Thursday, September 28, 2006


It wasn't always immediately apparent but one of the things I've learnt about being a performer, whether on stage, in the studio or in rehearsal, is to reach with both hands a place where you’re no longer giving a performance, to reach that place where you consciously step aside. And then you can let that performance just flow through you; it’s really about a moment of surrender to something greater, to something it's pointless resisting, to something that can really positively fulfil.


So I watched a Japanese film last night entitled Vibrator, and while I confess the title evoked a vision, as it might you, of some sexy Tokyo OL in bondage being aroused to multiple crazed orgasms with a remote controlled battery-operated sex toy, was not disappointed to discover a study of an altogether different subject matter.

It's a charming slow-moving road movie, amazingly well-acted, stunning photography, which conveys the spontaneous thoughts of a lonely and remarkably anonymous (therefore universal) young woman living in a large city. In addition to the metaphor of the constantly and necessarily vibrating truck the male protagonist drives, the one thing that has the ability to make her happy is the vibration of her mobile phone, even though she never picks it up. A poignant reminder of the disenfranchised nature of modern living.

Sunday, September 24, 2006


The guardians of morality at The Wire magazine have this time 'Savage' Pencil interviewing Chris Corsano for Invisible Jukebox. He plays Shitfun for him, then proceeds to goad him into condemning the supposedly 'dodgy' views inherent. Corsano commendably doesn't take the bait, stating that he appreciates and enjoys the music, even pointing out that his wife (who doesn't much like so-called 'noise music') very much enjoys Whitehouse.

The interview continues, Pencil prodding CC with questions perming the theme of whether Whitehouse are 'dangerous': even going so far as to mention the erect penis on the album's cover, and questioning its dangerousness (ironically declining to mention that the penis in question is the work of Wire favourite Steven Stapleton).


Most art depends on some kind of distancing strategy that is absent from what I know I like to do or have happen to me. They prefer to comment on experience judgmentally and offer explicit interpretations. Isn't it more emotionally demanding when you don't provide that? And that's the real difference between me: nothing's to be handed on a plate because there's no short-cut around; there's no way to stand above or beyond or outside; you either engage or you run away; you're either part of it, or you pointlessly try to rationalise your rejection, by in effect rejecting your own superficial feelings.

The mystery and the reward lie in the metaphor not the literalism, they lie in that great infinite ocean of possibility and promise, they lie in that place where any thing can and will be done.

Saturday, September 23, 2006


If enlisting into the armed forces is a legitimate way for a youngster to become a career murderer, I wonder what that says about the psychiatric profession.

Here's another take on the subject I brought up after seeing the Kampusch TV interview - and a chance to see some extraordinarily striking photography:

I suggest ignoring the visitors' comments for each photo and allowing yourself to hear those muffled screams as the pictures tell you their own dank dark perturbing tales. And many thanks to my favourite heathen friend for recommending this link, in another age we should have been justifiably burnt at the stake by now....

Tuesday, September 19, 2006


When was the last time you ever had your mind blown just by something you drank?

One of my favourite haunts in this wonderful city here, is located on the Royal Mile, where for a price they will make you a cup of the chocolate as featured in the book (and film) Chocolat. Just as the Aztecs might have drunk it. In other words, totally pure 100% txocoatl and with hot hot chillis. About as far removed from that sickly Cadbury's muck that you could ever get. It's both so shamefully and so shamelessly good, and will take you to places so fucking amazing, I'm almost surprised it's legal.


I've had several requests for book recommendations on this topic, and while there are plenty of good ones to recommend including The Incredible Shrinking Son Of Man, a serious academic but very readable work by the eminent scholar and theologian Robert M. Price, there's also an enlightening and entertaining website here which is full of fascinating material. In particular, check out the page about the Turin Shroud.

Monday, September 18, 2006


Did anyone else notice the sinister guy in the white coat standing behind the scenes during the recent Natascha Kampusch TV interview? I wonder if she wasn't better off in the hands of the 'abductor'.

I say 'abductor' because there's clearly far more to this story than meets the eye - the fact that they went on a fortnight's skiing excursion together (which she initially denied); were regularly seen by neighbours out and about shopping, driving and taking walks; and the highly selective filters she allows for questioning. What a prize possession she is for those barking psychiatrists: a live specimen for their 'Stockholm Syndrome' labelled jar.

