Smacked Face

Calling occupants

2011-01-12T07:27:00.003Z

Just in case anyone still comes round these parts, I'm now over at http://puttingoutfire.posterous.com talking music and drivel. Come on down.

Khuja and things

2007-03-12T06:04:00.000Z

Yet again it's all quiet on the Western front in Smacksville - the usual tales of drinking too much, spending too much money on records and getting told off for sniggering at experimental theatre.

Had a date last week with a jolly chap - though I almost spat my sauvignon when he explained how he liked to treat his body as a temple. As we all know my body is less a temple, more a human waste disposal unit, and a severely overtaxed one at that. Bless him.

Anyway, I digress. Here's my most recent bar review for wont of anything better.

Khuja Lounge

A long time ago, in a land far, far away, after many vodkas and absolutely ghastly singing care of the dreadful Eurovision Song Contest, my so-called ‘friend’ Quentin enticed me to skateboard down a flight of stairs. I accepted the dare – and promptly broke my foot.

The whole foolish incident taught me two things – don’t accept stupid dares and be careful around stairs, especially where alcohol is involved. (And never go to parties at Quentin’s house.)

The stupid dare rule has sadly gone out the window – I am presently sporting a perm thanks to a birthday bet from another ‘friend’ – but the stairs/booze rule remains valid to this day. Which is why I’m amazed that Khuja Lounge is still alive and kicking – or rather, that its patrons are.

I once tried to count the number of stairs leading up to Khuja, but if I did manage to count them all, the total was forgotten by the end of the first round. Suffice to say there are a lot of them (solid concrete no less) and stairwell horror stories feature prominently in many of the Khuja tales I’ve heard over the past decade.

But Khuja is much, much more than its stairway from hell. I’ve spent many a wondrous eve in its sultry confines, but usually have to piece together my night after calling in for ‘just one’ on the way home. Clearly, for reviewing purposes, this would not do. Thus I reconvened the Central City Booze Bitches in order to attempt to objectively sample Khuja’s delights in sober fashion.

We safely navigated the treacherous steps to find the bar heaving. On audio duty were a collection of funkateers I recognised to be one of the various incarnations of the Opensouls, and every creature in the house was shimmying like there was no tomorrow. Booze or boogie? Such is the Khuja dilemma.

After all, if there’s one place in this town that has genuinely earned the right to call itself the soul of Auckland city, it’s Khuja. House bunnies and gurn monkeys need not apply – Khuja has been the premier location for funk, soul, hip hop, world and afrobeat since time immemorial. The DJ line-up is all class, the local band action exquisite and it regularly plays host to some of the finest international acts to venture down under.

After an extended shimmy, I finally made it to the bar, which was five deep, and foolishly requested a mojito. Bless the barman, though – instead of rolling his eyes and telling me to get real, can’t you see all these people waiting, you idiot, he ripped into the mint and started muddling. Good lad. (The next time I returned to the bar I ordered a Tiger and the entire bar breathed an audible sigh of release.)

We danced and drank the night away as you do, and before we knew it, it was 4am and lord, where did the night go. Like many late-night bars, Khuja can often get a bit lecherous towards the end of the night, when drunken punters realise they haven’t pulled and time is running out, and this can leave a bit of an icky taste in your mouth. Mind you, I should probably just go home earlier…

Before we left to try to negotiate those stairs with our beer goggles on and make it home in one piece home to a well-deserved bed, we raised a glass to Khuja – an icon of the Auckland bar scene, a true old school funk classic. We may have stumbled in, but we souled out. Long may it lounge.

Sound of the suburbs

2007-02-22T09:58:00.000Z

Since this blog is no longer a diarised record of SF's fun and games, but more a storage vault of nonsense for posterity, I thought I'd start posting my bar reviews for a certain Sunday newspaper, so I can look back at them when I am old and living in a cardboard shanty in some back alleyway. The natural place to start is Crow, though written a few months ago, since that is where I seem to be spending an inordinate amount of times these days. So see below. If you can be arsed.

I'm still sans MG - the panelbeaters have had it for weeks now, having swapped it for a rotten bung old courtesy car, a V6 which seems to cost me $10 in fuel each day, and only goes up to 89.0 on the FM band.

Joyous was the day I realised that 95% of the way between Mt Albert and work I am able to tune into the mighty but rather limited reception pirate station Fleet FM (88.3 on your dial). In an instant I swapped the all-repeat-workday dross of Mai FM only to stumble across three-in-a-row gloriousness from the Members, Franz Ferdinand and the Screaming Mee-Mees. God be fucking praised.

And it's the Turnaround tomorrow. Cannot bloody wait. Make sure you get in early to pre-order tickets for next month's monster session - master deep funkateer Keb Darge and graffiti legend Doze Green (graffing live) join Cian, Submariner and Manuel. One you cannot afford to miss, surely.

Crow Bar - review

2007-02-22T09:56:00.000Z

The Ed called on Monday morning with a desperate plea. “My other reviewer hasn’t come through with her Crow Bar review – you couldn’t whip us up one, could you?”

As several witnesses had seen me propping up the bar at Crow at 4am on Sunday, I had no excuse really. And the embarrassing flurry of bar receipts that fluttered out of my wallet like confetti when I went to pay for my morning coffee sealed the deal. I had the skills to pay the (bar) bills - now I just had to remember enough of my evening to write it up... Damn Crow and its strange memory-sapping qualities.

We’d been out for another Special General Meeting of the Central City Cocktail Sluts, a 30^th birthday celebration which ended rather prematurely when the host bar decided to shut its doors at 1am. There was only one thing for it - “dirty old Crow” it might be, but it’s always there for you, a dependable friend in times of need.

The DJ was spinning some dodgy 80s Madonna downstairs which sent me heading for the upstairs bar, but too late – one of our party had been lured onto the dancefloor, getting into the groove in true Material Girl style. It was a shameful performance too good to miss, so we ordered a beer and grabbed a ringside seat. One beer turned into many Jagermeisters, and we finally emerged blinking into the light as the birds started to sing, nursing the early stages of what would become a killer hangover.

Some regulars complain Crow isn’t what it used to be – but then, wasn’t everything better back in the day? The clientele may have become more ‘bridge and tunnel’ of recent times (tacky lingerie contests and Playboy Mansion parties don’t help), but Crow still can’t be beaten on a good night.

The bouncers are friendly, the lighting deliciously dim, the music (bar the Madonna) great – check rock’n’roll Thursdays and Dunc Tha Funk on Fridays – and the award-winning bar staff know how to mix a good drink. Sure, the men’s loos may become a health hazard later in the evening and the staff may be surly on occasion, but that’s only if you’re being an idiot. (The problem is that the anything-goes atmosphere at Crow makes you feel that, well, anything goes, so acts of idiocy are quite common, especially from this reviewer.)

Crow is more than a bar – it’s an institution. Auckland’s bar scene occasionally throws up a venue that transcends its role as a mere drinking den and becomes part of the city’s cultural fabric. The legendary Crow has been witnessing Aucklanders’ decadence and debauchery for longer than we care to remember - from VIPs to DICs, failed rehabbers to rock stars, everyone who has been through its doors emerges with a tale to tell. If only those walls could talk. (Someone should write a book on the place, if only they could afford the defamation lawyers.)

I respect my ailing liver and my bank balance too much to do the Crow experience too often these days – but when I do, a brilliant time is guaranteed. As bFM boy and myspace Crow Bar chronicler Simon Pound has written, “That place long ago did away with my dignity, sense, self-respect etc. But I love it like a sick, three-legged puppy.” I’ll drink to that.

Good times

2007-02-12T08:37:00.000Z

Party was fabulous, cheers. So, so very good. Thanks to all who graced us with your presence, and huge thanks to those who played tunes, including my own personal highlights Ange Saunders and Sandy Mill rocking the mic. (FYI you can catch Sandy's styles in the latest gloriousness from SJD.)

For those who care but couldn't be there, in no particular order a selection of the tracks I can remember dropping in the two sets I snatched for myself (well, if you can't hog the decks at your own party, where can you hog them?):

Shack Up - Banbarra
Me And Baby Brother - War
I Believe In Miracles - Jackson Sisters
Stomp - Brothers Johnson
Here Come The Girls - Ernie K. Doe
I Don't Want Nobody To Give Me Nothing - James Brown
Brand New Girl - Billy Garner
Apache - Incredible Bongo Band
It's Just Begun - Jimmy Castor Bunch
I Wish - Skee-Lo
Rock Steady - Aretha Franklin
Movin' On Up - Primal Scream
Rapture Riders - Go Home Productions
Over & Over - Sylvester
The More I Get, The More I Want - Teddy Pendergrass
We've Only Just Begun - Lee McDonald
I Can't Get No Satisfaction - Jose Feliciano
Love For The Sake Of Love - Claudja Barry
I Want You Back - Esso Trinidad Steel Band...

Surprisingly for a vaguely boozy set, I can recommend every single one of them, especially the Claudja Barry and Lee McDonald tunes for end-of-night scrumptiousness - hunt them down and melt, yum.

Pull up to the bumper

2007-02-01T09:28:00.000Z

News just in... Some little sod rear-ended me last night. Er, let me rephrase that - some little bugger just rammed his big white vehicle up my arse. Erm...

I had another car accident. But thank god for British engineering - he came off worst. In fact, I was able to hand his bumper back to him from where it was impaled on my trusty MG exhaust pipe. (Exhaust pipe unharmed.)

Anyway, to matters much more important - it's SSS next weekend! Hurrah. And Ms G and I are on the bill. I've got a jampacked set lined up (although it remains to be seen whether a NZ crowd can accept the fact that I can't and won't mix - bo selecta!).

However I've been incredibly inspired by a fantastic night at the Turnaround on Friday - and suddenly all my tunes pale in comparison next to the magical funk'n'hip-hop'soul goodness laid down by Cian, Manuel, Submariner and friends...

Do YOU have a favourite Turnaround anthem you want to hear on Friday? Have you been to Electric Chair in Manchester recently and returned life-changed with a bevy of beats to make the angels sing? Mr Scruff been rocking your world? I want to know about it.

I am absolutely definitely taking requests, so hit me. Current Top 10 (in no particular order) looks a little like this, but as always, open to change without notice:

Push - Pharaohe Monch
Get Up - Elektrons
Come On Get Dancing - Pride
God Put A Smile Upon Your Face - Mark Ronson
Be There In The Morning - Norman Connors
I Wish - Skee-Lo
Getaway - Salsoul Orchestra
Last Nite - Jumbonics
Take Me Out - Outkast BOB & Roses take
You Got Me Thinkin' _ Tyra & The Tornadoes

2007-01-26T07:43:00.000Z

Big Day Out, big hangover after

2007-01-23T20:22:00.000Z

A very jolly old time was had at the Big Day Out (note to overseas visitors: the closest NZ gets to any semblance of a truly international big-name music festival).

A generous boss once again gave us the day off work and paid for a table in the East Lounge this year, meaning we could deftly sidestep the nastier elements of the BDO (queues for toilets, queues for the bar, having to drink in shade-free, sectioned-off R18 pig pens for which you also had to queue to get in). It also meant we got to hang with some quality people (including our favourite Public Addressers Russell Brown and David Slack), drink champagne like corporate wankers and enjoy unparalleled views of the main stage.

Not that I stuck around for much of the main stage action. Nope, the Boiler Room was where it was at this year. As much as I love sitting out in the sun, smoke and drink in hand, good tunes abounding, sometimes there’s nothing better than cramming into a 50-degree tent with a couple of thousand others and getting your sweat on.

So hurrah for Lily Allen and Lupe Fiasco – far and away the top acts of the day. Ms Allen was a cut-and-dried case of ‘do believe the hype’. Though she hasn’t received anywhere near the same level of overkill here as in the UK, the Boiler Room was still packed to the rafters (although being a tent it didn’t actually have any rafters. Or did it? How the hell did it stay up if it had no rafters? Was there just a single pole in the middle, like a giant teepee? Look, I don’t know - I was focused on the stage, except when I had my eyes shut, getting shimmy with it like the crusty old festival dog I am. But I digress.)

Lily rocked, funny and feisty, with the charm and voice of an angel in hi-tops – she had a delightful way of making you feel she was performing to you, that she was your best friend who you couldn’t wait to meet up with off-stage and share a lager. In fact, my mate Kate and I are still fighting over who will become her new best friend (a competition I currently lead after cornering poor Ms Allen for a slurring, sycophantic schmooze session as I propped up the bar upstairs at Crow later in the evening).

And as for Lupe… Pure class. I would write more but it was getting pretty late in the day by this stage and I was a little on the giddy side, but hell, isn’t Kick, Push just one of the best hip hop tracks in years? And even better when an entire tentful of people join in on the chorus. God, I love him.

What else? Hmmm, the rest of the day was a series of 10 minutes caught here and there while wandering about (and back and forth to the East Lounge for wees and booze) – a little bit of Hot Chip (seen em, love em, briefly dated their old manager, but their fantastic blend of electronic rock was just too early in the day for my associates), a few minutes of the Vines (dull), a tasty chunk of Kasabian (who sounded incredible, but were definitely on the wrong stage), a snatch of Jet (waste of space), Muse (who looked like they might have been a contender), Violent Femmes (too quiet)… No Presets though, damn it.

It was a grand night. So grand that I’m still hungover nearly a week later and am only now finishing my write-up. Oops.

For goodness' sake, give it up

2007-01-06T14:21:00.000Z

Well look who's back. Not sure why I've chosen this moment to relaunch myself on the blogging world, but there you go. It's been so long that I'm surely speaking to a vacuum, but that's OK. Vacuums can be good, as long as you're not having to use one. Housework is ever so dull.

Not much has changed since last I wrote. 2006 was a fairly 'meh' year on the whole, notable really only for being the year I managed to collect no less than three fag burns on my face - the last occurring in the final minutes of 2006, when an excitable punter at the Fleet FM NYE party cut loose with an almighty holler and hurrah, and thrust their cigarette straight into (or just above, actually) my left eye. No patch was required. A shame really, pirates rule. Unless you're Peter Blake.

What else? Well, I've had a payrise, bought a house, indulged in a couple of unsuccessful and uninspiring romances, kept my hand in with a few radio shows and parties, inherited a cat, not crashed my car, killed my iPod... All in all more of the same really.

The house purchasing thing is quite scary really, it smacks of being grown-up. Sadly I can't say the same for myself. I continue to be as alcoholically irresponsible as ever, setting a company record by turning up six hours late to work three times in as many months after over-indulging in the fire water. Oops. And me with half a million bucks worth of mortgage too.

Anyway, it's good to be back. For your trainspotting pleasure, below I've provided the tracklist from our George FM show last night (with the ever-lovely Miss Sandy Mill), which I may get round to podcasting next week if I can get a copy. I advise selling your grandmother to get the new EP from The Elektrons, the new guise of Luke and Justin Unabomber, and also the Wolfmyer Orchestra track is worth a listen too. Hell, they all are - would we play rubbish? Not on your nelly.

George FM Drive with Jen & Sandy, 5/1/07:

Ladies & Gentlemen - Fdel; Brand New Girl - Billy Garner; Save Der Soulz - T Samurai; Shake It Baby - Slow Supreme; Something Betta - Beatconductor; Boom Clicky Boom Clack (Mr Scruff Vocal Mix) - Jazzanova; White Label - The Gnomes; Next To Me - Wolfmyer Orchestra; I Got The Blues - Labi Siffre; Feelin Alright - West Coast Revival; Break The Chains - Sonoluca & Leena Conquest; Come On Get Dancing - Pride; Unknown - Ansel Collins; Last Night Bollywood Saved My Life - Bollywood Freaks; Pump Up My Doorbell - bootleg; I Know You Got Billie Jean - bootleg; 4 My Lover - DJ Nash bootleg; Light My Fire - Stevie Wonder; Get Lifted - George McCrae; This Time - DJ Shadow; Use My Imagination - Gladys Knight & The Pips; Get Up - The Elektrons; Summertime - The UBs; Going Back To My Roots (Danny Krivit mix) - Richie Havens; Singalong - Treva Whateva...

Cringe at the accent

2007-01-06T09:20:00.000Z

... But love those tunes.

As promised, our George FM Drive show is available to download here (pt 1) and here (pt 2).

(People say I love the sound of my own voice. They are so, so wrong.)

Smacked Face Greatest Tits Vol 1

2006-08-11T12:23:00.000+01:00

A few of me favourite posts, since there ain't gonna be no more new ones (yes, you could just archive-trawl, but let's face it, you won't)...

Gig madness! Smacked Face goes to P Funk, the Stones (part 1 and part 2), the New York Dolls, Nick Cave, Sigur Ros, Metro Riots, Morrissey, the Futureheads, Happy Mondays (part 1 and part 2), Trevor Horn, Babyshambles, Spektrum and !!!, the Franz, the Rapture, David Devant & His Spirit Wife, N*E*R*D, and a round-up of the best gigs ever...

Festival frolics! Smacked Face goes to Glastonbury (part 1 and part 2), the Rise Festival, the Big Day Out, T In The Park (part 1 and part 2)...

Travel insanity! Smacked Face goes to New York City, the Isle of Wight, San Francisco, Naples, Greece (part 1 and part 2), Manchester, Brighton, Paris (part 1 and part 2), Glasgow, Nelson, Wellington and, erm, Timaru.

London loving! Smacked Face loves: London both during (part 1 and part 2) and after the bombings, after the second bomb scare, the Natural History Museum, the random factor, Les Trois Garcons, summer time, walking to work, walking to work again, the National Gallery, Columbia Road, the no 73 bus, Camden, Brixton muggers, Stoke Newington, walking from Stokey, Crouch End, the Royal Oak, the Savoy, London itself...

Inane opinions! Smacked Face rants irrelevantly about crashing her car, hideous NZ food festivals, Kiwi memories, why swimming pools rock, going home, iPods, Martin Phillips, the worst date ever, the wonderful John Peel (part 1 and part 2), practical jokes, first-ever booze shame, more booze shame, lies our parents told us, being a rampant slag, the joys of 'friends with benefits', the radio, the death of Gran, Eurovision, her infamous rubber arm, and things we hate.

Too many parties! Smacked Face misbehaves at her 30th, her Viva Sarf Vegas flat-warming, with a load of Scottish caners, at the ex's house, on the roof, on boats...

List mania! Smacked Face charts her Top 10 tunes - animals, funk bombs, Northern Soul, sad songs, Buckfast songs, drug songs, summer songs, food songs...

Milestones! Smacked Face blogs her heart out - the first post, celebrating six months, one year, two years and now, the end. Bye bye. x

Bored now

2006-06-05T12:08:00.000+01:00

I'm like a stuck record, aren't I? But yes, this blog really is on hiatus now. Sorry Mr Speakers and all other concerned citizens out there who have very kindly emailed to see if I am still alive. Thank you for your concern and yes, I am alive (alive I tell you!), but only just. I'm all out of inspiration...

If you provide the subject matter, I'll write some drivel. Otherwise you could just trawl the archives and live the past two years of my life vicariously. I suggest mid-2004, while I was still brash, outrageous and free, not the jaded party-whore you see before you now. (Sad fact, fact fans - if you Google-image the term 'boozehag', there is a picture of me on the first page. Yes really. )

Right, I'm off to tinker with my Myspace profile. I'm so tomorrow.

Love always,
Jen x

Hell's bells

2006-05-07T04:05:00.000+01:00

Blatantly nicking from James Headphone Sex - the most extraordinary MP3 of one of my favourite techno tracks ever, Jeff Mills' The Bells, played live by the don himself with the Montpelier Philarmonic Orchestra.

Truly one of the most bizarre things I've heard in a while - like watching Disney's Fantasia on a serious acid trip (as if that Sorcerer's Apprentice broomstick scene wasn't trippy enough all by itself)...

Apols

2006-05-03T10:00:00.000+01:00

Zzzzzzzz. I used to be kind of interesting. Sorry for the loooooong hiatus on the "worth reading" front.

I can't be interesting about London because I'm not there. I can't write interesting things about NZ because a) my UK readers will immediately switch off and b) there are no interesting things about NZ. I can't diss NZ because then my NZ readers will diss me. I can't diss NZ things and people because my job pays me to be nice about all that stuff.

So you see I'm in a dilly of a pickle.

Um...

If you're in the UK, head along to the Modern Times club. If you're in NZ, Descarga Cubana on K Rd rocks my socks.

That's about it really. And hurrah to the return of our lovely Dean Webb at Mum's The Word at Ink last Saturday, and to wearing toilet paper bonnets. Free millinery never looked so cheap.

Moss gathering

2006-04-17T06:12:00.000+01:00

When we last left our heroine, she was trapped in the cheap seats on the hill at Western Springs, straining to see and hear a bunch of sexagenarian rockers, suffering not at all gladly a bunch of nearby westie rednecks pissing in a cup, hassling passing coppers and hollering "Jagger you old cunt!" every 5 seconds, while her friends lived it up backstage (bastards). Now we return to the story…

As well as hollering obscenities at Jagger, my bogan neighbours thought it a fine joke to bawl, “Turn it up!” at every occasion. In this, I concede they had a point - our crap position meant we suffered shocking speaker drift. No matter what local old farts might claim, this gig could have done with a helluva lot more volume at the back. Occasionally a wind shift meant we would be hit with a boom of bass or a whack of treble, but otherwise it was like listening to it all through cotton wool, a big muddy mess of mids.

I suppose it would be somewhat churlish to complain about the gig because hell, it's the STONES, damn it (and I only paid $50 for my ticket, ensuring some shifty scalper took a proper dive - sucker). The boys certainly rock hard for their age, but… I couldn’t help leaving a tiny bit disappointed.

When they were good they were great, but I base my gigs using the Reilly Barometer (patent pending) – how many times the hairs on your arm raise and give you goosebumps – and my arms stayed, for the whole, remarkably bump-free. And this from a girl who gets the shivers just from hearing Wild Horses on a tinny car radio.

Jumping Jack Flash kicked it off in fine style and a storming rendition of Paint In Black provided a penultimate thrill, but between those two points it mostly fell into a predictable torrent of anthems and boozy singalongs, with just a couple of exceptions.

The band was at its best when getting back to their blues roots, for instance, with the brilliant Midnight Rambler, and the break-out section with Keith doing a solo act was an interesting detour (“Have you had a good night, um, er…?” slurred Keith by way of introduction, forgetting which faceless stadium he was in this time. “Arrgh, I could be anywhere right now”). But ultimately the ’classic hits’ megamix failed to, erm, start me up. It was only rock’n’roll – and I’m not sure I particularly liked it.

No doubt the unimaginative set-list was to be expected on what must surely be their farewell tour (surely), and anything more risky would surely have gained howls of dissent from the old, fat bogan massive, so I guess you can’t really blame the lads.

A few technical problems didn’t help either – the big screen at the back went blank during Miss You and the following three songs, meaning we could neither see nor hear Jagger’s disco stylings. (Probably a good thing as I seem to recall he was dressed in Start Me Up-style leggings by this stage.)

In fact, so predictable was it all that I managed to win $10 by correctly guessing the two encores – a reasonably good trotting out of my No 2 Stones tune You Can’t Always Get What You Want (no 1 Gimme Shelter, not covered; no 3 Sympathy For The Devil, covered but unimpressive) and a turgid Brown Sugar. This was followed by fireworks, which were almost as much of a fizzer.

But, but, but… It’s the STONES innit? OK, so when it comes to old rockers rocking, they might not have been up there with George Clinton, the New York Dolls or James Brown, to name a few recent examples, but my policy is it’s better to have seen and been slightly disappointed than never to have seen at all.

Still can’t believe I didn’t get that backstage pass though. Doh!

You can't always get what you want

2006-04-17T05:28:00.000+01:00

Regrets. I've had a few. But I've never regretted not going out as much as I did on Friday night.

All night long I had been attempting to entice people to accompany me to Crow Bar to see the lovely Sandy Mill do her thing on the mic, but to no avail. Everyone was tired, sun-struck, drunk... I gave up the fight and went home.

As soon as I hit the sheets, the divine Ms Mc called, saying she'd changed her mind and wanted to go to Crow after all. Hmmmm.... I hesitated. But nope, it was too late, I was tucked up cosily in my comfy bed and it seemed like far too much effort to get back out, slather on the slap and hit town.

BIG mistake. For who does Ms Mc end up meeting at Crow? Only Keef Richards' guitar tech, innit, who promptly gives Missy a backstage pass to the gig.

