Soul man

Isaac Hayes
1942—2008

After school activities

Weird dream last night: I dreamt I was at school at about age fifteen - my friends and I were all in uniform - and we were heading to the main hall after the day's final lesson because The Orb were doing a gig. (Because, obviously, my old school's main hall is a prestigious venue that often attracts big name music groups.) The support acts were some industrial rock band - not Pop Will Eat Itself but someone like that - and, bizarrely, Ant & Dec.

My chums and I turned up to the hall entrance, bought our tickets (that looked like raffle tickets) from a dinnerlady and went in.

The hall was about half full of younger pupils all in uniform, sitting cross-legged and waiting patiently. A few teachers were milling around the edge of the room chatting in pairs while roadies were setting up equipment on stage. It had the pre-show atmosphere of a recital by the school orchestra or, worse, a morning assembly.

"God, I hope it won't be one of those gigs where everybody just sits there not moving," I whispered to my friends (for anything louder than a whisper would have probably resulted in my expulsion from the hall).

After a short wait the lights went down (or, more accurately, the hall curtains were closed) and the first support act, the band like Pop Will Itself but not, came on. I was relieved to see that many of the kids in the audience did stand up and started dancing, albeit in that endearingly uncoordinated way that toddlers do.

It was at this point that I realised that I was not wearing my blazer. I reasoned that I must have left it on the back of a chair in a classroom although I was sure I had it on as I made my way to the hall. Never mind, I could pick it up later.

The band were thrashing out some song or other and a bit of a moshpit was developing in front of the stage. All of a sudden the band stopped and the lead singer began to explain something about how the song they had been playing was structured. He turned on an overhead projector and displayed a series of transparent plastic sheets covered in crudely written notes to illustrate his points. The band would then strike up for a few bars and stop again to allow the singer to make another point. The audience would jump around for the few seconds the band played and then listen attentively while the frontman talked.

It was at about this point that I realised that I was not wearing a shirt and tie but just a t-shirt. I did not recall having changed out of my uniform but... oh well.

The performance continued with bursts of heavy rock music interspersed by discussions of music theory and the physics of audio. The prepubescent mosh pit persisted as best it could but my little gang were beginning to resent the constant interruptions in the music. How dare they try to teach us stuff while we were trying to have fun.

It was at about this point when I realised that I was topless and my t-shirt was being passed over the crowd. I forced my way through the my fellow pupils and retrieved it.

I then woke up feeling frustrated and unsatisfied.

That shave an' haircut beat no more

Bo Diddley
1928—2008

Could dance, won't dance

OK, I thought it was only Oxford crowds who don't dance at gigs but I am beginning to suspect that I am simply not abreast of current trends. As far as I can ascertain one no longer shows one's appreciation at a music concert by dancing but by standing still and taking pictures with your mobile phone. Clapping and cheering between songs appears to be acceptable behaviour but dancing is, like, so last century.

I came to this conclusion after witnessing an exuberant performance by Jamie Lidell at Koko London on Camden High Street last Tuesday night. Lidell is a singer whose music is an interesting fusion of soul and electronica; imagine Otis Redding mucking around with a sampler and a bunch of digital effects processors. Jamie's live performances are equally innovative: He starts the show singing to the accompaniment of a traditional backing band but then he will saunter over to a computer and rack of digital toys and starts to record himself humming, beat-boxing, singing a bass line, wailing, and building up layer upon layer of vocal improvisations while his band go off for a cup of tea. As he creates a new track made of vocal loops right there on stage, the band eventually drift back on stage and start to play along and somehow segue back into a familiar song. It is, quite frankly, fucking brilliant.

It is not a mere showcase of electronic trickery, though: Jamie and his gang play a damn fine set of good old fashioned-style soul music. Jamie is a performer of great energy and humour, his voice powerful, intense, tender and heartfelt. Even though he is obviously the focus of attention he is also generous to his players and gives them all their due credit. I can't remember the last time I saw a band having so much fun playing together on stage, their obvious enjoyment truly infectious.

Infectious, at least, for me and a few others.

Fair enough, the set consisted mainly of material from Jamie's new album Jim which was only released the day before. My copy turned up in the post on the morning of the gig so I was fortunate enough to give it three or four listens before heading out to the gig. That's not the point: I would have enjoyed the show regardless of whether I was at all familiar with the new songs or not. Throw some great music at me and if I engage with it then I will damn well enjoy myself. True, I dance like your dad but when I hear something I love I want to move about a bit.

My complaining about people not dancing at gigs is actually quite absurd. I'm horribly self-conscious on the dance floor and despite my eclectic tastes in music I am really fussy: if I don't like the choons then I ain't dancin'. I am also lacking the "cheese gene", the appreciation, genuine or ironic, of cheesy, juvenile pop music - you know, the standard wedding DJ repertoire. I have to hear something I really love before I can forget myself and strut my funky uncoordinated thang.

