Part 1 is here: Venetian Dreams: An Introduction
Venice Waterbuses, Otherwise Known As Vaporettos
In winter, the waterbuses, or Vaporettos, are warmer than the museums. They offer views, transportation and the gentle buzz of people. Instead of covering chairs and benches with rope, or shooing relaxed bottoms away, the buses invite you to sit. In most of Centro storico, the price for sitting includes an expensive drink. By expensive, I mean normality times four.
Vaporettos are welcoming and most of Centro storico is not. Once sitting comfortably, and embracing the warmth, the wide berthed water boats provide an optical feast, with sights to assimilate with the finest of visual memories. Views in Venice are as striking as those of an Austrian village, with homely fairytale houses and a backdrop of mountainous snow, or of the Norfolk Broads, with its reeds, birds and dragonflies, on a bright and lonely day. In Venice, tall, shabby buildings defy nature and tell of history, expansion, merchants and whim.
Used well, a 72-hour travel card, at the high price of €32, is a recommendable purchase. You can sit inside. You can sit or stand outside. Outside you can see more. Sometimes there is no room in the warm. On busy Vaporettos, the indoor seats prompt polite competition. Bags hold seats for imaginary friends and commuters move reluctantly. Resentfully, they mumble their displeasure, only to brightly request likewise, when their turn comes around.
Outside provides the perfect opportunity to take photographs and capture images in your mind. Medieval buildings, immersed in water, caught as a memory, can merge with real life, literature and film. Held in place, the images provide high-grade fuel for the subconscious and dreams. Even in the cold, jostled by others, and impeding the onboard staff, the Vaporetto provides for a slightly otherworldly experience.
Tied on and tied off, they move from one water platform to the next, traversing the Grand Canal and the islands and lagoon.
You can buy a travel card at the airport or ticket booths, and stamp it on the Vaporetto platform before your first trip. The platforms show timetables, routes and, frequently, an electronic board that displays how many minutes you’ll have to wait. They are remarkably easy to use, and the real world has its place.
The Lagoon Islands
The travel card takes you far. So, instead of looking at churches, badly broken statues and ancient columns, we visited the lagoon islands, via the public waterbuses. I recommend doing this, even in horrible weather. We had no option; it was wet every day. Perhaps sleet is better than rain.
San Michele (Cimitero)
One of the striking aspects of the historical city centre (Centro storico) is that it is full. There is little green and there are few public places. There are more churches than I would care to remember, and never a graveyard attached. If half of the churches were torn down and transformed into parks, it would be a vast improvement for the city, its people and wildlife. No one can need so many churches. Fitting more worshippers into fewer churches would be far cosier. There would be more space to enjoy natures own creation.
Where do children play ball? Where do the old, the lost and the lonely sit and soak up a little of mother earth’s offerings? Where do lovers go at sunset? Gondola rides are expensive, waterbuses are very public and standing on a bridge will eventually give you sore feet.
Where you may wonder, do they place their dead?
Words cannot articulate the sheer humbling beauty of San Michele, the cemetery island. Only minutes from the Fondamente Nove vaporetto stop (bus route 42 or 52), you can see it from the Centro storico. The Venetians created the walled cemetery island in 1807, when they had no place for graves, tombs and those without breath.
Perhaps Venetian lovers, the old, and the lonely, go and sit with the dead. Instead of placing their deceased in a series of small oases in a bustling city, the Venetians give them their own island. I have never seen a place so respectful for the dead, and if it were possible, I would wish that everyone was buried, or remembered, on such a cemetery island. It’s hard to believe that it was once a prison. It’s a place of stirring tranquillity.
Fields and fields of small white crosses found us, dressed with flowers, photographs and telling inscriptions. They were warm and welcoming, not cold and obsolete. For ten years or so, the dead live in such shallow graves. Then their bones move to a dedicated space or communal ossuary. While the remains may move elsewhere, the dead stay on the island in commemorative form and leave their mark on a world that’s lost them.
There are walls and walls of plaques that host the names of the dead, and a place to fit a photograph and flowers. Couples sit together, families have plots, and those that died young still look young. There are chapels, tombs, and flowers, so many pretty flowers.
It was quiet on the island. Barely seeing a soul, we ambled along, thinking of the people in the photographs that once laughed, cried and died. The sleet gently fell onto our hoods, and even it seemed respectful.
Murano
From San Michele we boarded the number 42 Vaporetto once more, and alighted at Murano. Murano is an island famous for its glass. In Venice’s main historical centre, there are shops that specialise in Murano glass. They mostly sell trinkets for the tourists. There was such a shop right by our hotel.
To be on Murano island (or the series of islands that comprise it), made one realise, or at least believe, that the brash sales technique and the commercialisation of its glass is not of Murano’s own making. Murano is beautiful and well presented. It appears to be much more loving of its populace and public space than the city’s shabby heart.
For the most part, the buildings do not sit at the water’s edge. Instead, there are wide pavements that run along the canals, public squares and places for residents to keep their own boats. Chairlifts help the elderly or infirm to travel from one land mass to the next. It feels considerate and kind.
To celebrate their glass-based history and present resurgence, the island hosts glass art in public spaces. We saw a glass lady, a glass Christmas tree, and what appeared to me to be a wonderful clump of sprawling blue Marram Grass, glass, swaying in the breeze. The island has been famous for its glass since the thirteenth century, and for some five or more centuries before then, glassworks lived on the neighbouring island of Torcello.
Murano’s children are probably sick to death of stories about glass. There is a glass museum, which they probably have had to visit on school trips since 1861. The museum has been there that long. They have glass works there that go back to 1BC/1AD, in the form of small and dainty glass jars and fanciful bowls. 2008 years later, they demonstrate remarkable skill.
There were some delightful seventeenth century vases, with swirling colours running through them, but I was more impressed by the later works. For example, a duck designed by Toni Zuccheri in 1979 and then made by Venini in 1982, and some amazing detergent bottles designed by Maria Grazia Rosin, executed by Vittorio Ferro, and ground by Eugenio Rizzi, in 1992. I had no idea so many people are involved in making one item of glass. You can view the bottles and the duck on these websites:
Maria Grazia Rosin – Detersivi
Toni Zuccheri – Duck
It is hard to imagine someone with the space and desire for the centrepiece in the last room. It was six times the size of our dining room table and consisted of a glass ornate garden with an intricate fountain. If we had it, I think our friends would be both shocked and impressed. It would fill our living room and you’d have to view it through the window or door.
