Filtered oompah trance-out disco darkness weird driving machine factory music = Doppelschnitt . You have to tread carefully with post Harmonia/Cluster stuff, but this particular offering is suitably unheimlich and cute in equal measures.

I must be getting better, because this is almost pop music.

As I got iller and iller as the week went on I didn’t want to listen to anything nice or comforting. Abstraction suits fever; noise suits infection; sequencers suit viruses. That was my theory, as I huddled under my blanket trying to transcribe interviews and plan stuff but really not getting all that far.

Somehow, though, I must have locked into some kind of editorial autopilot function, because a lot of stuff did actually get done, commissioning and so forth. I read back emails I don’t really recall sending, and they’re not quite the ravings of someone with killer throat flu, although I detect a slight paranoid tone in some of them, which I think was a symptom. At the height of my illness I became a more compulsive than usual internet botherer; I mean, I hardly ever just sit and look for stuff, follow random leads, waste time. But somehow, because it was the only physical exertion I could actually muster, I ended up late one night doing the University of California Absolute Pitch Auditory Test. They are - or they were - trying to ascertain the genetic origins, if any, of absolute pitch, and I thought, well, it is my duty, is it not, to help ‘em out, so I filled in the form about my musical background and all that, and clicked on ’start test’.

It was a real clever one too, plenty of stuff to catch you out, but I was relieved to note that I still had perfect pitch (even after all those years using headphones and going to noise gigs), and that I was an AP-1. That, I think, is like the best you can be, the top cluster. Sweet. Thanks UCSF! What this information means, and how it will benefit me or anyone else, is beside the point. It was just a funny thing to do in the throes of illness, to prove to myself one of my faculties was still intact.

Got an email from a friend asking for a mix CD. He wanted to know what was going through my ears and my mind, those were his words. English is his second language; I like the way he uses it.

Posted by Frances May Morgan on Thursday, September 30th, 2004
(No Comments)

Damn, I knew I should have gone to Fabric on Saturday night, even though recently I’ve hated going out to big places like that and I was already coming down with the nasty throat illness I seem to have now got properly. I should have gone to Fabric and heard Ellen Allien playing records. Should have done that, should have braved the scary club and cancelled the other arrangements, and just listened to the music. The lady’s a bit of a genius.

Talking of the other kind of fabric, the kind I buy from Hamid For Fabrics, I read Contemporary magazine the other day and there was a fantastic article by Emily Bick about Julian and Sophie’s school of pattern cutting. If it really is as straightforward as they say it is, then I’ll be wearing all my own creations by Christmas. Mind you, they’ve only tested it out so far on RCA students. Unfair advantage there, I think. If it really is as punk rock and DIY as that, then spatially challenged writer-musicians like me are the perfect guinea pigs.

I’ll start here and see what happens….
http://freespace.virgin.net/sophie.cheung/school/basics/index.htm

Just as long as I don’t end up looking like Chicks on Speed.

Posted by Frances May Morgan on Tuesday, September 28th, 2004
(1 Comment)

There was something about the way the Clogs album was recorded that made me think I could hear breathing behind me. The cat, maybe, or the plants. But no, the cat was sleeping upstairs, dreaming of its glory days biting through the jugular veins of Sclater Street rats and spraying the walls of the live-work space it used to live in with rodent blood. And I can’t hear plants, even with my new improved hearing. If any plant could breathe audibly it would be my sempervivum, on the windowsill, looking at me all underwater-like and purply green. But it was just the music. The sound of wood. You could hear everything and some more besides; it was a beautiful recording. When I look through my 1950s binoculars at the cornices on the church tower, that’s what it sounds like.

When I cleared up the house I listened to Alms by Re: and it made me feel safe because it sounded like the city. Like the squat that caught fire the other day. I mourned the loss of the 70s mosaic shop sign that said Jon’s Scooters, and hoped that the alsatians and the white cat and the dude with the sideburns who all run the music shop next door to it hadn’t suffered any damage as a result. but their disco lights above the door were still flashing and the blue acoustic guitar was still in the window. Re: sounded like the little burnt-out shop and the regenerated tower blocks both. It sounded like the greasy-grey water in the canal and the enormous old film studio now turned into luxury Ballardian office-flats that towers over it. Sometimes buildings make you feel safer than humans; likewise, sometimes noise makes you feel safer than voices. Sometimes the city feels so safe I think I’ll never leave.

