Puskas On Puskas

Thanks to all concerned for last night. As Tuesday night line-ups go it couldn't be faulted, the Casiokids were on great form and there was solid support all round. Glitches wont get you bitches, but it's all part of the fun. Over to Puskas.

Synth When You're Winning

IN spite of my better attempts to embrace sobriety this weekend gone, things got weird on Sunday night. Nothing noteworthy to report beyond cavalier enjoyment of the romping Redmen socking it to AVB's lads earlier that day. Good food, funky lager and wobbly bike rides took the place of vermouth aperitifs and Yorkshire puddings, making for a reassuringly left field take on traditional Sunday rituals: "the only thing real is waking and rubbing your eyes".

Enough. Tuesday's here and it's time to turn pro. Tonight we ply our trade down at the Shipping Forecast, supplying able support to Norwegian keysmen the Casiokids. As we all know, you set the scene and there's not much of one in your living room, so bring yourself along for a mid-week boogie and you'll be able to tell your friends in work/uni/your living room how much of a good time you had the night before. Got that?

Sundaze

On The Chin

I feel like Coleridge after he was interrupted by the person from Porlock. What would help is if I could get myself in to a similar state to how he was before the knock on the door, but that's so not a good look right now, and I need to rescue my weekend rather than condemn it to 48 hours of getting to know my couch. A poet's calling is to lay down his most earnest of thoughts on paper. A poet I am not, and I feel unable to convey those jumbled up electrical impulses that are chasing one another around in the space between my ears. A poet must also endure the idea of people reading those thoughts, the verbal manifestations of the workings of a soul, with a critical eye: if that soul you lay bare is anything but untainted, you'll be made aware of it.

I feel like I'm dancing around the subject a little. With thought, comparing myself to Sammy T and my naval to the moon might be hasty. The moment when Lisa Simpson makes to denounce Jebediah Springfield in front of the whole town, but backtracks for the right reasons is perhaps a more accurately comparable scenario. But are my reasons the right ones? Do I even have reasons? I'm not sure. The only thing I can get clear in my head is how blind I act sometimes. In the short amount of time that Saturday afternoon has existed, I have reached a conclusion on myself that is deeply unsettling and will have an effect on me similar to the time time I had a broken coccyx. It smacks of inconsistency, my behaviour. Not in any single incident but in a more general sense.

I watched the George Harrison documentaries last weekend and I, like all else who saw them was deeply moved. Everyone I've talked to who saw the epic two-parter has agreed, to a lesser or greater extent, that it's changed them as a person. He was an enlightened character, and it is something that we all must strive for. His profound and lasting effect on those who knew him stirred in me an enthusiasm to aim to be a better person; I was discussing as much with a friend last night. All the while, in how I was acting, or, moreover, not acting, I was in a position of complete contradiction to this new (maybe not new, but revised) philosophy I peddle. The more I think about it the more blind I see myself. Not like Blunkett the Sun columnist but like Januarie the Merchant. I've riled myself and I should probably get a pair of sunnies and a stick ready in anticipation.

The Romantics preached real life experience rather than experience through education. Education has its worth, a given, but it is nothing when not in the context of seeing and understanding the mechanisms of the world first hand. Coleridge's good friend and collaborator Wordsworth talked alot about it. And even with all this in mind, I have failed to recognise my own over-absorption, blinkered by ego in to paying too little attention to those that deserve it the most. We all have our faults, but when you recognise them and do nothing to improve on them you've got to consider your position. And that was this. Gig Tuesday.

Wear a Jumper

D'YER TAKE CARP?!

Band politics is a complex discourse. Balancing the creative desires of five different members may seem like a daunting prospect in itself, but it's nothing when compared with the veritable ticking time bomb of 216° of this carousel [that's 3/5, you idiot] entering a caption competition with a garment of many wonders up for grabs.