Am I a music snob? Maybe. Probably. On the other hand, I don't listen to anything because it is supposed to be cool, I listen to it because I like it - that's the bottom line: do I like it? I couldn't help but feel that many people were at that Jamie Lidell gig because he is très chaud right now - there were an awful lot of painfully trendy designer spectacles in the crowd - rather than people who simply dig his music and wanted to have a good time. Either that or they were there just to get some "cool" photos to upload to their fucking Flickr profiles.

Having said all that, I didn't dance at the concert I went to at the Barbican the following evening: Pierre Boulez conducting the London Symphony Orchestra performing works by Schoenberg, Stravinsky and Bartók. A wise decision on my part, I think. I somehow doubt the audience nor the performers would have appreciated my standing up and throwing shapes in the church of dance as they played Sonata For Two Pianos and Percussion.

Stuff and... things

Bloggity bloggity blog blog blog... come on Steve, gotta' blog about something. Haven't blogged anything for over ten days; surely you can't be suggesting that nothing has happened in that time? Well, admittedly, not much has happened what with your last temp job assignment finishing last Friday and taking a bit of time off to investigate the work/accommodation situation in Glasgow, but that's not especially interesting, is it? It's not as if you've spent the time partying and whoring your way around the seedy underbelly of Oxford. Does Oxford have a seedy underbelly? Must do - everywhere does. Maybe that could be a little project for you.

Still, doesn't help with the immediate problem of not having much to say. I suppose you could mention your ongoing obsession with your Last.fm stats, especially since you discovered that damned eclecticism test and have been trying to listen to as many different genres as possible to bump your score up. Come on, you know you have eclectic tastes, you don't need validation from a bunch of database statistics. Tragic, really, and not worth sharing with the world.

You could talk about why you failed to note the passing of Charlton Heston the other week given the fact you often post photo-memorials for cultural figures. He was, after all, a genuine old-school movie star. You could have commented upon your ambivalence towards his death given the fact that, for example, he was a vocal supporter of Martin Luther King and the civil rights movement in the 1960s but his latter day public advocation of gun ownership was deplorable; that and the fact that you never warmed to him as an actor despite his star status. True, he was in A Touch Of Evil, one of your favourite films of all time, but the reasons for it being one of your favourite films of all time have absolutely nothing to do with him. Anyway, it's old news now - no point in mentioning it.

Oh well, if you haven't got anything to blog about then you haven't got anything to blog about. Never mind, it's Sunday: why not make yourself a nice strong cup of coffee, curl up with Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian and listen to some Otis Redding... or Alban Berg... or Muddy Waters... or Fudge Tunnel... or Sly & The Family Stone... or Ramones... or Luke Slater... or... oh, just go and check your Last.fm stats and then decide. Pathetic. It really is.

Thou shalt always dance

Another Monday night and another gig in Oxford, this time to see the performance poetry/electro/hip-hop stylings of Dan Le Sac vs. Scroobius Pip.

They filled the stage with antique furniture - a desk, drinks cabinet, a battered armchair, old lamps with faded, frilly shades. Mr. Pip and Mr. Le Sac proved to be most congenial hosts, engaging in funny banter and bemoaning the fact that they had been given a complimentary bottle of wine but no corkscrew. At various points in the show one would sit back in the armchair to sup a glass of wine (once a corkscrew had been blagged from the bar) to allow the other to fly solo for a while. And the tunes, of course, were great and I had a jolly old boogie.

I had hoped that the crowd would be a little more animate than they were at the Fall gig a few weeks ago... Oh well. I'll grant you that Le Sac 'n' Pip have yet to release an album ("Angles", due out in May) and many people are only familiar with their hit single from last year Thou Shalt Always Kill. I confess that I had only heard three of their tracks before I went to the gig but that didn't stop me getting into all the other cool stuff they played that I didn't know. The rest of the audience, though... well, some of them did a half-arsed movement of the shoulders but they only sprang into life when that song came on.

What's the point of that? What's the point of going to a gig to hear only one song and not show any interest in the rest of the act's material. To be fair, the crowd did cheer and applaud between tracks but, jeez, if a self-conscious uncoordinated numpty like me can jiggle his bits to unfamiliar tunes then anybody can.

Sorry, but Oxford gig crowds are rubbish.

Falling

On Monday night I ventured out to the Oxford Zodiac - sorry - the Carling Academy Oxford (gotta' love corporate chain-branding for that underground vibe) for some raucous post-punk noise with Mark E. Smith and The Fall.

Turning up far too early, I retired to a nearby pub which was full of St. Patrick's Day revellers and spent a couple of hours getting suitably leathered.

At around 9.45pm I stumbled into the venue just in time to catch some VJ doing an audio/visual scratch mix thing that went on far too long, although I thought the cries of "piss off!" and "get off the fucking stage, you wanker!" from the crowd were a little harsh.

Speaking of the crowd, I was curious to see what cross-section of the Oxford populace would be there. Oxford doesn't strike me as the kind of place that would embrace a mad, wasted Manc bloke mumbling and screeching scathing social commentary over abrasive punky guitar noise.

Turns out I was right. The band emerged on stage and started to thrash out an impressive racket for a minute or two before the man himself, the legend that is Mark E. Smith, took to the mic and I dutifully cheered and started jumping around with a gusto.

