Thursday, 29 March 2012

¿Rachel Khoo, Puedo Ser Su Espátula?

Anyone who's known me for some time has probably heard my "why rabbits* are the ultimate embodiment of evil" theory**. They've probably also noted my deep and abiding (and to some, inexplicable) love of Moloko, a band whose music has always instantly filled me with idiot glee and the urge to dance like a tit because they manage to be funky as fuck, poppy as all hell*** and deeply odd all at the same damn time, which is not an easy trick to pull off. And, of course, the incomparable Róisín Murphy§ was one half of 'em, and I fucking love Róisín Murphy. Not just because of that smoky voice which does things to me I'm not going to discuss in a public place, or that uncanny elastic phrasing of hers, the way she can twist and wrap a vocal line around a skewed rhythm section in a manner which is somehow percussive and slinky at the same time, but also for her utterly batshit lyrics, which I've only just realised, 17 years after the fact, are responsible for the aforementioned evil rabbit theory§§. And this, Killa Bunnies, is the song solely responsible:

Fear them...

*As in rodents.

**When my brain is idling, especially if I'm off my face, I've always enjoyed thinking a ludicrous idea right through to it's ultimate conclusion, just for shits 'n' giggles. I once came up with an entire religion based on analogue synthesizers and kittens purely because I was a bit bored and very, very stoned.

***And given that poppiness isn't really a trait I look for in music, or even respond to very often, the fact that Moloko did pop so fucking well that I love 'em all the more for it is a high and very rare compliment. Their first two LPs, Do You Like My Tight Sweater? and I Am Not A Doctor are just fucking wonderful and I won't have a word said against 'em.

§In the pub a few days ago, someone asked me which singer I would most want to collaborate should such a ludicrous possibility arise. Well, here's yr answer.

§§They don't make any fucking noise. I don't trust an animal that doesn't make a fucking sound unless you sit on it, especially when there's billions of the buggers running around under our feet in their hollowed out catacombs, they've got some sort of fluffy bastard hive-mind going and they're just biding their time...

Monday, 26 March 2012

Puro Kvlt Idiotez

Oh yes. I like this idea. Go here and find out what it is. And join me in voting. The world's first Black Metal airline is within our grasp...

Sunday, 25 March 2012

Bestia Acuática Excelente Tres: ¡Plato Voladors!

Is it in the sea? Is it in the sky? Who knows? The silent invasion of the Benthocodons continues apace...

Space jelly!


Keeping with the spacerock theme, here's the band that arguably invented the whole thing*, Amon Düül II, knocking seven bells of psychedelic shit out of their classic Phallus Dei sometime in 1968.

*Their bass player, Dave Anderson, undoubtedly invented spacerock bass. There's a good reason he ended up in Hawkwind a couple of years later...

Dave Brock Es Una Verga

I fucking love Hawkwind*. We know this. And I've always been inordinately fond of the album Quark, Strangeness & Charm, I mean, it may not be the last word in brain-destroying spacerock like Space Ritual, but it does contain Bob Calvert's greatest moments with them and an emphasis on motorik that tends to go unremarked, not to mention a certain stylistic similarity to early Roxy Music. So it is with great delight that I present this clip of Hawkwind doing Quark, Strangeness & Charm in, I'd guess, 1977, on the Marc Bolan show of all fucking places...

All together now:

 Copernicus had those renaissance ladies crazy about his telescope...

Oh, where's Dave Brock I hear you cry? Chucking a strop because he's not the frontman. He's not even playing the guitar on this version, it's Adrian Shaw (bass) as Brock didn't even bother turn up to play on the version they'd be miming to because it was on a kids show. Twat. Ah, the 70s.

And yes, Bob does have a hawk attached to this wrist. No, I don't know why either.

