Jugoso

So, Ardbeg has a contender for my heart when it comes to one of my very favourite things, single malt whisky. Not that their fucking outstanding Uigeadail has been toppled from it's podium (yet), but, over the past couple of months I've encountered a few whiskys from another Islay distillery, the fiercely untraditional Bruichladdich, and they've been consistently fantastic and most definitely worthy of yr close attention. The first one was Waves, which was salty, fruity and smoky with just a touch of seaweedy iodine and spice to lift it, shot through with just enough of that madeira cask sweetness, complex and long lasting and rather fucking lovely.

Next up was Rocks, which is, unusually for a single malt, finished in shiraz casks. It's also unpeated, unlike Waves, and the months in those red wine casks have imparted a beautiful ruddy hue to it which follows through to the nose. Fuck me this stuff smells good. Fresh raspberries and barley sugar with a slight note of the sea which all carry on into yr gob, first as the background to a torrent of malt and vanilla then coming through like a disco string section, filling yr mouth with spiced summer pudding and cream, outrageously smooth and never cloying thanks to that hint of coastal saltiness. I quite liked this, as you may have gathered, and compared to the considerably pricier Isle Of Jura 16yo Diurach's Own* we'd been drinking earlier it was on another fucking level in terms of depth, complexity and sheer deliciousness. It instantly became one of my favourite whiskys and further samplings have done nothing but reinforce my opinion. Fucking fabulous whisky, and for under thirty quid a bottle, insanely good value.

You may have noticed I haven't given ages for the first two whiskys. That's because Bruichladdich aren't averse to mixing identical recipe whiskys of different ages to create the desired expression. None of the malts in Waves or Rocks are more than 8yo as far as I'm aware, but you'd never know it from tasting either of these two excellent whiskys. At the moment, I'm enjoying a glass of The Laddie Ten, which, unsurprisingly, has been aged for ten years in American oak and is proving to be a rather fine, more complex and citrusy drop than the Waves or the Rocks and which I shall tell you about next time. For now I'm just going to savour it.

*Which was delicious, but somehow anonymous, Elixir is a superior (and cheaper) expression of Jura's strengths for me. And what's with the caramel Jura add for colour? I like my whisky to be the colour it comes out the cask. I know, fussy fucker.

Azul

I am appallingly fucking drunk. So here's half an hour of Hound Dog Taylor & The Houserockers, live in Ann Arbor in 1973, also very, very drunk.

Melocotón Ahumado

I may have mentioned how partial I am to a good cocktail once or twice in the past, and when it comes to such alcoholic delights, I tend to favour rum or gin based concoctions. But I recently tried and fell in love with a cocktail based on two things I'd never normally let near a cocktail, one of which I'd normally refuse to drink just on principle. The two drinks in question are single malt whisky, and a heavily peated one at that (a drink which, under normal circumstances, should only be mixed with very pure water*) and vanilla cognac. Yes, I did say vanilla cognac. I know, it sounds fucking horrible**, and it is, on its own anyway. But mixed with the right whisky and one more ingredient some form of alcoholic alchemy occurs and you end up with something that's both deliciously smoky-sweet and has a boozy kick that would make Bruce Lee piss himself with fear.

Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, may I present the recipe for the most unexpectedly, uncannily delicious drink you've never tasted: The Smoky Peach.

2 parts vanilla cognac***
1 part peaty as all hell single malt§ (if over 50%abv use a little less)
Dash of peach bitters
Ice

Mix the cognac and whisky. Add bitters. Stir. Add ice. That's it. Fucking wonderful, like a honeyed alcoholic barbecue. And remember, on no account drink the vanilla cognac on it's own, no matter how drunk you already are.

Oh, and one more thing, easy on the bitters or you will fuck it up.

*Some people seem to think putting water into whisky dilutes the taste. When it's a 65% cask-strength bastard it enables you to actually taste the fucker properly.

**That's the polite version. It's actually much worse than you think. Like collecting Satan's arsecrack sweat and distilling it before mixing it with saccharine. Actually worse than that fucking "cherry-infused" abomination Jim Beam make. I can't remember what it's called, it's just too traumatic.

***Make sure it's real vanilla in there.

§Some form of Ardbeg or the peated Penderyn§§ or... I could go on for hours.

§§The only Welsh whiskey. Fucking awesome stuff. Particularly the madeira cask version. Try it as soon as you see it.

