Click the pic to see them properly!
I had loads of fun DJing the Grawl!x album launch party on Saturday night!
Here’s what I played:
The Operators – Cold Light
L’Orange & Kool Keith – Dr. Bipolar
Menace Beach – Tennis Court
Handguns – Sleep Deprived
Baths – Miasma Sky
Such Gold – Two Year Plan
Brood Ma – Sex Compressor
Boo Radleys – Lazarus
Masta Ace Feat. Pav Bundy, Hyp – Young Black Intelligent
TEEN – Come Back
Corpo-Mente – Arsalein
Stephen Malkmus And The Jinks – Rumble At The Rainbo
Goodbye Tomorrow – JAY Z
Jakub Zytecki – Satya’s Diary (Feat. Piotr Gib
Public Service Broadcasting – Gagarin
Real Friends – Cover You Up
A Place To Bury Strangers – Straight
Moderat – Running
Joanna Gruesome – Honestly Do Yr Worst
Verb T – Old And Grumpy
Manchester Orchestra – Top Notch
Jam Baxter – Larvae (Feat. Fliptrix)
Title Fight – Leaf
I think I’m going really weird at the moment. I’m getting obsessed with porn stars and nude models which is not unusual for me but obsessed in a sad kind of way, not a healthy wanking way.
Death and sex, sex and death. That’s all there is.
At the minute, Helga Lovekaty just haunts me. I won’t post any pics as they’re mostly NSFW and you can easily google her.
I just feel… I dunno… flat. I keep reading about The Big Rip and finding it very comforting.
Today was my father’s funeral. It’s surreal to be typing that, it feels like I’m practising or writing fiction as his death still seems not right, not real to me.
My Daddy (which is what I called him, never, never Dad ~ it’s an Indian thing) was and is my hero. He arrived in Britain with a few bob in his pocket and ended up as a successful and widely-respected consultant geriatrician. He endured discrimination from the white medical establishment but never let it beat him, he remained a defiant fighter till the end. That’s where I get it from, I guess.
But saying that is false pride: I’m not even a quarter of the man my father was.
My father was passionate and yet gentle; he never hit my sister and I. The very idea of violence towards us would make him tear up. Yet he was also strict and we learned to be polite, moral kids. Though my sister and I are very different people, we both have this core morality, this idea of honour and doing the right thing that I think is from Daddy. We also can’t stand to see injustice, it makes us angry.
I have many sweet memories of being little and my Daddy carrying me from the car after long trips. I remember him playing Rodrigo’s Concierto de Aranjuez on those trips. I still know every note. I remember one night as he picked me up he ooofed as I was getting a bit old and heavy for carrying but he staggered on, bless him.
He loved music deeply and reverently. At night, he would put on Indian classical music or perhaps ghazals and sing along, translating the lyrics for me if there were any. The reason I’m a musician now is because of my father. He inculcated a love of music across all genres. As well as Indian music, he loved Pink Floyd, Queen, Jules Dassin, Johnny Cash, Gordon Giltrap and so many other Western artists.
I also get my politics from my father. He was to the right of me in that he considered communism an impossible (but desirable!) dream but to the left of 99% of his contemporaries. I used to love discussing politics with him, we knew we’d never convert each other. One of my favourite memories is from the ’80s, when I was in The Militant. There was a newsclip of some demo, probably at Wapping and I was apparently recognisable in the shot. Me, large as life on News At Ten. Well, some of his Tory Indian doctor friends weren’t very impressed by my televisual debut and rang him up, saying he should ‘control me.’ My mother, a natural small ‘c’ conservative, was horrified by the negative attention and indeed tried to lecture me. My father on the other hand basically told everyone to piss off and that his son could do what he wanted to. He was happy I was trying to change the world even if he didn’t agree with my perspective or tactics. Decades later, I discovered that he’d lead a successful student strike at medical school in India, winning all students a monthly stipend. My father, the revolutionary.
Here’s another telling story about his character. He was super-sporty. Football, cricket, athletics, he loved it all. (My sister, the eldest child, was even nicknamed Googly as a baby and to this day I call her Googie as that’s the closest I could get to saying her name as a toddler.) Then I come along and pretty much by the age of seven, I’m a little tub of lard. Do I like sports? NO! I like science and reading and music and eating and also eating. But not once in my childhood did my super-athletic Dad ever shame me or make me feel inadequate about my lack of sportiness.
Of course, at the time, this all seemed unremarkable. You don’t realise you’ve had a great father until you’re older and can compare notes with other adults.
So, a few years ago as we were chatting on a Sunday, I brought this up. I said how he had never made me feel bad for not being into football or any of the sports he so loved. And he replied, quite baffled, “Why would I force you to do those things? I knew you didn’t like them! If you liked them, then we would do them. Otherwise, why?” I pointed out that a lot of fathers didn’t really think like that and simply imposed their appetites on their children. He just scoffed at that and said they were ‘silly’ and that was ‘stupid.’ That’s the kind of man my father was.
The day before my he died, I popped round in the evening to visit him and my mother. Just that day, I’d bought a new phone, an LG G5. My father was always into gadgets and loved me showing him whatever new phone or other electronic doodad I’d bought. I took this photo of him to show off the camera:
I explained that the phone had two lenses and that this was the normal field of view. I Then showed him the wide angle lens shot:
He was very impressed by the different lenses and we rambled on about where they’d be useful. He used to do a lot of 35mm photography when he was younger so he was no stranger to geeking out about photographic tech. He said the old tech was so big and bulky and that little phones nowadays could get shots he could never have got.