The most fascinating aspect of the Murano Glass museum wasn’t really the glass, but the history. In the past glassmakers held reverence, and were ‘treated like nobility’. In the fourteenth century, they had immunity from prosecution, they were allowed to carry swords and their daughters could marry into affluent and blue-blooded families. They weren’t allowed to leave the Republic, because they, and their skills, were so treasured, but sometimes they risked all and did. They were the only people in Europe that knew how to make glass mirrors and the price of seeing oneself is high.
I bet the Swansea copper makers wished that they’d enjoyed the same privileges.
The museum receptionist played solitaire on the PC and whiled away the sleety day.
At Murano, our trip started at the lighthouse at Faro. We would have liked to have gone up the lighthouse, but it was closed. After the Glass Museum, we got back on the Vaporetto at the Museo stop. It was still sleeting. We opted against another Murano walk, although it would have been lovely in the dry.
Burano
Next stop, Burano. Here the winds were harsh and the driving sleet was bitterly cold to walk through. All the same, in any weather, this is a stunning island. We rested our legs for some 40 minutes on the way from Murano. From the boat, we saw strange small islands, some as small as a building, with the ruins of a building on them. Imagine living in a building the size of the island it sits on.
Burano doesn’t offer a glass museum or a cemetery. It offers lace. We opted not to see the lace, apart from in the shop windows, which we swiftly passed by.
Lace is not for us.
Instead, we ambled through the brightly coloured streets, where each house glowed with a vivid rainbow colour. Without a shabby home in sight, the paintwork stands in stark contrast to Centro storico and its sorry flaky buildings. We imagined that it was warm and the wind was still. Neither was the case. All the same, Burano is enchanting and delightful and this is the memory that will stick. Taking a stroll on the residential streets and over the tidy bridges raised many a smile and a little dance or two. The latter may have been to warm up.
Burano also sells reasonably priced drinks, and, at last, we found an open cafe that we could sit in without feeling like we’d suffered the royal tourist rip off. Okay, a plate of chips cost €5, but we stuck to drinks and all was well. It was cosy and wonderful, apart from the toilet, which had a concertina style door and was not so pleasant.
It was so very windy and cold, and the driving sleet was so relentless, that we ended our lagoon island tour there. I would have liked to see Torcello, the island that has a Basilica, Bell Tower and Archaeological museum, but no details on Multimap or Google Maps. It’s lack of mapping is sad considering that in 5AD it was the largest settlement in the lagoon. Silt and malaria had their way. Across the grey skies, it looked rather bleak.
Part 3 is here: Venetian Dreams: The Obligatory Museums
Fabpants Recommends: Spector really knew what he was doing before he lost himself in his oddities. Estelle Bennett died this month. This track is a brilliant sing along classic. So come on, be my baby...
Download MP3: The Ronettes – Be My Baby (courtesy of dawnbakescakes.com)
I watched Slumdog Millionaire whilst in Venice, and it mainly reminded me of what a great track ‘Paper Planes’ is.
Download MP3: M.I.A. – Paper Planes (courtesy of wordsworthmedia.files.wordpress.com)
Today, I have been listening to Malajube’s – Labyrinthes. The first track 'Ursuline' sounds like it’s trying to escape from a turbid pool of slime. I had to skip to the next track. That sums up the album. It’s a dull affair. If you like to listen to music that you really have to work for, then you might enjoy this. You can then seek out likeminded anoraks and sneer at me. I skipped, skipped, skipped.
Instead, of living in the present, I will return to these tracks from their 2006 Trompe-l'œil album. They have more spunk.
Download MP3: Malajube – Ton Plat Favori (courtesy of daretocarerecords.com)
Download MP3: Malajube – Pâte Filo (courtesy of daretocarerecords.com)
Download MP3: Malajube - Fille à plumes (courtesy of astro.ubc.ca)
Download MP3: Malajube - Montreal -40c (courtesy of astro.ubc.ca)
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
Tuesday, 24 February 2009
Venetian Dreams: An Introduction
Being a child of water, I used to marvel over the idea of Venice. A city built on H two O, where the sun glistens on ripples and ripples create calm. The vision in my mind was fantastical. If it courted romance, it was the romance of life. For I’m in love with life and that I can’t deny.
I marvel at life. I cry for life. I fear losing it more than anything else on earth. My heart and mind are so enamoured that it hurts. It hurts in the best kind of way. I want to live for a thousand years, or maybe more. I want to touch, smell and see the world every day, forever.
I want to paddle oars between buildings that should never exist, in a beautiful place, alone. All the while, and in my dreams, a gentle sun is there and it’s warming the nape of my neck.
Over time, my Venetian dream faded like an old photograph.
Fantastical places attract people, people attract greed, and the fairy-tale becomes a parody of what it once was. The gondola becomes a desperate attempt to feed a relationship, a relationship that is withering because of compromise and false hope. The city becomes expensive, and instead of supporting real life, it supports an ‘idea’ and the commercialisation of that idea.
Yet, Venice remains fantastical. The historic city of Venice (Centro storico) is shabby and it smells. The cafes, restaurants and museums are overpriced. The bread is dry, hard and powdery. Dog poo litters the pavements. Centro storico sells its past in the form of ugly masks and dull artefacts. Selling love like a commodity, Centro storico has forgotten how to love itself. It has forgotten how to love its guests.
One hundred and eighteen small islands form Venice or Venezia, and the fact it is a city at all is a miracle of humankind. Water laps directly against buildings. Slowly houses, hotels and businesses, built where flood plains, shallow waters, or marshes might be, are submerged or washed away.
Alleyways, bridges and boats: these are the means to mobility. Cars? No. Vans? No. Motorbikes? No. Bicycles? Not really.
To get about one must use waterbuses, traghettos, water taxis and feet. To get to hospital an ambulance boat will take you, with screaming sirens and relentless waves. Cliff might turn to sand, battered by the emergency wash, but buildings appear to remain. The Grand Canal snakes through Venice’s heart. Away from it, motorboats are far fewer.
With no road traffic, the city centre enjoys a rare peace. One can meander quietly and without pause. It’s easy to miss this pleasure until you leave the islands and see busy roads for the first time in days. Cars create anxiety and their absence allows calm.
The temperature in February is comparable to that in the South Coast of England. While England cooled off in the snow, and my friends stayed home from work, Venice grimaced in soggy and sometimes horizontal sleet. The wet weather melted on impact, and the wind ensured that bones would freeze. Even the museums were cold, truly cold.
