“Bush is a natural-born loser with a filthy-rich daddy who pimped his son out to rich oil-mongers. He hates music, football and sex, in no particular order, and he is no fun at all.”
Hunter S Thompson, Oct. 20th, 2004

RIP John peel. Who will play “silly jungle” and The Fall records now?

So, they managed to lose 380 tons of explosives in Iraq. Expect super-slaughter over the next seven days. This is going to be the bloodiest week yet. They offed 49 Iraqi soldiers innit. Well, you would, wouldn’t you?

I almost forgot about Hunter. Hunter was my favourite, ever since that windy afternon in Birmingham when katy gave me a creased old copy of Fear And Loathing and I devoured it all in one sitting, on a bench outside Hooters.

“If Nixon were running for president today, he would be seen as a “liberal” candidate, and he would probably win,” writes the Doc in Rolling Stone. “He was a crook and a bungler, but what the hell? Nixon was a barrel of laughs compared to this gang of thugs from the Halliburton petroleum organization who are running the White House today — and who will be running it this time next year, if we (the once-proud, once-loved and widely respected “American people”) don’t rise up like wounded warriors and whack those lying petroleum pimps out of the White House on November 2nd.

Nixon hated running for president during football season, but he did it anyway. Nixon was a professional politician, and I despised everything he stood for — but if he were running for president this year against the evil Bush-Cheney gang, I would happily vote for him.

You bet. Richard Nixon would be my Man. He was a crook and a creep and a gin-sot, but on some nights, when he would get hammered and wander around in the streets, he was fun to hang out with. He would wear a silk sweat suit and pull a stocking down over his face so nobody could recognize him. Then we would get in a cab and cruise down to the Watergate Hotel, just for laughs.”

“Twisted like contortion or coppers up in Hoxton/ who had certain black youths on road chuckin rocks for them/ what, you think I forgotten?/ Fuck Sir Paul Condom your whole force is rotten. You cunt.”
Klashnekoff - Our Time

Dude is so dope.

Anyway, I know I’ve been on about this since, like, 2001, but I so swear they’re about to wheel Bin Laden out. How could they not? The time is ripe. My bets are on Monday.

And if you want educated people who actually know stuff talking on this issue, as opposed to my big gob of vague common sense and instinct, check this.

So. I’m off to Cardiff to do the Bethan And Huw show on Thursday, and I get to take a record. Like, fuck! What do I take? Old? Chris de Burgh? Percee P? Digital Underground? Al Stewart? Or New? Klashnekoff? Lil’ John? Sage? Cazals?

Decisions, decisions. Anyway, i am off to cop a bit of a Pirahna Deathray rehearsal, like NOW. And get my SL DZ 1200 whatsit back off of Jeremy. Word.

Oh, and that gigs update is done. Some dope photos from my first UK gig by the lovely Soraya. She is, like, a genius and shit.

So, I’ve heard three songs off the new Eminem album. They are the single, ‘Just Lose It’, the “political” one, ‘Mosh’, and this - ’scalled One Last Time. Has Dre on it. At the end there is talk of the fabled ‘Detox’ album. Anyway, I really hope the rest of the album is better than what we’ve heard so far. I like that “Whurgh-ur-urgh” chorus on the former. ‘I like the “fuck Bush” on ‘Mosh’. Speaking of which, this an amazing interview Andrew Eldritch from The Sisters Of Mercy did a few years ago. Read it read it read it, for answers lie within.

So, after muddling through this ‘The New Danger’, I reach the conclusion - Mos Def = Lenny Kravitz. Trick Daddy, whose ‘Thug Matrimony’ I am bumping right now, is a genius.

I’m popping out of retirement to interview Sage Francis tommorrow. His forthcoming album is amazing, and I wanna see where his funny old head is at. If anyone has any good questions, email me.

Oh, there’ some new live photos in the gigs section, with more going up throughout the afternoon. Safe.

Since we last spoke, I’ve writ three songs, seen Goldie Lookin Chain, caned biffs, copped the latest J-Zone, Mos Def and Victor Vaugn, and watched American Splendour and American Psycho. “Good but ultimately unfullfilling,” I think Nonny said of the latter, which is true, but I still love that movie.

The three songs I writ were all built from the bass up like Lego with numerous plug ins I downloaded and ym tiny midi keyboard. No samples. It was initially weird working without samples this time round, but quickly became the biggest piece of piss ever. Like, ding ding dah dah BVVVVVVVVVM. I filled the notebook I bought on 4th and got a new one. This one’s hardback.

So what the fuck is up? I just got in and I have read no papers and seen no websites since Friday.

Bloody Wade. I awoke today initially baffled then quite furious, and I blame Wade. I shall spare you the details, but I blame Wade.