There were early mistakes. Tom Anon naively thought that the narrator's contrived tone and thick scouse accent could be conveyed solely through the medium of CAPS. [OF COURSE, AS WE ALL WELL KNOW, USING CAPS ON THE INTERNET MAKES YOU SOUND LIKE A MENTALIST!!!!!] It doesn't help when your narrator is also a fish. Considering such a careless first move, you'd think it was a wonder this 72° [you're on your own this time] wasn't censored by the judges. But alas, through the absence of crazygirl exclamation marks and the presence of meaningful wit, the entry earned a whopping 4 'likes' - more than any other in the albeit weak field of competition.

Recognising that his entry was poor early on, another 72° attempted to bolster his campaign by insisting that, unlike the other entries, his was not 'contrived' - as if this would somehow make it more deserving of victory. Pah! I for one was not moved. "You made your bed and you can lie in it" was the predominant thought running through my head following the many times that point was made.

As for my entry, I deviated from the narrated form for an arguably more traditional statement of the conditions. I did my best given the bizarre picture and my propensity to bloat a sentence, but after many hours spent bent over a thesaurus, rearranging the plethora of fruity words and punctuation marks at my disposal, I ended up with a half polished [but incredibly firm] turd of a sentence.

Luckily the competition was weak. Notsoluckily, the organisers asked one of their dads to be the impartial judge. So no one won. The guy who won didn't even win. He lost as soon as he hit enter. I believe on the internet they call it a FAIL...

But really, he didn't even win. They sent him an email and he never got back to them. I can only assume he took the easy way out of a severe bout of FAIL-induced depression [epic lulz].

So the default winner was Owen. Apparently someone's Dad loves jazz, because it was a self-proclaimed uncontrived spontaneity which made Owen's entry the pick of the bunch. End of story?

Nu-uh. Questions were asked, certain parties weren't happy. A conversation with one of the competition organisers revealed that they favoured anon's capitalised entry over the official winner's. Given the fortunate default, the favourable opinion of the bigwigs and the addition of 4 'likes' [that's 20 comedy points, would you believe], Anon felt he had a genuine claim to victory. This was the real quiz.

But no, whilst the decision will remain controversial, even as it lives on in the annals of history, the judge has the final decision and that decision must be respected, whether he's obviously wrong or not. At least, that's what FIFA would say.

Wind Harp

It's cold outside and voices say, "It's just the warmth that you covet".

I'm afraid to say we caved. Against our better, more ideologically and economically motivated nature, we centralised our heating for a couple of hours in the evenings. Unfortunately our white-washed-young-professional-soon-to-be-fountain-of-sonic-embellishment-home is hardly the most energy efficient. The large single-glazed window in the kitchen is a daunting prospect alone given the expected bitter winter ahead, but having a hole in the frame which sucks the sweet, sweet aforementioned and depressingly unaffordable warmth from our fragile souls is not ideal. Not to worry though, our heavy duty kitchen fire door should at least keep the rest of the house warm.

But the gods of ofgem do not look kindly on those fools who head for the boiler dials so early when a onesie and a pair of slippers could do the trick. And with one fell swoop they striketh our hope of ever of ever reaching homely-ostasis.

Unfortunately closing the door now effectively entails a death sentence for anyone unlucky enough to be making a brew at the time.

We strike back tomorrow.

In the meantime, here is the b-side to the new Nicolas Jaar E.P Don't Break My Love. You can download both tracks for free off his soundcloud here.

Wha-whaaat (cont.)

We had a good time last night. It was a cracking Sunday night line-up in the Mojo: the term 'chilled' can sometimes have negative connotations, but the fine line that separates ambient goodness and ambient boredom was rarely crossed and the whole thing sounded good to me. Thanks to sound man Lindon (who is genuinely sound), bar man Courtney (also sound), promotor Mike Deane (damn sound) and indeed the other bands who he booked. Well judged, well performed and well attended. This calls for a song.

Nothing much more to say, then. We'll be getting our heads down over the next couple of weeks, trying to practice what we got and develop what we've not quite got, as well as listening to Xxplosive and making important decisions between Twix and Snickers. Catch us next at The Shitting Shipping Forecast (Tue. 22/Nov) where we'll be warming up the PA system ahead of the Casiokids. They had a song on Fifa 10, don't you know.