Where is the hospitality? The hospitality is away from the centre, St Mark’s and hotels. It is in the waterbuses, the lagoon islands and the Peggy Guggenheim museum. The posts that follow will provide an account of my three days in Venice. I hope that you enjoy sharing the experience with me.
Part 2 is here: Venetian Dreams: Water Buses and Islands
Fabpants Recommends: With a V for Venice theme in mind, I would like to start nostalgically with two tracks from Velvet Underground. It’s easy to forget how great The Violent Underpants truly were.
Download MP3: The Velvet Underground – I’m Sticking With You (courtesy of glogster.com)
Download MP3: The Velvet Underground – Pale Blue Eyes (courtesy of anyones-guess.com)
Now that you’re all settled in a sweet and gentle place, it’s time for some melon twisting. Melon twisting will keep you young.
Beirut have a new album out. It’s made up of 2 EPs. It’s rather tasty and it’s rather odd. It’s called March of the Zapotec / Realpeople: Holland. My Middle School’s Brass Band appears on it. Okay, it doesn’t. I like to pretend it does. It makes it even odder to listen to. I imagine children in red and white uniforms and a mad conductor. Whatever you think of Beirut, and I’m not sure myself when I listen to this collection, you have to admit that it's a curious challenge. I rather like this little number. Listen to the full release if you want to lose your mind.
Download MP3: Beirut – My Wife (courtesy of wordpress.com)
On a more not ‘old enough to be jaded’ note, I am enjoying the return of Flobots to the UK without actually seeing them. Sadly, I missed their Brighton gig last Friday. I bet it was marvellous.
Download MP3:Flobots – We are Winning (sorry, this link has died)
By the way, now I have it - in its full format - YES YES YES - I can’t get enough of Marissa Nadler’s new album. Mistress is currently my favourite track. I can’t find it out there in MP3 format to stream. You’ll have to buy the album, you lucky sods. I already posted ‘River of Dirt’ from the album, so I hope you listened.
I marvel at life. I cry for life. I fear losing it more than anything else on earth. My heart and mind are so enamoured that it hurts. It hurts in the best kind of way. I want to live for a thousand years, or maybe more. I want to touch, smell and see the world every day, forever.
I want to paddle oars between buildings that should never exist, in a beautiful place, alone. All the while, and in my dreams, a gentle sun is there and it’s warming the nape of my neck.
Over time, my Venetian dream faded like an old photograph.
Fantastical places attract people, people attract greed, and the fairy-tale becomes a parody of what it once was. The gondola becomes a desperate attempt to feed a relationship, a relationship that is withering because of compromise and false hope. The city becomes expensive, and instead of supporting real life, it supports an ‘idea’ and the commercialisation of that idea.
Yet, Venice remains fantastical. The historic city of Venice (Centro storico) is shabby and it smells. The cafes, restaurants and museums are overpriced. The bread is dry, hard and powdery. Dog poo litters the pavements. Centro storico sells its past in the form of ugly masks and dull artefacts. Selling love like a commodity, Centro storico has forgotten how to love itself. It has forgotten how to love its guests.
One hundred and eighteen small islands form Venice or Venezia, and the fact it is a city at all is a miracle of humankind. Water laps directly against buildings. Slowly houses, hotels and businesses, built where flood plains, shallow waters, or marshes might be, are submerged or washed away.
Alleyways, bridges and boats: these are the means to mobility. Cars? No. Vans? No. Motorbikes? No. Bicycles? Not really.
To get about one must use waterbuses, traghettos, water taxis and feet. To get to hospital an ambulance boat will take you, with screaming sirens and relentless waves. Cliff might turn to sand, battered by the emergency wash, but buildings appear to remain. The Grand Canal snakes through Venice’s heart. Away from it, motorboats are far fewer.
With no road traffic, the city centre enjoys a rare peace. One can meander quietly and without pause. It’s easy to miss this pleasure until you leave the islands and see busy roads for the first time in days. Cars create anxiety and their absence allows calm.
The temperature in February is comparable to that in the South Coast of England. While England cooled off in the snow, and my friends stayed home from work, Venice grimaced in soggy and sometimes horizontal sleet. The wet weather melted on impact, and the wind ensured that bones would freeze. Even the museums were cold, truly cold.
Where is the hospitality? The hospitality is away from the centre, St Mark’s and hotels. It is in the waterbuses, the lagoon islands and the Peggy Guggenheim museum. The posts that follow will provide an account of my three days in Venice. I hope that you enjoy sharing the experience with me.
Part 2 is here: Venetian Dreams: Water Buses and Islands
Fabpants Recommends: With a V for Venice theme in mind, I would like to start nostalgically with two tracks from Velvet Underground. It’s easy to forget how great The Violent Underpants truly were.
Download MP3: The Velvet Underground – I’m Sticking With You (courtesy of glogster.com)
Download MP3: The Velvet Underground – Pale Blue Eyes (courtesy of anyones-guess.com)
Now that you’re all settled in a sweet and gentle place, it’s time for some melon twisting. Melon twisting will keep you young.
Beirut have a new album out. It’s made up of 2 EPs. It’s rather tasty and it’s rather odd. It’s called March of the Zapotec / Realpeople: Holland. My Middle School’s Brass Band appears on it. Okay, it doesn’t. I like to pretend it does. It makes it even odder to listen to. I imagine children in red and white uniforms and a mad conductor. Whatever you think of Beirut, and I’m not sure myself when I listen to this collection, you have to admit that it's a curious challenge. I rather like this little number. Listen to the full release if you want to lose your mind.
Download MP3: Beirut – My Wife (courtesy of wordpress.com)
On a more not ‘old enough to be jaded’ note, I am enjoying the return of Flobots to the UK without actually seeing them. Sadly, I missed their Brighton gig last Friday. I bet it was marvellous.
Download MP3:Flobots – We are Winning (sorry, this link has died)
By the way, now I have it - in its full format - YES YES YES - I can’t get enough of Marissa Nadler’s new album. Mistress is currently my favourite track. I can’t find it out there in MP3 format to stream. You’ll have to buy the album, you lucky sods. I already posted ‘River of Dirt’ from the album, so I hope you listened.
Monday, 23 February 2009
A Guest Entry by Henry Grubstick
Way back when, before I felt threatened by the purple sprouting broccoli plants that loom ominously outside my window, I sent out a message. I invited my kind to come forth and write guest entries for my blog.
