A Glossary of Essential Musical Styles 2012

 

 

 

Pop. Indie. Rock. Electronica. Soul. Do these words mean anything anymore? Switch on the internet and you could be mistaken for thinking that genres have blurred into one big blue memey. But dig deeper and you’ll find that there are more than ever. As we reach the end of the year, here, in my humble opinion are the essential musical movements of 2012.

APUS OCTANS

Chameleon ooze wave made by pagan Slovakians in Tatra caves. Eastern European cybercriminal hackers will bolt terrifying chameleon ooze onto your hard drive from their hermetically sealed abodes above Teri Meri Kahaani and Martin. Pugilistic Meciar bastards.

STIFF ZOMBIE MOCK

Proving that it is possible to be wonderfully eclectic without being namby-pamby the prime movers of the scene, Stinging Nettle, Crow Snot and Lenient Noose, trip out over Stomach Cramp beats and Shopping centre synths with cadaveric aplomb.

GARGOYLE

Smelted in the UK by Crog, Anal Nipple and See Shark Kick Shark, Gargoyle is the sickly bastard brother of Nu-metal and Doom. Gargoyle does roughly what Candlemass did, except slower, heavier and with the addition of facial gurning and morbid tics.

URBAN SLAG STAG

Contemporary nu-wave of old wave’s new wave. They’re not really waving, they’re beating each other up in the lap dancing clubs of Gdansk. Music to watch girls by or Music to buy girls with a watch.

WIMPY

Not to be confused with the burger chain and Popeye’s mate, although admittedly it is quite confusing due to all the participants of the scene frequenting said burger bars like modern day denizens of the Korova Milk Bar, minus the milk, bowler hats and ultra-violence. Basically a bunch of wimpy kids in boiler suits discussing Solomon Eccle’s minty chalice.

JAW DROP

An orgy of clammy voices and malodorous beats declare this sturdy response to post-dubstep open for business. Uniting such disparate talents as DJ Mezzotint, Gibbet and Gash Phlapp, the genre buckles under its own weight unhindered by talent and unchecked of ego.

VILLAGE SIMPLETON

Less a collective of bands, more a collective mindset. Tends to describe a group of village dwelling hipsters who gather in the local pub, pump the jukebox full of coins and sing along to The Killers records like they were sub-Meat Loaf tracks and Ocean Colour Scene Unplugged. Attempted Moustache derigeur.

NAIL FACE

Nail Face is a term recently coined by Blackpool’s Laughing Policeman to describe that feeling created when passing obscure 80s Fleetwood post-punk bands through the warped Pleasure Beach haunted house Moog of righteousness.

MAQUILLAGE

Bands named after the bynames of late Medieval Burgundy dukes seems quite an isolated movement but like other micro-scenes – Vintage Fanny, Babycham Deer, and Turkish Bamboo – it has its devotees. A convenient appellation for the thrillingly chivalrous bands that make Circulus sound like Gangnam Big Bang.

SLAG PUCK

The flicker of fascination with musical cultures from around the world add an exotic flavour to the Slag Puck movement, Marble Faun and Lillian Gish both scour the internet for ‘exotic’ sounds from their bedsits in Berkshire. A MIA for the anti-X Factor generation terrorists.

FACE EROSION

A self-defined movement of post-hardcore bands with a heavy anti-melodic emphasis, Anthisan, Ventriloquist’s Cock, Butt Gum and Snivel, all hark back to the 80s hardcore scene before it became all about Henry Rollin’s Smeg fridge and book signings.

COARSE GRIND

Esoteric subset of Leeds ghetto house that evolved into Wallpaper, lately popularised by Klutz Rev’s Stifler and Fluffy comps and the Coarse Grind leanings of mythological producers Temple of Bacchus. Comes accompanied by its own dance style, essentially a sleazy 70s Dr Hook misogynistic hump against the Artex Monkey’s wallpaper.

SQUALID PLANK

Prow, Dead-Eyes, Knobbed Rope, Tarbrush and Horse-Bait, all currently boasting the Squalid Plank sound, essentially post-punk skeleton crews with maritime leanings. Seminal gathering at Camber Sands ‘The Plague Sail Weekender’ is now logged into the annual bleak-mid winter festival circuit.

GAWP HOUSE

House lifers sneer at this obsessive 4x4 affectation, but to the converted nothing beats standing on a dancefloor and staring at the elevated DJ whilst not dancing, notebook in hand and iRod in eye.

VAN KUR

Takes its name from that posho wonky glitch dubstep DJ Toby Van Kur. Nocturnal dubby Aquacrunk music forms the soundtrack to many Fresher’s Fairs, Welcome Powerpoints and night-bus rides home after Coldplay gigs.

SODDEN BASS

‘A brutal disembowelling of Drum and Bass, drowned in a vat of reverb, techno and whump and then poisoned with a throbbing gristle doner’, was how one meme cat described this Bass soaked movement on Pitchfork.

MOROCCAN LATECOMER

Simple arithmetic, you do the math! Moroccan bands who are late to the Witch House fad. Combines eerie found sounds from Mogador Kasbah floors, faceless beats, a smattering of existential ‘oOoOoOos ‘, and smart reference points to Bogarting joints in Casablanca speakeasies.     

PRANGSTEP

Dissolution, Clithero Orifice and Penny Dreadful may have been prodding their fetid mugwump of a flag into music’s backside for years but now a new generation of orc punks are ready to take up the mantelpiece of dub-step with punkish flourishes.

NICKI’S MINGE

Derulo, Pixie, Florence, Lily, Kelly, Sadie, and Queen’s of Noize all swear by it.

Ceyote @ Tubman

Stewart Lee

 

White card stencil. Stanley blade hand cut out and placed over black card.
Frame 54cmx44cm signed and dated.

One single piece of card hand cut with a Stanley Knife, laid onto wooden floorboards to demonstrate
the stencil technique. Image is produced from the same piece of card. Image then mounted onto black card. Signed and dated.
 

 

PRIVATE COMMISSION

Electric Stag November

Have Love In Space

Acid Mothers Temple in Brighton

Ion -Visibly Shipwrecked Gasmask Floating On An Impenetrable Sea Of Nostalgia

Ion’s work cuts a distinctive swath through the last 40 years of rock and electronic music like a pair of scissors in a field of mellow buttercups. He played synthesizers in Flaccid Mole ; created two of the great avant-rock albums of the 1970s (Here Come The Warm Urine Jets and Balearic Log), and collaborated on three with Harry Zenon (Quark, "Joyous Bells" and Foghorn Leg Iron); recorded with the German group Filthy Schnitzel; introduced the fluidity of African pop into Buff Joysticks angular fart-punk; and in 1982 collaborated with Willy Burn on My Wife’s Bush Is a Ghost, an early example of sample-based Acid Skiffle. In the past two decades, between assorted bring and buy sales, garbage collections, multimedia projects and iPhone Crapps, Ion has produced albums by Timid Scrotum, Factory Whistle and Woman’s Terrorized Scream.