To be fair, I was lucky enough to spend some quality party time on Saturday night with said guitar tech, where over a few beers and smokes, he gave me the inside gen on the tour and the band.

Sadly, I was so concerned about not looking like a groupie that rather than asking about the really juicy sex 'n' drugs stuff, I spent most of the time talking rock'n'roll, specifically debating the pros and cons of a Fender Telecaster, as opposed to, say, a Richenbacher 330 or a Gibson Les Paul. (NB: I know sweet FA about guitars.)

Anyway, to cut a long story short, as a late addition to the party there was no backstage pass for this fan, and so I had to live vicariously through Matty Tutt, who managed to meet Keith and (my hero) Charlie at the soundcheck and has a photo of himself playing Keith's guitar in his dressing room, and Ms Mc, who watched the entire gig from the crew/VIP area, the Rattlesnake Bar.

Me, I was up on the hill in the cheap seats, straining to see and hear, and standing next to a bunch of westie rednecks whose idea of fun was to piss in a cup, hassle passing coppers and holler "Jagger you old cunt!" every 5 seconds.

Arse.

(Gig review follows tomorrow.)

Band behaviour

2006-04-09T23:29:00.000+01:00

Well, as predicted, the last week has been a non-stop bender. I thought I' d discovered clean living out at Piha, but obviously all that was keeping me sober was the prospect of having to drive 45 minutes home.

As well as rediscovering sweet, sweet liquor, I uncovered a few more hither-to-unexperienced pleasures.

Thursday I was summoned to Shanghai Lil's. I wanted so badly to hate it, with its ridiculous hype and A-class, erm, A-list clientele... but I just couldn't. It won me over in about 15 minutes and I gave it my column's first 5/5. It was just fabulous. Ignore Public Enemy and do believe the hype.

Friday I stumbled into, rather, upon The Tutts. The last time I'd seen them was at a mate's farewell bash. After a 7-hour impromptu set I started running out of tunes, but just as the party was quietening down, the dancefloor absolutely lost it when - inexplicably - the Deliverance theme was dropped. And it was the Tutts and Motocade boys who were piggy-squealing the loudest... Anyway, I digress - I'd never seen them in action before and am happy to report they totally rock the party, both on and off the stage.

And Saturday, I finally caught the Hot Grits. I'd fallen instantly in love with their track Formula One after catching it on 95bFM, and this was the first opportunity I'd had to check them out in person. And I fell instantly in love with the band. So good to see the real emergence here of large ensemble bands playing my kinda music - funk, not half-arsed dub styles. This band rocks so much I managed to re-injure my broked-up back jumping about to them. Cheers guys.

So yes, after months of chilled living, I am back in the bars with a vengeance. I did have a moment of worrying realisation on Friday night, dripping with sweat and dancing like a loon while bruising my thighs banging a tambourine, that at 30-something I'm probably approaching the stage where this kind of daft behaviour just ain't allowed any more. But as that famous twat-in-the-hat Jay Kay once said, if I like it, I just do it. Or something.

Bring on the long weekend.

Inner city life

2006-04-05T07:50:00.000+01:00

Good lord! Forgive me, dear readers, for giving Timaru far, far too much time at the top of the blog heap. Such a sinister township doesn't deserve even this level of ignominious 'fame'. I proffer my heartfelt apologies. Let us brush it under the carpet and move right along. Nothing to see here, folks (and how).

Anyway, on to better and brighter things - not too hard in this case. What's been going on in your world then? In mine it has been all change.

Nearly two months after flinging myself and vehicle headfirst down a bank, I have finally got around to moving from my isolated beachfront lair to a swanky pad in town.

While it's sad to be leaving my wonderful flattie, Guy of Bognor, behind in the West Coast, I've definitely done my dash in Piha, wild, windswept and beautiful though it is.

I've only been out there a handful of times since the accident, but the impact of the drive on my post-crash subconscious has been palpable. My shoulders are permanently in a state of nervous flux every time I tackle a bend - I've gone from Colin McRae cornering to an Aunt Mabel crawl. In fact, when I drove back into town for the last time last night, I'm sure I felt my fractured vertebrae breathe a sigh of relief, and I know my psyche cheered. (Although not as loudly as my poor beleaguered MG.)

But I digress, in a well-whingey fashion. Rock on! I'm geared up and ready to re-embrace city living.

The most immediate benefit I can see from my new, convenient housing arrangements is of course the ability to cab home without racking up a $200 fare. Naturally, this means I am heading out this weekend for the bender of all benders, the likes of which haven't been seen since I departed South London.

That cab is finally going to be caught, damn it - although at the rate I'll be staggering come Saturday, it won't have to drive fast to evade my clutches.

How I dearly wish I was not here

2006-03-17T19:49:00.000Z

This week I have been in Timaru.

Timaru, for overseas readers who are not aware of its existence (oh what blissful state) is a town of about 27,000 people on the east coast of New Zealand's South Island, approximately halfway between the cities of Christchurch and Dunedin.

What on earth 27,000 people find to do in Timaru is quite another matter.

In the words of that hoary old bard SP Morrissey, this is the coastal town they forgot to close down. This is the seaside town they forgot to bomb (Armageddon, come Armageddon come etc).

Each time I've passed through Timaru en route to somewhere better, it has been silent and grey, the townsfolk looking reproachfully at every vehicle that merely speeds through and banishes Timaru to a distant nightmare. I've always wondered why people would choose to live in such a miserable setting, and over the past few days I've had the chance to ask them.

Why here, I demand to know. What is it about this place that drew you here, that keeps you here. A few old codgers tell me about the superb salmon and trout fishing, but generally the answer is, without fail, Caroline Bay, an unprepossessing stretch of dreary coastline fronted by shabby houses, 1970s-style motels and - appropriately - a closed fun fair. This is, I'm told, Timaru's 'jewel in the crown'.

But hey, different strokes for different folks. I grew up in Nelson, home to some of the planet's most beautiful beaches, and live at Piha, another of the wonders of the world. Perhaps I've been spoiled.

What does set Timaru apart from being just another dull provincial Kiwi town is the sense of utter wretchedness and despair that sets in as soon as you set foot within the city limits.

Within minutes, my colleagues and I are frowning and sighing, everything seems an insurmountable burden and we lie awake at night in our 1970s-style Caroline Bay motel racked with such maudlin thoughts that surely we must slash our wrists with the bone-handled butter knife or furnish a noose in the wardrobe from the hairdryer flex. And we such happy-go-lucky people!

Over breakfast, I theorise out loud as to the cause of Timaru's evil vibes. Evidently, I surmise, the place has been built on the site of an ancient burial ground - and suddenly it's clear.

The furtive, cowering shopkeepers with their 'we don't take kindly to strangers here' attitudes, the zombie-trudge of the townsfolk, the sullen, sinister skies swirling continually overhead... We have walked into the set of a real-life Stephen King novel. How shall we ever escape?

I wish I had a rabbit in a hat with a bat

2006-03-14T05:03:00.002Z

Sorry it's all been a bit tumbleweed around here lately, but then this is New Zealand after all... [Inserts obligatory 'wink', doesn't really mean it; inserts another obligatory wink... oh forget it.]

I've been continuing my hobo lifestyle, sponging this week off the generosity of my employer (taking up temporary residence in her backyard studio) and off the generosity of my client (in various hotels around the country as we continue the Great Product Launch - and it is a seriously great product) because I'm too busy/lazy to sort out a flat.

The weekend was spent in Wellington, which regular readers will know I adore with all my heart, as far as NZ cities go. It's a fabulous little town and each time I return I discover more little nooks and crannies to explore.

Such as the "cultural heart of Porirua", Pataka - a staggeringly brilliant museum and art gallery I bet most Wellingtonians haven't even heard of. (I hadn't when I lived there, but then that was nearly 10 years ago so...) Anyway, it's just ace - check out the old telephone exchanges, the fabulous plastic tikis, the gorgeously intricate weaving on display...

And Dojo in Woodward Street - possibly some of the best Japanese I've had since leaving London. Even a simple thing like a spring roll takes on new meaning.

The only downside? I didn't remember to bring my hundreds of dollars worth of Real Groovy birthday vouchers with which I could have whiled away my downtime redeeming. Be warned, Auckland store - it's first on my to-do list as soon as everything else has been done.

PS: More MP3 action as soon as I stop living like a gypsy and get back to a proper broadband connection; for lord's sake, make my life easy and offer me a room - I'm just too busy/can't be arsed looking. In the meantime, I recommend you skip over to Tunes.co.uk and pick up a re-press of that Skee-Lo gem I Wish on 12", which surely belongs in any and all respectable record collections. Isn't that right, Frenchboy? :)

The geeks shall inherit the earth

2006-03-08T07:28:00.000Z

When I was 19, I lived in Wellington, and attended Victoria University (having recently transferred from Otago University, believing that my body could not physically tolerate one more pint of Speights - training that would stand my alcoholism in good stead later in life).

Arriving in Wellington, I hooked up with some old school friends, made new ones and settled into a year of boozing in nasty cheap Cuba St bars (Zebo's and Barney's anyone?), involving a number (a goodly number indeed) of very undesirable suitors along the way.

One of my bessie mates that year was a Nelson College for Girls classmate and fellow Classics scholar, T. We spent many a big night out on the lash and no doubt got up to many misdemeanours - not that I can remember any. Anyway, she was absolutely gorgeous and a lovely girl to boot.

One day she announced she'd met this chap and raved about him. In time, she duly introduced him... and I admit I was a bit disappointed. He was a little, skinny ginger, with not too much to say for himself. We spent a few nights out together on the turps, but I failed to see the dazzling charisma she described.

They stayed together, I went on to journalism school, T and I drifted apart.

Then on Monday I opened the paper to see a story on one of NZ's biggest business transactions in history, along with a photo of T's long-time love, the founder of the business. She'd told us they were still together, married and expecting a child. What she had omitted to include was the fact he was a MULTI-MILLIONAIRE and owned TradeMe.

I am now 31, with a long 'romantic' history - but while I love each and every one of my exes dearly, not one of them is a multi-millionaire. And I am still single. And green with envy.

Why didn't anyone tell me to go for the quiet, ginger ones?

New car, need flat

2006-03-04T08:16:00.000Z

Driving back out to Piha today (oh yeah, I bought a new car with the insurance payout - isn't she beautiful? <--) , I was struck with the same feeling I had when I first stepped out on my balcony and saw that famous view.

The gorgeous weather cast its glow over the whole city today, in fact - I almost ran off the road while roaring over the harbour bridge as the gloriousness of the gulf overwhelmed my senses. But as I've run off the road before and it wasn't much fun, I quickly grabbed hold of myself.

I tend to underestimate the beauty of this place I somewhat reluctantly live in - a month of working like a dog and living like a hobo on central-city-based friends' sofas has served to remove the blinkers from my eyes and remind me of the sheer beauty of this far-flung corner of the world.

Strange then, when my NZ surrounds has never seemed so awe-inspiring, that my yearning for London has returned with a vengeance. Mind you, work has kept me so busy of late I haven't had a moment to think about anything but the Great Product Launch - perhaps it's just finally having a moment to myself that has sent me ricocheting back to homesickland.

But enough already. Speaking of homes, I need a new one. The summer's almost gone and so I must retreat to the city. Ideally the perfect place will emerge in the Mt Eden area for myself and lovely flatmate-in-waiting Flicker, but if you have a desirable residence with a room with enough space for all my records, you know what to do...

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Back Downtown, Certain General (off the v. excellent New York Noise Vol 2)

Something for the weekend

2006-02-24T04:49:00.000Z

My ad of the moment (and no, of course I'm not biased).

And this blog. Rrrrrnnnnnnngh!

xx

Wrecked

2006-02-22T04:53:00.000Z

I went to see the car - or what remains of it after my Toyotacrobatics of two weeks ago - today. Check it out! Smashing!

A workmate is a big believer in spiritual guardians and, at the time I crashed, said she thought an angel must have been on my shoulder when I crashed.

Though looking at my vehicle - totally crushed except for a mysterious forcefield around the driver's seat - this 'angel' would have had to have been holding up the roof.

Smacked fascia!

From Brixton to, erm, Brightwater

2006-02-20T07:41:00.000Z

On Sunday, I turned 31. It's just such a nothing birthday, isn't it?

But not a nothing birthday like 22 - the anticlimactic year after the "key of the door", whatever that means, when you've spent all your student loan on a keg party or done the civilised dinner with family friends lark. (Of course I did the keg thing.)

Not a nothing birthday like 24 - one year away from being "closer to being 50 than you are to being born".

Not a nothing birthday like 28. And what the hell is 28 good for?

Those birthdays were meaningless but magnificent.

31 simply sucks. Especially when your 30th raged on for three days - incapacitating half of Brixton Hill and culminating in the dodgy images you see in this post - and your 31st is spent escorting your dear old mum around the Brightwater Country Fair, resulting in a red nose not gained from imbibing liver-destroying quantities of alcohol and ingesting half of Colombia's GDP, but from getting tipsy on honey mead and falling asleep in the sunshine.

And when your first full day of being 31 is spent howling down the phone to some imbecile robots from your insurance company and Avis Rental Cars, but more on that later.

Anyway, I'm now officially in my early 30s, and I'm not happy about it.

The pub I lost (was a good pub)

2006-02-10T04:01:00.000Z

The Whitehorse reportedly shuts its doors after Saturday and may never be the same again - it's changing hands and an end of an era may be upon us.

I will be quietly sobbing into my pillow (actually, rocking out as much as a broken back permits to James Brown at the Civic, but) at the news a seminal part of my life may be lost forever - all those Southsidesoul Sundays that became sick-day Mondays, the 'quick pints' that turned into lock-ins, the five-second introductions that became two-year love affairs, the hundreds of people who became much as part of the fabric of our own lives as of the Horse's, the feeling you could stand up on a table banging a saucepan in a spangled disco suit and no one would bat an eyelid (but bang a wooden spoon to the beat instead), the knowledge that, brassic or brassed-up, happy or heartbroken, here was a place where everybody knew your name...

I digress. Anyway, were I not an invalid confined to barracks at the arse end of the world, I'd be there on Saturday with hell's bells on. And how...

Tom G, Asad and the Reverberations crew will be supplying Saturday's aural excitations, so get along and raise a glass to the old nag for me. And in tribute, we've brought together some of our favourite examples of photographic evidence collected over the many years we worshipped at its sticky, Sambucca-smeared altar - check out the nonsense here.

INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Glorious, Diefenbach [MP3]

Join the car crash set

2006-02-07T02:55:00.000Z

It's often claimed that your life flashes before your eyes when you're about to die. I'm not in a position to confirm this, however, because when I performed my double loop-the-loop in a Toyota Corolla at 8 o'clock this morning in spectacular fashion, somewhat miraculously I did not die.

I still don't know how I did not die. But as I blinked into the blinding sunlight then swerved to avoid that oncoming bus, hit a gravel patch at 90km/h, careered into a bank, ricocheted to the other side of the road like a metallic blue pinball, smashed into another bank and flipped twice, landing upside down in a tree - as I watched the world rotating in excruciating slow motion, heard the crushing steel and felt the steering wheel, all I could think was, "So this is it, I'm going to die." And I was strangely OK with that, as long as it was nice and quick and didn't hurt.

When I opened my eyes, I briefly wondered why the afterlife was the wrong way up. Did this mean I'd gone 'down' instead of 'up'? (Well, it's what I'd always predicted.)

But it's surprising how quickly that survival instinct kicks in, even when you think you're dead. On autopilot I unbuckled my seatbelt and crawled across the windscreen to kick the passenger door out, wanting to get a move on in case the petrol tank decided to explode.

"My god, you're alive!" a local Samaritan gasped as I staggered into view. This was good, because until that point I hadn't been too sure. Sadly, it also served to remind my back that it was broken, and I collapsed in an ungainly heap.

Luckily, it turned out my broken back was merely two fractured vertebrae (anterior compression fractures, if you must know), and after a thrilling day of X-rays, examinations, tests and hospital-grade cuppas, I'm pretty much back in the land of the walking (and living) and ready to rock, courtesy of my good buddies Tramal, Ibuprofen and Codeine.

I'd love to say I emerged from the whole ordeal without a scratch on me, but that would be untrue, as there's a razor-thin gash on my knee from where I crawled over the shattered (but still intact, go safety glass) windscreen. However, on recalling this morning's Toyotacrobatics, I think I might just be the luckiest person on the planet. Looks like my number's not up yet.

INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Warm Leatherette, The Normal [MP3]

Space, man

2006-02-02T06:49:00.000Z

"Space saver" tyres. What gives?

Yesterday, the trusty Levin (read: pile of shit) and I suffered a puncture (read: careered up onto a kerb too fast while driving the wrong way down a one-way street). Normally I'd change the tyre myself, but it was raining and I was wearing heels. And how do you work this jack thingy again?

So the roadside rescue chap duly came out, retrieved the spare tyre from the boot and performed the swap, before issuing me with a friendly warning not to dilly nor dally in purchasing a new tyre, because the spare was a "space saver".

Now, back in the days of my 1966 Hillman Imp, tyres were tyres, and the worst that could come of using the spare would be that the hubs wouldn't match. You'd probably die from the engine fumes seeping in through the slightly-ajar back windscreen, but at least you wouldn't plunge off the road to certain death after inhaling rubber fragments from the spontaneous combustion of your temporary "space saver" tyre.

I examined the "space saver", but to my admittedly untrained eye, it seemed to take up just as much space as a normal tyre. So I turned to the experts.

"Father Face," I asked, "what purpose do 'space savers' serve?", hoping to draw on his many years of executive service at Firestone (before they started making the infamous "death tyres", I hasten to add).

"Well," he said, scratching his thinning pate (or so it seemed over the phone). "They... save space, don't they?"

When pressed on how exactly, it transpired Papa F could find no valid argument, and was forced to agree what a waste of time - and indeed space - such tyres are.

Glad that's settled then. And on that spacey note, have one of the best classic disco tracks ever written.

INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Dancing In The Outer Space, Atmosfear [MP3]

Train in vain

2006-01-31T05:28:00.000Z

Temporary ex-pat Damian Public Address appears to be having a blast Down In The Tube Station At Midnight - and in experiencing such, erm, bliss, has also discovered the uncanny iPod random play function. As previously detailed on these pages, this is the spookily perceptive phenomenon where your MP3 somehow manages to throw up a shuffled playlist that perfectly reflects your mood.

As any London tourist Going Underground quickly realises, G'N'R's Welcome To The Jungle is apt indeed when riding those dungeon-dwelling locomotives. There are many things I miss about London, but three hours stuck in a stinking carriage beneath Oxford Circus in June sure ain't one of them.

Anyway, a quick scan of my iPod reveals a few more chirpy ditties Dazza might like to add to his Tube Hell playlist, such as, perhaps:

Caught Out There (I Hate You So Much Right Now) - Kelis
Inner City Blues (Make Me Wanna Holler) - Marvin Gaye
Happiness Is Just Round The Bend - Main Ingredient
Get The Funk Out Ma Face - Brothers Johnson
Cold Sweat - James Brown

But not Happy People.

[Speaking of unhappy people - check the email from Mikey Dread at Peter Mac's site. Calling Big Day Out HQ - doing your homework always helps...)

More sex!

2006-01-26T08:37:00.000Z

Once upon a time, this blog had purpose, it had meaning, it had adventure and structure (drunken adventures falling over structures admittedly, but), it had track lists and gig lists, pictures and music. It had, dare I say it, soul.

Those days are gone now, because I'm on assignment to the arse end of the world where nothing much ever happens, and even if it did, I'd be too damn busy to do it any justice.

But isn't it nice to know some people are still flying that blogging flag high? I'm talking about you, James Headphone Sex, and a happy one-year anniversary to you, sir.

James and I go way back to, well, at least July, when the man known as Headphone Sex contacted Smacked Face with a spare ticket to Sigur Ros at Somerset House. Never one to turn down a free lunch, and certainly not a pass to worship Iceland's finest in London's most glorious setting, I jumped like the Pointer Sisters at the chance.

Since then, James and his ear-to-ear gurn have been a regular fixture at our parties and his extensively excellent musings have been an even more regular feature on my browser. No one does music like this dude - hell, he knew them Arctic Monkeys before they were famous...

So in true MP3 spirit, and having seen you cut a rug in spectacular boogie fashion on more than one occasion, James, I see your first anniversary and raise you a glass and one killer disco tune. Here's to Headphone Sex and lots of it.

INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Music Is My Life, Labelle [MP3]

PS: Make sure you go to www.headphonesex.CO.UK, not .com, as I just did. Erm...

Putting the wind up

2006-01-24T08:13:00.000Z

So it's blowing a bona fide gale outside, the power supply's been patchy at best and half my carefully-tended tomato and capsicum plants are halfway to Australia by now. The great Kiwi summer this ain't.

Luckily I've discovered Gaz's Rockin' Blues: Club Classics which has just hit the online shops, so I'm ditching the headwind and rain and taking that Skinhead Train [MP3] back to last year's Notting Hill Carnival to rock out in the blazing London sunshine to Gaz's skanking sound system. (And to get my digital camera swiped from my bag mid-skank... but we'll ignore that bit.)

Hot dang, don't ska bring the sunshine? Alas no, not in this case. Considering I've just seen the front doormat and half the fence fly past my first-floor window, it might be better to take Etta James' advice and get funking below ground In The Basement [MP3].

It's actually getting a little scary now. Hmmm.

Big Day Out = not a bad day out

2006-01-23T07:22:00.000Z

Could have been a whole heap better of course - generally I prefer not to have to queue for half an hour while 1,000 people bottleneck trying to get from one stage to another thanks to some conveniently-erected fences restricting passage to a 1m-wide thoroughfare.

I'd also like to be able to get myself a beer to enjoy watching luscious bands such as the Magic Numbers in the sunshine without having to queue to get back through the tiny thoroughfare, then to queue for another hour to gain access to the tiny fenced-off bar area because a) some fools decided to make it an all-ages festival and b) Kiwi kids are too ratbaggy to be able to be sensible around an open bar.

How I mocked my co-workers when they admitted they intended to remain in our company's corporate box and watch the acts from their lofty pinnacle, deriding them as 'pussy-arse soft cocks', claiming I would be down in the thick of it, getting amongst it. How they laughed as I was forced to eat my words and retire to my box seat defeated, a sweaty, irritable wreck seeking only air conditioning and solace in a pint of gin and tonic.

But anyway, whinge ends. It was a pretty good seat and not being 'amongst it' didn't stop me pogoing like a fool (apparently snapped mid-Iggy by TV3 News for maximum posterity shame). And the side-by-side stage was a nifty innovation - although it did make for amusing viewing watching one half of the crowd rock their socks off while the other side stood stock-still awaiting the next act, much like a very large flock of penguins.

Highlights:

Iggy & The Stooges - the first half-hour at least. I was so excited at finally seeing the man I almost cried. Definitely tailed off towards the end though - and two renditions of I Wanna Be Your Dog? Sure it's a fantastic track, but where was Passenger, Niteclubbing, the mighty Search & Destroy? Hmmm. Ever get the feeling you've been cheated? (Although Chuck makes the valid point that Passenger and Niteclubbing were solo tracks and not Stooges songs. Well spotted.)
Soulwax - 15 minutes of James Murphy mentalness warmed us up a treat, although I'm sure 90% of the sweaty muscle-shirted ravers in the Boiler Room didn't know the hell had hit them when Mr Murphy dropped the 5-minute unsynched drum break. Belgium's finest unleashed a sonic electro-metal blast, leaving the Kiwi crowd not sure whether to neck another pill or throw the goat. Top stuff. [You can check it here.]
The Franz - up there with the best I've seen them play. 40 Feet, Do You Want To and Matinee would have torn the roof off if Ericsson Stadium had a roof - and let's face it, it was such a sweaty hellhole it's a damn fine thing it didn't. Gawd bless Alex Kapranos for his superlative rock'n'roll antics (which made me holler myself hoarse, I've only just recovered my voice now) and gawd bless wee bassist Bob for continuing to look just as angelically bemused as he has done for the past three years.
Shihad - I'm not a fan but watching 20,000 people mosh in unison to Home Again... Who wouldn't get the tiniest of lumps in their throat?
The Living End - rockabilly-meets-punk-meets-ska. Yeah it's for the kids, but these guys can really play their instruments. And that includes a bona fide double bass! Rockin'!
The Magic Numbers - the two songs we managed to catch before the desire for beer took its toll (see above). As usual. We did manage to catch this though. Ahhhh.

