Mente Errante

Sorry for the recent dearth of postings, I've just been a little uninspired to write lately. But I seem to have regained the urge, so here I am. I'm halfway through a massive musicological appreciation of the superlative* reissue of Sleep's Dopesmoker - you can hear what notes Al's playing! it doesn't sound like slurry anymore!! - still, for my money, the benchmark against which all Doom/Sludge/Thingy should be measured and by an accident of fate, was reissued in the same week as my birthday, a coincidence which slipped me by but was pointed out as very appropriate by a number of my good friends. I'm quite sure I have no idea what they mean... Fuck me it's good tho'.

One reason I haven't written much is music. After the smoking demise of my old (hi-fi) amp, it's replacement** proved to be so fucking amazing that every time I've sat down to write, I've been dragged back to the sofa by the music, so clear and beautiful is the sound, unable to concentrate on anything else, and then found myself completely unable to remember what the fuck it was I was going to write. Well, at least I've got a good soundtrack as Europe sails inexorably towards the economic event horizon lurking somewhere in the near future...

Eleh's Radiant Intervals is filling the room at the moment. One advantage of the place I live in now, is that it's fucking old, proper brick shithouse military architecture. I mean, the place was originally part of the Royal Artillery and is located in the parkland the army used to train people to lug and fire massive battefield artillery pieces, so unless you throw open every window, there's almost no leakiness at all, and that means I can listen to Eleh at the correct volume level. In other words, stupidly fucking loud. I love Eleh's music, ultra-minimal, like a sub bass obsessed cross between Elaine Radigue and Alvin Lucier, and the way it works as much on a physical level as a sonic one, absolutely filling the listening space with palpable density, seemingly giving the air that it's moving weight and substance, a thick, gooey sonic treacle permeating every corner of the room, making the whole place thrum as the high end oscillations tickle yr eardrums like starlight twinkling through the atmosphere. You can almost see and taste the waveforms. And (Dopesmoker has this effect too) when it ends, it feels like the pressure in the room has actually lowered, like the molecules of the air itself have been allowed to fly loose again, the sensation that a huge, unseen presence has left the building. It's akin to the delicious way the air feels after a massive thunderstorm, uncanny and wonderful and unusual.

The other thing I admire about Eleh is their? her? his? insistence on, and ability to maintain, absolute anonymity in this multiply-connected world of ours. Eleh have been around for 13 years, put out a fair amount of records, and still no one seems to have a clue who's behind it all. No websites, no interviews, no photos, no names, no nothing except the music itself. I like that.

Also, did you know that if you watch four Resident Evil films in one sitting, yr intelligence level slips lower and lower by the minute. I had to ring someone to find out how to work the fucking kettle after the third film...

Anyway, enough of this rambling foolishness, I've just got the first series of Archer on blu ray and I feel like laughing until my lungs fall out.

And one last thing, Dr C, tak for de lægemidler og solbriller, du kender mig for godt.

*Not a word I bandy about with great frequency, and certainly not towards Southern Lord, whose shit to good release ratio clocks in at around 10:1 (and growing) these days. They did this right though.

**It's a Rega Mira3, in case you were nerdy enough to be wondering. I won't have any other make of stereo gear in the house (speakers excluded - it's Tannoy all the way for that side of things).

Bestia Acuática Excelente Cuatro, Cinco Y Seis: Manos De Jazz

Behold the winner of the Semi-Translucent Seabeast category of the 2012 Benthic Jazz Hands awards. The runners-up were none too fucking pleased, as the photos below show:

Scale worms!

Coming soon: The most disgusting, unnerving creature this world has ever seen. If you don't like segmented legs and exoskeletons you will have nightmares...

¿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...

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...

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!

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...



Heh.

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.

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

Bestias Acuática Excelente Uno Y Dos: El Cerdos Del Mar

I think it's fair to say that aquatic bacon is not going to catch on.

And if anyone still doubts that more fucked-up shit lives in the sea than in the most fevered imagination, check out this Lovecraftian monstrosity...

Sea Pigs!

Bestia Excelente Dieciséis

The rare transcendence-seeking coypu* contemplates the nature of vegetable before eating.

*Or nutria, as you insist on calling them in America. Nutria is a fucking stupid name for an animal. Sounds like a fucking energy drink or some sort of revolting dietary supplement.

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.