Sadly, though, there were only about ten of us down the front getting into the spirit of the thing. I kept looking around only to be greeted with the sight of a room full of people just standing there staring at the stage with their dead eyes, no joy, no enthusiasm.

Despite this apathetic response from the crowd, the band played tight and good and we dedicated few at the front did our utmost to show Mark & Co. that their efforts were not entirely in vain.

I left the gig exhausted, my ears ringing, and baring a big stupid grin. I had a fucking great time but I felt a little sorry for all those poor lifeless bastards in the crowd who didn't appear to have any idea of what was going on or why they were there. They probably should have stayed at home and listened to their Coldplay albums.

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Anyways, I am now off to Devon for the Easter weekend to chill out and finally reading that damn Tristram Shandy novel.

Whatever your plans, enjoy yourself and don't eat too much chocolate.

One of life's little mysteries #1

How come I love Jamie Lidell...

... but could never stand Jamiroquai?

Curious.

An awesome racket

In order to further fulfil my resolution to take in more live music and to augment my recent efforts to better familiarise myself with classical music, I found myself at the Barbican Centre in Thursday evening - "found myself" in the sense that I bought a ticket weeks ago and very deliberately got on various modes of public transport to arrive there at the allotted time. "Pray, Sir, to what end?" you might ask; calm yourselves, for I shall divulge my reasons.

I happened to quite deliberately arrive at said time and place for the purpose of attending a concert given by the BBC Symphony Orchestra accompanied by the BBC Symphony choir. The programme for the evening included a rendition of Johannes Brahms' Fourth Symphony and, more significantly, the United Kingdom premiere performance of Krzyzstof Penderecki's Eighth Symphony (Songs Of Transience).

What can I say? (Apparently, judging by the last two paragraphs, an awful lot about not very much at all. Damn that Sterne fellow and his accursed Shandy novel.) 'Twas - excuse me - it was a wonderful concert. First of all was the Brahms, a composer with whom I am not yet acquainted but, after this recital, I am about to rectify that.

Following the interlude came the main event, Penderecki's Eighth. I've owned this on CD for a month or so but my humble speakers have not done it justice, not by a mile. To hear this symphony performed live with the full orchestra and choir was spine-tingling. The sound was simply huge, the players and the venue fully projecting the beauty, subtlety and sheer power of the music. In a word, awesome.

As a result of this experience I have decided that I must:

1. go to more classical music concerts and,
2. get a better home sound system.

On an unrelated musical issue, I have got into the habit of listening to David Bowie on Sunday mornings. I don't know why but Sunday morning is Bowie-time - it somehow feels right. Just one of those curious little rituals.

Mentally challenged headgear

Oh, I forgot to mention that the latest issue of Mad Hatter's Review is online. It's got some tunes in it. By me. Check the about page for direct links. Etcetera.

Job done.

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I think I'll buy one of those little tabletop ironing boards. And an iron

As yet untitled blog post

I don't know where to begin so I will skip the beginning and begin in the middle.

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Finally went to see a shrink - sorry - counsellor today and it turned out to not be as an horrific waste of time as I might have feared. She discerned very quickly that I am not interested in discovering why I am a miserable failure with no self-esteem but how I can stop being a miserable failure with no self-esteem. Yes yes yes, it's all because of my mother probably, great, but what do I do about it? I'm not interested in examining the past, I want to fix the now. She said the three magic words before I had a chance to bring them up: cognitive behavioural therapy. I decided I liked her very much at that point. "Oh thank fog* for that, she gets it." She is going to refer me to a CBT group which is nice. Unfortunately, the next round of classes doesn't begin until the beginning of April but, I don't know, having somebody who knows what they are talking about acknowledge that I have a real problem and could offer a practical way forward was comforting. April, though... bit of a long way off. I may buy myself a copy of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy For Dummies (seriously) to tide me over.

I feel oddly... validated

She was also quite attractive. She wore nice boots.

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I am glad to hear that despite the death of Heath Ledger production of Terry Gilliam's new film The Imaginarium Of Dr. Parnassus will continue.

When I first heard of Ledger's death I could not help but recall the collapse of Gilliam's The Man Who Killed Don Quixote and think, "Oh no, not again." I don't wish to sound as if my desire to see a cool movie overshadows the sad loss of such a young human being but I am glad the film can be completed. Dr. Parnassus (along with the upcoming Dark Knight) will give us a final glimpse of how this intriguing young actor might have developed, and what better tribute to an actor is there?

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I am fucking loving Bartók at the moment

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Don't know how to finish either so I will stop here at the end of the middle.

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* As an ignostic, I am loath to use the phrase "oh my God." However, from a purely aesthetic point of view and in certain circumstances "oh my god" is exactly the right phrase to use. Therefore, in order to circumvent my distaste for the word "god" whilst not depriving myself of the satisfaction of using the phrase "oh my god" I am experimenting rhyming substitutes such as "dog", "fog", "bog". I must confess, though, that it just isn't the same**.

** However, I have found a most favourable substitute for the exclamation "for the love of god", namely, "oh for the love of fucksy". Go on, try it. The next time you feel the need to express your incredulity at the sheer stupidity of a person or persons in your immediate vicinity, try screaming from the very depths of your diaphragm, "Oh for the love of fucksy!" It really works.