 Exhaustive as it might seem, that brief summary misses out a key part of Ion’s career. In early 1975 he was knocked down by a Blackpool Tram. While recovering, unable to get up and halt the volume of the nurse’s vacuum cleaner almost too unbearable to hear, the idea of a new form of experimental music – "as ignorable as it is interesting" – occurred to him. Ion called it "Hoover".

 While not quite sitting within it, this is the strand of Ion’s work that Visibly Shipwrecked Gasmask Floating on an Impenetrable Sea of Nostalgia –7”  instrumental, and eschewing traditional structures – is closest to. The difference is that while ‘Shhh’ and the Hoover series contrived to subtly tint the listener’s environment, this piece actively seeks to impose itself. Edited together from improvised sessions with nightclub cleaner Mavis Staplegun and Signal box man Dizzy Teagarden, Ion has described it as "an attempt to end up with... a feeling of clean carpets , a feeling of murdered dust mites, and perhaps the suggestion of a bag of cat hairs...".

 This might explain why ... Visibly Shipwrecked Gasmask Floating on an Impenetrable Sea of Nostalgia underwhelms at first: its largely dull, featureless surface offers little in the way of sunshine. The more you listen and synchronise with its dull quietness, however, the more rewarding it doesn’t become. Sounds that seemed incidental, like the dull thrum of the Dyson sampled here to symbolise Satie having a stroke or the percolating dribble of a tap dripping sub-aquatic drones become resonating hooks of irritation beyond belief.

Visibly Shipwrecked Gasmask Floating on an Impenetrable Sea of Nostalgia isn’t a single that’s going to change the world forever, but listened to in the right environment it potentially could make serial killers out of the most mellow of sorts.

Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell

Over the past few months I’ve considered myself lucky enough to leave my front door, walk casually into local drinking dens of iniquity and experience live and in the flesh, Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell, or the ‘Mighty’ Shovell for doze dat know, unleashed and at their bloodcurdling best. For it’s live that this Hastings three-piece seriously take no prisoners. A magma-thick wall of sound bludgeons you into submission, intense yet tuneful, and savage enough to bulldoze all those who stand in their pathway, showing no mercy.

Live is where it’s at then. Or at least that’s what I thought until their debut album ‘Don’t Hear it, Fear it’ landed on my (un)welcome pirate themed doormat in all its vinyl gatefold glory. Not only have they managed to capture the intensity and excitement of their live shows on this magnificent record but these metal alchemists have produced an artefact which is a call to arms to all vinyl junkies the world over who feel that those fucking swirl records are actually worth the effort!

After 5,000 years of civilisation, it takes a kind of genius to produce something this joyously primeval – a band who declare the keys to transcendence within the grooves of scratchy and hoary old, Sabbath, Sir Lord Baltimore, Budgie and Blue Cheer records, but with their own unmistakably modern swerve on the whole thing. They even have the rock and roll clout to not only get the legendary Tony McFee to play on this album but conjure up the mighty Groundhogs to a drinking town with a fishing problem and play such a seminal gig that grown men and women through tears of pride will tell their grandchildren they were there in years to come.

 The name says it all. No clichéd dumb pseudo metal moniker for this crew; Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell hardly trips off the tongue like Cream, but then that’s the whole point - It’s a name you have to make an effort to remember and once it’s locked in the cranium, it never leaves. Naming your band after an English naval officer who fought in many important battles of the late 17^th and early 18^th centuries is quite clearly a stroke of insane genius. And like the aforementioned Blue Cheer whose live show was supposedly capable of exploding birds in flight and turning the air to cottage cheese with the sheer volume, the Shovell power trio’s brand of ear-splitting bluesy and electrifying rock seriously harms the local seagull flocks in flight, rattles the oaken beams of pubs and leaves the converted devoted and the devoted contented.

Mark of the Beast kicks off with hypnotic and disturbing incantatory rushes replete with acoustic jangles, pausing initially to catch its own black breath with a tight drum volley then phasing to fuck like a psychedelic warlord disappearing in its own smoke, it eventually builds and builds, until suddenly slamming to a shuddering echoed halt before a massive blitzkrieg assault riff slashes into the mix and we’re off with a filthy Paranoid-esque tune of pulverising intensity and eardrum-obliterating psyche-punk. The half-snarled lyrics sound vital and uncompromising. One of the most exciting album openers in fucking years!

The initial rush of ‘Beast’ is briefly tamed with a crawling bass line of such addictive proportions it should be banned by all world Governments. Devil’s Island with its hacking chopping guitar fretwork stalks around the head nodding bass like a wolf slathering at the jowls ready to strike. A beautifully damaged vocal from a volatile state of mind hangs suspended over a block hard concrete bed of bass and drum. The neo-hardcore punk’n’roll slab of heroic brutishness, iDeath, begins with raucous burst of nihilistic raw energy , before breaking into a sludge slow acid rock doom grind and via the classic rock gallop back into ragged punk rock glory. It’s tight as a gnat’s chuff. Admiral sir Cloudesley Shovell are tight as a gnat’s chuff, switching tempos with stunning speed and dexterity, they are a force to be reckoned with.

Red Admiral Black Sunrise with its tales of incarceration, crime and guilt ratchets up a ferocious hard punk funk grind, with murderously sinister speed freak foundations, built upon a colossal riff. A doom-laden Valkyriean monster with head nodding and air punching a-plenty. The filthy buckled sewer blues of Scratchin’ and Sniffin’ opens with another tight crunchy bass line before snaking into pure jagged raw heaviness. Its grand façade hides the darkness within, a dirty yelp confessional at the mirrored altar of bleak sinfulness.The Last Run, another live favourite with its ubiquitous cowbell break and lead guitar solo; the latter allowed space by the drums and bass, albeit in a comedy ‘check-the-watch-and-yawn’ pantomime set piece which demonstrates the Shovell’s tongue in cheek attitude towards their own magnificent construct. Killer Kane, the vinyl’s end piece is a slice of idiosyncratic NWOBHM ,harking back to Murders in the Rue Morgue era Maiden , but with enough balls and nous to be pure Shovell. A filthy guitar solo is the set piece within this glorious deranged riffing and enthralling stop start show piece. Black as night!

I know this record has reaffirmed many rock fans faith in a genre long thought stale and tired. I fucking love this band and to use an overused cliché,….they keep it real. This band are real!

Don’t Fear It..…Just Fucking Buy it!!

Wings Of Desire

 

 

Ten reasons why I think it's a good film:

1. Berlin circus elephants are funny but in a strange melancholic type of way.

2. Nick Cave in full mental scag head mode. Sounding like a mating warthog on Quaaludes.

3. Footsteps in the no-mans-land sand, reminds me of childhood on Blackpool beach but without all the donkey shit.

4. The foxy trapeze artist’s Bermuda dansette. Play that funky music white girl.

5. Peter Falk teaching the 'angel' to rub his hands and drink tea when cold, whilst looking like an Eastern European used car salesman.