Ain't no good bringin' no jive to me

2006-01-18T09:32:00.000Z

Lizzie of the comments box asks what one might do on a Saturday night in Auckland. Where, she continues, are the young folk to get their dancing shoes on? Where, in short, do the children play?

Dear, sweet Lizzie, you've come to the wrong place. In Smacked Face Land 2006, Saturday nights mean only a quiet pint down at the Piha RSA before returning to the porch to load up the shotgun and indulge in some quiet whittlin'. I'm told dancing is in fact still considered the devil's work in these far-flung, simple isles.

Sorry I can't help. I lead a sad and tragic existence these days, in my self-imposed temporary exile. I may crawl out of the house tomorrow night to see if the rumours of a secret Meg White DJ set are true, then onwards to the Big Day Out to screech along to Search & Destroy, but then it's straight back to the shack. There's a rocking chair with my name on it.

INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Southern Can Mama, Blind Willie McTell [mp3]

All hands on deck

2005-12-08T20:12:00.000Z

I didn't come back to New Zealand to spend three hours a day commuting to and from work - I left that behind at Brixton tube station. Or so I thought.

Because contrary to all logic, I've decided to shift in to Sir Guy of Bognor's hilltop paradise on Auckland's far-flung West Coast.

The 90-minute peak-time commute is going to be a proper bitch - and my floozie boozy lifestyle will be severely curtailed (the treacherous Piha road isn't something you want to do after even one beer), but hopefully my road rage will be mollified by the time I get home to my deck... and soak up that view.

Hippie days are here again.

(And yeah, sorry for being so goddamn dull. That's NZ for you.)

Clap clap for the handicap

2005-11-25T11:14:00.000Z

Crikey, this blog is two years old today. It seems like only yesterday I wrote those faltering first words.

And here I am in 2005, sitting alone at a computer on a Friday night on the other side of the planet, while tickets to the Quantic Soul Orchestra go to waste (thanks to the after-effects of imbibing too many champagnes and cocktails at yesterday's staff Christmas lunch - the tune has changed but the song remains the same, it would seem...)

Older, fatter, certainly not wiser. It's been a worthwhile two years then. ;)

I see dead people

2005-11-23T11:52:00.000Z

I've been asked to submit a "Top 5 for 2005" for a local rag here. It wouldn't usually be a tough call, but when you've been in the UK for most of the year, it's hard to avoid innocuously sounding like a "ooh, hark at me, I've been living abroad!" wanker to a Kiwi audience.

A UK Top 5 Moments would be easy. But what proud NZer (or Brit, for that matter) could give a two tosses about Jen's reminiscences of tears at Glastonbury, goosebumps over Bobby Gillespie losing it in a fit of Kill All Hippies rage, the Metro Riots rocking the Camden Proud gallery, the night George Clinton seized her soul or the evening the Whitehorse, erm, 'thrilled' to the sound of the Southsidesoul All-Stars on ridiculous home-made percussion, saucepans and cowbell? (That's right, no one. I'll get my coat.)

Anyway, after much thought, I've worked out what my submission will be: dead people - the ones who departed Planet Earth this year having left it a better place, at least as far as I'm concerned. Morbid it may be, but I think it's time I paid my dues.

I've got my 5 (make that 20) sorted. How about you?

[PS: Thanks mightily to eagle-eyed reader and Odyssey fan Mr Higgins, who sent this fabulous flyer of said glam rock superstars (see below post) - cheers pal. And a big sobby kiss to Janey McC, who's left me to be with her Scottish lover - just don't let him flash that skin sporran too often, lassie. xx]

Lost odyssey

2005-11-10T16:18:00.000Z

Driving home last night, I caught 10 minutes of a National Radio profile on a long-lost Christchurch glam rock band called Odyssey. Nope, I'd never heard of them either, but by the time I parked the car in my Sandringham garage, I was their biggest fan.

There aren't any recordings of Odyssey in the shops these days. Even the National Radio link - the first one on the list when you Google Odyssey+christchurch+glam+rock+band - brings up a dead page.

Apparently any archived TV footage of the band was taped over years ago - a move somewhat reminiscent of the BBC recording over classic Dr Who episodes to save money. (I still hold a secret hope that my 1988 It's Academic appearance will one day emerge from the TVNZ vaults - but considering I was then sporting braces, acne and a seriously evil perm, I guess I wouldn't mind too much if my 15 minutes of fame had had to be sacrificed to accommdate the 2004 Upper Hutt NZ Idol heats.)

Regarding Odyssey, this subtle eradication of Kiwi culture is both a shame and a tragedy, for you have to wonder just how much else has gone the same way, to be rediscovered and dredged up as "secret histories" if they're lucky, or more likely to live on only in the hearts of the people who were there, consigned to dusty shoeboxes and long-winded pub tales.

Listening to these ordinary 50-something men get joyfully nostalgic about their brief moment of 1970s glory made me think just how many one-time heroes, legends in their own lunchtimes, we must meet in the course of an average day.

Does the middle-aged chap at the bank bore his family about the time he was known all over town for his beatnik poetry? The faded beauty behind the counter at the chemist smile secretly to herself when she recalls her modelling days in Swinging London, when she once gave Brian Jones a blowjob? A homesick 30-year-old blogger groan as she remembers the night she got a standing ovation for her Goldfinger rendition at Gary's Garyoke at the Swan in E15?

It's something worth remembering when the mundanities of life get you down - your own little rock star moment to make you smile and to tease your kids with.

"Get out of here," they'll say. "You're too old, fat and ridiculous, you daft fool."

"Yeah," you'll reply, "but I was pretty hot in my day. Honest."

But they'll never believe you, of course - especially when they dig out that It's Academic video...

Where the Levin is easy

2005-11-04T08:25:00.000Z

While not quite the trans-Europe express, my new job does offer me the chance to travel a bit, so this week I've spent most of it lurking with intent in Christchurch and Wellington.

Christchurch we can safely sum up in the words of my colleague: "Thinly-sliced white bread". I've always loathed its misguided aspirations to middle-classdom and its sinister fascist undertones, and so it was with welcome relief I was seconded to its murky "Mother England" depths for one night only, although my stay was unfortunately extended by two hours after my flight was delayed in the early hours of Tuesday morn due to fog.

But nuff said, for Wednesday offered the prospect of 36 hours in Wellington, my favourite city in these isolated climes. I spent four years here, way back when, and although they weren't by any means the best four years of my life, whenever I set foot in the city I feel I'm home. (Or the closest thing to home to London town, because let's be honest, I'm still pining for the place.)

Highlight of my fleeting visit, apart from breakfast at Fidels and after-work drinks at the Matterhorn - with a long-lost designer type I'd once 'dated' (read: got up to no good in the back of a Ford on a couple of occasions) in my school days - was a shopping marathon of epic proportions (given the time and budget contraints) on Cuba Street.

A trip to Hunters & Collectors saw me facing racks and racks of must-have vintage frocks and fripperies. A good hour or so spent in the changing rooms later, having enlisted two staff to assist in my decision, and I emerged with a gorgeous halter-neck frock for summer BBQ action, as well as a 'state house' print T-shirt and a singlet bearing the glorious words, 'Levin Joggers Club 1984'. (Everything's about the Levin these days, and I'm pleased to say the vehicle is still serving me well - did I mention its registration plate is ZE****? - which as NZ's biggest Ze Records fan, I'm more than chuffed about.)

And then it was on to Slow Boat Records, where less than $100 secured me what can only be described as a motherload of booty: The Stones' Gimme Shelter, The Commodores' Machine Gun (surely one of the best bass-driven funk LPs of all time), Harvest For The World by the Isley Brothers, The Beach Boys' Good Vibrations, a Housemartins compilation, 20 Solid Golds Hits 1976/77, some Manhattan Transfer, Fleetwood Mac, Mick Jagger's She's The Boss (for classic cover purposes only), Aretha's Greatest Hits, and a handful of 7"s including Chicago, The Jacksons, Steve Harley & Cockney Rebel, and Ian Dury. Not to mention Highlights of NZ Trotting Cups 1951-70.

The highlight was, however, discovering Minnie Riperton's Perfect Angel for $7, which hasn't left my turntable since. A dedication on the sleeve, from "A very special fan" reads:
"When Minnie sings I feel my insides rush and quiver. She touches a place in me where no one else can go. It's hard to believe how incredibly high and beautiful Minnie can sing. But I know her, and I believe. Sometimes I just lie back and try to imagine how sweet her soul can be."

Which sums it up better than I ever could.

And speaking of essential purchases, the Gang Of Four remix album on the 2CD Return The Gift is rocking me to the core. Crank Go Home Productions' reworking of To Hell With Poverty up to 11, and it's like being back at Optimo, except in this reverie I'm atop a table, banging a bass drum to within an inch of its life, and yelping like a wolf cub glimpsing the moon for the very first time.

Sweet dreams indeed.

Beach buoyed

2005-10-23T08:53:00.000+01:00

Like a dog who just can't help returning to its own steaming chunder, so it is with me and this blog. So enough talk of last posts and throwing in the towel - it's fairly safe to say you haven't seen the last of me yet, though thankfully my self-indulgent ravings will for the time being be confined to the 'sometimes/rarely' category due to an unbelievably busy (and fabulous) job and only occasional access to my flatmate's Mac.

There have been a few ill-advised false starts in making the return to Smacked Facedom - my last entry was hurriedly taken down after I saw a local gossip column knocking seven shades of shit out of another blogger in a similar profession to mine and got a bad case of the fear. Hopefully this entry will last slightly longer.

Anyway, New Zealand eh? Or, as we say in the islands, Nu Zild aaaay? [Note rising inflection at end] I'm not going to lie, I'm missing London like I miss flights - frustratingly and often. Friends have sent spirits-boosting messages telling me how dark, cold and damp it's got as the winter settles in in London town - but out of the 40-odd days I've now been in Auckland, there have only been five or so days it hasn't chucked it down.

Of the five or so days it hasn't chucked it down, however, the weather has been bloody stunning. Like today, for instance, which I spent surfing at Piha in scorching sunshine. I do of course use the word surfing in its loosest possible context - a more accurate description would be "lying down on a surfboard and skimming along the top of small breaks before attempting to stand up then belly-flopping off in a loud and shameful manner to the scornful mirth of the sunbathing public". 'Hanging 10', in my case, was more like 'banging 10' (I managed to scrape all the varnish off my toenails), but still, good times were had and besides, it has to be more advisable than propping up a South London bar (where no doubt the order of the day would have been 'chang-ing 10').

And I do have to admit Auckland has become a whole lot more fun since I've been able to re-explore it, due to the acquisition of a car, a Toyota Corolla with the hilarious model name 'Levin'. (For the benefit of non-NZ residents, Levin is a famously crap (see picture, left) North island town, its only claim to fame presumably being its proximity to Foxton, a settlement that for many years announced its presence with large yellow signs sporting a cartoon fox wearing a top hat and the slogan "Foxton - The Fox Town of New Zealand!" [There are no foxes in New Zealand - Ed.])

And while it's no substitute for living next door to the Brixton Academy, I can at least find some solace in Auckland's two big music events of the summer. The Big Day Out in January features Iggy and The Stooges, the White Stripes, the Magic Numbers, the Franz, Kings of Leon, Soulwax and rumours even of the Pixies; whereas SploreSplore (my birthday weekend in Feb) plays host to a killer line-up featuring... Actually, I don't think they've announced it yet so best I don't ruin the surprise. But trust me, it's good, DAMN good for down under.

So it's all... OK, I guess. And set to get better. But sunshine ain't nothing without my people to share it with - so everyone should do a little social service by coming down here for a summer holiday to help me ease the homesickness. As the mighty Ace Spectrum would sing, don't send nobody else - come yourself. x

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehn, goodbye

2005-09-11T14:57:00.000+01:00

This is the end, beautiful friends... Smacked Face is a Londoner, not an Aucklander - there's no point blogging a dead horse. It's time to saddle up the old nag one last time and ride off into the sunset.

Before I go though, one last favour - I'm homeless and destitute here in Auckland. I'll be calling upon the good people at the bFM Accommodation Guide come Monday, but to anyone with links down under, put the word out and find us a nice pad, will you? Ta.

Taking Reilly's advice in the comments box below, I may one day return, in mostly MP3 format, to this site: smackedarse.blogspot.com. But that depends on finding a flat, getting broadband and, erm, a computer. Etc. Etc. For now, the final curtain.

I'd like to thank Reilly, Mses Cam and Spiller, Quentishtown, 'Cough-Up' Fleming, Davey D, Junior Cow, Scotty, Jake, Tahlee and all the maniacs at the Whitehorse, DC, Chuck Pettifogspot, MikeyRay, Nick Speakers, Ms Mursal, New York City Boy and Girl, Ms Green, the Scottish Dobber, the Welshman, the Frenchman, Pretty Nick, Ms Smith, Uncle Gay and Northern Monkeyboy, the Pigeonholders, Eli B, Tom, Asad and Ravi Reverberations, Charlene Ramsay, Tokyo James, Jimmysupreme, Si Grigg, James Headphone Sex, Papa Cool and the Glaswegians, Twitch and Wilkes at Optimo, the Friends With Benefits, the Random Friendsters, all the sidebar bloggers, anyone else who's made an appearance on these pages I've inadvertently left out, my party people: the Booze, Disco, Etc crew, the Buy None Get One Free crew, the Southsidesoul-diers... But most of all, the venerable Ms G, without whom none of this would have been possible - or at least, not half as much fun.

See you in the next life then. xxx

Making the transition

2005-09-08T22:01:00.000+01:00

So here I am in sunny, small-town Nelson - and believe me, it's sunny. I fell asleep in the sunshine yesterday afternoon and woke up with a tan. And it's still practically winter...

Taking some time out with the mother module has proved to be a good decision - it's given me time to recover from the sickness and the jetlag, and to acclimatise to being back in the motherland, without feeling like I should be out catching up with people and hitting the bars and cafes of Auckland, because I'm not quite ready to step back into the social whirl just yet. (And, because Mum's British, I can whinge to my heart's content about my homesickness for dear old London town without incurring the wrath of angry patriots.)

The New York stopover was also a wise move. As well as finally realising my long-held desire to see the Big Apple, it's also been invaluable in easing the London-Auckland transition. I'll explain in a minute, but first, allow me to wax lyrical about New York, New York, because it was mind-blowing.

If you're going to stay in New York, you could do a lot worse than the heart of the West Village, in the very street where Sarah Jessica Parker's character was supposed to have resided in the banal tripe Sex And The City. On every corner there's a bar or cafe - or in our case, a Marc Jacobs store - and the food is simply incredible. Hopefully New York City Boy and Girl will fill me in on all the names of the places we ate and drank (Jeollado does sashimi so fresh it's a wonder it's not still flapping, that I do recall), but wow, what a gourmet's paradise. Brunching, lunching, dining and late-night drinking -I'm amazed they didn't just pump me full of hydrogen and send me home blimp-style. (And let's not even mention how I lost my heart to Dean & Deluca...)

But yes, NYC rocks, especially when you've got local guidance. It's incredible how much you can experience of the real culture when you're not trying to do the tourist thing, but are just happy to wander about and go with the flow. With no agenda, I was free to spend two heavenly hours sitting and watching the fabulous roller disco in Central Park, as the DJ kicked out such classics as MFSB's Love Is The Message, Jimmy 'Bo' Horne's Spank and Hamilton Bohannon's Let's Start The Dance (my calling is obviously as a roller disco DJ - Rollerjen must ride again!). Big thanks to NYC Girl for the Lower East Side vintage clothes shopping tips, and how happy am I that I got to see CBGB before it's lost for ever.

Anyway, my point about my Big Apple stopover was that it really highlighted what London lacks. Don't get me wrong, I love London to bits and always will, but when faced with New York's genuine friendliness, openness and helpfulness, you realise what a harsh, cold, repressed city London can be. And as I sat in the blazing sunshine enjoying a super-relaxed and delicious New York brunch before heading to the airport, I realised this eye-opener was exactly what I needed to keep the blues at bay.

That feeling was only reinforced yesterday, as I walked into 'town' (ahem) here in Nelson to do the necessary bureaucratic shit involved in relocating - renewing my driver's licence, reviving my bank account, getting a NZ mobile number... I did it all in half an hour, and that included the walk to and from Mum's place.

And when the homesickness kicks in and I wail for the London I left behind, I just have to think about things like this, and realise it'll all be OK.

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Transition, Underground Resistance

Gone but I haven't forgotten you

2005-09-07T04:57:00.000+01:00

A quick post from the delightful confines of Auckland Airport as I jet off to be nursed better by Mum, having contracted a killer throat infection on the night of my going-away party... which was just absolutely bloody marvellous... and terribly sad... and wonderfully happy... and amazing and fantastic and possibly the best send-off a girl could have imagined. Thank you all, you little beauts.

My three days in the Village in New York City were fabulous, of course - and when I'm rich I, too, am moving there. But more on that later.

And New Zealand? Well, it was 24 degrees out on the deck today, a perfect cure for the jetlag induced by the worst flight ever courtesy of American Airlines (and a lovely one courtesy of Qantas). But I'm still cringing at the Kayway ek-zents, and I feel like I've stepped back in time a decade - and yes, I cried my eyes out for an hour at International Arrivals this morning. But I'll get over it.

The final post follows soon... xxxx

Wobbly

2005-09-01T01:38:00.000+01:00

(Continuing on a theme...) See, I really wanted to go out on a bang, with - for once - a series of intelligently written, acerbic social satires, in order to leave something vaguely worthy for posterity. But I'm rapidly turning into a bag of emotional jelly, and can only compare myself to Montgomery Burns in his 'radioactive alien' mode ("I bring you... love!") - and, like Mr Burns' flying monkeys, all thoughts of intelligent commentary have gone out the window (and landed with a 'thunk').

Because I'm leaving my mates. And when a quick, casual meal down the road for a couple of pals suddenly turns into an impromptu dinner party for a dozen or more, and your local opens up again for one final round and singalong, then you realise what a truly wonderful bunch they are.

Hmmm. Getting sentimental. Time for bed.

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Going Back To My Roots, Richie Havens [MP3]

Last exit to Brooklyn

2005-08-31T14:20:00.000+01:00

I had high hopes for the final days of Smacked Face. There were literary symphonies dying to be written, gentle odes to London a-plenty - in fact, I intended to document each and every highlight of my time in this dirty old town. And there have been many.

But there's no time. Instead, all I can post today is a desperate plea for accommodation suggestions in New York this weekend. My last-minute departure has left me high and dry with nowhere to lay my weary head, and everything cheap and cool in the East Village is booked up. In fact, everywhere in Manhattan seems to be booked up - it's bloody Labor Day, innit! Brooklyn? Further afield?

Help!

Always trust your instincts

2005-08-29T11:57:00.000+01:00

I didn't want to go to Carnival today - I hate Carnival, I always have a rubbish time, or something's gets nicked and the day becomes one big downer. But, much against my better judgment, my rubber arm was twisted.

I didn't want to take my brand-spanking-new digital camera, only just received from the insurance company after the last one was dropped on the floor of the Whitehorse (that one being a replacement itself for the one taken in our recent burglary). But, much against my better judgment, my rubber arm was twisted.

And you know what - the one moment my bag wasn't clutched tightly to my chest, when I raised my arm for 10 seconds to shield my eyes from the sun and search for a missing friend, some little shit quietly unzipped the side pocket and made off with my brand-spanking-new camera.

I'm going to amputate that rubber arm.

Keeping it real

2005-08-28T22:30:00.000+01:00

This time next week, I won't be here.

It's a sobering thought that's been at the forefront of my mind all weekend. I'd like to say I've made the most of my last London weekend for a while, but I'd only be half-right. Today was literally sobering, as I nursed a king-sized Jagermeister-induced hangover, spent packing and grabbing last-minute bargains from Primark (you may mock, but check their £6 wrap dresses - and there's no way I'm spending more than a shiny English tenner for a one-season military crop jacket), rather than whooping it up at Carnival.

Yesterday, however... Now that's a different story. I started the day with coffee in Green Park, had a last blast with my fave facialist, met the Kiwi whanau for sensational brunch at Peter Gordon's Providores, sunk a pint in the sunshine, raided Selfridges, Topshop and H&M with Ms G, then headed back south to drink far too much of the afore-mentioned 35% proof liquor. (Not the greatest end to the day, but still...)

It's getting hard to keep the emotions in check now, though, and from here on in I think we can expect more crying-in-public scenarios such as that on the 133 bus this evening, watching one of the summer's most beautiful sunsets from an almost tranquil Brixton Hill.

Luckily, London has a canny knack of bringing you back down to earth with a bang and ensuring you don't get unbearably maudlin - take, for instance, yesterday's weepy moment. I travelled up on the Tube with the businessman who's taken to dressing like John Steed from The Avengers since the July bombings, in order to facilitate conversation - and therefore a better sense of community - between passengers. A band on his hat said, 'Come up and say hello', so - unlike the rest of the carriage, who were studiously ignoring him - I did just that.

The old me might have written him off as a proper daftie, but there's something kinda lovely and quirky and sweet about his gesture, and - shock, horror - it made me a bit emotional. As I exited Green Park station, I could feel my eyes starting to brim as I reflected on this bizarre, beautiful city of ours. Ah, London, I sighed...

Then I turned the corner and promptly stood in a huge pool of sick.

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Love Sick, Orange Juice [MP3]
(Buy the ace Glasgow School album now!)

There she goes

2005-08-25T23:47:00.000+01:00

Somebody spare me - I'm going to be a wreck by D Day...

It was off to Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds at Ally Pally tonight, courtesy of the Scottish Dobber (a wee going-away present much appreciated, sweetheart). From the moment we stagger(Lee)ed up the hill to the Palace and looked out over London, I was feeling emotionally wobbly. For the first time, the full realisation of the week's events hit me - in nine days' time, I'll be in New York. Yay. En route to New Zealand. Yikes.

But anyway. We arrived in time to hear Sons & Daughters screech out their last song - the acoustics were ear-splittingly terrible, but thankfully the bar (as always) provided sanctuary. A couple of pints later, and the roar went up from next door. We chucked our plastic cups and ran, to hear Mr Cave launch into a straight-off-the-bat, take-no-prisoners rendition of Get Ready For Love. Losing the boys along the way, Ms O'B and I squirmed our way through the crowd to secure the usual front-right positions with a perfect view of the sinisterly sexy Cave stalking the stage.

As happens at every gig I attend, I fell in love. This particular love affair first sunk its hooks on New Year's Day this year when, after a big night at Optimo in Glasgow and as a novice in the ways of worship of the Dark Lord, Reilly took it upon himself to educate me with an afternoon of music videos, in particular Stagger Lee on high rotate. I was in thrall to the Wolfman then and I am utterly at his mercy now.

I couldn't give you a set list - I know the Ship Song got an outing, as did Supernaturally, an unimaginably powerful track Be Still something(?), O Children, and the final track, the one that finally brought on the waterworks, There She Goes, My Beautiful World. Sure, the gig was patchy in parts, but I was blown away., not least by the Nosferatu-like shadows Cave cast on the Alexandra Palace walls.

The usual waiting-15-minutes-for-the-encore shenanigans followed (why bother? - we all know they're coming back on, it's just an ego trip really, isn't it?), but by the time they re-emerged, I felt a need for my own company, so I made my excuses and ducked out to the loo...

Except I actually went outside, to sit in perfect solitude on a park bench and be with my thoughts - and the view. It's a rare occurence to see London from such a great height. From my vantage point I could see right across the city, meaning I've now viewed it from every angle - from the east, a high-rise in Bethnal Green; west, the 10th floor of the Trellick Tower; south, my apartment on Streatham Hill; and now, finally, north.

The lights of a dozen airplanes circled overhead like flies, but London didn't look like the grim carrion it might have during the day. From here, lit up against the blackness, it looked like every other city I've been to, beautiful places - Paris, Barcelona, Sydney... It reminded me of looking out over Auckland from Mt Eden, but also - and I don't know how to explain this - of a London I'd never seen, yet still felt comfortingly familiar. I found myself becoming homesick for a place I haven't yet left.

And as the cheer went up inside for Stagger Lee, I stood up and walked down the hill towards the train station, wiping my eyes with my sleeve.

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: There She Goes, My Beautiful World, Nick Cave [MP3]

What I'll miss most about London - #3

2005-08-25T07:15:00.000+01:00

Zane Lowe's Gonzo on MTV2

We were sitting there on Sunday night, waiting for the prospective flatmates-to-be to arrive, flicking through Sky (57+ channels and nothing on, as The Boss might say), when we alighted upon old favourite, MTV2. Even better, it was Gonzo time.

