La Langosta

What I said below about not posting until next year. I think the opposite's going to happen. This is probably not a surprise to my lovely regulars, but there you go. The last couple of weeks have been, shall we say, a little fucking stressful. In the same way that nuclear weapons make quite a loud noise. I feel like warmed-through shit, as I have for the last couple of months. Thing is, I know why now. It has nothing to do with the old Guillain-Barre shit, or any previous illness, and unless the docs hadn't been looking at something entirely unrelated through an ultrasound, I'd probably still be none the fucking wiser, and that in and of itself is fucking frightening. Yes, I know I haven't spelt out what it is, and I'm not sure I'm ready to just yet*. This is new to me, and it's bloody scary, and I'm still finding it somewhat freaky just thinking about being in this position and I don't know how to deal with this fucker yet. Fortunately, although this is probably more dangerous than GB, it's treatable and its progression is completely known, and I will get better, so there's a lot less of the genuinely terrifying staring into the fucking abyss whilst playing cards with Death in a game whose rules you don't know that came with GB's initial stages.

So there you go. Right now the morphine and it's cousins are keeping the pain at bay, and my friends are, in the main, being pretty fantastic. I'm not going to say anymore today, mainly because I don't want to upset myself, but you can guarantee I'll go off like a supercritical reactor in the next few days

*If you want to email me, I'll happily tell you all about it, I just can't do it publicly yet, simply because I'm still in a state of shock.

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.

Buen Tiempo Para Cuero Negro

As you may have gathered from the last post, I'm feeling considerably better than I have done of late, not that it doesn't still hurt and get in the way of doing/planning shit, but I feel so much better in myself, now that (after a deeply unenjoyable and gruelling day of tests)* the good people at the hospital have found out what's going on**, knowing that there's no more nerve damage, that I'm just having a reaction to that poxy virus that did the rounds a few weeks ago and that it will pass is a weight off of my mind. It means I can begin to plan stuff again, to stop being Mr Unreliable-pain-in-the-arse**, and actually start to have a bloody life again, because I was wondering for a while there (yeah, I know, overdramatic, but it really does feel like everything's falling apart sometimes), and I'm royally pissed off that this unhealthy fucking hiatus robbed me of the some of the musical momentum I'd manage to start building up in the earlier part of the year. Now tho, I can channel that anger into motion (slow motion at first, but hey), as opposed to stewing in my own juices, which is not a good thing for me to do, as we know...

So give me a month or two, and The Larsen Effect will hopefully be (dis)gracing a stage near you soon, I can actually start putting cds out (like I said, when I grind to a halt, I really stop dead, that's why there's been nothing about the album etc. lately - but I digress), and I can enjoy the process of auditioning drummers*** for the as yet-unnamed clattering psychedelic sleaze monster I mentioned in the previous post, and hopefully, more awesome M&N stuff will happen too§. Plus I had some other irons in the fire before the stoppage, which hopefully are still glowing hot enough to get back on the anvil and work into shape (yes, I am being deliberately mysterious; my blog, my prerogative).

Seriously though, you know what the worst thing's been? Not the pain, or the weakness, or the depression it engenders, but the fucking boredom. I hate being bored, being forced to do nothing. Being lazy on my own terms is great, in the right (wrong?) mood, there's nothing better than having a bone-idle day or two, but when it's out of my control, when I have no choice but to be indolent, it's the most frustrating feeling in the world. I've missed too many fucking gigs and events over the past few weeks, missed seeing everyone as often as I usually do so fucking much. Last weekend was the first time I've actually managed to go out and enjoy myself for an entire day for far too bloody long, and it made me so happy I actually thought I might cry. Daft? Yeah, maybe, but I don't care.

So here we go again. All I want is a few weeks clear air, and finally, it looks like the fog's almost melted away.

*I cannot believe how many test tubes full of my blood were lined up in a row on the doc's desk. Looked like the bar at a really dodgy goth club.

**I know 95% of people around me know I can't help it sometimes, but it doesn't stop me fretting about it. It's been a rotten few weeks to be honest, and once again thank you, thank you, thank you to all the usual suspects.

***Oh deep joy. How I love the process of auditioning.

§I haven't posted any of the last gig yet, not because I didn't deem it good enough for these hallowed halls, but because in my bleh state, I haven't even heard the bugger back yet. It will appear at some point.