6. The crowd in the club scene at the end. Pre-dated ‘Emo’ by years demonstrating the ‘cutting edginess’ of the film.

7. The old fellow reminiscing about the war enabling us to demonstrate our empathy towards all those who lost their lives in both World Wars, whilst an all pervading ‘Live Aid’ type smugness descends.

8. When played loud, the soundtrack scares foxes from out of my back garden, thus preventing them shitting in my rose buds and sledge shed.

9. The graffiti on ‘the wall’ makes ‘Banksy’ look like a primitive primary school dauber.

10. It’s like all in black and white and shit and it’s got like angels who can like read people’s thoughts and shit and it’s all in Berlin, yeah? Fookin’ Bowie, Scag Lou Reed, Check-point Charlie, long black duster coats, Iggy, Camus, Kafka etc etc….

Erase Rewind

Corporal Clegg, my next door neighbor, has a wooden leg; he won it in the war, in 1984.

 

The Falklands to be precise. (Yes I know it was 1982 but that didn’t scan right).

 

Picture the scene, Goose Green, Officer’s Mess. Clegg, originally a chef from Mile End was bored out of his skull as the only action he was experiencing was watching ‘Prod the Squad’ the chief ‘washer upper’ diving into his pie and mash and retrieving lucky sovereigns like an overzealous walrus with sea kelp for brains.

‘Join the army and see the world’ he muttered. ‘Ha! What a load of bollocks! Join the army and see an overweight psycho bury his blubbery fizzog into reconstituted potato starch more like!’

 

Suddenly and without warning Banksia Diego Menziesii, an Argentine sniper shoots at the canteen from underneath his pantomime sheep costume and a bullet whizzes through the serving hatch into Clegg’s kitchen and unfortunately ricochets into his leg. The bullet embeds itself into the leg of Clegg in much the same way that Ragge Omar embeds himself into Iraqi Launderettes for all ‘the goss’ on the street’.

 

Upon waking from pitch-black dreams, a beleaguered Clegg soon realized that they’d had to amputate his leg above the knee due to lead poisoning and the fear of G.G. ie.Galtieri Gangrene. Shortly after this traumatic experience he left the army and immigrated to South Africa where he gained employment in one of the many gold mines within the Transvaal. The temptation to discuss another one legged gold digger here is almost too much to bear but I’ll desist.

 

Since that fateful day Clegg has always remained stoically detached from events but still carries the bullet which did the damage in the first place in his left breast pocket. A lucky totem and talisman if you like to ward off bad luck and bad vibes. I know this because he told me one day in the street whilst I was polishing my steps in true 1950s fashion.

 

‘I was walking down Maidstone High Street absentmindedly humming Walking Down Madison when a bible accidentally falls out of an eight story window,’ Clegg explains rather theatrically, ‘and heads directly for me. The heavyweight religious tome hits me smack bang on the breast bone and were it not for that Argentine bullet I’d not be talking to you today.’

 

‘Blimey!’ I exclaim, ‘that’s incredible!’

‘I know,’ replies Clegg ‘why I wasn’t humming A New England is anybody’s guess. A far superior song altogether if you ask me.’

‘Ha! So you enjoy listening to music then?’ I ask.

‘Oh yes, can’t get enough of it.’

‘What sort of stuff are you into then?

‘Well I’m an avid fan of the radio.’

‘Oh right, what type of shows you into?’

‘Gilles Peterson’

‘Nice one. Anything else’

‘No, only Gilles Peterson.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. Can’t get enough of the type of tunes he plays’

‘Nice one. How long have you been listening to GP’s radio show?’

‘Back since the year dot’.

‘What, since his Vibrazone shows on Kiss?’

‘Oh no, much further back than that. I started listening when he was doing his pirate radio shows.’

‘Wow, a real fan.’

‘Yes. And I’ve recorded every single one of his shows.’

‘What, every single one?’

‘Yes, every single one. Come round to my house and I’ll show you.’

 

I leave the polishing and completely intrigued, follow Clegg. We enter an unremarkable Larkin style semi-detached house, ‘Wipe your feet before you enter please’, he says in a polite manner so I follow his wishes and eventually find myself stood in a typically orthodox hallway with all the usual accoutrements; phone, coat pegs, shoe rack, painting of the Haywain etc. ‘Come, come follow me.’ and he beckons me towards a cheap looking pine door. ‘In here is where I do all my recording.’

 

‘It must be huge to house all the recordings you’ve made over the years? I remark surpressing my excitement at what should prove an Aladdin’s cave of musical treats . He ignores me and fusses with a heavy looking bunch of keys. ‘There, that’s the one!’ he exclaims and opens the locked door. ‘Come in, please do come in.’

 

It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the light and when they do I am surprised and a little unsettled at what I see before me.

 

There is nothing in the bare white room except a wooden table with a reel-to-reel tape machine sitting on top of it. A digital radio is rigged up to the reel-to-reel tape machine. A loop of tape is threaded through the mechanism. The machine, it seems is switched to ‘record’ and the two spools are rotating. Clearly it is picking up some ‘sounds’ because the coloured LED display is bouncing up and down, signifying that something – a GP production presumably - is being recorded.

 

‘There you go’ says Clegg, ‘I’ve recorded thousands and thousands of shows on that.’

 

On closer inspection I realize that the ‘loop’ of tape is literally just that. It’s fed from one spool through the machine onto the other spool and back again, much like the fan belt of a car. ‘But surely’ I say in bewilderment, ‘when the machine is recording the loop turns, and being a loop, the tape is erased every time new material is recorded?’

 

‘Precisely!’ answers Clegg looking suitably impressed with my detective work. ‘Record and erase, record and erase, record and erase! It relies upon the probability that some information will be recorded but its effectiveness is not dependent upon the preservation of content’.

 

‘I’m a little confused here Mr Clegg. So you’re saying you’ve recorded thousands of shows on your reel to reel, but have no ability to listen to them again?’

 

‘Why would I want to? For me it’s all about the ‘live’ experience anyway.’

 

I nod in agreement.

 

I thank him for his time and say I think I understand what he means. He kindly shows me out of the house makes his excuses and returns to listen live.

Every Little Helps Can Jog On

Shamed into taking appropriate measures after reading the two consecutive pieces today on Global Warming and self-service checkouts, I decided upon the following course of action.

