Series of interviews for my Nirvana book: today, the sound engineers; a rambling, instructional foray through the Pacific Northwest and its history with Steve Fisk; a rambling, timely reminder of where the actual sound of Seattle ‘89 came from with Jack Endino; and a rambling, nostalgic look back through early tours and shows with my flatmate Craig Montgomery. We discover a book that seems to be entirely based round Craig’s reminisces - which he’d forgotten about - and quaff a little beer, as cats cosy up round the fire. It’s secure and warm here in the basement. If only my wife was here…

Last night, saw Neko Case dedicate a song to the Tacoma band she used to stalk (Girl Trouble), and drank Maker’s Mark in the company of Kim Warnick and her beaver-headed bandmates. Neko indicates she’s met me before - jellybeans were involved - and most of the people who speak to me are either a) Careless Talk fans, or b) people who had a vested interest in hating me last time I lived in town. Neko was fine; there were a few too many cowboy hats around for my liking; but fine. Her voice didn’t quite transport me as it so obviously did so many members of the sold out venue; and her cover of The Shangri-Las is certainly NOT to die for; but she’s pleasant enough, if pleasant is what you’re after.

Note that on the back cover of the Kurt Cobain biog, they can’t even spell the name of the cover photographer correctly.

Posted by Everett True on Tuesday, November 30th, 2004
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A whole week has just happened, maybe even two weeks. No, just one week. Space and time played tricks on me these last seven or however many days; a few times I confused night with day. I think even more than a few times. It seems like weeks since the magazine came out already, and as if the next one’s happening tomorrow, judging by the way I occasionally wake up worrying about it.

So there was this whole week that just happened. It was full of little missions and quests, tests and rewards, like some east London Choose Your Own Adventure story undertaken by foot, bicycle, 277 bus, the journey becoming as important as the destination, part of the adventure. It shocks me how soon memories build up surrounding the journey between one person and another; how quickly you map your new terrain. Then on Friday my bike got reversed into and the back wheel squashed almost in half. I was on the bike. I didn’t get squashed. I got angry though. The driver laughed, shrugged and drove down Defoe Road, warm and free in a large white estate car. Later, I saw Jack Rose playing a gig. I saw blips of sweat landing on the Hawaiian guitar he had stretched across his lap. It was like he was sculpting it, not playing it: sanding it down or something. Sounded clean as winter. On Saturday I walked in Wanstead Park in the dusk, past a ruined grotto and deep red rosehips, the air like one of John Atkinson Grimshaw’s fairy paintings, potent and visible and busy with tiny detail.

Return to equilibrium, almost reluctantly, with the new Sightings record. Smoothed out all my rough edges with niceness this week; Sightings scratches up the surface again and I like the texture; it fascinates. Strangely outward-facing, this record; not the tight-wound breaking-point toothache it could be. It’s wider sounding than I expected. It has spaces. I think it might be amazing but at the moment all I am is grateful to it for knocking me about a little. Tiring me out so that I’ll sleep well tonight, and try not to dream about stressful situations at Camber Sands, like I did last night.

I feel sorry when it finishes. I think it might be an amazing record, yes. Put it on again, figure out why I like it. No rest for the restless.

Posted by Frances May Morgan on Tuesday, November 30th, 2004
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I’m in Seattle.
It’s wet. It’s cold and it’s lonely. But here in my snug basement apartment I am warm. And I’ve just discovered iTunes.
Anyone out there reading this living in the Pacific Northwest? Drop me a line.

Time for Thanksgiving Dinner.

Posted by Everett True on Sunday, November 28th, 2004
(2 Comments)

here’s the one that got away

Posted by Andrew Clare on Wednesday, November 24th, 2004
(6 Comments)

you may not know this about me but the rest of the time i run this little record label called INFINITE CHUG. anyway, the last year or so i’ve been rattling on to anyone who’ll listen that the whole broadband/mp3/filesharing revolution will be a good thing for independent labels because after an initial slow painful death they’ll realise they’ve been released from an endless cycle of having to manufacture and distribute their goods and charge money, etc, and just be able to give their music away for free on the internet.
anyway, so John Peel’s death kind of crystallised that idea in my mind and actually made me pull my finger out and get on with doing just that. So CHUG17 is the new Pine forest EP, it’s an internet only release and you can download it for free at
http://www.makirak.force9.co.uk/MP3/CHUG17_Pine-Forest_Rendered-Oysterless/
you can also download hi-res PDFs and print off your own inlay and traycard.
what’s it like? it’s two acoustic guitars and a kettle and the weather outside, in 5 movements. enjoy.