In the bookshop I found Peacock Pie by Walter de la Mare. It reminded me of being a child in a house where there was a lot of dust; of watching the dust in the sunlight and reading for hours with my back against the radiator and my fringe in my eyes. The poems in the book lived in a world where everything was sketched dark and scratchy from the pen of Edward Ardizzone and lit only by fireside, moon, gaslamp, small patches of sun through trees. I could see me then, and me now, and I had that still moment of knowing I was same person always.

At the party last night I danced in satin shoes and purloined Ritter Sport with one hand while spinning dancehall, country, high-life, psych-rock with the other. It was fun, but when I got tired I had to go home on my own and there was no-one here to hassle. I tried to toast a bagel and then forgot to eat it. I thought about the next issue of Plan B, blank pages ready already for filling. David revived his Friendster profile, and in the process seems to have broken the whole of Friendster because now it doesn’t work. I wrote him a testimonial and cannot for the life of me remember what it said.

Posted by Frances May Morgan on Monday, September 27th, 2004
(5 Comments)

I show up at The Garage determined not to be a jaded old muso wanker, which often precludes me being such, unfortunately. I can’t help it; gigs at venues like this bring out the cynic in me. At first it seems like I’m gonna be, as there’s a support band that hurt my ears and make me wish I was at home wrapped in a blanket listening to Alan Stivell. Why, I wonder, are these people trying to hard and sounding so lame? There’s nothing worse; all that straining and yelling and perforated throats and six-string scree and for what? For a kind of harsh, hurting, annoying…nothing. I don’t know who they are, and have no desire to.

And then TV On The Radio start up with a low, simmering rumble, punctuated with hand percussion and thundering drums, ominous and dirty and YEAH HERE WE GO THAT’S MORE LIKE IT. We find a space that isn’t a gangway and forget about the horrible sweaty indie pit that is The Garage, and even though we’re way too far from the stage, we’re loving it. See, I was worried I wouldn’t like them. Fuck knows why, when they’ve got the closest thing to Malcolm Mooney on vocals. Fuck knows why, when they make me wish I was on a dancefloor kickin’ up my heels (not a sticky indie venue floor, where your heels just get welded to beer and flyers for bad clubs). Fuck knows why, when they’re one of the first proper full-on organic tense loose meshing-together-falling-apart bands I’ve seen in ages.

I stand so corrected it’s funny. I’m not even standing corrected, I’m dancing corrected. I like it when that happens. We agree that they’re too far away, that they could be bigger and louder, but nonetheless Merek is inspired to grow his hair BIG this winter, and I am inspired to, well, go home and listen to their album all over again.

Only I think I’ll save it for the morning, when I might need some of that righteous energy they have coming out of every finger and toe. So I go over to the shelves of music and try something quiet and nice. But, oh fuck it, look, it’ll have to be Fela, who sounds so godamm wiry and ace when you play him late night intstead of daytime (which is usually when he goes on in this house).

“My new favourite band!” said Kraftwerk Man, who I bumped into after the show, as I was unlocking my bike. He does have a real name, but we once had a stunning dance-off at a Kosmische Kraftwerk party so he’ll forever be Kraftwerk Man to me. High praise from the London Krautrock Massive, then. Not that TV On The Radio need it, mind.

Posted by Frances May Morgan on Wednesday, September 22nd, 2004
(4 Comments)