What a show. What a fucking show. For those of us who don't get out so much any more (although what a week I've got ahead of me, tee hee, starting with Nick Cave tonight, woo hoo), it's such an ace way to get up to speed on all those 'next big things' you really should have got down to that grimy basement club to discover months ago but never got round to doing. Such as the Mystery Jets (who I've actually seen twice, but somehow foolishly overlooked) - I love 'em! Thanks Zane! Go and buy their new single, You Can't Fool Me Dennis, immediately, and watch the truly wondrous video here - the best 80s indie pop I've heard since, erm, the 80s (check that Johnny Marr-like syncopation!).

I've often heard negative types dissing the Lowe man, but I don't really see how you can. Not only is he piss-funny on screen, but by all accounts, he's a really lovely chap off it. I think the hataz are just jealous. He makes me proud to be (half) Kiwi - and regular readers will know I don't make that statement lightly. And while no one can fill the great John Peel's shoes, Zane's doing a pretty good job of carrying the torch.

And on that note, here's a recently-rediscovered tribute to the great man from the good chaps at Optimo (much beloved of Mr Peel), which I hope Twitch won't mind me posting here. They're playing the Cross Festival this weekend - make sure you check them out, if you're still an Optimo virgin. They will change your life - they certainly have mine (but more on that later.) If you can't make it, secure a copy of their superb Kill The DJ Pt 2 or Psyche Out CDs for ultimate bedroom pleasures...

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Farewell Peel mix, JD Twitch [MP3]

Well, blow me down

2005-08-24T12:13:00.000+01:00

I got that job.

I'm thrilled.

I leave for New Zealand next weekend.

Things have suddenly become very, very surreal round here.

MP3 Monday: Animal magic

2005-08-22T20:34:00.000+01:00

My iTunes: it's a jungle in there. Inspired by my visit to the Natural History Museum, and its magical room of mammals, Top Ten Tuesday has been flagged in favour of a more zoological approach. On a Monday. From the 100 or so animal-related tracks found within, here are 13 sure-fire roaring MP3 hits of animal nitrate (and yes, that is that Mr Scruff sample). Breathe deep. Go wild.

DOGS! I Wanna Be Your Dog The Stooges

CATS! Track In A Cat Mother & The All Night Newsboys

LIONS! Bad Bad Simba O'Donal Levy

APES! The Monkey That Became President Brotherhood

ELEPHANTS! Tusk Fleetwood Mac

FOXES! Theme from Foxy Brown Willie Hutch

PIGS! Papa's Got A Brand New Pigbag Pigbag

BEARS! Bear Cage The Stranglers

RODENTS! Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin) Sly & The Family Stone

BIRDS! Bringing Down The Byrds Herbie Hancock

MORE BIRDS! Lament 1 'Birds Lament' Moondog

EVEN MORE BIRDS! The Blackbyrds' Theme The Blackbyrds

ALL OF EM! Wild Safari Barrabas

And, um, I clearly have far too much time on my hands... I Call My Baby Pussycat, Parliament; Eye Of The Tiger, Survivor; Copy Kat, The Bar-Kays; Puss N Boots, New York Dolls; Pussy Footer, Jackie Robinson; Cat Inna Can, Straitjacket Fits; Knights Of The Jaguar, Rolando; Panther Dash, The Go Team; Mr Chicken Shit, Soul Seven; Rubber Duckie, Bootsy's Rubber Band; Little Red Rooster, Rolling Stones/Howling Wolf; The Mule, The Magic Numbers; White Horse, Laid Back; Four Horsemen, The Clash; Mustang Sally, Wilson Pickett; Ground Hog, Duke Peterson; The Hawg Pt 1, Eddie Kirk; Ape Shuffle, Lalo Schiffrin; Stay Away From That Monkey, Jimmy McCracklin; (You're A Fish & I'm A) Water Sign, Parliament; Turtle Walk, Lou Donaldson; Jelly Baby/Fish, Isolee; Electronic Frog Pt 1, Kool & The Gang; Roast Fish & Cornbread, Lee 'Scratch' Perry; Weasil, Donald Byrd; Twentieth Century Fox, The Doors; Stone Fox Chase, Area Code 615; Animal Midnight, Stephen Malkmus; Elephant Stone, The Stone Roses; Do The Dog, The Specials; Atomic Dog, George Clinton; Hounds Of Love, The Futureheads; All The Pretty Little Horsies, Current 93 & Nick Cave; Dog Eat Dog, Adam & the Ants; My Dog Was Lost But Now He's Found, The Fiery Furnaces; Stool Pigeon, Kid Creole & The Coconuts; I Got Ants in My Pants, James Brown; Horse Winning Without Rider, Phelps & Munro; Alligator, Dizzy Gillespie; Mongoose, Elephant's Memory; Dirty Ol Egg Suckin Dog, Johnny Cash; Black Dog, Led Zeppelin; I Want A Dog, Pet Shop Boys; Diamond Dogs, David Bowie; Dogs Are Everywhere, Pulp; Year Of The Dog, Relaxed Muscle; Hair Of The Dog, Bauhaus; Howlin' At The Moon, The Ramones; Rene & Georgette Magritte With Their Dog After the War, Paul Simon...

... and last but not least, erm, Suck A Bactrian Camel's Dick by the one and only Wesley Willis. May he rest in peace. Hopefully nowhere near any animals.

What I'll miss most about London - #2

2005-08-21T14:52:00.000+01:00

The museums

It's a truly under-rated thing that, on any given day in London, you can access a vast proportion of the world's historical and artistic treasures. For free.

Well, truly under-rated by me, that is. After five years of taking the capital's museums for granted, I still haven't managed to make my way around half of them. For example, I've been to the British Museum a dozen times, but never made it to the Geffrye Museum on Kingsland Road, despite living directly opposite the place for nearly a year. Likewise with the reportedly excellent Dennis Severs House in Whitechapel - years spent walking past it, never to step inside. I flatter myself as cultured, but I'm evidently a proper philistine.

Anyway, with my time here ticking away at an alarming rate, I decided to at least partially remedy the situation by finally getting along to the Natural History Museum yesterday. I'd written about Usher's ego-tastic watch (bearing his ugly mug in yellow diamonds) for work, so thought I should see it in the flesh, as it were, as part of the NHM's current Diamonds exhibition.

The exhibition was OK - how I coveted the Faberge tiara and Daniel Brush's bakelite ring! - but I'm not sure I would have paid the standard ticket price of £9 to see it. Admittedly there's a whole lot of bling for your buck, but I dunno, diamonds get a little dull after a while (when they're not your own), and there's just far too much queuing and standing about.

I spent much more time at the (free) Face To Face exhibition, James Mollison's close-up photographs of orphaned apes from sanctuaries around the world (-->). As well as being visually stunning, they're emotionally powerful - overwhelmingly so. Their expressive, almost-human faces and brief, tragic captions brought me to tears, and I had to sit down and wipe my eyes. Go and see this while you still can - it ends 18th September.

Last but not least, we strolled around the rest of the museum, motoring quickly through the wonderful but child-packed Dinosaur rooms (a masterclass in how to make a museum both fascinating and educational for kids) in order to linger longer in the Mammals rooms.

Faced with a cabinet full of stuffed dogs, a little girl anxiously asked her father, "Did they have to kill all of these animals, Daddy?" "No," he tenderly replied. "They found them, after they got very old and slipped away in their sleep." Ahhh. A summer of dead-dog nightmares successfully averted there, then.

The legions of stuffed mammals were duly awe-inspiring, especially the larger varieties. I never realised quite how tall a giraffe is, or how frighteningly massive a hippo. But my visit was topped off when I saw a sign pointing to a flight of stairs, and - remembering a particularly side-splitting episode of Dr Katz: Clinical Psychiatrist and the resulting private joke - dashed up them in order to snap a photograph of this fellow (<--), residing under a sign saying 'Sea cow'. "But I'm a manatee!" Of course you are, old chap.

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Atomic Dog, George Clinton [MP3]

Good things happen to good people

2005-08-18T23:41:00.000+01:00

I have to admit I've probably never been known as the most joyous of people - funny, yes; sunny, only on a good day, or with the 'work face' on. I'm not a mean-spirited bitch by any stretch (I hope), but I've always enjoyed being referred to as "cynical" and "wry" - I even took a secret pride in my self-centredness. Many years ago, an ex-boyfriend described me as "careless, and I don't mean clumsy - you simply don't care about other people".

And although age has worked to improve my caring, sharing side somewhat, London has done its damndest to push it back the other way. Even the most philanthropic types who arrive here full of brotherly love end up a little wary and suspicious, their once-wide-open arms clenched defensively over their chests.

But in recent months, there's been a sea change at Smacked Face Towers. The arms have started to open again, there's a lightness of step, and a generosity of spirit flowing through my veins. I feel great, damn it, and I want to share the love. And you know what - sharing the love has reaped the benefits.

I've never been the most spiritual of people (odd for an Aquarian on the cusp of Pisces, as we're supposed to be very spiritual types - but then not being the most spiritual of people, I don't give any credence to that sort of astrological mumbo-jumbo...), but without getting all 'spiritual' on yo' asses (though that's exactly what I'm about to do), I can only describe this current state of affairs as 'good karma'.

I noticed the changes only slightly at first. For instance, one day I'd buy a Big Issue from the distinguished-looking homeless chap always reading classic novels at Canary Wharf. The next morning, the barista at Pret would give me a free soya latte. I continued on my merry way, giving money to buskers (although I do that as a matter of course - the good ones, at least), smiling at strangers, banishing satanic thoughts about irritating tube passengers before they could properly form - and the good vibes just kept rolling in in return. I felt terrific.

The latest noteworthy instalment came this week, when I pulled out all the stops to get an immensely talented friend some work (and hopefully his big break) with my company. The lightning bolt of an idea came at 6.30am one morning, and I practically raced into work to set the wheels in motion.

And whaddaya know? That very evening a message arrived in my inbox, from an extremely desirable company in New Zealand: they'd like to add me to their shortlist for what could possibly be my absolute dream job, would I be available for a phone interview?

What goes around comes around? So it seems. But right now, I'm just getting high off being nice. Ahhh.

[zen-tinged drivel ends]

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Getting What You Give, Dimmer [MP3]
[available from these good people]

Top Ten Thirteen Tuesday: It's the bombs that will bring us together Pt 1

2005-08-16T09:01:00.000+01:00

Funk bombs! And how! MP3 yourself silly (then go and buy the shit, you know the drill).

1 Standing On The Verge Of Getting It On Funkadelic
Of course the Parliafunkadelicment Thang had to be No 1 - after all, everything is on the one. But which track? Far too many to choose from, it was a toss-up between the classic Mothership Connection (last but certainly not least at no 13) or this one - my current fave. And with lyrics like these, how could I resist?:
"Hey lady, won't you be my dog/And I'll be your tree/And you can pee on me!
We will do you no harm/Other than pee in your afro"
Quite.

2 Think James Brown & Marva Whitney (live)
And naturally Mr Brown has to be up there too, since he invented the concept. Again, where do you start? I'm going for this fabulous duet with soul sista Marva Whitney from the Live At The Apollo album.

3 Dance To The Music medley (Danny Krivit re-edit) Sly & The Family Stone
If I'm remembered for one thing, it'll be for thrashing this absolutely stonking re-edit at every party I've ever played/muscled in on the decks at. And dancing like a deranged go-go girl on angeldust at the same time. It's an awful sight. I've seen pictures. This is my Favourite Track Of All Time. No question.

4 Do What You Wanna Do T Connection
... Apart from maybe this one. Check that percussion, check that bassline, check that break. Pure funk-meets-disco brilliance.

5 Shack Up Banbarra
And, um, maybe this one has to be added to the All Time list as well. I know some people like the A Certain Ratio version, but for me it doesn't even come close to the original. I recall Mr Scruff dropping this at Sonar 2002 - and completely losing it. (Me, that is, although I suspect Scruff probably had a good old boogie himself.)

6 Let's Start The Dance Hamilton Bohannon
Where does it end! An absolute killer from the mighty Mr Bohannon from 1978, again with some mad percussion, driving beats and bass hits punching you so hard in the guts you're left winded. Nicely.

7 Shake Your Rump To The Funk The Bar-Kays
... Although if you're wanting the sucker punch of bass hits, you want this wee gem from a group that more and more I'm considering one of my favourites. Admittedly it goes all a bit Brothers Johnson disco-lite at times, but the nastay funk grooves of the chorus and those slabs of horns and guitar kicks more than make up for that.

8 Only So Much Oil In The Ground Tower Of Power
Funk goes all ecological on your arse with this bizarrely-worded, horn-heavy killer from the Urban Renewal album: "If we keep on like we're doing, things for sure will not be cool/It's a fact we ain't got sufficient fuel." Thankfully the groove created by Lenny Williams and crew compensates for the really wack lyrics.

9 This Is You, This Is Me Kool & The Gang
Relentless funk off The Gang's Wild & Peaceful album from 1974, the LP that also produced the singles Hollywood Swinging, Jungle Boogie and Funky Stuff. Obviously, an album you cannot do without.

10 The Jam Graham Central Station
Sly Stone's bassist Larry Graham is widely regarded to have some of the best bass chops in the business, responsible for developing that fab fuzzy bass sound in Sly & The Family's tracks, and ably demonstrated here, in his next band's finest achievement, The Jam, which does exactly what it says on the tin. Just ignore the daft faux-Japanese intro from percussionist 'Wenyuwo' on, erm, 'wums'...

11 The Pinocchio Theory Bootsy's Rubber Band
Lays down the P Funk philosophy in one easy song - if you fake the funk, your nose will grow.

12 Black Skinned Blue Eyed Boys The Equals
Psychedelic funk of the highest order from Eddy Grant's first band (interestingly enough, the first British multi-racial band to hit the No 1 spot with Baby Come Back in 1968, fact fans). With a political message to boot, and best of all, he's from my manor, innit!

13 Mothership Connection and Swing Low Sweet Chariot (live) Parliament
I added the sensational Live P Funk Earth Tour 1977 album to the vinyl collection the other day (which doesn't seem to be getting any smaller even though the Great Move Backwards is only a month and a bit away). For all its dodgy sound mixing, I can highly recommend it. Truly, light year grooving.

Eating it up

2005-08-15T16:59:00.000+01:00

Loads going on in Smacked Face land, but the quest to see as much of London before i go continues apace (yes, I know I've had five years to do it in, but I'm very lazy). I'll be calling for must-see suggestions to add to the list later in the week, but for now, a really fabulous place to go for cheap girlie eats tomorrow night would be greatly appreciated by myself and the Misses Cam and Spiller.

I'm sure we could think of somewhere ourselves, but we're busy career girls/very lazy/incredibly indecisive. Every time we plan a get-together we drive ourselves to distraction via hours of umming and ahhing - save us time and torment by telling us where to go, so to speak.

Feeling fine (in SW9)

2005-08-12T10:58:00.000+01:00

Sweet FA to say today because we're far too excited about the event below. See you all tonight - but if you really aren't able to make it, here's a soul-cheering song to help you get over the pain (ignore the somewhat depressing/dubious morals).

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Love The One You're With, Isley Brothers [MP3]

Everyone must go!

2005-08-11T10:23:00.000+01:00

Popped up to Brick Lane last night, via superstar DJ Jamie Robertson's salubrious Dalston (can those words be used in the same sentence?) warehouse for some Thai noodles and deep fried funk, mmmmm. T'was Kiwi night at the Big Chill bar, you see, courtesy of the good people at Spacific, with the utterly fabulous Tubbs and Mikey Ray on deck duties. I was well overdue a return visit, as it's a top-quality night - and no, it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact I might have had some flyers to distribute for a certain gathering happening this Friday night in the Brixton vicinity...

What's that? Oh, alright, then, you twisted my arm - let me tell you about Southsidesoul, since you insist. It's our penultimate (that's second to last, numbnuts) gig, and it's happening tomorrow, at the Whitehorse - you know, that fantastic bar/everyone's favourite den of iniquity up on Brixton Hill, number 94, to be precise. It starts at 8pm and goes till 3am - late licensing means late licensing round our manor...

Who's playing? Well, a veritable feast of sonic youths. We've finally managed to coordinate diaries with the monstrously good NZ-via-South-London funk band the New Telepathics, featuring the breathtaking vocals of Ms Sandy Mill, and whose blend of afro-beat, soul, jazz, funk and house could quite possibly blow the roof off the Horse, if it hasn't been safely bolted down.

Then, there's our favourite SSStalwarts Jamie Robertson and Ajax, who'll be back-to-backing with dirty disco, rocking beats and smack-that-arse grooves, and last (and least) SSS's own 'can't-mix-won't-mix' Jen Ferguson, who will be digging into the crates for fat vintage funk, indie oddities and ridiculously daft SSS anthems.

But the highlight may or may not be the debut performance of the Southsidesoul All-Stars, who will be banging seven shades of shit out of everything from spoons to cowbells to a Latin American 'nutshaker' (oo-er) and a washboard tie... Plus we're very, very thrilled to introduce a live Brazilian percussion performance from Fly My Pretties/Hairy Lollies star Darren Sigley!

How about that then? Sorry, speak up a bit, I didn't quite catch that... You say it's sounds like just about the best thing in the world ever? Right you are, my son, right you are! And all for the extremely reasonable price of just £2? Yep. See you there then.

It's a kind of tragic

2005-08-10T17:45:00.000+01:00

Went to see Charlie & The Chocolate Factory the other night, an event much anticipated round our way, Ms G and I being enormous fans of both Johnny Depp (surely the quintessential Perfect Man?) and Tim Burton, not to mention Roald Dahl (RIP). I even broke my Harry Potter-induced 'children's films are for children only' rule.

But, well, I was a little disappointed, quite frankly. Tim Burton is the master of magical, fairy-tale films, and with Charlie, he had the opportunity to absolutely go to town. When I was a kid I was transfixed by Roald Dahl's preposterous confection concoctions - Eatable Marshmallow Pillows, Lickable Wallpaper For Nurseries, Hot Ice Creams For Cold Days, Cows That Give Chocolate Milk, Square Sweets That Look Round - and my imagination ran away with itself when it came to the factory itself.

But Burton just didn't quite meet my (admittedly high) expectations. The fantastical elements seemed to have been cut back in order to make room for Burton's own addition, the storyline about Willy Wonka's estranged father. Why? As they say in Glasgae, no need! Far too Hollywood schmaltz.

And - I never thought I'd hear myself saying this, but, um - I didn't really like Johnny Depp. Basing your character on a rock star may have worked for Pirates, Mr Depp, but going down the Michael Jackson (yes, I know you deny it) meets Freddie Mercury route here was very ill-advised - you're just irritating. Much like your sanctimonious young star, who managed to suck all the gumption out of our hero Charlie, and left me wanting to give him a good hard clip round the ear.

Hurrah, then, for the Oompa-Loompas, who save the day with their well-trippy song and dance routines, and for the fantastic gimmick of giving them all the hilariously-solemn face of Deep Roy. It's like watching a feature-length Aphex Twin video - and hey, it doesn't get better than that.

A many-splendoured thing

2005-08-09T11:02:00.000+01:00

I had a big long list of funk bombs ready to go for Tuesday Top Ten action today - it might have even been a top 20, because I had so many I couldn't decide - but my shonky free file sharing server sorted that for me by deciding to go tits up last night and ban all new uploads until it sorted itself out.

But in the interim, here's one I prepared earlier, and it's a track of such incredible beauty that it can just about count for a whole Top Ten all on its own: Sigur Ros's Glosoli, from their forthcoming album Takk, due out on 12th September, which I would say is set to be just about THE essential purchase for 2005, judging from the bits and pieces I've heard so far.

Singer Jonsi says, re Takk (courtesy of NME.com): "The lyrics are small adventures, maybe like children's stories or something. I think the songs are quite simple and naïve and they have a central character to them. There's one called Glosoli, and he wakes up and everything is dark outside and he can't see any light. He thinks that the sun is gone and somebody has taken it from the sky, so he makes a journey to look for the sun. He finds it in the end."

Glosoli was the second track played at Sigur Ros's Somerset House gig that made me weep like a little girl from the get-go - and when you listen to this, you'll understand. Hell, it even reduced my cynical old mum to tears.

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Glosoli, Sigur Ros [MP3 - for sampling purposes ONLY, please, please, please go to the website and download the single on its official release on 15th August]

House of horror

2005-08-08T12:57:00.000+01:00

The shame of it all... I usually pride myself on having reasonably OK (if somewhat vintage) taste in music, but everyone has skeletons in their closet - and for me, these skeletons take the form of hundreds of really rubbish late 90s deep house 12"s.

It's a Kiwi thing, you see - Auckland has always loved its dreary deep house (and, from what I'm led to understand, still does - arrgh), and when I was an impressionable young wannabe scenester, eager to run with the cool school, that's what I decided to love as well. And thus I acquired it by the bucketload. Dull Paper Recordings 12"s? Check. Sleep-inducing Guidance or Glasgow Underground noodles? Yawn, right here. The odd bit of super-fromage on Smokin' Beats? Alas, I've got that too.

Yes, it's a truly woeful collection that for some reason my mother decided to ship over to me here, the whole kit and caboodle. They've gathered dust for five years now, but now I'm off, I want them out of my sight for good.

So on Saturday, suffering only a mild hangover, I decided to go through them all and cart off a couple of record bags' worth down to Berwick Street, to see if the good people at Reckless might fancy taking them off my hands. True, a little voice at the back of my mind kept insisting, "NO ONE will want to pay money for this rubbish, turn back, turn back while you still can." But I ignored it and, like a little vinyl pack-horse, trudged on relentlessly to Soho.

The gorgeous Reckless staffer with the afro sniggered when I told him what my bags contained (and the myriad excuses I proffered to hide my embarrassment), but to humour me, he kindly sifted through the pile - and said, "Well, we'll pay you £2 for this Kerri Chandler 12" - the rest we can't use. No one could."

One £2 record. Out of 50.

So I duly took the money, added it to my existing account total, spent the lot on P-Funk and Sly & The Family Stone, and went home with more than I'd started out with. And now my shoulder's out from carting heavy record bags all over London. Bloody typical.

[PS: RIP Ibrahim Ferrer. What a legend.]

What I'll miss most about London - #1

2005-08-04T23:13:00.000+01:00

The random factor

... Especially in Brixton - which, as much as I'm wont to diss and desert it on occasion in favour of more 'salubrious' environments, always draws me back to its all-embracing, if slightly malodorous, bosom. Everywhere you look there are 'characters', or something going on that takes you by surprise. Life in SW9 might be a bit mucky, but it's never boring.

On exiting the Tube station, you're assaulted by a barrage of travelcard touts, indignantly demanding yours: "You finished with it, mate?" The same gypsy-looking chap with the ponytail, beard and beanie, is still there, although his coterie have different faces to those we grew to recognise after first moving to Brixton in July 2000. (The old one we called Laurie hasn't been seen since 2003, when he returned to the street after a short absence in new clothes, combed and shaved, looking almost dapper. By 7pm that evening he was dishevelled and dirty again, bleeding from a graze to his head and bawling insults at passersby. Then he disappeared. Here's hoping his lot's improved, wherever he is.)

Next to them, the wee gingery whitey with the woolly dread hat and goatee puts a flyer in your hand, chanting, "Abaaaa Shaaaaanti-I! Roots and kul-ture! Brrrix-ton Recre-ay-shun Centah!" You should really get round to going sometime.

After the first wave of flyerers and travelcard touts come the ticket touts, if there's a gig on at the Academy. "Buy or sell tickets for Nine Inch Naaaaails!" they shout at you, even if you're carrying five Tesco bags and are obviously not about to go moshing.

Turning left, you pass Vicki, the old woman who sits on the milk crate by Iceland, selling homemade crafts and playing the comb. Next to her is one of several seemingly-alternating Radio Men, who seem to be deaf as well doolally, with their stereos turned up to 11, all the better to shout over. Down from them, grooving, is the old black chap in the cap, wearing the same camo shirt he did four years ago when he made a legendary guest appearance at Southsidesoul (<--). And hanging on the corner is Patrick the Incense Man, 'immortalised' (like, cough, myself and Ms G) in the (terrible) film South West 9, and a near-constant feature of Brixton Market. Have you ever not seen him?

