apologies for the quiet - but it's full steam ahead in preparation for mixing the forthcoming EP/album combination, most of which needs to be done by friday 9th.
but amongst the chaos, word reaches me that DJ hero Jon Hillcock is once again parting ways with xfm. his second tenure ends this sunday, october 4th for his final new noise show, and all at Camp Marwood would like to wish him the very best. so i did. by email. and he wrote back within the hour.
beat that, terry wogan.
ps. hah, Camp Marwood.
Wednesday, 30 September 2009
Monday, 14 September 2009
that was the week that was (rubbish)
so: life, eh?
sometimes it bites you in the butt. or bum, if we're being english about it. alors, behold my Week Of Rubbish, which is a phenomenon that occurs every so often and happens to have happened recently, since you asked.
we begin with the show at the Rising Sun Arts Centre on Friday, September 4th, my first hometown show since coming off tour and the cause of much excitement in my heart and pants, as i play host to Tom Williams & the Boat, originally from Tunbridge Wells and now from all over the shop. we meet up, we chat a bit, i plug my guitar in, little happens.
bugger.
so, my guitar which i fixed twice on tour bit the dust that night, albeit not quite that dramatically, and to reward Tom and the gang for lending me his (new) guitar for my set later that night, I take him and his bandmates out for some top quality alleged food poisoning* at Mr Cod, my fast food outlet of choice. once they'd all finished being horrendously ill, the show was a great one, if slightly quiet, leaving me down on cash by the time I'd waved farewell to Mr Williams and then with the morbid(ly obese) task of checking my guitar in for repair and resuscitation the next day, the very same next day that should have seen me be on a train to Newcastle on a trip that was cancelled at the last minute due to sickness that wasn't even related to Mr Cod, nor I. down on a not particularly cheap train ticket too, I decide the week is out to get me.
and then my guitar comes back with more problems than it left with.
if you're listening, this week, you better be good.
(*i was fine, perhaps they just all had weak, out-of-town stomachs)
sometimes it bites you in the butt. or bum, if we're being english about it. alors, behold my Week Of Rubbish, which is a phenomenon that occurs every so often and happens to have happened recently, since you asked.
we begin with the show at the Rising Sun Arts Centre on Friday, September 4th, my first hometown show since coming off tour and the cause of much excitement in my heart and pants, as i play host to Tom Williams & the Boat, originally from Tunbridge Wells and now from all over the shop. we meet up, we chat a bit, i plug my guitar in, little happens.
bugger.
so, my guitar which i fixed twice on tour bit the dust that night, albeit not quite that dramatically, and to reward Tom and the gang for lending me his (new) guitar for my set later that night, I take him and his bandmates out for some top quality alleged food poisoning* at Mr Cod, my fast food outlet of choice. once they'd all finished being horrendously ill, the show was a great one, if slightly quiet, leaving me down on cash by the time I'd waved farewell to Mr Williams and then with the morbid(ly obese) task of checking my guitar in for repair and resuscitation the next day, the very same next day that should have seen me be on a train to Newcastle on a trip that was cancelled at the last minute due to sickness that wasn't even related to Mr Cod, nor I. down on a not particularly cheap train ticket too, I decide the week is out to get me.
and then my guitar comes back with more problems than it left with.
if you're listening, this week, you better be good.
(*i was fine, perhaps they just all had weak, out-of-town stomachs)
Monday, 7 September 2009
stick this in your album
i am going up the wall, stir-cabin-fever-crazy, call it what you will.
i blame the tour. the sight of so many different places in such quick succession and then, just as quickly, a return to a one-place-one-job routine is at least irritating, and at most depressing. still, the vast open wasteland that passes for my current gig list has at least given me time to work on the album. the date for the first of three mixing sessions is in the diary for 9th october, and things are moving along nicely.
naturally, when i loaded the works in progress onto a CD and blasted it from the stereo it sounded, predictably, like there's a lot of work to be done, but that's exactly why we book these sessions for a whole month away, and not tomorrow. quite why i'm on here and not working away, i have no clue; fear perhaps? or maybe self-sabotage. regardless, before the 9th there is much work to be done - a few extra guitar takes here and there, some vocals to re-do (some of them, would you believe, suffer from not being harsh enough), and numerous percussionisms to contemplate along the way.
