tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78680820602772247202024-03-06T08:41:23.135+00:00And Before The First KissColinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.comBlogger189125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-42221955735886020712014-12-28T15:56:00.001+00:002014-12-28T15:56:19.183+00:00You just wanna tick some boxes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's been a good wee while since I last visited these familiar lands - some eighteen months or so - and whilst I could offer several (rather poor) excuses I won't even bother. Instead, I'll just present my annual 'best of' compilation (for both 2013 <i>and</i> 2014) and hope that makes up for being so absent. I hope to be around this pixel geography a bit more during 2015 but, aye, no promises I'm afraid. I'm still as obsessed as I once was with all things music; especially going to gigs and buying vinyl. Life just sometimes gets in the way of translating that into <i>words</i> about music. I'm sure you all know how that can be. Keep well and see you down the road.x<br />
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Various Artists - <a href="https://app.box.com/s/zjb3syf9molfifp36wkj" target="_blank">'The Best of 2013'</a><br />
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Various Artists - <a href="https://app.box.com/s/x7iiv1ll97xoyea01qkd" target="_blank">'The Best of 2014'</a><br />
-Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-44518536607790368202013-06-09T14:33:00.005+01:002013-06-09T14:42:20.094+01:00It's a long voyage back<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As well as being the title of a really good post-apocalyptic 1983 novel by a certain George Cockcroft (aka Luke <em>'Dice Man'</em> Rhinehart), 'Long Voyage Back' neatly summarises recent events in the continuing strangeness of my oddly symmetrical life. The most significant event to report, in a literal and unabashed manner, is that from the end of August I will be employed <a href="http://www.uws.ac.uk/home/">here</a> rather than <a href="http://www.strath.ac.uk/">here</a> (I also had an offer from <a href="http://www.northumbria.ac.uk/">this</a> institution to consider, at one and the same time, but... not this time around I'm afraid). As natives of our fine city know to be true, staying in Glasgow has a lot going for it just now... including a new <a href="http://www.dominorecordco.com/uk/albums/22-01-13/slow-summits/">Pastels</a> album, and even glorious sunshine of late. Gasp! Anyway, I'm not sure how I truly feel about being a 'Professor'. I mean, I'm just unbelievably grateful to have another (local) job to go to, let alone a promotion to boot. The status of 'Professor' has always appeared rather untoward and, well, a wee bit brash to me. I tend to think of Indiana Jones, or rather his eccentric Scottish father; you know, the bit in <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nf1bx37lh_M">that</a> film ('death by seagull'). Still, I've been in this game so long now perhaps it was about time to step up, collect the medal, and move on, especially as there was no choice... what with the <a href="http://www.heraldscotland.com/news/education/top-academic-s-attack-on-university-cuts-plan.13918469">redundancy</a> clock ticking away in a hurried fashion (June 2015 was the end-date, not so far away when you sit down and think about it). Sigh. I do fear for my immediate colleagues who will stay on, as well as staff in other parts of the University that do not especially have a technologically-focused remit or interest. Anyway, a day-return train to Paisley got me thinking and remembering: aged 17 I ran away from the East coast to the West coast and studied at the 'Tech' for two years. It was, in many ways, the intellectual-making of me; the School of Communist Studies in the guise of Applied Social Sciences. And now I am returning, some twenty-five years later. Gulp. It's a lifetime, for sure, but as my brother recently reminded me there is a big part of us that will <em>always</em> be 17, not least when we hear new music that makes our fingertips dance and our frowns turn upside down. So this is the soundtrack of our new found success, a C86 tune that was recorded just yesterday but harks back to a time when a cassette-tape could change your cosmological everyday world. And yes, I must try and write here more often, I know this to be true.</div>
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Just Handshakes - <a href="https://www.box.com/s/wbkh1y12ikk125qpn6ut">'Cut and Run'</a> (3.16)</div>
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<a href="http://justhandshakeswerebritish.bandcamp.com/">Purchase</a>. <a href="http://www.thegladcafe.co.uk/index.html">Gig</a>. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NQiMYZB2OfU">Adore</a>. <3</div>
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Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-71760898481809123312013-03-29T13:01:00.002+00:002013-03-29T13:01:36.870+00:00Does love sit cold until you put it somewhere?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<em>Fieldnotes #261</em></div>
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In a time almost forgotten the rusty big wheel will spin onwards; rotating left then right until a faint buzzing 'click' hints at a new start, a new fashion for 'Diamond Jim' to wear like he means <em>that kind</em> of business - a way to unlearn centuries of pretended, dastardly, evolution I suppose. An ill-fitting bolt coils right, a sugar-spark lifts the groove and a melody is unleashed upon a knowing world full of Lévi-Strauss wonder. But how much time is time enough 'in the field?'. It is not so much the length of stay, one suspects, but more the memories that travel back with you in a beaten-up wooden box to a lonely due-South port. How best to convey and account for the rituals, habits and customs that become part of a wider identity that is first assumed and then ultimately taken-as-read? The senses are well-trained, hoping against hope, to absorb, consume, digest in a faded-blue notebook with the aid of a knife-sharpened HB pencil that tucks behind an ear that should know better: the sights, smells, tastes and a delicate velvet touch that can know few intimate boundaries. This calls for an emotive description that is much less Geertz and altogether more Douglas; the foods the odours, the language, the dirt... a required vividness combined with a sensuality and sense of place/belonging. Ethnography is indeed many things and 'easy' is not one of them; but privilege certainly is. </div>
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Throwing Muses - <a href="https://www.box.com/s/w2efzt7kgiuyjlkhqa7s">'Two Step'</a> (4.35)</div>
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<a href="http://www.kristinhersh.com/">News</a>.</div>
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Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-47049113743600735312013-02-02T12:21:00.003+00:002013-02-05T11:25:35.955+00:00We're caught up in denying it all<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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An adolescent gull calls out playfully and performs seemingly impossible moves even a limber gymnast would baulk at. A light breeze from the East forces you to flutter-shut your tired twilight eyes. Once awoken, in a glimmer, you can't help but notice the way they just slip into each other's curved bodies; she gazes up at him with pounding hearts in her eyes whilst he just stares out, arms entwined, appreciating the serene beauty all around. It just seems so natural, so easy, relaxed. Is it really just like this, how it is meant to be? Contentment and happiness abounds as winds pick up and the Captain calls from below for more <span lang="tr" xml:lang="tr"><i>çay. </i></span>Thinking out across this stirred, sweet water, willing the sound of summer to approach in gradual yards and inches. They may be homeward bound by now, but a significant part of this happy couple is forever attached to the constant rippling and movement of this historic oceanic floor. It seems as if a whole shifting world beneath wishes for a future that may hold them good. If the outcome might be wished upon stars, and worked for in a hard-earned August sweat. It's the effort that may be their undoing, and the familiarity of self, other and I. </div>