Last night I went to drop off some CDs for Slepton, who works at the Curzon cinema in the West End. Hero was showing, so I watched that. It was a very lovely picture, I enjoyed it immensely. But Wade rang, from Jade Jagger’s birthday party round the corner, so I went there after. The place was surrounded by paparazzi, who expressed a mild interest in me, and full of rich people, who did similar. It was awash with expensive booze and fake skulls and jewels and more booze. Someone complained to me that this was a “crap Jagger party” because usually they have “people going round with trays of cocaine.” I can’t think of anything worse. I wonder if Nicky Halsam does cocaine. He looked like he’d done all of it when I saw him in the toilets, oohing and ahing a lot whilst being harassed by some greasy young interior designer.

Jade Jagger’s Dad Mick was there, and my God, he has the silliest head I have ever seen. He is three foot tall and his head is roughly the same size as his torso. He looks like Sim in that Eighties Matchbox video. Similarly weird in the flesh is Pamela Anderson, whose face appears to be made out of orange peel. Wade and my friend Lucifer sort of assaulted her. Well, he snogged her and drank her champagne. And he had a cucumber down his shiny red tights.

I had a long and enlightening chat with Simon from Puppetry Of The Penis as well. He invited me to his penultimate show in London tonight, but I fear if I go I shall end up on a bender of some sort, as it is the Alternative Miss World round the corner, which is my mate Blue’s uncle’s thing, and you know what that means. No, I need to stay in and make music.

Anyway, the fury has dissipated. Since I started writing this, Daryooooosh popped by to finish the interview he’s doing with me for Tank. Daryoosh has all manner of interesting theories regarding laziness and Cool.

Meanwhile in internet land, P Diddy poops himself onstage, I am still terrified of John Kerry, and my friend Luke, son of a vicar, googled himself, and found the devout Christian boy he should have been. This lad has issues. All confused about salvation. “I, Luke Turner, can do ANYTHING I want,” he ponders, “short of blaspheming the Holy Spirit, and still go to Heaven when I die. If I want to shoot someone, I can. Stealing, done. Anything my heart desires.

Now I know what you are thinking, someone who does those things is obviously not a child of God. Well why not? Is it because someone who is not saved does not desire to sin? No. Is it because someone who is not saved does not consciously commit sin? No. Or is it because someone who’s life has been changed by Christ does sin but not to the magnitude of murder, rape, etc? I laugh at this one.

Look in your own life! You have consciously sinned many times and in some cases have actually wanted to sin; yet, you did not lose your salvation. And to say that some who is saved is capable of lying but it not capable of murder is preposterous. Last time I checked, all sins were equal in God’s eyes. Murder is on the same level as lying and rape is on the same level as speeding – you might not like it, but it is true. In fact the bible says if you even think about killing someone, it’s just the same as if you had done it.”

Poor little bastard! Imagine being in his head all day!

Poor little bastard! Imagine being in his head all day!

So, PlayLouder Singles Club October 2004…

Akira The Don and The Women: Amazing.

Tokyo Dragons: Boring.

The Beat Up: Dictionary Definition AWESOME.

That, it would appear, is what happens when you get locked ina studio with Kevin Sheilds for two years or whatever. I stood right by the speakers and got my ears shredded. They sounded like Nirvana covering Tom Waits.

The Women, with but three hours rehearsal or something (half an hour on that drinking Song), KICKED ASS. I’ve had lots of emails today enquiring as to their identities, and can reveal that those bearing stringed instruments were Jeremy, Jeremy and Wataru from Piranha Deathray. The other two were Birddogg and Andy from Bath.

Anyway, Sophie and Soraya took some photos, and you can cop them in the gigs section.

You ever hear about Skull And Bones? You know Hugh Hefner, John Kerry, and George W Bush are cousins? The “Cremation Of Care”? Bohemian Grove? Watch this, it’s pretty freakish and gross.

Like Sage says, Republocrat Democran, two party system. It’s true. But. Kerry won’t be banning abortions. There is still a difference.

Oh, and don’t forget about Bush’ Nazi grandfather. Or that poor Reuters photographer shot by the military after he found a mass grave.

A very good article about the Civil Contingencies Bill.

Lord Lucas talking about the Civil Contingencies Bill.

’Bin Laden’ by Immortal Technique and Mos Def (produced by Green Lantern) is fucking brilliant. Since Jada did ‘Why’ the doors have come off. That G Unit are doing a “Fuck Bush” tape this intelligent says it all. The tide turned.

Anyway. I am doing a gig tonight. It’s the PlayLouder Singles Club, and I’m playing with The Beat Up and Tokyo Dragons. Joining me will be Brddogg and four SPECIAL GUESTS. So you must come. It’s at The Barfly in Camden.