 

1. Walked to my local Tesco instead of the usual trip down there in my gas guzzling Sherman Tank. Decided to take my wireless-network laptop for company; logged into Gridskipper, that online bastion of ‘hip snark’ as I walked. Clearly Bexhill’s Tesco was not perceived by the ‘hip young gunslingers’ at Gridskipper, as a place you’d find ‘erotic coffee’ unlike Seattle or where you could spot, Blackie Lawless of WASP fame buying his organic cod pieces down the fish isle, but at least I was powering the laptop with a converted bike dynamo and using the neighbourhood wireless broadband as I walked. And besides if you believe everything that those insecure smug pug ugly backpack Bloggers write you may as well change your name to Sputum Duyvil and ‘get into’ Hootie and the Blowfish. CO2 emissions = 3.21 tons

 

2. Shot a homeless person with Organic bullets on the way. That blanket can now be donated to a Textile start-up scheme in Ho Chi Minh City. CO2 emissions = 0.01 tons.

 

3. Arrived at Tesco three and a half hours later and headed straight to the corn and bunion section of the shop. Bought ‘Organic Yak Gut Foot Balm’ made from recycled Yak Guts. Feet now look like an extra in Saw 2 but at least I’ve offset a natural catastrophe in Tibet. Truly inspired I bought the Dali Llama’s new book, ‘Buddhism 2 Electric Boogaloo.’ Proudly displayed my recycled plastic bag credentials on the trolley’s hook like a true eco-warrior. ‘Yeah! Check me out Mr Business Man, in your ill-fitting exploitative ‘Made in China’ Burton suit and your snail killing Optrex bottle! I mean it man, I’m gonna destroy passers by, erm by shaming them into a new green future! That means you, you smelly little old looking witch lady, rooting through those reduced kumquats and Mangos. Don’t you realise that each time you buy a ‘Reduced Yellow Label’ Balalaika Cabbage for 10p a butterfly colony in Papa New Guinea perishes? You selfish bint. Natural balance is only restored if Papa the Guinea Pig is given Viagra and allowed to shag to his heart’s content with a load of ‘Ho’ Guinea Pigs in the safety of an Eastbourne butterfly sanctuary. So get with the programme, and stop looking at me like I’m some sort of conquest which you last had on VD day you mental minger.’ CO2 emissions = 0.03 tons.

 

4. Threw a shed load of Cheapo CDs into the trolley. Wicked! Lilly Allen, The Killers, Mika, The Best of Bread and The Neil Diamond Collection all for a fiver. David Bellamy hands out awards to caravan parks that protect habitats as well as CDs that offset the decline of red squirrels, badgers and deers. Bet he’s not got The Best of Lenny Henry (oxymoron) on vinyl though. The do-goody bearded lispy twat. CO2 emissions = 0.54 tons.

 

5. Whilst perusing the Aislabeck Jams I phone Billy Smart’s Circus for a lift home. Four wheels bad but four legs best. They’ll take a rain check on the elephant they say. Fall to my knees and cry, ‘What Can we do?? What can we really do to help??’ Suddenly remember I’ve left the iron on. Bollocks!! The static charge of cold commotion, I take out a ‘wrap’ of Beechams Powder, chop it up with my Tesco loyalty card and snort it to high heaven. Mmm! Still stressed but at least that sniffle’s gone. CO2 emissions = 1 ton

 

6. After a swift phone call to Polga, (our ‘not so’ exploited) Slovakian Au-Pair (she gets 30 quid a week and free use of broadband between the hours of 4 and 5am) I realise that I’ve averted an environmental catastrophe so treat myself to a Bernard Matthews Turkey. Yummy. CO2 emissions = 000.6 tons

 

7. Complete the rest of my shopping – Wine, The Daily Mirror (purely for their green ‘goss’), Wine, Lizard Point Margarine, wine, Polperro bleach, wine, Gozo Spam and a Skelwith Ford Caravan Park map – and make my way to the DIY check out. CO2 emissions = 25 tons

 

8. ‘Place first item on the belt’, says the removed mechanical voice after I’ve scanned it for the umpteenth time. I place my bag of organic Lake District Apples onto the belt and get ready to scan the next item.

 

‘Place item on the belt’ says the cold clinical disinterested voice. ‘I’ve just done that I think.’ I attempt to scan Lily Allen’s latest opus.

‘Place item on belt’, the voice continues. I wander down to the bag of apples and bring them back to the beginning. A minion has clocked my moves. He approaches. ‘Did you scan the apples sir?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Ok, sir, I think it’s just got stuck.’

‘What has?’

‘The apples.’

‘There I’ve cancelled it.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome sir.’

I notice some chav like dole-scrum hanging around at the end of my checkout. Surely they’re not going to nick anything? They’re probably employed by Tesco to pack bags. What a philanthropic service. Full respect to Tesco.

 

I watch the man in the bobbled Berghaus fleece run away with my bottle of Gerard Bertrand.

 

I scan the next item. And the next. We’re cooking on gas. The bag of Orkney Organic carrots provides a problem though. I roll the barcode on the plastic bag around the scanner like a 19th centaury dandy waving a hanky. The minion returns.

‘You’ve got something stuck on the belt again sir. There I’ve cleared it for you.’

‘Thanks for nothing.’ I mutter under my breath. I attempt to scan the hemp hammock from Hempton Manor. Nothing. No Peep. Nothing.

‘Did you scan your apples sir?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well according to this you’ve only scanned two bags of apples and you’ve got four at the end of the counter.

 

Brilliant! I’ve attempted to wait for the ‘beep’ at the end of each scan and now this employee who looks like an even stupider version of Rod Hull than Rod Hull ever was, bearing in mind that the original Rod Hull fell off his roof trying to sort out his TV reception whilst watching a Man U(re) game, that’s pretty fucking stupid.

 

‘Here, I’ll scan them for you,’ says the man, looking at me as though I’ve just stolen the crown jewels from his Grandmother’s house. I’m perturbed. Clearly this man now thinks I’m attempting to nick two bags of apples and he’s just sussed me and his role in the Bill is now assured.

 

He ‘Peeps’ the apples x2.

‘Thanks.’ I mumble.

Suddenly I feel ashamed. Like I’ve just stolen several Bob The Builder Rag Dolls from a Manali Orphanage.

I mutter something to the minion about ‘attempting to scan’ and take out my card and slide it into the slot. I stab in my numbers and wait for authorisation. The receipt whirrs out.

‘Wait a FUCKING MINUTE!!!’

‘SIX BAGS OF APPLES!?!?’

‘SIX BAGS OF MOTHERFUCKING APPLES!!!!’

‘I’VE BEEN CHARGED FOR SIX BAGS OF MOTHERFUCKING APPLES WHEN CLEARLY I’VE ONLY GOT FOUR!!!’

Deep breaths. Deep Breaths. I’ve just been ‘sneered’ at by the bastard son of Rod Hull who thinks I’m nicking two bags of bloody apples, when clearly I was right all along and it’s him who has made a mistake.

No apology from the woman as she refunds my extra apple bag payment.

Carbon emissions = F-ck off

9. Walk out the shop feeling self-righteous and the innocent victim of a terrible miscarriage of justice. Begin to empathise with The Guilford 4, The Birmingham 6 and The Bexhill 1.

