I just posted the following blog on my personal MySpace profile, as I am beginning to feel anything I place here is swathed in a rather cumbersome and wholly overwhelming pointlessness...
"Yes, yes, I said I'd never write anything here again but my promises are evidently going to be kept in the same way as my dear and rather battered old ticker: broken. Ultimately, should anybody be paying attention to such matters, just don't fucking listen to me when I'm having a whinge here. If I feel like jotting down a few thoughts here (as I do right now), I will do so. Just as I always have. Besides, it's nice to actually get the occasional drop of feedback, or see that, yes, people actually visit this place (even if I don't fully grasp why...). My posts at Blogspot seem to mostly go out to a void; a vast chasm of nothingness completely at odds with the sweat, blood and red wine I've put into the damn things. You know, I've an Adverse Effect blogspot, for example, with I think nice 'n' interesting interviews with, so far, William Bennett and Michael Begg of Human Greed (the latter conducted by the wonderful Kate MacDonald or, rather, Katred, no less), and it's hard to fathom whether anybody's even fucking bothered to check in on them. It's not, however, as though I do any of this to simply ride the waves of discourse, but I'd be lying if I declared I didn't enjoy knowing my own little stabs weren't just going out for any other reason than to keep myself occupied. It's not as though I don't have anything else to do or have a social whirlwind of dinner parties, cheap dates and private functions to maintain.
Ever since I first entered the (very much underground) publishing world, I have always, always actively encouraged response. Even though my magazines helped forge my reputation as being an opinionated bastard unafraid to speak his mind or accept idiots (and the music world is teeming with the fuckers, believe me - never has such a place outside the world of filmmaking attracted so many egocentric, pumped-up little cunts who are so deluded they fail to grasp what they're doing is precisely the same thing as countless others), I never once ventured that anybody should bite their fucking tongues. For, believe me, doing exactly that is what most people do anyway. In every respect.
So, to go back a little, yes yes yes, I crave discourse, ideas, opinions and suggestions. Like hearty meals, the good music itself that I mostly find myself pinning thoughts to, my desire for the woman who'll forever stay just out of reach, a roaring fireplace on a winter's snowy evening, and that one little nip of absinthe too many, it keeps me going.
Justifications over...
On another note, if so inclined, do visit my Theme, LTCo (MySpace as well as the website), Splintered, etc. pages for updates on the various developments on my endeavours. Likewise, of course, the BlogSpot pages.
Despite whatever some victims may say, my bark is definitely worse than my bite..."
I think it says everything I feel like saying here at this moment in time...
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Frustrations
All plans to have new releases out by this summer have been curtailed for all manner of reasons beyond my direct control. To declare this frustrating would be an understatement. On top of this, a lot of writing I had on an old iMac may well have just been lost too as it will no longer work...
...and of course I didn't back it up!
...and of course I didn't back it up!
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Movements: Part One
True to form, all notions concerning my getting posts here regularly these days are proving themselves to be hurdles created by the presence of so much else going on in my life. Partly due to the fact another friend has stepped in to help with such matters, the Lumberton Trading Company label is gaining a modicum of momentum, whilst elsewhere I’ve either recently been embroiled in William Bennett’s Cut Hands appearances in Poland (see review at my Adverse Effect blogspot, if interested), caught up with affairs relating to the imminent release of the third Theme CD, Valentine (Lost) Forever, on Israel’s Heart & Crossbone label, or snagged either on more Fourth Dimension releases or the Grim Humour book I’m still (slowly) working at. Whilst I hope to continue with more posts here shortly, the best I can do in the meantime is furnish you with both the news the LTCo website will shortly be given an overhaul and that there are new links added here to its MySpace profile and Facebook group. Without any doubt whatsoever, and in spite of all appearances to the contrary, movements are constantly, and rather joyously, afoot.
I have no intention of doing otherwise just yet, believe me…
I have no intention of doing otherwise just yet, believe me…
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Theme
As the group I'm involved with, Theme, are about to unleash a third CD album (via Israel's Heart and Crossbone label), Valentine (Lost) Forever, upon the world, it seems only fitting that some footage of us live finally got posted on YouTube. There's not much there yet, actually, but an ex-flame of mine (and excellent fine-artist/photographer), Maria Husarska, has at least put together a rather exquisite short montage culled from our support slot to Colin Potter in Krakow in Spring 2007. If interested, please visit: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VsDukpegZn0
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Crutches
A subject that occasionally rears its head is the one concerning favourite albums, groups or music. An ultimately futile exercise, of course, but fun because it can lead to discourse, a clash of opinions, shared epiphanies, anecdotes and excitement, or a sense that one might not be alone in the belief that some obscurity is of far more ‘value’ than the very records, passions and interests which may have led to its being unearthed from anywhere ranging from a record shop’s dingy basement to a dead uncle’s attic in the first instance.
