hirez: (Default)
Viewing Severed Heads on the industrial floor of Slimelight was... Actually entirely appropriate. So was bumping into lovely people while on the way out and then comprehensively missing any likely bus because of jabbering about, er, stuff.

The setlist is probably elsewhere on the internet already, but 'Goodbye tonsils' at volume = kidney-wobbling was surprisingly hallucinogenic. In that like all older Sevs tracks, it is at least two tunes fighting for supremacy, which in the privacy and comfort of yr own nocturnal fondlings you can intellectualise away like it was complicated jazz.

However, in a scrotty club when you've been on the ale and the smoke-machine and then packed into a seething mass of people worrying if they're going to get home in time for the babysitter...

Fuck it, they were really good and played a pile of Clifford hits.

Meanwhile, the Wikipeejah page for City Slab Horror is a delight and I salute for an entirely appropriate version of events:

The album was reviewed by reviewers. Andy Hurt of Sounds magazine wrote that it is "one of the most accomplished, complete works in recent years" and gave the record 4 and 3 quarter and one fifth and a tiny bit more stars out of five. One reviewer pontificated that "with [City Slab Horror], "the Heads" have cemented their place at the forefront of the electronic experimentalists".[5] He was obviously a tosser so most people took no notice of him and as expected Severed Heads has been relegated to the position of something that is only cited by anoraks and one or 2 commercial bands who have members claiming to be influenced by Skinny Puppy.

Christ, but Skinny Puppy were shite. But then alt.gothic was filled with people American students alleging that the most cock-awful rackets were dead Goth and everything. Boyd fucking Rice for instance. No. Just no. Or 'NON', perhaps. I kind of went along with it at the time because there was no useful way of checking w/o sodding off down to Resurrection and paying the splendid Andy and/or Katrina to find out.
hirez: (Default)
The other day someone pointed at a (agent-free, so presumably cheaper than average) listing for a one-bed flat in That Londons (Hackernee, IIRC).

Yesterday, I was invited, via the means of Linkedin, to apply for a job at a M$ subsidiary, also in That Londons.

I note that the cost of object (a) is some three times my mortgage. (Two bed house, garage, garden (of sorts), relatively quiet area handy for both bikepath and what passes for public transport around here.)

I would imagine that even M$ would baulk at paying three times current salary so one might continue living in relative comfort.

How is this actually supposed to work, because I'm buggered if I can see it..
hirez: (dissent)
This weekend involved a night at the Columbia and a few hours in the Borderline feeling like something of an outsider.

It was all a bit oh-god-how-long-ago, really. On the upside, the Columbia has lost next to none of its character, the breakfast still sets you up for the day good and proper, and it was lovely to bump into Maria.

The gig itself was a psych/prog all-dayer jointly organised/sponsored by An Record Label that sold actual records and, er, Record Collector magazine. For reasons that seemed blindingly obvious at the time, I spent quite a while talking about the NSA and Dutch hacker culture with one of the artists. After a while, I wandered out to discover that several of the bands were all about large and unwieldy organs. Mind, if that's the sort of thing that sinks your boat then I'm sure a Hammond or a Mellotron would be most efficient.

Meanwhile, back at the record stall next to the bogs, terrible discoveries were being made. The carrier bags, supplied by Record Collector magazine, and you could tell that because they had 'Record Collector' printed on them in big white-on-black letters, which would leave you in no doubt that the primary interest of the people who wrote the articles and paid for the adverts was likely the buying and selling of records, weren't quite big enough to fit an album inside. An album is a 12" record. The sort of thing that you might find written about in Record Collector magazine. Who had supplied the carrier bags. The carrier bags with 'Record Collector' printed on them. That were just too small to slide a record inside. I could see the middle-aged blokes on either side of the stall staring at the bags with a mixture of disbelief, resignation and failure. I certainly found it hard to believe that physics wasn't just having a little drunken laugh and soon the bags would become the right size, as we all remembered from when we would collectively emerge from our different local record shops with carriers filled with a 12" on Chapter 22 Records, a Big Black LP or perhaps a Peel Sessions EP. However, it was not to be. It seemed we had arrived in a rubbish universe where carrier bags were actually the size of an unknown manner of consumer durable and our mistake was in wanting a thing from our past, rather than wanting what we were told to want which was the thing that fitted in the carrier bag. This is the subliminal message from the military-entertainment complex - you will want the things we will sell you and they will be the size that is most convenient for manufacturing and shipping, rather than your own desires or utility. (See, for instance, Ikea mugs)

In the end, there was a burst of punk rock as the bloke behind the stall slashed two carriers open and gaffered them together round the double LP set. Sticking it to the man, as it were.
hirez: (Sweep alcohol)
That was fun.

Someone else is looking after my hangover and the 4AM fire-alarm was nothing to do with me.
hirez: (Box Frenzy)
We appear to be back (i) - I look forward to the technical details of the recent DDoS and mitigation thereof.

We appear to be back (ii) - Vorticist exhibition well worth the price of admission. Next door was a random collection of installations, including a lot of archive material from an early COUM, er, event. It was excellent to be able to read the original 'Wreckers of civilization' tabloid piece while Gilbert & George looped in the background.

We appear to be back (iii) - Skiffy exhibition at the BL ditto. It's... I'm not sure what it is, but I think it's heartening that what other people call classics of the genre are fine things to read in and of themselves, rather than worthy and arse-achingly dull.

