This week's required listening is straight from left field/curveball territory (apologies for the Yanky rhetoric, I really should read more).
I guess there is fuck all to do in Dorset other than get friendly with the Rizzla's and contemplate doom and that's just what Electric Wizard are all about. A place like Dorset shouldn't really be the HQ for one of doom metal's genre defining artists/albums, but fuck, what else can you do??
The incredibly titled album "Dopethrone" with equally amazingly titled songs such as "Funeralopolis", "I, the Witchfinder" and "Barbarian", is a hazy, THC dusted, slow and dirge like trip that takes your head space from Dorset right into the eye of that big fucking storm that's been shooting around Jupiter for the last thousand years. The artwork perfectly sums up the album too.
OK, Ok, it aint gonna be to everyone's taste, but sit back, roll a few joints (you'll need more than one) and let the throne of dope show you what "Deliverance" would have been like if it had of been set in Dorset. "Dueling Banjos" this aint.
I remember when I was a kid, my dad had a coverless copy of one of those Top Of The Tops kinda compilation tapes. He loved "Free Nelson Mandela" by the Specials AKA but I was always a bigger fan of this precious diamond. This be dedicated to my pal Bilo, who lives close to where the video was shot on the Goldhawk Road. Don't bounce brother.
Boy oh boy has my preconceptions of the masters of junk changed in the last couple of weeks. The swine gave me my £50 back!!! A junkies promise was formally worth shit, but '09 might yet be the year of comebacks. Perhaps they been cutting their gear with a bit of epiphany dust, huh?? Still, tie their shoelaces for sure, but don't give them the cash to buy them. Once bitten, twice shy, tell them to fuck off three times.
Cloughy has taken over at Derby again. Although this time it's Nigel not Brian. Football is a funny sport, probably the only one where emotion outweighs any other factor, and we all know how irrational emotions are don't we. Derby have done a Newcastle/Kevin Keegan type thing. Maybe just maybe it will work, but it hardly ever does.
But what tickled me was the fact Mr. Nigel said "I know that this is one of the most exciting jobs in football." What!?!? Really!!! Managing Derby is one of the most exiting jobs in football?? Hmmmmm............ Ok.
Reading this article, though, reminded me of a time long long ago when I was sporting short back and sides during the border period between 2001/02. I was working at Virgin in that dreaded south coast cult town (twin town of Waco, Texas, fact) of Brighton (c'mon erosion!!!), when Derby were struggling at the bottom of the top flight. As I thought they had nout to lose, I rang Derby County and asked a lovely lady on the other end of the line how I could apply for the vacant managers job. She was quite helpful and gave me an address to write to. I didn't get the job and Derby were relegated. Go figure. Good luck to Mr. Cloughy though.
Throughout my entire raving career I've always wanted to go to an Old Skool Acid House rave, but never had the chance. Acid House was the music that turned me away from that dreadful guitar based music that teenagers feed off and it began a new electronic chapter in my life that has yet to be closed.
Due to The End closing down, and me never having ripped up that particular dancefloor before, I thought it was my duty to go there at least once, purely so I can tell future young ravers one of those inflated mythical stories of an old nightclub that's long gone. How many of those have you heard, huh????
Although, this 'Class of '88' night will never have to be exaggerated. For it to be believable though, I might even have to ahhh... deflate it.
I was an early riser and arrived at 10.30pm, it was a bit quiet, natch, and the first thing I noticed was the far wall of the main room which was covered with loads of fluro/glowing Keith Haring pictures (see image, yeah) and a massive smiley face behind the DJ booth. Old Skool aesthetic indeed. It got fucking rammed, busy busy boy, loads of old timers mixed with baby faced boys, 19 year old Mexicans and a fine black chick with a mightily impressive Afro. Alright.
Once my pals arrived, we started to dance and kind of didn't stop..... all night. This was rather perplexing as I'd only forced down half the usual dose down my Gregory. Energizer bunny, ya.
As I don't often go to big clubs anymore, due to them being generally gash and my love for small and secret intimate mish mashes, I forgot how fucking annoying the dealers are, scurrying around asking every five minutes if you want anything. One such twat was this big fat fuck Greek type, who looked like fucking Del Boy and seemed to be a bit too fucking big for his boots. I just wanted to twat the twat, he was one of those "fuck off mate" types, a lingering menace. Still the night was for loving (where's the Afro girl???), the Old Bill will get him eventually.
