Netflix Cylon Face

OMFG its my face as seen by the crappy front facing camera on my One X. GOOD BLOGGING SIR DON!

Why thank you.

So, I did a pretty random Doncast on Saturday, without much warning. It was fun, actually. I played unreleased music, including a song me and Envy recorded that very afternoon. Did you catch it? Was it fun? Would you like more?

If I have time I hope to do one on my next cross water jaunt in a week and a half. I wonder how any episodes of Battlestar Galactica I'll have watched by then. Since hacking myself a US Netflix line up a few weeks back I've merked my way through 2 seasons. It is some pretty amazing and harcore shit. Synchronistically as ever, it appears to be riffing on astrotheology, something I'd been investigating recently. Anyway, no spoilers please. And fuck Pegasus. Amen.

PS - if you're wondering how to get US Netflix outside of the US, and you haven't worked out how to ask Google, here's a video explaining the process for those that access Netflix via a console (like me, who has it connected to a projector like a boss). It's super easy, just go into the settings and change the DNS codes. These are working well at the moment:



If you use a laptop, a pretty easy way of doing it is to use something like Tunnelbear, which one simply installs, then tells what country one wishes to appear to be browsing from. That thing is also super useful for being able to watch American web based MTV shit like Riff Raff at the VMAs, and The Daily Show.

You're welcome!


PPS - Yes, I know all the text on the site is in italics right now. I haven't worked out how to stop it as of yet...

PPPS - if you missed it in the BlobBlog, I thoroughly recommend the new Lil B record. It sounds like The Lemonheads, which is amazing.


The Tour The Tour Day Fifteen: Liverpool

_ Bob Dylan is seventy.


My notes from last night are funny. They read,

“escaijg the light, fleeing th dy atv3 am, we culd see the true light, and we fled.\

so mich fin left behinf\

wheres the pillows?

Ust stole that shit out the aundry cubboards

We got the porno room


I felt like crap. Happy crap, but crap. Jack felt worse than crap.

On the way to Liverpool we listened to rap records and stopped off on the hard shoulder so Jack could puke his guts up.

“Uuurgh,” said Jack.


I slept for a good 50 miles. Then I woke up and wrote some blogs on my laptop, and battled for internet with my Dongle. We listened to the complete works of Ghostface Killah, then Nas, before taking a detour through peak-period Eminem, when he was going off on one at Everlast and suchlike. I was pleasantly surprised to discover I still know all the words to that one about how Eminem wished Everlast’s heart attack had been fatal.

My favourite Ghostface album is Bulletproof Wallets. My favourite Nas album that isn’t Illmatic is God’s Son. Many years ago I wrote a song called Last Real Wigga Alive based on a track from that. Shit was legendary. It was around the time I did Comic Shop. Ask Wade about that. He still talks about it. I might have to dig that stuff out one day. It is gloriously naïve.

Jack looked like he was made of Volcanic Ash Cloud by the time we got to the Liverpool Travelodge. We made him some orange vitamin C drink and left him to rest in the double bed with a towel on his head while we went off to set up the merch table and soundcheck at the appropriately named Mojo venue.


What looked like a lickle pub from the outside turned out to be some kind of Tardis on entry. A Tardis full of ill posters of Debbie Harry and The Stooges with a whole wall covered in Elvis prints. In the dressing room there were loads of little vegan cupcakes these safe clarts Richard and George who’d come to three previous shows on the tour had made for us all. They had little MC Lars and Weerd Science and MC Chris and Akira The Don flags in them. They’d even made a special one for Jack Nimble with the Weed Song art on it because he said that was his favourite song.


We were blessed with another safe soundman who was in fact so safe that he drove round his mate’s house to borrow a mixer for us to use, as we’d never fully recovered from the one that went to Manchester and the one that blew up in Leicester. It was a very nice mixer as well.


We set up an excellent merch table next to MC Kal’s, with a good view of the stage, and I soundchecked alone. It sounded good. I hoped Jack  would turn up. I had this back up plan that involved getting Ryu or Lars to DJ without asking them first by putting them on the spot at the start of the gig from the stage. I did something similar once in Camden with a 13 year old boy. He’d never DJed before and it was pretty ace. I figured we’d get away with it, and it would be fun. But I hoped Jack felt up to it. I wanted to do a really great show, not just fluke a fun one.

“Uuuuurgh,” came a voice from behind me.

Jack had showed up!

He was not well. He looked like The Goon. But he was HERE. And that was awesome.

Backstage Science was having a poo in the toilet that bore the immortal sign: “If you’re having a poo, please use the air freshener.” Science was rapping to himself. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a man rap while he pooed before.