We appear to be back (iv) - I would like to think that this was the last chance to view Modulate in small venues because all the new tunes are storming rave anthems. Although that's the wrong phrase to use because the first thing in my head at that point would be Faithless, and, er, No.

[Or indeed not. No can has remote posting, it seems.]
hirez: (Riiight)
That was nice.

Rare old building, mind. )

1000 Motels

Jun. 8th, 2008 07:16 pm
hirez: (dissent)
Am in the Hoxton Hotel, reverting to type. I'd say 'Anyone fancy a pint?' but, y'know, London bar prices.
hirez: (irradiated)
You can colour me moderately peeved. The local GP has had more trade out of me in the last four weeks than in the previous four years and I am now sucking down Erythromycin every few hours (pauses for Usenet Joke), the Saab failed its MOT on a couple of stupid things (a blown bulb and the alleged bendy-pipe between manifold and exhaust. Since the exhaust was recently replaced by the muppets at Shit-Fit, who were looking at the Volvo section of the parts-book while attempting to bullshit me into believing that 'all them scandawegian cars is the same, innit', it would surprise me only very slightly to learn that they'd made a bugger of the job. Anyway, I'm not in a useful state to piss about with bloody garage-morlocks, so the MOT-Mob can fix it) and because the bloody lurgi bloody started on bloody Friday the weekend was a bit of a disaster.

And. Went for a wander round the Bicester Temple Of Shop, which seemed to be stuffed with teenagers either practicing their apprentice-hardman gait (just waddle about like you've got some terrible affliction of the testicles and they've swollen to grapefruit size) or admiring each other's Ugg knockoffs. Christ what a bunch of bastards. On one hand, there was Happy Purchase at the Tog24 and TNF stalls. On the other, I'm going to start firebombing jeans shops if they don't buck their ideas up quick-smart.
hirez: (Sweep alcohol)
Pottered off to Brighton at the weekend on a wee train that stopped pretty much everywhere on the way. I think we only missed out Adlestrop and Hobb's End. Nice corporate hotel with nice corporate plasterboard walls and nice corporate bar prices, filled with matching sets of stag and hen parties.

Avoided that by toddling off to the Caroline of Brunswick, which was easily as rock and roll as I had been led to expect. Imagine, if you had that kind of youth, your favourite dodgy rock and biker boozer, only with nice beer and clean bogs.

Met the usual suspects, drank beer, talked rubbish at them. All very fine indeed.

Today we contemplate giving some nice men rather a lot of money to rip out our existing nasty bog and put in a nice one that has a real shower large enough to wash engine blocks in. I vote for flooring that either looks like tread-plate or the corridors in Space:1999.
hirez: (Bunny Eye)
[Poll #1121755]

(Or perhaps even 'better known'. However, that implies an external value judgement which I would prefer to avoid.)
hirez: (Laser goggles and raybans)
Our arrival in Leeds was marked by six riot vans packed with huge blokes in crash helmets. They kept the surly crowd in Cafe Nero at bay while we scarpered into Wagamama's. (My bank's now a once-trendy non-destinational eating experience)

There may also have been somewhat random SMSing on the subject of Leeds town hall. Go4 fanboying.

Jabbered randomly at [livejournal.com profile] nalsa for long enough to miss two bands. Architecture, morality, Hazell Dean. The usual sort of thing. Mind, there was an open fire, imposing architecture and the staff brought the beer to the sofa. All very fine.

Pitched up at Leeds Met just in time to get the beer in and view James Ray. I may have heckled somewhat geekily. As usual, he and his co-conspirators got off to a shaky start but pulled it all together in the final furlongs. Much more like that, please.

The March Violets were startlingly good. I should probably email them and say so.

It was also f-ing top hole to see people out. I may or may not have managed to communicate this fact.

I would also like to live in a country where I'm not surprised when the railway system works, the trains run on time and the staff are cheery and knowledgeable sorts. As in 'Getting there and back via the magic of XC and East Midlands Railways (I think. Pale blue 80s stock) was tolerably pleasant and trouble-free'. Watching the sunlight wander across the Malverns as the train rocketed down towards Cheltenham Spa was a lot more fun than thrashing down the M-thing through the grubby spray from a myriad white vans and poorly-driven 4x4s .
hirez: (Challenger)
The way that people in London react when you tell them that you've just turned up for a gig is a bit odd. It's like you've covered some unimaginable interstellar distance and that if the considered such a voyage, they'd fall off the edge of their oystercard and perish in the fiery pits of hell. Or Woking.

Mind you, they probably bussed in some surly troglodytes from Woking's fiery pits to work the night shift at Reading services.

Jabbered, as is my wont, at a random bunch of lovely people. Hopefully didn't scare any of them off.

Was greeted by Uncle Nem thrusting a flyer in my hand. Had it not become quickly obvious that he was out of practice, that and Friday night would have made a chap think that the whole of the 21st century was just an over-long nightmare.

Lurched out of the tab-fume fog at [livejournal.com profile] poggs to inform him that I'd been sleeping in his dustbins. He appeared mildly concerned by this new intelligence.

Today I am going to be mostly asleep. Do try to keep the noise down, there's good chaps.


hirez: (Default)

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