10. Three wine bottles fall out the bottom of the cheap shitty recycled bags I’ve brought down to the shop. They splinter onto the tarmac splashing my Goa hemp flares with burgundy liquid.

11. Go for a McDonalds.

Music As Weapon

Certain high street retailers have had enough of ‘Yav-Chobs’ (Chavvy Yobs), hanging around outside their establishments and intimidating their customers with Burberry clad Jack Russell’s, that they have adopted extreme tactics. What are the draconian measures that they have introduced I hear you ask? Robocop security guards with stun guns? Cameras with all seeing laser eyes? Dogs with teeth the size of garden shears? Nope, none of the above. They are actually playing Muzak at them! Airport Muzak in fact. The assumption goes something like this; the yoot of today will not wish to be associated with classical muzak as it is an affront to their ‘street’ credentials, preferring instead R+B, D+B and A+E, that they will leave the vicinity altogether.

 

I found all this very interesting and decided to delve a little deeper into the history of ‘music as a weapon’. We all know the USA blasted Noriega out of his compound with Heavy Metal but I bet you didn’t know that The Welsh Assembly blasted Harry Seacombe out of a canteen with Cradle Of Filth when he embarked on a one man sit-in protest at the price of their Cherry Bakewells. In an effort to ‘dumb down’, the Truro Workers Art Tavern played the Jet album non stop for twenty four hours at their members and in a bid to stave off insomnia the residents of Nelson Lancs booked Keane at their ‘Sleepless in Settle’ winter conference.

 

Aphex Twin famously played a sanding disc in order to terrify his devotional flock, but it backfired when they all stood there stroking their chins and making comments like, ‘Really bitchin’ tune dude, need it!’ and ‘Like wow, he’s really pushed the envelope out with this slice of sonic genius.’

 

For the Tantric Minstrels of Bengal, who take music to the people as a weapon of God the divine is something you find within. For Rabindrath Snowball, spiritual Busker to the stars of track and field, the divine was something he found on the road to Domestos, and a spiritual awakening ensued. Later he opened up The Order of the Jiff Ashram but was arrested for Bleach of the Priest.

 

Rembrandt and Velazquez could create the appearance of material with relatively few brush strokes. Beddingfield and Beddingfield can create the appearance of pop material with relatively few skills. Surely a secret weapon in their Arsenal?

 

Things were going well so I decided some fieldwork was in order. I took my My Little Pony Ghetto Blaster to the local farm along with a bunch of tapes inside my Wu Tang Clan Bread Bin. A herd of cows were munching grass innocuously so I decided to try out an experiment. I stood the Ghetto Blaster on the wooden fence behind a little shower curtain and, slid in a Kenny Dixon JR cassette. I pressed play and the field was filled with Detroit deepness. After a few minutes the cows were nodding their heads and going, ‘MMMMOOOOOOOOOODY MMMOOOOOOODY!’

 

Filled with excitement I moved to another part of the farm. Overseeing a field of sheep I changed the cassette and pressed play. This time as ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet’ drifted out of the speakers the sheep all looked up and nodded. After a few moments they all began crying out, ‘BAAAAAAAAAA BAAAAAAAAAACHHMAAAAAAAN’. I tried ‘My Baby Just Cares For Me’ in the stable and Dobbin the horse goes, ‘NEIGN NA, NEIGN NA!’. Tried much the same at the pig trough with some hardcore hip hop. ‘OINK ONYX OINK ONYX!’ Tried the Re-edit of ‘Sky Can You Feel Me’ at the little red rooster, ‘COCK-A-DOODLE-YAM-WHOOOOOOO!’ came the response. Finally dropped the Whiffenpoof song next to Old Shep. His ears pricked up and he howled, ‘WOOF WIFFEN WOOF! WOOF WIFFEN WOOF.

 

I’m approaching the Polytechnic of Battersea with my findings in the vain hope of funding for a Phd

Madman Running Through The Files

An elderly record shop buyer was ready to retire. He told his employer of his plans to leave the vinyl purchasing business and live a more leisurely life with his wife enjoying his extended family, embroiling within capes and playing plenty of deck quoits. He would miss the pay cheque, but he needed to retire. They could get by.
 

The record shop owner was sorry to see his good worker go and asked if he could buy just one more collection of very rare vinyl as a personal favour. The record buyer said yes, but in time it was easy to see that his heart was not in his work anymore. He resorted to shoddy workmanship and bought inferior records. Instead of rare Sun Ra ‘Horo’ pieces he bought Steps; instead of Mellow Candle’s Swaddling songs he bought Leo Sayer; instead of Jason Crest’s Turquoise Tandem Cycle he bought, The Best of Jim Reeves; instead of The Madman Running Through the Fields by Dantalian’s Chariot he bought Mrs Mills; instead of Fire’s Father’s Name Is Dad he bought Now That’s What I Call Music 16, and instead of Rainbow’s Ffolly Sallies Forth he bought Chris de Burgh ‘A Retrospective.’ It was an unfortunate way to end a dedicated career. When the record buyer finished his work he placed all the pieces in a flight case and the employer came to inspect the vinyl.
 

His boss handed the flight case back to the record buyer, and said, ‘My Gift to you’. The record buyer was shocked! What a shame! If he had only known he was building his own collection, he would have done it all so differently. So it is with us.
 

We build our record collections a day at a time, often putting less than our best into the construction. A bit of mediocre Nu-Jazz here, a Charity shop Funky House 12” there; A bargin bin badly pressed bruk comp here and a dull ambient noodle there. Then with a shock we realise we have to live with the collection we have built. If we could do it over we’d do it differently. But we cannot go back. You are the buyer. Each day you nail a tune, score a piece of vinyl, or erect new shelves for more pieces. ‘A Record Collection is a do-it-yourself project someone has said: ‘Your selections and the choices you make today, build the collection you’ll live with tomorrow.
 

Let’s be careful out there.

Essential Summer Records

Saigon Fruit Bucket – 'Mackerel Flobbing.'
The corpse of Acid Jazz is given a good seeing to with this cardiopulmonary clamp of a tune. Think JTQ crossed with Extreme Noise Terror whilst on a kibbutz in Toxteth and you’re nearly there.

 Brainwash – 'Dog Food.'
Henry Rollins’ new band Brainwash captivate hearts and minds with this mellow even anodyne account of the struggle an everyman artist has to deal with when suffering for his art. ‘Giving up (dog) food for punk’, goes the chorus which will be bellowed out by social misfits with no girlfriends everywhere.

 Rufus and Imran Khan – 'Urinated Leather Keks.'
Tribute to Jim Morrison’s penchant for ‘ladies of the night’ and their greedy wiley ways. ‘Oi, Roxanne, you don’t have to put on the red light because you were only supposed to blow the Bloody Doors Off!’