For the next few Mondays, far better storytellers than I, will entertain and enlighten you. If you wish to take part, please do contact me. If you so request, your identity will not be disclosed. You are free to tell the story that you never dared tell, or the share the gripe that you have no place to publish. Alternatively, you could share a happy thought or two.
The first entry is by my dear friend Henry Grubstick. It's called 'Jim'.
Spoiler Alert: only read the next three paragraphs if you like Movie Trailers or Book Forwards
Having read 'The Swimming Pool Library' by Alan Hollinghurst, earlier this year, I can’t help but draw comparisons between 'Jim' and Hollinghurst's 1988 gay classic.
In contrast to the Corry - the gym in Hollinghurst’s novel - Donny's is not a ‘male only’ hub, where exercise, showering, and public nakedness, provide an established backdrop for titillation, penis watching and cruising. Donny’s is your run-of-the-mill gym.
At Donnington’s, women flirt with male instructors and plausibly heterosexual men find themselves in oddly homoerotic situations. The following story provides a hilarious portrayal of one man’s challenge to complete his exercise routine in an environment tense with embarrassment.
Jim
A place where you run for miles, but go nowhere. A place where minutes can feel like hours...
by Henry Grubstick
It’s the end of another working day, the beginning of another familiar journey. A short trip in the car and the gym is soon in sight. Donnington's gym is by no means a remarkable building.
The shape of “Donny's” exterior is shed-like. It would offer no surprise to see a troupe of boy scouts inside. I can see them now working on the latest ethical awareness badge, whilst dodging the local paedophile, otherwise known as Arkela.
Pulling up to the wood-lined gym, the wonderful beach-like sound of tyre on pebbles fills the air. Opening the car door brings forth an uncommon fusion of sounds. Cheesy house music and gym machinery unite with human grunts. A drag queen on reception would not be out of place. Focusing the ear, one could mistake the sounds for that of a wag roast, but it's rowers rowing, cyclists cycling and runners running.
Thump. I shut the car boot, grab my kit bag and head inside. As I open the entrance door, the sound of gym equipment gets louder and louder, like the growing sounds of thumping anticipation. I enter a door marked ‘Male Changing’ and walk into a different, albeit musty, world...
Men of all shapes and sizes, spanning all of society’s subsets, unite in the need to wear appropriate clothing. In this state of half undress, the type of pant worn by the average gym goer says a lot about not only about their fitness levels, but of their social standing and life history.
I see evidence of this all around the room. Up first is a dulling white airtex Y-front. This is a man in his fifties, in fairly ill health. A fellow packed off to the gym by his partner - a disappointed housewife with a long deserted sex life. The Y-front wearer's gym kit was purchased some time ago, perhaps in the 80's for the weekly game of squash. It consists of a Dunlop polo shirt, white. Patrick shorts, white. A non-de script trainer, white. All contrasted by a pair of socks, black! Pulled up just below the knee.
Looking to my right, I see a man strutting around the changing room in a blazing purple pant. Looking closer this pant has a distinctive psychedelic 70's pattern. The owner of this undergarment is a “dude” in his late forties who I reckon is looking to regain some semblance of his youth.
Joining the gym was most likely his idea. Other recent ‘youth re-gaining’ ideas include the purchase of a Triumph motor cycle, wearing an earring in his left ear once again, and, no doubt, Viagra and wife swapping with the neighbours every second Saturday in the month. His gym kit has a distinct scent of retro chic emphasised by the original Fred Perry polo shirt. This guy should have watched American Beauty a little more carefully...
Sulking in the corner is a ‘cartoon character emblazoned boxer shorts’ wearer. In this GP referral case, Homer Simpson has been employed to cover up an ailing penis and a hairy chubby bottom. More distinctive than his choice of pant, is the bulging belly flowing over the head of donut Simpson. “D’oh!” methinks. The extremity of this man’s poor health is matched by his role of office joker. This clown's chosen gym attire is a T-shirt obtained by drinking ‘special offer’ alcohol. The catchphrase “If Lost Please Return to Pub” shouts in large lettering from its front. The t-shirt is coupled with a sweat-inducing pair of jogging bottoms. This is a man ‘found out’ at the gym – a blobby peg in a largely healthy hole.
The pants are bad enough, but one thing always notable about male changing rooms is the attitude to nudity. Some men are very proud of their private parts, whilst others shy away. Sadly, for me, one such gym member with “pride” is not just my boss, or my bosses’ boss, but my bosses’ bosses’ boss: Archie MacDonald.
“Jim”, he says boldly, “how are things in marketing these days?” Every syllable seems to dictate another swing of the penis.
“Things are going just great, fantastic in fact!” I reply whilst desperately thinking, “Don't look at the cock. Don't look at the cock! Oh God I looked! I looked!”
For a white Scotsman in his late fifties, his penis is pretty brown, distinctly Afro-Caribbean in fact. Think Peperami. Scientifically, I would love to know why the humble common or garden penis changes colour the older you get. It must be something to do with it being locked away without sunlight. Note to self, look into nudism, fast.
The awkward thing about conversations like these is that you can't tell the truth. In reality, things at work are going about as well as a trip on the Titanic. However, when dealing with work people, a positive spin must be put on things, even if it makes you look like a cock. Well, at least not an ageing cock...
“Well that's super, SUPER! We need you folks down there to help bring in the bucks!” I don't know if it was just me, but I could have sworn he pointed his crotch at me whilst saying “SUPER”. I look down into my kit bag, and make it more of a struggle than it really is to grab my shorts. From the corner of my eye, I look at Archie overwork the drying of his back.
On goes my kit and I thank God once again that the awkward 10 minutes, that is the male changing room experience, is over. I think I'll shower at home after this session...
I enter the gym, swipe my card, and spot Liam the gym instructor.
“Hi Jim, how are you today?” He says.
“I'm good, thank you. And how are you?” I reply, praying for the obligatory “very well” rather than a brutally honest and graphic answer.
“Very well.” How many times has this poor bloke replied with that answer today I wonder? Everyone asking how he is, but not really wanting to know. An odd tradition we hold dear in this country. I'd love to spend a day answering frivolous questions honestly one day.
“Good music, this evening” I lie, making polite conversation.
“Yeah, it's Chicane. I've rigged the PC into the sound system” Liam replies.
“Oh, but the only thing is I like Tetris, I really like Tetris and MSN, so ignore the bleeps. That's either the blocks rotating or a new message.”
