i made it into an i’m being good teeshirt. available here:
http://www.cafepress.com/inchug.17294113
nice
a

Posted by Andrew Clare on Monday, January 31st, 2005
(No Comments)

Addenda

And of course…fuck it. I feel so proud of everyone who’s contributed to the new issue of Plan B: It’s the first time I’ve ever been able to see either Plan B or Careless Talk Costs Lives from afar, having had little to do with its creation; and man! I can see why those Swedish journalists have voted us their favourite music publication. It’s great! I’ve given a shout out to Frances, Andrew et al in my editorial, but I also wanna say how honoured I am to have SF Said and Nick Bradshaw looking out for the film section. Nice. Very nice indeed.

And here’s another chart (this one’s taken from my iPod):

The Diskettes - Art
Bettye Swann - Sweet Dreams
The Legend! - Seattle Pt 3
The Long Blondes - Christmas Is Cancelled
The Blue Minkies - Christmas Means Nothing Without Presents
Ramones - Danny Says
Herman Dune - You Could Be A Model, Goodbye
The Dresden Dolls - Coin-Operated Boy
C.O.C.O - Supercool
Little Anthony & The Imperials - Shimmy Shimmy Ko Ko Bop
M Ward - Deep Dark Well

Posted by Everett True on Saturday, January 29th, 2005
(2 Comments)

The problem with weblogs is that when you’re busy you don’t want to post. You’re having fun.
And when you’re not busy, you don’t want to post either because what’s the point?

My life has certainly fallen into the former category recently: Lou Barlow dedicating a song to me obliquely at his in-store at Sonic Boom (”I’m meeting up with someone later, and he was one of the few people to like the last Sebadoh album) and later remarking “bastard” as a recorded version of myself launches into my diatribe against repeating songs more than once being “dishonest”; Mount Rainier in all its snow-capped glory looming large over the International District as I catch the endless bus to Beacon Hill and a rendezvous with two former Stranger art editors…

Liquid 45s with the girls from kill rock stars, Tobi chortling at the story of my ‘offensive’ live show at the Crocodile with Steve Fisk (keyboards) and Peter Bagge (drums); last night and all the crazed aging drag queens that we had to suffer singing awful karaoke before The Gossip played a set that soaked right through my parka, my sweater and my denim shirt, Beth lithe and inspirational as she strutted out onto the catwalk surrounded by gays and straights of every hue; the hushed, secret sounds of Woelv and Phil Elvrum’s Mount Eerie (two separate occasions - one drowned by idle banter from drinking Seattle ‘hipsters’, the other lapped up and enjoyed by Olympic ’straights’)…

A four-hour conversation with Kurt’s old guitar tech Earnie Bailey wherein anecdote followed enjoyable anecdote - it ended in near tears like all these damn interviews, but there’s kind of no avoiding that; conversations about architecture and a midnight visit to the most expensively built structure, inch-for-inch, in Seattle; classical music association with Matt Ward and his charming wife in Portland: conversations with Corin Tucker wherein she admitted that she could well have remembered an ancient Heavens To Betsy review wrongly…

Train rides through Tacoma and Pleasantville, the scenery breathtaking and heartbreaking simulataneously; the excitement of speaking to Charlotte by telephone the afternoon she discovered the sex of our future child (it’s a boy!); numerous cups of coffee but not too much alcohol, thankfully; Eric Erlandson bewailing the existence of a massive hole in his LA floor; a visit to the EMP with Danny Bland (”I cut a Jackson 5 single off the back of a cereal box in 1972 and I’ve been in music ever since”): my wonderfully patient intern Natalie (Slim Moon: “You do send out your male interns to do your grocery shopping, don’t you?” Me: “I fucking cook for my interns, Slim!”)…