Oh dear Lord, these are ugly times, and we would do well not to forget. Blair is sending 650 “poor Limey suckers” off to their doom in order to disprove recent comments by John Kerry concerning this bogus “Coalition of The Willing” who’ve been slaughtering Iraqis like pigs for am awful long time now.

So.

If Bush gets back in, within a less than a year 30 states will ban abortion. Welcome back coathanger, little sister bouncing on her elder’s belly, life threatening backstreet butchery, mangles babies all over.

If I hear another person tell me there is no difference between the Republican and Democratic candidates, I may have to kill them.

In 1993, Bill Clinton lifted a ban on abortions in the army, (first imposed by Regan in ’88) which, crushingly, was reinstated two years later by Congress. As it is, the only exemptions from the ban come if the “servicewoman” in question can prove the pregnancy to be life threatening, or that she has been raped.

1,012 American servicewomen were raped in 2003.

Countless more are routinely coerced into sex with senior officers quite regularly.

I mean, what else would you expect them to do? Rape is what being a man is about.

Did you hear the one about Nixon’s “Vietnam Veterans For A Just Peace” trying to stomp John Kerry back in the 60s? How Nixon was positioning Vietnam Vet John O’Neill to head the thing? O’Neill being the crazed freak heading those Swiftboat Veterans For Truth. Oh yes. Ho ho ho. Nothing ever changes.

It is this sort of realization which leads many of us to opt out of any kind of struggle, debate, or even thought on the Matters. Why give a shit if the same evil swine will be pulling the same swine tricks to keep them and their swine rich pals in power? One of Kerry’s chief advisers is the side-swapped creator of the ingenious “War On Drugs”. He’s a Zionist. KRS-One says “Voting in a corrupt society adds more corruption,” reasoning that “America has to commit suicide if the world is to be a better place.”

Which could be true, to an extent, but I think America just needs to realize what it is, and has been doing for so long. Just like us. We invented that shit. We were the Grand Daddies of Imperial Evil!

In the eighties, a chocolate bar going under the name of “Marathon” changed its name to that of its US counterpart, “Snickers”. Talk to any Britisher about the eighties, and that will inevitably come into the conversation. People spaz out about that, to this very day, as if the event involved actual murder and only happened last week.

This is hugely significant, I now realize. That was a symbol. The world was not ours anymore.

For as long as anyone could remember, the United Kingdom, or, in actuality, England, had ruled the globe, had been running things. It was our culture that others adopted. And now, things were different, and how different they were, and were to become, was plain for all to see, in eight letters printed on a shiny piece pf plastic wrapped around some fucking chocolate.

And now the Guardian thinks it can help get Bush out by having its readers write patronizing letters to inhabitants of swing states. And Americans who live here write quite erroneous drivel about how Anti-American attitudes in this country are actually rooted in anti-Semitism. HAHAHAHA! I read Julie Burchill saying something similar last year, and didn’t take it very seriously, as she is naturally inclined to being an ass, but this Carol Gould person actually seems to believe the poisonous crap she writes. This whole notion that if you object to Israel’s treatment of the Palestinians (for that is the root of so much of this, pretend otherwise or not) then you are an ANTI SEMITE and your opinion is invalid and RACIST is about as foolish as notions get.

Right, I could go on for a while here, but I need to make songs.

Oh, check this - Bush on a proposed draft:
“My opponent seems to be willing to say almost anything he thinks will benefit him politically. After standing on the stage, after the debates, I made it very plain we will not have an all-volunteer army.”

Ho ho ho.

I bought Hip-Hop Connection to read on the train home today, despite having a perfectly good book to read. It has Dizzee Rascal on the front (the excellent interview reveals Dizzee shares my theory about grime and crunk), which I obviously applaud, but I can think of a few so called “heads” that will be spitting blood. Ho ho. Anyway, the thing I found initially confusing, as the Major Playaz section at the front told me that “Khia debut ‘My Neck My Back’ is shaking up dancefloors both sides of the Atlantic”. The strange statement is even illustrated with a page–sized picture of the dear lady, once proposed to by Elliot “Yellow Nigga” Wilson in one of his incredible editorials. Have I gone mad? Didn’t that come out, like two years ago?

Anyway, my little belly swooned when I flipped to page 40 and saw ME! It is a mainly accurate piece, incredibly enough. It’s interesting seeing what people pick up on from a half hour conversation. Chris De Burgh gets the main quote. Whup! Yet somehow they got the impression I found “my niche in hip-hop long before the chances… of becoming a Brit Pop disciple or indie kid managed to kick in”. Not true! I was well into indie! And Britpop! (Most of ‘Nuisance’ remains glorious!) AND HIP-HOP! Shoot me in the face! We can do it all! We are LIVING IN THE FUTURE!