“Okay,” I say bluntly leaving things there. Customer service is clearly not what it once was. Up until this conversation, I had worked out under the happy illusion that gym instructors keep an eager eye out, just waiting for a struggling member that needs advice. But, no. It seems that the young gym instructors of today are into Tetris and MSN. Still can't blame the poor bastards, they do basically nothing for hours on end, everyday, in near social isolation.
Out of the relative safety of the male changing rooms, I'm now mingling with both sexes. The fairer sex, women, have a somewhat different attitude to the gym. They view it as they do most things, as a social activity. As I take a slurp of water from the fountain, I catch sight of one such example. Melanie, I think she's called.
For such a regular gym goer, Melanie is in dreadful shape. She's tall, about 5'11, has dyed blonde hair and is a good fourteen stone, size 16 /18 perhaps. She's here every time I'm here and doesn't seem to get the main goal of the place; that is to get fit. As I wipe my mouth, I see her get off the stepper, having completed the first part of her fitness routine for the evening.
“Bloody-hell!” She cries. “That's seriously hard work”. Melanie struggles to keep her thoughts to herself.
“You were only on there for five minutes,” Liam pipes up. “What level were you on?”
“Level 3”. Melanie answers. “I had to keep it low, my feet kept slipping”.
Melanie looks up and starts getting into Hollyoaks, which is displaying subtitled on one of the six LCD TVs. Like a toddler, she's mesmerised. That is until she spots her friend.
“Hi!! How are you? So nice to see you!?!” She enthusiastically cries to her friend.
“I'm great. How are you after the work dinner the other night?” Melanie's friend replies.
“I'm well, but you know me, I ate way too much again. That carrot cake was too hard to resist”.
I zone out of Melanie's conversation and warm up for 15 minutes on the exercise bike. As I slow down to finish on the bike, I look round and see Melanie. She’s finished talking to her friend and has turned her attention to Liam. Somewhat trapped in his role of gym instructor, Liam is the object of her flirting for the next 10 minutes. After which Melanie walks out of gym, with a whopping five minutes of gentle exercise completed. ‘Astonishing’, I think. However, more astonishing still, I see Melanie clamber into a top-of-the-range BMW Z4 sports car.
I don't mean to sound bitter, but how can she afford such a wonderful sports contraption? What on earth can she possibly do for a living? Perhaps I’ll never find out. I have my suspicions that, during the negotiations, the car dealer gave in, simply to get rid of her.
With my warm up on the exercise bike completed, I limber up, defiantly stretching as I walk over to the weights. This is where the serious business starts; where men who you never see in the changing room practise their art, the art of, err, lifting heavy things. They take it more seriously than life itself. Some work in packs “spotting” each other, some stay alone.
I spot a conjoined pair, whilst pumping some moderate iron. Of the two, there is always a master and an apprentice.
The master is clearly a gym junkie with muscles in places where, well, I have fat. He leads the pumping and sets the weights for his junior apprentice.
“Now what I've done for you, is, I've put you straight up to 70kg” He says in his Mockney accent.
The apprentice, who I assume is a work colleague - and gym-virgin press-ganged into tonight's workout - looks more than a little nervous.
“Are you sure this a good starting point? I've not been to the gym for a while”.
“Yeah, course it is. In ‘Health and Fitness’ they say you should always lift weights that are too heavy for you to lift.” He confidently barks back.
Whilst I slowly and carefully pull down my 45kgs, I can't help but laugh. What illogical nonsense, I think. I watch as the poor bloke's eyes nearly pop out as he manages just five repetitions. I have a feeling we won't be seeing him at the gym again. In fact, he'll struggle to move tomorrow.
“Not bad! Not BAD!” His dark master yells. He quickly hops onto the bench and has a go himself, confidently pushing the weight 12 times. Clearly, this was just an exercise of showing his colleague how strong he is.
As I move on to the next piece of equipment, I think about how odd the weights section of the gym is; what with the ‘pairs’ barking orders at each other, whilst throwing about ‘Top Gun’ style homoerotic encouragement, and, then, the solo weightlifters who take sneaky looks at one another. Much like my brief encounter with Archie, I feel myself sucked in and although I don't want to, I can't help but take a look at what others are doing. Before I get too deep into this culture, I move away. I accelerate to the treadmills.
Now, sadly, I've never been the fastest runner, but at least, I like to think, I try. Today is not my day. Whilst putting my all in, a German “machine” rolls up next to me. This is the antithesis of Melanie. She's about 5'4, with sharp dyed red hair and has serious running gear on. Without an ounce of fat on her body, she boasts a strong Bavarian look. She soon catches up with me speed wise, but to add insult to injury, she takes out a book whilst running.
Here I am giving it my all. Thoughts of ‘not falling off’ occupy one side of my mind and the heavy will to ‘not to get a stitch’ absorb the other. Meanwhile, the girl is literally doing two things at once. I notice that as she reads, she even turns the pages athletically! I slow down as she speeds up. Then suddenly ‘Beep beep. Beep beep’. She takes a phone call via means of a cunningly concealed hands-free kit, and as I suspected reveals her strong German accent.
“Dieter,” she says.
Unfortunately, I can only hear half the conversation. My mind is seriously intrigued by the other.
“You make sure they are ready, I don't want things to go wrong like last time”.
Another pause, whilst my ears tune in.
“Make sure you remember to pack the batteries.”
“Oh and I hope it'll be good and hard. Yes, a real good treat, yeah?”
Unlike Melanie, whose occupation I have little idea of, I have strong feelings that the German works in the sex industry. Perhaps some kind of dominatrix...
Dejected by my comparable lack of success on the treadmill, I move to my last exercise of the evening – the rower. As I get closer to the Concept 2 machines, I realise that my luck is out. It looks like I'll be rowing next to the worst possible “work-out buddy” imaginable.
It's the dreaded “sex-man”!!
Now I'm certain that you're wondering what puts the ‘sex’ in sex-man. Is it perhaps a virile look and appearance? No. Is it a comical Ron Jeremy beard and haircut? No. Is it an embarrassingly ‘always erect’ weener? No. Though, in fact that would be rather funny.
It's far worse than this. The sex-man is known as the sex-man due to the over exorbitant grunts, groans and, well, quite frankly, sex noises that he makes whilst exercising. Sadly, for me, I'm going to hear these first hand tonight.
I row. A subtle “Errrrrrr” bellows out from intercourse man. As his row gets more intense, his vocalisations build up.
“Errr ohhh errrrrrr, hooowwwwlll errr.” It gets worse. As the grunts grow, his face goes bright red.
“Hoowl howl ohh ohh ohhh ohhh ohhhhhhh”
As I begin to row faster, I find myself caught up in it.