The dash to KFC Corner is an obstacle course for the unwary. You're asked if you want any "Skunk, weed, hashish, hash brown" or "just a pound for a cup of tea, pal" at least five times along the way, then outside KFC, the preaching starts. Sometimes it's a Chinese singing group, other times a huge black man with a tinny PA system and a whopping great Bible, which he enthusiastically bashes throughout.

The trek down to the Prince Albert in Coldharbour Lane isn't one you probably want to make at night alone, although I've done it a thousand times, being (not-so) young and foolish, and usually drunk. Shady characters and crack dealers lurk menacingly in doorways, and a large police sign calls for witnesses to a shooting the previous weekend. But you get to the pub without incident and throw open the door... to find an impromptu Alabama 3 party going on.

You charm the A3 doorman (Pixie? Tiny? You can't remember his name from the last time you did the blag) into admitting you, then you're dancing on a table with your new best friend Jimmy the Dog, and next thing you know, you're at a heaving squat party. You didn't think any squats still existed in Brixton, but here you are, watching Felix Jaxx having a shimmy next to the speakers.

Then the sun's up, so you head to Brockwell Park, via the open-all-hours offy, to lie under a tree and make the most of the morning sunshine. On the way up Brixton Hill you pass the drunk old witch who's always sitting on the corner, legs apart with no knickers on, but there's no sign of old Alfie the town crier (who was apparently shot with a crossbow in Brixton a couple of years ago) or the random dude with the snake (-->). You'd go to the Lido, but you haven't got any swimming togs. But there's a free festival being set up in the park, and you know within a few hours you're going to get treated to a killer reggae soundsystem. Which right now seems just about perfect.

[Thanks to Urban75 for the best Brixton resource on the net. Take the full photographic tour, for when you care but can't be there... x]

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Hold On To What You Got, Dennis Brown

What a duffer

2005-08-03T23:54:00.000+01:00

Truth is stranger than fiction, so goeth the cliche, and these past few years, documentary has often been more entertaining than scripted screenplay - see Dig!, Dogtown & Z Boys, and the latest to add to the list, Overnight, my must-see film of the week. Typically, however, I left it to the last minute to see it, so you'll have to be quick before it disappears from cinemas.

It follows the meteoric rise to fame - and equally rapid descent back to the gutter - of aspiring screenwriter Troy Duffy, who's offered a multi-million-dollar deal with Miramax after he serves Harvey Weinstein in the West Hollywood bar he works at.

If you've read Peter Biskind's brilliant Down And Dirty Pictures, you'll be au fait with Weinstein's often less-than-savoury methods, and thus I was prepared to sympathise with yet another independent film-maker chewed up and spat out by the evil Miramax machine.

But no. From the moment Duffy's fat face appears on the screen, you're rooting for his demise - and he only gets more objectionable as the film progresses and the years go by. You couldn't make him up - this man is possibly the most loathsome character in modern-day cinema. Hell, he even makes Weinstein look good.

When his film (The Boondock Saints anyone?) fails and his band's album sells just 649 copies, well, you have to laugh. And the sense of schadenfreude gets even stronger when, with sweet irony, you realise his long-suffering colleagues who've been filming him from the start get the last laugh by totally putting the boot in via their resulting documentary (that is, Overnight), then striking the jackpot with critical acclaim and awards a'plenty for it, while a penniless Duffy goes back to his day job.

Hey, it couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: What A Waster, Adam Green & Carl Barat (live) [WMV]

Top Ten Tuesday: Drugs, drugs, and rock'n'roll

2005-08-02T11:04:00.000+01:00

... For no other reason than I watched End Of The Century again on DVD on Sunday and was yet again struck by how much all junkies look alike (compare Dee Dee Ramone and David Johanssen as a point in case), and that there are a helluva lot of songs about drugs. Well, duh.

1 Under Me Sleng Teng Wayne Smith
Heralded the dawn of ragga as arguably the first fully-computer-created reggae track (on a Casio Music Box no less) back in 1984. Ground-breaking and killer.

2 Waiting For The Man David Bowie
A live cover of the seminal Velvet Underground track at the height of Bowie's glam years back in 1972. Truth be told, the Velvets' original is probably better, but I'd take Dave over cantankerous Lou any day.

3 Chinese Rocks Johnny Thunders & The Heartbreakers
After hearing this being rehearsed by the Ramones in '76, The Heartbreakers adopted it, added a verse and claimed it as their anthem. Thus Nick Cave was only half-right when he wrote the lyrics "And Johnny Thunders was half alive when he wrote Chinese Rocks" for There She Goes, My Beautiful World (and, considering Nick reportedly almost died after overdosing on pal Johnny's leftover brown during a shared session back in the day, you'd think he'd have known better).

4 No Thing On Me (Cocaine Song) Curtis Mayfield
One of my favourites off the Superfly soundtrack - sumptuous cascading piano and Mayfield's gorgeously mellow groove. Superb.

5 Mr Brownstone Guns N Roses
A favourite of DJ Ravi McArthur and headbanger Ms G which might get an outing at the next SSS. It'll either rock or sink like a stone. But probably rock.

6 White Horse Laidback
I've been listening to this electro classic for years (most notably down the Whitehorse, when seemingly every guest DJ imagines they'll be really witty and original by dropping it), but I never realised that a) it became a hit in the States due to support from Prince, who encouraged Warner to release a 12" single of it with When Doves Cry on the flip; and b) it's by two dudes from Denmark (!), proving the Danish do indeed have the funk. Well, two of them at least.

7 Third Flight 3rd Flight
I know absolutely nothing about this group apart from the fact this track features on the cracker Rare Funk Uncovered compilation. It's a goodie though - a frenetically-paced "rare ghetto nugget" as Tunes.co.uk calls it.

8 She's Like Heroin To Me The Gun Club
From the landmark Fire Of Love album. And Jeffrey Lee Pierce knew what he was talking about when it came to drug similes...

9 Golden Brown The Stranglers
Much like the La's There She Goes, Golden Brown managed to fool many an innocent punter into thinking it was just a sweet little ditty, when quite obviously it was about heroin. Never a frown indeed.

10 Not If You Were The Last Junkie On Earth The Dandy Warhols
...Which, as we learn from Dig!, garnered the response from Anton Newcombe and pals, Not If You Were The Last Dandy On Earth. Good comeback.

And there's (many) more: Hits From The Bong, Cypress Hill; Who's Got The Crack?, The Libertines/Moldy Peaches; Get High, Gran Am; Cocaine, Eric Clapton; Cocaine Socialism/Sorted For Es And Whizz, Pulp; Pass The Dutchie, Musical Youth; Mr Coke Seller, Gregory Isaacs; White Lines, Grandmaster Flash; Out Of My Mind On Dope & Speed, Julian Cope; My Girlfriend Hates My Heroin, The Stooges; Consequences Of A Drug Addict Role, Shirley Horn...

Mr Bombastic

2005-08-01T12:51:00.000+01:00

Is it truly a terrible thing to comment on how good-looking Shepherd's Bush bombing suspect Hussein Osman is? Or, in doing so, am I basically going to hell in a handcart and consigning myself to a twisted life of writing love letters to serial killers on death row?

You have to wonder what the attraction of 70 virgins in heaven was though - he certainly wouldn't have had any trouble securing himself a good time down my local (although I'd venture that virgins would be in somewhat short supply).

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Could Heaven Ever Be Like This?, Idris Muhammad [MP3]
[Check the drumming! Available on the third instalment of Joey Negro's most excellent Disco Spectrum series]

Black mood

2005-07-29T11:51:00.000+01:00

I know I will incur great vengeance and furious anger for what I am about to reveal - I headed home from last night's Black Seeds gig after three songs.

I guess the thing that gets me about Kiwi gigs in London - and the reason I usually tend to avoid them - is the wild-eyed jingoism that goes with them. I'm not saying the Black Seeds weren't any good (because all indications are that they are, very - and hell, what would I know from three songs?), but the revved-up patriotism in the crowd seemed to indicate that Great-Uncle Derek could have got up there with a out-of-tune ukelele and the place would have erupted. I don't know, it's hard to explain how I feel without sounding curmudgeonly and bitter.

Luckily, Nick Speakers seemed to understand my funk better than I did: "I think I know what you mean - a horrible sort of misplaced pride in the fact that the place you're from is small and shitty? (Much like the Welsh.) National pride is overrated, unless you can admit your country is actually a bit of a dosshole. That's how I feel about the UK - it's ace, but in many ways really crap."

And coming from Norfolk, he should know...

Anyway, put it down to the stifling heat, the fact I'm suffering absolutely snarling PMT, or a severe case of cultural cringe set off by the fact the Kiwi-packed Neighbourhood last night could have been any K Rd club (triggering alarm bells in my head that screamed, "You can't go back!"), but the Seeds just weren't rocking on my dime.

"I'm not feeling this," I remarked/whinged to my neighbour. "I've never really been terribly into that NZ dub sound, but tonight it's making the reality of the Great Move Backwards hit home... and I'm just not ready to deal with that right now."

"Oh no!" she chirped cheerily. "Well, you'll be hearing a lot more of this sort of stuff when you get back to NZ!"

Thanks. But hey, I'm not writing the Black Seeds off yet - I'll give them another go at the 17th August gig, and hope for a cooler night and a better time of the month. First things first though: I have to get my head around the fact I'm departing this fantastic city - and fast. (And hope I don't get lynched by indignant Kiwis in the meantime...)

The fact of the matter is I really don't want to leave London, but I've a new career to think of, which isn't going to happen here without a serious paycut, so it's time to put the head down, stop resenting practical necessity, lie back and not think of England. Unless anyone here wants to give me my dream job. You've got two months - all offers to the usual address.

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: A Letter From Home, Ulrich Schnauss [MP3]
[Please, please, please buy Ulrich's sublime A Strangely Isolated Place - so, so very good...]

Suspect packages

2005-07-27T14:22:00.000+01:00

Awaiting me on my arrival to work this morning, drenched up to the knee thanks to my too-long jeans having acted as a sponge and soaking up puddle water (though carefully avoiding the effluent pouring from the ceiling from the leaking sewage pipes upstairs - it's not normally like this at the nation's leading 'quality' tabloid, honest):

• a package from Amazon containing Peter Shapiro's Turn The Beat Around: The Secret History Of Disco, Geoff Dyer's But Beautiful and Rickey Vincent's Funk: The Music, The People And the Rhythm Of The One
• a package from Piccadilly Records containing Disco Unusual 2 and the UBs' Gotta Get Back To You
• a package from Nottingham containing two gold kazoos *
• a package from Devon containing a washboard zydeco tie *
• a package from Dundee containing a cowbell... *

Doh! I'm supposed to be selling off everything I own in preparation for the Great Move Backwards, not accumulating more. Actually last night, with D Day just two months away (and having decided to move out of Telford Towers a month before that in favour of sleeping rough in a revenue-saving exercise), I packed up the first of my belongings - my 40+ cookbooks and assorted rubbish - into two of the many cardboard shipping crates taking up space in our hallway. I'm not ashamed to say I shed a secret wee tear. :(

* In preparation for the grand debut of the Southsidesoul All-Stars at the next SSS, Friday 12 August at the Whitehorse - New Telepathics (live), Dr D-Lorean (A1 People/Haywire), Ajax (Funk Inc), Jamie Robertson (Music People), Jen Ferguson (SSS) and of course the mighty All-Stars' live percussion revue! Be there!!

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Turn The Beat Around, Vicki Sue Robinson [MP3]
[Yep, it's another MP3... don't you just love 'em? And well done on tearing the roof off the sucker called downloading - some 150 of you got busy on yesterday's Top Ten. Remember to buy the real thing now though, won't you? xxx]

Top Ten Tuesday: You know you got soul

2005-07-26T00:01:00.000+01:00

Woo hoo - we have MP3 action! I was going to do a best-of list to celebrate, but I'm loving the Northern Soul monster that is Ace Spectrum's Don't Send Nobody Else so much right now I thought I'd cobble together a vaguely Northern Soul-flavoured Top 10 instead. I don't need to tell you, but obviously this is for sampling purposes only - for god's sake, if you like it, get out there and buy it. That's the disclaimer bit. Start clicking. [BTW: the MP3 links are a bit hit and miss, but they should work eventually - saves paying for web hosting, anyway...]

1 Don't Send Nobody Else Ace Spectrum
I had a 'moment' to this at the weekend, when we walked into the Rare Feast Spiegeltent at Lovebox and Dr Bob Jones dropped this. I would have immediately fallen to my knees at the sheer glory of it all, but sensibly I instead rushed up to pester him to find out what this rapturous tune was. And this was the answer.

2 The Only Way Is Up Otis Clay
Shameless fromage, unashamedly yoinked straight off the pages of the excellent Headphone Sex (cheers James). Like Yazz, but better.

3 Uptight Stevie Wonder
Ah jeez, this tune is guaranteed to bring on a spell of terrible 60s-girl-group-go-go-dancing, embarrassing for all concerned, least of all me. Just because I feel the funk doesn't mean I should try to interpret it in motion... I'm like a metronome crossed with a windmill on speed.

4 Tainted Love Gloria Jones
The original, the best.

5 The Love I Lost Harold Melvin & The Blue Notes
Featuring the one and only, much-sampled Teddy Pendergrass (The More I Get The More I Want, You Can't Hide From Yourself), the ultimate heart-wrenching soul tearjerker.

6 Wrap It Up Sam & Dave
Yay, I grew up with these fellas (cheers Mrs F). There a great interview with Sam on the Beeb's brilliant documentary on the history of soul, Soul Deep - and man, those boys could dance. Unlike me.

7 You Can't Hide The Real You High Society
Lord knows how I stumbled across this corker, which can be found on the wicked compilation Rare Funk Uncovered, although I suspect it's probably through BBC 6Music's Funk Show, which I persist in listening to, even though it means sitting though loathsome Scouser Craig Charles' nonsensical chatter...

8 Brothers & Sisters (Get Together) Kim Weston
... Another Funk Show find.

9 Too Late Williams & Watson
Erm, as is this one too. Good to see I'm thinking for myself.

10 There's A Ghost In My House R Dean Taylor
It wouldn't be a Northern Soul-ish list without including this, one of the most famous NS tracks around, covered rather nicely a few years down the track by Mark E Smith and co.

Also recommended: Sack O Woe, The Mar-Keys; Nothing But A Heartache, The Flirtations; Rain, Dorothy Morrison; Heartbeat, Gloria Jones; How Can You Mistreat The One You Love?, Katie Love; Spellbound, Tamiko Jones; I'll Always Love My Mama, The Intruders; Soul Finger, Copy Kat, The Bar-Kays; Move On Up, Curtis Mayfield; My Baby's Got ESP, Four Below Zero...

Feet don't fail me now

2005-07-24T03:12:00.000+01:00

At 3pm today, when I splashed out on a bottle of ice-chilled champers during our half-hour break from getting sunburnt yelling at punters at the Lovebox Festival - yes, that was myself and Ms G in those sexy yellow T-shirts shouting orders at you like, "Can you get your tickets out for the lads, please girls?" (see, I'm quite the comedian) - I truly believed it to be the best £20 I'd ever spent.

Until I spent four and a bit hours at the Forum, listening to George Clinton and his band of nappy-wearing, sheepskin-donning, zoot suit-sporting funksters deliver the most incredible performance I've ever witnessed.

Two rows from the front, close enough to touch the great man, sweating like a pig and shaking my ass harder than lame old Groove Armada could even dream about, I was in a state of near-orgasm. I didn't leave my spot for the duration, not to go to the bar, not to go to the loo - to be honest, I temporarily forgot such bodily requirements existed.

I'd write more, but my dancing feet are throbbing almost audibly, and my head is still a-whirl - and I still can't forgive myself for dropping my digital camera a fortnight ago. The shots I could have got...

It feels like every gig I've ever been to up to this point has been a mere dress rehearsal for the real thing. This is what music is. Mind-blowing.

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Flashlight, Parliament

PS: Head here for a friend's comments on the bomb nonsense...

Things to do in London before you're dead - No 2

2005-07-22T09:55:00.000+01:00

Get decadent

Use the fact some idiots failed to detonate their so-called bombs and brought London transport to a standstill as a spurious excuse to grab a friend and spend an obscene amount of money on fine dining and expensive champagne. Then pretend you don't know all the transport links are back up and running, and check into a luxury hotel under the names Mr and Mrs Johnson. Then drink more champagne.

Patriot games? And how - it's the spirit of the Blitz(ed), I tell thee!

11.01am: Criminy! Thank the lord for Mr J and Regent's Park hotels! Otherwise I might very probably have been passing through Stockwell station. (We're not afraid? Piss off - we're fucking terrified!)

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Decadence, Pet Shop Boys

If it's not love, then it's the bomb that will bring us together

2005-07-21T13:30:00.000+01:00

It's happening again? Maybe. Reports of smoke on trains, man claims to have seen a bag explode, nail bomb at Warren Street, gunshots heard on platforms, Shepherd's Bush, Oval and Warren Street stations closed down, Victoria, Northern and Hammersmith & City lines shut down.. That'll make my journey home to Brixton fun then.

2.08pm: Ooh! The incident on the 26 bus happened right outside me and the Donkey's infamous Hackney Road abode. We would have had a bird's eye view. Or more likely no windows. If it really did blow up. Ah, it's all smoke and mirrors today...

5.11pm: The conclusion? What a bunch of incompetent dobbers. (Thankfully.) All a bit of an anti-climax really. (Thankfully.)

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Goin' To Hell, The Brian Jonestown Massacre

Things to do in London before you're dead* - No 1

2005-07-20T13:49:00.000+01:00

Dine at Les Trois Garçons

I walked past Les Trois Garçons many a time during my Shoreditch years, and vowed I would eat within its much-adorned walls at least once in my life. Foolishly, I relegated it to the category of 'anniversary restaurant', and since all of my relationships, like clockwork, hit the skids at 22 months, I'd never got there.

... Until yesterday, when I thought 'fuck it!', and enlisted the lovely Katey H to accompany me for a night of girlie gossip, fabulous food and wine, stuffed tigers, giraffes, bulldogs, and an awful lot of handbags (click the 'inside' link here to see what I mean).

More than a few critics have, in the past, grumbled about the quality of the food not matching the incredible decor, but Ms H and I were hard-pressed to find any fault with our meal at all. The D'Arenberg Hermit Crab Viognier Marsanne was simply the best wine I've ever tasted (bar possibly El Bulli's Augustus Chardonnay), and my goat's cheese starter was so creamy as to make a rival cow cry, while Ms H's pork belly practically melted in the mouth. Our sea bass mains were superb, and as for the cheese board and summer fruit with black pepper ice cream dessert... Oops, I've just dribbled on my desk.

OK, so cheap night (Mon-Wed) didn't exactly turn out to be as budget-friendly as expected, weighing in at a hefty £112, but that's still not completely horrifying for three courses plus wine at a top London restaurant. And it's much better value than simply tipping it down your throat/up your nose down the local of a weekend.

Next stop, Gordon Ramsay's . Or more probably, Chickpizz...

* Or as good as, in New Zealand

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Call Me Mr Telephone, Answering Service

Top Ten Tuesday: Audioscrobbling

2005-07-19T17:04:00.000+01:00

I only got turned on to Audioscrobbler a couple of weeks ago, but what a wonderful thing it is. Of course, one should never judge a book by its cover, but one should certainly judge a man by his iTunes playlist. From now on, I'm not getting romantically involved with anyone until I've assessed their Audioscrobbler charts and found them to be up to scratch. The only drawback is that many people use portable MP3 players a lot more than their iTunes, so you tend to get a slightly skewed playlist. Mine, for instance, is obviously slanted towards the early-morning end of the spectrum - I tend to leave the Plastikman for my walk to work... Anyway, here's 10 from the recently-played files - apparently.

1 Faithful Common
I got given a stack of Be samplers at the Rise festival on Saturday - but by dawn Sunday, I'd given them all away because I'm naturally such an altruistic person... or more likely, because this album is so good everyone should own it.

2 Are You Being Real? Bar-Kays
Four of the original Bar-Kays died along with Otis Redding in that 1967 plane crash, but the band kept on keeping on, even being termed the "founding fathers of funk" by some enthusiastic journo. This is from their later disco years, and though some might call it cheesy, I just call it great.

3 Multiply Jamie Lidell
Obviously I'm still thrashing Mr L. Not literally though, although the chance would be a fine thing indeed...

4 Ain't Goin' to Goa Alabama 3
Our love affair with the Brixton hillbillies continues apace. (FYI: Rob and Jake are DJing at the launch party for Republic Of Loose's new single at Cargo on Thursday - see also the A Certain Ratio gig on 11th August.)

5 Contact Off Funk Larry 'T-Byrd' Gordon
Ah wow, what a dude! I've only just discovered Larry's bio - seems the dude's also a doctor. Is there a doctor in the house? Well yes. Erm, anyway, this is a wicked jangly guitar-based funk track which has been on high rotate for months now round our way. Medically sound.

6 John I'm Only Dancing David Bowie
I had an argument to near-screaming point with someone over this a year ago, who swore it was Bowie's worst, most commercial track. But they were talking out of their arse. It rocks. Duh.

7 Moskow Diskow Telex
The best electro track ever written?

8 Zap Zap Cut Copy
It's taken me a while to get into this much-vaunted album, mainly because I couldn't quite get over the fact he steals from so many people so obviously (eg. try telling this track apart from any common-or-garden Daft Punk tune). But then it's the Sample Age innit, so I don't know what I was worrying about. I prefer the Joy Division-thieving Bright Neon Payphone though.

9 Trash New York Dolls
See here.

10 Keep On Truckin' Eddie Kendricks
There's just something about high-voiced singers - Eddie, Stevie, Smokey, Bill, Curtis...

PS: Thank god for iPods and iTunes - I very reluctantly offloaded my turntables last night in prep for the big move backwards. How I howled. :(

48-hour party person

2005-07-18T13:31:00.000+01:00

Rock on London! I've just had the best 48 hours of my life and I didn't have to leave town - or even my own southern manor - to do it.

Saturday saw Reilly and myself head over to the event of a thousand names, Unity/Rise/Respect/London United Festival, in Camberwell, via the Josephine Avenue Urban Art Fair. It was great - hundreds of artists and their wares on a quiet Brixton back street. I fell in love with Neil Burton, both the artist and his work, which is urban, stencil-like paintings on found objects, like street signs, rusted metal and even corrugated cardboard. Apparently he'll do portraits to order too - I quite fancy myself as a work of art (so what's new?).

Next, an absolute corker of a day was had in Burgess Park. We went along with few expectations, being that it was a council-run thing, merely hoping to see Billy Bragg and Madness for free. Except they weren't playing. Instead, we salsed (badly) at the Cuban tent, jumped about at the Urban Stage (<--), chilled to the Soul Jazz soundsystem, cheered the Palestinian youth group on another stage, got teary-eyed as Ken Livingston made another stunning speech, and waited in vain for Horace Andy, finally making a dash for it when that bird from M People came on and started squawking.

I was so overcome by the multi-culturalness of our fair city that I started spouting slushy gibberish like, "I really feel like a Londoner today" and "I've just realised everyone in the world dances to the same beat" to anyone who would listen. (Which was no one, obviously, with nonsense like that. Jeez.) So many great photo opportunities, not least with the prop of the day, a headless/armless/legless cardboard person on a stick (a stick figure?). If only I hadn't dropped my camera on the floor of the Whitehorse last weekend...

We flagged the jam-packed buses in favour of hoofing it back to Brixton by foot, with the intention of heading towards the fabulous good-vibes cocktail bar Mango Landing... But then Mr Atwell suggested we pop into the Prince Albert - where a closing-for-refurbishment Alabama 3 party was in full swing. I clambered up on top of a table and hoedowned like a hillbilly to Dave the Hat's band's country funk. It doesn't get better than this.

... Or so we thought, because our next move was to Jamm, where Mani (!) was behind the decks. Ooh it were super. I asked him how he'd enjoyed Glastonbury and told him Primal Scream's chaotic set had absolutely topped off the festival for me. "Wicked," he replied. "I can't remember a fucking thing." Top work. (He probably won't remember much of Saturday night either, thanks to Reilly's intervention...)

By this time the sun was up, so my new pal (not Mani, although that would have been quite a score) and I decided to flag after-party action in favour of walking home in the sunshine. Then we woke up and headed to Brockwell Park to do it all over again...

London, you thrill me.