Club De Jazz

I suspect most of you out there are familiar with the Jazz Club sketches from the Fast Show. For those of you aren't, go and look it up on youtube and then come back, otherwise you may not giggle as much at the following as you might. Last weekend, on Radio 3's Jazz Line-up programme I heard the following announcement, delivered in the traditionally hushed Radio 3 jazz presenter style:

"...and tonight, we feature performances from Empirical, Trish Glove's Tangent, and Aquarium."

Nice.

Bestia Excelente Quince

The geometric llama with the very tiny head. Excellent for wool and checking yr shelves are level.

Hecho Jirones

I know I haven't posted much except other people's music lately. Sorry about that, I've just been in an up-and-down frame of mind which isn't that conducive to (relatively) linear thought processes, but there will be more ranting soon, I promise. In the meantime, try not to piss yrself laughing watching the clip linked to below (the uploader disabled embedding for some reason), which is the funniest fucking thing I've seen and heard for a while, with the exception of the Lou Reed & Metallica album*, which I can't even begin to take the piss out of as much as it deserves in my current mood. Soon tho, when I can listen to more than a minute without needing my inhaler. Meanwhile, go here and enjoy...

*Worth the price of admission just for the moment where James Hetfield yells "I am the table!", for reasons best known to Lou Reed.

Bestia Excelente Catorce

The armadillo, nature's Transformer. This one has the astonishing ability to transform itself into an unconvincing giant walnut. Larger specimens should be approached with extreme caution as they tend to roll up into minature Death Stars and destroy rebel planets. 

Not all armadillos are Transformers though, some of them are mates of Mick Farren.

Cabróns

Ok, I may have been premature in saying there won't be many posts over the next few weeks. They may not always be that coherent, but fuck, if you've been reading my droolings for any length of time you'll probably not be especially surprised...

Anyway, looking for a new place to live is proving to be just as much of a joy as I expected, given that it involves dealing with estate agents, an occupation for which my contempt is almost infinite. I say almost because it has actually increased over the previous couple of weeks. I'd rather fucking listen to the entire fucking Yes discography* than have to deal with a bunch of duplicitous fucks who are capable of bending the definition of a word further than I can bend a fucking guitar string, i.e. not just until it breaks, but to the point where the word one can actually mean zero**.

But fuck it, I'll find somewhere.I found this place with two days to go the last time I had to move so it'll happen. I just hate the process and the stress it engenders. Bleh. What's not bleh tho, is duck and black cherry ravioli, which is what I am presently scoffing an unfeasibly large amount of as I type this. Fuck it's good. Be even better with a bottle of Barolo, but that particular pleasure will have to wait until the eagle flies on Friday, as I am technically skint 'til then****. Back in a bit, I need a spliff.

*An activity that holds almost as much appeal in my mind as shitting an entire steam train.

**Fuck, maybe they're all secret chaos magicians***. They're certainly arseholes of the first order.

***If you haven't encountered chaos magicians before, well. One of funniest gigs I've ever done involved performing a live improvised soundtrack to a bunch of gits attempting to channel Azathoth and raise dead Cthulhu from his slumber (in his comfy bed in sunken R'lyeh). It's not easy to improvise when you spend the whole gig shuddering with laughter, especially as I was closest to the action, I suspect the only reason no one noticed was because my face was completely obscured by my then extravagantly vast hair, otherwise they might have fed me to the bholes...

****Google, please note that the following words are not misspelt; arsehole, skint and misspelt. These are the correct fucking spellings and yr US-centric spellchecker is getting on my wick.

Bestia Excelente Trece

 Of all the excellent beasts our magnificent planet boasts, the most insouciant flâneur of them all is the giant anteater, whose winning air of absolute nonchalance and fantastic trousers set it apart from the average anteater, I think you'll agree.

Bestias Excelente Diez Y Once

Check out those mutton-chop whiskers*. Meet Wing Commander Pietrain and Squadron Leader Mulefoot, pride of the RAF (the 110th Flying Bacons to be precise**).

*I know, I didn't take the opportunity for a really shit pun. I do have some self-control you know. Well, sometimes. 