Posted by Andrew Clare on Monday, November 22nd, 2004
(8 Comments)

I am not condoning illegal activities. But some of them are really fun. Like you’re cycling home from work and it’s dark and suddenly - ka-BOOM! - the biggest firework you ever saw outside of Lewes explodes across the Dalston skies and you think, surely that’s not right. And you think, that’s fucking cool. And then another one, one of those screaming ones that takes the top end off your ears for a bit and sends your eyes into spirals. One of those, you know. And then some red and blue showers of sparks above the council flats and church spires, dangerously near. You take a left instead of your usual right, chasing the lights, until you come to the little playground flanked by houses and a railway bridge, and you see a crowd of people gathered on the pavement, while in the playground lights like fireflies are flickering in the dark around the climbing frame. “We thought you were the old bill!” shouts a voice - a reference to your blue-white bike lights flashing gamely against the fire in the sky. You laugh hysterically, and turn the lights off, and a woman’s voice says “come and watch!”, so you lean on your handlebars and smile at everyone and krrrrrrrrrkkkkkkksssshhhh goes the sky. The people of St Jude street are having their fireworks night and you’re suddenly invited. The fireworks are being set off in the tiny park by boys brandishing cans of Stella and lit cigarettes, silhouetted and clumsy, imps in hell. Their mums are watching from the pavement, anxious laughter in their voices as they yell “go on, son!” at their offspring. An apocalytpic magenta fountain roars suddenly from the ground and shoots of spumes of glow into the street as the boys run for cover. We pause, silent in case one of them’s been hurt. But they’re all ok. We breathe relief and start laughing again. The talk turns to market stalls and Christmas and you listen, watching them setting up rockets that oughtn’t - both by law and by regard for human safety - be used outside organised displays. Another run for cover from the boys, as this time a bronze-gold jet of exploding leafy sparks gallivants up beyond the streetlights, pauses, and does a slow-mo raindown of glittering, geometric detritus. The children next to you scream with joy and then pretend they didn’t. A van pulls up and a man leans out and shouts to one of the women. “SANDRA! Haven’t seen you in ages. What’s going on?” Parks the van in the street. Gets out. Watches too. A little traffic jam builds up and good-natured hoots sound among the crackles in the air. We hear some sirens. The man behind you murmurs that the police are on their way. No-one seems to mind. The sirens go away. We laugh at the thought of the police trying to find the source of the lights and the sounds and the sparkles. Most likely they’ve got better things to chase than London’s most gonzo mistimed fireworks show of the year. Most likely they’ve parked the car somewhere and are watching, as enthralled as we are. It’s time for you to go, so you say thanks and goodbye. As you cycle down the road the boys propel the last of their stash into the sky. It’s like neon light on broken glass and it speeds you home.

Posted by Frances May Morgan on Monday, November 22nd, 2004
(6 Comments)

Found this in my ‘misc work’ folder just now.
It was originally written as part of Tangents 50-word story series

1.
The boy stared into my eyes. ‘Sorry. I’m late,’ he lied. I hiccupped. His beard hurt like Neil Morrissey’s. ‘I ran all the way,’ he said. He wore dirty black jeans, and a scarf out of fashion even in the 50s. We embraced, turned on our heels and left.

2.
Communication. Every evening, IPC media moguls visit the offices of one of their leading brands and ask, ‘Where is the soul?’ They should sing it. ‘Where is the soul? Where is the soul?’ It could be a Top 40 smash, like Kylie – bubbling, drab, hurtful, dumb and accessible.

3.
One girl sleeps. Another moans. A woman, old, legs crossed, makes sketches as the train rattles through the night. No one notices: too busy, sleeping, moaning or chatting inanely into electronic devices. Someone chews meat. Gum disfigures seats. The lady throws the sketches away, unsatisfied.

4.
In the centre, crowds coagulate. Pizza slops down a front: a girl with lip studs and a smiley Nirvana T stumbles into the kerb. Many words are exchanged. I walk, eyes down, looking for pizza or a magazine. ‘How’s the coffee?’ ‘Piss weak.’

5.
Years ago, Jad stayed the night. We drank peppermint tea and laughed. In Cricklewood. The next day, he cut out an intricate paper heart. Photos were taken. He left the heart behind. It now hangs framed, backed by shiny silver, above our Victorian bed.

Posted by Everett True on Saturday, November 20th, 2004
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http://www.strangeattractor.co.uk/

Go to this. There is just about time if you leave….soon.

Enlightening, erudite speakers and strange sounds. Me DJ-ing. At some point.

Posted by Frances May Morgan on Friday, November 19th, 2004
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be thankful, you have no idea how close we came.

Posted by Andrew Clare on Friday, November 19th, 2004
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haven’t had much new to say

Posted by Andrew Clare on Friday, November 19th, 2004
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