In Review (finally): 2007

2007: The year I stood up in church during a friend's wedding ceremony and read out an extract from The Velveteen Rabbit - a moment I will always remember with great fondness.

2007: The year we lost Kurt Vonnegut. The discovery of his work in my late teens was pivotal in my development as a serious reader. Having gobbled up Douglas Adams and Terry Pratchett I felt the desire to adventure deeper into the literary landscape. I was in the habit of picking books at random from shop shelves, reading the blurb, scanning a few pages, impulse buying. One book I found using this method was Jack Womack's Random Acts Of Senseless Violence, a disturbing and vivid vision of social breakdown. I enjoyed it immensely. One of the quotes of praise on the dust jacket likened Womack to some guy called Kurt Vonnegut so I went out and bought Slaughterhouse 5, the title of which sounded vaguely familiar.

The book was a revelation. Funny, serious, wise, angry and compassionate, a moving story of war and the bombing of Dresden that somehow involved time travel and extraterrestrial zoos. Reading this book I realised that serious fiction could be funny and stories didn't have to be told in chronological order. I was amazed how effortlessly Vonnegut took all these fragments, all these disparate threads, and somehow tied them all together on the final page. Most of all I was won over by Vonnegut's wry charm and humanity; reading him was like being taught life lessons by a favourite uncle. "Come here, son, I want to tell you a few things about the world."

Reading Vonnegut is liberating in that he shows you that you can do anything you damn well please in fiction - his books are like permission slips. I'm very sad he is gone but I'm happy that he was here at all and gave us so many wonderful words.

2007: the year I read Ulysses and I finally finished Boccaccio's Decameron. I experienced something of a reading renaissance in 2007: I always have a book on the go but for some reason my appetite became particularly voracious (which maybe explains my resolve to conquer James Joyce's colossal tome). I read a lot of excellent stuff including Pamuk's My Name Is Read, John Fowles' The Magus, Georges Perec's Life: A User's Manual, several Richard Brautigans (what a beautifully quirky turn of phrase that man had), The Sea, The Sea by Iris Murdoch, Slow Chocolate Autopsy by Iain Sinclair and José Saramago's Blindness, the last of which affected me the most with its harrowing vision of the ease with which "civilised" society could collapse.

If my appetite for reading increased in 2007 then my interest in film waned considerably. I know I've complained bitterly about Hollywood remaking every good Asian film barely five minutes after its released but it now it seems studios are cannibalising every nation's celluloid history including their own. We're going to get Paul W.S. Anderson's remake of The Long Good Friday pointlessly relocated to contemporary Miami, Ron Howard doing Michael Hanecke's Caché (Hidden), Michael Hanecke doing an American remake of his own Funny Games (why Michael, why?), The Taking Of Pelham 123 and Fritz Lang's Metropolis for fuck's sake. What happens when you've flogged a franchise to death with increasingly shite sequels? Why, you simply start again by remaking the original! Hello Halloween! And talking of John Carpenter, hello Assault On Precinct 13 remake! Hello Escape From New York remake! Apparently John Carpenter is happy to piss all over his own back catalogue of DIY cult classics by endorsing uninspired remakes.

The event that epitomised this trend for me is the fact that Martin Scorcese finally won his long-deserved Oscar for his laziest, most derivative film. Not only is The Departed inferior to its Hong Kong progenitor but it also feels like Scorcese simply imitating his own past glories. You'll say I am taking this far too seriously but watching The Departed and witnessing the subsequent praise and adulation Marty received actually kinda' hurt.

Thank Whoever, then, for David Lynch who delivered three hours of magnificent dread and weirdness in the form of INLAND EMPIRE. It doesn't matter that I didn't follow the half of it, I loved every damn digitally videoed frame of it. Even when I had no idea what was going on I never felt that Lynch was wasting my time with mere self-indulgent waffle - which, coincidentally, was exactly how I felt reading Ulysses. I seemed to be in that kind of mood in 2007. The only other films I enjoyed at the cinema were Zhang Yimou's Curse Of The Golden Flower which, despite the lukewarm critical response, I really enjoyed, and Hot Fuzz, the most gloriously absurd and entertaining film of the year.

Never mind, I procured lots of good music this year. I got stuck into two genres that I have long-intended to investigate properly: Post-punk and classical. By "classical" I really mean "orchestral", I suppose, because the era I have been drawn to has been that of 20 Century modern composers. Yes, I'm loving all that dodecaphonic atonal shit.

Best albums released this year? Chicago, Detroit, Redruth by Luke Vibert, Book Of Dogma by The Black Dog (well, OK, I admit that this is a compilation of previously released material but much of it has only appeared on vinyl so it still counts), Whisper Me Wishes by Kettel, Oblivion With Bells by Underworld, Foley Room by Amon Tobin and the magnificently barmy Tromatic Reflexxions by Von Südenfed.