My other wonderfully supportive interns Ari and Abby, and of course bouncy wind-up ‘tonic for the troops’ Bill, and Katie (”How’s the son doing?” she remarks one day, excited to be discovering new stuff about Nirvana. “Son? What son?” I ask confused. “Frances Bean…” she replies); my new iPod and hearing the same Diskettes and Long Blondes and Bettye Swann and Willie Hightower and Specials songs in so many different order…

Lance Bangs giving me a stack of ace Nineties videos (Sonic Youth, White Stripes, Jackass, Spike Jonze and way more; a surreal conversation with Dylan Carlson (Earth, shotguns, drugs) where afterwards he admitted that he couldn’t recall ever meeting me before; Cali DeWitt coming all the way up from LA to hang out and watch his brother’s band Pretty Girls Make Graves (whose singer has sheer animal magnetism); Astoria in all its spooky Goonies glory, where me and Rich and Heide watched an evening of high school poetry that bedevilled and amused us, especially when a girl dressed as a Southern belle came out and ridiculed the entire roster with her spelt-out precise p-o-e-m-s…

An email from Ben Blackwell praising my contribution to The Stranger ‘regrets’ issue and taking me to task for making the role of the music journalist sound “glamorous and exciting, when we all know it’s the exact opposite”; a late night text from Nathan (The Gossip) telling me that The Legend! rules punk OK (or something); Calvin Johnson live on stage, quipping and poking fun at the venue’s owners, so deadpan droll he cracks himself up, and seductive as all hell for unwary ladies; jamming with Leayton Beazer on a Roland synthesizer; being given kudos left right and way the hell out of centre from people I totally respect and love…

Yeah. Sorry. I haven’t really had the time to post.

Posted by Everett True on Saturday, January 29th, 2005
(2 Comments)

loose lips won’t print it! maybe it’ll make a nice teeshirt or something.

Posted by Andrew Clare on Saturday, January 29th, 2005
(4 Comments)

Presenters: Stephanie Goodman, Katia Barrett and Hot Pants Anne
Electro, excitement and a lot of mistakes.

(more…)

Posted by on Thursday, January 27th, 2005
(No Comments)

I’m in exile, modern style. My life - or, at least, the things that make me Frances, the books and records and old clothes and instruments - is in boxes, on a floor in Hackney Wick, while I wait for the person in ‘my’ new room to move out. An unforseen complication: that’s fucking Hackney for you. Borough of inefficiency and wanderers. This time last week I was having an existential crisis about what to keep and what to throw, what it means to still have your teenage diaries and relics from exes in cupboard at the age of 27 (don’t answer that, I know ‘ that you are a sad fuck’ is probably the appropriate response); now I just hope I have clean socks and the charger for the mobile. My guitar and a bottle of shampoo are in a top floor flat in Manor House, N4, watched over by two delinquent cats and, hopefully, Alice R. Me, my powerbook, a few CDs, Eric Hobsbawm’s Age of Revolution and lots of paper, we are in E2, London’s fashionable E2, rescued by the shining light of wonderfulness that is Sophie. My new toothbrush and my Promethea book are in the guardianship of my sweetheart in Bow, E3. A few sets of book proofs I’m working on are in Wallington, somewhere near Croydon, SM6. Surprisingly, right now, only a few things bother me about this situation. One is the guitar. I packed my open tunings book and left the guitar because it felt even more like imposing than it already did, to bring a guitar round. I’m now craving it. I’m like, so where’s the guitar? Where are the instruments? Where is Sophie hiding them? The other thing is that while I’m here I’m condemned to wearing what’s in the bag, namely jeans, Converse, a selection of warm jumpers. That’s it. No boots, no gowns, no fancy jackets and vintage jewellery. I look serious and shabby; no messing, all in black. Forgot to pack any make-up. Am enjoying my new spartan look thus far, because I haven’t left the house, except for working, which doesn’t count. My world has shrunk agreeably small. Wireless internet is amazing. Writing is hard. Comets on Fire play tomorrow night and I’m to be there. Looking like this, unless I manage to raid the new house for something appropriately psych-rock to wear. I will go there, I resolve, reach into the clothes bag, and wear the first thing that comes to hand. It might be the red dress that looks a bit like a Jean Muir from the 70s, but it will probably be the army flying suit. If you see me there, be kind.