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...

Ella Tiene El Cabello Rubio

I'm not in the best of moods today. Work shit mainly, the usual getting paid late crap that completely scuppered what should have been a fucking good weekend, plus other bollocks which I can't even be arsed to go into, 'cos I'd just end up in a worse fucking mood, and you'd be really fucking bored. Apart from that tho, things are pretty good. Friday night was fucking great, I think our set was pretty damn fine, especially given that M&N have been hiding out in the drone cave for an extended period of time, it wasn't a bad way to get back into the live swing of things at all. Sure, it wasn't perfect, but then again, when is it ever? Lots of people said good things afterwards, the sound was great, the PA didn't die* and Mick and Neil were fucking brilliant, dropping the sort of white-light one chord ramalama fuzzbombs that put a massive fucking smile on my face. A good time was had by all, and goddamm it, I've got to fucking play live more this year, be it M&N, solo, whatever, because there really isn't much else that gets me quite that high, even if I'm stone cold sober**, so yeah, another killer night at Oto, and it was a bit good to share the bill with two of the musicians who inspired M&N in the first place.

So, a slightly bad mood, tempered by the above goodness, the knowledge that I'll be solvent again tomorrow, and some really nice Laotian weed***. And in the next couple of days I really will do all the emails I was supposed to do last week because I didn't do them the week before. I know, very slack, but I've had shit on my mind, had to have the twice-yearly battery of tests unpleasant to check my nerves still work and all that crap, plus my head's been a bit up in the air for the usual reasons... Anyway, this is an apology to anyone I said I'd email and didn't. Sorry about that. I do get there in the end tho.

And by way of a musical offering to appease those I haven't got back to yet, please enjoy this exquisite piece of Spanish psychy frug by the wonderfully named Albert Band...

*A couple of hacking coughs, but nothing terminal...

**No, seriously, I was driving. Still came off stage feeling like my brain had done a moebius twist tho. This is a good thing.

***As Gilbert Shelton once said, "dope will get you through times of no money better than money will get you through times of no dope". Sometimes hippies get something right. Not very fucking often tho.

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...

Prensil Dedos (Del Pie)

Thursday night fucking ruled. I can't believe I've waited this long to start playing solo gigs, but I'm extremely fucking glad I have. I don't think I've ever known the time on stage to pass so fucking quickly, forty or so minutes felt more like five, and I could easily have carried on*. But enough about me (for a bit anyway), because I'd like to say a very big thankyou to Joe for asking me to play, and putting on such a fucking excellent night**, to Jade for the fantastic visuals which just nailed the atmosphere I wanted to create and inspired me to go way further out than I expected, to Mirna for the fastest soundcheck ever, the brilliant sound and for not batting an eyelid even though my amp volume had quadrupled by the end of the set***, and to all the Brighton/Hove contingent (you know who you are, you lovely people) who turned up despite the foul weather. Haxan Cloak played a blinder, and the film (I Can See You) was fucking amazing, but I'll write more about them next time when I'm a bit less frazzled. In the meantime, here's some rather good photos of The Larsen Effect in full flow§, and I apologise in advance to anyone who feels vaguely nauseous at the sight of my prehensile toes in the bottom picture...

*Then I could have played two tracks...

**I'll treasure the sound of almost the entire venue muttering "it's only a movie..., it's only a movie..." for a long time to come. Fellow gorehounds will know exactly what I'm referring to here. For those who chose not to spend their time watching lurid 70s/80s trash, an explanation will be forthcoming later...

***This is not an uncommon occurrence. I like it loud, but I love it louder.

§Cheers Sarah!

Desde Copenhagen A Greenwich Via Mongolia Y Pub

I will be posting part 2 of the literary rant on Friday or Saturday I suspect. I would have done it yesterday, but to be honest, after last weekend* I wasn't really capable of stringing a legible sentence together and I accidentally ended up in the pub and then listening to (Tuvan? Mongolian?) throat singing at three in the morning whilst very, very stoned in lovely Croydon. Still, these things happen. At least I'm home now. Still can't write properly but I don't care because I'm grinning like a cheshire cat and I feel vaguely strange after viewing some horrifyingly compelling prog synth-sax-kettledrum outrage the Morgen sent me** and which I unwittingly watched after smoking the day away (to quote May Blitz) and failing to heed the hippie warning bells that should have been going off. Any band with an ultra-parp sax synth thing have to be experienced at least once tho, and watching them reminded me of this, the worlds most stupid musical instrument fucking ever, and the reason I piss myself laughing every time a certain mascara advert comes on. Ladies and gentlemen, behold the Millioniser 2000:



I should probably go back to bed. Or have tea. Tea. Yeah. Strong tea is what my brain requires.

