
Something quite different tonight as Chiara and I head down to 93 Feet East to see The Xenith Sound, our partners in crime for our sojourn north in July.
We're playing with them at Fibbers in York and are planning to fit in some dates in Leeds and Sheffield around the same time.
Football round-up/shipping forecast: Hackney Marshes meets the Perfect Storm.
First half, backing, moderate or good. Second half, veering, good, later moderate, penalty poor. Extra time, storm warning, results variable.
Concentrate on the league, then, shall we?
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
Plastic paddy
It appears I was mistaken. St Patrick could not have driven snakes out of Ireland as here were no indigenous species to begin with. Still, it's a good trick:
"Now would you look, Sean, I got ridda all a dem snakes."
"What snakes is dem, Patrick?"
"Exactly."
He wasn't even from Ireland, but came from Dumbarton near Glasgow. This appears to be a theme, what with St George and St Andrew being from Istanbul.
And it's worth noting the irony that when you see men in Burberry caps and red-cross Hackett shirts singing: "I'd rather be a Paki than a Turk," they're doing so dressed in the standard of a Turkish saint.
Probably less value, though, in sharing it with them.
It appears I was mistaken. St Patrick could not have driven snakes out of Ireland as here were no indigenous species to begin with. Still, it's a good trick:
"Now would you look, Sean, I got ridda all a dem snakes."
"What snakes is dem, Patrick?"
"Exactly."
He wasn't even from Ireland, but came from Dumbarton near Glasgow. This appears to be a theme, what with St George and St Andrew being from Istanbul.
And it's worth noting the irony that when you see men in Burberry caps and red-cross Hackett shirts singing: "I'd rather be a Paki than a Turk," they're doing so dressed in the standard of a Turkish saint.
Probably less value, though, in sharing it with them.
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
Harmy Army
Forgive my outbreak of earnest yesterday. I had a cross moment.
On a lighter note, hostilities of a more benign kind have broken out all over the world as it appears everyone has decided to play cricket against everyone else at once. This, if you're wondering, is a good thing. Miraculous even. No, really.
Check it out. Pakistan and India are flaying the ball all over Karachi rather than pointing warheads at each other, Shane Warne returns fit and skinny (!) to beat Murali to 500 wickets and soft, homesick Geordie Steve Harmison brutally mangles the West Indies. Strange and wonderful things are afoot. Even Bangladesh won a game.
What's that, you say? Rock music? Oh yeah. Sorry...
The charts are confusing. On the Radio 1 chart show on Sunday, I was merrily listening to Outkast - and if you haven't bought The Love Below yet, do it now - when DJ Wes announces: "That was Outkast at this week's number 26. Their single is out to buy on Monday." Eh?
And in Gasolineros business: tonight is our final meeting before Mark takes off for Australia. Decisions over contents of new UK promo disc and album artwork to be taken, plus updates on film soundtrack negotiations and Italian festivals.
Watch this space.
Forgive my outbreak of earnest yesterday. I had a cross moment.
On a lighter note, hostilities of a more benign kind have broken out all over the world as it appears everyone has decided to play cricket against everyone else at once. This, if you're wondering, is a good thing. Miraculous even. No, really.
Check it out. Pakistan and India are flaying the ball all over Karachi rather than pointing warheads at each other, Shane Warne returns fit and skinny (!) to beat Murali to 500 wickets and soft, homesick Geordie Steve Harmison brutally mangles the West Indies. Strange and wonderful things are afoot. Even Bangladesh won a game.
What's that, you say? Rock music? Oh yeah. Sorry...
The charts are confusing. On the Radio 1 chart show on Sunday, I was merrily listening to Outkast - and if you haven't bought The Love Below yet, do it now - when DJ Wes announces: "That was Outkast at this week's number 26. Their single is out to buy on Monday." Eh?
And in Gasolineros business: tonight is our final meeting before Mark takes off for Australia. Decisions over contents of new UK promo disc and album artwork to be taken, plus updates on film soundtrack negotiations and Italian festivals.
Watch this space.
Monday, March 15, 2004
Smart bombs
Politics,eh? What a f***in' mess. In January, Jack Straw said the war in Iraq had made the world a safer place. Well that didn't last long.