El Tejedor

This is fucking brilliant. I can't overstate how much of an influence John Martyn has had on my guitar playing. This may surprise some people, but bear with me, this will make sense when you've seen this fucking fantastic version of Skip James' I'd Rather Be The Devil, from 1973.



Bastard. That's just so fucking good. It doesn't matter how many times I hear that song, I'll never, ever tire of that echoplex guitar. And I'll happily and shamelessly rip it off wholesale when I'm in the mood, because unlike so many echo/loop pedal fiends who (consciously or otherwise) use the Göttsching/Hillage/Fripp/Pinhas style of looping and layering, John Martyn never wasn't much of a looper, preferring to use the percussive nature of the dying echoes along with what is possibly the greatest left hand of any guitarist I've ever seen to create a shifting, pulsing forward motion that has more in common with a conga player than the usual billowing tonefloat associated with heavy delay abusers. And that, in a nutshell, is why I love his guitar so much, he took the same tools as so many other contemporary musicians, went completely his own way with them, and in the process created a whole new perspective with them, one which was decidedly not ambient and slowly evolving, but simultaneously driving and fluid, so you don't hear the tapestry, you hear the shuttling of the loom, and trust me, that's way fucking harder to do.

La Gripa

I've been a bit slack as far as posting goes. So it goes. I've been really fucking ill and in a right poxy mood (the two often skip along hand in hand, you may have noticed), too much stress and worry about stuff that I'm not going into here took it's toll and left me somewhat discombobulated*, but now I'm in a better frame of mind and body and capable of more than going to work, sleeping and being sick, I thought I'd pamper myself a bit. Which is why I'm sitting here with a very large tumbler of Glenmorangie Quinta Ruban, a single malt which has spent 10 years in white oak bourbon casks, then another couple hanging around in ruby port pipes, and judging by the outrageous levels of depth and deliciousness this has imparted, it's certainly enjoyed it's time in the wood almost as much as I'm enjoying it slipping down my throat and filling my nose with spicy wonder and my belly with extremely boozy warmth. This stuff is fucking heavenly, sweet fire for the soul and a very good match for skunk and Skullflower, not to mention the epic bastard of a steak I devoured a little earlier, all of which are adding to my much improved mood no fucking end. Well, that and something that happened on Thursday which I'm not going to tell you about yet.

So yeah, I've had a really shitty month or so, (in fact this year's been pretty fucking hard work to be honest), but things are improving. I think. At least I fucking hope they are.

*Without a doubt, one of the finest words in any language, ever.

Mi Cariño, Te Echo De Menos Mucho (Du Ved Hvem Du Er, Og Det Er Din Tur Denne Gang, Or, If Britain Was Still Joined To The Continent Like It Was 15000 Years Ago Life Would Be So Much Fucking Simpler)

I'm a bit pissed, and in a somewhat mixed-up frame of mind for a number of unsurprising reasons. And when I'm this sort of mood only one thing'll do. Blues. Now, normally I'd post some obscure Maxwell St. live recording or something, but today, only one man's guitar will do. Yup, it's Peter Green time again. 'Cos when it comes down to it, no one nails heartsick like Greeny. There are very, very few musicians who can a. beat the Kings (BB, Albert and, king of the Kings, Freddie) at their own game, and b. reduce me to a tearful wreck with two or three notes. So without further ado, here's Peter Green's Fleetwood Mac*.





Yeah, I'm an incurable romantic (in the proper sense of the word), and a fucking sentimental ponce sometimes. What of it? But fuck it, ignore me, just revel in the absolutely pin-sharp beauty of Greeny's leads, and if it's not yr cup of tea, then may I suggest you seek entertainment elsewhere and leave the comments section alone 'cos I am not in the fucking mood for playing nice right now.

Normal service will be resumed in a day or two when I will be posting a huge essay on why 99% of everything is shit. So, no change there then**.

*Stevie Ray Vaughan fans take note. This is how y're supposed to do it.

**Humour. Or is it...?

Cerveza Afrutada

I like beer. This is probably not a surprise to anyone. I love wheat beers, particularly spiced ones. What I don't like tho, is when the barkeep puts a fucking slice of lemon or orange* in my bloody pint without asking. Now I can sort of see the sense of putting a lime segment in a bottle of Corona or Sol**, 'cos let's face it, that type of beer (and I use the word in it's loosest possible sense) has slightly less taste than tap water and the lime kick might just trick someone with no sense into believing that the insipid piss they're drinking has some vague flavour to it, but good wheat beer is already chock-full of yeasty, banana-y and citrusy goodness even without the optional coriander, fruit peel and whatnot that goes into some of 'em. As far as I can tell, all the citrus slice achieves is a dulling of the spicier notes and the delicate nose of a good wheat beer, because it just accentuates the already present citrus flavours at the expense of any subtlety or depth, and because of the citric acid, decimates the lovely fluffy head characteristic of these brews, and destroys the inherent slight creaminess that many examples of this style possess.