 Sum Hook – 'Mickey Rouke’s Drift.'  Essential listening if you’ve ever considered entering your dog into Crufts. Slum Hook sing of the dangers Mickey Rourke faced when his poodle, Mr  Pumpkin won ‘best in show’ but was later kidnapped by the Gay Mafia. They broke into his apartment one evening, smashed his Vybz Cartel and Elephant Man records, and rearranged his lounge before kidnapping poor Mr Pumpkin.

 Mollusc in Silicone – 'Couple of Tits.'
Bootleg mash-up of Peter Andre’s ‘Insania’ and Brian McFadden’s ‘Real to Me’.

 Duran Duran – 'Live at Dudley National Express Coach Station.'
Simple, and as passé as Ugg boots.

 Scrimmage  – 'Honningsvag.'
Metaphorical trendsetting bruk-step with rawlplug Mongolian lamb bleats and flim-flam corn law future funk .

 Radio Bingo – 'Anti-chord.'
 A slimline surreal psychodrama-cum-road movie – cum- air vibration speaker membrane. Come-off it!

 Underwire – 'The Blaspheming Shaman of Skalagroft EP.'
 Just a sample from a Pat Metheny tune and the Shaman of Skalagroft spitting his tourettes flavoured rhymes over the mic. Favourites include, ‘Mary Queen of Scots Lost Her Head, the Twat’ and ‘Jehan Fouquet, 15th Century Painter and Pig Fu**er’.

Mr Fingers and Thumbs – 'A Rollerskating Jam Named Pan Pipes.'
Last year Mr Fingers and Thumbs was on everyone’s lips. Now he’s in everyone’s gloves, pockets and medieval implements of torture. All proceeds go to the Deep House Victims Minibus Appeal.

 Cant – 'Narwich Shite.'
 Indie jangler in tribute to Play Away and Deliah respectively

The Fickle Formula

The Electric Stag

All Time Top 100

:

I was very kindly invited down to Coopers Cask in Hove to play my All Time Top 100 records, a nigh on impossible task. Here is the bio and records I played -

 "I’ve been collecting records ever since discovering ‘The Best of Top of The Pops 1978’ on the Hallmark label, under the Christmas tree that very self-same year. Whilst being blissfully unaware it contained anonymous cover versions of the hit singles, it was the sheer joy of owning a collection of music which could usually only be heard on the radio or watched on television. The Bermuda Dansette would be cranked up and side one would give way to side two and back again; this was augmented with the weekly Sunday teatime ‘finger-hovering-over-the-pause-record-button’ to produce nascent illicit C90 bootlegs! From dodgy cover version collections housed in slightly iffy Pickwick calendar girl covers, I moved onto buying seven inch singles and albums and that excitement of hunting down records is as strong today as it has ever has been.

My enthusiasm for playing records inadvertently moved me into the DJ world and I’ve been ‘playing-out’ for over twenty years now. From Sunday chill-out residencies to ‘banging’ Saturday night club sessions, I’ve always played the records which I care about and have never compromised on the quality. As one third of The Balearic Assassins of Love, I’ve been lucky to play records both as part of the collective and solo in some amazing places and to fantastic enthusiastic people.

The Balearic Assassins Of Love – a hirsute raggle-taggle collective of vinyl junkies who worship at the altar of sunrise and sunset like Kicker-shod party druids. Forever on an eternal quest to slay the dragon of segregation and the pigeon of hole they gather frequently and mix together musical forms as diverse as hypno Latvian Acid Skiffle and mystic Tibetan yacht rock to create that ecl*ctic, highly danceable, don't care ‘last day of the holiday’ feel. With DJ monikers such as Sherman, King Sunny Ade P and Keep It Wheel, they share a commonality with the Beastie Boys - had they been born on Spike Island and never rapped - with a freestyle expression that seamlessly binds sporadic vinyl inspiration through technical flair and copious amounts of alcohol.

 Equally at home playing downtempo sunset and woodsmoke campervan sessions to happy times hands-in-the-air hay-bale raves, the BAOL straddle all genres like a well-heeled Achillea colossus in smiley T-shirt and Day-Glo poncho. Formed sometime in the last century the BAOL have played a huge amount of parties never repeating a set or compromising on venue; a beach front Acid drenched Scout hut, an ex-communist Prague nuclear bunker, the Lord Mayor 's Carnival, The Secret Garden, Solstice Parties, Fundraisers, Primavera, strobe flecked Brighton basements, 10 hour sets on Hastings pier - playing on antique Citronic decks complete with ‘telephone handset’ headphones, as the crowd chilled out on deck chairs - Numerous North London clubs and Bars for the legendary FYE Brownswood parties where Xeroxed fanzines were produced and handed out, sunset/sunrise sets in beautiful Sussex fields – playing in cowsheds from caravans and horseboxes into fields- Voodoo Death Disco, Nottingham’s legendary Moog club for Soul Buggin’, Funk Spectrum, all night beach parties and Fawlty Towersesque hotel cellar bars, always with a smile and a laugh and a joke. Some people believe music is a matter of life and death, the Balearic Assassins of Love can assure you it is much, much more important than that.

Flying solo I currently hold down two monthly DJ residencies – The Dragon Bar and The Submerged Forest

Brian Eno – An Ending (Ascent). (‘Apollo LP’ EG Records)