The Spanish people have thrown out their incumbent Prime Minister Jose Maria Aznar because a) he went against some 90% of voters to support George Bush over war in Iraq and b) because of public outrage over the consequent bombing in Madrid three days before the election, in which 10 kids with bombs in their bags killed 200 people and injured thousands.
The Madrid atrocities were shocking indeed. And yet consider this: as of today, iraqbodycount.net estimates the minimum number of civilian casualties since the start of the war at 8,437. Granted it's been a year, but that's nearly 50 times as many people dead and the place is still a rubble-strewn disaster.
As al-Qaida have proven in the most chilling way imaginable, there is more than one way to effect regime change. And it can be done in three days, for a few hundred quid, with a handful of committed young men. All you need is the will. And now Spain will pull its troops out of Iraq unless the UN is given control by the end of June. Mission accomplished.
So heightened security or no, eventually George Bush's friends will fall. And you'd better pray John Kerry wins in November, because if Bush is still in power when we have a general election in 2005, we'll be next.
I'll be overseas.
Politics,eh? What a f***in' mess. In January, Jack Straw said the war in Iraq had made the world a safer place. Well that didn't last long.
The Spanish people have thrown out their incumbent Prime Minister Jose Maria Aznar because a) he went against some 90% of voters to support George Bush over war in Iraq and b) because of public outrage over the consequent bombing in Madrid three days before the election, in which 10 kids with bombs in their bags killed 200 people and injured thousands.
The Madrid atrocities were shocking indeed. And yet consider this: as of today, iraqbodycount.net estimates the minimum number of civilian casualties since the start of the war at 8,437. Granted it's been a year, but that's nearly 50 times as many people dead and the place is still a rubble-strewn disaster.
As al-Qaida have proven in the most chilling way imaginable, there is more than one way to effect regime change. And it can be done in three days, for a few hundred quid, with a handful of committed young men. All you need is the will. And now Spain will pull its troops out of Iraq unless the UN is given control by the end of June. Mission accomplished.
So heightened security or no, eventually George Bush's friends will fall. And you'd better pray John Kerry wins in November, because if Bush is still in power when we have a general election in 2005, we'll be next.
I'll be overseas.
Friday, March 12, 2004
And lo! There was rock...
As Dinah Washington once sang, what a difference a day makes. Or was it Paul Dickov?
No matter, the Putney show was superb. Great room at the Halfmoon, great sound, top crowd and positive noises from industry and punters alike.
We'll be taking a short break in musical transmissions while Mark flies across the world to spend a few weeks in Melbourne. As well as setting up a base down there, he'll be doing a few solo shows and some promo work for Baria to get things moving down under, before coming back for the Upstairs at the Garage show on 22 April.
Tickets are already on sale for this and, with Xfm's Lauren Laverne DJ-ing and Cablecar (who last week supported Keane at ULU) supporting us, they will sell out. No, really. Go to www.ticketmaster.co.uk. Soon.
As Dinah Washington once sang, what a difference a day makes. Or was it Paul Dickov?
No matter, the Putney show was superb. Great room at the Halfmoon, great sound, top crowd and positive noises from industry and punters alike.
We'll be taking a short break in musical transmissions while Mark flies across the world to spend a few weeks in Melbourne. As well as setting up a base down there, he'll be doing a few solo shows and some promo work for Baria to get things moving down under, before coming back for the Upstairs at the Garage show on 22 April.
Tickets are already on sale for this and, with Xfm's Lauren Laverne DJ-ing and Cablecar (who last week supported Keane at ULU) supporting us, they will sell out. No, really. Go to www.ticketmaster.co.uk. Soon.
Thursday, March 11, 2004
Ginsters
Consider the Ginsters chicken and mushroom slice. At a glance, a cold, pasty piece of pastry with a gelatinous, over-salted filling and mangy little nubs of bird and fungus within. And yet, like a plastic tumbler of tomato juice on a plane, in the right place it acquires a weird majesty. A flush fit with its purpose in the world. That place is the front passenger seat of a four-door saloon - from the first flaky bite on the filling station forecourt to last finger-licked pinch a mile up the dual-carriageway. Last night it was immensely comforting.