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The Mary Onettes - <a href="https://www.box.com/s/h6jp57n6riyeqwb96j37">'Evil Coast'</a> (5.35)</div>
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<a href="http://www.themaryonettes.net/">Band</a> / <a href="http://www.labrador.se/indexn.php3">Label</a> / <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=udkGvzZdDVQ">Images</a> / The new album, 'Hit The Waves', is out on March 12th. :)</div>
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Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-45765042606902113552013-01-11T01:30:00.000+00:002013-01-11T11:38:25.859+00:00I wanna know where you are<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Where next? It's a gradual approaching essence. Small steps of glamour. An idea of what might yet be. Apropos the virtues of leaving solitude and longing beside a lipsticked glass at the bar come closing time. Fateful strides around this town at 2am, in certain company, witnessing a falling chimney pot and sirens all guns blazing. Mirrored, battered souls reflect much more than just shadows of a former self. The promise of lurid dancing streetlights familiarise this unknown terrain, such new cultured surroundings. In truth, it's a stability and comfort not known for sometime. And this is a good thing, right? A jagged left turn here leads to a contented right turn over there (checking for a green man first). Yes, one geography bleeds into another around here although your maps and markings all indicate this could be the way forward. So please march on; do not be afraid to take his hand again.</div>
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Wild Nothing - <a href="https://www.box.com/s/p06eyade8j3f55jm681n">'Golden Haze'</a> (3.26)</div>
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Pay a <a href="http://capturedtracks.com/artists/wildnothing/">visit</a>. Buy <a href="http://wild-nothing-nocturne.com/">'Nocturne'</a> (2012). Touring <a href="http://www.seetickets.com/Tour/WILD-NOTHING">England</a> in March.</div>
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Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-81808061548432489012013-01-06T22:05:00.002+00:002013-01-07T11:36:53.216+00:00This voice is ours<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It did not have to be this way. This maddening, quickening sense of urgency; a golden-rushed incident detailed, laid out to rest, among the leaves. A flickering finger stubbed out in the jaded mildew of <a href="http://8tracks.com/mirra_licht/collision-is-imminent">the year</a> just past. A crashing cymbal cascades off a distanced, challenging cliff. It is out of the traps and away down the distressed tattie driel; there is no mistaking that sweet thud of hope being filled to the brim with wine and roses (for all). It explodes; a thick shard of glass skims past you, lightly grazing your left cheek. The blood trickles out weaving edgy patterns as it flows; and you - on his table - know what comes next. You care not, however, for this. is. the. jet. age; a time when it isn't so much what you know as what you don't know. Nil (by mouth) for the one who threatens to jump. It is everywhere and incessant: this useless information that calls us to judge or be judged. A mocking cruelty covers this land; believing makes it easy. Or easier, you reflect with a tap to the head. All we need is a moment to stop the clocks and look up, remembering who we are and what we could be to each other. What is it we do best? Can you even remember? Let's engage, smile and hold on, my sweetness. Above all else, and with the best will in the world, do remember that sometimes I don't like your tone, either. <br />
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DIIV - <a href="https://www.box.com/s/ml0lhz5e2ks5rlhcscxu">'(Drunn) pt ii'</a> (2.47)<br />
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<a href="http://capturedtracks.com/artists/diiv-2/">Visit</a> / <a href="https://twitter.com/DIIV">Twitter</a> / <a href="http://www.screamingcd.com/product/Diiv_Oshin_Vinyl/35489&c=1">Purchase</a><br />
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<br />Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-32862872026126163282012-03-10T09:09:00.002+00:002013-01-06T17:01:07.491+00:00Just a slogan on a T-shirt<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There is something, well, persuasive and convincing about these sounds. No? Maus music. It isn't 'forgettable', for me. To be sure, in places, it has those 80s post-punky synth hooks and, in a strange way, they are making out with disco music in the hidden alcoves of the club, kinda thing. A bit hipstah, perhaps. But is that such a bad thing, by definition? There are faint memories of 'classic' Hall and Oates, for some reason. But, this all works, curiously. And that voice. It resonates and stretches down to the depths of a long-abandoned well that is as dry as the Sonoran desert in high summer. Lots of spaces, delays and echoes. It's an immediate anthem, a direct statement of intent, we can at least agree on that. I just love it. And, in addition to the sounds, he's a PhD student in political science at the University of Hawaii at Manoa. It's a CV to die for, really. I am a fan.<br />
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John Maus - <a href="http://www.box.com/s/86mbelncs7inz8zqrbn2">'Rights for Gays'</a> (2.40)<br />
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In search of <a href="http://www.mausspace.com/">Mausspace</a> / Something <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pHkQzUMAncs&feature=related">awesome</a> to watch ;)<br />
-Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-80364266356058629712012-03-01T12:15:00.001+00:002012-03-01T20:33:03.450+00:00On the challenges of (in)direct communication<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyqzt3WLMDF9UKPM2k_I9GXoTp7nNjyfyzdYH2CjrbGnOe3NJnlH2yaBg8UDR7aRR_kinHk2WLUbeQqBdoJun-OcTs6AjmNXBONrJiBJ9yafc_2f9Kji9VeU1CVpzk6jS24O66Hoa7fxHe/s1600/aw_gone_hame.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyqzt3WLMDF9UKPM2k_I9GXoTp7nNjyfyzdYH2CjrbGnOe3NJnlH2yaBg8UDR7aRR_kinHk2WLUbeQqBdoJun-OcTs6AjmNXBONrJiBJ9yafc_2f9Kji9VeU1CVpzk6jS24O66Hoa7fxHe/s400/aw_gone_hame.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>-<br />
