Heroin, Addiction and Me

I am leaving for Glastonbury in 15 minutes. The sun is shining and it's hot, hot, hot. If you have never been to Glastonbury, you will have no idea of how many great things await me. Life is so damn sweet. I am getting excited and I rarely get excited.

Before I go, I just want to big up Melvin Burgess’ book ‘Junk’. I started reading it on Saturday and finished it last night. It had me completely gripped. Junk is a children’s book that addresses heroin addiction without dumbing it down one iota. I love the fact that it combines youthful high spirits, addiction and a spirit of adventure. A community of hippy squatters, a massage parlour and a racist Tory add that little extra to the spellbinding tale of adolescent drug dependency, shoplifting and prostitution.

Talking of addiction, I have one episode left to watch of The Wire Season 4. I watch a season, give myself a few months to come down and then start all over again. It is very hard to leave home with one episode left. Even though, Glastonbury awaits, The Wire is immensely addictive. It's just so damn good. On the bright side, reconvening with The Wire will make coming home all the sweeter.

Glastonbury Line Up 2008

Yo yo yo!

After much trawling of the interweb I found this:
The 2008 Glastonbury Line Up with Times.

Now tha's what I'm talking 'bout.

Decisions, decisions! I will save that job for when I'm looking across fields and fields of brightly coloured tents. The fine Glastonbury atmosphere will stop me from crying about the inevitable clashes.

Now, it's time for some trawling of a different kind. It's time to get me down them shops for some waterproofing paraphernalia. A little bit of something to protect myself against the one brief shower that will be welcomed with rapture. Oh yeah, that shower. It will clear the air, cause no mud and act as a welcome relief from the searing heat.

Glastonbury is going to be fucking amazing this year. Like every year, it will be gloriously sunny and awash with smiling happy people.

We will set up a mock festival with fake rain and floods. The press need their 'shanty town England' news. Those people stupid enough to stay at home - and watch Glastonbury on TV - need to be reassured that they’ve made the right choice. We pretend just for them. We splash about in the specially prepared mud and then bask in unadulterated UV rays .

At the time of posting, believe it or not, the forecast is full of blissful sunshine and just the occasional white cloud. No dark clouds or rain!:

Whoop! Whoop!

By the way, the above image is a live forecast, so keep checking back if you want to see it getting sunnier and sunnier.

Postscript (24/06/08): Hmmm. The live weather insert seems to update itself two days behind. Fear not about the rain. The latest forecast is getting sunnier again: Detailed UP-TO-DATE Forecast. Yeah baby.

Fabpants Recommends: The Teenagers - Homecoming. This track has such piss take lyrics. They make me laugh.
"She’s a cheerleader, she’s a virgin, and she’s really tan.
As she stepped out of her massive car,
I could only notice she was more than fuckable.
I think she was coming back from the game or something,
’cause she was holding those silly pom-poms.
On day two, I fucked her, and it was wild.
She’s such a slut.
I fucked my American cunt"
I mean... how can that not be cool? The album? Well, 'Homecoming' is the first track. After such a brilliant start, it's very hard to judge the rest.

Gig Review: The Accidental Nature of Brilliance

Unless life tempts me with a surprise, I do believe that I have been to my last gig before Glastonbury.

The Accidental were gloriously shambolic last night. Talent, enthusiasm and witticisms saw them through a happy mess of mistakes and confusion. As I watched them perform ‘Wolves’, I wondered if all songs called ‘Wolves’ are intensely beautiful. You probably won’t have read my comments on this previous post, but I have an undeniable attachment to Phosphorescent’s track of the same name. I could listen to it on repeat for an entire day. You can do so yourself here:

Phosphorescent - Wolves (courtesy of stereogum.com).

It’s heart wrenchingly brilliant.

I am the music man, I come from down your way, and I can play. What can you play? Nada. Not even a tambourine.

