Wednesday, September 23, 2009


Wednesday 23 September 2009

MORE NEWS FROM NOWHERE

Dream: I am in Leytonstone and meeting up with my American Friend for the first time in almost a year. We actually have a lot of fun and it is good times. Briefly I meet The Teeth and it is as frosty as any rational person would expect/imagine it to be. I find him smug and phoney. Proceedings come to an end and with it the sense/feeling that it will now be another year before this happens again so for once in a fight or flight scenario I find some Cantona and decide to fight my corner pointing out the irregularities in the guy and just what a mistake is occurring. Whether this works or not is not the point, the fact that in a fight or flight situation/scenario I fight for once represents a real sea change in my demeanour, approach and mentality.

I emerge from the dream carrying the exuberance from it, feeling invigorated and excited ready to grab the world and take on anything that it has to chuck/throw at me. Hopefully this will not prove a false dawn.

As I leave the house “More News From Nowhere” plays out in my head as this becomes my song for the day and I adopt the devil may care attitude that exudes from the song. Let’s see how long this now lasts.

By now I am well into the Tuesday Thursday Blur and today I have a sharp work plan in my head for what lies ahead in St Johns Wood for me today. Time to take this project by the horns.

While I flick through today’s copy of The Metro there is an article on straight edge that is truly weird, bordering on offensive. As some gormless immigrant mugs it up for the camera you sense really his abstaining from toxins really is more likely to do with his enforced religion rather than set of moral values that dictate his apparent lifestyle choice. No one in hardcore ever posed like that, never shoved the concept of the movement down people’s throats quite so viciously until much later when it became far too regimented and militant. Any opportunity to mug for the camera I guess. There is a picture of Minor Threat to the right of the article and a reprint of the lyrics from the song “Straight Edge.” This is just all so depressing and wrong and seriously strangely timed, why now are they suddenly covering the concept/idea? I have not seen an influx of straight edge and/or hardcore bands recently. The last great hardcore band I came across was Coke Bust and they are so far removed from the contents of this story it is ridiculous. Is it more like that due to the credit crunch these people now possess less pennies to spend on drink, drugs and fags? Then again maybe I should actually read the article rather than just spitting chips at the visuals it presents me with (a bunch of Kerrang readers kids lacking an agenda).

Boarding the train this morning the Demi Moore lookalike from a few weeks ago is again on our carriage. I take back any disparaging remarks I made from that day, she is genuinely stunning. Perhaps it was in the way that she wears her hair like Olive Oyl. I think the real sealer is in the glasses. I think I notice her looking over the tops of the rims at me a couple of times as I gasp pathetically. This only serves to add to the amazement and attraction.

Elsewhere sitting close to me today is the Ric Flair Guy, which all in all means I am afraid to give my iPhone any real volume at this time.

Wonder upon wonder the train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8AM this morning, a timely acknowledgment that my memories of the good old days of being on time were not in my imagination or some wild/wicked fantasy I hold in the back of my mind. This day appears to be on a roll.

As I change lines at Baker Street I see a dad allowing his kid to ride on one of those scooters along the platform. That is very bad parenting.

Once in work it is again the same old same old on the new company accounts and subsequently the highlight of the morning turns out to be when Everett True accepts my friend request on Facebook.

For lunch I have penne rose with chicken. It’s a good blend and a sure-fire sign that I am not concerned by carbs today.

In the afternoon things descend to The Girl hiding beneath/behind my desk and jumping out on me as I return from the toilet. Is this really what things have come to?

Eventually 5.30PM comes around and I leave with my boss on the phone to the consultant as things with the new company remain dangling in the air.

I leave work listening to the Nashville The Jesus Lizard set Chunklet put up, this always serves me well. Unfortunately as I change tube lines at Baker Street I spot the Baker Street Midget and suddenly all feels lost for the evening as a curse now hangs over proceedings.

Elsewhere on the tube today a guy looks like a combination of all three brothers from The Darjeeling Limited. It’s an interesting look, very poncy.

I manage to get to Liverpool Street just after 6PM with the others expecting to arrive around quarter past. Feeling slow and sluggish I buy a “venti” Starbucks with view to it waking me up.

As I stand around waiting at the Bishopsgate exit I watch all the people meeting up or waiting to be met up. There are some genuinely striking looking ladies and with my strange recent (and brief) infusion of confidence I find myself looking for an opportunity to smile. The opportunity doesn’t arrive. Instead I get a homeless come up to me about to pester me for money. He however shoots himself in the foot when he approaches me with the question “do you speak English?” I shake my head both in disbelief, offence and tactically to lose the cunt. Do I fucking look foreign? Jesus Christ I must do. Hopefully my look is of a Scandinavian Viking hybrid. Hopefully.

