Música En Movimiento

Chrome - Red Exposure & Blood On The Moon (Lilith)
Sandwell District - Feed Forward (Sandwell District)
Aril Brikha - Deeparture In Time (Art Of Vengeance)
Módulo 1000 - Não Fale Com Paredes (RPM)
Cut Hands - Cut Hands (Susan Lawly/Very Friendly)
Shackleton - Deadman/Fireworks (Honest Jon's)
Elemental - Messages From The Void (Runtime)
Haxan Cloak - Haxan Cloak (Aurora Borealis)
The Necks - Silverwater (ReR Megacorp)
Africa HiTech - 93 Million Miles (Warp)
Red Square - Thirty Three (FMR)
Clare Cooper - Hammeriver (Mikroton)
Honkeyfinger - Invocation Of The Demon Other (Hoarse)
Vladislav Delay Quartet - Vladislav Delay Quartet (Honest Jon's)
Electric Wizard - Black Masses (Rise Above)

Optical*8 - All Over (God Mountain)

Moon Duo - Mazes (Sacred Bones)
Richard Youngs - Beneath The Valley Of Ultrahits (Jagjaguwar)

Berg Und Talfahrt - A Night In Sana'a (Armored)
Shifted Phases - The Cosmic Memoirs Of The Late, Great Rupert J. Rosinthrope (Tresor)

El Yesquero

Two outings for the Morgen & Nite roadshow this month kids. On the 11th we'll be playing at the Tinderbox Festival, a celebration of noise, improv and experimental musics, which is in the lovely village of Cropredy in Oxfordshire, although I don't think we're going to be ripping out any Fairport covers, and on the 18th we'll be at Apiary Studios at 458 Hackney Road where we will be making an absolutely ungodly racket in the comapny of other people who enjoy that sort of thing. More when I'm in a better mood, i.e. tomorrow.

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.

Deres Nødsituation Marmite Er Undervejs!*

4 jars of XO should do you for a couple of months...

Keep it yeasty, yeah?

Descanso

Just so you all know, I won't be posting very much for the next few weeks, what with having to pack, move and all that shit, and I'm a little frantic at the mo', so, unless there's gigs or DJing, don't expect to hear much from me till early July. See y'all on the other side of the fucking move (whenever and wherever that's gonna be)...

La Discotecas

I just thought I'd let you lovely people know that I'm DJing twice this very week. On Wednesday I'll be at The Outer Church, where I'll be in underground/psych/whateverthefuckIfeellikeaslongasitfeelsright mode, and it looks like a good'un this month, even the flyer's a fucking beauty...

See what I mean? If you like the flyer, you'll love Old Apparatus, because they sound like that picture looks. And on Thursday night I'll be doing a set or two at The Birds Nest in Deptford Church St in, oddly enough, Deptford*, this time wearing my techno/dubstep/juke/acid/electro hat. More details can be found here, and it's a piece of piss to get to, there'll be other DJs and live electronic shenanigans and it's cheap as fuck, so come on down, ve haf vays of making you dance...

*That's SE8 for those of you for those of you who live north of the river and find it hard to grasp that there is life south of the Thames.

¡Eso Son Gilipolleces!

Cunts. I had a lovely little surprise waiting for me when I got home today. A letter with "delivered by hand"* emblazoned on it from the owners of the building in which I currently dwell informing me** (and everyone else who lives here) that we have two months to get the fuck out. No reasons given whatsoever, although it doesn't exactly take a genius to work out that they finally realised they can make even more money by kicking the long-standing tenants out, and bringing in new ones at inflated rents. Not that I'm a cynical man, oh no, not me...

So yeah, great, I finally start to put the last few months of stress and aggravation behind me and now this fucking shit. Argh.

*Which, over here anyway, generally means trouble.

**Not personally you understand, a fucking form letter, signed p.p., gotta love that individual touch

Para Saber Tocar, Hay Que Saber Escuchar

Before I post my huge, rambling article about the gig below, I highly recommend that you go here and listen to the fucker courtesy of the lovely people at BBC Radio 3. It's up for another six days.

I don't normally translate the titles of my posts, but this one deserves it, as it roughly translates as "in order to know how to play, one must know how to listen". Never a truer word said.

El Ruido Alegre

Frank Zappa once said something along the lines of "the best thing about free jazz is it's capacity to annoy". That's because Frank Zappa was a fucking idiot. What free jazz expresses better than any other music is pure fucking unalloyed joy. The joy of love and life lived, of music and the power of communication and real fucking empathy, of deeply shared experience and emotion and knowledge, raw and beautiful and intense like no other music on this fucking planet. I know this because I've just witnessed the fucking glorious explosion of the Peter Brötzmann Chicago Tentet in full flight, and it was truly fucking righteous, astonishing and profound like no other music I've experienced for a very long time, if ever. Fuck, I'm high as a kite and I've had nothing stronger than a beer or two, and tomorrow I'll try to explain why in a coherent manner, 'cos right now I can't, because I've been steamrollered in the best possible way by a force of fucking nature that burned like a newly born star. Damn. I wish everyone I know could have been there 'cos this was so special, genuinely extraordinary, just everything music and art should aspire to be.

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...

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.

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.

Se Busca: Una Batería

I need a drummer. Badly. Someone who's equally happy locked into a krautrock/frogprog groove and clanking out off-kilter greasy Chromesque psych-damage* with a side order of mucky garage, a Trashy Liebezeit if you will**.

The reason being that I thought I'd treat myself to a new guitar, as I've been having a shitty time of it, and, breaking the habit of a lifetime, I bought a Fender***, a Duo-Sonic to be precise, and it's a rasping trebly snot machine par excellence which makes me want to blast off into sleazy motorik space every time I pick the fucker up. So yeah, I need a drummer, any takers?

*Think Damon Edge as opposed to John Stench. Owning a 50lb bomb casing is optional.

**Sorry, can't help myself.

***Yes, that was a flying pig that just streaked past yr window. Contrary to popular belief, I don't hate Fenders, I just hate Strats.

Terapia De Electrochoque

I fucking love this song. For so many reasons. Chrome's finest pop moment. So wrong, and yet so very, very right.