You are currently browsing the monthly archive for September 2008.
Good review of Wilde on. i mean, it doesn’t say anything good, it’s just good. Accurate. Worthy.
Jimminy Cricket! The things youtube occasionally spews up (after some very specific search parameters are entered)
there’s me and fin miming appallingly along to Mark Geary on the Late Late show. Miming appallingly is completely acceptable. the alternative is miming well, and what would that say about your credentials. Note flighty, thinning “denial” hair. In retrospect the slaphead looks back on the denial stage asking themselves “what was i thinking”. Errant strands plastered to scalp, the ‘forward brush’ technique, various head-shaded dyes applied, but when one sees it on another victim, you can’t say anything. you can’t say “man, you’re in denial, get yourself some clips and be done with it” because denial is the last time you’ll ever get up, look in the mirror and ignore the reflected sunlight and say to yourself, “i need a haircut”, the last time you look at product in the chemist, the last time you’ll consider which is the best shampoo. It’s necessary. Fin needn’t worry, the hirsute prick.
Anyway, it’s great to have that record of my own denial. Here’s another
i’ve gone totally Ray Reardon in this one. Nothing like seeing yourself on the goggle box to draw a veil over your denial. Deny that, chromedome. There’s a short history of my follicles, for no other reason than to showcase my televisual performance skills, which as you can see, are intermediate.
All artists are whores, right? They must be, after all, we’d never have heard of them if they weren’t, so art galleries are brothels and gallery directors are pernicious pimps, madames with jargon for arms and deep dark holes of avaricious maleficence for eyes, and the clacking drawer of the cash register for a mouth.
When can we have a napster for art, and put the record labels of the scribble our of business? Maybe then we can decide for ourselves what’s good, or worthy. Maybe even the artists themselves can, if they get their brains back. But sure, why would they care.
Fuckers
In the past I’ve used Oscar as an oblique chat up line, sitting on my own in the utter darkness of the Olympic Ballroom, reading a small, tiny-texted leather bound copy of the complete works. “What are you reading” asks the hapless girl who wanders into my the realm of my pruning perusal. “Oh. Oscar Wilde.” You know, cos I’m sensitive. Look at me. in the dark, squinting to read the deeds of Lord Savile and his various cronies, which i can’t because it’s pitch fucking dark and the text is, as I’ve said, tiny. That’s how desperate i am to avoid dancing to Temple of Love for the twentieth time that night. In fact I’m so sensitive i light a fag and put it out on my knuckle and said lady wanders off wondering to herself, what kind of tit brings a book to a disco. A sensitive tit. Go out with me. Just for a year.
True story. Here’s another. When given the “Theme of Oscar Wilde box” we didn’t so much think outside it, as tear of a tiny bit and staple it to an already in concoction piece we were, uh, concocting. Paul alluded to Oscar’s much vaunted love of Krautrock, and undoubtedly he have been thrilled with the approximation we did last night. It’s still a work in progress, and testament to our ever variable writing process (it grew out of a jam), the bit Oscar would have loved was the vocoder rendering of his words at the end. I like the vocoder, i initially thought, oh oh, MogwaislashCher comparisons, but it’s actually pretty cool. It’s like voice wah. I suppose if we knew how to operate it properly you’d hear more than just what sounds like a robot having a wank, but why would we want to, if the masturbating maladroit mandroids petit mort sounds so delectable.
Anyway, the rest of the night Oscar was done proud, though i doubt he would have had the patience to stick around (assuming his manager hadn’t already canceled his appearance, of course), especially once he found out that there was no free absinthe backstage. He’d have pissed all over his own purple shoes in rage, and stormed off in a huff. I did similarly.
P.s. it’s good we only played for 7 minutes, if this is anything to go by.
3 day hangover.
Ugh.
tomorrow’s triumphant gig will make it all worthwhile. won’t it? Of course not.
Buoyed as we were by chips and football down in Murray’s just before the gig, everything that happened afterwards was going to be, in Lisa’s words, “gravy”. And what a gravy day it turned out to be. The never seen before sun made it’s self a permanent fixture in the sky, the first time it hasn’t rained since 1987. Which may explain why the tent was empty for our gig, as all punters onsite were temporally blinded and dazed by this miraculous apparition in the sky. Either that or 4,836 people received an email from me telling them we were on at 5.05 pm and not 4.30 as happened on the day, but no worry, cos we played as good as we have in a while, and the hastily conceived “soundcheck” was sufficient it seems to create a lively mix on stage, with pretty much everything high in the monitors. Professionals, eh, who know their space. That’s what you want.