I managed to keep a New Year's resolution for once by going to some gigs, something I hadn't done for a long time. I went to see Aim, Bonobo, Underworld and Amon Tobin and I'm so glad I made the effort. Music really is one of the things that makes life worth living - a world without music doesn't bear thinking about.

But otherwise 2007 sucked. Let's see if I can get my shit together in 2008, eh?

Ha. I say that every year.

Slappy Poo Smear

Jeez, 'bout time I wrote sumfink on this 'ere blog o' mine.

Well, I hope you all had an above average Christmas and an adequate New Year. I've already had my first anxiety attack of 2008! That's got to be a record even for me. Never mind, I got better.

Let's get down to the important bit: summary of Crimbo stash!

• Blade Runner 2007 Final Cut Collector's DVD box-set (only one problem: I can't decide which of the five included versions of the film to watch first).
• Jan Svankmajer - The Complete Short Films DVD box-set. Fantastic and surreal animations from the mad Czech genius Svankmajer.
• The Orb's Adventures Beyond The Ultraworld Deluxe Edition CD. Owned this on cassette years ago but finally got it on CD with an extra disc of remixes. I'd forgotten how brilliant this album is.
• Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy (I loved No Country For Old Men and I can't wait to see the Coen Brothers' film adaptation).
• The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat by Oliver Sachs.
• The Gospel According To Jesus Christ by José Saramago. I've been reading this over the Christmas holiday - seemed appropriate.

A most excellent haul, I think you'll agree. Now, which bloody version of Blade Runner shall I watch first...?

Sundry Saturday gubbins

Walking home from the shop along Walton Street in Oxford and who passes me? Only Jeremy bloody Paxman. S'true.

On an utterly unrelated note, I saw Amon Tobin do a DJ set at The Forum club in London. Fuck me if the bass in that place didn't almost cause a prolapse. A bloody good night only marred by slightly higher than usual Twat Quota in the audience, four Shoreditch yahoos wearing sunglasses in particular. Never mind, it was still a blinding show with Tobin mixing up his own stuff with music that has inspired him into one big jazzy drum 'n' bass pudding. He even played Second Bad Vilbel by Autechre, my favourite track by them and one I never thought I'd here in a DJ mix.

Other than that, nothing else exciting to report. The job still sucks and I'm currently reading The Magus by John Fowles which doesn't.

Random ramblings of a Sunday afternoon

Boy, this blog is dying on its arse, isn't it? I can barely manage one post a week and even then I seldom have anything interesting to say. Ugh. For what it's worth, here are some headlines to tide you over:

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Attended an Underworld gig on Thursday night at the Roundhouse in London. All kinds of awesomeness. Despite their latest album, Oblivion With Bells, being a more relaxed and ambient affair than previous records, they still know how to get people's butts movin' on the dance floor. And singer/guitarist Karl Hyde, bless him, is one of the best frontmen in the business. He bounces around the stage with such joyful abandon that you can't help but grin like a fool and cheer like a lunatic. His enthusiasm is not only infectious but also possibly lethal.

Highlights must include Two Months Off into Kittens into Moaner into Born Slippy [NUXX] into Shudder/King Of Snake - I was flippin' knackered once that little mix came to an end; and Rez/Cowgirl/Rez/Cowgirl was bloody brilliant too.

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For reasons that are far too convoluted to go into, I seem to be engaged in cyber-sex with a pair of sock puppets

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Current cultural artefacts entering my head via various orifices and organs:

• Aram Khachaturian's Gayane ballet suites (Suite No. 3, Gayane's Adagio - used by Kubrick in 2001: A Space Odyssey to introduce the Discovery One on its way to Jupiter - is a sublime piece of music).
• Talking Heads, the early Eno produced stuff: funky, arty, post-punk goodness, yeah!
• Life: A User's Manual by Georges Perec. No, not a self-help book but a wonderful French novel that describes a Parisian block of flats, its occupants, their lives and tales relating to their possessions. Funny, inventive and sad. Highly recommended.
• The TV show Heroes - enjoyable, well-written sci-fi/fantasy although it does sometimes take an awful long time for anything to happen. Addictive stuff nevertheless.

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I am also preparing for National Novel Writing Month by trawling the internet for information about bizarre sex fetishes and reading a critical study of the films of Luis Buñuel.

Don't ask.

What are the odds?

About three months ago a friend of mine invited me to an Ian Brown gig in October. Cool, I thought: I don't own any of Brown's solo material but I have liked what I've heard. I agreed to go and my chum booked me a ticket.

Fast forward a couple of months and I discover that Underworld, one of my all time favourite techno outfits and an awesome live act, were playing on the same night. I like Ian Brown but I adore Underworld so I had to tell my friend, sorry, but I wouldn't be going to the Brown gig and, um, if he can't offload my ticket then I'll pay him back anyway, sorry, sorry.

Damn it: the only night I can go and see one of my favourite bands play live turned out to be on the one and only night of the year I was already booked up to go to another gig. Sod's Law. Gotta' laugh.

Doesn't end there, though. I have subsequently discovered that my favourite new band of this year, Von Südenfed, are doing one and only one gig in London in the coming months... on the same night as Underworld. Typical. But it doesn't stop there either: one of my other favourite acts, Prefuse 73, is performing one of only two UK dates on that night as well... right on my doorstep in Oxford. 365 in the year and four bands I would like to see live decide to schedule gigs on the same fucking night?