Talking of tambourines, it was touching to read that Ian Brown lists his performance in the New Bands Tent at Glastonbury - back in 1998 - as one of his top five gigs. It was his first solo gig, or so I believe, and it was absolutely awful. I am so glad that somebody got something out of it. It marked me for life, but in a very different way.

Good on you Ian. I am running my first ever training session tomorrow. It could go either way too.

Fabpants Recommends: Black Kids ‘Wizard of Ahhhs’ EP. This bright shining light belongs in a brilliant and sparkly place. Like many truly great bands, Black Kids make songs about sad situations sound wonderfully happy.

Pin the Go-Between

I have been going to the same gym since 2003. Mostly, I go three to four times a week in my lunch break. Sometimes excuses intervene.

I’m a chatty person; I won’t deny that. The receptionists get to hear my dreadful witticisms on a regular basis. Please give them your pity.

On Wednesday, as I performed the regular hunt for my gym card, the receptionist – the one that experiences me the most – took to staring at my eyebrow piercing. “I’m just looking at your piercing”, she said as she moved her head closer to mine. “Did it hurt?”

“Did the ones in your ears hurt?” I responded with a smile. “I did them myself”, was the unexpected reply.

On closer inspection, I could see a series of self-inflicted pinholes in her ears. “I think that yours probably hurt more than mine”, said I. “You’re hardcore girl”, an earwigging colleague added. She too was staring at the ears. The attention on my eyebrow had been deflected.

It’s odd that someone who has stuck a needle through her own ears, several times, should be disturbed by the spike that points north-east from my eyebrow. Professionals delivered my piercings unto me, under very hygienic conditions.

“This one didn’t hurt at all”, I offered as my parting remark. I wiggled my neck piercing up and down as I walked towards the door. “It didn’t even bleed.”

After a slight pause, I had to stop.

“No! No, no, no! Emily, I have never seen that before. Aaaaa. What does your partner think of it? No! It must hurt. What does your partner think? I can’t believe it. What does your partner think? Emily, this is not right.”

I thought about it, and I couldn’t remember ever having asked My Geek for an opinion. In Zambia, a group of ticket touts took to following me to stare it. Eventually, when they questioned me about it, I jokingly told them that it had been placed there by magic. They told me that I’d go to hell. I hadn’t expected them to believe me, but I had yet to see Lusaka's Museum and to learn that 'Witchcraft is “alive and well” on planet earth'.

“I don’t know”, I responded with a cheeky grin. “Maybe I should ask My Geek. Do you want me to ask and to bring back a note?!”

“Yes, I would. I really would.” That was the Eastern European response. My task was set.

On finishing my gym session, the receptionist told me that I didn’t really have to ask, or to get a note. She didn’t want to get me into trouble. It would seem that, on occasion, her boyfriends have been a little dictatorial. She wanted that note though. It was in her every expression. She wanted nothing more than that note. “If I remember, I will ask”, I said, “and I will try to bring you a note”.

I went to the gym again on Friday. My Geek had written the note on Wednesday night, and I had remembered to put it in my bag.

As usual, I put my bag on a chair in reception and began my search for my card. The note was with it. “Did you get it?” the reception eagerly inquired. I looked to the skies with a wry smile, and continued to rummage. “You did!” she exclaimed. “Oh, no, you didn’t. You didn’t!” She knew that I had.

If I could bottle laughter, what proceeded would be the laughter of choice. The receptionist is not a girl of giggles. She likes to think of herself as being a little socially remote. She doesn’t go to clubs or bars. She lives on a raw food diet. She is friendly, but lives within herself. The outside world is something to study from a distance rather than an entity to be part of, indulge in and get hurt by.

On that day, on Friday the Thirteenth, she roared. The receptionist at the gym roared and once she started, she couldn’t stop. I gave her the note and grinned. I’m not sure if she could read it. She was laughing too much to talk. I scampered away to exercise, carrying the beauty of laughter with me, as it echoed up the stairs.

On my return to reception, some forty minutes later, the laughter had quelled a little and was playing itself out. The stopper had been released and a little fizz was left. A little giggle appeared, retreated, and then returned.