So we did what we came to do, that is what we believe we do best, and that’s lig on free beer all day, sitting in the motherfucking sun like we were all on holiday. Somehow an epic wander, that took in Kraftwerk and a lengthy hike back to the dressing room, via the v.i.p. area and done in an alcoholic blur, took Comtron and others back to Vincents for a party. I’ve really no idea how i even got there, and certainly don’t recall getting home. In fact, i’m not even sure that any of it happened, except of course, the papers tell me it did. 2-1!
Really, I’m beginning to think we’re cursed or something.
says pod.ie:
POD Concerts announce change of venue for A DAY IN THE LIFE with Kraftwerk due to adverse weather conditions.
Pod Concerts regret to announce that due to extreme weather conditions causing the river at Lough Dan to burst its banks on the Luggala Estate, Co. Wicklow today, the Kraftwerk concert, scheduled for the 13th September will now be held in the grounds of Royal Hospital Kilmainham, Dublin.
With adverse weather conditions forecasted for the forthcoming week making production and build of site impossible, Promoter John Reynolds declared;
“I am personally deeply disappointed that this event can not take place on the Luggala Estate which is one of the most awe inspiring and breathtaking locations in Ireland. However due to the unprecedented rainfall and the nature of the site being a natural valley, the subsequent water logging conditions, have made it impossible to prepare Luggala for a concert for the general public.”
Rudimentary geography isn’t something that dominates discussion in Chez Jimmy, and it was noticeable by it’s absence as Michael “Mick” Fleming turned up 2 minutes before stage time having driven all the way from Schull, on the edge of Ireland, down the many tiny, pocked roads that comprised the majority of the 200km required to make the journey. 3 and one half hours was apparently not enough time to be comfortable. You see, we learn, as an organ, we grow, we absorb information, and now, we absorb geography. And you can rest assured such an under taking won’t be undertook any time soon. This parable will serve as a reminder, stuck as it is here, on t’internet, for all eternity.
A rudimentary grasp of geography was also required to navigate around the huge stage. A stage on which the sound eddied and swirled like so many tiny whirls in the Mighty Shannon ™ as it snaked it’s inky black hips past Jurgens house later that very night, where we were indulging a Mesuggah disco and getting righteously merry. But before that we had to traverse the peaks and troughs of a stage sound that required our ears have the very latest in mountaineering equipment. I’m afraid on occasion we’ll slipped, those tiny crevices of aural lucidity we had our ears jammed into came and went. Splat, a performance, shredded on the crags. So bless those hearty souls who extended us the lifebouys of their patience. Thank you people, thank you.
Yes, it is going to happen. Unless you’re fighting off the flesh eaters in a localised zombie apocalypse (and can produce documentary evidence to support this) you better be there. I like the blurb on the announcement, looks like it was written by a Caker, and is full of inaccuracies, as is most blurb.
Our odius overlords at ticketmaster have the chits you require. And as soon as i find out how it is possible to buy a ticket without lining their mammonesque pouches with any more of your hard earned lucre, i will attest, right here, people. right. friggin. here.
I've often wondered who that guy with the mustache is, and what he's doing now..
Last time i was in Ennis was 1986. I remember this, because after a summer that could be best described retrospectively and comparatively as “glorious” (as in it didn’t rain for a day, possibly), during which i watched every available world cup game i could, Portugal beating England, Morrocco drawing with England, Argentina beating England and all the rest (i can still see Papin wheeling away in glee after scoring against Canada. take that Canucks! And Manuel Negrete scoring with that bicycle kick against Bulgaria… grand days). Except of course for the centrepiece, the big kahuna, the fucking final. Why? because i was stuck in a car being driven down to Ennis, to stay with the granny of a friend for a couple of weeks. Thanks, ennis, thanks a whole freaking bunch.
As I walked home from school in the build up to that epic summer, and stopped off to buy a new World Cup bubble gum and sticker fandango (“Klaus Allofs??!! YES!!”), this song appeared to be playing constantly in the background. I did manage to fill that Panini sticker book, and it remains one of the few instances of seeing-things-through-to-the-end bravado in my life. Another is being in this poxy band.