Ray's right though. I have been spoiled with crowds thus far, and it was some consolation that there didn't appear to be anyone anywhere in Brighton last night. The wind was bitter, it was snowing and, let's face it, everyone just stayed in to watch Corrie.
On the positive side, promoters Melting Vinyl were most accommodating and complimentary and Air Formation's militant dedication to chords, chords and more chords had us gazing at our shoes like the 90s never happened. Some value in that, you'll agree. Also, new song 'Plans to Meet You' sounded mighty fine. We'll test it out on people tonight.
Good burghers of Putney, let there be rock.
Consider the Ginsters chicken and mushroom slice. At a glance, a cold, pasty piece of pastry with a gelatinous, over-salted filling and mangy little nubs of bird and fungus within. And yet, like a plastic tumbler of tomato juice on a plane, in the right place it acquires a weird majesty. A flush fit with its purpose in the world. That place is the front passenger seat of a four-door saloon - from the first flaky bite on the filling station forecourt to last finger-licked pinch a mile up the dual-carriageway. Last night it was immensely comforting.
Ray's right though. I have been spoiled with crowds thus far, and it was some consolation that there didn't appear to be anyone anywhere in Brighton last night. The wind was bitter, it was snowing and, let's face it, everyone just stayed in to watch Corrie.
On the positive side, promoters Melting Vinyl were most accommodating and complimentary and Air Formation's militant dedication to chords, chords and more chords had us gazing at our shoes like the 90s never happened. Some value in that, you'll agree. Also, new song 'Plans to Meet You' sounded mighty fine. We'll test it out on people tonight.
Good burghers of Putney, let there be rock.
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
Pass the asstray
Brighton tonight. Not sure what to expect, but I'm feeling a light sheen of anxiety at supporting an S&M band called The Flesh Happening. At a venue called The Free Butt. In Brighton. Backstage rider, anyone?
Meanwhile, today is also no smoking day, which is being bolstered by the insufferable piety of crap telly avatars Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen and Fern Britton.
Dude, chuck us a Marlboro Light.
Brighton tonight. Not sure what to expect, but I'm feeling a light sheen of anxiety at supporting an S&M band called The Flesh Happening. At a venue called The Free Butt. In Brighton. Backstage rider, anyone?
Meanwhile, today is also no smoking day, which is being bolstered by the insufferable piety of crap telly avatars Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen and Fern Britton.
Dude, chuck us a Marlboro Light.
Tuesday, March 09, 2004
Stress
Odd thing, stress. There's been a lot of it about over the last few days, what with one thing and another, so I thought I'd wander around Google for a bit and look into it.
My early discoveries were not encouraging:
"Teaching (employed work) is the most stressful activity performed by teachers"
That proud slice of bollocks is from a time-use study by the Nova Scotia Teachers Union, who will be staying behind after class to explain themselves, rather than lounging around the staff room with a chocolate biscuit trying to avoid too much stress. Time-use study, indeed...
But what with Alain de Botton's big brain all over the box on the subject of status anxiety and self-help books permanently excluded from the bestseller lists (much as Now That's What I Call Music did for the compilation album), I couldn't help wondering, in a Carrie Bradshaw kind of a way, has our stress ever been less?
Amazon alone lists 89,177 books on stress - that's 70,000 more than books on sharks and a full 80,000 more than books on Elvis.
Exactly.
Stress, according to my new experts the Georgian Reproductive Specialists ivf.com, is a good and essential thing. It is the emotional wear and tear of changing environments and as such, it motivates, promotes awareness and exciting perspectives on life. However, like cheese or beer, too little or too much is a bad thing.
Insufficient stress can lead to "boredom and ennui"; too much stress can result in "feelings of distrust, rejection, anger, and depression, which in turn can lead to health problems such as headaches, upset stomach, rashes, insomnia, ulcers, high blood pressure, heart disease, stroke, and a slow, horrible death....."
I made that last bit up, but obviously if you're in doubt it's wisest to lean towards less.
Now here's one. www.twilightbridge.com. Dispenser of racy pop wisdom, and unlikely sounding articles like "Over the Cliff II".
