Fire Water Burn.
There’s some dudes on scaffolding out my window messing with the glass or something. I am making a tune and they’re sort of bobbing about in time to the beat. It is sweet.
The tune is a thing called Dead Babies I half wrote a long time ago, when I was still in my old band. They didn’t like it much, as was the pattern. It is a difficult thing to do, to be honest. Its easy to write about the evils of others.
Like, I wrote this massive diatribe last night before I went to bed, but forgot to post it, and didn’t save. I never learn. The main point was this horror in New Orleans. And how, as with seemingly every vile thing to curse our people in recent years, we can blame Bush, and we can blame the Bankers.
It never ceases to amaze me how much money we pump into war, yet how little there ever seems to be for our people. And how this is never bought up in conversation. Bird Flu, as we have known for a long time, is on its way. And there is a vaccine. Red Ken’s people have it. Blair, and Bush’s people have it. The rest of us don’t. And won’t, until 2007, by which time many millions of us will be dead.
I can barely type right now, due to the rigorous upper boddy workout my man Taz put me and Jeff through at the gym earlier. Strapped up to all these metal machines, that looked like torture devices, yanking and tearing at the spoils of our vices. Skreeeeesh.
I couldn’t eat my meat afterwards, and could barely lift the ice cold glass to my quivering lips. I felt like I’d done too much drugs - that horrorful point where you know you went too far, and you have to just hang in there, and hope it fades.
Which it has, a little. I am still juddery, but the nausea has gone. Tomorrow will be more hardcore, I imagine, but if I am to tour and what have you, then I cannot be in the piss poor shape I have been pretty happy in for the majority of my life.
So it goes. Bankers is sounding fat. James has been prepping in his crib, and sent me an MP3. I keep changing that song, because it has to be right. It’s looking like it might get to the level I envisaged, however. It’s looking like this album is going to be of some worth. Which is all I can hope for, really.
Actually, its going to be fucking awesome.
Whoo!
By the way. You might want to read my man Jeff Wells’ take here. And read the comments, as ever illuminating and contrary in equal turn.
Oh Lord Save Me, I Sinned. What it is, and - sorry Jeres, but I am going to have to “go on” about my surroundings again, you slag - I moved into this apartment today. First I was in the studio with my boy James “James” Brown. No, first I was in a hotel. Then I was in that The Shed. Then I was here, which is, crazily, by the Virgin and the cinema in Union Square, which some of you may remember me falling for last year. Serious!
Holly and three of her friends are here to watch the MTV Awards.
Not only is my hotel room incredibly posh, and equipped with a fax machine. Not only does it have super fast wifi and a video and a DVD player and Bose ampspeakerything that my laptop is currently jammed into, spraying forth the mighty GLC into the ether. Not only is there hair conditioner in the bathroom, which gets replaced every day. Not only is there a telly in the bathroom. Not only is there a rack of CDs for me to listen to, and a very comfortable dressing gown and a swively chair. Not only does not only start to stop making sense when you’ve typed it out too many times. But I have developed super powers.
I write to you from the external stirwell of one of New York’s gothic monoliths. Below my feel I see people, walking, cars, thusting. I am on the 8th floor. I I fell I mightn’t make a sound.
“Austin Mitchell, the colourful Labour MP, has fallen victim to computer hackers. His outspoken
My life is pretty amazing you know. I am not bragging. I am AWED. Seriously. I am up a mountain in LA making songs, for Skygod’s sake. Danny’s got a fucking ton of vinyl and noise making machines and wooden things, so when we’re done with these three I made previously, we shall make a BRAND NEW ONE. I love new best, always did.
This is Danny Saber’s palace, where I am currently recording and sleeping. That thing was there when he moved in. Neat, huh?
THE MUSIC IS DOPE.
I just had jerk salmon and corn on the cob in a glorious beachside restaurant in Malibu. In a minute Jeff’s driving me up those Hollywood mountains to Danny Saber’s and lo, we shall make history. Danny is fucking safer than fuck. He digs Adam And The Ants.
Dear You
I had totally forgotten about American TV. I mean, I don’t have a TV back in London. I see it, sometimes, in other places. And it shocks, and appals, and upsets me.
Man, that stigmata is serious. I got the plane, and my feet blew up like fake tits. I feel like I’m wallking on goddamned Pigs
Why is everyone blahblahing about that lame Common album when PE’s new record is so fucking good?
“Now you can say that I’ve grown bitter but of this you may be sure


They say it 
Out here in the country the night is as black as sin and indoors is cosy with the sound of Taroting and Gregorian chanting on the silver ceedee business. Earlier Ally and I were outside shooting cans off of tree trunks with the old man’s shotgun, which was rather idylic. Ally kept knocking cans off and I didn’t hit a single one!

“It was all a dream!”
I said this to Mary, because it is true, and I forgot - if ever one is depressed, and is unhappy with said depression (some people love it you know), make a tune. A complete thing, with a start and an end. It can be someone else’s tune, and you can make your own version. And you will feel like a God. As I did, earlier, when this thing I have done started to come together. There is nothing on earth like it. Nothing I know, anyway. That I can do this now, this weird execution, makes it all OK - nay, beautiful. And I know it is beautiful - but sometimes it takes bowel rupturing kick drums to make fools such as I take note.