On days like these you tend to notice the awkward, vocalised, public sharing of intimate details. Witness: standing apart as their uneasy alliance purposefully marches in time to a beat unrecognised; clutched shopping bags in outstretched twenty-something limbs that keep their tentacled hostility at a bridged, safe, distance. This is Argyle Street at dinner time, yesterday, and although the physical space is paramount - <em>'The Silent Lanaguge'</em> (1959) - the raised voices keep them locked together, but divided in domestic battles. Others passing by watch and listen for the hurt accusations to fly and the emotional retaliations to shoot back. It's another kind of Soap Opera. The children stare and are, no doubt, reminded of unhappy times past, in a different kind of life. Assorted scraps of information are thrown out like manipulative hand grenades; <em>'Aye, but you said you never spent that money...'</em> and <em>'No, but, it wisnae like that, it was a certain thing, eh...'</em>. You can imagine the crippled -<em> 'Oh poor me!'</em> scene. She was right, he was wrong. Unworthy crimes and situated errors of timely consideration; a lack of direct and easy-to-hear communication. There is an aggressiveness evident amongst the non-existent passivity. And then, another scene, on the train between High Street and Partick, a young indie-couple with similar issues, going out for the night by the looks of it. Young, in love and together, at least until the next episode of 'Hollyoaks' is shown; his concern with a distanced baby daughter (and ex-partner) and her concern for an active, coupled-up, social life. <em>'But I thought you were getting her that day, what about us...'</em> and <em>'No, I didnae say that, it's a Wednesday and I cannae go out then as I need to do the Nursery run in the morning.'</em> Forced connections, unhappy splits fill the air of this carriage that can't be escaped. The 'stuff', and times, of our cultured lives I guess. The former couple will, no doubt, be together until the end of time... whilst the latter couple, well, they will break up sometime next week, before the storyline gets the chance to fully unfold. But who can tell, really. It's a game for fools, indeed.<br />
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<em>"The very life..."</em> - in other events, and in case you were wondering, my (new) job is safe for at least another three years, I can remain in Glasgow, within the technological bosom of my current employer. I'll be heading up the new Graduate School in the restructred Faculty, in an Associate Dean kind of way (again). I am both grateful and relieved, not to mention a tiny bit wary and scared. I can happily live without another job interview for a very long time though, I must say. <a href="http://thevinylvillain.blogspot.com/">Jim</a> - you can have your purple tie back now - it did the job just fine. :) Ta.<br />
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Eduardo Niebla and Antonio Forcione - <a href="http://www.box.com/s/4o6yh1ip3b8z1a6i04in">'Celebration'</a> (6.19)<br />
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Sublime guitars, passion of the soul. Not a word is spoken. Edward T. Hall would surely approve.<br />
-Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-82386932848106542372012-02-24T12:45:00.002+00:002012-02-24T14:28:48.838+00:00Like a drunken kiss in the morning light<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg05d9jt9nqDojnmmRo5v-dZD1injzE4AZM_SdjiQJ1c3dz4__syd29qaC_FDCBpCIPJI6uuUpbwpVixcyudSIaLy8CmxsY1Qcoc53c9dTvUwrIf0pMZYPfVHkAqqHpYERJnV3jaPnzAGEo/s1600/in_harmony-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg05d9jt9nqDojnmmRo5v-dZD1injzE4AZM_SdjiQJ1c3dz4__syd29qaC_FDCBpCIPJI6uuUpbwpVixcyudSIaLy8CmxsY1Qcoc53c9dTvUwrIf0pMZYPfVHkAqqHpYERJnV3jaPnzAGEo/s400/in_harmony-1.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>-<br />
Where were you? It is everything good and right and effortless; and yet this fleeting moment is derailed and distorted via cheap cellphone CCTV. Beauty ill-defined; a star of the age is uplifted and the essence of an embodied, shuttered, memory bruises a tired heart. Come closer, for he is destiny as imagined in some other world, far from this palatial bothy. A scolded sting to those crumbling services, positioned on the outer edges of such lucious, golden lips. The sketched, swollen eye nodding towards a distant lens reminds you he really 'means' it. It's time to go home, across the sky miles, to what you once knew as comfort and joy. He is just for you, tonight.<br />
-<br />
Shearwater - <a href="http://www.box.com/s/omxv0n0oply2jyzuczod">'I was a cloud'</a> (Session Version) (4.18)<br />
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<a href="http://shearwatermusic.com/">Home</a> / <a href="http://www.subpop.com/releases/shearwater/full_lengths/animal_joy">Record</a> / <a href="http://shearwatermusic.com/tour-dates/">Tour</a> - Shearwater play <a href="http://www.stereocafebar.com/">Stereo</a>, Glasgow, on Sunday April 1st. No joke. The new album, <em>Animal Joy</em>, is out now on Subpop. The photo of Jonathan was taken by myself at a show at Neumos in Seattle, December 12, 2008.<br />
-Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-79719090304873328842012-02-20T21:44:00.002+00:002012-02-24T12:56:20.061+00:00I'm all set<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4iJgWvuBIIjKDtHkbc2nyeTjRQI6F68YFGspGxCBcTZM62izoX0FLe3Kga7hDseCUJ3BAgAZU-fQ5XMkG86jUK4p8faWmIpy32w_fQH_zaLGMoO8x2c6dL3MsP3m4wg_v9rxaH6NiKbws/s1600/chris!.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4iJgWvuBIIjKDtHkbc2nyeTjRQI6F68YFGspGxCBcTZM62izoX0FLe3Kga7hDseCUJ3BAgAZU-fQ5XMkG86jUK4p8faWmIpy32w_fQH_zaLGMoO8x2c6dL3MsP3m4wg_v9rxaH6NiKbws/s400/chris!.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>-<br />
Gasp! So, the third record is finally in the making. Hurrah! And, if you are <em>very</em> quick, you <a href="http://www.pledgemusic.com/projects/chrisgarneau">might</a> still be able to purchase a 'special solo performance' on Skype. ;) And, even more good news, this guy has a <a href="http://www.markkozelek.com/">new record</a> out at the end of May as well. Chris and Mark working together? OMFG. Yes please, Santa. Make it happen.<br />
-<br />
Chris Garneau - <a href="http://www.box.com/s/bbmu1pk4v69gm00606li">'No more pirates'</a> (live) (3.13)<br />
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Love <a href="http://www.myspace.com/chrisgarneau">Zombie</a> Central. Yes, I was lucky enough to interview and photograph (!) Chris in May 2007. He played a show at <a href="http://nicensleazy.com/">this</a> place, supporting label-friends <a href="http://xiuxiu.org/">Xiu Xiu</a>. He was stunningly awesome, whether speaking or singing. Or, actually, just sitting still for a photograph... <3<br />
-Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-70718944381255775182012-02-11T12:46:00.000+00:002012-02-11T12:46:59.257+00:00The cunt sits at his desk and he's plotting away<iframe allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" id="twttrHubFrame" name="twttrHubFrame" scrolling="no" src="http://platform.twitter.com/widgets/hub.1326407570.html" style="height: 10px; position: absolute; top: -9999em; width: 10px;" tabindex="0"></iframe><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWxm5L2DvNVGtud8JvXJ-_p0q-LlQ3gFrXfvdURxsrLZGMhM6KXpewuOSS3lbL656yjrM2hKGnl4UQle67FGAeG166P_1ZjqF5w1JF6k_y53-7boqy4norYwrq5AyjLp1xk0LTvKoiufYT/s1600/CSC_0057.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWxm5L2DvNVGtud8JvXJ-_p0q-LlQ3gFrXfvdURxsrLZGMhM6KXpewuOSS3lbL656yjrM2hKGnl4UQle67FGAeG166P_1ZjqF5w1JF6k_y53-7boqy4norYwrq5AyjLp1xk0LTvKoiufYT/s400/CSC_0057.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ9L-OYIsfpDW9PmFQcrwWyQrjgRDd1PfCXkOUWwyHYvTK5MeqvkKJqiewScr3H0WQDLQSuJT0cHO0vPBruuchv7RLxFfQS_F8MP9S1JWkD1xAWz94fkRbCGFBsvrGLPl3HQ6V6owzXUZC/s1600/CSC_0050.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ9L-OYIsfpDW9PmFQcrwWyQrjgRDd1PfCXkOUWwyHYvTK5MeqvkKJqiewScr3H0WQDLQSuJT0cHO0vPBruuchv7RLxFfQS_F8MP9S1JWkD1xAWz94fkRbCGFBsvrGLPl3HQ6V6owzXUZC/s400/CSC_0050.