It came to the point where I was gasping for a joint (fucking tea head), so I made my way to the dark back corner of the main room, where they have a rather handy bench type thing which served a very good purpose and probably has many times for the last 15 years. Standing next to me was a blond girl skinning up herself, she noticed what I was doing and kindly put her thin glow stick between me and her to offer a little more light on the situation. I got talking to her, asking if she was gonna smoke indoors. She'd planned to wait for the nearby smoke machine to go off before she sparked, an old pro indeed.
We swapped particulars as to what our evening's buzz was and after divulging my weakness she starts talking to me about DMT. She claimed to have had a bunch for years but "only had a gram left". She said "I don't know why I'm telling you this, you must just think I'm some kind of blonde posh bird, but....". She went on to tell me the following: First time she did it she got whiplash due to the smoke hitting her so hard. It tastes like mothballs. It's like going down a very multi-coloured psychedelic tunnel with loads of shapes to accompany you. It's the chemical that your brain releases when you die. And the last time she did it she thought she was naked and screamed to the gods "Take me now, I'm all yours!!!!" Needless to say, it was one of my more interesting club run-ins. I wandered off in a cloud of that stale smoke that only solids produce towards the upstairs for my own sweet leaf.
So, eventually it came to the point where I needed that Cape Horn clash of the chemicals, I didn't have any liquid, so had to wait at the bar for fucking ages (enough time to come down really) and handed over £4.60 for a bottle of lager. As soon as I had possession of the Amstel, I turned round at the bar, winked at the old timer behind me and dropped. Seeing this, he grinned insanely and gave an approvingly friendly tap on the chest with his fist in a "go on my son" kinda way.
Back on the floor, it was time to try out one of the 3 raised platforms in the main room. These are between knee and hip height and can comfortably fit 4 peeps to dance upon, in true Old Skool style. It was here, hovering above the crowd when the clash smashed my body. Joe Smooth's "Promised Land" dropped and it was at this moment when I was taken straight back in '88 (see video below). The crowd were gurning and grooving, never before have I seen so many happy faces, getting down like it was the Hacienda. Many shapes were thrown, all of them world class. It was a proper "hands in the air' vibe. A proper Old Skool mash up. Not one person was residing on planet Earth.
I was amazed how many tunes I recognised and had in my collection, like, Lil' Louis "French Kiss", Housemaster Boy's "House Nation", Ralphie Rosario/Xavier Gold's "U Used To Hold Me" and two Ten City tunes, ahhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!! The squelchy 303 acid basslines were littered throughout the night and man they were heavy.
It must have been 3-4am, I had a sit down with me mate, and was thinking that I was all raved out. But my mate, who has a skill like no other for these kind of things, ends up talking to a forty something old time raver called Leslie and her mate, who ended up giving us more gear than we came in with for nout. This gave me a second wind and back on the raised platforms I stayed till 7am (with Afro girl in touching distance), until they did that horrible thing and turned the lights up. Ahhhhhh!!!!!!!!! My eyes!!!! It was time to leg it before the jacket queue formed to biblical proportions.
The sun was coming up, it was still, but freezingly crisp. I walked. New Oxford St, Charing Cross Road, Shaftesbury, Piccadilly, stroll trough Green Park for a bit, Knightsbridge, Sloane Square, King's Road, Battersea Bridge and home. A few joints and a bit of Salsoul disco classics. Bed, by 11.30am, Preston vs Liverpool on in the background and 8.30pm when I woke, thinking "Oh no what did I do, I have just raped my brain, body and wallet." After a short while of feeling sorry for myself, I had a shower, and while lathering up my raved up body, I remembered the moment when "Voodoo Ray" by A Guy Called Gerald was dropped the night before. The tom toms and bassline echoed in my head and I danced for the rest of the shower session, thinking, "I feel slightly shit, but by fuck was it worth it".
Why does Wikipedia have blunt all (ie tiny tiny) info on who produced Madonna's "Into The Groove", Steve Bray, eagle eyes, but has a list of the director, producer, director of photography, editor and the twatting production company (Parallax Productions, Charlie BOREpeeps) involved with the music video??
The pen is mightier than the sword is often the head-scratcher at the centre of most high school debate competitions. But cats, the tune will always be mightier and flightier than the moving image.
Tune, tune, tune. Incredibly crisp, girl and that early House off kilter piano solo!!!!!! There's even a flying cymbal near the start, gaaaahhhh!!!!!! Praise be to he who produced this killa. Check it.
