the first few days back in the office are always grim! too much to do before everything kicks right off! a playlist for these troubled times might read...
The Dark of the Sun by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
The World is Flat by Unwound
Mutual Friends by The Arteries
The Only Living Boy In New York by Simon and Garfunkel
77 by Red Animal War
Fused Into You by Pylon
Mommy, Can I Go Out and Kill Tonight? by The Misfits
Change Is All The Rage by Knapsack
Dying On The Vine by John Cale
A Jack of All Trades by Hot Water Music
anything will do to lift the spirits, to burn off some oppression from your back. i don't know what its like in your office, but I have to listen to records and read books and articles that are either a piece of white hot rage at the system we're intwined within, or pieces of literature and such which remind you of the good times- your life at home which seems like it's a million miles from here, shows you've been to, places you've visited and real living that you've lived. to be in that place again would be something else, something far removed.
Let's not confuse the issue, i like my work and i realise i'm fortunate in that. but i also feel like this is not real on several occasions throughout the day; that there is something just waiting for me to find! I think of the people I have met, and where they are in the world now. i think of the things I have seen and imagine going back, and I think of all my friends and family outside of these four walls, and how they are plotting and scheming like me- planning that great escape where they would run, leap and laugh all the way home. free from whatever it is that shackles us! I can't wait to get home to those two cats and pat them on the head. maybe i'll have a calippo too!
Tuesday, 8 September 2009
Thursday, 2 April 2009
These Bones Were Built On Living Miles From Anywhere
Have you ever been to Exeter? Or Devon? It's a long way from anywhere. When we were younger (pre-driving days you know) then the bands that we could see were entirely limited to what came to Exeter, and more particularly, shows that we could see, and still get the last bus home. The last bus to Cullompton left Exeter Bus Station at 10:05pm. Not much use for a young lad who wanted to see both of Feeder's encores! My friends Cheesman and Spud (both names that their Mother's gave them) and I would leg it to the Bus Stop from the University where most all ages shows took place. If we missed that bus, we were in serious trouble! Exeter Bus Station is not a warm place to be at night!
We were big kerrang readers in our youth (and nme, and melody maker and anything really) and if any band that was mentioned in its "hallowed" pages came to our county, then we had to go: this was an absolute and unbreakable rule. I had to question my own inner workings when I got the flu directly before Reef came to town- was I simply projecting my unwillingness to go, and therefore making myself ill?! This meant that we watched what you might call "a load of old tud" on regular occasions. As soon as we were old enough to go to The Cavern, we would go to as much as possible (Psycore anyone?!!) and that was a huge education, but we still often had to get that last bus, which sometime in 1999 suddenly gave us an extra 25 minutes, and didn't then leave until 10:30pm. Good times! Local shows were the main thing to go to- they were cheap, and it felt less like you were simply a consumer. Apricot Smile were favourites of mine! They played covers of local radio adverts to a high level of competancy in the Epi-Fat style!
Anyway, Cheesman and Spud fell away, but I kept going. There were tens, hundreds of shows where I would just go alone; my friends stopped skating and starting dj-ing, stopped listening to bands and started being bankers, sold their guitars and went out with goons who didn't understand. Times were hard, but it was worth it. There's a certain sense of triumph that I feel when people I know now say "oh I wish I'd been at that show, but i was at (insert crap club name here)". Ha! It was worth it just for this! Things were hard, but I knew I was there for the right reasons- a love of the music, the art, the culture. Not to see my friends, not to look good (I certainly did not), not because everyone else was doing it, but because I wanted to.
Now, fast forward 10 years. I am still here. Sometimes I wish I wasn't. Sometimes I'd like a quiet life, but I know, and you know that there can be no accusations of doing it for the wrong reasons. Just like when we were running for (and missing) the 10:05 bus. If it means anything at all, I'd go and watch 3 Colours Red again, and I'd sleep on that bench.