I don't drink beer just to get pissed**, and I certainly don't drink beer to show off my exquisite fucking taste to those around me or because said beer is "the thing to drink" according to whatever shadowy cabal decides these things. I drink beer because I love the fucking taste and if I'm paying four quid a fucking pint I expect to have that beer served to me the way I fucking want it, and not the way the marketing department of the brewery says I should be "experiencing" it. So please, when a thirsty Wommm comes into yr pub, and asks for a pint of Blue Moon, and then politely asks you to remove the offending piece of fruit from the glass, please don't sigh and make a face like you've suddenly got a faint aroma of shit in yr nose, and when I buy a second pint, specifically ordered without the orange, please don't tell me "it tastes better with the orange", just pour the fucking beer, please. You may prefer the taste with the fruity addition, and that's just fine. I don't. If I wanted a fucking alcoholic fruit cocktail I'd have ordered Pimm's for fuck's sake.

I may take the piss out of America occasionally, but if there's one thing they get so right over there, it's customer service. It's really easy, just be nice, respect the customers wishes, and you'll probably sell a lot more beer. And people will come back instead of going elsewhere, they'll have a better time, your job will be less stressful because you haven't aggravated yr customers (never really the best idea), fuck me, it's not exactly rocket science...

*I believe the lemon slice was originally Hoegaarden's fault, and Blue Moon are responsible for the orange. At least Blue Moon have had the decency to admit it's a gimmick, albeit a fucking stupid one.

**Well, not usually. We all have our moments...

Precio De Saldo

Go to Marks & Spencers immediately and buy this wine. It's around a tenner, and a fucking steal. I freely admit to being slightly addicted to Piedmontese wines and their leathery awesomeness, but this really is so damn good, and about half the price it should be, that you owe it to yrself to indulge. I would review it properly, but to be honest, I'm a bottle and a half down and can't be arsed. So trust me on this, you know the Dr wouldn't lead you wrong when it comes to the red stuff.

Hablar De Cerveza...

The other thing I'm going to treat myself and whoever's lucky enough to drink it with me to is a few bottles of Brewdog's ultimate stout, and probably the only beer ever inspired by Space Invaders: Tokyo - Intergalactic Fantastic.

An 18.2% (yes, you did read that right - and it's not even close to being the strongest thing the 'Dog makes) motherfucker of a beer, brewed with 5 (count 'em) different malts, jasmine and cranberries in the kettle, dry hopped to hell and back and then aged on toasted vanilla French oak. It may be pricey, but sometimes you need a bit of luxury, and this stuff is just so decadently fucking delicious I couldn't care less how much it sets me back. Godfuckingdammit I'm dribbling already...

So if you like yr stout and y're feeling decadent too, I suggest you join me and my drinking companions in tasting the most gorgeous fucking dark beer it's ever been my pleasure to get down my extremely discerning gob. We'll be raising a bottle to yr health and good taste, wherever you are.

Delicia, Embotellada

Normally I wouldn't write anything praising Tesco's, not because of snobbery, I'll shop almost anywhere that sells what I want, but because they seem to be attempting to beat Starbucks at their own take over the fucking world game but I have to now, because they seem to have gone completely mental as far as booze is concerned, getting some of Britain's finest independent breweries to come up with some seriously special beers for their "Tesco Finest" range, including an excellent porter from Harviestoun, the people who bought us the fucking magnificent Old Engine Oil, one of the best beers I've ever tasted, but more importantly (for me anyway), they've got the mighty Brewdog to make an astonishing double IPA for them, under the very unBrewdog name of American Double IPA*.

9.2% of fermented fucking hop heaven, with a Seville orange marmalade nose and backnotes, a simultaneously resinous and floral bitterness from the huge hop load and an wallop of ginger biscuit sweetness which is fairly unusual in a double IPA like this. It's also deceptive in that if you didn't read the label, there is no fucking way you would know this was 9.2% until you wondered why you were twice as pissed as you should be and then actually looked at the ABV. Seriously though, it's amazingly easy drinking for an ale of this strength and character and an all round killer beer, if not quite as awe-inspiring as Brewdog's Punk, Hardcore or the much-missed Chaos Theory IPAs. Then again in the world of beer not much comes close to those for me. Take into account that it's only four fucking quid for three, and you have whatever the fuck you have when you go through bargain and come out the other side. I'm going to empty the shelves in my local branch tomorrow when I've been paid, because I ran out on Friday after sorely underestimating the addictively delicious nature of this marvellous brew, and I don't intend to make the same mistake twice. I suggest you do the same.