Posted by Frances May Morgan on Thursday, January 20th, 2005
(1 Comment)

“Rob Sonic is a sonic ordinary guy. He is the entropic consciousness; the meandering by-product; the exudate of now.”

(more…)

Posted by on Sunday, January 16th, 2005
(No Comments)

OK, so I’m moving house. Does anyone want:

Broken Korg Poly61 synthesiser (needs love; will still sound like Yes even when it’s fixed, but has had MIDI refit so you can use it as a 5-octave MIDI keyboard if you so desire. If you get all the keys working again, that is)
a million used jiffy bags
huge bag of red lentils
lots of scripts for plays (remnants of theatre studies A-level)
lots of other books I’m never gonna read
all those rubbish post-rock records
the promo ‘no’ box - take the lot, it’s yours, free.
beautiful old brown leather chair that needs reupholstering - like I’m ever gonna do it
begonia plant, ailing
nice picture of Bristol suspension bridge
assorted vintage scarves and bags and hats
loads of other old shit that I’ve been carrying around with me way too long?

Come and get ‘em. Please.

Posted by Frances May Morgan on Saturday, January 8th, 2005
(8 Comments)

My wife’s been quiet of late, closeted in her boudoir in a psychedelic floral kimono with the senile kitty trying to find new ways to sprawl out on the iBook without her noticing. The other day I braved the coffee cups and and went in for a visit, enticed by the bleepy blurpy 8-bit sounds emitting from those ostentatious speakers she likes so much. Apparently it was this band here. Don’t they sound lovely. And doesn’t she write nice.

Posted by Frances May Morgan on Friday, January 7th, 2005
(4 Comments)

Top 10 Listening (not on iTunes)

1) M Ward - Paul’s Song (Matador)
2) The Blow - Hey Boy (Slender Means Society States Rights)
3) The Beakers - Four Steps Towards A Cultural Revolution (K)
4) The Legend! - This Town (CDr)
5) COCO - Supercool (K)
6) Quasi - When I’m Dead (Up)
7) Tom Waits - Romeo Is Bleeding (live) (Chicken Head)
8) Little Anthony And The Imperials - Over The Rainbow (Special Music Company)
9) Smoosh - Rad (Pattern 25)
10) Blackouts - Writhing (K)

Oh my. The mountains surrounding Seattle today, viewed from the top of the Space Needle, could barely be more gorgeous: so breathtaking and sharp and icy-white and blue as to take all remaining breath away (that not stolen by the wind). Even Mt St Helens was visible, nestling to the behind of Mt Rainier, so proud and noble in its glory. Oh my. Such clarity of vision. Such diamond fresh air. Such happiness.

In the EMP, we were transfixed by the sight of Britney’s red PVC catsuit, filled out by a mannequin with no breasts and broad shoulders: “Even I could have modelled that better,” remarked our host Danny Bland sanguinely. Maybe it was to cheer up all the visiting female teenage college students. We loved the metallic snake boots belonging to KISS, and the suit big enough for three men that once adorned the frame of The Notorious B.I.G. There was even a little thrift store chic - courtesy of a Kurt Cobain T-shirt. Elsewhere, if you were a Dylan or Hendrix fan you’d have been well pleased: not so much if you thought females have something to contribute to popular culture (Olympia merits barely a glass case). Our favourite exhibits: the Jimi Hendrix footage of swinging London in the Sixties, and the ‘make your own music’ interactive studios where both us singularly failed to remember a single recognisable chord sequence. I still hate the massive guitar sculpture, though.

Posted by Everett True on Wednesday, January 5th, 2005
(4 Comments)