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="diff diff-change"> </div><div class="diff diff-change">-</div><div class="diff diff-change"><a href="http://www.thetwilightsad.com/">The Twilight Sad</a>, @ <a href="http://www.glasgowsgrandoleopry.co.uk/">The Grand Ole Opry</a>, Glasgow, 09-02-12</div><div class="diff diff-change">-</div><div class="diff diff-change">It's about loss and death, the hipstah boy with a sharp haircut and letterbox-framed glasses, ponders. It's about past mistakes and associated bitter regrets, the petite girl with a heavily inked back whispers to a friend. It's a homage to post-punk and the memory of Curtis, the group of lads at the bar bellow like horses on heat. It's a necesary step change and shift of gear, argue those in the know, who are close to the band. It's a little too cold, claustrophobic and one-dimensional... I think (and all the better for that, of course). But it is a <em>fucking</em> grower of an album, that's also quite certain. Debates rage. Differences are aired. The record, <em>'No One Can Ever Know'</em> (Fatcat, 2012), is not long out and already loose words fly around that cul-de-sac called the internet like Aldi plastic bags in a West coast hurricane. As for the show; well, it's a nervous opening night of the tour and Glasgow calls out for their assumed local hero, James Graham. He commands the stage and a dazzling multi-coloured, strobe-heavy, lightshow does indeed create shadows of a certain Stretford local and the voice matches the carefully-placed picture frame, when the technical difficulties are resolved. As would be imagined and expected, the set is mainly populated by tracks from the new long-player but a good half dozen songs are taken from earlier releases; including rather different (keyboard-enhanced) versions of 'Cold Days in the Birdhouse' and 'At the Burnside', to these muddled ears at least. In that odd sense of misplaced symmetry, however, the set opens with the new album closer - 'Kill it in the Morning'. It's a pounding, relentless beginning and the set continues in this styled and somewhat repetitive manner. Indeed, the lack of variation in tempo, mood and positioning is sorely felt; a foray into the other strands of what this band can do (and, yes, does so well) was missed. For example, anyone who has heard their live, acoustic, interpretations of songs like 'Half a Person' or 'The Room' might appreciate these words. But, to be fair, this is perhaps missing the entire point of the show; it's thirteen songs delivered with minimum fuss and architect precision, all shaped and moulded by the keyboards and drums, as well as the finely-pronunciated vocals of Graham. To be sure, the guitars are not exactly redundant or vanquished in this live cowboy show at the Grand Ole Opry; more like set to the touchline to cool down and reappear later in the last quarter. The songs below were clear highlights, as I heard them, but a special mention must also be made for the classic 'I became a Prostitute'. If the band have a signature tune this must surely be it. Tonight they <a href="http://www.gigantic.com/gigantic/event_gce_31777a.html">parade</a> at the Queens Social Club, Sheffield; expect a storming of the barricades.</div><div class="diff diff-change">-</div><div class="diff diff-change">The Twilight Sad - <a href="http://www.box.com/s/cvjisz0tasne1e2v77rq">'Alphabet'</a> (6 Music Session Version) (4.17)</div><div class="diff diff-change">The Twilight Sad - <a href="http://www.box.com/s/flph98dsj725ubjdnnhk">'That Summer, at Home I Had Become the Invisible Boy'</a> (4.48)</div><div class="diff diff-change">-</div><div class="diff diff-change"><a href="http://www.thetwilightsad.com/">Band</a> / <a href="http://www.thetwilightsad.com/tour">Tour</a> / <a href="http://www.fat-cat.co.uk/">Label</a> (with thanks to Matt Turner/Peenko)</div><div class="diff diff-change">-</div><div class="diff diff-change">Set-list: Kill It In The Morning; Don't Move; That Summer, at Home I Had Become the Invisible Boy; Dead City; Reflection of the Television; Alphabet; I Became a Prostitute; Sick; Another Bed; Cold Days From the Birdhouse; Nil; And She Would Darken the Memory; At the Burnside.</div><div class="diff diff-change">-</div>Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-5925068733767020992012-02-08T23:44:00.000+00:002012-02-09T02:39:42.865+00:00Spurning step by state<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Xa5QzNJDzCTYHEBHt4SDUtSDydcYtQDGism16xhgGnIcyRijREwf15kbUUyDTlk7-HAsrhffh_TN3b3Kz3d0dOFRC22GnSAfHwtFbil1V7xmSHw0ye8hzy99W2yKRkqqc9oY8SyrWNpt/s1600/my+lover%2527s+lover.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Xa5QzNJDzCTYHEBHt4SDUtSDydcYtQDGism16xhgGnIcyRijREwf15kbUUyDTlk7-HAsrhffh_TN3b3Kz3d0dOFRC22GnSAfHwtFbil1V7xmSHw0ye8hzy99W2yKRkqqc9oY8SyrWNpt/s400/my+lover%2527s+lover.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">-</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">'Ostinato', he urged. An uptight focus paired with singular direction; tears, pain and stubborn mentalities carved into the missing timbre floorboards. Another time escapes, your dacha in the frozen cantata wilds. Heads nod and give way, to a clef misplaced years ago. This looped recording <a href="http://thequietus.com/articles/06963-talk-talk-laughing-stock">process</a> needs no summer daylight, oils or otherwise, scratching at droned soundboards, fading candles and engineers who know their place only too well. Such inability to sleep or to forget; reflections of self within post-shower puddles of sweated condensation. A captured piano lands a fatal blow in ebony, parched in the distance; whilst drums breeze and wallow through the glissando landscape, from a gallery where 'children stare with heroin eyes'. Guitars fall in and out of step, battered and weeping with the sores of polytonality and scowls of bewildered joy. Scattered throughout this tombstone apartment, his retiring voice resonates, remembers and folds. The guilt and the grieving ends soon, it is written in glee. And, to be fair, he never claimed to be perfect; this deceptive cadence. He never even claimed to be the kind of person who could put one foot in front of the other, let alone one word or note that might grace a European popular hit parade. Making no sense at all, perfectly, mistakes in rhyme and reason as we grow up, whatever age you might have been when the tapes rolled. But, why-oh-why, do we make the same errors of circumstance time and time again? It's enough reason to bow out, come the label-induced curtain coda. Pushed or fell? The one who ultimately knows will never speak, lest the illusion be revealed, and in this truth lies the root beauty and the ugly finale all at once. Encore, at last. The time has come, in edited formation.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">-</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Talk Talk - <a href="http://www.box.com/s/g7748a8nj3lslrhrjoke">'After the flood'</a> (outtake) (4.14)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">-</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Within <a href="http://users.cybercity.dk/~bcc11425/">Without</a>, you. Something to look <a href="http://spiritoftalktalk.com/">forward</a> to (Spring 2012).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">-</div>Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-22871328089317054982012-01-30T07:18:00.000+00:002012-01-30T09:12:53.732+00:00You have to start somewhere<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi41oB_hLXqCOJNqWs20ycYn_S9dXMsvsKKWW9kufFJ646hm3Uwn40Ec9RRPusjpdd1U3YcYF40k1n90cPZC6KQxiSwJLW3r_ZRmxWxA3Sus1318r9IQTcxT1k-U0Hwnf0tOmupXVH3avzT/s1600/P040511_19.520001+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi41oB_hLXqCOJNqWs20ycYn_S9dXMsvsKKWW9kufFJ646hm3Uwn40Ec9RRPusjpdd1U3YcYF40k1n90cPZC6KQxiSwJLW3r_ZRmxWxA3Sus1318r9IQTcxT1k-U0Hwnf0tOmupXVH3avzT/s400/P040511_19.520001+(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></div>-<br />
<em>'I would like to be an architect' </em>said the sweaty young Czech student in shining, multi-coloured sports lycra as he exited the local Aldi shop to his pal who, rather bemused, just turned to him and said <em>'But then why are you doing an economics degree?'</em>. <em>'Well'</em>, said our erstwhile hero, <em>'You have to start somewhere'</em>. And I think that's exactly it: you have to start somewhere. Even if you don't want to be an architect, in fact.<br />