*I know Brewdog are from Scotland, but Double IPA is originally an American craft brewing style, so I'll let 'em off.

Uñas Afilada

There seems to an accidental 90s volume war going on in the building at the moment. Whoever's recently moved into the flat next door is listening to Smashing fucking Pumpkins at full whack, and given that I only got home an hour or so ago, and am a little the worse for wear*, the last thing I want to hear after a night like last night is Billy Corgan's reedy fucking wailing. And still being in an AmRep kind of a mood, I've been countering the horribly whining sound with lots of God Bullies et al. As you do.

Well, you do if y're me. Then again, most people would probably disagree that listening to death metal on MDMA is a really enjoyable thing to do, personally I think it's fucking great, but there you go, I've got some funny ideas about what constitutes fun**. Last nights fun consisted of, amongst other things, fantastic Mexican food, great wine, better cocktails, not to mention a little extra and very unexpected something that made the night sparkle in an extremely geometric manner, if you catch my drift, and just the right company and music and surroundings to fuck off the last residues of the previous few days in the most pleasant manner possible, and so, because I feel like inflicting my somewhat addled good mood on you all, and because I said I would, here's that Larsen Effect*** track I mentioned earlier, for yr listening pleasure or otherwise...

Uñas Afilada by The Larsen Effect

*In a wooly stupid grin kind of a way, as opposed to Trotsky's Icepick.

**Or so I've been told. More than once.

***My guitar only solo project. Probably should have made that clear earlier. But I'd forgotten that when I posted that I was recording a solo guitar thing, I forgot to mention the name of said project. When I mentioned I was going to post an LE track, I neglected to point out that's the name the solo guitar thing goes under. See the next post for more details. I'll also explain the slightly foolish name later, but rest assured, it makes perfect sense when you know why.

¡Enfermera, Traer El Espéculo!

I remember what I was going to ask. How the fucking hell did I end up with an excruciatingly painful dented coccyx, not to mention a whole host of mysterious, randomly located cuts and bruises last week? I don't remember getting involved in a game of violent Twister, I haven't injured myself at work, and I didn't get so pissed, even last Tuesday which was fairly messy for want of a better word*, that I had any memory gaps (I always know if I've drunkenly forgotten, if that makes sense, there's a horrible hungover hole in my brain which was completely absent), or sense of lost time**. So how in the name of all that is fucking unholy did these injuries occur? Particularly the coccyx. That fucking still smarts now (ooh DFs, excuse me for a sec...), and it felt like I was growing a fucking tail last Wednesday morning. Still, shit happens. Any ideas? Answers on a postcard to the usual address.

And no, there were no handy bits of cardboard to surf on or anything like that. I know I can't help myself after a few, but that always results in the same injury if I go arse over tit, namely a lumpy bruise on my left elbow that's a dead ringer for a cartoon bump on the head, and I didn't suffer that specific indignity. It wasn't a Thors rehearsal night. So how and why does this weird shit happen? How did the disco damage occur? Because this is definitely a case of DD...

On other, more sensible matters, TIME were fucking great at Oto last week, and I will post a proper review when I'm more... compos mentis. Because they were very good indeed, and I'd like to do justice to their music with my words as opposed to just blatting wine & opiated idiocy all over this post. I know it's a fine line sometimes, but even so...

*One of those nights which starts with the seemingly innocuous words "fancy a quick pint after work?" and ends several hours later in quadruple*** rum-soaked carnage.

**All alien abduction scenarios involving so-called lost time can be traced back to a single cause. A one-toothed banjo playing motherfucker who got so fucking arseholed on corn whiskey they forgot Thursday happened, and needed a really, really fucking serious excuse...

***They were supposed to be doubles, the barman was pissed too, and couldn't find the spirit measures, so he poured them by eye, and erred on the somewhat, shall we say, generous side. Blue Cheer and Mudhoney were blaring out of the jukebox. Said jukebox is free. Guess the pub...