Back home. The jetlag kicked in some time stopover in Atlanta, and hasn’t ceased since. Managed to sleep for almost 15 hours last night.
Final day in Seattle was sad, hazy, hot, fun and reassuring. Decide I need to go out there and live for another three months, to help write the projected Nirvana book… I’d prefer to write 20 chapters centred around the 20 people most crucial to both my own development and Nirvana’s in the late 80s/early 90s, leaving it in the first person, but fairly sure my editor at Omnibus won’t go for that, so I’ll have to be smart. Not sure I even have a list of 20 right now: Tobi, Calvin, Nikki, Krist, Slim, Bruce, Steve, Craig, Anton, Steve, Stephen, Eric, Pat, Dave, Courtney, Jon, Charles, Bruce, Jon… Oh yeah. I mean, 200 obviously.
All these thoughts occur to me walking back up Pike - or is it Pine? - from Nordstrom’s, over the Interstate 5 bridge, back to Bimbo’s on Capitol Hill to meet my old flatmate Craig. The stretch seems familiar now, expecially with clouds looming over the mountains and Space Needle, especially with a flight looming and tiredness and alcohol deprivation competing equally for my attention. We call in at The Stranger and Dan Savage shakes my hand, while Nipper offers me his ass. We call in at The Stranger and once again I’m reminded of the value of companionship in a warm office, among friends like Brad and Jennifer and Charles and Sean. Man. I don’t wanna go mushy on yr ass. The Sub Pop offices, at least, have long held the merit of containing few I know from - what? - 15 years ago!
I receive an email from Diana in Olympia taking issue with the fact I slept badly at her (extremely hospitable) house, and so I would like to point out that it was the over-enthusiastic gardener’s fault, not hers or her spare room’s. She played me The Blow and Tracey And The Plastics, and I’m grateful. What? I didn’t make the bed? Well, that’s a rarity, sorry. I’m normally fairly conscientious.
Hmm.
Stores in both Seattle and Olympia (Danger Room, Sonic Boom, etc) are very keen to stock both old copies of Careless Talk and Plan B and of course that’s gratifying. I fail to call any of my new friends on the final evening, sadly: a right-on lecture from Krist Novoselic and some ex-DC hardcore punk who public speaks like he should be a Southern preacher (no, this is not a good thing: I’m talking heightened patronisation) at the University about the importance of tactical voting (etc) puts paid to the early part, and I forget to take out my phone book, instead misplace my glasses and my gift for my wife several times. Still, decent shots of Maker’s Mark with Krist and folk in a U-district restaurant follow… a few hours earlier I’d finally succumbed and did an interview about Nirvana on film, for a BBC2 documentary, and my rejoinder to what I felt Nirvana’s legacy was, was particularly appreciated.
“I’d like to think it was more people falling in love with bands like Young Marble Giants, Raincoats, Beat Happening, Marine Girls…” I mused. “But sadly, I think the lasting legacy is that the success of Nirvana enabled bands like Pearl Jam and Smashing Pumpkins (and Good Charlotte, and Libertines) and Silverchair to get massive, and for Courtney Love to get rich…”
Whatever. I was actually upbeat for most of it.
So, back in Brighton.
My wife has written a fine review of Detroit Cobras for the Plan B website that just makes me even more jealous that I didn’t see the show last week. Chris points out that we singularly failed to mention same website ANYWHERE in the new issue. Me and Andrew are agreed that the design on the second issue is far superior to the first. Er. That’s it. I need bed. Again.
Long meeting today

Posted by Everett True on Monday, September 20th, 2004
(No Comments)

There are times I wish I was in America, like when I hear about The Ex playing, or Comets on Fire, or this here tour
http://www.arthurmag.com/news/

I don’t even like the last Ghost album all that much. I just want to go to these shows. Anyone want to review them for us?

Posted by Frances May Morgan on Saturday, September 18th, 2004
(1 Comment)

Time slows and speeds up at random. Images of the past flash before my eyes. Faces, unfamiliar and familiar, banter.
I have a new friend, Anna Oxygen, who gave me a ride from Olympia earlier today and serenaded me with sweet cover versions while I was feeling sleepy and hungover in her apartment. She dances on stage to electro-pop and entreats the crowd to do the same, believes in an astral plane, has cute pets, and straddles the Olympia/Seattle divide unnervingly. She recounts the story of Calvin’s crash night for me because she was part of that tour - and I didn’t realise that Calvin was referringly directly to that evening when he told the story of the gas pump handle left in the side of the van door for 20 minutes at Yeah! fest. She wears a tuxedo imprinted on a T-shirt that she picked up from a thrift store four days earlier, because it smells like someone she might want to make out with.
Today is mellow and sad, after the news of Johnny Ramone - and also leaving Olympia without a goodbye. Al Larsen promises to send an edited version of the album. Fin Fabulous is safely tucked up in Nikki and Jay T’s papoose. Calvin is still Calvin. I decide someone needs to become obsessed with Tobi Vail, and that someone needs to understand context. I have drunk too much coffee and beer, once more. Not enough fruit, and too much garlic.

See a silver-haired Kathleen Wilson, and she instructs us fiercely not to go out on Capitol Hill without her.
“Don’t be cranky,” I chide.
“I’m not cranky,” she shoots back. “Just jealous.”
I like Kathleen a lot.

The evening is spent in a haze of merriment and snappy comebacks with Anna and Eric and Kelly and Jennifer Maerz - who is indeed both cute and smart and likes a handful of alcohol like I’d been warned a few years back, but never witnessed really before. My stomach is rumbling. Eric and Rhea have some very cute cats.