*When I say Hawkwind, I mean pre-1980, when, let's face it, it all went tits-up and stayed there except for the very rare nugget of spacey brilliance amongst all the crusty dung. Ginger Baker in Hawkwind? Fuck off. They were never the same after Levitation, an album many people inexplicably seem to like.

Aprender Húngaro

I did write a really long post about struggling with pain and whatnot, a positive one for a change, as I've conquered a few demons that have been royally fucking with me all year, but I deleted it. Because when it comes down to it, I'm finally in a good fucking state of mind, most parts of my life seem to be going rather well thank you, and I'm not sure that huge blog posts analysing what's going on with my fucked-up nervous system and it's attendent effects on my inner life are actually that fucking helpful. So instead, here's a song which I think sums up my current mood quite fucking nicely...


Monday, 19 March 2012

Música Roedor

I fucking love this record. It's genuinely fucking bonkers. Especially as the preceding album (Sorcerors) was pretty standard vaguely psychy folk stuff*. Not sure what happened in the intervening couple of years, but it sounds like it involved a Soft Machine album and a fuckload of acid. This is the shortest (and heaviest) track, a mere eight minutes compared to the expansive weirdness of the nineteen minute opener, Sun Symphonica, or the jazzfolkpsychprogfroth they work up over thirteen minutes on Call Of The Wild, but what a fucking eight minutes. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mice And Rats In The Loft by Jan Dukes De Grey.

*Not my bag, too much fucking Donovan and Tull in the mix for me.

Thursday, 15 March 2012


More fun at The Bird's Nest, as the rather fine Now* are having a bit of a shindig to celebrate the release of their new lathe cut 10"+ cd on $500 Dollar Limit**, my old mucker Marcelo Madrid and me good self will be trawling through our respective record collections to bring you only the finest in sonic delights in between and after sets by Now, Alex Charles, and Now + Alex Charles.

And it's fucking free. Not on a school night either, so you've got no excuse for not coming down and joining like-minded and lovely people in alcohol-fuelled bacchanal, dancing like a tit should the mood take you and buying some rather beautifully put together limited edition records for an extremely reasonable price.

*The only band I've ever been in that has proper songs and stuff. They kick serious arse and have done for some considerable time, and if you haven't heard 'em yet, I suggest you get yrself over to their Soundcloud and remedy the situation immediately.

**Don't have an url for 'em yet. Stay tuned.

Monday, 12 March 2012

El Gato Y El Hippy

Revelling in schadenfreude is wrong, I know, but sometimes it's just so fucking hard not to kill yrself laughing at a minor misfortune, such as the wonderful example recounted in the bottom footnote of this post. And a few days ago, when I was in desperate need of a giggle, I was idly gazing out the window, down onto the courtyard where the resident hippy happened to be doing his morning tai-chi and two of the many excellent cats who frequent our gardens were out for a leisurely perambulation around their territory*. So, I'm sat at the window, coffee and spliff in hand, enjoying the first proper sun of the year, wondering if the decidedly not meditational music I was listening to was interfering with the hippy realigning his chi, and watching the cats doing cat things, when one of them decided that the hippy was the most interesting thing in the yard and sat down to watch. After a minute or so, the cat started to creep forward, just like it had seen a fascinating piece of string and was certain the string had not seen the cat. Closer and closer, lower to the ground with each step, eyes fixed on the oblivious hippy who was carrying out a manoeuvre which looked like someone dropkicking a smurf in very slow motion. Then, cat leapt at hippy, burying it's claws in his outstretched leg, eliciting an alarmed cry that quickly ascended into the ultrasonic and causing the hippy to crumple to the ground in an amusing heap while the cat, curiosity satisfied, sauntered back off to join their mate and see if there was anything interesting in the bins.

*Or possibly playing Cat Chess.

Saturday, 10 March 2012

La Cavidad

Riff. Singularities. Excellent meth reference. And a lyric demonstrating an understanding of the implications of General Relativity. That'll fucking do for me.

I do like me some Cavity. Insert yr own joke here.