*Which was fucking fantastic thank you very much...

**Cybotron, in case you were wondering. Not to be confused with other Cybotron.

El Tiovivo

I haven't posted for a few days for a variety of reasons, as the last week has been both shitkickingly brilliant and foot-gnawingly fucking awful in almost equal measure. So, consequently I haven't really been feeling that chatty, particularly as the main reason for the brilliance is also the main reason I feel like chewing my leg off and that's no recipe for clarity of thought, believe me. I'm ok, it's just taking up more of my brain than I'd like it to at the moment, and consequently, haven't been able to muster up any coherent writing. Next week therefore, will see a veritable flood of new rants, reviews and random shit as this emotional roundabout decelerates and I stop feeling quite so bloody dizzy.

In the meantime, I'd like to say this: Borbetomagus are still, 30-odd years down the line, the finest fucking noise merchants the US has ever fucking produced, a kaleidoscopic all-consuming wind tunnel roar of a band, who, using nothing more than a fuzzed out guitar and two enormously loud saxophones, produce a cascading life-affirming racket that makes me want to bounce up and down like a psychotic Zebedee, and live, as they proved beyond all doubt at the Luminaire last week*, they're a fucking force of nature, and so the first big piece coming next week will be about that, them and why they should be forced-listening for everyone who thinks they know how to make noise.

*Gig of the fucking year, by a country fucking mile.

Mal Momento

Bugger. I really fucking wish I'd been paid on time. Then I could have gone to see Palehorse this evening. Because I'd quite like to get drunk right now and bury my head in a wall of unbelievably loud bass-driven sludge, but because this month has been somewhat hard on the finances I'm fucking skint until Monday, and so you find me chainsmoking fags listening to Effi Briest at fucking stupid volume and writing bollocks on here in a doomed to failure attempt to not think too much about the phonecall I had earlier, which delivered some news which I knew was on the cards, and which, in the abstract and for the person concerned is fantastic, but for me less so, because it means that something brilliant will end in a few weeks time. So I'm simultaneously selfishly pissed off and happy for them at the same time. Oh well, life's been somewhat complicated, if enormous fun (in the main), lately, and I can't complain really, but it would be nice if certain areas of my life could proceed in a relatively normal manner for once. Then again, knowing me, I'd probably get worried if everything was too fucking simple, and it's often been pointed out to me that I almost never do anything the easy or normal way*.

On reflection, it's probably a good thing that I can't afford to get pissed tonight, but still. Arse.

*I was once told that if you cut me in half, I'd have the words "contrary bastard" written through me like in a stick of rock.

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.

Seriamente Aunque...

You may have noticed that this post looks a bit different now. That's because I reread what I'd written, and although I stand by everything I said, I also realise that I wrote it in a much more cuntish tone than I meant. Not surprisingly given what had happened earlier that day, but still, it was unnecessarily harsh and crossed my own line way too far. Sorry 'bout that. A minor lapse of judgement, which I think is just about excusable given the circumcstances.

Escapar De La Suerte

No more being perturbed for the good Dr, finally some fucking resolution. Nice to have the smile back on my face*, even if the reason for it probably isn't the one y're thinking of, in fact, it's precisely the opposite. And no, I'm not going to elaborate other than to say translate the title. Right, what's next?

*Even if it has taken a somewhat more wry aspect than usual.

Y Relajarse...

You know what? Not angry anymore. Still a little off-centre, but talking to good people* always helps, especially when they all point out (for varying reasons) that y're worth more than the ridiculous fuck-around which seems to be occurring at the moment. Sure, we all have our problems and shit to deal with, we're all busy, of all people you don't have to fucking tell me that, but the trick is not to fuck other people over and use those things as excuses, and have the fucking balls to say what you really mean/feel. I know I do (well I try), and yeah, sometimes it gets me into trouble, but more often than not, even if it causes ructions in the first place, it turns out to have been the right thing to do in the long run. Plus I couldn't have dealt with this foolishness in a nicer, more even handed fashion than I have done, and the way I see it, this problem really just ain't mine to solve.