We were big kerrang readers in our youth (and nme, and melody maker and anything really) and if any band that was mentioned in its "hallowed" pages came to our county, then we had to go: this was an absolute and unbreakable rule. I had to question my own inner workings when I got the flu directly before Reef came to town- was I simply projecting my unwillingness to go, and therefore making myself ill?! This meant that we watched what you might call "a load of old tud" on regular occasions. As soon as we were old enough to go to The Cavern, we would go to as much as possible (Psycore anyone?!!) and that was a huge education, but we still often had to get that last bus, which sometime in 1999 suddenly gave us an extra 25 minutes, and didn't then leave until 10:30pm. Good times! Local shows were the main thing to go to- they were cheap, and it felt less like you were simply a consumer. Apricot Smile were favourites of mine! They played covers of local radio adverts to a high level of competancy in the Epi-Fat style!
Anyway, Cheesman and Spud fell away, but I kept going. There were tens, hundreds of shows where I would just go alone; my friends stopped skating and starting dj-ing, stopped listening to bands and started being bankers, sold their guitars and went out with goons who didn't understand. Times were hard, but it was worth it. There's a certain sense of triumph that I feel when people I know now say "oh I wish I'd been at that show, but i was at (insert crap club name here)". Ha! It was worth it just for this! Things were hard, but I knew I was there for the right reasons- a love of the music, the art, the culture. Not to see my friends, not to look good (I certainly did not), not because everyone else was doing it, but because I wanted to.
Now, fast forward 10 years. I am still here. Sometimes I wish I wasn't. Sometimes I'd like a quiet life, but I know, and you know that there can be no accusations of doing it for the wrong reasons. Just like when we were running for (and missing) the 10:05 bus. If it means anything at all, I'd go and watch 3 Colours Red again, and I'd sleep on that bench.
Friday, 27 March 2009
These Bones Were Built In Lasklustre Devon Towns
The soundtrack to my childhood is this: hrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr hrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr hrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr whoooooooooooooooooosssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhh hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. No friends, I was not brought up in a Vacuum Cleaner Factory. I was instead a product of a small town in MidEast Devon called Cullompton. Cullompton is not a fun place, but perhaps the inspirational behind Jawbreaker's first lp "Unfun". We don't know for sure, but we have our suspicions!
You see, Cullompton has one redeeming feature. It is very very close to the 5th Motorway of our Nation's formidable infrastructure. You might know it as the M5. So, if you have ever driven the South West's answer to Route 66, you will have seen Cullompton's Service Station (Voted Worst in the Country by The Times of London, and Which? Magazine!!), you cannot have failed to have noticed the sprawling suburbia that is actually surburban in relation to nothing, and your eyes will not have deceived you that there truly is not one thing there!
So, this noise I have mentioned is all we have to hang on to. All that is actually ours. The constant drone of rubber tyres on tarmac-ed byways. All day. And all night. Hhhhhhhrrrrrrrrr.
But Cullompton has given me more than just a headache and a lower life expectancy. It also gave me Ben Goddard. For those of you who don't know him, Ben is possibly the most offensive man alive. He has a remarkable ability to find the most obnoxious thing that you would never say, and then surpass it. And say it in front of your Mother. But this, friends, is part of his charm. Life would be much reduced without him nearby, and very soon it will be. Tonight is Ben Goddard's last night in Devon for a long time. Many a time we've heard that he's leaving, and each time the reason has been more obscure. "Doing the festies" would be my personal favourite, but maybe you have your own; i can't choose for you!
So, he's moving to London, and I'm pleased that he's happy with his choice, but its put me in an interesting frame of mind. Now, I am the last of my friends to be in Devon- I moved to Exeter, but there's no challenge in that, so why have I not left? I've even written songs about my powers reducing if I get too far away. But too far from what? The official worst place to buy Ginsters? It doesn't seem to make sense!
There was a poet, who was around in the early 19th century called John Clare. He was from Northamptonshire, not far from Peterborough, and was a farm labourer. Sociologically he's interesting because he is an early example of a poet, writer or artist who wasn't from a wealthy background. Anyway, John Clare was practically adopted by some patrons from London. They told him that he was going to be rich and famous. Meanwhile, he kept writing, but the wealth and fame never arrived. In fact, things got worse- his house was in such a poor state of repair that his lungs suffered horrendously from the damp. His patrons gathered together to make a plan, and rented a new, drier house, 8 miles to the South of his birthplace. The Clare family removed there, and John could cope so little with the change that he actually lost his mind, and spent the remaining 35 years of his life in a Mental Hospital.