My legs and shoulders were starting to ache. My throat was sore. I feared I was getting Jack’s disease. I drink three bottles of water and ate three oranges in half an hour.

Then we played our mighty rap show.


Jack looked like he was about to collapse for most of it, but he did not. I was on my climbing thing.  My standing on speakers thing. It was a joyful thing. Some hench young cat called Will had bravely shown up in a Thanks For All The AIDS shirt so we got him on stage for the ANTHEM and he was awesome. He admitted later his legs were shaking, but you’d never have noticed. He was a G.


It was a great show. I wanted it to be great, because there were lots of hardcore ATD cats in the house, who I knew from the internet, and was meeting in so-called real life for the first time. Like Cog, and Linden. Some of you might know her daughter’s poetry from the Doncast. She gave me a Charles Bukowski book I don’t have. So awesome.

They don’t sell falafel in Liverpool, so I ate more oranges. Tim offered me an alcoholic beverage, then thought better of it, and retuned ten minuets later with boiling hot honey and lemon water for Jack and I. Tim is a superhero. He then ran off to incite another moshpit, which he’s taken to doing every night. He runs to the front, jumps on people’s heads, then flees, leaving a Mighty Mosh Pit in his merry wake. It is a good skill.

“Give it up for history, yo,” said MC Lars, happily. Or maybe he said it the previous night. I can’t remember, but it struck me and Jack as an ill thing to say during a show. Lars is a funny dude. He says, “I’m having a WHALE of a time,” before he plays Ahab. JTL does the “badoom-CHA” on the drums. Lars beams. The worse his jokes are, the happier he looks.

Merch don MC Kal joined Lars and Science onstage for an insanely animated run through Download This Song. When he started doing it earlier in the tour he was shy, reserved, and nervous. Now he runs around that piece like flipping Bono or some shit. He climbs speaker stacks and jumps off and does a mental chicken dance. He stagedived headfirst at the end and nearly  knocked a stack of glasses off the bar. “MC Kal!” roared Science, “the Jumping Bean!”

For that is his name.

I joined them for White Kids Aren’t Hyphy/Falling Apart, like we do every night, and it went off, like it does every night. “JUMP! JUMP! JUMP!” I shouted, whilst setting an excellent example as to how to achieve the commanded action.


MC Chris lead the audience in a singalong of Hey Jude for his girl. It was beautiful. MC Chris had one of those nights where most of the crowd knew his stuff, and a great deal of them were queuing up to buy his ceedees and have their photos taken. Some of them were very needy, and demanded kisses. Chris does not give kisses. He signed one woman’s ceedess, had a photo taken with her, but her final demand for kisses was met with stern “No” and an abut heel spin and exist stage left. The woman took her disappointment out on MC Kal, who dealt with it bravely, if wearily, then stuck her tongue down some dude by the soundbooth’s face and fell over. Ah, the fun we have at the merch booth. I was asked to sign one young lady’s face. I wrote AKIRA THE DON APPROVES THIS FACE on it. She had a great face! And so did her boyfriend.


Jack was vibing to Science at the bar, empty honeywater glass in front of him. He didn’t look the colour of Glasgow skies or old socks anymore. “I feel OK you know fam!” he remarked, cheerily. “Maybe it’s the adrenalin.”


Lars was faded, I realized pretty early. Lars is great faded. He gets super-joyful. He spent the whole of our set dancing around at the front with a great big beatific grin on his cheeky chops, which he was still wearing when we packed up at the end. “Who’s the best looking on this tour?” He demanded in the dressing room. “Who has the best beard? Who has the best clothes? Akira does. That cheeky bloke.”

He wandered off cackling into the night, Cheshire cat smiles till spread across his cheeks, pearly whites flashing in the moonlight, a lick of chest hair curling below his adam’s apple. I love Lars. I think he is part werewolf.



Unfuturistic Shit VS The True Fleshface Of The Uppercase G

Suddenly I'm in Westminster. Union Jacks and cops everywhere. I used to have a recurring nightmare that looked just like this. Only in my nightmare, the sky is the colour of a fresh wound, and the pavement cracks open like a scab. The cops lift their visors and they have no eyes in their skulls, just holes,  and I am plunged into the heaving acid bowels of the earth.

In so called real life, on April 27 2011 AD, the sun blasts like a lazer through a mile of lethal pollution to illuminate a thousand tourists filming a thousand union jacks that hang still in the thick air like a thousand giant tongues. Teenage girls dance in slow motion for the cameras in Beatles T-shirts and backpacks with red and blue targets sewn on to them. Cops stare straight ahead, flexing guns that look like Arnold Schwarzenegger used them on the set of Predator. They don't look real. I think, well, they're not, are they? Gently down the stream.