The universe really takes the piss sometimes.

[On a more positive note, I am going to have the chance to see Amon Tobin in November, so that's OK]

Eclecticism is da bomb

Listening to Mark E. Smith mumbling and yelping on the wonderful Von Sudenfed album "Tromatic Reflexxions" reminded me that I somehow never got round to buying any Fall albums. Most remiss of me considering that I have bought a couple of Pavement albums in the last year, a band clearly influenced by The Fall.

But where to start? The Fall have released over 30 studio and live albums since 1979. Should you just start at the beginning or pick a few random records from throughout their career? Fortunately, I found a bargain in the shape of "The Complete Peel Sessions", a six-disc boxset containing all 24 of The Fall's sessions recorded for John Peel's BBC Radio 1 show between 1978 and 2004; a mere snip at £20 and a fine overview of their back catalogue. Absolutely bloody fantastic stuff.

Getting into The Fall's ouevre has given me a bit of a taste for post-punk. The sound of post-punk has been resurrected with great success over the last few years by the likes of Franz Ferdinand, Interpol, Futureheads and Bloc Party but I wanted to go back to the source. So I picked up "Entertainment!" by Gang Of Four, "Pink Flag" by Wire and "Marquee Moon" by Television, all released in the late 70s, and it is brilliant stuff. Gang Of Four in particular tickle my fancy as their bass-heavy funk-tinged stylings remind me a little of Primus.

Curiously, I've also been buying and listening to Debussy, Stravinsky and Bartók as well. Talk about musical mood swings.

"I'm a minor player in my own life story."

Anthony H. Wilson
1950—2007

Latest aurals in me shell-likes

Have you ever tried to imagine what experimental electro with a mad drunken Manc bastard slurring and barking over it would sound like? Toffee heck-nuts, I know I have!

Well, wonder no more because Mouse On Mars + Mark E. Smith of The Fall = Von Südenfed. Their debut album is called "Tromatic Reflexxions" and it is a magnificently filthy, funky and barmy record.

So, go buy it: that's an order. (Or don't if you don't feel like it).

Going mad. In hats. Again.

Yes, there is an all-new shiny issue of Mad Hatters' Review now online - Issue No. 8 to be more precise - and as usual I have contributed some honks and whistles and parps. You can listen to the honks and whistles and parps I made by going here and here. And why not peruse the rest of the issue while you are at it (but listening to my tunes is the most important bit, obviously).

Enjoy, yo.

I, nerd

My supervisor at work was rather concerned the other day when she found me with dictaphone in hand recording the sound of the faulty office fax machine.

"What a fantastic noise," says I. "I could use that for a piece of music; stick it through a low frequency oscillator and a phasing resonant filter... perfect for background ambience."

She looked at me pitifully. "We really need to find you a girlfriend," she said.

Ballot Box #1

In the start of a new series that will probably fizzle out in a staggeringly short space of time given my equally short attention span... what was I saying? Oh yes, I thought I would canvas the opinions of you, dedicated readers of this almost entirely pointless blog, on a variety of utterly trivial topics.

The first subject will be amusing song titles. Here are some of mine:

• Space Donkeys On Crack by Alexanders Dark Band
• Your Children Are Waiting For You To Die by mclusky
• Mummy, I've Had An Accident by LFO

There you go - now tell me some of yours. It doesn't matter if you actually like the songs or not, the question is only about song titles that have amused or intrigued you.

Thou shalt love this choon

Fucking brilliant...

- Dan Le Sac vs Scroobius Pip, "Thou Shalt Always Kill"

Recent sound waves to tickle my ossicles

Or, to use more grammatically incorrect parlance: new tunes what I been listening to:

Dobotsu Bancho, Alexanders Dark Band (DC Recordings)

Perusing Bleep.com one day (curse them and their ever-growing catalogue of innovative, eclectic independent music!) I clicked a random album cover from the "featured" section. I scanned the track-list until my gaze fell upon the song title "Space Donkeys On Crack". "I'm fucking havin' that," I thought. The brainchild of Jonathan Saul Kane (Depth Charge, Octagon Man) Alexanders Dark Band layer farty bass lines and quirky melodies over crunchy breakbeats. The end result is a whole lot of funky electronic fun, eccentric yet accessible. Anybody who enjoys their electronica with a healthy dollop of humour will get a blast from this album. And it's got a track on it called "Space Donkeys on Crack" - what more do you want?

Foley Room, Amon Tobin (Ninja Tune)

I hate Amon Tobin. I hate him because I listen to his stuff and think, "I am never going to produce anything this good. How the hell does he do that?" I know in theory how he does it. His previous albums have been produced by deconstructing lots of old jazz, funk, soul, bossanova records and rebuilding them into entirely new pieces of music. And what wondrous, beautiful music it is. For his latest album, however, he tried a new method of working: going out into the world with a bunch of microphones and recording anything that had percussive potential from factory machines to tigers, motor engines to insects. Add to that contributions from guest musicians (including Kronos Quartet) and Amon created a new palette of sounds to play with. The result is predictably (and infuriatingly) gorgeous. Walking down the street and listening to the track "The Killer's Vanilla" on my MP3 player I found myself on the verge of weeping with joy that, despite all the hate and stupidity and mediocrity in the world, there are human beings capable of producing truly beautiful music such as this. Amon Tobin's music genuinely makes me glad to be alive.