"Burn Out, part I" asks the reader if any of these things have happened to you recently:
1. You forgot your date with Brooke Shields
2. You forgot your own birthday
Meanwhile, an inspired banner ad asks - I swear - "Are you Stupid? Yes or No?"
But ultimately, if you need succour from stress, you can always fall back on the old saw that someone, somewhere is worse off than you. And the True Stories section of Twilight Bridge has succour to spare:
"Eventually he ended up spending more then an hour under the shower. When asked about it, Jens told his parents that he felt as if he were being contaminated by a popular women's magazine…"
I am no longer stressed.
Odd thing, stress. There's been a lot of it about over the last few days, what with one thing and another, so I thought I'd wander around Google for a bit and look into it.
My early discoveries were not encouraging:
"Teaching (employed work) is the most stressful activity performed by teachers"
That proud slice of bollocks is from a time-use study by the Nova Scotia Teachers Union, who will be staying behind after class to explain themselves, rather than lounging around the staff room with a chocolate biscuit trying to avoid too much stress. Time-use study, indeed...
But what with Alain de Botton's big brain all over the box on the subject of status anxiety and self-help books permanently excluded from the bestseller lists (much as Now That's What I Call Music did for the compilation album), I couldn't help wondering, in a Carrie Bradshaw kind of a way, has our stress ever been less?
Amazon alone lists 89,177 books on stress - that's 70,000 more than books on sharks and a full 80,000 more than books on Elvis.
Exactly.
Stress, according to my new experts the Georgian Reproductive Specialists ivf.com, is a good and essential thing. It is the emotional wear and tear of changing environments and as such, it motivates, promotes awareness and exciting perspectives on life. However, like cheese or beer, too little or too much is a bad thing.
Insufficient stress can lead to "boredom and ennui"; too much stress can result in "feelings of distrust, rejection, anger, and depression, which in turn can lead to health problems such as headaches, upset stomach, rashes, insomnia, ulcers, high blood pressure, heart disease, stroke, and a slow, horrible death....."
I made that last bit up, but obviously if you're in doubt it's wisest to lean towards less.
Now here's one. www.twilightbridge.com. Dispenser of racy pop wisdom, and unlikely sounding articles like "Over the Cliff II".
"Burn Out, part I" asks the reader if any of these things have happened to you recently:
1. You forgot your date with Brooke Shields
2. You forgot your own birthday
Meanwhile, an inspired banner ad asks - I swear - "Are you Stupid? Yes or No?"
But ultimately, if you need succour from stress, you can always fall back on the old saw that someone, somewhere is worse off than you. And the True Stories section of Twilight Bridge has succour to spare:
"Eventually he ended up spending more then an hour under the shower. When asked about it, Jens told his parents that he felt as if he were being contaminated by a popular women's magazine…"
I am no longer stressed.
Monday, March 08, 2004
Uncle Dennis
I have the weirdest family. Just when I think I know most of its secrets, my mum stays for the weekend and I find out I'm nowhere near.
Take Uncle Dennis, for example. Uncle Dennis was my grandfather Tony's brother, of whose existence I knew naught until Saturday night.
Dennis was a confirmed bachelor of 60-odd, and my mum used to go and stay with him at his beautiful house in Ampthill. Rolling gardens, tennis courts, my mum thought it was a hoot and of course she was doted on by the young men who also used to stay with Dennis...
Young men? So that's why I never knew about him. Uncle Dennis was in fact Uncle Monty, the Adriane de la Touche of Bedfordshire, a Home Counties homo. He lived with a substantial private income, never worked, and spent his leisure time in the company of 30-something, like-minded men.
Now Dennis came to a sticky end, if you'll pardon the expression, contracting pleurisy in his old age - probably from years of gesturing dramatically with cigarettes - and shortly afterwards shooting himself. After which he was quietly written out of the family history.
I can't say I'm surprised. With war heroes and atom splitters to contend with, what chance for a gay layabout? So here's to Uncle Dennis, who didn't give a toss. Drank, smoked, shagged himself silly and still had the nerveless chutzpah to end it all with a flourish. Chin, chin
I have the weirdest family. Just when I think I know most of its secrets, my mum stays for the weekend and I find out I'm nowhere near.