Yes I know it's 2am

2005-07-16T02:14:00.000+01:00

If there's one thing you do this weekend, make it going to the cinema to see Dig!. What a film. I hooted, hollered and generally made an ass of myself as I accompanied Courtney Taylor and Anton Newcombe (left, <--) through seven years of madness. Now, Reilly and I can't stop humming the Dandys' Hells Bells cover and feel like going out, getting loaded and having a good time. (Although we consoled ourselves with two Pina Coladas at Mango Landing instead.) And I'd marry Anton Newcombe tomorrow, despite his startling resemblance to a recent ex. What a genius. Accept no compromises - and why the fuck should you have to? (Plus I'm sure Joel Gion (right, <--) has been at every after-party I've been to for the past six months... I want his shades collection.)

If there are two things you do, make the second going to the Lambeth Country Fair. Farm animals, falconry, all manner of rural madness - in Brockwell Park! With reggae and ting. Get loaded in the park - without Shaun Ryder. See you there.

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Are You Being Real?, The Bar-Kays

I love you, London

2005-07-14T11:44:00.000+01:00

[With thanks to Chuck for so blatantly filching his format... xxx]

Smacked Face: Whoa London, damn you're HOT today. You've got me all steamed up, girl, given me a hot flush.

London: Don't start with me, Smackie!

SF: I mean it, London. The sunshine really brings out the best in you - you're looking fine this morning.

L: So why won't you stay then?

SF: What are you talking about?

L: I know what you're up to, Smacked Face. I've heard you're planning to ditch me.

SF: Well, I can't lie, London. It's true. But it's not what you think.

L: Don't go, Smackie! You can't leave me now, not after what we've just been through. And god knows I've treated you well these past five years, I've shown you a good time...

SF: Hell yes, London! You're the most exciting girl I know. There's never a dull moment with you.

L: So why are you always running off to other women and threatening to leave? Don't think I never heard about Barcelona, San Francisco... Jeez, even that miserable cow Glasgow!

SF: Ah, they were passing flirtations. OK, so that hippy chick San Fran captured my heart, but it was only a little fling. So what if good-time girl Barcelona is vibrant and beautiful, and that dirty old whore Glasgow puts out? It's you I really love, London (even if you are a bit old and unattractive, and, well - I can't deny it - a little on the smelly side sometimes). You're the one for me.

L: So why are you going back to your ex then - that boring bitch Auckland?

SF: Ah man, it's complicated. Auckland's just got a lot of what I need right now - between you and me, I'm just using her for her career prospects. But I don't love her. Hell, half the time I don't even like her. OK, so she can put on a good spread and she looks mighty fine - when she's not raining tears, that is - but she can be dull, snooty, pariochial...

L: So you'll come back to me, Smackie?

SF: You know it, London. Absence only makes the heart grow fonder, and when I'm lying reluctantly in the arms of my small-town lover, you know I'll be thinking of you. I want to remember you the way you are today - happy, alive, brimming with hope and shining like a beacon in the sunlight... But hell, we've still got two months left. Let's make the most of the time we have together, you fabulous old floozie. I want to suck the very marrow out of you. Hold tight...

Top Ten Tuesday: Life may sometimes be sad but it's always beautiful

2005-07-12T15:21:00.000+01:00

So today's Top Ten title is a lyric from Jamie Lidell's What's The Use?, possibly one of the finest soul tracks we've heard in years. It's the song Stevie Wonder must be kicking himself he didn't write. And the album, Multiply, is surely the album Marvin or Mayfield would have got around to releasing had their lives not been tragically cut short. Indeed, Mr Lidell is surely some miraculous product of an unnatural union between Prince and Otis Redding. And just look at him. Look at him! (<--) Lord have mercy. But er, I digress, as per bloody usual. More raving about Mr Lidell below. And 10 poignant, melancholically beautiful or just plain old feel-good tunes that have been rocking the Smacked Face hi-fi over the weekend.

1 Everybody's Got To Live Love
"Everybody's gotta live. And everybody's gonna die. Everybody try to have a good time. I think you know the reason why..."

2 Summer Madness Kool & The Gang
Yes, you know this sample. And isn't it so much better without Will 'Fresh Prince' Smith rapping over the top? (Although we do still like his version, reminding us, as it does, of being 16 again - them were good days.)

3 Game For Fools Jamie Lidell
Blue-eyed soul has never been bettered. This man's voice causes women's pants to melt like old celluloid and disintegrate into a pile of ashes on the floor. If you can't get any love action with this on the stereo, then you're a damn fool and should give up now. Buy this album. Now. Please. You will not regret it.

4 Untitled 1 (aka Vaka) Sigur Ros
Too, too beautiful. A hymn for those who find their god in places other than church.

5 Places & Spaces Donald Byrd
The kind of tune - and indeed album - that just instantly makes life better. Aural Prozac for the beat(en) generation.

6 Open Your Eyes Bobby Caldwell
As Twitch at Optimo once said, it ain't easy being cheesy. But you can probably get away with this one, if only because Common sampled it on The Light. No, scratch that - it's a killer track all by itself. (And speaking of killer albums, Common's Be. Wah! So good.)

7 The Mule The Magic Numbers
Yep, still thrashing this album round ours. How can you not? It's summer on a platter.

8 Fly Nick Drake
The first time I heard Nick Drake I went out and immediately bought/downloaded all of his albums... then got so sick of him I couldn't bear to listen to him for a whole year. But I'm better now. And this song is just lovely.

9 Summertime George Benson
I wanted to put Deodato's Whistlebump in here, but realised I'd already Top Tenned that one a few weeks back... So instead it's Mr Benson's version of Summertime, a far-too-often-recorded song, the ubiquity of which has led me to loathe it in most cases - but not this time. George's velvet vocals finally do it justice. Sublime.

10 Angela (Theme from Taxi) Bob James
Take a load off. The most laid-back track ever written. Possibly.

Sigur Ros

2005-07-11T11:32:00.000+01:00

Or 'Smacked Face goes to Somerset House and has a religious experience'

Rarely have I been moved to tears in the first 30 seconds of a performance, but Iceland's finest export, Sigur Ros, achieved this last night.

I've been to a few of the Somerset House gigs over the years, and sometimes the venue works, sometimes it doesn't - even the magnificent Royksopp didn't quite manage to pull it off a couple of years back - but it could have been tailor-made for Sigur Ros.

I always finding myself misting up whenever I visit a cathedral, despite not being religious in the slightest, and last night, Sigur Ros's exquisitely strange music and sheer force of presence transformed the already-beautiful Somerset House into the grandest of open-air churches.

We arrived during support act Amina, a string quartet-cum-percussionist foursome who also perform with the band. With Oriental chords, avant-garde rhythms and instruments ranging from a saw to bells to a Casiotone keyboard, they're definitely an acquired taste, and we took some time getting used to them.The fact the girls were dressed like they were off to Sunday school probably didn't help, and no matter how much you try, there's just no way to make playing the violin - or the saw, for that matter - look sexy (I know, I tried for 12 years - with the violin, that is, my saw experimentation only lasted a day with Dad's rusty job in the garage). But they won us over by the end, and thus there were huge cheers when the four later returned to the stage to accompany Sigur Ros.

As for Sigur Ros... God, what can I say? It is truly majestic, magical, other-worldly music these four men make. Singer Jonsi is blessed with one of the most remarkable voices in modern music, a bizarre, unique falsetto singing a mix of Icelandic and a language only he can understand (Hopelandish) - but to compare it to the voice of a strange, dark angel wouldn't be overstepping the mark.

On record, their music is ambient, hymn-like, but quietly powerful; live, it is raw, thrilling stuff. When it surges, it takes your heart and mind soaring with it, and when they rock out, they rock as hard as any traditional power-chords guitar band. More so, even, as their unconventional methods of playing provide even more visual impact - Jonsi's frenzied sawing on his guitar with a cello bow (and at one stage actually holding his guitar to his mouth and singing through it), bassist Georg beating his strings with a drumstick, drummer Orri bashing his skins surely to breaking point...

The crowd paid due reverence too, a hushed awe palpable between songs, absolute quiet during, everyone looking as though they had found God, faces raised heavenwards, mouths agape, heads nodding with eyes closed in silent worship.

Yet again my cheeks were moist. I really have to stop being such a crybaby at gigs. Please, please go and see this band.

Shock, awe

2005-07-10T23:52:00.000+01:00

What an exquisite end to a crazy week - Sigur Ros at Somerset House on a long, hot summer's evening (cheers to James @ Headphone Sex for the ticket). I'll write more later, but five hours sleep over the weekend means my bed is not just calling but positively screaming in a very insistent manner. In the meantime, go here to check out Sigur Ros's extraordinarily beautiful music.

Woke up this morning

2005-07-08T10:36:00.000+01:00

... to the sound of sirens. Am I just nervous and noticing them more, or are there actually more out there? There's nothing on the news reports though - so it's just another day at the office. The streets are strangely empty, most people taking advantage of the excuse to take a day off.

Down in the tube stations, everyone is looking ever-so-slightly smug, secretly congratulating themselves on having extended a middle finger to the terrorists by getting back on the Underground. As the trains (last week noisy, dirty and common-place; today, defiant symbols of the Dunkirk spirit) pull into the platforms, some people salute the drivers.

At work, everyone has a tale to tell, and people rush to connect themselves to the disaster, however tenuous the link: "If I hadn't stopped to buy coffee, I would have been at King's Cross, you know..." Those who actually made it to work yesterday share their 'horror' stories of trying to get home. A friend emails to tell how, rather than face a 90-minute walk, he went out and bought a bike. We all agree Tony Blair is a slimy toad, and Ken Livingston the new Churchill.

At the pub last night (where half of London seemed to be), everyone was shell-shocked, dazed, trying to make sense of a surreal day - but hugely relieved that "it hadn't been that bad". It seems 9/11 has raised the bar on what people expect from a terrorist attack. Five years ago, 37 dead (and rising) would have shocked and appalled. Now, it almost comes as a relief. Others take the approach of "Well, it's happened - that's our terrorist attack over and done with, we can all move on now." Although perhaps that's what 'they' want us to think...

But in the end, life goes on, as it always has. The good Gid Pigeonhold summed it up last night like this (and I hope he won't mind me quoting him):

"The sun is shining, the garage boys next door have just cranked up the tunes, I can hear kids playing, and all in all it's well on the way to turning into a beautiful evening... My point? That, despite the shockwaves sent out through London by the attacks, despite the utter lack of comprehension that anyone can do such a thing, and despite the fact people have been hurt, killed, bereaved, individual lives changed forever, for 99.9999% of people in the "West" (the target), NOTHING HAS CHANGED. Good or bad, the world continues to be exactly how it was yesterday. So I say again: a truly pointless act."

Indeed.

PS: Life does go on - so tonight we'll be throwing a very special Southsidesoul at the White Lion in Streatham. Amazing live action from Alabama 3's Be Atwell, Scott Laing, Oli Buckett and Jake 'Blues' McGoo, DJ styles from the legendary Leon Kryptonite of Bomba fame, plus I'll be digging out the most feel-good tracks I own - Good Vibrations and Love's Everybody's Got To Live are top of the list right now... See you there. xxx

Under attack

2005-07-07T12:38:00.000+01:00

12.38pm: Just got home, after three-and-a-half hours spent going from one side of London to the other, trying to get to work, then just trying to get home. I would describe it as a nightmare journey - except I wasn't stepping over dead bodies, like others will have had to this awful morning.

What a maelstrom of emotions. When, on arrival at Brixton Station this morning, I first heard the Underground was down, it was vague annoyance, and curiosity as to what had gone on.

On learning there had been an explosion at Liverpool Street, and that four were suspected to be injured, it was an embarrassing feeling of disappointment, as a trained ambulance-chaser, that I hadn't been where the action was.

Then, on going from London Bridge to Bank to London Bridge to Greenwich to London Bridge, trying to get to Canary Wharf, an overwhelming feeling of frustration - why did I choose this of all mornings to skip breakfast, wear a flimsy jacket and don platform wedges? And what the fuck is going on?

Then - somehow finding a train still running and going back down south - on getting a couple of texts that managed to find their way through the network jam, finally telling me what had gone on, an impending feeling of horror. In that typical British tradition, there are no histrionics, it's all stiff upper lips - but in everyone's eyes there's bewilderment, panic.

Now, at home at last, I'm tearful and afraid. I can't contact my friends and they can't contact me. The news isn't telling us much, but phone calls from New Zealand reveal there are hundreds of casualties.

I just hope you or your loved ones aren't among them. Be safe, be strong.

4.52pm update: The shock has sent us all to the bottle. "We're under attack - retreat to the pub for reinforcements!" goes up the call. The bombings may not be as bad as we had feared (speaking from the fortunate perspective of having no one directly affected), but they've shocked us all - but, at the same time, brought us closer together, as everyone reaches out to their friends and loved ones in the confusion and drama...

Now, we all just want to celebrate life and luck. Except, that is, for Ms G's occasional employers, a very famous restaurateur couple who want her to babysit their children this evening, at their pad next to Liverpool Street station. Yeah right. On calling cab companies, the answer is, "North of the river, mate? You must be joking!" The shoe's on the other foot... You have to laugh. Here's to that Blitz spirit.

Good times in Dogtown

2005-07-06T22:04:00.000+01:00

Just got back from a press screening of Lords Of Dogtown, there's a riotous poker game going on in my living room and I'm mentally amped, so hell, why not whip up a review - or whatever constitutes a review on these pages... (And even better, it has nothing whatsoever to do with a certain music festival in Somerset.)

Lords Of Dogtown is a feature film - written by former pro skater and Sundance-winning filmmaker Stacy Peralta, directed by Thirteen's Catherine Hardwicke - based on the tale already told in Dogtown & Z Boys, of LA's teen skater punks who made skateboarding what we know today.

So why make the same movie twice, especially when the original documentary was so exceptional? And let's be clear here, I love, love, love Dogtown & Z Boys, I'd even go so far as to say it's one of my favourite films, so it's fair to say I didn't hold out high hopes for Lords, and only really went because someone told me the nibbles at Sony were top quality. (They weren't. It was Pizza Express.) But you know what? I liked it. I liked it a lot.

It's a flawed film, definitely. The pace is stodgy and predictable, the approach cheesier than my last boyfriend's socks. But it's saved by some amazing performances from its young cast, and the fact it captures the Technicolor feel of the original documentary footage - and indeed the 70s - perfectly. And though there's far too much excitable running about, making it look like a clip from Sesame Street at times, the skating action scenes are incredible.

Whoever cast the film did a brilliant job, with the younger characters at least [EDIT: and yep, Peter, Hardwicke had a firm hand in it] - Heath Ledger's portrayal of Zephyr surf shop owner Skip is like watching the world's worst Jim Morrison impersonator ("maaaan"), and Johnny Knoxville's character Topper is merely cartoon comic relief.

But having seen the original doco a gazillion times, I feel like I know Jay Adams, Tony Alva, Stacy P et al, and watching the young cast, you often forget you're watching a recreation of the real thing. Emile Hirsch, in particular, stands out for his remarkable portrayal of poor old Jay, right down to the sneer and the world-weary gaze (look out for his cameo appearance in the film, along with many of the other original Z Boys). Gorgeous Victor Rasuk (from the very wonderful Raising Victor Vargas) thrills (the eyes at least) as Alva, and for Peralta, watching John Robinson of Elephant fame in action must have been like looking into a mirror.

But hey, I may be biased. Though never a skater chick per se, I spent far more time than was necessary watching boys go back and forth on skate ramps, and still get a flutter when I see a bleach-blond doppelganger of my first teenage love. And I'm a child of the 70s, so anything to do with this seemingly golden, sun-soaked era suits me just fine.

Lords is corny, but it's fun. It makes you feel good, and sometimes that's all you want in a flick.

{PS: Speaking of skating, everyone knows I much prefer eight wheels - which is why I'll be checking out this rollerskating jam when it comes to these shores. Even if it sucks, you know the soundtrack gotta be fab...]

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: 49 Percent, Royksopp

Over and out

2005-07-05T20:51:00.001+01:00

That's the last of the Glastonbury diarised at last - back to real life... Read the long-winded day-by-day reviews (re-ordered) here (if, of course, you're not heartily sick of the subject by now):
* Pt 1 - Wednesday/Thursday
* Pt 2 - Friday
* Pt 3 - Saturday
* Pt 4 - Sunday
* Pt 5 - Sunday/Monday

Glastonbury 2005 - Pt 1

2005-07-05T19:08:00.000+01:00

Wednesday

Wednesday afternoon

We arrive at Glastonbury sometime around 4pm after a leisurely drive down with the dashing Freddie Fellowes Esq of Secret Garden fame. We leave our packs in his car, as he's managing the Glade Stage and can drop them inside for us, and skip off, burdenless, to the nearest pedestrian gate. It's absolutely roasting and the site is shimmering like a beacon in the late-afternoon sunshine. Our tent has already been put up for us on a fab spot on the top of Pennard Hill (<--), where we partake of a top-class dinner with our mates in the welcome shade of the gazebo. We look over the site and sigh longingly. Is this the most beautiful place on the planet?

Wednesday evening

As the sun sets in spectacular fashion (-->), a huge cheer erupts from the Stone Circle behind us - it goes right around the camp in a Mexican wave style and lasts at least five minutes. These cheers continue all night and most of the next day, annoying some, no doubt, but thrilling us to the core. We're at Glasto - and how we know it!

Wednesday night

We do a camp-wide reccy and are left speechless. It's vast and utterly awe-inspiring (though later we'll realise we've only seen a fraction of it). We grab a cider from the cider bus, but decide to be sensible and get a reasonably early night. There's a lot ahead, after all. On the way back to camp and bed, we see the first of many great shirt spots - a bloke sporting a T-shirt saying, "Arrest me - I'm Banksy". A Kiwi flag flutters in the breeze just along from us, so we shout out, "Kia ora bros!" on our way past. They look at us as if we're mad.

Thursday

Thursday morning

I wake to discover that overnight my tent has transformed into a furnace and my sleeping bag into a dank sweaty pit. We grab the watering can/shower and head to the nearest taps - which don't work. A chubby, woolly-haired teenage joker is chanting, "Water for all! Campers' rights!" - so in true Glastonbury spirit, we all join in as we march to the Stone Circle, where the taps are working. It's japes a-go-go, and we secretly congratulate ourselves on our rapier wit and acid tongues as assorted revellers attempt to jump the queue. We fill a young lad's bong for him and graciously let him dampen his dreads under our watering can.

Thursday afternoon

Most of our other friends have now arrived and have set up camp at the bottom of Pennard Hill (<--). Birthday boy Matt B looks worried about the site selection, but we reassure him it'll be fine. After all, it's 30 degrees and not a cloud in the sky - what could possibly happen? We hijack Jamie-In-The Band and head to the Greenfields for a crap instant coffee and some lunch before heading off for another big reccy. It's sweltering - will this heat ever end? We head back to our Upper Pennard camp, and start on the beers.

Thursday evening

Everybody needs good neighbours. We invite Jimmy from next door over for a drink, and on the way to the portaloos, Ms G and I meet young Mancunians Andy (<--) and pals. They invite us into their tent for a wee pick-me-up, then we all pose in their pink novelty sweet-shop tent before inviting them back to ours, where I give the venerable Ms G a tattoo (-->).Then the Lower Pennard crew arrive. It's party time - as evidenced by the fact all I can remember from this point onwards is the phrase, "Ms G's blown a gusset!" and a vague recollection of us all flipping the bird at the camera, yelling, "Sucker! Sucker-lucker-lucker!" in 2 Cars, 1 Night fashion. A visiting Hari Krishna is in luck as he hits us up for donations - all our good cheer (and good beer) means we give him far too many of our hard-earned readies.

Thursday night/Friday morning

Having exhausted the thrills of the campsite, it's off up to the Stone Circle, where we loll about on the grassy slope looking like old drunks, thanks to relieving an enterprising fellow of some nitrus oxide. As a laughing gas merchant in a previous life, I kick myself for not having stocked up and brought the soda siphon - I could have financed my whole trip.

Somehow we end up at Lost Vagueness, where I'm snapped go-go dancing in a bonnet on the Deluxe Diner tables, before a few spots of rain drive us back to the Lower Pennard campsite. We sit round on camp stools enjoying a smoke, as the rain hits harder. We're now having to yell over the sound of the rain on the tent canvas, and through the steamy fug I suddenly notice the water flowing past our feet has reached the top of my boots. "Gadzooks!" I cry. "Time to move, kids!" We hastily alert the sleeping neighbours and watch their shocked faces as they unzip their tents and tidal waves of water pour in. We summon the troops and escort them up the hill, away from the rising flood waters. Hmmm. This isn't the kind of back-to-ours I'm used to...

TO BE CONTINUED...

Glastonbury 2005 - Pt 2

2005-07-05T16:52:00.000+01:00

Friday

Friday morning

The flood victims either install themselves at our campsite or head back to London to dry off and restock, while I snatch a couple of hours sleep. On waking, I head off for a solo stroll to assess the damage - Pennard Hill looks like the Somme. Up by the Portaloos, a foul-smelling river is cascading down the hillside, having swept away everything in its path - including, I'm saddened to see, the Manchester boys' little pink tent, which lies forlornly in a crumpled heap halfway down the slope (<--). I pass them on the way back, looking all the world like WWI soldiers returning from battle. "What will you do?" I ask. "Fuck knows," Andy replies sadly. "We've lost everything. We've had enough of this shit right now - we're off." I give them all a hug and count my blessings.

Back at camp, tensions are running high, as it's still raining and no one knows what's going to happen next. Rumours fly that the Pyramid Stage has been struck by lightning, that all Friday's bands have been cancelled and that some people may have drowned in their tents. None of these turn out to be true, although we learn a set of Portaloos did actually overturn - and that the flood waters are now literally full of shit. Ew. The wellies won't leave my feet til Monday morning.

Friday afternoon - The Undertones, Pyramid Stage:

After all the palaver, spirits are somewhat shaken, but goddamn it, we aren't going to let a little rain - OK, a lot of rain - get us down. Wellies and macs/bin bags are donned, and we head down to get boggy with it at the (non-lightning-struck) Pyramid Stage. We arrive too late to know if Feargal and the gang performed an ironic Here Comes The Summer, but thankfully we're not too tardy for Teenage Kicks - it's so hard to beat. We leap about like pogoing mud punks and the mood is ebullient, to say the least. It's going to take more than a bit of rain and mud to stop this crowd having a good time.

On my return to camp, I overhear The Editors on the Other Stage (-->) - the boggiest venue of the festival. The five minutes I hear sound fantastic, and they are immediately odds-on favourites to become my New Favourite Band.

Friday evening - Babyshambles, Bloc Party, Other Stage; Elvis Costello, Pyramid Stage

After a quick nap, we head back to the thick of things. It's stopped raining, but it's a proper mud bath, so very gingerly, we make our way to the Other Stage to catch Babyshambles. From our position way back in the field, however - and due to the Other Stage's ridiculous lack of screens - we can neither see or hear Pete (we later hear he's rubbish anyway). So we flag it in favour of a spot of dinner - which is postponed when we walk past the Pyramid Stage and hear the strains of Elvis Costello (<--) belting out Oliver's Army.

Naturally we hotfoot it to the middle of the field - as well as one can with calf-deep mud sucking up your wellies (-->) - and stay there until the encore, Alison. It's a a fairly lacklustre, lounge singer-style attempt, but when it niftily seques into Suspicious Minds, I excitedly try to text double-Elvis fan Chuck Pettifogspot. Damn it, my phone's refusing to get reception again.

We pop back to the Other Stage for a bit of Bloc Party, including an excellent rendition of Banquet which I capture for posterity on video, and see the best sign of the festival - a big yellow sign saying "You are here". Classic. Then it's time to get on over to the Jazz World Stage for what I insist will be one of the highlights of the weekend - Alabama 3.

Friday night - Alabama 3, Roots Manuva, Jazz World Stage; White Stripes, Pyramid Stage

Not everyone seems totally convinced by the prospect of a bunch of Brixton cowboys-come-Southern gents instead of the gorgeous Kele Bloc Party, but they're soon to discover the genius of the A3 bunch, who play arguably the best set of the festival. We've obviously missed our mate Be Atwell doing his freestyle thing, but Ms Green and I funk in the mud to Woke Up This Morning while Ms G pops to the bar to procure us all delicious pear cider. Then we venture into the heart of the crowd to whoop it up to the brilliant U Don't Danse To Tekno Any More. Larry Love (<--) seems disappointed more people haven't dressed up as instructed pre-festival, but four boisterous tuxedo-wearing blokes behind us do their best to make up for everyone else's sartorial apathy. We scream, we holler, we jump up and down in the slurry, and thrill to the sound and vision of the Rev D. Wayne Love, Larry and pals, can-can girls and all. Simply superb.