Now, of course, Ben will travel and have an incredible time. It will probably be the best thing he ever did. But I can't go. I wouldn't go. If I look at a map and mark the places where I would be happy to live, I have a very thin corridor that is etched into the page. It begins in Cullompton, and reaches Exeter, and there is maybe a two mile deviation away from that central line. Do you know what the line is? The 5th Motorway of our Nation's formidable infrastructure. I can't sleep when its quiet outside my window. The further I get from Cullompton, the more my powers decrease. Long live Ben Goddard, long live Lacklustre towns. I can't pretend I'm something I'm not, and I am not able to change!
You see, Cullompton has one redeeming feature. It is very very close to the 5th Motorway of our Nation's formidable infrastructure. You might know it as the M5. So, if you have ever driven the South West's answer to Route 66, you will have seen Cullompton's Service Station (Voted Worst in the Country by The Times of London, and Which? Magazine!!), you cannot have failed to have noticed the sprawling suburbia that is actually surburban in relation to nothing, and your eyes will not have deceived you that there truly is not one thing there!
So, this noise I have mentioned is all we have to hang on to. All that is actually ours. The constant drone of rubber tyres on tarmac-ed byways. All day. And all night. Hhhhhhhrrrrrrrrr.
But Cullompton has given me more than just a headache and a lower life expectancy. It also gave me Ben Goddard. For those of you who don't know him, Ben is possibly the most offensive man alive. He has a remarkable ability to find the most obnoxious thing that you would never say, and then surpass it. And say it in front of your Mother. But this, friends, is part of his charm. Life would be much reduced without him nearby, and very soon it will be. Tonight is Ben Goddard's last night in Devon for a long time. Many a time we've heard that he's leaving, and each time the reason has been more obscure. "Doing the festies" would be my personal favourite, but maybe you have your own; i can't choose for you!
So, he's moving to London, and I'm pleased that he's happy with his choice, but its put me in an interesting frame of mind. Now, I am the last of my friends to be in Devon- I moved to Exeter, but there's no challenge in that, so why have I not left? I've even written songs about my powers reducing if I get too far away. But too far from what? The official worst place to buy Ginsters? It doesn't seem to make sense!
There was a poet, who was around in the early 19th century called John Clare. He was from Northamptonshire, not far from Peterborough, and was a farm labourer. Sociologically he's interesting because he is an early example of a poet, writer or artist who wasn't from a wealthy background. Anyway, John Clare was practically adopted by some patrons from London. They told him that he was going to be rich and famous. Meanwhile, he kept writing, but the wealth and fame never arrived. In fact, things got worse- his house was in such a poor state of repair that his lungs suffered horrendously from the damp. His patrons gathered together to make a plan, and rented a new, drier house, 8 miles to the South of his birthplace. The Clare family removed there, and John could cope so little with the change that he actually lost his mind, and spent the remaining 35 years of his life in a Mental Hospital.
Now, of course, Ben will travel and have an incredible time. It will probably be the best thing he ever did. But I can't go. I wouldn't go. If I look at a map and mark the places where I would be happy to live, I have a very thin corridor that is etched into the page. It begins in Cullompton, and reaches Exeter, and there is maybe a two mile deviation away from that central line. Do you know what the line is? The 5th Motorway of our Nation's formidable infrastructure. I can't sleep when its quiet outside my window. The further I get from Cullompton, the more my powers decrease. Long live Ben Goddard, long live Lacklustre towns. I can't pretend I'm something I'm not, and I am not able to change!
Friday, 20 March 2009
These bones were built not just on rice, but on all things unglamourous and simple!
Friends, I am what would have been known in history as a simpleton. I lack refinement, a glossy finish, or any kind of social standing. Not only am I all this and more, but also I am from Devon. In Devon there are two ways to talk: properly, and like me. We are a confused race, us Devonians. We have not the beaches of Cornwall, nor the tranquility of Dorset, instead we are (particularly in my part of the County) a place to put service stations for tourists. Not that we ever see real tourists, mind. That would be too much!
