In an effort to create inertia and post more frequently, but with less content (bloody words), I thought I'd take the time to say thanks for all the RT's, shares and general feedback - it's much appreciated.
Stylus Stories (as featured in the lastblog ... ) are a lovely lot and have furnished me with an audio recording of me telling my other story about touching David Bowie, with my right hand ...
*shudder*
Anyway - I thought I'd post it up here as it gives you a better idea of the vibe - i.e. its an 'audio thing' ... with beer.
*cringe*
Tin Machine - I can't read
Moving on ...
I thought I'd also give you a round up of what I'm doing and digging. Doing wise I have just done a remix for my friend Rob Bridgett and his chaotic moniker 'Black London'. The track 'Tunneler' is a beast of a thing and despite Mr. B now residing in Canada I feel that it captures some of the magic and chaos of East London where I live. Naturally I wanted to hack and slay and here is the result ...
Rob is a unique talent both in terms of sound design and composition - if you like dark thoughtful abstraction this is the guy for you.
I think it's an intriguing mix of folk-like songwriting and the kind of dark electronica that is weirdly informed by the drama of the metal world. Also, spare a thought for the artists ... After months of production, recording and video making they found themselves inadvertently banned from the BBC after the Woolwich atrocity for incorporating the word 'murder' in the title. I'd call that 'overkill' but who knows what might happen after I press 'publish'.
And ... that about wraps up this mini update.
Remember:
Buy your music, live for danger and never eat anything bigger than your head.
I will return next time I find something that makes me want to rant into the hollow barrel of the internet. I expect that will happen sooner rather than later.
I have never really been one for taking photographs, they seem clumsy reminders to me. When you pull out a camera everyone instinctively acts a little more guarded and a photo (as we all know), can make you look good or bad depending on your luck. I have a phonographic memory, every record I own is internally referenced in my brain and that enables me to hark back to not only the look of the day but the feelings that surrounded me when I first heard it. Turns out I'm not the only one who thinks like this. Stylus Stories is a monthly gathering of music lovers which asks the public to pick up to two records that mean something to them personally and then tell everyone about them. An idea which is frankly genius in its simplicity and brings together music fans of all ages from 18-80. Unrehearsed public speaking isn't for everyone but this beautifully naive event speaks from the heart and I have to say I found it one of the most life affirming nights I have attended in years. I heard stories from the 50's, 60's, 70's, 80's and indeed 90's in one evening and such was the warmth and trust in the room that we arrived as strangers and left as friends. I told two stories, one about Tin Machine (David Bowie) which you can listen to on the Stylus Stories website if you search about a bit, and one featuring an altogether more dreadful record that I shall re-tell here. If you want an evening to remind you of the power of music and culture that makes each generation sing then do please dig out those dusty 45's and come along to the next event, I promise its an uplifting experience. Join in the fun at the next 'Stylus Stories': Friday 6th of September, from 7.30pm, at The Great Northern Railway Tavern, 67 High Street, Hornsey N8 7QB
My 'Stylus Story': Ramirez "La Gallinero (a.k.a. The Chicken Song)"
People of a certain age will know what I'm talking about when I say that the 90's were the most fantastic, rebellious, ridiculous and downright dangerous of good old days. Anyone who was involved in the free rave scene back in the day will still carry a flame for the feelings we all shared. One of my favourite things to do is spot an old raver. You can see them hiding in the modern camouflage - all suited and booted like a grown up. But once you spot them you get the joy of blowing their cover, there's always a furtive and knowing wink involved. They aren't hard to spot either, once you know what you are looking for. All it takes is a snippet of hardcore, a casual reference to vinyl or the merest mention of 'Vicks Vapo-rub' and their eyes glaze over - the memories flood back to a time when roof licking happiness was the minimum requirement for a night out.
Great Days.
That's not to say everything about the rave days was great, much of it was self serving hedonism, some of the fashion was deeply iffy (Global Hypercolor anyone?), even the most ardent of DJs would have to admit that some of the music was cheesy enough to make sandwiches with.
No-one said that the 'Stylus Stories' had to feature good music however and tempting though it was to select some high brow concept album as my offering, I decided the key element was the story rather than the tune. As a result I have selected one of the era's less notable soundscapes - that of 'El Gallinero' by Ramirez, a Spanish DJ and amateur ornithologist with a penchant for Chickens.
As a keen student of music and social politics (everyone was in the 80's), I had grown up impatient for my generation's musical movement - the 50's had rock & roll, the 60's psychedelia, the 70's had a three way split of funk, prog-rock and eventually punk. The 80's (in which I was cast) seemed less forthcoming.
Looking back now the revisionists would have you believe the 80's were a time of carefree electro pop, all high shoulder pads and cocaine parties but the truth is a million miles away from that. Outside the 'city' real life was in fact pretty depressing. My recollections of the 80's revolve around 'Protect and survive' adverts which encouraged you to survive a nuclear war by painting yourself white and hiding under a door for the winter, mass unemployment blighting large parts of the country and a critically fractured society of haves and have nots. For my generation there really was no togetherness, we aligned ourselves with the thinnest of sub genres simply to make it clear we were not part of the status quo - or indeed Status Quo. Indie actually meant that the artist was on an independent label rather than being a catch all phrase to market weak guitar music. In a way the fact we had an indie scene at all shows how disconnected the music industry had got from the fans.
I began to dispair at my parents bad timing. By the end of the 80's nothing of any consequence had happened in my market town, it was starting to look like nothing ever would ... but then, at the fag end of 1989 someone took me to an 'acid house party'. At last this otherworldly electronic music drew together a generation who had really had enough of real life's eternal bullshit.