Sunday, September 17, 2006


So this evening I quickly jump onto a bus from Waverley train station after coming back from Sheffield, and this perfect-looking feline of a woman, about 40 years old, sits next to me. All expensive French perfume, smooth skin, Agent Provocateur?, red heels, and immaculate hair. I'm absolutely shattered after the concert the night before, which by the way was most enjoyable once again in every sense (thanks Moodi + Brian), am probably looking even more rough and not-so-ready and degenerate than normal, so feel no energy whatsoever to engage in any dialogue, even though she's looking across a couple of times. But then there's a nasty messy car accident in front of us. Some guy with his girlfriend crashes his shiny Mercedes into railings at the West End of Princes Street and as so often happens, a moment of drama interrupts a process and creates a common close connection... and so almost like a scene out of In The Mood For Love, we find ourselves engaged in the most electrically fucking charged of conversations, both skilfully weaving around mixed suggestive metaphors like a pair of old sluttish pros, oblivious to who or what's around, until a butterfly's lifetime later it was her stop, and with a wink and a wave and a smile to each other through the departing bus window, were gone into the night.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006


Do you ever stop and think about how much is a child's painting worth?

As artists we have no-one to blame but ourselves. Censorship comes entirely and remorselessly from within, from within ourselves, as you yourself stand in the way of your own work. No-one else does. Why would they? I do love to be loved yet I'll take on anyone who tries to prevent me from doing what I want to do because I only care if you care.

AGE OF AQUARIUS 3 - someone posted this nice link at the Susan Lawly forum. Jesus = Mithras = Osiris = Krishna = Buddha = Dionysus = Horus (so yet another cute example of the many mystery religion rising/dying sun gods myths/allegories) etc. etc. etc. Oh, but I forgot, the ones that predated Jesus (with almost identical biographical detail) were created by that scoundrel Satan (or should that be Baal or Beelzebub? I'm losing mythological track here) to test our faith in the 'real' anointed one. And the rest.

Like to read more? Here's an overview, with a comprehensive and fascinating list of comparisons

Sunday, September 10, 2006

Saturday, September 09, 2006


I don't mind what you've done. I don't mind where you've been, or where you come from. I want to know what makes you.

What makes you scream. What makes you giggle. What makes you cry. What makes you melty. What makes you gasp. What makes you shivery. What makes you rage. What makes you fucking hold on tight?

And if you don't tell me, I'll find out anyway, so that you'll know if you can take it further.

Friday, September 08, 2006

NAME DESIRE - thanks to my good friend Michael for pointing me in the direction of this extraordinary site. Adobe have a lot to answer for.



It's water under the bridge.

Knitting Factory show last year was blighted by Jason, arguably the worst sound technician on the planet (compare to last night's always attentive, very efficient, and friendly team at Numusic in Stavanger), and we ended up having to abort the show because of his totally unacceptable behaviour - and it's not because it was us, the KF's house sound guy is known to treat all bands with the same high-handed contempt and disregard, knowing his job secure and safe owing to the dependence on the club's backers: a major multinational petrochemical company.

Despite all that, it left an awful taste to hear about people that had come to see us there, many having travelled a long way, to leave disappointed.

Monday, September 04, 2006


There's a brief, but nevertheless amusing, list of band name origins.

Only the very naive will believe the explanations given for Whitesnake and Pearl Jam... and the hilarious story I heard Lemmy tell about Hawkwind's is a notable exclusion.

It all reminds me of when I'd have read Burroughs, Camus, or maybe Anthony Burgess novels, or even Dickens, and it seemed like every other page you'd stumble upon some band name or another (of these there a couple of examples in the list), and you'd enjoy a quiet moment of wry self-satisfaction at your discovery.

Saturday, September 02, 2006


The Rolling Stones have made some enduringly dreary music, and Jagger's grating mockney accent can only be rivalled by those other phonies Guy Ritchie, Jamie Oliver, and Dido. That said, owing to their advanced years, the Stones are the best example of a theory I've had for some time: the rock franchise.

In other words, their business franchise is now so incredibly valuable that the 'band' will have to continue long after all the original members are dead and buried, each one replaced as needed. In fact, I'd love to be around in a hundred years' time just to see if the theory's proven true. It'd be capitalism at its purest.