Take Uncle Dennis, for example. Uncle Dennis was my grandfather Tony's brother, of whose existence I knew naught until Saturday night.
Dennis was a confirmed bachelor of 60-odd, and my mum used to go and stay with him at his beautiful house in Ampthill. Rolling gardens, tennis courts, my mum thought it was a hoot and of course she was doted on by the young men who also used to stay with Dennis...
Young men? So that's why I never knew about him. Uncle Dennis was in fact Uncle Monty, the Adriane de la Touche of Bedfordshire, a Home Counties homo. He lived with a substantial private income, never worked, and spent his leisure time in the company of 30-something, like-minded men.
Now Dennis came to a sticky end, if you'll pardon the expression, contracting pleurisy in his old age - probably from years of gesturing dramatically with cigarettes - and shortly afterwards shooting himself. After which he was quietly written out of the family history.
I can't say I'm surprised. With war heroes and atom splitters to contend with, what chance for a gay layabout? So here's to Uncle Dennis, who didn't give a toss. Drank, smoked, shagged himself silly and still had the nerveless chutzpah to end it all with a flourish. Chin, chin
Friday, March 05, 2004
It's getting busy in Gasoland.
Last night didn't start ideally - Mark's amp sounded like high-speed shredder. It was totally wrong but strangely exhilarating, blowing your head off like a whole jar of pickled chillies. We ended up with fingers in our ears but grinning like loons.
Once we got the sound right, though, it really kicked off. We knocked out an arrangement of new song "Plans to Meet You" and having doubted we had time to get it in shape for next week's shows, it appeared, fully formed and sounding amazing. Sometimes it just happens. One rehearsal and that's it. Meanwhile, three years on, problem child "Star" still isn't right live and I can't put my finger on why.
More happily, "Aeroplanes" will be making a welcome reappearance at the Brighton and Putney shows. It's easy to forget only a handful of people have heard its album incarnation and it needs to get out more.
Elsewhere, Mark's frantically mocking up roughs for the album artwork - that and other admin matters will be thrashed out at our meeting on Monday. Then it's one last rehearsal before the back-to-back shows and we'll be in good shape.
Hm. Must get some chillies...
Last night didn't start ideally - Mark's amp sounded like high-speed shredder. It was totally wrong but strangely exhilarating, blowing your head off like a whole jar of pickled chillies. We ended up with fingers in our ears but grinning like loons.
Once we got the sound right, though, it really kicked off. We knocked out an arrangement of new song "Plans to Meet You" and having doubted we had time to get it in shape for next week's shows, it appeared, fully formed and sounding amazing. Sometimes it just happens. One rehearsal and that's it. Meanwhile, three years on, problem child "Star" still isn't right live and I can't put my finger on why.
More happily, "Aeroplanes" will be making a welcome reappearance at the Brighton and Putney shows. It's easy to forget only a handful of people have heard its album incarnation and it needs to get out more.
Elsewhere, Mark's frantically mocking up roughs for the album artwork - that and other admin matters will be thrashed out at our meeting on Monday. Then it's one last rehearsal before the back-to-back shows and we'll be in good shape.
Hm. Must get some chillies...
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
Breaking your back. It's not something you ever really think about, is it?
Well, my best mate Dave did it in January and it sounds like the experience really is for shit.
Dave's a juggler, you see. A very good one at that. The godfather of Covent Garden street performers, Royal Variety alumnus and stalwart hand for hire when ad men want lots of stuff flying in the air and being caught again.
If Dave was ever going to suffer serious injury it was going to involve his eight-foot unicycle, four fire torches, a light sheen of rain on the cobbles of the west piazza and a group of flammable French kids in backpacks. But no.
The daft bugger broke his back doing forward rolls on a lawn. A lawn.
The problem with this lawn was, at its end, the nine metre drop to a railway line below. And it was dark. And drink had been taken. In Australia.
Lots of paramedics and morphine later, Dave found himself in a Sydney hospital, with two cracked vertebrae and immobile legs. Oh, fuck. Three days later, however, feeling started to return and, after eight weeks, he is up and walking with a stick. An 80 per cent recovery is expected.