Alongside my gym card, I gained a folded compliment slip. I may have said it before, but the world IS a very beautiful place. I am an idiot bearing gifts of notes and little more. The notes are special, not because of what they say, but because they exist. Their existence made a very lovely person laugh. She laughed just because she knew. She laughed right from the bottom of her belly, through the rooftops and I wouldn’t be surprised if the man on the moon heard her.

Note from My Geek:
“I love Emily’s piercings. I find them to be attractive and rebellious. Emily has always been a free spirit, which is what attracted to me to her in the first place. The piercings are an extension of that. Yours My Geek.”

Note from Gym Receptionist:
“Dear My Geek, Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me. Sorry for being nosey, but I don’t know anyone with a piercing in their neck so I felt that I had to question Emily properly. Yes you are right – Emily is very special! Best wishes, The Gym Receptionist.”

Fabpants Recommends: The Perils. I saw The Perils at the Official Leftfield Glastonbury Warm Up Show (Rock Against Racism) on Friday. They were brilliant, as tight as a crab’s arse and played some wicked tunes. While my body danced with delight, my jaw was on the floor. They were the best of six great acts that I saw that night and they were first, the support of all supports. Imagine ‘The View’ if they were consistently good, and could transfer their moments of greatness to the stage. I’d like to add a ‘big up’ to Carnival Collective. They gave us a brilliant encore on the beach, after getting a ‘times up, so piss off’. A fab night all round.

My Eyes are Dim, I cannot see

Isobel Campbell and Mark Lanegan performed in St Georges’ Church last night. St Georges’ Church is no Union Chapel. It is a vacuous church with little to merit a cosy atmosphere.

I arrived thirty minutes after the doors had opened, and all the chairs with a view had gone. Perhaps like the Theatre Royal, they should tier their prices so that the shit seats with no view are cheaper. Perhaps they should sell fewer tickets. I bought mine several months ago. Did I deserve a better seat than those that successfully abandoned work before seven?

Despite my grumbling, I was more fortunate than some. After trying out three different positions (oo-er missus), it became apparent that a space for two was available on a front row balcony. With some swift manoeuvring, My Geek and I had those seats for ourselves. It was far from ideal. By leaning forward, folding my body into a near topple, I could see. My Geek couldn’t see Mark Lanegan at all.

He didn’t miss much. A dim red light shone onto the backing band but not onto the ones with the fame and acclaim. I looked across at my fellow audience members. A long row of people on the second row of the opposite balcony leant their bodies in semi-desperate arches. I am in no doubt that they could see less than me.

It’s incredibly important to get a full and detailed view of the live performers that I’ve paid to see. I shy away from arenas and large venues because the idea of watching dots means nothing to me. It’s immensely dull to ‘not watch’ the people that you’ve paid to see, got excited about seeing, and given your time up for.

Unfortunately, despite having many beautiful tracks to their names, the experience of seeing Isobel and Mark was dreary. Yes, I loved the live experience of hearing ‘Saturday's Gone’ and ‘The Circus is Leaving Town’, but for the most past watching artists that look like mere shadows is frustrating and tedious. I truly tried, but enjoyment was hard to find.

A facial expression can add so much to a song. Sometimes it can be great to just shut your eyes and to travel on a song’s journey inside your mind, but when you open your eyes and see the people that perform it, it’s even better.

The new album lacks the draw of ‘Ballad of the Broken Seas’, and perhaps that’s partly to blame. ‘Sunday at Devil Dirt’ features Isobel’s voice so infrequently that it’s heart breaking. I’ve never been a big fan of the blues, and there’s too much of that too. ‘Sunday at Devil Dirt’ is way too Radio 2.

Isobel’s voice faltered during the show last night. Perhaps she should use it more. It’s a very nice voice. My Geek would leave me for that voice.