“Haaa haa haaa haaa haa”
My heart rate rises, I begin to sweat and I start to make my own, albeit far quieter, exertion noises.
“Haw haw” I gently murmur. I'm certain no one can hear the noises but me, but, as sex-man and I row like a game of tennis, our noises fall into a weird symmetry. We go faster and faster. In fact, as I look at his bright red face with all the sweat, sounds and grunting in the air, I actually feel like I'm having sex with him.
Things heat up as bonk-man goes into overdrive and nears the end of his workout.
“Err err ohhh ohhh hooowwwlll, hooo hooo hooor”
“Haw haw,” I can't help myself. Shit, I'm being pulled in. I feel like this angry-looking, bald, red man is violating me.
“Grrrrrrrrrroaaaaaaaaann,” goes shag-man.
“Haw haw,” I weakly omit.
“Oooohhhh ohhh ohh,” sex-man grunts his part.
“Haw haw haw,” I meaker.
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh yeah,” sex-man releases on his finish.
Beep, beep beeeeeeeep.
Our workout finishes in tandem. Sex-man is worn out and panting. It would not surprise me at all, if he came in his pants, right there and then, on the rower. We exchange an awkward glance. I feel unclean and abused.
I end my work out with a stretch. It’s grunt, groan and pant free. I get in my car and drive home. I am pleased to have completed another awkward workout at the gym.
Grubstick Recommends:
Download MP3: Roxy Music – Virginia Plain (courtesy of jonashellstrom.se)
For the next few Mondays, far better storytellers than I, will entertain and enlighten you. If you wish to take part, please do contact me. If you so request, your identity will not be disclosed. You are free to tell the story that you never dared tell, or the share the gripe that you have no place to publish. Alternatively, you could share a happy thought or two.
The first entry is by my dear friend Henry Grubstick. It's called 'Jim'.
Spoiler Alert: only read the next three paragraphs if you like Movie Trailers or Book Forwards
Having read 'The Swimming Pool Library' by Alan Hollinghurst, earlier this year, I can’t help but draw comparisons between 'Jim' and Hollinghurst's 1988 gay classic.
In contrast to the Corry - the gym in Hollinghurst’s novel - Donny's is not a ‘male only’ hub, where exercise, showering, and public nakedness, provide an established backdrop for titillation, penis watching and cruising. Donny’s is your run-of-the-mill gym.
At Donnington’s, women flirt with male instructors and plausibly heterosexual men find themselves in oddly homoerotic situations. The following story provides a hilarious portrayal of one man’s challenge to complete his exercise routine in an environment tense with embarrassment.
Jim
A place where you run for miles, but go nowhere. A place where minutes can feel like hours...
by Henry Grubstick
It’s the end of another working day, the beginning of another familiar journey. A short trip in the car and the gym is soon in sight. Donnington's gym is by no means a remarkable building.
The shape of “Donny's” exterior is shed-like. It would offer no surprise to see a troupe of boy scouts inside. I can see them now working on the latest ethical awareness badge, whilst dodging the local paedophile, otherwise known as Arkela.
Pulling up to the wood-lined gym, the wonderful beach-like sound of tyre on pebbles fills the air. Opening the car door brings forth an uncommon fusion of sounds. Cheesy house music and gym machinery unite with human grunts. A drag queen on reception would not be out of place. Focusing the ear, one could mistake the sounds for that of a wag roast, but it's rowers rowing, cyclists cycling and runners running.
Thump. I shut the car boot, grab my kit bag and head inside. As I open the entrance door, the sound of gym equipment gets louder and louder, like the growing sounds of thumping anticipation. I enter a door marked ‘Male Changing’ and walk into a different, albeit musty, world...
Men of all shapes and sizes, spanning all of society’s subsets, unite in the need to wear appropriate clothing. In this state of half undress, the type of pant worn by the average gym goer says a lot about not only about their fitness levels, but of their social standing and life history.
I see evidence of this all around the room. Up first is a dulling white airtex Y-front. This is a man in his fifties, in fairly ill health. A fellow packed off to the gym by his partner - a disappointed housewife with a long deserted sex life. The Y-front wearer's gym kit was purchased some time ago, perhaps in the 80's for the weekly game of squash. It consists of a Dunlop polo shirt, white. Patrick shorts, white. A non-de script trainer, white. All contrasted by a pair of socks, black! Pulled up just below the knee.
Looking to my right, I see a man strutting around the changing room in a blazing purple pant. Looking closer this pant has a distinctive psychedelic 70's pattern. The owner of this undergarment is a “dude” in his late forties who I reckon is looking to regain some semblance of his youth.
Joining the gym was most likely his idea. Other recent ‘youth re-gaining’ ideas include the purchase of a Triumph motor cycle, wearing an earring in his left ear once again, and, no doubt, Viagra and wife swapping with the neighbours every second Saturday in the month. His gym kit has a distinct scent of retro chic emphasised by the original Fred Perry polo shirt. This guy should have watched American Beauty a little more carefully...
Sulking in the corner is a ‘cartoon character emblazoned boxer shorts’ wearer. In this GP referral case, Homer Simpson has been employed to cover up an ailing penis and a hairy chubby bottom. More distinctive than his choice of pant, is the bulging belly flowing over the head of donut Simpson. “D’oh!” methinks. The extremity of this man’s poor health is matched by his role of office joker. This clown's chosen gym attire is a T-shirt obtained by drinking ‘special offer’ alcohol. The catchphrase “If Lost Please Return to Pub” shouts in large lettering from its front. The t-shirt is coupled with a sweat-inducing pair of jogging bottoms. This is a man ‘found out’ at the gym – a blobby peg in a largely healthy hole.
The pants are bad enough, but one thing always notable about male changing rooms is the attitude to nudity. Some men are very proud of their private parts, whilst others shy away. Sadly, for me, one such gym member with “pride” is not just my boss, or my bosses’ boss, but my bosses’ bosses’ boss: Archie MacDonald.
“Jim”, he says boldly, “how are things in marketing these days?” Every syllable seems to dictate another swing of the penis.
“Things are going just great, fantastic in fact!” I reply whilst desperately thinking, “Don't look at the cock. Don't look at the cock! Oh God I looked! I looked!”
For a white Scotsman in his late fifties, his penis is pretty brown, distinctly Afro-Caribbean in fact. Think Peperami. Scientifically, I would love to know why the humble common or garden penis changes colour the older you get. It must be something to do with it being locked away without sunlight. Note to self, look into nudism, fast.