Posted by Everett True on Friday, September 17th, 2004
(5 Comments)

Still haven’t slept. Just heard the new about Johnny Ramone, and that’s sad. Very sad, especially after I was telling Maggie Vail that she was the inspiration behind me doing a Ramones book after the eulogy she sent out after Joey’s death. When I have time, I’ll write one for Johnny. Something to do with being the greatest punk rock guitarist ever, the way he decided on one certain style early on and never switched. The fights and the dedication and the obsession with fame (not musical). The haircut. The shoes. The denim. THE GODDAMN FUCKING RAMONES, dude. They’ve gone.

……………

Yesterday was very exciting: Al dropped off an already edited version of The Legend! Vs The Shady Ladies album, I got to sing two songs at the Bordeaux-Olympia Loveline’s Talent Show that took place in McCloud’s apartment (and that man is worth a blog to himself) - the entire rooom rocking forward and back gently, and crooning along in chilling harmony with my ‘death’ song: eating apples with honey at the Martin: chatting with Slim in Mexican restaurants about the debt this town owes to Tobi Vail: breakfast and brunch with new friends and old: depositing 20 copies of CTCL around town (Richard remind me that I owe you some money): no crazy drink and dance parties for the last two nights, but an equally crazy boy called Steve who was in a Hole covers band, finally exploding with relief now Eric’s left town and sending all those obsessed questions my way much to everyone’s amusement (even mine): recording again with Peter and Marissa and Marianne in a punk rock house somewhere I’ve never been, and racing through an astonishing number of drums/guitar/keyboard songs while a creepy Marilyn Monroe film played in the background: woken by the lawnmower outside Diana’s at 7.30am: more liquid 45 imbibed at the Brotherhood the previous night, dacing in the streets, wanna fly….

Posted by Everett True on Thursday, September 16th, 2004
(No Comments)

I like music again. Phew. Thank you, ‘Tower of…’ by Arthur Russell. Thank you Kano, Wasteland, Julie Doiron, COH, Khanate and the Ghanaian record shop on Ridley Road Market.

And the new Plan B looks very very nice. I haven’t read it properly yet because my wife’s stole it, but the glimpse I had made me proud as proud. The best bits were the bits I hadn’t seen before, like Andrew’s illo for my Can column: a tin with a rainbow in it! Awww! That’s exactly what they’re like, Can.

Posted by Frances May Morgan on Wednesday, September 15th, 2004
(No Comments)

Last night was insane: the Puppy Fat/Shady Gents posse knocking back large shots of liquid cocaine (Jagermeister, Rumpelmintz & Bacardi 151) before heading out for a dance party featuring BMX Bandits, Dexys Midnight Runners and some over-exuberant dancing which resulted in me breaking a coffee table, Maggie Vail helping lead festivities again, Chis O’Kane and Eric Erlandson (who was supposed to have left town) her trusty dance lieutenants, Hello Cuca - “I’m gonna jump your bones” supplying wired merriment and harsh rock sounds in the Yellow House’s basement, Aaron smashing down hard on a tower of shot glasses and breaking a few, stories swapped about Cows and The Day Everett True Became An Honourary Happy Monday, insults hurled around over whether Gibralter is a rock or an island (with monkeys, dude!), wandering around the entire day in a delirium haze of tiredness and tiredness (was this only last night?), a cowboy western swing band playing in the corner of the Brotherhood, the sassy waitress in the Bamboo telling me to fuck off after we’d traded insults about each other’s accents and then clapping her hand to her mouth in shock (and hey, we didn’t even start on Ani DiFranco), chants of ‘liquid 45′ starting up spontaneously, and often, Menthis and water hurled, bourbon and coffee to wash down the liquor, over to kill rock stars at lunch time to hang out with Maggie’s talking dog Jackson, my wife asking me to kick him on the phone (but only cos she wanted all my attention to herself), sessions set up with The Punks (Slim And His Interns is still the better name), eat sushi and teriyaki and then walk in the rain to K Records to grab hold of the CJ album and The Blow, back up to Nikki and Jay T’s on the hill and relaxing tea and fresh corn cake, swap magazines for calendars, over to the Farmer’s Market earlier to discuss cool regular jobs with Lois, and now we all need the space to calm down a little and wait for the recording session and the dance party to begin all over again…

Posted by Everett True on Wednesday, September 15th, 2004
(2 Comments)