As made evident on the new Virgin train I got from Birmingham. All the doors are touch button-open up, and there are weird green neon lights everywhere. They have done away with most of the bogs too, presumably to stop so many people hiding in them. The journey was very speedy also, and it only cost thirty quid return.

I was in Redditch yesterday. Well, I was in Birmingham first. It has a new Bull Ring, in case you’d not heard. The old Bull Ring was a foul stink hole littered with malnourished teenagers and pensioners drinking stale tea from yellowed plastic cups, carpeted with fag butts, air thick as butter… the place stank of piss and only seemed to sell plastic buckets and toilet paper. (But it did have a dear little comic shop from which I once purchased ten pounds worth of Marvel UK first issues that took me about an hour to read and nearly destroyed my love of the medium forever.)

Now it is some kind of modern American super mall, all glittering and air conditioned and blue and full of nice modern shops and touch screen computer terminals directing you to the comic shop. Or not, as the comic shop is gone. But there is a Bear Factory, news of which seemed to disturb Sophie rather.

Anyway. I was in Redditch, because my Nan is eighty, and my uncle Maurice and Auntie Sheila are the only people in our family with a big enough house, so we came from all over the country to congratulate her on her huge acquired wisdom. I have not been to my uncle Maurice and auntie Sheila’s new house before. I lived in their old one for a little while, and when we were all small boys we stayed there often. It was always heated, and you didn’t have to sleep with water bottles and socks in the winter.

But their new house is lovely, and somehow even shares the same smell as the old one. You know how all homes have their own smells. I couldn’t describe theirs. At a push I would say maybe Turkish Delight and wine and clean sheets, but really it smells of warmth. Maurice has created an awesome uphill garden out back full of water and things. And you can see all of Redditch from the front. Well, a lot of it. There is a lot more than I remembered. Orange sky. We were driving through it, and my belly did summersaults, reacting quite violently to the images beamed from my eyeballs to my brainstem, memories of all the sad things that happened. There was the road where Emma fell to her knees sobbing and I walked away. There’s the tunnel me and Pat did speed and drank fucking cider in. There’s where I was and Jimmy and Potter and Pigsy and the police. Blah blah blah.

I hadn’t been to Redditch since the last millennium, I realised, and it is intensely gladdening how things change. There was a time I couldn’t look dear uncle Maurice in the eyeballs, and now I can give him a big hug and hear about his adventures in Yellowstone Park and it’s wicked. There is nothing worse than seeing real, hardened disappointment in the eyes of those you love. Back in the day I was a terrible raging mess with warped priorities and no sense of perspective or, like, universal reverberation. Now I have a vague understanding of karma and I make the songs that make the whole world sing.

Ho ho. Oh, but I do. And seeing pride in the eyes of those you love is the exact opposite of that horrid Other, that sinks your belly and fills you with creeping dread and a vast unquenchable sadness. Now my heart is full.

It felt so then, anyway. I like being around all my brothers and my auntie and uncles and Nan and Mam and her Keef. I didn’t for a while, perhaps because I was Bad and I knew they knew, and now I don’t feel I have that much to be ashamed of. (Mind you, it is funny to consider what some of them think of narcissistic drivel like ‘John The Baptist’ or that one I wrote about shooting presidents and what have you).

I made my Nan a song by rapping over a Dolly Parton loop, because she is 80. I so can’t wait until I am 80. I will understand so many things!

This is awesome - Handsome Boy Modeling School featuring RZA, AG, and the Mars Volta. Real audio file from artofrhyme.com

And this is even more awesome. It’s off the next Sage Francis LP, and he’s MP3d it because it is political and there is an election happening soon, had you not heard.

Gosh, I have been busy. Sorry about the lack of communication. Yesterday I was wondering if I’d forgotten how to make songs, then I wrote the best one EVER, then another three. That main one in particular though, sounds like Phil Oakey fronting The Sisters. Or something.

Then today I did two photoshoots and an interview, before returning to the noises. The first photoshoot was with an incredibly interesting man called Steve, who appeared to have stepped directly out of some grainy video cassette or other, possibly Highlander, or Rumblefish. He was off to do Lydia Lunch afterwards. Lydia Lunch is awesome.

The second photographer was a nice chap called Mark, who incidentally took the above shot the other day in the Slaughtered Lamb, and was taking photos for his book about “New Dandies”.

Oh, have you seen this? Doesn’t that look awesome?

I am all midied up by the way. My replacement M Audio Midisport 22 is not, sadly, lime green, but it does work at least.