Roots Manuva's up next in a fetching hot pink jumpsuit and fedora (-->), and delivers an absolutely cracking set, although by this stage the pear cider has gone to my head and things are getting hazy. The response to Witness is unsurprisingly immense - when the intro kicks in, it seems the roof might lift off, were we not in the middle of a soggy paddock.

I want to hang about at Jazz World for 10 minutes of Roy Ayres, but the girls are antsy to get to the Pyramid for the White Stripes, so I acquiesce. I'm not really a Stripes fan, but even I am awestruck by their performance - not by Meg's abysmal drumming and off-key voice, perish the thought, but Jack White (<--) is nowt short of a genius. He's also amazingly sexy (albeit somewhat jowly - he's like a hybrid of Johnny Depp in Pirates and Robert Smith...). Woo hoo. This is what the Pyramid Stage was made for. I'm overwhelmed by all I've witnessed this evening, and bore everyone I meet by gushing how "absolutely privileged" I feel to have experienced a night of such incredible music.

Friday night/Saturday morning - Tokyo Ska Paradise Orchestra and Babyhead, Lost Vagueness Ballroom

Heading to Lost Vagueness via the Glade, Ms G and I lose each other. While I wait for her to surface at the Pennard Hill crossroads, I witness another classic Glasto moment when a bloke bellows out for his friend: "Dan! Daaaaaaan!" Suddenly, a random passer-by also starts hollering "Dan!", then another, and another. Soon, some hundred people are calling for Dan. I'm pissing myself. God knows what Dan is doing.

We learn fab Brighton ska-funksters Babyhead are playing the Ballroom, causing Ms G to wet herself with excitement, having fallen in love with them at last year's Secret Garden festival. First up though, it's the Tokyo Ska Paradise Orchestra, who are great - full of energy and as insane as their name would suggest - but I'm having trouble keeping my mind on the job. It's 3am and I'm feeling the strain of three nights on the party bus.

I catch five minutes of Babyhead and head to bed, collecting a bean burger en route. On the way back from the bean man, I encounter a group of people by the side of the road holding an impromptu singalong to three guys with guitars, bongos and an accordion. Arms are waving, lighters are aloft, voices are raised and everyone is hugging each other. I rush over - and join in for the last chorus of Robbie Williams' Angels. It's a magic moment. Take that, cynics.

Next to the Pennard Hill flood zone, someone's posted this sign (-->). Adversity? Ha! We laugh in your face.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Glastonbury 2005 - Pt 3

2005-07-05T15:37:00.000+01:00

Saturday

[BTW: Hurrah for me - today (1st July) marks my fifth anniversary of living in London, and in the words of Sir Elt, I'm still standing, which is nothing short of a miracle...]

Saturday afternoon - Taj Mahal, Goldie Lookin Chain, Pyramid Stage

Everyone else is still passed out after big nights or having watched the All Blacks/Lions rugby game, transmitted live on the Pyramid Stage in the early hours (as a half-and-half, I'm still not sure who I'd root for - probably no one, I hate rugby). But Ms Green and I are full of beans (me literally, after my 4am veggie burger feed), so we scamper off to the Pyramid Stage quagmire, where we encounter this poor fool (<--), who is talking to his bong.

We're just in time to catch Taj Mahal. I'm not too familiar with the man, so had been a little sceptical about the suggestion, but the multi-instrumentalist blues legend and his band prove to be exactly what's required on this muddy morn. These old gents evidently ADORE playing their music - the huge, joyous smiles on their faces as they jam act as sunshine for the heart. How we laugh as Taj adopts a Cockney accent for the last track of the encore, and I cheer myself silly as they bow and depart.

Next up, it's what seems like at least 20 of Wales' finest youth, GLC - not a group I'd planned on seeing, but hell, today we all could use a laugh. Their one-joke puerility certainly won't please the purists, but once again, it's a perfect antidote to the sombre skies. "I shit three times today - blood came out the third time," reveals frontman Dwayne (-->), before launching into a piss-funny mash-up of 2 Unlimited's shocking No Limit, and introducing Maggot, who today - dressed in a fetching cape ensemble - has transformed into the 'Hip-Hop Vampire'. "Can you feel the love, Glastonbury?" asks Dwayne, who has written 'Chris Martin' on his hand in an hilarious parody of the drippy Coldplay fool. "Go on, turn to the person next you and give 'em a good fingering." Even the most miserable of cynics are forced to crack a smile.

On returning to Pennard Hill, Jamie-In-The-Band and I mount a successful mission to the drained flood zone to retrieve his sunglasses from his tent, which now resembles a filthy paddling pool. The ditch that became a river is now back to being a ditch again, albeit filled to the brim with flood debris - casks of wine, a baby stroller, anonymous tins of canned food, hundreds of packets of Wet Wipes... Unscrupulous looters could have a field day.

Saturday evening - Kasabian (acoustic set), Guardian Lounge; Mad Professor, DJ Format, GLC, Dance Tents

We round up the troops and head for the Dance Area, where DJ Format is set to play, with MCs Abdominal and D-Sisive, at 7pm. En route, after laughing heartily at the shoe graveyard (<--) next to the Millets wellies store, we call into the Guardian Lounge to see if Matty L is about, slaving hard for his money. There's no sign of him, but since "very special guests" Kasabian are playing a surprise acoustic set, the place is rammed to the rafters, making it impossible to hold your hand in front of your face, let alone see it. We lurk for a couple of tracks, but don't manage to catch even a glimpse of the band - who I'm unconvinced by anyway - so continue on our journey. Fresh straw has been laid over the path - it's a non-slip dream for our aching, wellie-clad legs, and we thank heaven for such small luxuries.

We sit outside the West Dance tent (-->) to smoke to the sounds of the Mad Professor, appropriately enough. I arrange to meet the crew at East Dance, and nip over there to catch Monsieur Format. He's obviously doing a sterling job, but the acoustics make it hard to hear from my position at the back of the tent. Ill Culinary Behaviour never fails, however, and even from my slightly muffled vantage point it sounds great. I chat to a few folk around me and draw two conclusions: 1) yesterday's inclement weather has brought out the very best in people - everyone I speak to (all lovely btw) is inclined to agree the mud has actually made the festival better; 2) all the boys here are drop-dead gorgeous - does hip-hop bring out the honeys?

The kids arrive. Having slept through their Pyramid performance, Ms G's keen to check out GLC, playing again in East Dance, so she disappears into the thick of the crowd. I remain at the back with the former Lower Pennard crew, now back from London and all dry and toasty/toasted. (Jamie-In-The-Band has had a nightmare trying to buy beer - the bar had run out of trays, so he asked a woman standing nearby to watch two beers as he carted the rest over the field to us. When he returned, both she and the beers were gone, proving not everyone is nice at Glastonbury. He ends up spending £15 for just three pints.) GLC ends and the Lower Pennard kids split to check Kasabian and Razorlight on the Other Stage. It's us three girls on our own again. Time to kick up our heels...

Saturday night/Sunday morning - Random disco, Babyhead, People's Republic Of Disco, The Pussy Parlure; The Magic Numbers, The Go! Team, John Peel Stage

Until you've trudged through knee-high mud for 48 hours, you will never know the pure joy of a sprung wooden dancefloor. So when we stumble across the Pussy Parlure - an 80-year-old vaudeville tent, stained glass, velvet curtains and all - we can't believe our luck. Even better, it's absolutely heaving to classic disco. Gött in Himmel! These boots were made for, well, cutting a rug, so we throw Studio 54 shapes to Chic's Good Times and various other gems before it's time to get up the hill to the John Peel Tent (second only to the Other Stage as the muddiest venue on the site and as far away from our Pennard Hill campsite as it is possible to be) for the most anticipated act of the weekend - The Magic Numbers.

We've done amazingly well on the act selection front - everything we've seen has been superb - but nothing can prepare me for what we are about to witness. On entering the tent, we see, in enormous letters to the right of the stage, the words: "Teenage dreams, so hard to beat" (<--). Uh-oh - the waterworks have already started.

The compere introduces The Magic Numbers as "the best band in the world" and receives a cheer that threatens to blow the roof off - but which is nothing compared to the mighty roar that greets the homely quartet as they take the stage. Sincerity isn't what normally comes to mind when talking about pop music, but these two sets of twins have it in spades. It's a rare, rare thing. I look around the crowd during Forever Lost - almost everyone is singing their heart out, and those who aren't are cuddling the person next to them and beaming like moony Cheshire cats. I lose it completely during Love Me Like You - my track of the summer - and have to turn away to wipe my eyes. Without resorting to Darius quotes again, the love in this room is palpable, and all of us know we've just witnessed something remarkable.

[The Thursday after we return to reality, Ms G emails me the following after I text her about an embarrassing teary episode at work brought on by reading a review of the gig: "I'm listening to Forever Lost and I've got tears streaming down my face! Far out, man - what is it about them? Do you think they really are magicians casting us under their spell?" Yes, actually, I do.]

We stick about for the Go! Team, but they're plagued by sound problems, so it's back to the Pussy Parlure to skank up a storm to Babyhead (-->, playing Jamm this Saturday, incidentally) and local heroes the People's Republic Of Disco. God knows how long we're there for - we're having such a great time the hours fly by - but somehow we end up back at the Stone Circle watching the fire pois (<--) and awaiting the dawn.

There, it's nonsense as usual. Someone yells out, "I'm Spartacus!", spawning the usual flurry of "No, I'm Spartacus" responses - with the exception of one wit, who sings, "I'm Spasticus, I'm Spasticus, I'm Spasticus Autisticus..." Someone behind us calls out to a figure walking down the slope: "Hey man, you look just like Rick Stein!" "I am Rick Stein!" comes the amused reply. And indeed it is.

The sun comes up but there's heavy cloud cover, so the much-vaunted "Dawn at the Stone Circle" is a bit of a fizzer. As the dew falls, for the first time I realise it's actually getting quite cold, so I bid the gang goodnight/morning and slink off home to my steadily-deflating air mattress.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Glastonbury 2005 - Pt 4

2005-07-05T14:42:00.000+01:00

Sunday

[I know, I know, I've even Glastonbored myself now - but I swore to blog it all for posterity, so in the words of Pete Sinclair/Bamber Gascoigne, I've started so I'll finish... Only one more to go, a nation cheers!]

Sunday afternoon - Van Morrison, Brian Wilson - Sunday afternoon, Pyramid Stage

It's the afternoon that promises much - but delivers little. I peer out of my sweatbox/tent at midday to find the campsite deserted and the gazebo MIA. It transpires half the crew are still asleep and the other half have started carting stuff back to their vehicles in preparation for Monday's departure, which explains the gazebo. My agenda for the afternoon was to involve a long session at the John Peel Tent, where Hard-Fi, Dresden Dolls and Sons and Daughters are playing back to back - but it's an unbelievably gorgeous day, and the last thing I want to do is miss out on sun action in the Peel swamp, so all plans are off. My head is banging like a rent boy on Viagra, so I head down to the Hari Krishna tent for free food (for which I guiltily donate nearly £5 in gold coins) and locate some freshly-squeezed lemonade. The site is awash with choruses of "Oh-ohhh-oh, oh-ohhh-oh", a la Hounds Of Love by The Futureheads, who played the Other Stage last night. I'm reminded of the old adage, "First time funny, second silly, third time a spanking."

Ms G resurfaces at around 4pm, and we agree to make the most of the sunshine by meeting the others for Van Morrison at the Pyramid Stage, to secure a good position for Brian Wilson at 5.30pm. I've never been a fan of the big man Van, but there are worse things one could listen to on a hot summer's day. I even rouse myself from my fold-up chair to stand up and chant along to Gloria.

But who better to herald the scorching sunshine than the king of California pop, Brian Wilson? It seems to take ages between acts, and I fear I might implode with anticipation. Suddenly, the crowd roars - it's Mr Wilson, looking bewildered and slightly shaky. Don't worry, baby, you're among friends here - it seems all 150,000 people at the festival have packed the Pyramid field to pay tribute. He takes a while to get going, and I fear he might be a bit past it, as he seems to rely on his band to carry him for the first couple of tracks. But my eyes still fog up when he plays Darlin', although it's a patchy affair. But soon he's back on form, and our hearts are fit to bursting as he sings Wouldn't It Be Nice, Good Vibrations, the beautifully-touching All Summer Long, my all-time fave, and, er, Row, Row, Row Your Boat... During the hour-long set and the five-song encore, he somehow manages to pack in all his hits, as well as some wonderful quieter numbers off Smile and Pet Sounds, leaving each and every soul in that field realising they have been in the presence of genius - and that such a moment will never happen again. We feel honoured beyond words.

On the way back to camp for a costume change - it's ballgowns a-go-go tonight - someone asks us if we'd noticed the person crowd-surfing - literally on a surfboard. No, but that's probably due to the huge black and white New Zealand flag that was fluttering in front of the screen (<--) - we appreciate the sentiment, but the bastards completely blocked our view. Grrr.

Sunday night - Primal Scream, Basement Jaxx, Pyramid Stage; DJ, Crown Bar

Glastonbury tradition dictates that Sunday is 'Mushroom Sunday', so who are we to argue? We don our cocktail frock finery and set off for Primal Scream by way of the John Peel Tent to collect Ms Green, who's been watching a mediocre LCD Soundsystem. Glastonbury once again outdoes itself with another spectacular sunset over the Pyramid Stage (-->), and we take a moment to appreciate its wonder - after all, it's the last one we'll see here til 2007.

Bobby and the boys have already started by the time we've installed ourselves on the right side of the hill (where we witness our first random naked man of the weekend - a Kiwi, quelle surprise), and at first I'm not too impressed. Gillespie is in top form (<--), obviously completely off his tits and in a right snot, mumbling nonsense about terrorism, calling us all "fucking hippies" and gobbing on the camera lens. (Obviously I fall violently in love and vow to have his children.) Musically, however, I'd prefer to hear more from the Screamadelica era, but that album has been largely shunned tonight in favour of their later, harder stuff. But when they drop the thunderous Swastika Eyes, I eat my words - and go absolutely nuts.

"Who came here for Kylie?" asks Mr Gillespie, and we cheer ourselves hoarse when he tells the idiots who replied in the affirmative to "fuck off". When Mani plays a Stone Roses riff, Bobby slurs, "Who wants to hear the Stone Roses?... Well, you should have been here 15 fucking years ago, you lazy fucking bastards." We're laughing so hard we're almost crying. By the time they launch into the sensational, glorious Movin On Up, every hair on our bodies is standing on end. We can do nothing but laugh, scream and leap up and down. Bobby continues to mutter obscenities into the mic and abuse the crowd, but it's apparently too much for the tech team, who pull the plug, and he's dragged from the stage. It's all over - but without a doubt, this has been the highlight of our Glastonbury. Bobby will come in for severe criticism from the press later, but they can all go to hell. In this sanitised, squeaky-clean popworld, we need more antics like his. Right now, however, Ms G and I can only clutch each other and gasp, "Rock and roll! ROCK AND FUCKING ROLL!!!"

I never envisaged finishing my 'official' Glastonbury with Basement Jaxx, but hell, we're here now, and they're sure to put on a decent show. Before, however, Ms Green and I make our way to the nearby She-Pee female urinals, which Ms G has excitedly described as "liberating". I dutifully perch over the plastic piss channel running around the walls, but it appears Ms Green, squatting nearby, has misunderstood the concept, and is pissing straight on the ground. We laugh so hard we should be rolling on the floor - if it wasn't sodden with Ms Green's steaming piss.

We finally relocate Ms G after half an hour of wandering about looking out for her candle flare (-->) - only to find out every group on the hill also has a candle flare. When the Jaxx kick off, it's clear Felix has taken a leaf out of Bobby's book - he's absolutely twatted and is acting the rock star to the hilt. Get in! Sadly, our position on the hill means we suffer the worst speaker drift I've ever experienced - it's so bad I'm unable to concentrate on anything else, and spend most of their set wondering whether, in fact, the drummer or fucked-up Felix are to blame. That doesn't stop me going mental to their Ace Of Spades/Lil Louis mash-upthough, and it's certainly a spectacle in glorious Technicolor®. And hell, it could have been Kylie, so thank heavens for small mercies.

After it finishes, we, along with half the population of Glastonbury, attempt to head to the Dance field, meaning huge traffic jams and much hilarity. At the first roadblock, a boozy teen yells, "There is one person walking veeeery slowly at the front. We must find them and throw them in the stream." Soon, the entire crowd is chanting, "Throw them in the stream! Throw them in the stream!" At the next roadblock, we're held back by nervous security, who are doing their best to create a two-way flow, but are starting to panic. Someone starts singing Hey Jude and 200 voices join in, followed by a chorus of "Baas" as we are mustered like sheep. Eventually, we make it to open space and the Dance field. It's been emotional.

Typically, however, once at the Dance field, we find there's nothing going on that doesn't involve jampacked crowds or long queues, so we decide to wander back over to the Crown Bar (on the other side of the site, naturally), where we suspect the rest of the gang may be. On the way, we notice the moon hovering atop the Other Stage - until tonight, it has been enormous and full. Now, sitting low in the sky, it's still giant, but has turned red and is halved, almost like an eclipse. Someone told me about this phenomenon on Friday, but of course I've forgotten the details. It's eerily beautiful, and only adds to the magic of the place.

The kids are indeed at the Crown, and our time here proves to be one of the absolute highlights of the weekend. I don't know who is DJing, but when he drops a stunning treble of There Is A Light That Never Goes Out, Champagne Supernova and Sweet Child Of Mine, I feel I've reached nirvana (and I don't even like Oasis). The crowd roars its approval as they join in a tent-wide singalong. It's like a mad love-in, and seeing each and every person in the room join arms to belt out "And if a double-decker bus crashes into us, to die by your side..." will stay with me forever. The pleasure, the privilege was mine.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Glastonbury 2005 - Pt 5 (the end!)

2005-07-05T13:45:00.000+01:00

Sunday/Monday

[The end is nigh! Yes, even I'm sick of talking about Glastonbury, but I know I'll want to look back on it all in years to come, which is why I'm still writing about it weeks after the event (in answer to the 'friendly' commentator on the below post). Anyway, this is the last post. Promise. xx]

Sunday night/Monday morning - Silent Disco, Dance East; Ska Cubano, The Youngblood Brass Band, Lost Vagueness Ballroom; The Doodits, Chapel Of Love & Loathing

After the rapturous singalong in the Crown Bar, we're re-energised and ready to roll again. Someone comes up with the genius idea of heading back to the Dance field (<--) to go to Silent Disco, so we brush the dirt off our bare feet, hitch up our skirts and don our wellies for the last time. Of course, by the time we arrive, the queue for Silent Disco stretches for miles, but we ask security guards if we can sneak up and watch. With all the participants wearing headphones with a choice of two different DJs, they move and groove to different drums - but ones we can't hear. The only sound is the occasional whoop as a killer (inaudible) track is dropped. It's hilarious.

The queue for the Pussy Parlure is long too, and the other stages are in the process of shutting down, so there's only one thing for it - Lost Vagueness via the Glade. En route, we discover 100 people dancing to dodgy trance outside a random burger bar's booming sound system, so we pause briefly to have a giggle and throw some shapes in a vaguely sarcastic manner. Sadly, when we reach the Glade stage we see it too is packing up, so it's onwards to lose ourselves at the Vagueness.

A coffee would be good at this point, but our last experience in the early hours of Saturday morning, when Jamie-In-The-Band absentmindedly stirred in salt instead of sugar, has traumatised our tastebuds, so we decline the offer and head straight to the Ballroom for a taste of Ska Cubano, who do what it says on the tin, fusing ska with Cuban music. We spend the next few hours either dancing our arses off at the Ballroom or exploring every nook and cranny of the Lost Vagueness area. We encounter a young chap (-->), who, in the cold light of day, might be written off by some as a bit of a chav, but who now approaches a piano sitting unused in the road, and proceeds to play a note-perfect Beethoven sonata.

An hour is lost in the Chapel of Love & Loathing, where a band called the Doodits (<--) are rocking the church to its foundations - a singer dressed as Johnny Depp from Pirates (who one of our number falls in love with until she realises it's a girl), a scary trannie in a corset, the coolest, most ball-busting saxophonist chick on the planet, a bunch of degenerates pole-dancing on a platform... We love it. But then it too is over, and we end up rocking to Johnny Cash outside a small bar with a tribute to Joe Strummer on its roof (-->). It's a perfect end to a perfect weekend of music.

Although it's not over yet, of course. There's still the dawn to catch, so we hurry to the Stone Circle to take our positions. There, everything we've witnessed over the past six days neatly comes full circle. On the way up, we pass Andy and the young Mancunians, and discover they didn't go home after the floods, but instead stayed and had the time of their lives. Sitting along from us, it's the chubby teenager who demanded "Water for all!" at the taps on our first morning. From our vantage point, we see the wit with the "You are here" sign. And fittingly, given that one of our first Glastonbury "moments" was the sighting of the "Arrest me, I'm Banksy" T-shirt, on the security fence behind us, we discover this Banksy graf (<--) . (Someone later tells us that the balloon man (-->) we saw on our first day was also a Banksy stunt.)

And as the sun finally comes up to a perfect sky, it's like we're back to the beginning again - but so much has happened in between, we know we'll never be the same again.

Over and out from Somerset. (At last.)

Top Ten Tuesday: Glastonbury moments

2005-07-05T11:34:00.000+01:00

1 Forever Lost The Magic Numbers
Cried when we heard it, continued to sing it all weekend.

2 Teenage Kicks The Undertones
No better way to say "fuck you" to the floods.

3 Good Vibrations The Beach Boys
Brian Wilson in the sunshine after the rain. Privileged. Perfect.

4 Movin' On Up Primal Scream
Eight miles high and rising. Gloriously gospel. The Glasto moment for us.

5 There Is A Light That Never Goes Out The Smiths
The most awe-inspiring singalong I've ever been a party to.

6 U Don't Dans To Tekno Any More Alabama 3
Best set of the festival. Gets '808', '303' and '909' into one song.

7 Where's Your Head At Basement Jaxx
Or "Where's your tent at", as became the chant that rang around the camp.

8 Your Mother's Got A Penis Goldie Lookin Chain
Just for making us laugh on a rainy day...

9 Banquet Bloc Party
Because they rocked and we wished we could have stayed longer.

10 Angels Robbie Williams
Yeah, we hate it too, but it provided more 'moments' per minute than any other track.

THE END! No more Glasto nonsense...

Can you feel the love in this site? (cheers Darius)

2005-06-28T20:59:00.000+01:00

God, how do you sum up the most incredible time of your life? Already, as the real world takes over once more, I'm forgetting so many of the magic moments we experienced.

Adjusting to real life again is hard, not least because of the colossal festival hangover we're all currently battling - if you were held up on the Jubilee Line this evening due to "a passenger taken ill at London Bridge", I'm embarrassed to admit it was me. A rush of blood to the head (ick, no Coldplay, thank you very much) on standing up to alight saw me crumple to the floor - and come to on the platform with concerned businessmen fanning me. Three hours sleep a day for six days can do that to a girl.

A thousand people have tried to explain Glastonbury to me in the past, and now I'm joining their ranks, trying to adequately convey the sheer magic of the place without sounding like a new age traveller or a Glasto bore. Is it the leylines? Glastonbury Tor on the next hill or Stonehenge down the road? How can I spend six days at a festival and not see one single incident of aggression or nastiness? The last festival I went to was terrorised by drunken yobbos and violent episodes - OK, admittedly it was T In The Park and thus populated by Scottish neds on Buckie rampages, but still... People are nice at Glastonbury.

Even Friday morning's storm couldn't dent positivity levels. Contrary to what press coverage might have suggested, it really wasn't that bad. Shite for the people who lost their tents - of which our friends camping at the bottom of Pennard Hill made up a large proportion - naturally, but there weren't all that many people affected. And yes, the mud was a bit of a drag and getting round the site was slow-going, but don a pair of wellies and you were sorted - and besides, the rain only lasted a few hours on Friday morning and the mud had all dried up by Sunday. If it had been cold as well as wet, it could well have been miserable, but temperatures were high - which meant spirits (and brain cells) were too.