Plus those same good people have pointed something out to me, that I have options, if you get my meaning, and if you don't, well, I wouldn't worry about it, you probably weren't meant to. But it's true, I do now**. Breaking down that fucking wall was the start of something important, very important, because for the first time I can genuinely take on board, without my stupid underlying scepticism-bordering-on-paranoia interfering, the positive things people have said about me, compliments I've been given, whatever, just as well as I've always been able to absorb the negative like some kind of depressing sponge.

Don't worry, I'm hardly going to turn into a raving fucking egomaniac, that's so unlikely it would fucking rip time a new arsehole if it happened, but I do like the fact that I can, to a greater extent, see myself as others do, instead of only through the somewhat distorted prism of my slightly warped headspace. Because it turns out I'm the opposite of my long-time self-image in an awful lot of ways, and mostly for the fucking good I'm pleased to say. It's like I've been looking in a fairground mirror all these fucking years and suddenly I've got a nice polished, level one to see myself in, and you know what? I scrub up ok.

So positive Wommm isn't just happier, more level-headed*** and more confident, but also no longer content to sit on my arse and take other people's crap and blame myself for it, or sit on the aforementioned and let the world fly past, hoping it'll stop for me, actually willing to take a fucking leap and not run away crying because I've sprained my metaphorical ankle, and I hadn't been able to do that for many years. So we'll see. I have a sneakin' suspicion the next few weeks are going to be a whole fuckload of fun, because I suddenly have irons in the fire§ and a whole fucking spectrum of possibilities at my fucking feet, and now, I only have myself to blame if I don't take full advantage. Fucking screw it, life's too short, I've wasted enough of it as it is and I've had quite enough of the world taking advantage, so I've taken it back. Big fucking time.

*It's always the same people, and they are fucking brilliant, and they know who they are. And thank you, the truffle metaphor as a riposte to my mushroomedness was a very, very good way of telling me something that was exactly what I needed to hear.

**I know, I know, I always did. Difference is now, I actually fucking notice, and am actually capable of doing something about it. So M, you don't need to play me the dictaphone loop anymore. I've finally got the fucking message.

***Obviously it's all relative. But you catch my drift.

§And you can read what you like into that statement. I do have just one question though: What does an Art Psychotherapist actually do? Guess I'll find out soon enough...

Despotricar

I'm not in a particularly pleasant frame of mind today, my mood is essentially limbic pink noise, a random combination of all emotional frequencies decreasing steadily in power as you go up the spectrum, all whacked through a puzzlement filter on the edge of self-oscillation forming a particularly aggravating drone buzzing round the edge of my thoughts. All for reasons understandable if I was going to go into them here. Which I'm not (well, not exactly), but that probably doesn't surprise you given the generally oblique way I refer to certain aspects of my life on this blog. I mean sure I'll bang on about how I feel and slag myself off and roughly allude to the background of whatever's occurring, but situations, specifics and the actual people concerned? No fucking way. I try not to do my dirty laundry in public, athough this post is as close as I'm willing to get to breaking my own rules. Not that I haven't wanted to in the past (fuck me have I wanted to, and on occasion, would have been fully justified in doing so), but bitter experience of having been on the receiving end of that kind of shit before, and my own deeply-rooted views on what should stay private always stop me, well, at least before I hit publish anyway.

Not that I'm fucking perfect, not by a long shot, it's just that seeing my ridiculously over-the-top 2+2=fucking5 assumptions and offensive leaps of illogic staring back at me in stark black and white, is a: catharsis enough, and b: makes me realise just what a fucking knob I can be when I've got half an idea and the bit between my teeth, which is what happened about 10 minutes ago when I read back what I'd written and deleted everything save the first sentence. You want to know why I'm pissed off? All I'm saying is look at the title of the last post. For those of you who don't speak Spanish and can't be arsed to translate my foolish titles it means I am a mushroom. And I don't mean mushroom in it's psychedelic, or fungal meanings, but in it's classic metaphorical sense. And I really, really fucking hate it when people do that to me, because it really isn't that fucking hard to remedy.

So please, pretty fucking please with fucking sugar on top, sort it out.

