rain

The Second Golden Age Of The Internet

Yesterday the skies opened up over London like a slashed belly and obnoxiously ushered in Autumn, as if we were under any illusions what time it was. I happened to be out of Don Studios on a bicycle at the time (I say "a" and not "my" as mine got a puncture so I rode my wife's, which is half the weight and has goddamn suspension), visiting my little brother Zef on Brick Lane, where he'd been for a job interview. Zef, after years of happy playtime at University in Falmouth, is finally being forced into the so-called Real World, where he must support his Italo Disco-loving ass with Real Work.

Luckily, his cheeky Ceefax recollecting Zeefax CV went mini-viral the other week, so he's not short of offers from big London design companies that want to mine his talents and take all his ideas for their own, in exchange for monthly transfers of digital of currency, which the young man will swiftly pass on to landlords and supermarkets and pubs.

Zef and I met in the Owl and The Pussycat, which, a decade ago, was my local. I was an editor at PlayLouder.com (R.I.P.), Europe's second biggest music website at the time, and earning 20p a word to write eight thousand world long articles about the ODB's criminal history and suchlike. It was the golden age of the internet, when seemingly anyone with a modem and a basic grasp of HTML could convince rich fools to write them crisp, rectangular checks with many zeroes on them, which would swiftly be banked and passed on to excitable and aspirational young fiends like myself. They said we were the New Rockstars, and we ran amok on Brick Lane with bottles of whiskey and liquid acid, causing terrible havoc and getting in everybody's faces with little cassette recorders all in the name of "content".

Now they tell me the only people making money out of the internet are in advertising and marketing, and young graphic designers like my little brother Zef are the New Rockstars, but I'm doing fine thank you (why not buy yourself a Living In The Future Hat or a Swag Bag?), and am proud of my little brother, who started his journey with me on the Drinking Song video early in the last decade, and whose future looks brighter than the light at the end of the tunnel, which is definitely sunshine and certainly not a train, no matter wat you doom mongers say.

2012 is about a consciousness shift and an evolution of humanity, not the end of the world. That and the staged alien invasion at the Olympic Games, obviously. It will usher in The Second Golden Age Of The Internet, signalling the death of web 2.0 homogeny, and a new era of creativity. There has not been a genuinely distinct new musical genre since hip-hop (can you think of one?). Since the birth of the internet culture has merely reprocessed, regurgitated, rehashed and remixed all the culture that came before. There are many reasons for this, and Zef and I have both been as guilty of this as anyone, but all this is going to change. New forms are on the horizon. I can't wait.

"You'd have to a crazy absynth swigging weirdo to create something genuinely new," lamented Zef over a pint yesterday. "Maybe we need new drugs. Has anyone ever made anything good on Meth?"

"Nope", I said. "Drugs have been having the same problems as culture. They're all just increasingly chemical, poisonous and derivative takes on existing drugs. There hasn't been a genuinely new drug since ecstasy."

"I wanna work for Jedward," said Zef. "If there's anything to take from this meeting its that I love Jedward. I think that we can all learn something from Jedward."

Indeed.

In other news, Pixel was round last night. We recorded some Manga Music for The Manga Mixtape. It's an amazing, vast, epic record, and instantly one of my favorites. I played Pixel some of the songs. He was impressed.

"Manga Muzic on the way from @akirathedon real soon," he tweeted. "From what I've heard, shit in bananas. #sheesh"

I am assuming he meant to say "is". Ether that or the music is so good he advises we all shit in some bananas. I've heard worse ideas, if I'm honest.

 

 

 

BEHOLD: The Babydoll Trailer!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DqVnYcRGkeg Brothers and sisters! I am back from a delightful weekend in a caravan in rain-soaked South Wales with my father and our women, in which he cheated at boules, attempted to cheat at Rummy, and was beaten 5 times in a row by MY WIFE... yes, I am BACK, and I am EXCITED because the BABYDOLL VIDEO is nearly upon us, and I can now share with you this EXCITING TRAILER!

Pyeeeeewm!

That's it up top!

Yes!

The GLORIOUS MUSIC VIDEO from AKIRA THE DON (Me!) and AARON SHRIMPTON (the award winning genius behind such video smashes as Scroobius Pip's Introdiction!) will be yours to watch again and again and again from MIDNIGHT, SUNDAY SEPTEMBER 11th, 2011.

If you haven't (and shame on you if that is the case) get the song and get ready for greatness!

iTunes: http://bit.ly/oxf5zb Don Shop: http://bit.ly/qyztrx

Babydoll is taken from the album of the year

The Life Equation

iTunes: http://bit.ly/mSdbW1 Don Shop: http://bit.ly/kkgJjH

Now have a picture of my old man throwing a whistling foam bowling pin at me.

YOU'RE WELCOME!

The Tour The Tour Day Thirteen: Glasgow, The Gods Are Angry

The gods were angry today. One of those Icelandic volcanoes was shitting out a great big fuck off ash cloud all over the next geographical stop on our mighty tour, and as we bombed up the motorway to Glasgow a gale so mighty was blowing that it had picked up a caravan and dropped it over the other side of the road. Rain slashed at the windscreen like Kruger hands.  Shit was ominous out there. Power lines were out. Planes were grounded.