¡Tranquilízate!*

I'm somewhat discombobulated today, for reasons I'm not going to go into at the moment, so forgive me if I wander off on all sorts of ridiculous tangents and nothing makes much sense. Although let's face it, that wouldn't exactly be a first for this blog.

Last night was spent in the most civilised surroundings of Cafe Oto, at a night called Otobahn, which turned out to be the perfect place to decompress after a day of wildly oscillating moods, none of which were particularly pleasant, not that I'm falling back into my old ways, it was just one of those days that needed a good end to it to shave off the spiky aggravated edges of my overactive brain, and spending the evening with a couple of my favourite people, drinking excellent beer** to the accompaniment of some rather fine music, live and dj'ed, seemed to be exactly the right solution. There were a couple of live acts, a solo analogue synth set by John Chantler which started slowly and hesitantly, but grew and evolved into a deeply thrumming krauty deep space mung out with tickly arpeggiations. I wasn't that impressed at first, but like I said, when he got into his stride, the billowing ambience of the modular synth provided just the right sonic tint to the night, an enveloping, yet unobtrusive warmth that coupled with good conversation and the aforementioned ale calmed me right down, and allowed my racing mind to catch up with itself and let me think clearly again.

The second lot, Regolith, laid down a very enjoyable, but for my tastes when it comes to this sort of stuff, slightly too quiet set of droning psych blues with two electric guitars and laptop***. I really wish it had been louder, and the mix a little more balanced, especially towards the end when one of the guitarists cut loose with a fucking great solo which was almost swamped by the muddiness of the mix, I mean, this was proper Quicksilver shit, and I want to fucking hear that. I could understand it if they were going for the subliminal thing, but it was too high in the mix to pull that off, yet still too low to make the impact it should have. Not their fault, and we all know my opinion of a lot of live engineers§, so I know who I blame. But even with those shortcomings, they played some beautiful music, and I'm a sucker for e-bowed slide guitar, which their set contained in bucketloads, and the laptop processing etc. was so tightly enmeshed and integrated into the whole weave of sound it never came across as gratuitous technological icing, which is the impression I often get from laptop musicians in a live context. Not here though. Good fucking stuff. Louder next time please.

There was some great, eclectic dj sets from Mapsadasical, Radioolio and others too, a nicely random mix of sounds electronic, acoustic, freaky and beautiful, again, not at full club volume, but at just the right volume to fill the room without anyone needing to shout, and the conversation never obscured the music either, like I said, a civilised night out, and it's the only night I've been to that had its own cryptic crossword. Which you can have a go at here, although it might prove impossible to crack if y're not a krautrock junkie...

So yeah, a really nice evening, and one that I really hope won't be a one-off, apparently it was put on in place of a cancelled gig, and I for one am really glad they did, because a space like this, that's not a full on club night or a full volume gig, isn't in a grimy pub or dingy venue§§ for once, but in a good place, full of good people and fine sounds, with great food and drink, is something that's been sorely fucking lacking for a while, somewhere that's almost as much about being social as it about the music. It was pretty damn packed too, so even though it was free entry, I'm betting Cafe Oto did alright last night. And with that in mind, I'd like to be amongst the first to humbly request the lovely people who run Cafe Oto to make this a regular fixture, and not just because I want to dj there, but because it was a genuinely excellent night in exactly the right venue§§§. It even had a rather nice flyer:

Fuck me, no tangents, I must be feeling more relaxed. Oh wait, here comes one.

I must also recommend that you get hold of a copy of Nigel Kneale's utterly fantastic, and unintentionally hilarious, 1976 series Beasts, I actually thought I might rupture something laughing, fucking awesome television. The rats...

*No, not the Valium...

**Particularly the Kernel Brewery's excellent IPA Citra. Fucking fantastic stuff.

***Which for once, didn't bug the shit out of me. I have a slight issue with laptops on stage, for many reasons ,some of which are deeply irrational, and none of which I can't be arsed to into here. I will at some point in the future when I next get pissed off by the sight of someone staring at a screen on stage.

§For those who don't, it's not particularly nice. To put it very mildly.

§§Not that I object to those things, as you've probably gathered, but it's nice to have somewhere to go where you can just fucking kick back.

§§§Like when Kosmische was Upstairs At The Garage. It was never quite the same anywhere else. Good, but not the fucking joyous pill fuelled great rush through space Kosmische could be when it was UATG. Probably because most other venues wouldn't let us get away with half the shit we did there. Like crate-skating, which I'll explain one day, suffice to say it's a very specific method of dancing which you should never attempt when y're off yr fucking tits, but also something you just wouldn't attempt even vaguely sober, fun, but with the risk of injury ever present. Yeah, sure, UATG was a shithole, but dammit, it was our fucking shithole for one night a month for a fucking killer few years. More on Kosmische soon...