Whatever, music that remains at the core of your very being does so for a whole gamut of different reasons. Nostalgia, the idea of looking back to certain records or more especially songs in order to return to moments long dissipated, and the feelings it can quickly dredge up like a sugar rush, may well make for a huge and significant underpinning, but objectivity can play an equally important role. Better still is when the thrill and excitement of a certain record not only stirs up the very same emotions as ever but has the added bonus of objective opinion kicked firmly into the black too.
For me, it’s always hard to truly pinpoint favourite records without considering the original effect they had on me, the feelings they can still evoke, and whether or not, outside of this, they are actually ‘good’ in the first place. Perhaps the latter point negates the subjectivity of the former two, but I’ve now spent almost three decades attacking so much of the crap we’re surrounded by I’d contend my intuition is now finely honed. Yes, what constitutes a ‘good’ record for me likewise lays itself open for debate, but there have always been outside factors governing my decisions.
When I first heard ‘Public Image’ at a local disco held every Friday night in a village outside of Canterbury, aged 13 or 14, it sent such a rush through me that it had a far more profound effect than all the ‘punk’ I’d heard prior to it. Those very same emotions are still stirred every time I hear Rotten’s opening cascade of hellos and Wobble’s mighty bass rumbles, and yet – outside of this – the song itself is everything the Pistols had promised: a glorious suckerpunch of molten rock drenched in negative-to-postive energy and barely contained cynicism; and all within the framework of a 'pop' song! Three years later and Public Image Limited’s Flowers of Romance impacted on me in exactly the same way. Partly, I was at an age where I could generally only afford 7” records, so this was one of the first LPs I bought (taking its place alongside some Blondie, Stiff Little Fingers, The Cure, Crass and suchlike, I faintly recall). Secondly, the album’s title song, cut for a single, blasted my consciousness apart like so little else that I simply had to have the album. An album that then proved itself to be unlike anything I’d ever heard or even imagined before. Only Rotten’s voice and some occasional stabs of noise were akin to the ‘punk’ I’d long become used to. The rest of the album just threw me so hard towards a place I’d never previously visited that, as with ‘Public Image’, I knew I’d never recover. Not even if I’d actually wanted to, that is. And, again, the revisits I’ve paid since have never failed to reward me. On many counts.
So, when I am asked about my favourite records, I’m drawn towards those that not only mercilessly seeped through my very being, or indeed ripped it apart, but those that can hold their own when placed alongside anything else. The moments they captured, and can still capture, plus their rightful places on a map I personally believe in, intertwined so well that it’s completely and utterly irreversible.
Whatever, music that remains at the core of your very being does so for a whole gamut of different reasons. Nostalgia, the idea of looking back to certain records or more especially songs in order to return to moments long dissipated, and the feelings it can quickly dredge up like a sugar rush, may well make for a huge and significant underpinning, but objectivity can play an equally important role. Better still is when the thrill and excitement of a certain record not only stirs up the very same emotions as ever but has the added bonus of objective opinion kicked firmly into the black too.
For me, it’s always hard to truly pinpoint favourite records without considering the original effect they had on me, the feelings they can still evoke, and whether or not, outside of this, they are actually ‘good’ in the first place. Perhaps the latter point negates the subjectivity of the former two, but I’ve now spent almost three decades attacking so much of the crap we’re surrounded by I’d contend my intuition is now finely honed. Yes, what constitutes a ‘good’ record for me likewise lays itself open for debate, but there have always been outside factors governing my decisions.
