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.



A New Oven

Did I mention that our oven packed in about a month ago? Because it did, and we have been eating off the stove ever since. This has meant no pizza, and no pie, and a lot of pasta and noodles and chili and lightly dry-fried bagels. I had gotten pretty used to it by the end, but now we have a brand new oven and I wonder how long it will take to fill with crumbs and blackness. I must have a handheld Dirt Devil, and soon. I miss that thing. My life is all the lesser without it. The oven is being installed by my landlord and some muscular hired help. They are currently talking about contraception. I wish they would get on with it so I could have my second shower of the day and practice my raps before this afternoon's rehearsal. That stuff is important. Ask the Wu - or rather, don't ask the Wu, as they obviously partook not one single rehearsal for their Mef-less shambles at Brixton Academy the other night. One couldn't really blame them for the sound, as the sound in Brixton Academy is always a treacle thick bottom heavy sludge through which one must wade in order to find a single audible line... but they didn't help matters, with their slurred/barked delivery and refusal to engage with each other or the crowd, for the most part. The only two with any chemistry were - predictably - Rae and Ghost, who hung out together and for the most part actually looked each other in the eye once or twice. For the rest it was all seething resentment and petty one-upmanship. RZA's best rap? U God shouts all over it. U God's moment to shine? Cut the song off.

If we were to be in the mood for grumpery we might also mention stink of testosterone from the 90% male audience, and the incessant cries of "who remembers real hip-hop" from the support DJ, but we are in no such mood as it goes, and anyway, the Royal We witnessed the flipping WU, and no amount of shonky sound and onstage bickery can stand in the way of that simple, glorious, unfuckwithable FACT. So thank you Set Dressing Tim for taking me, and thank you THE WU for all the joy you have bestowed upon me over the years.


So, I got some (ha!) sleep, and I listened to the noises Birddogg was making up here while I was down in New York, doing whatever it was I was doing in New York. Like, there's some ill stuff. But one in particular is just tremendous. it is mighty. It fills my heart. And prefectly fits so many of the raps I was writing in New York, tempom flow, everything. So, what I've done, is draw various raps, and bits of raps, together, to create this New York song that's been brewing all the time I've been here. It is best I get it out now, before I FORGET. Annoyingly, the necassary component is missing. So piss.

Bad: All the stuff I bought last week - food, drink, socks, weed - is gone. Mostly. I got a lot of Ritz crackers, peanut butter and macaroni. Good: There's a Death's Head Moth on my window. (See right) Bad: There is animal shit by my window. Good: The air outside is fresh and envigorating. Bad: The air in the top level of the house, in which I am supposed to be dwelling, is thick with the stink of animal and of animal excrement.

I went to turn on the sauna earlier, and nearly trod in cat shit. Or dog shit. It could be both. Whatever. It's like, wow, sauna! Oh, catshit. Wow! Oh. Wow! Oh. Etc. So, I wanted to go into town and get a job today, to pay for my ticket back to New York, but waited about for people to come with me rather than just doing it, and the end result is it's super late now, too late to get a job anywhere, and everyone's going into town to go out, save me, who must stay at home cos he has no ID (this is a worry), and it's too far to chance not being allowed in anywhere.

A ha!

So I should write more now. I wrote a bunch earlier. Phil is worrying that Amy has forotten his ass, as she went in her tiny car to take Cecelia and James over an hour ago. But she hasn't forgotten him. It's just miles from ShanGayKen to Woodstoock! A HA!

I just asked Spiky if he has a message for the world. He said, "spitroast!" So there you go.


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.