Fabpants Recommends: Marissa Nadler ‘The Saga of Mayflower May’. ‘Famous Song’ and ‘Old Love Haunts’ are incredible tracks. They wrap me in a blanket of warmth and sweetly nurture my vulnerabilities. I am thoroughly enjoying my investigation into Marissa’s back catalogue.

Gig Review: RIP My Favourite Venue

The Freebutt used to be my favourite gig venue in Brighton. Then it shut for refurbishment. Now, what used to be a warm and inviting dive is just a dive.

The old church pew is long gone. I shed my tears for that pew many years ago. Now, gone with it is the circular bar; the bar that I used to sit on for the best view in the house. No more is the cosy charm that once united us all.

I have many happy memories courtesy of the Freebutt. My ears got their first taste of Sodastream and Misty’s Big Adventure there; bands that I discovered and then fell in love with, in a space so tiny that it felt like home.

In 2004, I stood with my foot resting against the stage whilst Doherty, with no Libertines or Babyshambles to call his own, played a shambolic, but alluring, solo set. At the end of the performance, people only had to walk forward to touch him. They did. While it was horrible to see the greed of the super fan, Doherty handled it with good spirit. We are all one. An inch of stage height is all that we need.

Now, with a tall, but ill-shaped cage, sorry stage, the venue looks like a smaller version of The Brighton Barfly. It’s a space that aims for functionality and functionality alone. It fails.

Everything that made the venue special has been wrenched out and discarded. Gone are the days of walking into a room where the audience sits in a warm mass of cross-legged harmony. Now people stand impatiently and move irritably from foot to foot. The new floor threatens to glue its guests down permanently and to hold them there forever. A lager trap has been set.

I am glad that Jacob’s Stories, the support act last night, agreed. He voiced my thoughts between his sweetly crafted songs. The Freebutt was great and now its shit. Finito.

Admittedly, the eight-piece ensemble, Hjaltalin, could never have squeezed - even with extreme anorexia - onto the old stage; but they could have played half on and half off, no problem. Instead, last night, a large imposing pillar served to block two band members from almost everybody’s view. With an audience of just 14, I moved and shut all thoughts of the venue from my mind. I had a band to watch.

The bassoon transfixed me. What a stunning instrument that is. I could have watched it forever had the expression on the drummer’s face not caught my eye. The poor fella proceeded to suffer my hypnotised stare for the next thirty minutes. What expressions. I have never seen a drummer more involved, passionate and demented. As Hjaltalin prepared for their last song, the band announced that it was the drummer’s first live performance; he had stolen the show.

My eyes found a new friend for the final fling. My childhood fascination with the accordion has not dampened with age.

I have no doubt that the sounds of Hjaltalin were deliberately chaotic. When chaos transforms itself into something sentimentally beautiful, beauty stands tall. Hjaltalin are the new big thing; well, the new big thing from Iceland. Of course, they are very weird; they were grown in the Lava Fields of Reykjavik.

The album, as produced by Múm, was offered to us for £10 and then £5. The pound is a hard currency to work with. When I found myself a little short, the frozen volcanoes sold it to me for all the pennies in my pocket: £3.80. Bargain! The album is called 'Sleepdrunk Seasons'.

I left Hjaltalin to smoke their cigarettes, be ‘moved on’ by bouncers, and receive invites from an overconfident beard. I will not be rushing back to The Freebutt.

Fabpants Recommends: Nina Nastasia ‘Dogs’. I missed this in 2000, and again on its rerelease in 2004. Instead, I heard songs from albums that, quite frankly, are nowhere near as good. ‘Dogs’ is a stunning album. My opinion of Nina stands revised.

Gig Review: I’ve Got No Friends; Not One

It is hard to say when I first saw The Bobby McGees. They formed in 2002. I have seen them many times over the years.

I have a distinct memory of them supporting Misty’s Big Adventure at The Ocean Rooms in 2005. Needless to say, Misty’s Big Adventure are one of my favourite bands ever. On the night in question, I do believe that My Geek and I were ‘the audience’ in its entirety. The seemingly vast room was - for the most part - empty. What were the people of Brighton thinking?