When I first heard ‘Public Image’ at a local disco held every Friday night in a village outside of Canterbury, aged 13 or 14, it sent such a rush through me that it had a far more profound effect than all the ‘punk’ I’d heard prior to it. Those very same emotions are still stirred every time I hear Rotten’s opening cascade of hellos and Wobble’s mighty bass rumbles, and yet – outside of this – the song itself is everything the Pistols had promised: a glorious suckerpunch of molten rock drenched in negative-to-postive energy and barely contained cynicism; and all within the framework of a 'pop' song! Three years later and Public Image Limited’s Flowers of Romance impacted on me in exactly the same way. Partly, I was at an age where I could generally only afford 7” records, so this was one of the first LPs I bought (taking its place alongside some Blondie, Stiff Little Fingers, The Cure, Crass and suchlike, I faintly recall). Secondly, the album’s title song, cut for a single, blasted my consciousness apart like so little else that I simply had to have the album. An album that then proved itself to be unlike anything I’d ever heard or even imagined before. Only Rotten’s voice and some occasional stabs of noise were akin to the ‘punk’ I’d long become used to. The rest of the album just threw me so hard towards a place I’d never previously visited that, as with ‘Public Image’, I knew I’d never recover. Not even if I’d actually wanted to, that is. And, again, the revisits I’ve paid since have never failed to reward me. On many counts.
So, when I am asked about my favourite records, I’m drawn towards those that not only mercilessly seeped through my very being, or indeed ripped it apart, but those that can hold their own when placed alongside anything else. The moments they captured, and can still capture, plus their rightful places on a map I personally believe in, intertwined so well that it’s completely and utterly irreversible.
Friday, February 27, 2009
The Fine Art of Giving a Damn (Expanded)
Here’s a slightly expanded version of an entry I placed several weeks ago when only half-formed (and now deleted...). (Note to myself: learn to stop placing posts when they are not ready and, indeed, learn even from the sentiments in this one!)
Reflecting on how I have changed towards the music I'm personally involved with recently, I realised that the attention paid to everything now is not only greater but radically different. With my old band, Splintered, we'd invariably rehearse once or twice a week and then record at a local studio once we felt some songs were ready for it. There'd always be a certain amount of room left for improvisation and new ideas during the recording sessions, of course, but we'd at least get to the stage we felt we were ready to go there before parting with our money for the sessions themselves. And because we played live regularly, it was imperative we got together frequently to ensure we still had some chemistry between us as much as go over or expand on old songs or see if any new ideas would bubble up. At certain points, there wasn’t even a guarantee we’d get on together still, never mind commit our time, energy and money to much beyond.
Theme, on the other hand, do not generally rehearse and, in turn, spend far longer labouring over ideas and sounds. We get together and record ideas immediately within the confines and comforts afforded by a home studio. Afterwards, we spend months, or even years, returning to these ideas and tweaking them into a shape we are finally content with.
Ultimately, despite this shift in demographics, a lot of time has always been spent working away at the recorded work I’ve been involved with over the years and teasing it to the point it was felt ready to unleash on those who may be even vaguely interested.
Although the approach to creating music, and tackling its inherent problems during this process, has changed as much as the music itself over the years, I strongly feel a vast number of groups and artists operating elsewhere within this field could learn a thing or two from all of this.
I have always failed to see the point of putting one’s name to anything if the sense of pride or achievement ranks a second place to either a simple spurt of ability or the many dubious motives spiralling from this…
The lack of effort I continue to hear in most music these days almost makes me wonder why the fuck I care so much about this most communicative of art-forms.
Reflecting on how I have changed towards the music I'm personally involved with recently, I realised that the attention paid to everything now is not only greater but radically different. With my old band, Splintered, we'd invariably rehearse once or twice a week and then record at a local studio once we felt some songs were ready for it. There'd always be a certain amount of room left for improvisation and new ideas during the recording sessions, of course, but we'd at least get to the stage we felt we were ready to go there before parting with our money for the sessions themselves. And because we played live regularly, it was imperative we got together frequently to ensure we still had some chemistry between us as much as go over or expand on old songs or see if any new ideas would bubble up. At certain points, there wasn’t even a guarantee we’d get on together still, never mind commit our time, energy and money to much beyond.
Theme, on the other hand, do not generally rehearse and, in turn, spend far longer labouring over ideas and sounds. We get together and record ideas immediately within the confines and comforts afforded by a home studio. Afterwards, we spend months, or even years, returning to these ideas and tweaking them into a shape we are finally content with.
Ultimately, despite this shift in demographics, a lot of time has always been spent working away at the recorded work I’ve been involved with over the years and teasing it to the point it was felt ready to unleash on those who may be even vaguely interested.