-<br />
Ally Kerr - <a href="http://www.box.com/s/dj4njxjd0o9zgka4srq3">'The sore feet song'</a> (3.07)<br />
-<br />
The loon <a href="http://www.allykerr.com/">bides</a> here, eh.<br />
-Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-52810311104896507342012-01-27T12:34:00.000+00:002012-01-27T12:34:40.288+00:00We're both at our best in a tight spot<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYbdGLUoiaW5UoFx7AaO-y7eK15-ufkfZ38VYjWIKdrmn4tuSD46cVsQc9ghVMP8GN5wdWHjVLQhx6wtExJFv6IgbFE_EocgNtGbgmwn3-DmwYGFSPmzubZZTBBHf8jZ80fjokwbJttbJk/s1600/off_ramp.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYbdGLUoiaW5UoFx7AaO-y7eK15-ufkfZ38VYjWIKdrmn4tuSD46cVsQc9ghVMP8GN5wdWHjVLQhx6wtExJFv6IgbFE_EocgNtGbgmwn3-DmwYGFSPmzubZZTBBHf8jZ80fjokwbJttbJk/s400/off_ramp.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">-</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">His assisted height nearly matches his fanciful strides; footloose stomps travelling to a railwayed destination, I would guess. The bag on wheels and A-Z map in hand are the rather unsubtle clues. A bitten cigar tossed carelessly to the side just misses a neatly scarfed woman, on cardboard knees, pleading for offerings from those walking by, the same people pretending to be too busy to acknowledge her being or ordeal. I steal a glance to his side, his left-side, attempting to keep pace with the final furlong approaching. There is no tie but an open-necked wound, a deep shade of colour in his glowing cheeks, matching his apparel, and a harsh wind bites deep into masked layered cracks. I’d thought early fifties, from behind, but perhaps slightly older. The mannerisms, purpose and clothing are deceptive; they scream ‘I Am Interesting’ and ‘I Am Not Dead Yet’. I recognise (some of) the signs and symbols exhibited. We are travelling similar paths, you and I, but are more than a million miles apart in reality. I could never match such poise, movement and direction; this intoxicating mixture had my admiration from first glance. A phone goes off to the sound of an X Factor chart-hit I clearly don’t want to recognise and a swarm of genderless pre-teens shout in unison ‘It’ll be him, fucking well answer it!’ This distraction leads to another; for a moment I lose sight of the target as I am led astray by the smell of a distant, chemically enhanced, Greggs product I can only smell hospitals and nostalgia from. But, there he is. <em>The man in the purple suit</em>. Ahead and bold, steering into the barren station that I also, unwillingly, march towards in search of a future I’m not sure I am ready for.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">-</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The Lucksmiths - </span><a href="http://www.box.com/s/lypfdcsqjme684nrkerl"><span style="font-family: inherit;">'Self-preservation'</span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"> (2.03)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">-</span><br />
<a href="http://www.thelucksmiths.com.au/">Home</a> / <a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?6yejmn9mgcg">Obtain</a> / <a href="http://www.shef.ac.uk/socstudies">Visiting</a><br />
-Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-25886828415046803822011-12-29T18:48:00.002+00:002011-12-29T18:59:06.199+00:00A menu of delight and despair<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaNBNE8po7JDF1GTv40vnEVKiBjbxLeCCvvGD6SEJiWtZDsQ7NyIbYLwWe27KeEe4MqaH9dM1DOBxN9LswZAkbxeZkcnUvqCtAZpweTrDTlhxGlnVau3F9pJA8pXCeurAUtJ4KDY3S-dZj/s1600/DSC_0841.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaNBNE8po7JDF1GTv40vnEVKiBjbxLeCCvvGD6SEJiWtZDsQ7NyIbYLwWe27KeEe4MqaH9dM1DOBxN9LswZAkbxeZkcnUvqCtAZpweTrDTlhxGlnVau3F9pJA8pXCeurAUtJ4KDY3S-dZj/s400/DSC_0841.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>-<br />
I keep dropping and lifting the magical needle to hear the same '45 play over and over -<em> 'it's all relative'</em> - whilst at the same time knowing I am absolutely not a relativist. Does this make me a card-carrying hypocrite or merely reading the street-sign entitled 'confused'? I am rather unsure. Er, so, belated good tidings for Christmas and tentative greetings as we speed towards <em>yet another </em>New Year, and all that kind of m'larky. I guess I should offer up my sincere apologies for having very little to say just now. Sorry! I mean, I can't even provide you with a 'best of 2011' type of mix. Ooops. I might get to that by summer 2012, if my current workrate is anything to go by (<em>but</em>, I did post another mix over at 8tracks today, pop-pickers, and some of those <a href="http://8tracks.com/mirra_licht/it-s-all-swings-and-roundabouts-you-know?mix_set_id=1279587">songs</a> were released this year!). But, unarguably, I will be a little more miserable during the next twelve months and thus, I am certain, have something more - something <em>potentially</em> interesting - to write about. As a dear friend reminds me, often, I am a fountain of absolute nothingness when <em>not</em> unhappy. Och, really, I can barely find the w... [edit]<br />
-<br />
Standard Fare - <a href="http://www.box.com/s/hotr66nps4polpcmzrg4">'Nuit avec une ami'</a> (3.05)<br />
-<br />
<em>'You're a postcode lottery'</em>. Oh no, that's <a href="http://www.box.com/s/o1np91ryy53lbrhgdhar">another</a> song. Anyway, buy this album as it is <a href="http://www.heychuck.com/theespc/release_details.php?cat_no=SPCLP010">really</a> good. It came out in March 2010, and all that, but I am just catching up.<br />
-<br />
PS. The last post, written many days ago now, was eaten whole for DMCA reasons. Apologies for offending, er, Pearl Jam? :(Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-48624129039282105512011-12-12T13:00:00.000+00:002011-12-12T13:00:38.458+00:00Ruffled feathers in a coldwave<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJUXoYly1YZ-eKCLTtRfxA9lwVE5K-ASNlUGgK9VDLwnXvyKeyMZ7G26E3d-Gfv1zt2fmjSIOyzWm59g_PNHBj-OJHdULKCzYI_a5tlLkb_MzaS5ScjKRvaYgQ0fpxzOYbupolRW4r7N2i/s1600/stretchoutandwait.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJUXoYly1YZ-eKCLTtRfxA9lwVE5K-ASNlUGgK9VDLwnXvyKeyMZ7G26E3d-Gfv1zt2fmjSIOyzWm59g_PNHBj-OJHdULKCzYI_a5tlLkb_MzaS5ScjKRvaYgQ0fpxzOYbupolRW4r7N2i/s400/stretchoutandwait.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>-<br />
Fieldnotes #324<br />
-<br />
Lost buttons and used chewing gum; spent matches and tarnished coppers. You search stolen pockets for what you thought was left behind from the night before it began. The loose change cascades into unemployment; stripped fortunes will melt pritt-sticked hearts. Across to the left, behind the till, a pretty girl with a turned down mouth and a fluffy coat waits patiently for a Latte that will take its time to arrive. Stubbed fingers drum in marching time, punching digit holes into an interesting Ikea-lite table. The boy's turtle-shell glasses continually slip down his nose and an index finger rescues the situation time over and again. Scarfs are worn inside, only the gloves are off (literally and metaphorically, as it transpires). You can tell this is a moment that isn't about to last; this is not a relaxed coffee catch-up of old friends or even ex-lovers. It is waiting to happen - and now. You stand to the side for your order, pretending not to witness what you are staring at; you just can't help it. And then she just says it, rather loudly as it turns out. He flinches, hunches and then jumps up in seconds; a pained expression masked in both longing and loathing. He makes to leave, a sugar dispenser hits the floor and smashes into a million pieces. Turning to catch his eyes, 'sorry' is all she can say even though she doesn't mean it. You can see the relief washing over her, like that first sip of coffee after a hard day's night.<br />