The awkward thing about conversations like these is that you can't tell the truth. In reality, things at work are going about as well as a trip on the Titanic. However, when dealing with work people, a positive spin must be put on things, even if it makes you look like a cock. Well, at least not an ageing cock...
“Well that's super, SUPER! We need you folks down there to help bring in the bucks!” I don't know if it was just me, but I could have sworn he pointed his crotch at me whilst saying “SUPER”. I look down into my kit bag, and make it more of a struggle than it really is to grab my shorts. From the corner of my eye, I look at Archie overwork the drying of his back.
On goes my kit and I thank God once again that the awkward 10 minutes, that is the male changing room experience, is over. I think I'll shower at home after this session...
I enter the gym, swipe my card, and spot Liam the gym instructor.
“Hi Jim, how are you today?” He says.
“I'm good, thank you. And how are you?” I reply, praying for the obligatory “very well” rather than a brutally honest and graphic answer.
“Very well.” How many times has this poor bloke replied with that answer today I wonder? Everyone asking how he is, but not really wanting to know. An odd tradition we hold dear in this country. I'd love to spend a day answering frivolous questions honestly one day.
“Good music, this evening” I lie, making polite conversation.
“Yeah, it's Chicane. I've rigged the PC into the sound system” Liam replies.
“Oh, but the only thing is I like Tetris, I really like Tetris and MSN, so ignore the bleeps. That's either the blocks rotating or a new message.”
“Okay,” I say bluntly leaving things there. Customer service is clearly not what it once was. Up until this conversation, I had worked out under the happy illusion that gym instructors keep an eager eye out, just waiting for a struggling member that needs advice. But, no. It seems that the young gym instructors of today are into Tetris and MSN. Still can't blame the poor bastards, they do basically nothing for hours on end, everyday, in near social isolation.
Out of the relative safety of the male changing rooms, I'm now mingling with both sexes. The fairer sex, women, have a somewhat different attitude to the gym. They view it as they do most things, as a social activity. As I take a slurp of water from the fountain, I catch sight of one such example. Melanie, I think she's called.
For such a regular gym goer, Melanie is in dreadful shape. She's tall, about 5'11, has dyed blonde hair and is a good fourteen stone, size 16 /18 perhaps. She's here every time I'm here and doesn't seem to get the main goal of the place; that is to get fit. As I wipe my mouth, I see her get off the stepper, having completed the first part of her fitness routine for the evening.
“Bloody-hell!” She cries. “That's seriously hard work”. Melanie struggles to keep her thoughts to herself.
“You were only on there for five minutes,” Liam pipes up. “What level were you on?”
“Level 3”. Melanie answers. “I had to keep it low, my feet kept slipping”.
Melanie looks up and starts getting into Hollyoaks, which is displaying subtitled on one of the six LCD TVs. Like a toddler, she's mesmerised. That is until she spots her friend.
“Hi!! How are you? So nice to see you!?!” She enthusiastically cries to her friend.
“I'm great. How are you after the work dinner the other night?” Melanie's friend replies.
“I'm well, but you know me, I ate way too much again. That carrot cake was too hard to resist”.
I zone out of Melanie's conversation and warm up for 15 minutes on the exercise bike. As I slow down to finish on the bike, I look round and see Melanie. She’s finished talking to her friend and has turned her attention to Liam. Somewhat trapped in his role of gym instructor, Liam is the object of her flirting for the next 10 minutes. After which Melanie walks out of gym, with a whopping five minutes of gentle exercise completed. ‘Astonishing’, I think. However, more astonishing still, I see Melanie clamber into a top-of-the-range BMW Z4 sports car.
I don't mean to sound bitter, but how can she afford such a wonderful sports contraption? What on earth can she possibly do for a living? Perhaps I’ll never find out. I have my suspicions that, during the negotiations, the car dealer gave in, simply to get rid of her.
With my warm up on the exercise bike completed, I limber up, defiantly stretching as I walk over to the weights. This is where the serious business starts; where men who you never see in the changing room practise their art, the art of, err, lifting heavy things. They take it more seriously than life itself. Some work in packs “spotting” each other, some stay alone.
I spot a conjoined pair, whilst pumping some moderate iron. Of the two, there is always a master and an apprentice.
The master is clearly a gym junkie with muscles in places where, well, I have fat. He leads the pumping and sets the weights for his junior apprentice.
“Now what I've done for you, is, I've put you straight up to 70kg” He says in his Mockney accent.
The apprentice, who I assume is a work colleague - and gym-virgin press-ganged into tonight's workout - looks more than a little nervous.
“Are you sure this a good starting point? I've not been to the gym for a while”.
“Yeah, course it is. In ‘Health and Fitness’ they say you should always lift weights that are too heavy for you to lift.” He confidently barks back.
Whilst I slowly and carefully pull down my 45kgs, I can't help but laugh. What illogical nonsense, I think. I watch as the poor bloke's eyes nearly pop out as he manages just five repetitions. I have a feeling we won't be seeing him at the gym again. In fact, he'll struggle to move tomorrow.
“Not bad! Not BAD!” His dark master yells. He quickly hops onto the bench and has a go himself, confidently pushing the weight 12 times. Clearly, this was just an exercise of showing his colleague how strong he is.
As I move on to the next piece of equipment, I think about how odd the weights section of the gym is; what with the ‘pairs’ barking orders at each other, whilst throwing about ‘Top Gun’ style homoerotic encouragement, and, then, the solo weightlifters who take sneaky looks at one another. Much like my brief encounter with Archie, I feel myself sucked in and although I don't want to, I can't help but take a look at what others are doing. Before I get too deep into this culture, I move away. I accelerate to the treadmills.
Now, sadly, I've never been the fastest runner, but at least, I like to think, I try. Today is not my day. Whilst putting my all in, a German “machine” rolls up next to me. This is the antithesis of Melanie. She's about 5'4, with sharp dyed red hair and has serious running gear on. Without an ounce of fat on her body, she boasts a strong Bavarian look. She soon catches up with me speed wise, but to add insult to injury, she takes out a book whilst running.
Here I am giving it my all. Thoughts of ‘not falling off’ occupy one side of my mind and the heavy will to ‘not to get a stitch’ absorb the other. Meanwhile, the girl is literally doing two things at once. I notice that as she reads, she even turns the pages athletically! I slow down as she speeds up. Then suddenly ‘Beep beep. Beep beep’. She takes a phone call via means of a cunningly concealed hands-free kit, and as I suspected reveals her strong German accent.