Friday, 9 March 2012

Sobredosis Del Sonido

Frak - Musika Electronic (Digitalis)
Moebius - Blue Moon OST (Sky)
Fabric - A Sort Of Radiance (Spectrum Spools)
Nackt Insecten - Reality Bridge (Blackest Rainbow)
Tlaotlon - Squirt Image Flex (Trensmat)
Harmonia - Deluxe (Brain)*
VCMG - SSSS (Mute)**
Cluster & Eno - Cluster & Eno (Sky)
Cluster - Soweisoso (Sky)
Panabrite - Soft Terminal (Digitalis)
Suzanne Ciani - Lixiviation (Finders Keepers)
Total - Eternity's Beautiful Frontispiece (VHF)
Revenge - Scum.Collapse.Eradication (Osmose)
Chris Forsyth - Paranoid Cat (Family Vineyard)
Roy Montgomery - Silver Wheel Of Prayer (VHF)
Chris Forsyth & Koen Holtkamp - Early Astral (Blackest Rainbow)
Flying Saucer Attack - Flying Saucer Attack (VHF)
Red Electric Rainbow - Dark Days (Aguirre)
Sunlore - Sunlore (Tequila Sunrise)
T++ - Wireless (Honest Jon's)

*Possibly the greatest Krautrock record of them all.

**Vince Clark and Martin Gore getting their techno wiggle on. It's fucking fantastic.

Tuesday, 6 March 2012


Oh, and if one of you lucky bastards who's actually managed to get their hands on a copy of Homage To The Pointed Waveforms by Eleh would be nice enough to stick a rip up somewhere... The fucking thing sold out in about an hour, and is already going for seventy fucking quid.

Más Allá Ubicado El Wub

One, no, two other things about the book below. Firstly, it's published by Penguin, but they've resurrected the Pelican imprint for science and whatnot for this and lots of other books* which also look fucking excellent, and I was always very fond of the old blue Pelican paperbacks, which, along with the old orange Penguins, sort of makes them the Blue Note and Impulse! of book cover design, and I'm a sucker for that sort of stuff. The other thing is the paper the cover is made of. It feels really fucking nice. Sort of a fine mossy sensation but not as bouncy, or alternatively, vaguely like suede. Maybe it's wub fur. Yes I'm very stoned, but I noticed this when I bought it, when I wasn't stoned at all, and was instantly struck by it. Oh fuck it, Eno would know what I mean. Where's my bloody lighter?

*Several of which I was intending to purchase until my ancient but beloved amplifier (stereo, not guitar, if it had been the guitar amp I'd probably have fucking heart failure) started to show signs of terminal burnout a day or two ago. Which given the bugger's 20 years old and has had to put up with my record collection and amazing ability to spill Guinness** for all that time isn't a bad innings. Still pissed me off though, which is why I'm so battered and typing this bollocks on the internet.

**The only drink I regularly knock over, normally near electrical equipment. I should only drink it outdoors

Sugerencias De Lecturas Suplementarias

This is a book I urge you to read. Not just because it's beautifully written and deeply fascinating, which are reasons enough to splash the cash, but because I think it's a particularly important and timely book, acting both as a riposte to the current climate of suspicion cast upon both science and Islam and as an antidote to the simplistic, monolithic attitudes so often displayed towards these subjects, their intertwined histories, and the huge disservice which all too many histories, be they from a cultural or scientific/mathematical perspective, often pay this crucial period of time.

All too often the vast contribution to science of the cultures of the Middle East is dismissed as one of preservation and translation, keeping the secrets of the Greeks safe while Europe wallowed around in its own shit for a few hundred years until it got it's act together during the Renaissance. This is an important book, not only because it redresses the lazy Euro-centric bias of all too many historians and scientists, but because it may make a few, otherwise intelligent people think twice before dismissing an entire culture based upon the actions of a few fucking fanatics. Just brilliant.