Yesterday I heard a spokeswoman for the London Metropolitan Police Force making unveiled threats of extreme violence against anyone considering doing anything other than prostrating themselves at the feet of two pink flesh sacks in central London this coming Friday. This coming Friday, in Central London, if you are not prostrating yourself at the feet of two pink fleshsacks, the goons have been encouraged to "Shoot On Sight". The woman demanded that people do their civic duty and report anyone looking suspicious, talking negatively of the pink fleshsacks, or bearing inappropriate placards.

"This is a day of celebration," she said.

(I'd be bloody celebrating if everybody was legally obliged to pay for MY wedding. My beautiful fiancée had her little heart set on a room in the Union Chapel, until they told us how much it was going to cost.)

Anyway, I for one appreciate the Police's honesty. It is good that they take the time to remind us who they actually work for (Rich People) and what their job is (protecting rich people from us). From the front pages I've seen, it appears the Press are keen to remind us who they work for (Rich People) and what their job is too (Relay The Rich Person Agenda, Make You Feel Inferior), and while I haven't seen a television screen for a while, I can bet they're doing the same thing.

Good on 'em. I, meanwhile, am fully aware of my role, and that is being my goddamn ill-ass self, and I solemnly promise to do that until I fall downa scab hole into the centre of the goddamned earth.

I am so serious about this, in fact, that I have shaved all the hair off of my face for the first time since 2003.


Serious. Last time that happened me and Wade both did it at the same time, then spent about 7 minutes staring at ourselves forlornly in the mirror wailing, "we look like CHINLESS DWARVES!"

After our carefree, happy childhoods had died with the horrorful onset of premature adolescence at around 7 or 8 years old, so too had our prepubescent self confidence and we had been forced, with the aid of our beards, to start again, to carve ourselves anew in the image of our gods.

So we resolved never to shave that close again again, lest the world discover our true nature, and we hid, handsomely, behind our follicular miracles.

Seven years have passed since that day, brothers and sisters, seven years I have hidden my true flesh-face beneath a mask of lovely hair, and just as all my cells have regenerated themselves, so too has my confidence in my imperfect perfection as a human fleshsack with some magic in it. I have wandered in the desert and I have walked the earth, and I have found it to not give a shit about the strength of chins.


Forsooth! I am here today to tell you that while I definitely prefer the look of myself resplendent in the beard my lower-case god gave me to keep myself cosy and safe in, I am not afraid to show you that I have a weak-ass chin beneath it all! For that is But Material, and But Material is some unfuturistic shit! We are living in the future now! We are in the process of Transcending!


Hopefully it grows back by Friday, I don't want the police to shoot me and my picture end up in the paper looking like this.


I'm going to ignore all that silly nonsense and carry on with my great works like a goddamn G!

How about you?

Anyway. I must get back to work. I hope you're having a lovely day.


PS - the picture up top was drawn on the spot at the famous Garage show we did a few weeks back by Oliver Hull.

PPS - I had that song up there on repeat for most of the writing of this post. It is by Martin Carr's Black Serpent Choir and it is amazing.

Existential Hitman From The Future

Man, that's been a long time coming.


IN YOUR FACE, cartoon Akira The Don!

Where we go from here is anyone's guess. Will there be revenge? Weapons? Wrasslin'?

I gotta say, having a schedule is a rewarding thing. Who'd a thunk I could get a comic strip out three days in a row and do a Doncast and do crazy awesome stuff for ATD20?

Speaking of which, those of you who tuned in earlier for the first live Doncast heard some of the stuff I've ben working on for next Friday's magnum opus. SHIT IS GONNA SLAY! I'm really looking forward to next Wednesday now too. Now I've got the mike level sorted. And SAM's been throwing up loads of awesome music I can't wait to play for you.

Rah though, I have been having the best time. I've been letting the aforementioned SAM Broadcaster play random songs off of my harddrive, something I haven't done for years. For the longest time, I've been on podcasts and albums. I forgot the joy of My Harddrive On Random. OH WHAT JOY! Sean Price! GLC! Neil Diamond! Howard Jones! Meatloaf! Living Colour! Babybird! Val Doonican! Roxy Music! MC5! Tori Amos! Etc! Etc! ETC!

Woah! That's Why I Go To Extremes just came on!

I love this song!

I am going to have to up it for you. It is so awesome.

*does the thing

Right, here you go!



OK, back to work. I got a website to fix.Hit me with any ideas you have for next week's Doncast in the comments.