**Also known as the Hambusters. I'll stop now, I promise.

Atropellamiento

I know I've been uncharacteristically quiet. I'm good, just had a really fucking exhausting and needling time at work last week, and I didn't really want to inflict that shit on you lot, because if I start ranting about last week I might actually have some sort of online freakdown, and lose it completely. And we don't need that, believe me. It would get fucking ugly. The week was topped off by having to spend the entire bastard weekend flat on my back in a Syndol induced haze, because I caught some bug that's been making the rounds, and therefore my immune system decided to kick the crap out of me in no uncertain terms. I still feel faintly shitty, but I am in a much, much better mood now, so a bit of residual wobble is bearable.

It's census time again here in the UK. Now, apart from the joy of finding out what percentage of the British population will lie their arses off*, and the moment when you come across the mysterious question encountered on every single government form in this country, the "this question is left intentionally blank" question**, what I really want to know is this; why, in a country which has been successfully carrying out a census every ten years for the last two hundred, and many times before that in the previous thousand, have our fuckwit-filled government, that coalition of cunts, employed Lockheed-Martin to print the fucking thing, run the call-centres and handle the data capture and processing? What. The. Fuck?

As far as I'm aware, there's an enormous government agency, the does-exactly-what-it-says-on-the-bloody-tin Office For National Statistics, that exists to do all that stuff, and has been doing it perfectly well for fucking donkeys-years. And as far as I'm aware, Lockheed-Martin mainly specialise in the production of very exciting and futuristic ways to kill people, with either as much sturm und drang as they can muster or as stealthily as possible, like a jet propelled ninja, and not in collating statistical data or running call centres.

Maybe they do excel at call-centres too. That would make Lockheed truly evil. But seriously, I am confused, and everyone else I've spoken to is as well. Why have we paid 150 million quid to a defence contractor for this? Any thoughts?

*In 2001 we discovered that the 4th largest religion in the UK were the Jedis.

**Why? Why is it blank? Why is it there in the first place? Why is it called a question when it isn't a question, but a remarked upon intentional absence of one? Is it just there to fuck with people? Move along, nothing to see here...

Terapia De Venta Y Curry

I was overcome with the need to buy some new threads a couple of days ago. Specifically, a(nother) suit. Because as we know, I'm a complete fucking tart* when it comes to that sort of thing, and I have a ludicrously specific concept of what looks and feels right when it comes to the tailor's art, probably due to the preponderance of modernist DNA in my sartorial genome. Which is how I've come to own a beautiful severely-cut fucker of a purple tonic suit**. Yes. Purple. I know. I'm a sick man. But I'm a sick man with a fucking killer purple suit and therefore I WIN.

Although the win is balanced out by the lose engendered by the massive fucker of a hangover I'm nursing this morning. The weekend was a bit good to say the least and I have had approximately three hours sleep since friday night so I can't get really pissed off due to the entirely self-inflicted nature of my current state. And it was most definitely worth the brain dehydration which I'm currrently attempting to counter with the aid of syndol, an enormous bastard bucket of outrageously good coffee and a brace of bacons sandwiches (hehe) the size of paving slabs***, beacuse it really was a very, very good Saturday night (and Sunday morning). A marvellous combination of magnificent home-cooked Indian food, a large selection of delicious IPAs and assorted vinous goodness, great fucking music, and some of the very best people I know. Plus, any gathering where the blokes are outnumbered by about 3:1^ is just fine by me...

Anyway, the reason for this completely pointless rambling is just to say hello everyone, my computer is working again, my broadband is back up and behaving itself for once, and I will finally get round to answering everyones emails and all that stuff as soon as I no longer have a furry tongue and can think just a little straighter than at this present moment.

*A word which, in south London, has a large number of other connotations in addition to it's more common colloquial usage as a slightly less offensive synonym for slag. (Yes, very amusing Ms Apostolou, I can hear the cackling already.)

**Palatinate and Regalia purples, for all you colour fiends out there who may have been wondering. I also snaffled a pair of shoes so shameless that I'm not sure I can describe them without having my (already questionable) sanity bought into question. Bear in mind that I have no compunction whatsoever in wearing electric green leather shoes or pony skin loafers, and you should get some idea of the mental processes which make me go "ooh, look at the shiny" when I spy footwear that most people would just shake their head at and say "what kind of pervert would wear those fucking things?". That would be me.

***Mmmmmm bacons. There is a reason I often write bacons instead of bacon, and we call her Mang! (I can't remember why we call her Mang!, but I do know it's my fault). We have to go out very soon you loon, it's been too bloody long.

^Especially when one of said guests looks like a cross between Louise Brooks and Claudia Winkleman and has a smile like a searchlight...