Anyway, I forget myself; in Devon, we are "blessed" with what would be known as a rural accent. This is not optional, but arrives at the most prominent of moments, and lengthens any "A" that has the misfortune to stand out. Thus, apples become aaaaapples, bands becomes baaaands and that new wave band that your mum likes become Aaaaadam aaaaand the Aaaaants. So, when you travel in high society (as one occasionally does!!), and think that you might just be fitting in, well, someone mentions that cursed fruit, and you have to repeat the word. Suddenly the scales fall from (for example) The Ambassador's eyes, and you stand before him, metaphorically naked, a bog-trotter plain and simple!
So, I scurry back to Devon, to the sweet embrace of the River Exe, and return to the mire from which I came. But friends, there is a greater tragedy at work here; more insurmountable than the snobbery of the Big City, more grotesque than the "burr" which confines me. Friends, we have been infiltrated! Here in our very city, the town on the Exe, the Exeter. The last western city of the Holy Roman Empire. Who would have thought it? Not Caesar, that's for sure! You see, my voice suggests a simpleton, and I have come to terms with this. I have adapted my ambitions forthwith, and have become basic of taste. Yet, in our very city, the very home of this simple life, we are being fooled! Apparently, art is hard. Apparently, we need to be clever, and if we can't be clever, then we need to appear as such. This my friends, is the movement that causes us to read our books, watch our films, and listen to our records not based on whether they will be any good or not, but how it makes us look to the outside work. Such foolishness is hard to stomach, but not only is stomaching necessary; we also must be made to feel less than these charlatans!
So, in the interests of reasserting power, and bringing rural England back to its lowly roots, here is the truth...
My name is Jon, I once ate only potatoes for a month. If I had to choose between Othello and Saved By The Bell on TV, I'd be torn. If every song I ever heard had 2 verses and a chorus, I'd be a happy man, and if I never see another local artist with South American or African influences, despite being born and bred in Crediton, I'd be in heaven.
Anyway, I forget myself; in Devon, we are "blessed" with what would be known as a rural accent. This is not optional, but arrives at the most prominent of moments, and lengthens any "A" that has the misfortune to stand out. Thus, apples become aaaaapples, bands becomes baaaands and that new wave band that your mum likes become Aaaaadam aaaaand the Aaaaants. So, when you travel in high society (as one occasionally does!!), and think that you might just be fitting in, well, someone mentions that cursed fruit, and you have to repeat the word. Suddenly the scales fall from (for example) The Ambassador's eyes, and you stand before him, metaphorically naked, a bog-trotter plain and simple!
So, I scurry back to Devon, to the sweet embrace of the River Exe, and return to the mire from which I came. But friends, there is a greater tragedy at work here; more insurmountable than the snobbery of the Big City, more grotesque than the "burr" which confines me. Friends, we have been infiltrated! Here in our very city, the town on the Exe, the Exeter. The last western city of the Holy Roman Empire. Who would have thought it? Not Caesar, that's for sure! You see, my voice suggests a simpleton, and I have come to terms with this. I have adapted my ambitions forthwith, and have become basic of taste. Yet, in our very city, the very home of this simple life, we are being fooled! Apparently, art is hard. Apparently, we need to be clever, and if we can't be clever, then we need to appear as such. This my friends, is the movement that causes us to read our books, watch our films, and listen to our records not based on whether they will be any good or not, but how it makes us look to the outside work. Such foolishness is hard to stomach, but not only is stomaching necessary; we also must be made to feel less than these charlatans!
So, in the interests of reasserting power, and bringing rural England back to its lowly roots, here is the truth...
My name is Jon, I once ate only potatoes for a month. If I had to choose between Othello and Saved By The Bell on TV, I'd be torn. If every song I ever heard had 2 verses and a chorus, I'd be a happy man, and if I never see another local artist with South American or African influences, despite being born and bred in Crediton, I'd be in heaven.
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