Despite playing for just us, themselves and each other, both Misty’s and The Bobby McGees put on amazing shows. Jimmy McGee, a natural showman, tempted us with threats to shave off his impressive moustache. I saw him at a Kid Carpet gig two weeks later. The moustache - now a gloriously oversized beard - still adorned his fresh young face.

Last night, I went to ‘The Acoustic Room’ upstairs at The Three and Ten. Forty-six chairs greeted me in small neat rows. It was wonderfully civilised. Three acts played to the most attentive audience on earth.

Once again, The Bobby McGees were brilliant; gloriously twee, sentimentally sweet, and mischievously funny.

Eleanor’s perfectly formed - and misleadingly innocent - singing voice, sat in wonderful contrast to Jimmy’s friendly, broad and slightly brash Scottish intonations. With two ukuleles, a double bass, a melodica, a recorder and a xylophone, The Bobby McGees served to amuse and delight. Giggles and guffaws echoed about the tiny room and a permanent smile added wrinkles to my face.

If you ever get the chance, go to see The Bobby McGees. Alternatively, kill yourself, kill yourself, kill yourself now. Why don’t you just fuck off and die?

If you are in doubt, here are some more lyrics for you:

Ivor Cutler is Dead.

I’ve got no friends, not one
I’m a sad and lonely little boy
I’ve got no friends, not one
Not a single little friend in the world

And I’ll go out on my own
And I’ll stand on my own
And I’ll dance to the Smiths on my own

I’ve got no friends, not one
I’m a sad and lonely little girl
I’ve got no friends, not one
Not a single little friend in the world

I walk home on my own
Sleep on my own
Never to be kissed again

I’m much too old and twee
A girl like that would never fancy me
I’m just a minger and a geek
That boy probably thinks that I’m a freak

“Gasp”
Oh no, he’s looking over here
She’s looking at me
I think he’s trying to talk to me.

Can, can I be your friend?
I’ll be a real sweet friend
I’ll be the sweetest little friend in the world

Oh no, just friends
That means, that he really doesn’t fancy me

We’ll share a drink all night
And we can dance to The Smiths
But, I’ll still be walking home on my own

Yeah, we’ll be friends
We’ll be real sweet friends
We’ll be the sweetest little friends in the world

Yeah, we’ll be friends
We’ll be really close friends
Closer than any boy or girl

And we’ll watch Top of the Pops
And we’ll dance lots and lots
And never, ever, ever grow up
Yeah, we’re just friends

Fabpants Recommends: The Bobby McGees 'Yes Please'. The Bobby McGees are not tested on animals.

In my Own Time I am Dying

It is a beautiful Saturday morning. In the gully that circles Flat 1a, Emily sits on her raggedy old sun bed surrounded by seasonal foliage.

Strawberries, lettuce and brightly coloured magnolia plants bask in the warm rays of sunshine. The delicate pink flowers of a free roaming rose bush contemplate the moment that they will open themselves up to the world; to be vulnerable and beautiful until the day that they die.

A magical soundscape celebrates the perfect English weather. On a day like this, England is the best place on earth.

Birdsong and the auditory struggle of a coma-stricken man share the air harmoniously. The former from the great tall trees that kill the lawn. The latter dispersing innocuously from a half-opened window. Occasionally, a light aircraft glides by, skirting the place where land meets sea.

Emily has needed a moment like this. Occasionally she coughs, and while her chest rattles like an old man’s, she feels her body sigh with relief.

For more than a week, she has unsuccessfully ignored a lung infection.

She hasn’t missed a day of work or a social engagement, but not without struggle.

The morning sun makes everything feel okay.

Emily lies in the sun, half-awake and half-asleep, completely in love with that which surrounds her. The world is a very beautiful place.

Fabpants Recommends: Spiritualized ‘Songs in A&E’. Feel the hurt that hides deep inside you softly bleed and gently heal. “There is nowhere you have been that I need to go. There is nothing you can learn that I need to know.” This album is amazing.