Saturday, March 13, 2010

Saturday 13 March 2010

Dream: I find myself discussing libel law with Robin Ince for some reason.  Suddenly the date 19 April bares some relevance to proceedings.  Later after some kind of social event I discover myself returning home with The Girl from work who I send upstairs to bed before I turn in on the sofa.  Unsurprisingly as ever she gripes at being told what to do.  I don’t actually recognise the crib.  At first it feels like the place is mine but looking around I do not recognise it.

When I awaken this morning it is a beautifully sunny day that resembles the height of the day.  It is a fresh beginning but also one that fears me with a dread of having overslept.  As I look at my watch it tells me that the time is just 6.45AM.  I do not believe it.  Things are definitely trending upwards.

I still have a sense of euphoria resulting from last night.  For years to come now I will remember it fondly as one of the greatest Friday nights I ever spent in London.

Once awake I am unable to get back to sleep so briefly I doze weighing up my options and exactly I should do.

With time to kill I scan my avi files and check out the second episode of How To Make It In America.  It is now beginning to resemble some kind of Midnight Cowboy crossed with Only Fools And Horses via Entourage type programme.  I keep watching though, if for nothing else it is set in the more colourful parts of New York.  When Griffin Dunne pops up suddenly it begins to look more of a serious consideration.

After the episode ends I hop into routine and head over to Asda.  I barely look in the mirror as I leave the flat, this is level of contempt and disrespect I now harbour for this weekly visit.

Once at the store I perform my grocery shopping to an iPhone soundtrack of the Brian Jonestown Massacre and an apt level of confusion accompanies my act of consumerism.  This journey feels heavy today, not fun and not feeling necessary.  By the time I arrive at the self-service checkout it feels dulled by expectation.

When I return home I do the routine thing of listening to Danny Baker on Radio Five which today is the culmination of the Shirt Of Hurt thing for Sport Relief which means his guest is Ray Winstone he turns out to be usual body of fun.  Gruff as ever he sounds drunk, slowly grinding his way through the interview.  When the producer comments on how nice he smells he concedes to having a late one last night and opting for a slosh rather than full cleanse this morning.  Eventually the time comes to swap shirts and watching on the stream he and Baker exchange Millwall and West Ham shirts and unsurprisingly the ‘Wall shirt on Winstone looks good but the West Ham shirt on Baker looks disgusting.  No surprises there then.  Too many moobs though.

Afterwards I remain in bed pottering around on the internet and scouring through DVDs and finding nothing.  Unsurprisingly I eventually fall asleep just after 1.30PM.

When I awaken with a sad portion of the day now wasted I proceed to set about wasting the rest of it.  In the process I watch the Dave Markey Cut Shorts compilation that features a whole of great short films from the guy that did 1991: The Year Punk Broke.  These films range from early SST era efforts through to full-blown Sonic Youth appearances including Thurston Moore doing a star turn in search of the “Hip Hop Rabbit”.  Elsewhere Sofia Coppola pops up and the “Grunge Pedal” clip that has been on Youtube forever and a day is always dumb fun stuff.  The disc ends with various promo videos for bands such as The Posies, Eyes Adrift and Sonic Youth that have unlikely ever seen the day on any of the MTV networks.  The films represent a golden era for music that now feels/seems long gone.  All in all it gives the collection a strangely modern nostalgic feel.

Today finally redeems itself and becomes a good day as Millwall thumps Charlton 4-0 at The Den.  Four fucking nil, I don’t think anybody expected that.  Had I gone along however I would have done my The Cooler act and they would probably have lost.  This is a truly immense result sending a real message to the other teams in the division.  Steve Morison snags a couple more goals today proving him to be a real great signing for the season, not least considering it took him a couple of months to get over a hump at the start of the campaign.  Also Christian Daily scores an own goal repeating his feat from our legendary thumping of West Ham a few years ago.  Loser.

This afternoon I was actually supposed to check out something at that Slackspace place but after a heavy week that was just not happening for me.  Unfortunately though when I check Facebook Lee who was staging the event has put on a comment bemoaning a lack of attendance.  With him holding another event tonight I feel obliged to attend.

From here I finally rediscover some life and energy and begin writing.  As I flick through the Freeview channels for some background I come across The Hudsucker Proxy which proves the perfect thing to put on.

After the move ends around 7PM I head out to Slackspace to check out tonight’s music including the ZA GINIPIGGU set.

Slackspace is situated next to Argos which means/requires entering into the town centre at night and walking along/through all the suffocating closed and empty shops/stores harbouring an eerily quiet feeling like in The Omega Man.  Walking through here at this time has trouble written all over it.

I do this listening to Joy Division and many of their darker selections.  Placed against the stillness of proceedings and the dead orange lights it fits/suits perfectly.  I pass another person and she looks equally as frightened as me of this landscape.

It is the first time I have been to Slackspace and it’s a weird scene, almost art for art’s sack with a have a go ethos/spirit.  Its great that the town has such a place but I just don’t know any of these people so unsurprisingly naturally don’t feel that I fit in.  Dare I suggest by being all encompassing something such as this is always going to be spreading itself too thinly?

The evening of performance eventually begins with an old guy of around 80 reading his poems of shagging and Tesco.  He is a sweet old man that exudes confusion and runs the risk of being more Pam Ayres than Allen Ginsberg.  He may be a local legend but he comes over as too nice to capitalise on it.  For sure he is a trier.

Following this act are a couple of people (a black dude in a Funkadelic/Parliament shirt and a girl with piercings) doing cover versions of pop songs.  It’s their hobby and its their dream why should I be a wanker and belittle this?  As the songs get delivered in a workmanlike manner what should be belittled is the bearded cunt scenester to my left that spends the entire duration of the set talking bollocks to some ugly girl sat next to him that he is plainly trying to impress.  Where is the collective spirit in this guy at this time?

Next up comes a few more poems this time for a younger guy (the compere) which are the kid of ooze and wet sentiment.  Again why should I be a wanker and belittle this by saying what I (negatively) think of them.

The ZA GINIPIGGU set is a test as expected.  Looking like a strange version of Neo from The Matrix from here some kind of technological sonic assault heaps shit onto various unexpecting senses.  Much against of the theme of the evening the dark pulse of the rhythms carve a strange kind of groove into proceedings that do not necessarily sit comfortable with the aged bodies in attendance.  Behind me smart comments begin arriving, some of which are funny but most of which suggest they come from a person molested as a child.  Its an awkward moment.

As with these things the set is a long one, seeming to outstay its welcome in the minds of some as they pick themselves up and sought a break from the noise.  Towards the end the sounds (selected by the audience beforehand) take a stinging change of direction that prompts further reaction of unease meaning that by the conclusion of the set only the brave and strong remain.  These are people that perhaps are no longer able to hear but we remain all the same.  Drugs would probably have helped.

After the set I immediately begin to look for escape as the threat of a Steve Harley type acts looms in the near distance (hovers on the horizon).  From here I say my goodbyes to ZA GINIPIGGU and head back along Colchester High Street on a Saturday night which is always an eye opening sight.  Thankfully it is still early and I see little in the way of carnage (although the threat is persistently there).

On the way home I pop into my parents to see the dog who goes five minutes crazy for me before quickly losing interest in my existence.  This is the story of my life.

Not long after this I head home proper weaving through the glorified car park this is Balkerne Heights these days.  When I get back it is just past 10PM and realistically I am not long for the evening.

Tonight on BBC2 is Detroit night with a couple of great but heartbreaking documentaries on the city and its music.  Eventually I fall asleep during the music documentary just as the MC5 are going out and The Stooges coming in.

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