Although the approach to creating music, and tackling its inherent problems during this process, has changed as much as the music itself over the years, I strongly feel a vast number of groups and artists operating elsewhere within this field could learn a thing or two from all of this.
I have always failed to see the point of putting one’s name to anything if the sense of pride or achievement ranks a second place to either a simple spurt of ability or the many dubious motives spiralling from this…
The lack of effort I continue to hear in most music these days almost makes me wonder why the fuck I care so much about this most communicative of art-forms.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Making the Right Noise
As somebody responsible for having released a lot of other people's music since the early 1980s, I have been on the receiving end of countless demos and bids for approval or even some kind of acknowledgment over the years. Whilst this in itself has furnished me with a tremendous ego-massage during those many times of need, I must confess that I have generally been put off at the very first hurdle by these little bursts of anticipation simply because they always amount to something fairly ordinary and, indeed, expected. At best, there would have been a cassette (back in the 'early days') or a CDR (these days), an extremely dry and rather stultifying biography intent on magnifying the truth about the said artist or group so that they may seem sufficiently 'interesting' enough to work with, and possibly even a photo. Then there'd always be the letter. The begging letter, intent on convincing me that the work of the artist/group concerned would 'fit in' with my label and that they, of course, 'love' and 'respect' everything else I have already done. Which is why, nine times out of ten, the music was either so bad or inappropriate that it, needless to say, did not come close to approaching my actual (admittedly broad, but refined nonetheless...) tastes.
Barely a week has gone by since I began to release music where one or two, or far more, of these little stabs at catching a dream has not ended up in my grasp. Nice and, again, perhaps ego-massaging, on one hand, but likewise generally amounting to nothing more than a nuisance eating into time I don't really have spare for such matters. Of course, I fully understand the nature at work here but, to be extremely blunt, I'm ultimately residing in a highly privileged position (of my own making, I hasten to add). I've written about music since 1983 and, as a result, have always been in contact with an infinite tide of people involved themselves. Because of this, I have even actively discouraged people sending me demos or whatever for as long as I can recall, but I suppose those dream chasers are every bit as ignorant about my background as their music only too often indicates.
Nonetheless, it always got me that that one simple glimpse of one of these packages could tell me so much. A soulless, colourless biography attached to an equally benign letter exuding nothing more than the 'right noises' has almost always reflected the nature of the music within these packages...
I had an email a week back from somebody claiming to have had "a dream" whereby he could "see" a 7" record with a silver cover emblazoned with a gold saxophone. He also said he could recall a "discussion" with "somebody from the label" in this same dream, although admitted he didn't know what this "signified". Then the punchline arrived in the form of him explaining he had some music to send me if I was "interested" and, well, it is on its way to me now. Whilst even the dream angle isn't entirely original, I just liked the fact that this approach was at least a little different to the usual.
The music may well still not amount to much, but my interest has been piqued. And, right now, that actually adds up to something which stands head and shoulders above what I normally receive.
Barely a week has gone by since I began to release music where one or two, or far more, of these little stabs at catching a dream has not ended up in my grasp. Nice and, again, perhaps ego-massaging, on one hand, but likewise generally amounting to nothing more than a nuisance eating into time I don't really have spare for such matters. Of course, I fully understand the nature at work here but, to be extremely blunt, I'm ultimately residing in a highly privileged position (of my own making, I hasten to add). I've written about music since 1983 and, as a result, have always been in contact with an infinite tide of people involved themselves. Because of this, I have even actively discouraged people sending me demos or whatever for as long as I can recall, but I suppose those dream chasers are every bit as ignorant about my background as their music only too often indicates.
Nonetheless, it always got me that that one simple glimpse of one of these packages could tell me so much. A soulless, colourless biography attached to an equally benign letter exuding nothing more than the 'right noises' has almost always reflected the nature of the music within these packages...
I had an email a week back from somebody claiming to have had "a dream" whereby he could "see" a 7" record with a silver cover emblazoned with a gold saxophone. He also said he could recall a "discussion" with "somebody from the label" in this same dream, although admitted he didn't know what this "signified". Then the punchline arrived in the form of him explaining he had some music to send me if I was "interested" and, well, it is on its way to me now. Whilst even the dream angle isn't entirely original, I just liked the fact that this approach was at least a little different to the usual.
The music may well still not amount to much, but my interest has been piqued. And, right now, that actually adds up to something which stands head and shoulders above what I normally receive.
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