When I left, I kissed him on the head, told him that I loved him and that I’d see him soon.
Prince isn’t dead.
Did you see 2012? That amazingly mad CGI fest about the coming end of the world:
I remember watching it and thinking, alternately, ‘HAH, THEY JUST FLEW THROUGH A SKYSCRAPER!’ and ‘why is Cusack in this? I mean, Harrelson I get, he’s goofing off on doing this totally gonzo character. But Cusack?’ And then ‘HAH, LOOK AT ALL THOSE TINY CGI PEOPLE SCREAMING AND DYING!’
And then some waves would lumber over mountains like sleepy jam or a monk would breakdance or some other shit.
In the film, they build some arks to save the elite of the human race, by which I don’t mean the actual elite, I mean politicians, plutocrats and a sprinkling of craven intelligentsia.
See, this is what’s happening now.
Lemmy isn’t dead. Bowie isn’t dead. Prince isn’t dead. Keith Emerson isn’t dead. Glenn Frey isn’t dead.
No. They’re all part of a the Sekrit World Gubmint’s preservation party. There’s obviously some kind of major Extinction Level Event on the way and thus they’re whisking away people.
Now, obviously, they’re taking scientists and teachers and plumbers and other essential people too. But we don’t notice their passing as, being humans, we aren’t logical. We notice the deaths of people who have affected our lives more than, say, the 500+ migrants who drowned in the Mediterranean this week. It’s cos we’re little shits. Human lives are very un-equal in our reckoning, as much as that shouldn’t be true.
The people we’ve sung along with, the people who made us pogo on our beds when we were kids, the people who wrote the songs that were playing when we first had sex: those people are ripped away from us and leave a raw, bloody patch.
But it’s okay. Don’t cry.
On a spaceship just beyond the asteroid belt, there’s one hell of a jam about to start.
I slept fairly well last night, the usual cinematic dreams in Atmos with full sensesurround.
I woke up kind of with a start. I was lying on my back. Then I rotated and sat up, legs over the side of the bed.
Immediately, I felt water running down my face and chest. I looked down, it was water, it was blood sluicing out of my nose.
I rushed to the bathroom and looked at my face and chest, which were both very Carrie. Tearing up a bit of loo roll, I made a little nose-tampon. It went immediately crimson but staunched the flow.
I’m very puzzled by this nosebleed as:
1. I don’t really get nosebleeds.
2. It was really hosing out of there. Think when the psi kids attack people in The Fury.
3. It must have started the instant I woke up. If it had started earlier, it would have overflowed my nostril / run down my throat. There was no blood on my sheets and I didn’t wake gargling haemoglobin so that didn’t happen.
If I saw this in a film, I’d be watching, nodding and waiting for all shitting hell to break loose.
So…. where are you, aliens / mutants / psi kids?
Now, I love Murdoch Mysteries… It’s light and playful and I love the Canadian-ness of it, much as I loved the Candadian-ness of Continuum.
But every since Mouna Traoré joined the cast… well, I’ve been hypnotised by her beauty. I think I have a crush. LOOK AT THOSE EYES… omg…
It’s all too much for my old heart to take… she’s just gorgeous!
And what makes it all worse is that she is brilliant in her role as Rebecca James. She exudes this mixture of vulnerability and quiet aptitude; she’s pitches herself perfectly as a black woman pioneering into previously white domains.
I’m watching the ep Colour Blinded now which features her flirting with a dude and when she opens those eyes up, wooaahhh… I’m dead.
I also love this ep because we’ve just had someone say that people shouldn’t be praised for simply doing what they should (referring to a white bloke playing the white saviour card and lionising himself).
Point well-made, Murdoch writers… niiice.
And, yet again, like Ripper Street, we have a historical drama stoutly not portraying anachronisms and yet dealing with issues many contemporary dramas are too cowardly to address.
I’ve not read that, gimme a pointer!
The trouble with capitalism is that it’s an economic system whose time has passed. It’s as relevant and progressive as feudalism now. The profit motive is incompatible with paradigm-breaking innovation (where’s the profit in an ever-lasting lightbulb?). And it tends towards concentrations of wealth and thus huge inequality (hence the 1%). It also fosters monopoly and other hugely restrictive and anti-innovative practices.
For me, the basis of bourgeois economics is flawed *now*. We nearly have access to unlimited energy and unlimited resources. All it takes is one breakthrough in materials (100x more efficient solar cells / room temp superconductors) and we’re there. As for resources: if we could co-operate enough to get off this planet, think of all those tasty asteroids out there, even discounting the Oort cloud.
So, if you want an example of a post-work, post-capitalist future, that’s Star Trek. No money, no war (between humans at least), poverty and inequality wiped out. Star Trek is really COMMIES IN SPACE but I don’t think Roddenberry could have got away with calling it that.
Or, Iain M. Banks’ Culture. That’s very explicitly a socialist future paradise because we’ve relinquished control of a lot of autonomy to AIs. As with Trek, the major conflict is when The Culture encounters unfriendly outsiders.
Imagine if every human, all seven billion, could wake up tomorrow and know they had water, food, shelter, healthcare and education guaranteed. Throw in free childcare and broadband. Imagine the possibilities of all those humans liberated from subsistence drudgery. Free from war, from violence.
The little girl who invents room temperature superconductors may be alive now but if she’s going to be blown apart by one of Obama’s terrorist drone attacks tomorrow…. well, we’re fucked, aren’t we?