Junior Parker - Tomorrow Never Knows. (‘Love Ain’t Nothing But A Business Goin’ On LP’ Groove Merchant)
Nina Simone – Baltimore. (‘Baltimore LP’ CTI Records)
Map of Africa – Map of Africa (Instrumental). (12” Whatever We want Records)
Sub Sub – Past. (‘Coast EP’ Rob Records)
Pink Floyd – A Pillow Of Winds. (‘Meddle LP’ Harvest)
Vangelis O. Papathanassiou – Let It Happen. (‘Earth LP’ Vertigo)
Ultimate Spinach – (Ballad of The) Hip Death Goddess. (‘Ultimate Spinach LP’ MGM Records)
Smith and Mudd – Shulme. (‘12” Claremont 56)
Steely Dan – Black Cow (‘Aja LP’ abc Records)
Roy Ayers – Everybody Loves The Sunshine (‘Everybody Loves The Sunshine LP’ Polydor) 
Joni Mitchell – Edith and the Kingpin. (‘The Hissing of Summer Lawns LP’ Asylum Records)
Serge Gainsbourg – Melody. (‘Histoire De Melody Nelson LP’ Philips)
Fotheringay – The Way I Feel. (‘Fotheringay LP’ Island)
Seals and Crofts – Summer Breeze. (‘Summer Breeze LP’ Warner Bros Records)
Jonathan – Li Song. (‘Jonathan LP’ Bellaphon)
Gary Bartz – Celestial Blues. (‘Harlem Bush Music LP’ Milestone)
Silver Apples – Lovefingers. (‘Silver apples LP’ Kapp)
Yves Simon – Au Pays Des Merveilles De Juliet. (‘Yves Simon LP’ Victor)
Milton Nascimento – Saidas E Bandeiras N.o 2. (Clube Da Esquina LP’ EMI Odeon Brasil)
Arthur Verocai – Na Boca Do Sol. (‘Arthur Verocai LP’ Kindred Spirits)
Guru Guru Sun Band – Taoma (‘Hey Du LP’ Brain)
Love – Alone Again Or. (‘Forever Changes LP’ Elektra)
Donovan – Barabajagal. (‘Barabajagal LP’ Epic)
Fairport Convention – Come all Ye. (‘Liege and Lief LP’ Island)
Richie Havens – Here Comes The Sun. (‘Alarm Clock LP’ Stormy Forest)
Burning Spear – Slavery Days. (‘Marcus Garvey LP’ Island)
Dr John – Right Place Wrong Time. (‘I Been Hoodood LP’ Edsel Records)
Eugene Mc Daniels – The Lord Is Back. (‘Headless Heroes of the Apocalypse LP’ Atlantic)
Colosseum – Elegy. (‘Valentyne Suite LP’ Vertigo)
Iron Butterfly – Get Out Of My Life, Woman. (‘Heavy LP’ ATCO)
Joyce – Nome De Guerra. (‘Hard Bossa LP’ Far Out Records)
Dennis Wilson – River Song. (‘Pacific Ocean Blue LP’ Columbia)
Cocteau Twins – Aloysius. (‘Treasure LP’ 4AD)
Dead Can Dance – Black Sun (‘Aion LP’ 4AD)
The Advisory Circle – Everyday Hazards. (‘As The Crow Flies LP’ Ghost Box)
Max Essa – Panorama Suite. (‘12” Is It Balearic Recordings)
Kissing The Pink – Big Man Restless. (‘Kissing The Pink LP’ Atlantic)
Kraftwerk – Numbers. (‘Computer World LP’ EMI)
Joy Division – Disorder. (‘Unknown Pleasures LP’ Factory Records)
Wire – Outdoor Miner. (‘Wire Play Pop LP’ The Pink Label)
REM – Talk About The Passion (‘Murmur LP’ I.R.S)
The Smiths – The Headmaster Ritual (‘Meat Is Murder LP’ Rough Trade)
Secret Affair – I Am A Bullet (‘Behind Closed Doors LP’ I-Spy Records)
The Jam – Thick As Thieves (‘Setting Sons LP’ Polydor)
Rolling Stones – Monkey Man (‘Let It Bleed LP’ Decca)
The Groundhogs – Earth Is Not Room Enough (‘Who Will Save The World? LP’ United Artists)
The Slits – Typical Girls (‘Cut LP’ Island)
Gong – The Pot Head Pixies (‘Flying Teapot LP’ Virgin)
Hawkwind – Spirit Of The Age (Quark Strangeness and Charm LP’ Charisma)
Can – Halleluwah (‘Tago Mago LP’ Spoon Records)
Liquid Liquid – Cavern (‘Liquid Liquid LP’ Mo Wax)
Q Lazzarus – Goodbye Horses (‘Married To The Mob OST LP’ Reprise)
New Order – Thieves Like Us (‘12” Factory Records)
The Times – Manchester (12” Creation Records)
Shawn Lee’s Ping Pong Orchestra – San Diego (Phil Mison Remix) (12” Aficionado Recordings)
Cerrone – Music of Life (‘The Golden Touch LP’ Malligator Records)
Mutiny – A Night Out With The Boys (‘A Night Out With The Boys LP’ J Romeo Records)
Laidback – Bakerman (12” Arista)
David Bowie – Kooks (‘Hunky Dory LP’ RCA)
America – Ventura Highway (‘Homecoming LP’ Warner Bros Records)
Mick Fleetwood – Super Brains (The Visitor LP’ RCA)
Mr Fingers – Can You Feel It (‘12” Chicago Trax)
Men Without Hats – The Safety Dance (‘12” Statik Records)
Penguin Café Orchestra – Music For A Found Harmonium (‘7” EG)
Tullio De Piscopo – Stop  Bajon (‘12” Blanco Y Negro)
Dubtribe Soundsystem – Equitoreal (12” Jive Electro)
Bob Seger – Get Out Of Denver (‘Seven LP’ Capital)
Neil Diamond – The Boat That I Row (‘7” Bang Records)
The Hombres – Let It Out (7” Eric Records)
The Cure – Inbetween Days (7” Fiction Records)
John Paul Young – Love Is In The Air (7” Ariola)
Fleetwood Mac – Sara (7” Warner Bros)

LINK =  All Time Top 100

And the 27 that got away!

The Stone Roses – Waterfall

The Swans – God Damn The Sun
Genesis – The Carpet Crawlers
John Martyn – Solid Air
The Bhundu Boys – Hupenyu Hwangu
Kate Bush – Nocturn
Fairport Convention – Who Knows Where The Time Goes
Joe Smooth – Promised Land
Rhythim Is Rhythim – Strings of Life
Bam Bam – Where’s Your Child
Labi Sifri – Bless The Telephone
Happy Mondays – Kuff Dam
T-Coy – Carino
The Sex Pistols – Pretty Vacant
Rush – Cygnus X-1 Book II
Captain Beefheart – Zig Zag Wanderer
Marillion – Forgotten Sons
The Velvet Underground – Venus in Furs
Supermax – Ain’t Gonna Feel
808 State – Pacific 202
A Guy Called Gerald – Voodoo Ray
Nico – Heroes
Tommy Hunt – Loving On The Losing Side
The Fall – Jawbone and the Air Rifle
Nick Drake – Northern Sky
Half Man Half Biscuit – All I Want For Christmas Is A Dukla Prague Away Kit
Camel - Rhayader

The Cardiacs

White card stencil. Stanley blade hand cut out and placed over black card.
Frame 54cmx44cm signed and dated.

One single piece of card hand cut with a Stanley Knife, laid onto wooden floorboards to demonstrate
the stencil technique. Image is produced from the same piece of card. Image then mounted onto black card. Signed and dated.

This piece was the most challenging so far due to the black background of the original image and the 'floating' faces. Each of the five faces had to be 'anchored' to another and the edge to maintain the consistency of the one sheet of card.

Best Tunes of the Year So Far

Best tunes of the year so far.............

1. Outrageous Yurt – ‘Best Friends on Twatter ‘

Blurring the difference between an illusory image of a friend and the presence of that friend themself, Outrageous Yurt loom like sentinels of ‘the poke’ sometimes forbidding sometimes strangely inviting but always insecure. Lead singer, Clog Pathos utilises playful conceptual intervention with the chanted chorus, ‘Clog is doing the dishes’,’Clog is sleeping’, ‘Clog is thinking of his best friends on Twatter whilst being on Twatter’and ‘Clog needs to get out much much more’.