ATD12: RAH! The Mixtape

OH GOD MY EYEBALL IS BLEEDING! Rah though, the sun is streaming in all over my ass, I've been up all night again, this shit bangs like bonfire night, and you are all gonna love me even more than you already did. Look at the tracklisting! Whaddya mean, I done sampled Heart, Elastica, Blur and Serge Gainsbourgh this time? Whaddya mean, I got Why Lout? in, and I got Dego Brown's first rap? Whaddya mena, this is the SHIT? The future is ours! Are you MAD?! Tracklisting: Akira The Don ft Why Lout? - BOOM! (Smash Stuff) Chamillionaire - Riding Dirty More Fire Crew - Oi Prince - Lolita Ghostface - Be Easy Green Lantern ft DPZ, Immortal Technique & Saigon - Impeach The President Riz - Post 911 Blues Akira The Don - Charlie Akira The Don ft Narstie - Gitmo! Akira The Don ft Big Pun & Fat Joe - I Heart Twins Untitled Actuallity Adam Green - No Legs Fireworks - Hold It Down Narstie - Bak Anth Latue - Who's Next Mobb Deep ft 50 Cent - Pearly Gates Akira The Don ft Marv The Marsh - Oobie Doo ** Cam'ron - D Rugs Bloc Party - Positive Tension (Statik Remix Feat. Flirta D) The Streets ft Proffesor Green - When You Wasn't Famous Remix Leo - Love Custard Akira The Don ft J-Love & Serge Gansbourgh - Bless *** Swine ft Akira The Don - Melancholy Trolley Dolly Tricky - Black Steel Piranha Deathray - Bones

* - extra guitar by Son Of King Rebel ** - co-produced by Birddogg *** - samples courtesy of Evil Stretch Simon

Cover photos by Soraya

Bootlegs & Remixes

Akira The Don - Bootlegs & RemixesWhite Label Released: DJ only promo, 2005 Tracklisting: Side A

Liverpool Liverpool (Radioactive Man's Kings Of Europe Remix) Clones (Danny Saber Remix) Clones (Whitey's Scott Free Remix) Clones (Mothboy Remix)

Side B Diamonds, Mines ft Narstie, Solo & Bashy Dreams - ft Narstie & Swiss Where We're From - ft Narstie & Bashy Sucking On A Cock - ft Face The Illustrated ft Mothboy & Cibelle


So, there were a bunch of updates and pictures and things, and they got wiped! Oh, the tragedy. So, a recap. On my last day on Rivington Street I saw a white thug in an open-top Hummer drive by blasting out 'I Want The One I Can't Have' and nodding along with a serious expression about his face.

Then we went.

Wade and I ended up on the coach, as there was no room in the van, or car. We got there early, and checked out the scene. The scene is small.

We don't actually live in Woodstock. We live in Shandaken, outside. Well, just outside. Half way up a mountain, hidden away by forest, amongst bears and chipmunks and what have you. In a big old dusty house full of weird porn and broken stuff, with brown water and giant ants. Like, there's a jacuzzi, but it doesn't seem to work. There is the biggest TV you've ever seen, but it's got a big black tear across the front and doesn't tune properly. It's a two hour walk to the nearest shop, whihc is a petrol station, and does a good line in biscuits. The local girl's got a lot of guns.

It is very lovely to look at up in Shandaken. Mountains covered in trees, mainly. Streams. Clouds so low you can jump up and punch them.

I miss Wade, who is back in London sorting out affairs. All my stuff is in boxes.


So I fell alseep on the sofa after 5, and was awakened gently by Super Phil at 6:20, and it transpired Bird left my bag with my passport in it at the venue last night. But Bird's got me another ID card, so we're outside waiting for Jeff to pick us up at 6:30. And at midday we're in LA, and soon after that we're in Interscope's offices,and I'm filling a bag with Nirvana, Guns N Roses, Gilbert And Sullivan, Dre, Peter Gabriel, Police and other such back catalogue. Jimmy Iovine has a signed letter from Tupac and a video console that won't switch on. And loads of ideas. A balcony. A lush view. LA is lush to look at, from these places of advantage. Like, later we visit Jeff and Trent's, and there's this fucking alien cat that loves me, and an incredible, incredible view, of this desolate wilderness spattered with money.

It was a lovely day.

But in the nighttime it is hard not to see that LA is awash with cunts. It is a sad and massive amount of cunts, and I am not sure whether it is sad because this is what the world did to them, or because this is what they do to the world, or because they are cunts, and you can see their faces rotting right in front of your eyes.