It was the shock of the new, by the spring of 1990 the entire world had flipped on its axis. Now we were RAVERS. For the first time in living memory my friends were not dressed entirely in black, people were smiling and there was a party every night of the week.
Raving brought everyone together, inner city kids mixing with market town rejects, black, white, rich and poor. We would roam around the Cotswolds like a heard of electrified wildebeast excitedly looking for the next watering hole of liquid bass. At first the Police were OK with it, there was never any trouble at our parties, the vibe was exemplary. Most encounters with the boys in blue revolved around confused traffic cops who really just wanted an easy life parked up in a sleepy lay by. Frankly these country cops didn't know what hit them as thousands of day-glo night trippers swarmed along the back roads en masse. In the early days their policy was simply to help us get to where we wanted to go, anything to get us off their patch. True community policing really, but it could never last - especially when Fleet Street newspapers began to whip themselves into a frenzy regarding this dangerous and sinister trend for young adults to gather together and dance about a bit.
Soon anyone invloved with the free rave scene became marked men. Throwing parties became a dramatic game of cat and mouse, organisers found their phones tapped, cars followed and civil liberties in short supply. In short the government got worried and soon changed the law in such a way that simply playing music 'characterised by a repetitive beat' outside was a criminal offence. Ravel's 'Bolero' would never be played 'al fresco' again.
One thing that never changed however was the 'joie de vivre' of the raving community. The will to party was unstoppable, come rain or shine we gathered, driving round roadblocks, climbing over walls, thinking and acting as one Borg-like techno machine.
For their part the Police began to get nastier, the tactics became ever more confrontational. When the dreaded Criminal Justice Bill was passed they could finally hit us where it hurt most - deep in the 18' bass bins. The new law meant that equipment could now be seized on a whim and held for weeks at a time without redress. The party could only go on if everyone stuck together and I remember several times total strangers were entrusted with taking away one speaker each to avoid the system being impounded, never losing so much as a lead.
It was after an extended run of killer parties that life began to get very difficult, the local plod were beginning to take things personally. The boys in blue became familiar faces, the Thames Valley force in particular warned us 'next time would be our last time'. We were having far too much fun to stop now though.
Foxing the fuzz in those halcyon days when access to a mobile phone could make you into a criminal mastermind in minutes wasn't too hard. We could change the meeting point in a minute - the age of telecommunications was definitely on our side. One particular night where we got one over on the party poopers will live long in the memory.
That night we (literally) had a barnstorming party - the posse was strong and the Police were (literally) a country mile behind us (again). Come 6am as the morning mist billowed across the eeire English countryside the unmistakable sight of a Police van loomed into view.
The cops were forced to park some way away from the dance-floor and as they determinedly plodded their way towards us things began to look very bad. This was it, bye-bye decks, bye-bye speaker stacks, hello police cell and criminal record. We were banged to rights and we all knew it - but we were never going to go out quietly.
As last tunes go this was going to be a requiem for our dreams, we needed one last moment of defiance - something to prove we weren't chicken. The DJ dug deep into the crate but there was no accounting for taste and the morning shifts were always a time for the less renowned spinners to take up arms. His fingers blurred as he flipped through the plastic, this could well be the last tune, at the last party we ever threw. I can only blame the euphoric nature of ecstasy for convincing him that 'El Gallinero' by Ramirez would be the sound that drew a line under our long awaited sub culture.
As the Rozzers opened the gate the music ground to a halt, time appeared to slow down as the record slurred to a stop. The crowd was now aware of the impending shut down and some uncharacteristically disgruntled boos began to float into the ether. Then with the sun cracking a golden yolk over the countryside the rhythm controller dropped his tune.
"COCK-A-DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
The cry of a rooster filled the air, amplified over 10,000 watts of sheer audio muscle and the 'Chicken Song', that awful cheesy slice of Eurotrash began to boom out to rapturous applause. This wasn't the era defining curtain call that some of us were expecting. No this was 6 glorious minutes of lunatic chicken clucking spread over a banging 4x4 beat. They say the worst things often bring out the best in people and I felt compelled to agree as a thousand of my peers began to squawk, cluck and crow their way around the field ...
Ramirez - "El Gallinero (a.k.a The Chicken Song)"
Single Edit.
All together now ...
"BOK BOK BOK BOK BOK BAKKA!
BOK BOK BOK BOK BOK BAKKA!
BOK BOK BOK BOK BOK BAKKA!
BOK BOK BOK BOK BOK BAKKA!
BOK BOK BOK BOK BOK BAKKA!
BOK BOK BOK BOK BOK BAKKA!
- COCK-A-DOODLE-DOOOOO!"
The cops (understandably), were beyond baffled as a field of fluorescent ravers flapped energetically around them in what can only be described as a palpable moment of mass hysteria. It was in truth one of the most glorious and uproariously funny moments of my entire life. The sheer madness of the situation stripped away all the erstwhile authority the Police had carried with them. You could see them struggling to comprehend what was going on with each leadened step they took through this frenetic flock of chickens.
As they approached the decks they began to shout over the cacophony at each other - desperately trying to find a way to save some face from the situation.
Cop 1: "What the fuck is going on?"
Cop 2: "DRUGS!"
Cop 3: "Should I call for back up?"
The chief officer suddenly stalled and turned on his heals to berate the younger officer:
Cop 2: "Do you really want to arrest and process 500 chickens? Cos I fucking well don't!"
Cop 1: "Its a good point well made."
And with that a discreet word was had with the DJ, he was politely asked to turn it down and warned not to come back again next week. Amazingly we had won! This all goes to prove that quality isn't everything - even a really shit Euro-cheese 12' can bring down 'The Man' given the wholehearted support of the masses.