Wha-whaaat

That's just for starters. We play Sunday night at the Mojo. It's a place that's been good to us in the past, and I expect that tonight will be no exception. As mentioned somewhere in the realms of earlier entries, we are the suppliers of support to Twin Sister, as part of Liverpool Music Week. If you chance on these words before this night has passed, do join for goodness, if not from us, from them.

Elsewhere, a fan assisted oven has been replaced by a piss-poor conventional. Sure, we rollin' on temps now. But distrust has been replaced by 'rumbling tums': it took thirty minutes to cook a sausage this afternoon. I realise that this seems trivial in the context of goings-on on a global scale - this bastard economy, racist footballers - yet those things have little impact on my life and my primary concern is the latent convection inside the oven. I'll get a tent out for that. More to come.

Filofax This!

Firstly, thanks to everyone who came along and supported us for our Shipping Forecast headline slot Friday gone.

Secondly, congratulations to my good friends Marianne and Louis on the birth of baby Ellis. If you want your heart broken in 16 years time, watch this space.

Forthcoming Liverpool Shows:

(SUN.) - 6/Nov   - Mojo - Liverpool Music Week (w/ Twin Sister)

(TUE.) - 22/Nov - The Shipping Forecast, Liverpool (w/ Casiokids)

Away Day:

(TUE.) - 6/Dec   - Oporto, Leeds (w/ Hot Head Show)

Though that may seem sparse, there will be more dates for you to examine as and when they emerge. Come down on Sunday should you be available: it's free and there'll be plenty of other music for you to pass disdainful comments on.

Ride on, Twin Sister !

Tomorrow we will be headlining at the Shipping Forecast (which you may have worked out from the big flyer at the top of this page). Looking forward to it.

I'll forewarn you: there are some breasts in this video.

JAUNT

Few things to reflect on, now that Sunday is behind us and we plough on into the final week before the clocks change and we all have to accept that it's glove time. And yes, this is your early warning on that one. No excuses, paperboys/girls, I'm telling you now that BST ends in six days and I don't want next week's Observer arriving any later than my courgette fritter hitting the oil. It's all there in black and white and orange and don't you dare distrust the government.

The only place you'll find sympathy is in the dictionary, right between shit and syphilis. When the mighty red men were felled (unjustly, obviously) to nine, a four goal thumping on away-day-pastures pushes my patience. So, to gloat. Shipping six in front of an audience that is heavily weighted towards friends (rather than foes) is a bit of an embarrassment. Monday mornings can prompt people to cower from contact for various reasons, but believe me, the daft amongst you will want to avoid my path for a week or two, 'cos uze are getting it.

Serious thanks to Digby and Alex for their hospitality over the last couple of days. A weekend spent on and around the veranda of a shed studio deep in Farnham Woods is a good one, and that's what those kind brothers have provided us with. I'd put us at six furlongs from home, so the whip can now be unreservedly wielded with no fear of retribution form the Horse Authority. Tolerate my attempts at topicality, and your reward will be tinned tropicality. The more LA Noire amongst you will be on to my allusions: fresh beats imminent. Yeaaah, buddy.

High Spirits, Suffocative, etc.

The highest, in fact. Immediately below: today's feature sound, background music to enjoy while you read the text follows immediately below it. D'yer follow? It's going to be an assault on the senses, just roll with it.

If you will suck my soul, I will lick your funky emotions, and all that. I can't speak highly enough of Funkadelic.

I was going to talk about Friday night, when we played the Mojo and hit the town, but looks like I've been beaten to it. And it's been done well, so I wont dwell. For the record I will object to the harsh language, though. I'll also add that I had nothing to do with that drink what throws a bottle of VK on top of a four-fold Vodkat measure. No dig. Re: thanks - what he said.

