Ey La Martin Carr @ The Social
I made a rare trip into town last night to see Ey La Martin Carr. People that know me will testify that I stay stuck indoors like hinges (geddit?!), but Ey La hardly ever plays and I am a big fan of his new songs (apart from one of them, which sounds like Th’ Bee-Tulllllz).
Anyway, it was OK. I got hassled by police and their dogs at Highbury tune station, not that I had anything on me. Most times I really, really hate police. Sorry if you’re a police. Maybe you’re a nice police. All the police I ever come across look at me like I am scum. They give me and my peoples no respect, and seem to actively enjoy bullying people and flexing their power, which we gave them. Man, they put me in a rotten mood most times, swear down.
I don’t hang onto rotten moods though. Plus I had my book on me (I’m back into the third act of Illuminatus!, word up Karl, I owe you a email I know!), and I am enjoying that shit deeply. Rah though, if it didn’t go and fuck it down on my head in an entirely biblical fashion as soon as I got out of the tunnels. Fuck this Summer almost as hard as last summer. What baffled me was where the hell everyone got their brellas from. It was sunny when I left the house, in a vest and tracksuit, then I surface at Oxford Circus amidst a fuckin’ monsoon, and everyone’s all brolleyed up. I guess people that, like, leave the house daily are in tune with this sort of shit. Not me.
Anyway. I linked with hotpants and we got down the Social in time to catch Martin Carr La Superstar and Sweary Preggers Mary’s set.Which was grayte, especially the song Mary sings on her own about how shit it is of Martin to bring her “all this rain” (church!) and Running, which is my favourite song at the moment. Check a stream of it out right now, you lucky monkey, I’m sure Martin won’t mind. Although he is kind of old, and old people don’t always get this inernet malarky, do they? Shit, who am I kidding? I’m fuckin’ old. Somebody drag me out back and shoot me.
Stream: Martin Carr - Running
Another nice thing about the night was seeing the homie Huw Stephens. Word to Huw Stephens! Weirdly, the headline act, who were called Cats In Paris and were pretty dope, especially when they were focusing on the violin, and whose bassist was gloriously stoned, anyway, their singer looks just like Huw Stephens, but not as handsome obviously, so there you fuckin’ go.
Lorry was out too. Usually its nice to see Lorry, but this time he was the bearer of bad news. This American TV show that was supposed to be using two of my songs and thus paying my rent and my sibling-debts got cancelled. SO LAME! I am going to have to get a job cleaning chimneys now or something.
Still. We had a nice pint afterwards. Mary and Hotpants talked about the Batman film, and me and Martin talked about the Batman comic. Martin knows his Batman. Martin knows Batmite, for fuck’s sake! Do you know Batmite? Saying that, Martin hadn’t read any of Grant Morrison’s recent run (check the blobblog for a look at the next ish), which is deliriously awesome, so he loses points there.
Oh, WEAK. I just burnt my fuckin’ muffins.