Having said that, there are a couple of tracks on the album such as "The Kitchen Sink" and "Foley Room" that feel more like exercises in percussive sound design rather than complete pieces of music and, while interesting, I can't imagine that I will return to them often. That is but a minor criticism when we are talking about an album that contains the utterly wonderful "Bloodstone", "Esther's", "The Killer's Vanilla", "Big Furry Head", "Always" and "At The End Of The Day". A bloody brilliant album.

Rediscovery Of The Month: Living Colour

I first heard of Living Colour when the Soulpower Mix of "Love Rears Its Ugly Head" found its way into the singles chart in 1990. I didn't actually realise at the time that they were a metal band, albeit a metal band flavoured with funk, soul and hip-hop. I've finally replaced my copies of Time's Up and Stain and - dagnabbit - they are class albums: excellent musicianship, intelligent lyrics laced with a pleasing black humour, Corey Glover's powerful yet soulful vocals and plenty of heavy guitar riffage (heavier than I remember, come to think of it). Basically, Living Colour rock like a muddy-funster and you can stick yer whiny emo cobblers up yer proverbial.

Rock off

OK, having declared to the world that I've rediscovered the joys of fuck-off grungy guitar music lately, I spent this morning listening to Mouse On Mars and have now embarked on an Orb marathon. So much for my alleged rock renaissance.

Maybe if I declare to the world that I don't want a well paid, full time permanent job and would prefer to temp forever then I will suddenly get a well paid, full time permanent job.

Is fate subject to reverse psychology?

Anyway, job applications await...

Let's rock! - Addendum

Oh, and In Utero is and always will be better than Nevermind.

Let's rock!

Hmm, for some reason I have felt the desire to reacquaint myself with guitar music. It started last year when I finally got around to listening to the Pixies (and seeing them live on their reunion tour at Alexandria Palace) and wondering why I didn't get into them the first time around. And then I heard some Pavement, remembered that they were supposedly a big influence on the US indie rock scene of the 1990s, bought Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain and Wowee Zowee (the sexy Special Edition reissues with sackfuls of extra bonus tracks) and decided that they were bloomin' marvellous.

I've also been listening to quite a bit of Faith No More again for the first time in years. They were one of my favourite bands during my late teens and I'd forgotten how much I like them. Angel Dust was and still is my favourite FNM album, heavy yet experimental. I then started thinking about Mike Patton and his many side projects that I've been meaning to catch up on. I already owned Mr. Bungle's eponymous debut album which is fantastically barmy, a disjointed mess of funk, metal, scary fairground music and scatological humour. Not an easy listen but I love it. I never managed to get into their second album Disco Volante - that was too fucked up even for me - but their third and final release, California, is brilliant. The fragmented song structures remain but it is a more laid back, surf guitar inspired album.

I then got the two albums Patton released under the Tomahawk moniker - good old fashioned punky metal - which then led me onto the Melvins (I decided to start with their most accessible offering, Houdini, and I'll then move onto the more 'difficult' stuff).

Whilst still in a Patton mood, I got the Peeping Tom album, a bunch of collaborations between Patton and the likes of Massive Attack, Amon Tobin, Dan The Automator and... er... Norah Jones. Yes, Norah Jones. Mike 'n' Norah duet on a track called Sucker and you'll never see her in the same light again once you've heard her sing the words, "The truth kinda' hurts, don't it, motherfucker?" The novelty value of hearing the purveyor of sweet, folksy pop music cussing like a navvy notwithstanding, Peeping Tom is a superb album. It is apparently what Patton would like pop music to sound like if he listened to pop music and, frankly, I agree with him.

I don't really know why I've suddenly started hankering after big, crunchy, raucous guitar stuff again after many years of immersion in electronica. I guess that sometimes I need some harsh aggressive noise in my ears. Having said that, I have spent today listening to Wagon Christ and Authechre, so go figure.

More Mad Hattering

Issue 7 of Mad Hatters' Review is online now! It features lots of cool words and pictures and noises and stuff! And if you are thinking, "My word, so much to choose from... where to start?" you could do worse than look at Jai Clare's For A Lack Of Words and Lynda Schor's Sex For Beginners 2 because A) they are both great and B) they both feature music by me.

Mad Hatter's Review - Issue 7

Stick it in yer ear

New Feature!

Go to the noise section and gasp in awe at the all new embedded radio thingie - courtesy of Last.fm - that will stream a playlist of the kind of stuff I listen to into your ears. Then decide that I have shocking tastes in music and turn it off.