That base being covered, what contemporary sociological thematic area of the outfield should I occupy? Luckily, I'm a cultured soul. I was in FACT yesterday, twenty minutes early for a screening with just enough time to enjoy the installation in their downstairs gallery, it turns out. I thought it was going to be this (new tab this, don't stop the funk), Gormley's Blind Light effort from a few years ago, one that I missed at the time and have always been hoping to be revived. As per usual I went nowhere near any research, and what we got was different all together: a white room, a truck load of dry ice, ambient soundscapes and a strobe light to give you cataracts. It was great. A different sort of great to what I was expecting, sure, but as every bit as intense and bad-tasting as we were told it would be before they let us loose in that weird blind triangular space. I lasted the whole twelve minutes; others in the group bailed before five had passed and I can understand why: as one half of a pair I had an accomplice with whom to share the panic when too far from the rope. Telling, that the token loner misc-European was amongst the early escapees. Deffo go.

Lastly my thanks to all who have tolerated my banging on about the marathon for the last six months and moreover the last seven days. It was huge, and I thoroughly enjoyed my day. I couldn't have done it without the yeas and nays of the sayers.

That's it. Enjoy whatever's left of the way back yonder funk and this picture of what wasn't my Sunday evening.

Carry on Regardless

What a night. A totally bodacious gig at Mojo preceded what can only be described as an exceptional carry-on 'round the best and worst watering holes of the Slater Street gauntlet.  Giddy from the sonic fumes of Valet Dukes, Muto Leo and MinionTV we failed to overlook such armpits as Faculty, but never mind, sanctuary was found by way of quad-vods; an effective anesthetic to foul beats and a sea of mutton dressed mutton.  Sadly our lack-luster herding skills were ineffective in such an establishment, so on to Santa Chupito's where far more success was had, allowing for the creamiest of endings - make of that what you will.

The biggest of up's to Sam Garlick and the rest of the Everisland team for a well considered and sincerely promoted event, we look forward to playing another in the near future.  I hope their forthcoming nights continue with the same success.

Running the Snickers & other things

Large online congratulations are due with respect to Mr. Thomas J Byrne's marathon success yesterday. Whilst Facey laid down some drum tracks for our ongoing recording endeavours and others slept off the night's antics, Tom's sexy pegs brought him home in an impressively punctual 3 hours and 56 minutes. He becomes the 3rd generation of Byrne to smash the Merseyside course, which returned this year after 18 years of scousers being fat lazy bastards. He is the deserved receptacle of our appreciation and admiration for doing something as stupid as running 26 miles & 385 yards for apparently no reason whatsoever.

In other news we shall be playing at MOJO in Liverpool this Friday. If you'd like to come, why not publicise your intentions by attending the facebook event here.

Having recorded the drum parts for a new track, we'll soon be heading down south for some much anticipated studio time so watch this space ------->         <-------- this one right here.

We Need To Talk?

Well, yeah, we do. Mercifully, the recent trend leans towards the concise, and although my natural preference is to swim upstream on most matters, sometimes I prefer more to live a life of ease than one that advocates the devil, moreover when I really need to be sleeping. So brevity is the order of the hour.

I tend to try to present news, as well as mindless garble; but the simple fact is that there aint much news to report. The show must go on, though. Slow news days dont mean double Simpsons or a literal stopping of presses - the latter is of course reserved for big news days, if cliche be believed - so here I lie, punching at keys until something half-satisfactory appears. I'm prepared to resort to wishing Facey a happy birthday, as I never did at the time: happy birthday, Facey. There's also the hot goss (that's Latin, you know) that we practiced in a new room this week. It did the job. And that's everything - it really has been that boring round these ways. A busy weekend coming up. Honest. Yawn. Enough.

A song from someone else, then. Introduction credits to A.Nunn.

hypothetical euthanasia roller-coaster

think about it...

Dime, qué comemos

Having seen what I saw this afternoon, it's a good job I didn't do as I nearly did yesterday and "go in there myself". Why does the river run brown?: the question on everyone's lips. Wet wipes: the soiled answer dripping from the drainman's hand. Unfortunately, none of this is metaphorical.

AUTUMN GIGS

(FRI.)    - 14/Oct  -  Mojo
(FRI.)    - 28/Oct  -  Shipping Forecast
(TUE.)  - 22/Nov -  Shipping Forecast (w/ Casiokids)
+ more we haven't written down yet