It took us all day to drive to Glasgow through the gods’ tantrum, so we didn’t get time to do any sightseeing.  We drive around a wet town center looking for the venue, loaded in, soundchecked, and at 7:15 we were rushed onstage to do our thing in front of the handful of people that had braved the apocalyptic madness going on outside. And the thing we did. It was pretty weird up there – the room was 7 times as wide as it was long, and the nature of the lights meant one couldn’t actually see anything out there in audience-land, and there was a weird little rail separating the stage and the floor. But we did our thing. We are pros. We sparked our energy off a safe longhair called Colin who came and stood at the front, and built from there. That’s all you need when you’re a psychic vampire.

Ha. Psychic vampire. That would be true if we kept all the energy for ourselves. But we do not. We give it all back, along with our own. We are generous. You’re welcome.

I was kind of bummed by the end of the night though, for the first time of the tour. Mainly because we didn’t do very well on the merch. The problem with tying up commerce with art is you start judging your art’s worth by how much cash it generates, and I fell into that trap tonight, and felt rather worthless. Which was dumb, as the people that were there enjoyed it and lots of them came over and got me to write on things and take pictures with them. But at the end of the night we were way under the amount we need to do daily to break even, so I was bummed. I grumped about in the rain outside like an asshole and didn’t help pack the van, which I’m usually very enthusiastic about. Tim tried to cheer me up with a battered Mars Bar. It was pretty good.

Tim dropped Jack and I off at our Travelodge, and swept off into the night to his sister Hells’ place. She’d suffered a tragic harddrive death that day. The thing had a vast percentage of her uni coursework on it. The gods’ rage knew no bounds on that dark day.

The Travelodge was packed with refugees. But what a Travelodge it was! IT DIDN’T LOOK EXACTLY THE SAME AS ALL THE OTHERS! We couldn’t believe it. The bathroom had colours other than white in it. The bed had handsome wooden headboard. There was a wood framed mirror on the wall. There was a Rudyard Kipling poem on the wall. Little thing like that can change your whole outlook on life. Suddenly I felt great. We watched bit of Sky News to make a change from Russia Today (which is just like Brass Eye, possibly even sillier), smoked a spliff and I stayed up till 2:30 working.

Meanwhile, the Americans drove around Perth looking for new lodgings. The Gods had ripped the roof off of their Travelodge. Those buggers were incensed.

 

The Wheels Of Doom.... Um, Change. Hope. Whatever.

Ola, my friends. I write to you via telephone from the back of a grimy ole train headed to London Victoria, where I shall rendezvous with my fine female companion and attend an election party. I imagine everybody there will be whooping it up in support of The Obama Man, and it will be hard for me to keep such soul destroying observations as "he will still nuke Iran" to myself. Nobody wants to hear this stuff - not even me. I want to believe everything will be glorious tomorrow, but I am a student of history, and there wont no Superman be saving anybodies Metropolis any time soon. The wheels of doom will keep rolling. Shit, even children too young to remember Nevermind coming out know what happened after Tony Blair was crowned our glorious saviour.

My woman, along with everyone else I spoke today, is confident of a democratic victory for The Democrats. But only a fool would count that vengefull Stingray extra McPain out at this juncture. Even a blind pig finds an acorn once in a while... And The Swine do own the paper-trail-free digital voting machines, after all. And all they have to do is blame the disparity between the exit polls and the election results on racist white folks, then declare marshal law when the peacenicks, the beatniks, the freaks and darkies begin to riot. It'll be just like the arse end of the sixties all over again.

Christ! Did I just write that? What a rotten trip to lay on a hopeful people, now, of all times.

Anyway. My American friends: how are you feeling right now? Did you vote? And for who? Was it easy? Was it hard? Did the machine wink at you?

For good or ill, I am very interested.

Back!

fuckeye I am not in Spain anymore. When I left Spain, there was but one baby cloud floating tinily across an ocean of blue, the sun burning down with joy and grace. I returned to a typically sodden London, its sky one giant bruise, spittle flecking from its bitter chin. The electricity had gone in our flat, and the freezer and its contents had defrosted, including a large chunk of tuna and a bit of salmon.

Its better now. I suppose, after a day, I have gotten used to it all again. Humans are great like that. Radio 4 is on, coffee is brewing, I am fucking freezing, and getting about my day. Ola hey!

Last night I dreamt that I managed to upset some hardcore Catholics, by standing in the prayer area in the middle of a nightclub pointing out to some girls that they were not evil, and neither was I. A fat lad in the company of Mike Skinner threw a glass at my head, so I returned the favour, causing Skinner to demand I buy him a drink. I was later stabbed, slowly, in a twisting motion, by a man in a trenchcoat who told my my head had become too big, and I needed bringing back down to earth.

Acapellas coming later on, anyway. Fare thee well.

Rested

After a nice little rest, I am back in London with a pink pack of eyeballs on my case. That shit looked nice on IE, but fucked up Mozilla. I don't know what it was doing to Macs. So he will live to the right. Read a bunch of Hilaire Belloc's The History Of England Vol XI, From The First Invasion By The Romans To The Ascension Of King George The Fifth on the train. I now realise that we are living in an oligarchy. Well, a strange, new fangled sort of oligarchy masked as a democracy. With a bit of a monarchy. But it is an oligarchy, nonetheless.

This book was published in 1915, and, interestingly, predicted that Russia would do what America has. The author is also in favour of true aristocracy, and I can see his point.