Archive for August, 2009

two hundred twelve


Child to cowbells and handclaps. More noise!


two hundred eleven


Roiling storms on a balcony that feels like a boat, an arc, the only lovers left alive. 2004 on the stereo, which could be ’06, which could be ’08, Echoes of movement and Rapture.

two hundred ten


I’m in Montreal in Dusty’s, thinking back. This diner is the psychological brother to Veselka’s, and when Billy Bragg bursts onto the speakers it feels like a home.

two hundred nine


The Lady would surprise everyone.

two hundred eight


Authenticity becomes a silly idea, a shapeless space in which the individual has to force a fit between concepts. Embracing a character, if only for a time, reframes the question of who you are.

two hundred seven


I would later write: No names, please, just ideas.

two hundred six


The girl at the crossroads looks fresh, a vision in classical tones and sepia sounds. Her eyes, the very pupils, are the deepest black.

two hundred five



two hundred four


“Man, this cover, you’d love it: loads of white space and a pastiche of Line Up. You know, the Elastica album.”

two hundred three


Stark white space appeals to me, as does revisionism. It’s my visual default, as my aural is lo-fi and emotive.

two hundred two


Shelf blur is a real problem: no white space, just aggressive competing explosions of colour.

two hundred one


Few things are less comfortable than crossing paths with someone in a cemetery.

two hundred


During breakfast at Veselka’s HST is full of wisom: “It’s just plain reckless to start this now you know. Do more. Hit the road. Fucking live a little man.”

one hundred ninety nine


“‘Wolf Like Me’, it’s perfect isn’t it?” Oh, yes.

one hundred ninety eight


It could be said I was The Idea of Kate Jackson’s fractured self-esteem, but that would be a lie.

one hundred ninety seven


The Idea of Kate Jackson wakes me with the crackle of assorted 12″ records and the hangover I practically demanded. Here, in the perception of a feminine idol, my life feels like a noir and I only wake in time for the matinĂ©e.

one hundred ninety six


“You’ve got to believe me when I say, I never wanted to be liked”

one hundred ninety five


Years after K- I would kiss a girl who tasted of blood, an act that felt like chasing whispers with my lips, and it took me back. Poor thing. She only ever wanted to be wanted.

one hundred ninety four


I came to, an ugly sight, warped with booze sickness and crouched over a pan in my room, apologising for using the wrong name, something to this day which I don’t remember doing.

one hundred ninety three


K- : “I didn’t know they got Saddam Hussein.”

one hundred ninety two


Every netizen witnessed the death throes of Saddam Hussein, even if they never saw the video, a grim harbinger of communication culture. Discourse swept at maybe half the rate of Jackson’s death, a symbolic end to an era that butchered my generation’s faith.

one hundred ninety one


The fractured, distended corpse of Saddam Hussein – reaper usher of the 21st Century – waits for no man.

one hundred ninety


What is ‘Temptation’? The sound of the space on the dancefloor when someone grasps you by the lungs, locking you in the exhale, and you want to capture how great the lights look reflected in their eyes long before all those unspeakable things start coming to mind. It’s about the surface of that sensation, slick and hot, about never having to accept the empty, vapid, hollow mind that comes with it until the final 7″ is packed away in the early hours of the morning after. It’s about how nothing is everything for eight minutes at a time.

one hundred eighty nine


All others forgotten when K- locked eyes on mine to the sounds of ‘Temptation’.

one hundred eighty eight


Spite and lethargy are a killer combination: rip the target apart and refuse to deal with the fallout.

one hundred eighty seven


The Boy with the Casio watch nails it: “I love that you’re both spiteful and lazy.”

one hundred eighty six


Man, K- never knew what hit her.

one hundred eighty five


The song starts “People think I’m being perverse on purpose” but I wanted to tell The Idea of Kate Jackson to just wait and see.

one hundred eighty four


She confused De Stijl for Still and loved The Cure. It could never have worked.

one hundred eighty three


‘Nothing worse than being a BBC wife’ so the saying goes. It demonstrates a profound lack of foresight and imagination.

one hundred eighty two


Streets borrowed from Shaun of the Dead: No girls at the crossroads, only zombies.