2. Weird Chimmney Sweep – ‘They’re Building A New Facebook Internment Camp’

The androgynous cutsiness of Weird Chimmney Sweep’s lead singer, Kunstsammlungen Kunt, with his swollen head and button nose and constantly startled gaze is saved from faux-mo sapien’s saccharin sentimentality by a balancing tendency towards an almost punkish provocation. Like label mates, Outrageous Yurt, ‘The Sweep’ set up a delusional fantasy world where people actually talk to each other.

3. Putrid Black Sponge – ‘WWWdotBullock.Parimutuel Tote Bag’

Bought this mainly for the free limited edition Posdnuos Buckaroo game. Hanging a plastic rucksack or a banjo in the shape of a daisy onto the rotund rapper’s back without making him ‘buck’ is what the Jips was made for.

4. Kwashior v Morpungo – ‘Gig Guide Tick Box Twat’

After hearing this I wanted to immediately go on line and look for a trip hop night.

5. The Baleen Plates – ‘Krill Bill’

Igneous rock on Crude Oil Records with a sprinkling of Exothermic Funk a smattering of Metamorphic Grunge and a healthy dollop of Techtonic Skiffle. Large.

6. Hemp Poncho – ‘Fell In Love At Thrapston Gravel Pit’

Japanned Dustpan step which has had me bamboozled for months. Yasser Arafat never wore a capped T-Shirt with a faux bison print on it with his scarf, so why do you?

7. Advanced Mange – ‘Gok Wan Is An Anagram’

Hissing with spite and 1920’s depression chic the ‘Mange’ prove why they’re still the scenester’s scenesters on the scene. Weasle and Vole population in Finland not affected.

8. Missive Attack – ‘Chirpy Chirpy Tweet Tweet’

Like being pulled apart by Housewives whilst haunted by H from Steps. Wilful Nu Jazz squalor

9. Timid Scrotum – ‘On Your Hateful Pete Doherty Waistcoat (A Plague).

Whiney little runt, MC Snarge, drops science and lays into Libertine-esque smack chic like Kakuta poaches eggs. Not Guilty Simpson, Your Honour.

10. Cashmere Sceptre – ‘P Diddy Cruise Liner Aneurysm’

Remember music isn’t just something you shop for kids, it’s a refreshment to be dispensed nasally. Promo Junket = MoFo Junky. Beezelbub cotton bud.

11. Orobator – ‘Rejecting The Frottage’

A modern dubstep reliquary of Funk within the White Cube Gallery wrapped up in a hessian sheet of semi-self-righteousness whilst someone listens to Sting’s Lute album on Joggle.

12. Dashboard Confessional – ‘The Sinister Death Cult of Emo Hair Straighteners’

Jaded Post-Bruk forum nerds listen up! Dashboard Confessional bring a sulk-fest to end all sulk-fests.

13. The Nylon Cagoules – ‘Wittenoom’

‘Shout going out to all the patients on The Rolf Harris Wittenoom Lung Ward!’ shouts MC Phoreski(n) unconvincingly. DJ Mitsubeeesheee continues with his ‘Sun-Ra-Rasputin lover of the Russian’s bean’ in a g-spotski type of a way. (Can be viewed on Flicker).

Cd Arrrr! Original Pirate Material

Just got back from a wicked evening down that famous London drinking tavern, ‘Plastic Pieces Of Eight’ and their monthly ‘CD ARRRR!’ event. An opportunity for pirates of all backgrounds to come together and share their precious dub plate treasures with each other, whilst drinking cheap booze from the baskets of ale-wives and discussing beard and parrot grooming. The (Royal) standard had definitely been raised since last I visited, with a real celebratory feel in the air. Not least because all the CD ARRRR pirates were, sozzled, pie-eyed and three sheets to the wind. I blame the rum and gunpowder cocktails brought over from the New World by that Moody Tomahawk Man.

What follows, are for me, a few of the highlights of the evening.

DJ Scurvy Knees – ‘Peg Leg Termite Blues’

Jeah, pure eye-patch melter! DJ Scurvy Knees was first up with this wicked piece of dark smoking musket heat. Sick sick beats - mainly due to a diet of ‘manly meat’ rather than namby-pamby fruit and green vegetables - this Bruk Beat Buccaneer got the whole joint-a-talking and all the parrots-a-squawking. Seen? (Well 50% anyway).


 Mack ‘The Cutlass’ David – ‘Well Ahu Dolly’

Re-edit of the 1964 song from the Musical of the same name. My Gal, Carol Channing’s voice fed through an Atari Ableton to devastating effect. Mans was pure dope stupid on Rhodes an’ ‘ting. Innit.

Seaman Staines And Roger The Cabin Boy – ‘Shiver Me Timbers (They’ve Rammed Their Sloop Up Our Poop Deck)’

Jeah. Urban myth of a tune. Did it exist? What did we hear? They definitely played a tune. Sounded a bit like Fortescue Kendal (a posho rapper not a picturesque Cumbrian village) when he did ‘Trussed-Up Guttersnipes of the World, Untie!’ Pure bulk-head careened teredo worm heat.

Marlinespike – The Marooned Five

Jeah, jeah, pure shipwrecked castaway heat from this Hackney genius. Whispers amongst the beards tonight said that he is the new ‘Grime Mozart’, and on hearing his sick sick beats underpinned with Der Schauspieldirektor fortepiano samples who am I to disagree. Cat–o’–nine-tails says so, innit.


Moody Tomahawk Man – ‘Don’t Axe Me (Caltrop Edit )’

Jeah, jeah, small clay pot of a tune, filled with burning sulphur, tar and gunpowder. The shadowy, Moody Tomahawk Man dropped his tune from behind a mainsail, whilst splicing the mainbrace and getting ripped to the tits on ‘liquor’. His favourite tipple in fact; rum with a dash of gunpowder. The tune even got all the barnacles and limpets at the bar raving. The spiky Caltrop edit gave the ridiculous beats a further menace, sounding not unlike Kraftwerk scoring a Bull Baiting and Cock Fighting Documentary for Five Live.

Long John Silver Connection – ‘Guttersnipe’ (Fetid Bilge Mix)

Jeah, pure head-nodding (black) beard melter. Long John Silver Connection brought the heat with this distinctly ‘under-the-weather’ piece of dub plate BUPA endorsed sickness. Wicked lyrics about ‘chopping, lopping and topping’. Beats and rhymes straight out of Croydon. Beard straight out of lime water and saltpetre.

DJ Gadzooks – ‘Big Wenches Bloomers’

Jeah, jeah, suffocating pot of burning sulphurous brimstone! Pure tonsil melter. DJ Gadzooks, led us big dogs on a merry dance when this tune came cannoning out of the speakers. Pure hands in the air love for the call and response chorus:

He - ‘Yo Yo! Whatcha’ Got In Yo Backpack?’
Us - ‘Big Wenches Bloomers!’
He - ‘Louder! I can’t heeeeeear you! Yo Yo! Whatcha’ Got In Yo Backpack?’
Us - ‘BIG WENCHES BLOOMERS!’
And so on….