Dave's back next week, and I'm going him a very light hug, a pint of Guinness and the bollocking of his life.
Well, my best mate Dave did it in January and it sounds like the experience really is for shit.
Dave's a juggler, you see. A very good one at that. The godfather of Covent Garden street performers, Royal Variety alumnus and stalwart hand for hire when ad men want lots of stuff flying in the air and being caught again.
If Dave was ever going to suffer serious injury it was going to involve his eight-foot unicycle, four fire torches, a light sheen of rain on the cobbles of the west piazza and a group of flammable French kids in backpacks. But no.
The daft bugger broke his back doing forward rolls on a lawn. A lawn.
The problem with this lawn was, at its end, the nine metre drop to a railway line below. And it was dark. And drink had been taken. In Australia.
Lots of paramedics and morphine later, Dave found himself in a Sydney hospital, with two cracked vertebrae and immobile legs. Oh, fuck. Three days later, however, feeling started to return and, after eight weeks, he is up and walking with a stick. An 80 per cent recovery is expected.
Dave's back next week, and I'm going him a very light hug, a pint of Guinness and the bollocking of his life.
Monday, March 01, 2004
Cymru am byth...
St David's Day, then. A curious patron saint, David, seemingly known best for his tedious addiction to hardship and suffering, rather than anything practical and hunky like, say, slaying dragons or driving out snakes.
To join his bread-and-water ministry, your aspirant monk "waited ten days at the door, during which time he was tried by harsh words, repeated refusals, and painful labours, that he might learn to die to himself". I don't know what the last bit means, but think Meat Loaf in Fight Club and you're most of the way there.
Anyway, no such self-denial here as I fell this morning upon Tessa's tin of Welsh cakes. I may make myself sick or fat or both.
Last night we sorted out the arrangement for "Plans to Meet You" ready for Brighton, recorded some drums for that too, and for a new/old song called "Avalanches", which had a brief outing back in Portable-land, but never really lent itself to a rock treatment. Stripped back, with Will's tasteful patterns, it sounds fresh again. We'll work up a demo of it sometime in the next week.
It was great to see Matthias on Friday. He lives in Hamburg and works for Maton guitars, so it was he who got me such a good deal on my favourite axe and I can't thank him enough. Well, Josh Homme plays one, and you can't argue with that. Maton have also discontinued the model, too, so it'll only get more valuable. Just don't drop it.
One last thought on St David, for all his loathing of hedonism, he did found Glastonbury Abbey, so along with St Eavis he did eventually do something iconic for the arts. Now just stand by that fence and you'll be treated with harsh words, repeated refusals...
St David's Day, then. A curious patron saint, David, seemingly known best for his tedious addiction to hardship and suffering, rather than anything practical and hunky like, say, slaying dragons or driving out snakes.
To join his bread-and-water ministry, your aspirant monk "waited ten days at the door, during which time he was tried by harsh words, repeated refusals, and painful labours, that he might learn to die to himself". I don't know what the last bit means, but think Meat Loaf in Fight Club and you're most of the way there.
Anyway, no such self-denial here as I fell this morning upon Tessa's tin of Welsh cakes. I may make myself sick or fat or both.
Last night we sorted out the arrangement for "Plans to Meet You" ready for Brighton, recorded some drums for that too, and for a new/old song called "Avalanches", which had a brief outing back in Portable-land, but never really lent itself to a rock treatment. Stripped back, with Will's tasteful patterns, it sounds fresh again. We'll work up a demo of it sometime in the next week.
It was great to see Matthias on Friday. He lives in Hamburg and works for Maton guitars, so it was he who got me such a good deal on my favourite axe and I can't thank him enough. Well, Josh Homme plays one, and you can't argue with that. Maton have also discontinued the model, too, so it'll only get more valuable. Just don't drop it.
One last thought on St David, for all his loathing of hedonism, he did found Glastonbury Abbey, so along with St Eavis he did eventually do something iconic for the arts. Now just stand by that fence and you'll be treated with harsh words, repeated refusals...