Soon Mark turns up and immediately we catch up on events since the weekend just after Racton texts to say that he will be ten minutes late. Mark and I wait for about three quarters of an hour for Racton who then phones Mark to say that he has been waiting elsewhere at Liverpool Street for ages asking where we are. Seems my phone is fucked as every attempt he has been making to call me has failed. This iPhone is ropey.

We walk down Bishopsgate towards Cargo looking forward to a busy night. As we reach Cargo security feels distinctly light as we are able to trot right into the venue where we all order food, myself bagging chorizo pizza and chips. As we sit outside in the confines of East London it feels like one of the best possible places to be. There is something definitely picture-esqe about the modernised commercial ruins of this part of town.

Eventually Thom turns up and we head towards the music before being told that we need to get passes from the promoters.

The first band on tonight are PENS. There is currently a decent amount of fuss surrounding them and as they trawl out a fan friendly naïve set it becomes apparent that their charm far outweighs their talent. I guess this is the soft side of the Riot Grrrl influence that thankfully goes the noisy way of guitars as opposed to the popular. Amongst my friends they don’t go down very well but I like them as they remind me of various lo-fi bands from back when I was their age. They also house a member that looks like Lily Allen in a less disingenuous way and out of defiance I insist on buying their album after their set.

After a few more drinks the next band up are MALE BONDING who have supposedly recently signed to Sub Pop. With little fuss they tear through their set with a workmanlike attitude to performing powering through with an amazing drummer and super dense guitar sound. With their influences neither obvious nor pinned to their sleeves, there is something wise and fresh about their set, which lends plenty of hope to what is set to follow from them in the future. They turn out to be much better than their records would suggest and as a result this is obviously something that needs to be harnessed. Bang bang bang.

TIMES NEW VIKING explode on stage with a raucous abandon that comes different to their lo-fi leanings would suggest. Away from such rudimentary revelations the band really does work that old cliché of thriving in a live setting as a surprisingly tuneful outfit getting through the calamitous racket they excel with. On drums is a powerhouse that looks like a young Henry Rollins crossed with Mike Patton who is a definite heartbreaker as he exchanges sweet vocal nothings with the glorious sight of the keyboard player. Elsewhere the guitarist doesn’t miss a beat as he delivers a thick and conclusive set that at times just hurts.

Live TIMES NEW VIKING pan out like a cross between Royal Trux and Deerhoof in a much more proficient manner than I gave them credit for when I reviewed their record. For the first time in a long time I bounce along to every song in the set, not once feeling bored, not once experiencing disdain for the band in any form. If things were judged in such ways pound for pound this is easily my gig of the year so far.

A near perfect night comes to an end with promises of hitting the next On The Beach club night. As a bonus I manage to catch the 11.30PM Norwich train home after storming up Bishopsgate, which tonight quite frankly has never looked more spectacular. These truly are the good times.

Unsurprisingly the train home is slow, sent in typical fashion to ruin proceedings when in reality I should have just snagged a ride on the final fast train home of the night. Later just outside Marks Tey it is announced by Information Jimmy that the consistent slow running of the train this evening is due to planned engineering work. At half past midnight on a Wednesday night? Really? Do they clock and realise just how lacking in common sense that is? Amateurs.

For the majority of the journey home Nina texts me sporadically, seemingly keen to talk. As she unloads onto me I run the risk of becoming an emotional tampon to/for her but tonight feeling relatively happy I can take it when ordinarily I might feel offended.

Eventually I get back to Colchester and walk to Balkerne Heights to collect my car. When I finally head into the complex all that I can hear is Jamie T (“Sticks ‘N’ Stones”) booming out from a stereo at one of the apartments. It is 1AM on a Wednesday night/Thursday morning, a fucking school night and some chav cunts have decided to have a party. Welcome to Colchester. Balkerne Heights is turning into quite a rotten place to live it would seem. Where is this Terry Sutton guy when you need him? Sat in his office counting his coins like Ebenezer Scrooge? This is Broken Britain where the rich and greedy prosper while everyone else is left to scrabble and fend for their piece of the remaining cake.

Once home as the hour passes 1AM I find myself unable to sleep so I end a good day by watching a couple of episodes of Entourage into the early hours. Works for me.

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