-<br />
Afraid of Stairs - <a href="http://www.box.com/s/fb4aizrgphzd8jogj07h">'Tell him how you feel'</a> (2.37)<br />
-<br />
Step into the <a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?nmzgh5zem2f">light</a>, outside yourself. For a <a href="http://labrador.se/artists/afraidofstairs.php3">moment</a> in time.<br />
-Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-7856312314080128492011-12-05T23:38:00.002+00:002011-12-06T10:30:32.310+00:00Look through the round window<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxWEoIQqNdyv7ZiWryhbM508X5Yl2R-Z53JYcrAkCGco8f-zhadnTJ67rMu2TCnKHNrf8P1-vValN9-vlW4_kHEN8t119gGajbN3pR2xSE73f0WrcpU-bEa9xzOJky3Z1ja5QFHjF7iu8X/s1600/all+the+news.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxWEoIQqNdyv7ZiWryhbM508X5Yl2R-Z53JYcrAkCGco8f-zhadnTJ67rMu2TCnKHNrf8P1-vValN9-vlW4_kHEN8t119gGajbN3pR2xSE73f0WrcpU-bEa9xzOJky3Z1ja5QFHjF7iu8X/s400/all+the+news.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>-<br />
She stares back like she means it; as he sees you, faking it weakly. Those hourglass waterfalls cascade down decorated window frames masking years of poor construction. Passing playmobil cars shuffle and dance, spinning out of time to erratic traffic lights on frozen city centre lakes. Reconstituted families move in bored silence through competing hordes to bargain bin promises within excluded galleries. In the wilderness, out on the steps, forgotten teens without coats or spatial awareness huddle together for meaningless gossip, infectious warmth and heavenly cigarettes. A still, mirrored reflection is caught with a shadow of her presenting utmost; as imagined and played on repeat in soundtrack form. We ache for the taste of Swedish regret in moments like these; passing through the day-to-day lives of others unknown as if we possessed a respectful right to observe, monitor and report. You point and click with tongues hanging out, notebooks at page one. We translate the action figures and reality scenary with error upon mistake upon misplaced empathy. We are they, you are us. It is that time of year: be kind, be true and wish for a hopeful Spring to arrive in tomorrow's, younger, arms. This embrace can never last like you really want it to for, as the song reminds us, "we're lost at sea".<br />
-<br />
The Morning Paper - <a href="http://www.box.com/s/vupj93oczsdsn0zcjq5n">'A newer taste'</a> (4.26)<br />
-<br />
It's <a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?ammdy2y5m52">getting</a> clearer.<br />
-Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-42780678615988448962011-11-26T18:59:00.000+00:002011-11-26T18:59:39.241+00:00Hiding in spotlights, not running in shadows<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjssmHfA27OBMfT2VGzH8XlxYwFRUo21vzrzCOUSWvOBEVDX5HvV-fw1doj9LZN6p095rUhOMxz9WsbiDN2BSXIrVB5LBaIkGUULZUm40yTUe4V3xWLwMTGLW2OgaJNjvWlJiz1rkkZlxHX/s1600/DSC_1015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjssmHfA27OBMfT2VGzH8XlxYwFRUo21vzrzCOUSWvOBEVDX5HvV-fw1doj9LZN6p095rUhOMxz9WsbiDN2BSXIrVB5LBaIkGUULZUm40yTUe4V3xWLwMTGLW2OgaJNjvWlJiz1rkkZlxHX/s400/DSC_1015.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>-<br />
It's that thing. If I lose you. Again, and so it goes. Stumbling in, falling out.... payday loans are 'Go' in this day and age. Grim, grin... and bear it? No ta. Just like me in this 'visual world'; those ghostly moments of rage, fear, sadness. Tears and the end of time; wheeched away on a Megabus to who knows where. Poundland? Iceland? Where the jumble sale mums go to meet the boil-in-the-bag dads, Brett. Time travel with you beats the odds. In annoyance and irritation of your behaviour, at my ineptness - not knowing what to say or do. You are not her. And she is not the sum of me. Checking the small print for a money back clause. But this is not Argos or even Cash Convertors. Chains broken, head kicked in to awaken from this annual coma. The caustic code isn't written yet as so little is unfamiliar here. Making the familiar strange. But getting stuck on the strange, whilst wearing high heels on a hill pointing downwards. It's an anger based on pain, of insomnia; finding the few, Freud words to ask for assistance. Help is a four letter word though a free prescription is another helpful contribution to this cause not yet lost. It spirals on. What year is this anyway? It's hard to tell if you flick the channels or scan the frequencies. The headlines I remember. It's the same every week. Sink or swim, buying fear, selling souls. You wake up again at 3am, havoc on your mind, and count a pretty blessing that the light is still vacant and out on a date in Germany circa 1972. Prince - the artist - keeps you company as he becomes a butterfly yet again; a slave no more to his poplife <3. Too. Much. Knowledge; information is a fire alarm that won't cease calling you out at inconvenient times, taking names. Snapping and digging and... true, a deep sleep is hard to come by these fallow days. The frightened sirens are set to stun and singing a lonely duet with the drunks rolling past screeching their merlot harmonies in a fake Gregory Italian accent. Bella. Bella. And all that. Or so you think with your ears blocked, your eyes glued shut. No matter how fast you blink reality still heads for the last subway home. And the rain - ah, the pitter patter of rain steering a boo-hoo path down his cracked, shoogily face - it pours over a legoland new town. The stop/go music it plays on repeat in spoken, reverential verse. Thank-you, she says. I accept your challenge of a warm embrace; this invitation South. Rewinding to take it all in - these last six months. Where did it go? Where will it go next? Something is up. Some leave, others stay. All the while Jackie waits on the other side of Poortoun for his lost and weeping children to come home. To roost.<br />
-<br />
Life Without Buildings - <a href="http://www.box.com/s/ekpinlesfg0uop72u6v1">'New Town'</a> (5.54)<br />
-<br />
It's happening again. No <a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?5t4j2mvynei">where</a> to go.<br />
-Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-30181525035997754042011-11-10T17:39:00.000+00:002011-11-10T17:39:24.187+00:00Every landscape is full of ghosts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipdnzBm-Q5X5H_ZDlBStT9sSq5LjA51HWqRQuObywg61JVBAyPya-_8UKj7SToXm7GFnxGdqIn284AQcu1ILBOEs0bFo_UIWpykqovX0Z2cgkMtoIkGCNhgjBlBgwTu6-XM6lvkgK5vyrY/s1600/texas.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipdnzBm-Q5X5H_ZDlBStT9sSq5LjA51HWqRQuObywg61JVBAyPya-_8UKj7SToXm7GFnxGdqIn284AQcu1ILBOEs0bFo_UIWpykqovX0Z2cgkMtoIkGCNhgjBlBgwTu6-XM6lvkgK5vyrY/s400/texas.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>-<br />
Of course, Edward Shanks included the word 'English' in relation to his ghostly landscapes, but it would be foolish to think that such hauntings are the preserve of one nation. Anyway, enough of all that, more NPL indie-pop <a href="http://eventful.com/glasgow/events/little-league-npl-10th-anniversary-/E0-001-040791359-7">dancing</a> tomorrow evening. Woot!<br />
-<br />
Horse Shoes - <a href="http://www.box.net/shared/lm4ldlbpevmfrk0m4e8a">'I can't decide'</a> (3.04)<br />
-<br />
<a href="http://www.myspace.com/horseshoesmusic">Visit</a> / <a href="http://shelflife.com/catalogue/LIFE1008.html">Purchase</a> / <a href="http://www.press.uchicago.edu/ucp/books/book/chicago/O/bo3641103.html">Reading</a><br />
-Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-12872224448388279892011-10-29T12:01:00.000+01:002011-10-29T12:09:59.554+01:00Give me a role and I’ll knock it out of the park<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghQUsfBpBBOF4Q7zTlSa-uHq_bf_kZbqG-jugJ_FvqJNd57qhXhyphenhyphenzwMqrUvFmLoOma6GLKv6hJELR4A3v3FYic0hhO2ZkdguX5rUCGkfC314tboQSrF_3ZbaiacmbLRSb1IsrHAyEJCrVt/s1600/untitled.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghQUsfBpBBOF4Q7zTlSa-uHq_bf_kZbqG-jugJ_FvqJNd57qhXhyphenhyphenzwMqrUvFmLoOma6GLKv6hJELR4A3v3FYic0hhO2ZkdguX5rUCGkfC314tboQSrF_3ZbaiacmbLRSb1IsrHAyEJCrVt/s400/untitled.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>-<br />
<div class="textRegularBOLD">Cameron Crowe: <em>Kris Kristofferson once said, “I write a sad song when I’m happy, because generally when I’m sad, I’m too sad to write a good song.” Where do you stand on the subject?</em></div><div class="textRegularBOLD"><br />
</div><div class="textRegular">Mark Kozelek: <em>I’m the opposite. When I’m happy, the last thing that I want to do is shut myself away in a room and write. I generally write when I’m feeling down in an attempt to find some peace and contentment.</em></div><div class="textRegular">-</div><div class="textRegular">Exactly this, really. Except 'contentment' is perhaps stretching it a little. It seems too permanent, somehow. Too safe. Peace of mind would be enough, sometimes? And I have always wondered about the song <em>'Alesund'</em>. A sad song or a happy song? It suggests, obviously, a very distinct geography and kind of space; desiring remoteness in sterile airports, a plush hotel lobby, a city centre gig venue or two. A shared moment with an individual who stands out, picking the spotlight, acting as muse, inspiration for the night. You sing to her, and only her. It also captures, perfectly, the idea of being alone in a crowd, adoring someone close, from afar. Those 'cold bones' needing some warmth. But, once you are invited in, you merely turn your back and walk away into an evening light that doesn't judge you, or want you. The operation of agency, I guess. Like Zorg put it to Bob's horny wife - you deny yourself something you want in order to remind yourself you are alive, you have some control over urges, desires. It's, as ever, a bundle of contradictions and feelings. But these words matter, I think. Anyway, whatever, this is such a beautiful (if shortened) live version, recorded in Belgium, from the recent tour. All nylon strings and delicate arrangements. But, the image... I remember taking this picture with an old camera; one that was effectively stolen from me. That was a lifetime ago, however. It was a cold Halloween night in Glasgow, a particularly emotional one, and Mark had just left the stage, off to the left. His guitar just dropped to the floor, bathed in a blue light. You kinda want to say something to this hero but dare not. Just to shake those talented hands, say thanks for helping me change my life with a lyric from a song or two. <em>'It isn't real life'</em> was a constant mantra. Well, it doesn't get much more 'real' than a Mark Kozelek song if you ask me. I hope he knows the impact he has on us all? I'm sure he does, Cameron will keep sending him those memos, cards and scripts. It'll be good to see these two working together again - I just hope he gets a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uUj1JuXRvgc">line</a> as stirring as 'Dude, fix your fucking face'.</div><div class="textRegular">-</div><div class="textRegular">Mark Kozelek - <a href="http://www.box.net/shared/k78bzxryyue7hubz973l">'Alesund'</a> (live) (4.58)</div><div class="textRegular">-</div><div class="textRegular">Read more from Mark's interview with the film director Cameron Crowe <a href="http://www.sunkilmoon.com/interviewCameronCrowe.html">here</a>. Also, Mark contributes vocals and bass to several tracks on the <a href="http://www.caldoverderecords.com/">new</a> Desertshore album (released on the Caldo Verde label on November 22nd).</div><div class="textRegular">-</div>Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-4026654859332324982011-10-26T12:02:00.002+01:002011-10-30T15:00:57.035+00:00'May the lines sag heavy and deep tonight'<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmkNVR0tw3KdqQgeZ4y0kbMNiUmVerviYND0HBJuTw8cDFw95RBGvzKMdnHH-i4hDbg42ws-EV5TK686isJc_eKb-WTCpVrYrjmlnnyynm313LUvln2GH3Pw0GdMrQaDcpUMCeQaoT5Ady/s1600/emergency+exit.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmkNVR0tw3KdqQgeZ4y0kbMNiUmVerviYND0HBJuTw8cDFw95RBGvzKMdnHH-i4hDbg42ws-EV5TK686isJc_eKb-WTCpVrYrjmlnnyynm313LUvln2GH3Pw0GdMrQaDcpUMCeQaoT5Ady/s400/emergency+exit.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>-<br />
Today I am old. I mean Old, Old. Really quite old indeed, actually. I guess half my life and a bit is now over. What a cheery thought that is. Hurrah! But I will dance the day away, anyway, playing this on repeat, repeat, repeat. It is really good! It is not my usual kind of listening, I admit - not enough limp handclaps, twee screeching or jingly-jangly guitars - but there you go. You like what you like; the groove, the beat, the swing. It makes me want to move. In that way. And, when you turn a certain age, it is an idea to try new things. Make yourself comfortable with discomfort, unease and the unfamiliar, I suppose. <em>'Make love in a hammock!'</em> as Professor Taub once put it in class, as the other JC took notes. Or something like that. Anyway, enough... enough now; I will just get my indie-funk on, people. So hit the floor! Tequila at the ready. We are ready for take-off. Whooooosh! :)<br />
-<br />
Twin Sister - <a href="http://www.box.net/shared/t1fg6nupovccyfhbtsdn">'All around and away we go'</a> (4.22)<br />
-<br />
<a href="http://twinsistermusic.com/">Visit</a> / <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Heaven-Twin-Sister/dp/B0058U80U4/ref=sr_1_1?s=music&ie=UTF8&qid=1319625728&sr=1-1">Purchase</a> / <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BjCD1vfStIQ&feature=related">Weep</a><br />
-Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-61428195177417487322011-10-25T17:27:00.001+01:002011-10-25T18:03:35.005+01:00We're just flesh and blood<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIqlWBXx70_0JrFIyiPWWfO7HEm1WUy5M58D_7SMwKhqCX_VqC4v9FVmqrxfZjJLIYJbb1_uLUnugtWPCHIbPVMOAfRPlrCHEfdTV9hPLymi6lfOF4bLhN9WrRrwoxx9vEh0QW5fuudI73/s1600/walkingaway.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIqlWBXx70_0JrFIyiPWWfO7HEm1WUy5M58D_7SMwKhqCX_VqC4v9FVmqrxfZjJLIYJbb1_uLUnugtWPCHIbPVMOAfRPlrCHEfdTV9hPLymi6lfOF4bLhN9WrRrwoxx9vEh0QW5fuudI73/s400/walkingaway.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>-<br />
<em>'But as far as I could make out it was a woman dressed in black...'</em><br />
-<br />
Och Harriet: you just <em>knew</em> that all the indieschmindie boys and poplife girls of a certain age, at a certain time, couldn't help but fall in love with your blue and white sailor striped tops and frayed, up-turned, 501's; the straggled black Betty Blue hair and supple ruby red pouty lips; the scuffed DM's and pale blue eyes that burned... and then there was <em>that </em>voice, all fluttery, sighing and tenderly wrought. Oh my. Oh my... how we all wanted to fall at your perfect feet and adore you completely; be told stories in poetry and verse about the flippant boys who broke your fragile heart and the cardigan and dress you were sick on after that student party on Tyndall Avenue. This session, somehow, captured it all in a faint broken language and hissed 1980s tape machines. In our fertile imaginations, if nowhere else, we were standing beside you, holding nervous hands, urging you to soar. The highlight was, of course, album-opener <em>'Skin & Bones';</em> a song beautifully reminding us that we are all just flesh and blood. A timely reminder, today. And I'm sure Peel was smitten as well. How could he not have been?<br />