“Dieter,” she says.
Unfortunately, I can only hear half the conversation. My mind is seriously intrigued by the other.
“You make sure they are ready, I don't want things to go wrong like last time”.
Another pause, whilst my ears tune in.
“Make sure you remember to pack the batteries.”
“Oh and I hope it'll be good and hard. Yes, a real good treat, yeah?”
Unlike Melanie, whose occupation I have little idea of, I have strong feelings that the German works in the sex industry. Perhaps some kind of dominatrix...
Dejected by my comparable lack of success on the treadmill, I move to my last exercise of the evening – the rower. As I get closer to the Concept 2 machines, I realise that my luck is out. It looks like I'll be rowing next to the worst possible “work-out buddy” imaginable.
It's the dreaded “sex-man”!!
Now I'm certain that you're wondering what puts the ‘sex’ in sex-man. Is it perhaps a virile look and appearance? No. Is it a comical Ron Jeremy beard and haircut? No. Is it an embarrassingly ‘always erect’ weener? No. Though, in fact that would be rather funny.
It's far worse than this. The sex-man is known as the sex-man due to the over exorbitant grunts, groans and, well, quite frankly, sex noises that he makes whilst exercising. Sadly, for me, I'm going to hear these first hand tonight.
I row. A subtle “Errrrrrr” bellows out from intercourse man. As his row gets more intense, his vocalisations build up.
“Errr ohhh errrrrrr, hooowwwwlll errr.” It gets worse. As the grunts grow, his face goes bright red.
“Hoowl howl ohh ohh ohhh ohhh ohhhhhhh”
As I begin to row faster, I find myself caught up in it.
“Haaa haa haaa haaa haa”
My heart rate rises, I begin to sweat and I start to make my own, albeit far quieter, exertion noises.
“Haw haw” I gently murmur. I'm certain no one can hear the noises but me, but, as sex-man and I row like a game of tennis, our noises fall into a weird symmetry. We go faster and faster. In fact, as I look at his bright red face with all the sweat, sounds and grunting in the air, I actually feel like I'm having sex with him.
Things heat up as bonk-man goes into overdrive and nears the end of his workout.
“Err err ohhh ohhh hooowwwlll, hooo hooo hooor”
“Haw haw,” I can't help myself. Shit, I'm being pulled in. I feel like this angry-looking, bald, red man is violating me.
“Grrrrrrrrrroaaaaaaaaann,” goes shag-man.
“Haw haw,” I weakly omit.
“Oooohhhh ohhh ohh,” sex-man grunts his part.
“Haw haw haw,” I meaker.
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh yeah,” sex-man releases on his finish.
Beep, beep beeeeeeeep.
Our workout finishes in tandem. Sex-man is worn out and panting. It would not surprise me at all, if he came in his pants, right there and then, on the rower. We exchange an awkward glance. I feel unclean and abused.
I end my work out with a stretch. It’s grunt, groan and pant free. I get in my car and drive home. I am pleased to have completed another awkward workout at the gym.
Grubstick Recommends:
Download MP3: Roxy Music – Virginia Plain (courtesy of jonashellstrom.se)
Friday, 20 February 2009
Gig Review: Zombie Zombie – The Late Review....
Zombie Zombie, Freebutt, Wednesday 28th January 2009
In the midst of mud and cancelled acts, Zombie Zombie blew my mind at Bestival. Nothing could have prepared me for the wild enthusiasm of Cosmic Neman and Etienne Jaumet. The security had no idea how to get them off stage. It was brilliant, charming and cooler than fuck.
Despite this, deep inside a fear worm wriggled; was it a one off? The Freebutt is now one of the worst venues on earth. Once it was the best. Could the poor environment induce a hideous failure from this fine French duo? Hell, no.
Give these guys a stage and they will party. They probably party in their own bedrooms. As long as there are analogue synthesizers and drums, Zombie Zombie will frighten the foundations of both buildings and souls, and the world will be happy. It’s weird, wonderful, downright dirty and it’ll make you grin until it hurts.
Jaumet gives it the big fish, little fish. Jaumet give his all. For he is Lord of Theremin and he is Lord of the Synth. And he is the Lord of the Dance say I. Surrounded by towering equipment, he is grinning, bouncing, tapping buttons, twiddling knobs and letting his hands channel frequencies like a man enraptured. His enthusiasm is relentless and it shines through like healing rays of sunshine.
And then there are the beats. The goddamn beats. Late last year, I sang Cosmic Neman’s praises. Check out the Herman Dune review. Cosmic Neman is Néman Herman Düne. It’s the very same dude. This guy is the God of Drumming. His distorted to fuck vocals complete the act.
The act is complete. It is so fucking complete. I am still enthusing 23 days later.
Fabpants Recommends:
Download MP3: Zombie Zombie - Driving This Road Until Death Sets You Free (courtesy of stopokaygo.typepad.com)
In the midst of mud and cancelled acts, Zombie Zombie blew my mind at Bestival. Nothing could have prepared me for the wild enthusiasm of Cosmic Neman and Etienne Jaumet. The security had no idea how to get them off stage. It was brilliant, charming and cooler than fuck.
Despite this, deep inside a fear worm wriggled; was it a one off? The Freebutt is now one of the worst venues on earth. Once it was the best. Could the poor environment induce a hideous failure from this fine French duo? Hell, no.
Give these guys a stage and they will party. They probably party in their own bedrooms. As long as there are analogue synthesizers and drums, Zombie Zombie will frighten the foundations of both buildings and souls, and the world will be happy. It’s weird, wonderful, downright dirty and it’ll make you grin until it hurts.
Jaumet gives it the big fish, little fish. Jaumet give his all. For he is Lord of Theremin and he is Lord of the Synth. And he is the Lord of the Dance say I. Surrounded by towering equipment, he is grinning, bouncing, tapping buttons, twiddling knobs and letting his hands channel frequencies like a man enraptured. His enthusiasm is relentless and it shines through like healing rays of sunshine.
And then there are the beats. The goddamn beats. Late last year, I sang Cosmic Neman’s praises. Check out the Herman Dune review. Cosmic Neman is Néman Herman Düne. It’s the very same dude. This guy is the God of Drumming. His distorted to fuck vocals complete the act.
The act is complete. It is so fucking complete. I am still enthusing 23 days later.
Fabpants Recommends:
Download MP3: Zombie Zombie - Driving This Road Until Death Sets You Free (courtesy of stopokaygo.typepad.com)