No Tengo Cerebro (Temporalmente)

I am this far from passing out. Not that I'm ill, or on a comedown or whatever. I'm just fucking knackered. Not that I'm complaining, given that the reason I'm so fucking tired is the last few weeks have been so much fucking fun, and have made me come alive in a way I can't remember feeling in a long fucking time. So yeah, happy Wommm, but about to collapse in a black-clad heap. Which I would do, but I'm stuck in the fucking office for the next couple of hours, and they tend to frown on people who snore loudly at their desks. I also (sensibly) am not allowed to listen to music in the office, which is a shame, because some good ol' fashioned grindcore, or some really wiggly acid house would probably help me stay awake reasonably efficiently. I've already had the equivalent of 12 fucking espressos today, and the only effect they've had seems to be the urge to write this shit. The vast amount of caffeine hasn't fucking dented the desperate urge to curl up on my outrageously comfy sofa like a cat for a couple of hours one bastard bit. But soon. Soon I will be free and can allow my inner sleepy cat full rein for a couple of blissful hours. Well, at least until I have to go to the pub.

Mmmm, pub. Which is what I was actually going to write about in the first place. Well, beer anyway. And India pale ales specifically, mainly because it's by far my favourite style of ale. The problem with the term IPA, and one which tends to throw those less shall we say, obsessed, than myself is that those three letters are often appended to the names of beers which, whilst being perfectly good bitters/pale ales, are most definitely not true IPAs. Take Greene King or Flowers IPAs. Both nice, refreshing pints, sure, but they're pale ales, not IPAs. Because three things mark out a true IPA: 1. An alcohol content of around 6-7%, 2. massive, pungent bitterness, well in excess of a typical bitter, and 3. an outrageously hoppy nose. And both the aforementioned beers are around 3.5-4%, quite bitter but with a stronger malt profile (particularly Flowers) and a far more restrained aroma, making them most definitely pale ales. This is fairly typical of weaker beers with IPA in their names, so caveat emptor is the rule, if it's weak, it ain't gonna have the hop kick you want.

Which brings me to my main point. Punk IPA has a rival in my beery affections now. Jaipur IPA is almost as fucking good as Punk. Very similar strength (5.9%), a beautiful hazy deep straw apperance, and a lemony hoppy nose that makes yr mouth water as soon as it hits the back of yr nostrils. But obviously, the most important thing is the taste. And this has taste in bucketloads. It's not quite as dry as Punk, but the slightly higher maltiness is kicked into touch by the outrageously delicious grapefruity citrusness and an amazingly long-lasting hop explosion that makes me drool a little to just think about. Brilliant stuff, and widely available at the moment. Although The George in Croydon has run out. I know this because we drank all they had yesterday night*. So my apologies to Croydon real ale enthusiasts who'll have to go without for a few days, but we were very, very thirsty. Sorry about that.

*It was only half-eight as well, we had to go on to The Spread Eagle, and excellent as Fuller's Bengal Lancer is, when you've been on the Jaipur it just doesn't quite cut it. Get an extra barrel next time you bastards.

Cóctels 3: El Cabrón Amargo

Triple (or if y're like me Quadruple) measure sloe gin
One or one and a half measures tonic water
One measure Campari
Ice, lots of
Stir
Add great big fucking slug of blood orange juice*
Drink whilst listening to Mudhoney at appallingly high volume.
Repeat.
Brilliant.

*Or possibly smaller slug of pink grapefruit juice and a little bit of grenadine to take the edge off. Just occurred to me.

La Boca Américano

There comes a time when you need a bit of George Thorogood & The Destroyers. Now is that time. Well, it is for me anyway, because I'm in a somewhat bad mood, and thought I'd help it fuck off with the aid of some dirty fucking bar blues, a very good cigar and some exceedingly sloe gin. For those of you who care about such things, said cigar is a Romeo y Julieta No.3, and the sloe gin is my own concoction made with a bottle of Navy strength* Plymouth gin and fresh sloe berries picked by own fair hand, which I'd forgotten about until this morning when I found it in the back of the airing cupboard where I'd stashed it to do it's infusion thing fucking ages ago. Consequently, it's (as I said) exceedingly sloe, outrageously smooth, headwreckingly strong and sits just nicely with a big fucking cigar. And this video is extremely amusing. George ain't joking, he drinks alone. And he does have the most American mouth (and face) of possibly anyone ever. Good shades too. I'll skip on the snakeskin jacket tho, a man has got to know his limits.
 