-<br />
The Sundays - <a href="http://www.box.net/shared/2546evsj6b3aiflth89x">'I won'</a> (Peel Session) (4.31)<br />
The Sundays - <a href="http://www.box.net/shared/tem6qb7err7yddtk3ggc">'My finest hour'</a> (Peel Session) (3.05)<br />
The Sundays <a href="http://www.box.net/shared/m39bb6i5s3abghbb1az5">'Skin & bones'</a> (Peel Session) (4.27)<br />
-<br />
The Sundays recorded this session for <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio1/johnpeel/">John Peel</a> at Maida Vale 3 on February 28, 1989 and it was transmitted on March 6, 1989. <a href="http://www.footballandmusic.co.uk/keepingitpeel-today/">#keepingitpeel</a>.<br />
-Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-37384813034168378452011-10-24T19:31:00.000+01:002011-10-24T19:31:53.403+01:00It's how you make the garden grow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIzWSWzHYmnjdgY8iix7NCmi2yaFz2fKohT32WoFVkuvMiTcslZVM31QGcaToQNGoXHK_B4M9f02r1TIn2zyxD1FFn9K2tPtF47esHFDr_Rd-35NIbe6KFSdxr_6KbWEQaEKw6xP2zKxTo/s1600/oneflesh.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIzWSWzHYmnjdgY8iix7NCmi2yaFz2fKohT32WoFVkuvMiTcslZVM31QGcaToQNGoXHK_B4M9f02r1TIn2zyxD1FFn9K2tPtF47esHFDr_Rd-35NIbe6KFSdxr_6KbWEQaEKw6xP2zKxTo/s400/oneflesh.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>-<br />
The driven narrative behind a paper curtain is revealed. And it's an illusion, not a memory; a painting, not a photograph. Your precious shard of lost time, fragmented to an uneven image and an e-bow sound. That eternal summer holiday kind of day, in a place familiar in its strangeness... the hours rarely outstaying a clocked welcome. A type of evening where tea-time came and went after the main BBC news; your mum shouting after you to head for home after next goal the winner. The arrogant sun beat down on our swollen hamstrings and all we had for weak shelter was that warm-to-the-fizz can of Dr. Pepper (aye, you collected the ring pulls, and a couple of quid, for a home-printed quality T-shirt). And, especially, do you remember the tall grasses we cut our staggered youth through; those guarding fence posts with erect, curly heads and unsteady, drunken feet? They nearly outgrew us, back then, but we steamrolled through them anyway, sweaty hands and diceman fingers dragging for the feeling of what had passed us by in missed chances. We ran and we ran, in forward motions, and circles, not daring to look behind us; those plaintive songs in our hearts and our heads, with thoughts of a stray kiss smacking our eager lips and capturing our souls. The anticipation, as ever, was never matched by the reality. Until now. A sting and a kick; this land is surely ours, boys.<br />
-<br />
The Chameleons - <a href="http://www.box.net/shared/3425o9fmvydr6vb63xfp">'One flesh'</a> (4.29)<br />
-<br />
Home is where the <a href="http://www.thechameleons.com/">heart</a> is, they say / And it means playing <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/WHAT-DOES-ANYTHING-MEAN-BASICALLY/dp/B002ZIABCM/ref=sr_1_2?s=music&ie=UTF8&qid=1319462070&sr=1-2">this</a> on repeat, basically.<br />
-Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-57291586979462415942011-10-18T09:46:00.000+01:002011-10-18T10:30:52.406+01:00You only ever liked the beginning of things<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVhlbXsBsVw0lFLwo_JuOOK0ZAW0qWXlslLh9BIBx74G8-jQrJ1YGPStAS08dgOv3RdEyjHPFhtLXweldxFV_Mwe5Al9hFH9OPIY4ByfuLpV0LjYAmTK9M-nVeuiR9BpVitIF98n4_Cvur/s1600/P161011_15.070001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVhlbXsBsVw0lFLwo_JuOOK0ZAW0qWXlslLh9BIBx74G8-jQrJ1YGPStAS08dgOv3RdEyjHPFhtLXweldxFV_Mwe5Al9hFH9OPIY4ByfuLpV0LjYAmTK9M-nVeuiR9BpVitIF98n4_Cvur/s400/P161011_15.070001.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>-<br />
It goes without saying that I'm someone who can't wait for Autumn and Winter to arrive. People who obsess about music are usually like that, I find. The harsh weather lets you (quite legitimately) stay in a lot more - in that anti-social way - and play many, many records over and over again. Late at night, red wine in hand, headphones on. However, now it has vanished for the months to come, I admit I am rather missing the warmth of the Glasgow sun that does occasionally appear, honest it does. But, anyway, the joiner came this morning to fix the bedroom window so that's a positive. The stalking elements will no longer squeeze their cruel way into this tombstone of an abode. A drip of rain here and a howl of wind there. The irony. Also, and this is just a quick thought: I think, in watching it all over again, rather slowly, I am beginning to finally understand the complex character that was once known as Mrs. Betty Draper a bit more. That's Mrs. Francis to the likes of you and me now, of course. Her moods, tempers, pouts, tantrums; especially when she didn't get her own way with Don. And then, in later years, with Henry, of course. It's all about dealing with alienation, loss and being alone, isn't it? Retaining control; trying to hold onto something - to someone - that had already left the party, building, street. Her Dad, in fact, is the one who is missing here. I might be wrong, I usually am, but I just wish Betty some happiness, or at least peace of mind - via making peace with that loss. This is a song for her which she might dance with Henry to (not Sally though, obviously).<br />
-<br />
The Springfields - <a href="http://www.box.net/shared/stexrukymiyqa7et8v2a">'Are we gonna be alright?'</a> (2.39)<br />
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This band has nothing to do with Dusty, in case you were wondering. <a href="http://www.amctv.com/shows/mad-men/cast/betty-francis">Her</a>. <a href="http://www.amctv.com/shows/mad-men/cast/don-draper">Him</a>. A soundtrack, <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Fever-Tell-Yeah-Yeahs/dp/B00008ZHSG/ref=br_lf_m_1000359833_1_5_ttl?ie=UTF8&s=music&pf_rd_p=475370473&pf_rd_s=center-2&pf_rd_t=1401&pf_rd_i=1000359833&pf_rd_m=A3P5ROKL5A1OLE&pf_rd_r=0CJQW05KY760FWYSSYDK">of</a> sorts. But she was <a href="http://www.amctv.com/shows/mad-men/cast/faye-miller">always</a> my favourite one. And Pete Campbell. The shit.<br />
-Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7868082060277224720.post-60923903573613896682011-10-15T10:17:00.003+01:002011-10-15T10:22:43.335+01:00Passion pop has your name and number<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5rQlNAHRRtRZk72PN_OwGy-jKSFfHJvHYMhTj0wWlpl99TQckcHUNgFLuSuDeaQ671u6unUfCm_vFoXfi5cH7PgrJvbl3U2xl30RVyMc00pTFAnSU4Qjeed022YBLBwY_n_d11Iza-pic/s1600/CSC_0126.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5rQlNAHRRtRZk72PN_OwGy-jKSFfHJvHYMhTj0wWlpl99TQckcHUNgFLuSuDeaQ671u6unUfCm_vFoXfi5cH7PgrJvbl3U2xl30RVyMc00pTFAnSU4Qjeed022YBLBwY_n_d11Iza-pic/s400/CSC_0126.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>-<br />
For a cold October in Glasgow, you need to hear a record that sounds like the dizzy heights of a St. Tropez summer. And, you know, if the (Melbourne) band in question remind you of a grand day out, up North, where the wild catz roamed then, yes, it's so much the fucking better. Play loud! And bedroom dance! <3<br />
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Summer Cats - <a href="http://www.box.net/shared/3f6ldiz3zeg95xlcmomc">'In June'</a> (2.11)<br />
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Just a purrfect sound... <a href="http://www.myspace.com/summercats">meow</a>. :) You can buy the long-player over <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Songs-Tuesdays-Summer-Cats/dp/B002BE8VL8/ref=sr_1_1?s=music&ie=UTF8&qid=1318670002&sr=1-1">here</a>. It is one of the best albums I own. Fact.<br />
-Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15391291904150254395noreply@blogger.com7