Osymyso in Dire Straits

No, no, no, I don't mean Osymyso has joined forces with Mark Knopfler. After posting my heartfelt plea for everyone to help a poor, struggling mash-up artist shift a few records, I have since discovered via Osymyso's Myspace page that things are not quite so bleak at the moment for the fella. It appears that he has been working on the soundtrack for the latest cinematic masterpiece from Simon Pegg and Edgar Wright, Hot Fuzz.

But you still need to go and buy some of his music. (And I'm looking at you, Suw Charman. Yes, Osymyso is a favourite of your beloved Simon Pegg. Mr. Pegg even performed drumming duties on the track Pandemonium from the Fruit From 50-First Batch record. So, if you don't buy any Osymyso music, dear Suw, you are effectively saying Simon Pegg is wrong. You wouldn't say such a thing, would you Suw? You don't hate Simon Pegg, do you? Prove that you don't hate Simon Pegg and buy some music by his good chum Osymyso).

No, there is no level to which I won't stoop.

Save Osymyso!

I first heard about Osymyso a few years ago through his collaborations with Chris "Brass Eye/The Day Day Today" Morris. He produced a remix of Morris' merciless re-edit of George Bush's first State Of The Union speech (which you can find at www.thesmokehammer.com) and also a video remix of the short film My Wrongs#8245-8249 & 117.

Osymyso has been described as "one of the greatest cut & paste men of contemporary times". In 1998 he created Pat 'n' Peg, a brilliant breakbeat cut-up of the Eastenders theme tune with Peggy Mitchell and Pat Butcher having a right old bitchfight over the top. It's hilarious, a work of mad genius. He has released two cut-up albums, Welcome To The Palindrome and The Art Of Flipping Channels, and in 2005 he started the "05my50" project by committing himself to write and record one new track every week during that year. This has resulted in two excellent releases (or "batches") on vinyl entitled Fruit From 50.

He has won critical acclaim from The Guardian, The Face, The New York Times and Q magazine voted him one of the Top Ten DJs You Must See Before You Die. High praise indeed.

I finally got around to buying some of his tunes when I stumbled across them at an online download store and it is all superb. Welcome To The Palindrome is an album of funky beats, squelchy synths and cut-up samples from all sorts of TV shows and movies - an obvious inspiration for the likes of The Avalanches and Too Many DJs. The first two batches from the Fruit From 50 series are superbly quirky slices of electronic music that prove that Osymyso isn't a one-trick cut-up pony. Anyone who enjoys the offbeat style of Luke Vibert (aka Wagon Christ, Plug, etc.) or Mike Paradinas (he of µ-Ziq, Jake Slazenger and Kid Spatula fame) would love Fruit From 50. And Pat 'n' Peg is just so damn funny it hurts. Brilliant stuff. This man deserves to go far.

Imagine my disbelief when I visited Osymyso's website and read the following by the man himself on the forum:

It's been a tough few months, I'm fighting to keep the whole thing going. There isn't enough work out there and people aren't buying my records so I can't afford to produce any new music. Fruit From 50 vol 3 and 4 were ready to roll but the label had to pull the release due to lack of sales on the 1st 2 volumes. The Art of Flipping Channels was the worst selling record in Antidote's history so they won't touch me with a barge pole now and despite very positive feedback from my DJ sets I can't get a booking for toffee.

This is the reality of underground music production, without a label, a manager, an agent or a press officer I am left to do it all myself and it's very difficult to get things off the ground.

If I was a band I would have split up by now but I'm just me and splitting up would be way too messy. I still believe it's worth doing even if it means I have to live exist like a peasant in a mud hut, living off berries and insects.

What?! No, no, no, this simply will not do, will not do at all. Osymyso should be in huge demand. His music is funky, funny, strange, catchy and inventive. He should be inundated with requests to remix and produce mainstream pop acts looking to acquire some credibility and cool. He should be sniffing cocaine off Lilly Allen's buttocks in a hot tub. Well, OK, maybe not that last one but, dagnabbit, Osymyso should be at the height of underground success (if that isn't too much of an oxymoron).

What can be done? Well, for a start, go to www.osymyso.com and download Pat 'n' Peg for free. Once you have stopped laughing, go to Amazon.co.uk, Juno Records or your favourite music retailer and order anything/everything they have listed. If you have no means of playing vinyl records then fear not - Fruit From 50: First Batch and Second Batch can be bought and downloaded in MP3 format from Bleep.com (simply type "Osysmyso" into the search box to find his releases).

So come on everybody. Let's pull together and show Osymyso that there are people who want his music and will pay for it. If you don't then I will get very upset, come round to your house and nail you nipples to the ceiling. Don't say I didn't warn you.

John Peel

Today marked the first anniversary of John Peel's death. Has it really been a year already? I remember when I first heard the news - I couldn't believe it. He was a legend. He did more to promote new music then any other DJ on the planet. So many great artists owe their success to him, to his constant search for innovative, exciting sounds that no-one had ever heard and were unlikely to hear on regular mainstream radio. His desire to seek out fresh talent was insatiable. Listening to his show was always a revelation; you'd hear all manner of strange stuff that you might consider total crap and then he'd play something astonishing.

And who is there to replace him? Nobody. He was unique.

Thank you, John: You left us too soon.