*57%, the lowest percentage of alcohol by volume which (according to British Navy lore) doesn't prevent gunpowder from being lit if you spill the booze rations on it.

Viva Albariño

I've got another Spanish wine for y'all to enjoy, a little pricier than the one I banged on about last time, but even more rewarding and just straight-down-the-fucking-line delicious. And it's a white this time, because Spainish white is vastly underrated as far as I'm concerned, and when it's good, makes the French look like fucking amateurs. Fussy as I am when it comes to reds, I'm way fucking worse when it comes to white, because there is almost nothing on Earth that tastes as bad and wrong as shit white wine. This stuff though, is the fucking bollocks. Burgáns Albariño, from Bodegas Martín Códax in Rias Baixas, Orixe, in Galicia is simply astonishing. Yeah, it's £12 a bottle, but fuck me is it worth every penny, and frankly a damn sight more.

Before I tried this, viognier, viura and gewürztraminer (when I'm in the right mood) were my favourite white grapes by a country mile, but albariño is really a bit fucking special. It doesn't have the floral, perfumey kick of a good viognier, but it terms of sheer unusual fruit it wipes the floor with it, and like viognier, it has that initial slight sweetness (bear in mind I hate sweet whites with a vengeance) that fades to a beautifully dry finish on the tongue, but the two sides of this grape seem to integrate far more seamlessly than with the viognier, where unless it's really good it can be a bit like a grape fight in yr mouth, but the acid and dryness sort of fade in and slowly overwhelm the peachy and banana notes that dominate the intitial flavour explosion (albariño is more acidic than viognier, but takes a little longer to reveal it's charms in that respect) plus it completely lacks the oily mouthfeel that can let viogniers down for me sometimes, probably because of the lack of terpenes, the oils that lend viognier it's floral and piney notes.

It's possibly the single most refreshing wine I've ever tasted, having a very small amount of underlying grapefruity bitterness that adds yet another layer of awesome to it's already complex taste, rendering it far less fucking cloying than a gewürztraminer, a wine I am very fond of, but because of the overpowering lychee notes it bungs out, one I very rarely drink without some serious fucking game or fatty fish to counter it's mouthcoating sugariness (even with a dry one). It's so good I'm having to force myself to not just glug the whole damn bottle in one go, and it's worth the effort, because the flavour lingers in the mouth and nose in a manner I've never quite encountered with a white before. It's genuinely amazing stuff, and I would like to thank the staff of Oddbins in Blackheath for a. recommending it to me in the first place, and b. being really good people who really understand their booze, and enjoy talking about it with likeminded folks*. Seriously, this stuff is as good as white gets, and I simply cannot recommend it highly enough.

Note to La Spliffe: Do not buy Australian albariño, as due to an astounding fuckup about 10 years ago or so, almost all Australian wines labelled as albariño are actually made from savagnin, which isn't a bad grape by any standards, but it sure as shit ain't albariño. See here for the amusing details. Oh, and I'm about midway into my list of killer Aussie wines at the moment and will have it ready for you in a few days.

*Drunks with a keen sense of aesthetics.

Desvergüenza

Thor's Helmet has returned to the revolting confines of our rehearsal space a couple of times now, and I can confidently say that I am delighted by the results so far. The level of wrongness achieved at the last session was pretty impressive to say the least. We resurrected what is possibly our most unacceptable song, the deeply sleazy blues Snakeskin Woman, a track which, shall we say, pushes the boundaries of taste both lyrically and musically. It's basically the bastard offspring of Elmore James and hardcore porn smothered in a fucking ton of sludge and slurry which I fucking adore playing because I get to flex my bottleneck muscles in a manner I don't get to very often, because much as I fucking love blues, most people who play it are nothing but copyists and purists so far up their own arseholes that they start to resemble human Klein bottles, who completely lack any sense of fucking humour and totally fail to understand the idea of originality.

It's a fucking rare joy just to let rip with the slide with no regard for taste or decency whilst Garuda bellows his fucking head off with some of the most downright disgusting lyrics this side of Whitehouse, plus it acts as a nice bridge between the twin epics that bookend the set; the ever-ascending Chromeish motorik lunacy of Lay, and TH's signature outrage, Epsilon In Malachandrian Red, half an hour of cosmic ranting, ultradoom and spacerock insanity that never fails to make jaws drop due to the utter shamelessness it radiates like a newly born star, as it gives us a chance to relax a little and regroup before EIMR, which is a fairly intense piece to play, to say the least, and we'd probably all have heart attacks if we had to go straight into that fucker after Lay.