¡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...

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.

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.

Rareza

Looking the way I do, I've grown used to instantly being spoken to in the local language whenever I go to southern Europe, and then enjoying the inevitable look of surprise when I reply in a broad south London accent, but for some bizarre reason, a similar thing has started happening regularly in my home town. The amount of people who've asked me if I'm Spanish over the previous couple of months is well into double figures, the best occurrence being when someone told me that I'd really lost my accent, which given that my accent is fairly pronounced to say the least*, threw me a little. I obviously looked quite confused at this, and so they went on to ask (and I knew it was coming after my temporary state of perplexity had passed) "oh, aren't you Spanish?", and they seemed genuinely shocked that I'm a Londoner. I mean, Spain is one of my favourite places on Earth (as you may have gathered), and one of the very few places I would choose to live in** apart from London, but I had no idea that I'd absorbed, via cultural osmosis, enough essence of Spain for it to start oozing out of my pores causing people who don't know me from Adam to assume that I come from there. Not that it's a bad thing, just slightly weird.

*The bit of London I come from has a glottal stop so hard that the CIA use recordings of certain London accents to familiarise people learning Arabic and various other languages which feature said glottal stop with the sound in a familiar language. Seriously, I'm not having you on.

**I could definitely get used to living in Palma - even though my Catalan/Mallorquin is shit compared to my Castillian - although I'd probably end up dying from a boquerone and red wine overdose. Seville wouldn't be so bad either.

Ciudad De Aceite

Before I bugger off out to pastures disgraceful, I thought I'd write about one of my formative influences, one which might surprise a few people, but also one which might make sense of a few things to some of you, namely Dr Feelgood. Yes, you read that right. I fucking adore Dr Feelgood and don't care who knows it. Whilst watching Julien Temple's brilliant Oil City Confidential yesterday night*, it was pointed out to me (through gales of drunken laughter) that I was dressed identically to Wilko Johnson in his 70s prime**, and the fact that I took this as a great compliment came as a surprise.

Because if it's balls out, straight down the fucking line Rhythm'n'Blues with a psychotic edge y're after, the Feelgoods (with Wilko) are pretty fucking unbeatable, and compared with most of the punks they influenced, conveyed a genuine aura of reined-in violence and threat, the sense that at any moment all hell could break loose. And goddamn it, Lee Brilleaux and Wilko had, for my money, the finest stage presence and unconscious rapport of any frontline I've ever fucking seen, not to mention great fucking taste in clothes.

A pair of mismatched nutcases, one a teetotal speed and hash fuelled ex-schoolteacher (see the film for the extremely amusing stories underlying his exit from education) who played guitar like breaking glass, and a beer-sweating thug with a penchant for gourmet cooking who could sing the blues like he fucking meant it, unlike most of their 60s freakbeat antecedents, who sound like their balls haven't dropped in comparison (Keith Relf, I'm thinking of you in particular). No one owned the stage like those two, Wilko high-speed scuttling round the stage like a methed-up spider with the worlds worst unblinking thousand yard stare, with seemingly no awareness of anything or anyone else, all the while cranking out those cut-glass simultaneous rhythm/lead lines must have been a genuinely unsettling experience up close, and allied to Brilleaux's Canvey Island rasp, on the fucking money harp blowing and someone's gonna get fucked tonight attitude they couldn't fucking lose.

The fact that they had a rhythm section who could turn R'n'B into motorik and back again didn't fuckin' hurt. Bollocks, I have to go, so I will leave you with a fucking awesome version of their classic, She Does It Right, from 1975 (you may have noticed I've changed the clip, this one's just a bit more motorik, and Wilko bears an amusing resemblance to the latest Doctor Who, plus that paedo deejay on the original clip was making people a little queasy). More on this soon, I'm off. Enjoy

*It should be on BBC iPlayer for a week, go watch it even if you don't like the Feelgoods, because it's one of the best, funniest, saddest, truest portraits of what it's like to be in a band composed entirely of bored lunatics and drunks. A situation I am not entirely unfamiliar with.

**I was extremely glad that it was Wilko I was compared to, as opposed to John B. Sparkes, who looks like a drunk spoiling for a fight at a 70s wedding, and memorably referred to his stage clothing as a "bastard suit" in the film, causing both of us to collapse in more gales of even drunker laughter.