What more can I say? (Loads actually, because this week is Glastonbury Week round these parts - be prepared.) Michael Eavis may enthuse, "This was the best Glastonbury ever!" every year, but this time I think he's right. I suppose it boils down to this - I hate camping and I don't handle the after-effects of partying on no sleep well. But I didn't get grumpy once all weekend. I didn't feel tired and I didn't ever feel rubbish. I was quite literally happy as a pig in mud, 24 hours a day. And that's a rare thing indeed.

What we saw:

Thursday: all manner of nonsense, stars at the Stone Circle, an awwwwwwful lot of Lost Vagueness (culminating in me dancing atop a table, wearing a blue bonnet, at 5am, just before the rain began...)

Friday: The Undertones, The Editors, Babyshambles, Bloc Party, Alabama 3, Roots Manuva, the White Stripes, Tokyo Ska Paradise Orchestra and Babyhead at the Lost Vagueness Ballroom (and a lot more of Lost Vagueness, memories now either lost or very vague)

Saturday: Taj Mahal, Goldie Lookin Chain, Kasabian (surprise acoustic set at the Guardian Lounge), Mad Professor, DJ Format, GLC (again), The Magic Numbers, The Go! Team, Babyhead at the Pussy Parlure, dawn at the Stone Circle

Sunday: Van Morrison, Brian Wilson, Primal Scream, Basement Jaxx, a collection of classics at the Crown Bar, Silent Disco, Ska Cubano at the Lost Vagueness Ballroom, Doodits at the Chapel (but no Kate/Pete wedding alas), sunrise (at last!) at the Stone Circle.

And far, far too much more to list or even remember...

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Forever Lost, The Magic Numbers

Sometimes I leave and I want to go back there

2005-06-28T13:32:00.000+01:00

I have had the best week of my life. Ever. I'm in danger of becoming a right Glastonbore-y as I regale non-festivaling friends and family with tales of sex, mud and rock'n'roll, but fuck it. I know you can never convey the magic of Glastonbury to those who weren't there (or I would have gone years ago), but that's not going to stop me trying. More soon, once the fog has lifted from my brain and the tears of being back in the real world have cleared from my red-rimmed eyes...

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Good Vibrations, Brian Wilson

One more sleep

2005-06-21T22:39:00.000+01:00

Every bit of Glastonbury advice I've been given states in no uncertain terms, "Don't try to see everything, avoid the main stages, just go with the flow". And I will. But if I could be in 10 different places at once, this is what I'd be doing (all the while simultaneously getting a massage from an old crustie in the Greenfields and playing blackjack at the Lost Vagueness casino)...

On Friday, the place to be obviously has to be the Other Stage - just check the line-up, which includes: Tom Vek, Le Tigre, Hot Hot Heat, Cooper Temple Clause, The Others, Babyshambles, Bloc Party and Royksopp. Gah.

But there's also: The Subways, The Undertones (for Peelie's sake), Elvis Costello, Doves, White Stripes (Pyramid Stage); Little Barrie and Pitman (Dance Lounge Bar); the mighty Alabama 3 and Roy Ayres (Jazzworld Stage)...

Saturday, however, belongs to the John Peel Stage, what with, among others, The Departure, The Subways, The Earlies and the Go! Team gracing its speakers, as well as what has to be the must-see gig, the Magic Numbers. A lovestruck Romeo sings a street-suss serenade - I so have to be there when he does.

But let's not forget: New Order (Pyramid); Chas 'N' Dave and Steve Harley & Cockney Rebel (Acoustic Stage); The Proclaimers (if only to hear Sunshine On Leith for our favourite Scottish pals) (Avalon Stage); Baby head, People's Republic of Disco (Pussy Parlure); Echo & The Bunnymen (Other)...

And then Sunday. There are loads of things I'd like to see - the Ukelele Orchestra of Great Britain (Acoustic); Mylo (East Coast Dance Tent); Dresden Dolls, Sons & Daughters, The Kills, LCD Soundsystem (John Peel); The Futureheads and Ian Brown (Other) - but by this stage we'll be needing wheelchairs. All I care about is seeing Brian Wilson on the Pyramid Stage, to whom I shall shed fat milky tears - I'm misting up just thinking about it. And I'll probably stick around for Primal Scream too.

So here's to the Glastonbury Festival of Performing Arts. I can't wait. Normal transmisssion resumes Monday.

[PS: And a huge happy birthday to my darling baby sister, Smacked Trace, who turns 28 today - love you loads, Junior Cow... xxx]

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Wouldn't It Be Nice, Beach Boys

Summer daze

2005-06-21T11:50:00.000+01:00

Standing in the 30-degree sunshine on Brixton Hill this morning, the Magic Numbers' Love Me Like You flicked up on my iPod, and as my eyes grew embarrassingly moist, I had one of those rare moments when you know beyond all doubt that the era has just been encapsulated for eternity - that this song will be the one you will listen to for years to come, that will forever transport you instantly back to a certain Technicolor©-hued time and place. Like the Lips' Do You Realise? was the song of that golden summer of 2003, so Love Me Like You is the sound of summer 2005, and by god, what a truly beautiful soundtrack it is.

Excuse my sentimentality this morning. With just one sleep to Glastonbury, I'm getting all emotional (and not just because the spray tan Ms G and I had to trial for my work last night has left us orange and patchier than Jacko's penis). Even the most mundane transactions are taking on an air of poignancy, of significance, of... I think the pollen's getting to me.

I hooked up with an ex last night for cider under the stars at the Telegraph, a place I haven't frequented since the Jaxx's Rooty days. I hadn't seen him for a while. It was nice. We talked like old friends, we laughed, we didn't allude to past transgressions.

Whether it was the cider, the full moon blazing like a Batman floodlight projected on to the London haze, or just the general effects of a warm summer night, I briefly found myself wondering whether we really could have had a future together. And as we awkwardly said our farewells, I thought about asking him to turn right instead of left, and to accompany me home... But then I remembered why I'd called a halt to it in the first place (and that I had hairy armpits due to today's pre-festival wax session, and stunk of fake tan).

I kissed him on the cheek and skipped off up the road.

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Love Me Like You, The Magic Numbers

Ticket to Ryde

2005-06-20T17:18:00.000+01:00

How do you shock a roomful of repressed Middle England tourists? By quaffing too many bottles of rosé and hijacking the hotel karaoke system to perform your all-singing, all-dancing rendition of Cabaret, of course. Then following it up with a hi-energy jigging rendition of Men At Work's Antipodean classic, Down Under.

Yes, the Isle of Wight is no doubt still reeling from Smacked Face and Ms G's weekend excursion - and good, it could do with a shake-up. It's a beautiful place, make no mistake, but it's certainly not, er, cosmopolitan, and the legions of dispossessed, moody teens stalking its streets were testament to that.

But we had a blast. The lovely DJ Kay told me to make sure I went to the vintage clothes shop, the name of which she couldn't recall and the location of which she couldn't remember, but it was "where the ships came in". We assumed she meant Ryde, where the ferries dock, and so asked the locals on our arrival. They were perplexed, but eventually someone pointed us in the direction of Masqueryde, a second-hand shop specialising in party hire.

It was, of course, pure gold. Ms G emerged with two sublime Lady Muck hats, some vintage 70s heels and a gorgeous white gown; I scored myself a battered old Stetson, a fab floppy blue sunhat, a long hippie skirt and a paisley tunic, all utterly perfect for Glastonbury (and the sunshine?).

We were besides ourselves with joy. Then DJ Kay texted to say: "The shop is called Cameo, it's in Cowes." Not only the wrong shop, but the wrong town! Which just goes to show the Isle of Wight is a vintage shopper's dream.

Eventually we hauled ourselves away to hotfoot it to Sandown in time for our pre-booked facials and massages. They were of course delectable, and we emerged looking 20 years younger once stripped of all that accumulated London grime and crackwhore-lifestyle residue. Our hotel may have been a bit on the naff side, from the silver plate covers to the six elderly waiting staff attending to the 20 diners in the restaurant to the Saturday night karaoke entertainment (more on that in a minute), but they couldn't do enough for us and the location was just stunning. Plus it was worth it just for the wonderful collection of memorabilia from the 1970 Isle of Wight Festival on display - someone's keepin' that dream alive.

Before dinner, we'd made a pact to think of the excursion not as a "detox weekend", but in fact a plain old "girlie weekend". This left us free to indulge in a couple of G&Ts and crack into a bottle of Chilean rosé, which rapidly became two and...

Before long, we'd bumped Dave the karaoke man off his microphone to bash out a selection of hits, although apparently this never happens (he did look a bit peeved to have been relieved of his duties). We warmed up with a fairly lacklustre performance of I Got You Babe before the Dutch courage kicked in, and we felt brave enough to unleash our notorious Minnelli-esque Cabaret routine (as first performed at Ms G's 30th last year and which is to be reprised at Turnmills in September, in our first-ever 'professional' booking, pop pickers!).

The audience were left speechless by our high kicks and razzmatazz, but undeterred, we persevered to blast out Men At Work's Down Under, complete with impromptu haka from Ms G... before it was apparently closing time and we were ushered back to our rooms.

The next day, we skulked down to breakfast and hotfooted it to the beach for a day of superb fish'n'chips, ice creams and sunbathing before anyone could witness our morning-after shame.

We loved the Isle of Wight - one can only hope (against hope) they loved us too.

Beelzebub's booze

2005-06-20T13:25:00.000+01:00

Knowing my recent unfortunate experiments with the demon drink, a pal alerted me to the article on Buckfast in today's Times. I like to think of myself as libertarian in principle, but even I wouldn't object to the stuff getting banned. It truly is the devil's plaything - and wine writer Jane MacQuitty agrees: "Despite its religious origins, the Buckfast Tonic Wine bottle looks like the devil’s own work and the contents taste worse." Quite.

But hark at me, coming over all puritan after a 'detox' weekend away (never mind the fact we drank more than a normal night down the Horse). I'll put my self-righteous hat away in the cupboard (with the five others purchased in that brilliant vintage clothes store in Ryde), and get to work on recounting the weekend's Isle of Wight antics. And antics there certainly were...

The detox before the retox

2005-06-17T12:01:00.000+01:00

As London hits a sweltering 31 degrees this weekend, Ms G and myself will be basking, bikini-clad, in a cooling Isle of Wight sea breeze while minions on a pampering mission cater to our every detoxing need at this place. (I know I whinge about my job, but hell, you gotta love the perks...)

But all shameless skiting aside, our luxurious weekend is a necessary calm before the storm, for next week means Glastonbury - and anyway, after the past few weekends I've had, I reckon I've earned a little R&R.

So. Our first Glastonbury. All plans of doing it in VIP style were long ago dashed, but, well, we are travelling down with a bonafide English lord who presumably should have an OK car, and Ms G's eBaying has procured the daddy of tents - a two-roomed, four-person job for just us two lassies (if this tent's a-rockin...). Not quite the same as the chopper/campervan/golf cart fantasy, but it's better than a bin liner.

Debate has raged all day over the best place to camp, and since we're going down early on Wednesday, we should have a fairly free run of it. William's or Dragon Field? Pennard Hill? Campervan field E18? It's mind-boggling.

As for what to see... Criminy. Here's the line-up, what do you reckon? Obviously a great deal of our time will be spent ambling about Lost Vagueness, and I'd like to think I'll be happy to just sit back and, in a very Greenfields manner, let Zen navigation take its course - que sera sera etc - but hell, I'm a secret stickler for planning, and if I don't get to see Alabama 3 on the Jazzworld Stage on Friday or the Magic Numbers on the John Peel Stage on Saturday, you bet I'll be throwing my toys out of the pram. Which, to be honest, is probably bound to happen at some stage anyway because, hell, it's six days without a hot shower, Egyptian cotton sheets or hair straighteners, and I'm unbearable as it is even after a normal big weekend... However, the optimist in me says there's nothing that can happen that can't be remedied with a large hat and cover-all-sins Aviators.

And whereas just a week ago I was pretty 'yeah, whatever' about the whole deal, now, with just five days to go and having read all the tips pages and seen the long-range forecast, well... my pants are moist*. Bring it on.

* Speaking about moist pants, well done to the person who Googled this site looking for "pics of moist gussets". Nice work...

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Freaks For The Festival, Rahsaan Roland Kirk

Meh

2005-06-16T08:31:00.000+01:00

Since making the decision to quit this town for a while and setting a firm date for my departure, a couple of things have happened.

Firstly, the firm date has become not so firm, as I wait to see if New York City Boy can put me up for a weekend in the Big Apple on stopover or if his visiting parents will be bagsing the sofa. So the tickets didn't get paid for yesterday, but that's cool, I can easily rebook once plans are set in stone (as long as I don't spend the money first - and fuck me, preparing for Glastonbury is turning out to be an expensive business).

Secondly, and more strangely, rather than wanting to suck the marrow out of London and indeed the entire Northern Hemisphere before departing for the deep South, I've developed a terrible ennui.

My prevailing attitude over the past five years has been one of, "Well, I could do that/go there/experience that... but I'm here for life so I've got all the time in the world to get around to it." Which is all well and good, and god knows I've probably done more than many people ever do and of course I'll be back at some stage in the future, but it does mean I'm leaving these shores, however temporarily, having not fulfilled a lot of ambitions.

I still haven't made it to Rome, for instance - although admittedly not for lack of trying (at last count, I'd booked the trip four times, not including the non-refundable big-bucks anniversary weekend I'd intended to surprise the Donkey with, booked for shortly after he decided to run off with that flaky fashion floozie). I haven't done Morocco, Egypt, Turkey or any of that side of the Med. I never made it to Berlin. I never ate at Gordon Ramsay, St John's or Rick Stein's. I didn't dine in San Sebastian. I never quite succeeded in entirely losing my Kiwi twang...

But the thing is, now I've got three months left here (this time around), I can't be arsed doing anything. I've cancelled my Glade and Bestival festival outings (due to having used up all my holiday time admittedly), I can't be bothered organising the many parties we'd planned to throw over the course of the summer, I haven't even got around to compiling a list of must-do things, let alone actually get around to doing them.

When you're tired of London, you're tired of life? So it would seem right now. Must try harder.

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: The City Is Here For You To Use, The Futureheads

Is the smell...

2005-06-15T08:15:00.000+01:00

... of duplicator ink the most nostalgic in the world?

I think so - I'm instantly transported back to the store room of Birchwood Primary School, where we would sometimes help Mr Climo crank the spirit duplicating machine and produce seemingly hundreds of purple carbon copies, it seemed like magic - but what I can't figure out is why our apartment block's lift shaft smells like it this morning.

Personally, I'm liking the idea of No 14 being inhabited by a family of resolute Luddites, giving the big finger to photocopiers and their fellow mass-producing tools of Satan. All hail early 80s technology! Now where's my Sinclair ZX-81?

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Temporary Secretary Paul McCartney

Top Ten Tuesday: Mr August Darnell

2005-06-14T20:00:00.000+01:00

A tribute to the man in all his many modes, as promised weeks ago.

1 Stool Pigeon Kid Creole & The Coconuts
From the genius 1982 Tropical Gangsters album, and sampled by a thousand folk or more, including the Avalanches and the Greenskeepers' snarfily-titled Stool Sample. I've got a fab picture-disc 7" of this track and it's fairly near the top of the list for things I'd risk the flames for to save from a house fire. Rocking!

2 Cherchez La Femme Dr. Buzzard's Original Savannah Band
Pure disco sunshine with a bit of charleston swing thrown in. Bronx boys August and bro Stony Browder Jr joined forces with husky-toned vocalist Cory Daye and made this lush gem. I cannot say how much I love love love this track. If I believed in the concept of marriage, I'd probably play this as the first dance at my wedding. As it is, you can hire me to DJ (badly) at yours and I'll drop it for you. But probably a better idea would be to just go buy it yourself.

3 There But For The Grace Of God Go I Machine
More stonking disco, this time co-written by Darnell and Machine keyboardist Kevin Nance. A song with a serious groove and a political message that brilliantly reflects the social turmoil of a 70s America in recession, about a Bronx family in search of a "better" life (with "no blacks, no Jews and no gays") that all goes tits-up. As it tended to back then, thus why so many people lost themselves in the drugs and the discos presumably. Erm, isn't there a recession on right now?

4 I'm a Wonderful Thing Baby Kid Creole & The Coconuts
I think I only realised the genius of this track when one of the Alabama 3 boys dropped it recently at Jamm, despite it lurking in my collection for a few years. Laid-back funk, deliciously swaggering lyrics, perfect summer tune.

5 Yolanda (Adnaloy 12" mix) Kid Creole & The Coconuts
Stumbled across this via Derrick Carter's Choice: A Collection of Classics comp from a few years back - it's the track Yolanda played backwards. Much like the time our impish mate Hud decided to slowly wind a record back at 5am one very wonky morning (it took us 10 minutes to work out what was going on), this is guaranteed to fuck with your heads. No wonder Carter loves it.

6 Annie I'm Not Your Daddy Kid Creole & The Coconuts
Samba madness and evil lyrics - a guy telling a kid he's, er, not her dad: "See if I was in your blood/ Then you wouldn't be so ugly". Nice. Again off the Tropical Gangsters album (which incidentally was released on the very excellent Ze Records - much beloved of the Optimo boys, and home to some of NYC's finest no-wave post-punk artists of the late 70s/early 80s, such as James White & The Blacks, Lizzie Mercier Descloux, Was (Not Was) and The Contortions - Ze's Mutant Disco series is a must-have).

7 Me No Pop I Coati Mundi
Totally infectious 80s semi-rapping styles from Coconuts man Andy Hernandez. Weirdly, its Top 40 UK position was apparently due to it being thrashed by 'Hairy Cornflake' Radio 1 DJ Dave Lee Travis, "who was also responsible for getting Papa’s Got A Brand New Pigbag into the charts after playing it for a solid year." Bizarre.

8 Mister Softee Kid Creole & The Coconuts
Haha, the Kid can't get it up. Great shouty girl-group-style backing vocals, a phat-as-fuck ska bassline, a sound reminiscent of early Talking Heads and the best lyrics ever. Maybe not a track for shagging to though...

9 Que Pasa Kid Creole & The Coconuts
Latin rhythms so Latin it's almost a pisstake. Perfect for a Cuban Brothers set.

10 I'm An Indian Too Don Armando's Second Avenue Rhumba Band
I've big-upped this tune so many times I'm just gonna cut and paste from last time: "Tom-tom drums and a disco beat - Darnell takes an old Irving Berlin song from Annie Get Your Gun, and creates the campest dance tune known to man." Etc. Cracker.

Mr Darnell, we salute you.

Crap Toast

2005-06-14T08:39:00.000+01:00

Talking about all things Kiwi, and we were, that is, I was, yesterday, we thought it might be a harmless way to spend our Saturday by making use of the press passes I'd snagged for the Toast New Zealand Wine & Food Festival at Clapham Common. Hell, if nothing else, it would be a nice day out in the sunshine with the always-welcome opportunity of free alcohol as a bonus. And I could also use it as a "training-wheel day" for my imminent return to the fatherland.

"Ooh," said I, as I went weak at the knees, having spotted a few choice specimens of bronzed Antipodean manhood in the queue, "Don't Kiwi boys put the Brits to shame in the looks department?"

Alas, it would not be the first time the words "Kiwi boys" and "shame" were used in the same sentence. For as the day wore on and the booze went down (alas, not down our throats, but more on that in a minute), people's inner bogans were unleashed and I was reminded of why I had fled the land of the long white cloud in the first place. My countrymen are heinous boors when drunk. We hurriedly Britished up our accents so not as to be tarred with the same brush. We were mortified.

As should the organisers of the festival be. We didn't even pay for our £25 tickets, yet we still felt ripped off. It was under-catered - half an hour minimum queuing for the toilets (it's not bloody Glastonbury, come on) and the same time again to get any semblance of food (£5 for a dodgy steak and cheese pie is taking the piss) - and ridiculously poor value. For £25, I'd expect minions running about offering me free samples at every turn, not a handful of vouchers entitling me to 30ml (yes, two tablespoons-worth) of wine. We bought one disappointingly reedy bottle of Nobilo sauvignon, which we sculled in record time, shivering next to a tent to try to escape the freezing wind that had whipped up.

Even the entertainment was shite - poor Nathan Haines and his band were saddled with the shittiest PA system this side of a wind-up gramophone, and talking to the crew afterwards, even they didn't want to be there.

It was time to get the hell out before we assimilated and became like the hordes of disgusting pissed-up idiots staggering around us. So we headed to the excellent Coach & Horses on Acre Lane for a few tasty ciders, before staggering like pissed-up idiots to the Whitehorse and onwards to oblivion, finally arriving home at 11pm on Sunday. But that's a whole other story...

> INTERNAL JUKEBOX: Hijack, Herbie Mann

She's leaving home

2005-06-13T08:33:00.000+01:00

So in the interests of progress, this weekend I ditched the Love Interest (any doubts I had about my decision were swiftly cast asunder as, in spectacularly teenage fashion, he snogged some manky bird in front of me at a house party that evening - all class).

But it's all good - the last thing I need right now is another boozy loser dragging me down to their gutter. And anyway, it all provided yet another impetus to rouse myself from the limbo I'm currently in - a going-nowhere-fast job, perpetually skint, still living for the weekend at the age of 30 - and get the 'life plan' back on track.

So with all that in mind, last week I secretly booked myself a flight back to Auckland - D Day is Friday 30 September. I'm nowhere near ready to leave London - it feels more like home than New Zealand ever did - and truth be told, I can't really afford the move. But sometimes bullets have to be bitten, and if it's a choice between another grim winter, scraping by in London and still in that going-nowhere-fast job, no doubt drinking far more than is good for me in seedy south-of-the-river bars, or changing careers, putting my head down and enjoying the New Zealand sunshine for a bit, then the decision's not too hard to make.

So yes, as soon as I get paid on Wednesday, that ticket will be 100% confirmed. And it's non-refundable - so there's no going back.

It's freaking me out, but in a good way, I think. In fact, I feel kind of emancipated. And one should never underestimate the importance of a good Kiwi brunch.

Things irritating us today

2005-06-10T13:39:00.000+01:00

Don't you just want to punch people smack bang in the face sometimes? I know I do, and a day of Mac-crashing madness at work yesterday left me ready to kick newborn kittens, such was my frustration and rage. I pity the poor fool who accidentally yanked my headphones out of my ears yesterday while changing trains at Stockwell - he felt the sharp end of my tongue and no mistake, the fucking imbecile. Anyway, I like a good seethe session, so today I got the email gang involved - share and share alike - and now we're all enjoying venting our anger on the world. Feel free to join in.

So. We hate people who:
• say 'card shark', rather than card sharp. (And yes, I know that due to continual misquotage, the term 'card shark' has now become acceptable - but not in my hearing, buddy...)
• pronounce maroon 'maroan'. It has two Os, dimwits - like moon and spoon. Not 'moan' and 'spoan'
• pronounce pronunciation 'pronounciation'. Sort it
• say "very unique". But I've bitched about that before
• say 'pacific' when they mean specific
• say 'pavalova', when they of course mean pavlova, like the Russian dancer
• pronounce appreciate 'appreseeate'. Sh!
• say 'congradulations' instead of congratulations
• say 'Wimpleton', not Wimbledon
• say 'all intensive purposes', not all intents and purposes
• say 'off of' instead of just off (grrrr)
• say 'gotten', not got
• say 'one and one half', not one and a half
• pronounce 20 'twenny'
• pronounce quarter 'korta'
• pronounce Ireland like 'island'
• say 'alooominum' instead of aluminium*. And who pronounce nuclear 'nucular'. And who say "Ly-sester-shyer' instead of 'Lester-sheer' for Leicestershire. In fact, Americanisms in general. Without wishing to generalise, they're a nation of idiots**.

* The venerable Ms G responds: "I just read something about that in Bill Bryson's A Short History Of Nearly Everything - apparently, when they first discovered/made alumnium, the first person to name it didn't use an 'i', but because that didn't fit with all the other metals/elements ending in 'ium', a few traditionalists decided to add an 'i'. However, some rogue still left it off and it is actually spelt without an 'i' in the US..." So there.

** To illustrate: five years ago at Fabric, stuck having to entertain a Yank bird my mate was trying to pull... "So where do you go to university then?" I ask, languidly. "Well," she squeaks by way of reply, "in America, we have these things called 'states', and each 'state' has its own college. I go to my state's college." Riiiiight... "So what are you studying then?" I labour on. "Well," the halfwit replies, "right now we're studying Shakespeare." Any particular play? "Um, I can't remember. I think some guy dies?" Speechless...

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