And speaking of Lay, that song sounds so fucking strong compared to when we used to play it, especially after I rewrote the main riff and now that Indrid's bass is augmented with enough effects and fuzz monstrousness to be on an equal footing with my wall of cosmic death guitar, the fucker's sounding like a hideous cross between Jack Bruce in fuzz loon mode and Lemmy/Duncan Sanderson at their crankiest, and there can be no higher praise from me for a bassist in this context. As Donald "Duck" Dunn would say, we got a band powerful enough to turn goat's piss into gasoline, and I reckon two more rehearsals like this and we'll be setting the dates for the live shit, and all I'm going to say is we've got some ideas for films, backdrops etc. that if we can pull 'em off (matron) will match the music in terms of utter galactic foolishness. Oh, and if y're really, really (un)lucky, we'll do Tales Of Brave Ulysses with me on vocals. I can't fucking wait...

*When I say blues, I mean real fucking blues, not the fucking White Stripes.

Parecido A Un Roble

As you may have noticed, I quite enjoy a drink, and in common with my attitude to everything and anything else, I am a fussy fucker when it comes to alcohol. Particularly when it comes to beer. Because the thing with beer is, unlike wine, spirits, blah, is that price is absolutely no clue whatsoever to quality*, a bottle of Hoegaarden costs the same as a bottle of Stella**, but seriously, what would you rather drink? An outrageously refreshing, spicy, cloudy, citrusy brew with a depth of flavour which means you can savour or glug it, depending on mood and circumstance, or a beer that looks like piss mixed with washing up liquid, tastes (if that's the right word) slightly less appealing than that, and is popularly known as wifebeater? Exactly. So bland lager lovers can fuck off right now because you will not like this beer.

Said beer being Innis & Gunn Original, which is one of the best, and certainly unique, beers I have ever fucking tasted. It's a malty, very Scottish ale to which something has been done which doesn't normally happen to a beer. It's matured in oak bourbon barrels for 77 days***, which imparts a mellow toffee sweetness with a vanilla backnote and an odd creaminess, a softness to the beer, which are flavours and textures you just don't expect, and thinking logically about it, sound like they shouldn't work, but work they fucking do, this stuff is just fantastic, 6.6% of far too drinkable brilliance that you owe it to yrselves to try. Like I say, odd, but really fucking good.

*Not that price is the guarantee of excellence, but there is a marked difference in quality, particularly with spirits, as you head upwards through the price spectrum.

**And yes, I know Hoegaarden is stupidly expensive in pubs over here. Probably so the pub can pay off the huge loan they had to take out to pay for the ridiculously huge and ostentatiously ornate pump it comes out of.

***They do a rum cask one too but I haven't tasted it yet.

Despierto Otra Vez

There are weekends, then there are Weekends. The last few days definitely constituted an excellent example of the latter. Between Friday and Monday I probably had about 6 hours sleep (which probably isn't helping the manky cold I have at the moment* but fuck it, that's what Syndol's for), but I don't care. Friday's** party was just fucking excellent, loads of brilliant people I haven't seen in an age, everyone on top form, enough alcohol to refloat the Bismarck, some damn fine music (I even managed to behave myself at the decks for once) and an extremely well-stocked pharmacy, and which ended, as per usual, with the last few standing (if that's the right word) marching off to our traditional Croydon boozer, because when you've been up for that long, and y're that twatted, the only sensible fucking course of action is to hit a pub where; a. they sell extremely good beer at exactly the right temperature, and b. will serve us lot in seemingly whatever rotten state we turn up in***, and we've turned up hanging in fucking rags on many occasions, yet never been refused service. Then again, we're good people.

And Sunday? Fucking brilliant too. But I'm far too much of a gentleman (stop laughing at the back) to tell you about that.

*No, I can't think of anything else that could have contributed to it. I have no idea what y're implying.

**And for some of us, most of Saturday.

***Although they tend to draw the line at my mate and I's occasional freely improvised duets on the (rather good) pub piano. A word to the wise: If musicians frequent yr pub, and it has a piano, when said musicians are drunk, that piano is going to get played. If you do not want this to happen, don't have a fucking piano in yr fucking pub. Easy really.