enough of my album though, it barely even exists; let's talk about Frank Turner's third album Poetry of the Deed, which is out this week on Xtra Mile in the UK and Epitaph everywhere else. i have it and i love it - it's less a solo record and more a band affair, but for my money Turner could give any pop songwriter on record a run for their money, and live is almost off the radar. his set recently at Reading left me pleasantly shocked, such is the support he received from the gathered thousands. if you can, pick up a copy. if you can't (because, say, you're too poor), at least go halves with an equally-broke friend. do it. DO IT.
of course, none of this insistance that you need this record is returning the favour for FT playing 'I Will Breathe You In' on Huw Stephens' In New Music We Trust show on Radio 1 recently, but that was bloody lovely.
that same week he was album of the week on Zane Lowe's show, and it also heralded the last ever Radio 1 show for Steve Lamacq, given the boot after sixteen-or-so years' service, and to this day a thoroughly humble man who is the exact opposite of the glamourous, swaggering chunderholes that pass for DJs on stations up and down the land. This man just loves music.
of course, none of this praise is returning the favour for Lamacq playing tracks from The Wookies' new EP, Sparks, on his 6Music show, the record being out this very week on Broken Tail Records. plug plug plug:
http://hmv.com/hmvweb/displayProductDetails.do?ctx=280;-1;-1;-1;-1&sku=212165
on his last show, Lamacq did manage to do something I at one point never thought possible - he managed to tip me over the edge into a fully-fledged fan of Fight Like Apes. i was not shy in sharing my feelings as to their inadequacy upon seeing them support Future of the Left in London this past May, nor was i shy of slagging them off to Kev as he played me 'Tie Me Up With Jackets' in his front room, but that hook kept niggling at me, wormed its way into my soul and onto my mp3 player and, eventually, with my guard down on his last Radio 1 show, Lamacq rammed the point home with 'I'm Beginning To Think You Prefer Beverley Hills 90210 To Me'. stunning. i think i'll track her down and steal her.
but.. er.. anyway, steve lamacq. on the Evening Session in the 90s/early 00s he was an essential listen - he did so much for the alternative scene and helped so many bands over the years, i have nothing but respect for the man. without him i'd probably have never heard of Chris T-T, never picked up 'Paul' by the Landspeed Loungers and all the other anthems from my university years. such is the impact, i even still remember the first song of the first Evening Session i ever heard - Grandaddy's 'A.M.180'. that i remember that surely just goes to prove how important he is, was, and shall remain
and at least he's escaped the wheels of the Radio 1 juggernaut before he's in his 70s, a diabetic and presenting shows thrice weekly from his house til 1am.
if you know what i mean.
i blame the tour. the sight of so many different places in such quick succession and then, just as quickly, a return to a one-place-one-job routine is at least irritating, and at most depressing. still, the vast open wasteland that passes for my current gig list has at least given me time to work on the album. the date for the first of three mixing sessions is in the diary for 9th october, and things are moving along nicely.
naturally, when i loaded the works in progress onto a CD and blasted it from the stereo it sounded, predictably, like there's a lot of work to be done, but that's exactly why we book these sessions for a whole month away, and not tomorrow. quite why i'm on here and not working away, i have no clue; fear perhaps? or maybe self-sabotage. regardless, before the 9th there is much work to be done - a few extra guitar takes here and there, some vocals to re-do (some of them, would you believe, suffer from not being harsh enough), and numerous percussionisms to contemplate along the way.
enough of my album though, it barely even exists; let's talk about Frank Turner's third album Poetry of the Deed, which is out this week on Xtra Mile in the UK and Epitaph everywhere else. i have it and i love it - it's less a solo record and more a band affair, but for my money Turner could give any pop songwriter on record a run for their money, and live is almost off the radar. his set recently at Reading left me pleasantly shocked, such is the support he received from the gathered thousands. if you can, pick up a copy. if you can't (because, say, you're too poor), at least go halves with an equally-broke friend. do it. DO IT.
of course, none of this insistance that you need this record is returning the favour for FT playing 'I Will Breathe You In' on Huw Stephens' In New Music We Trust show on Radio 1 recently, but that was bloody lovely.
that same week he was album of the week on Zane Lowe's show, and it also heralded the last ever Radio 1 show for Steve Lamacq, given the boot after sixteen-or-so years' service, and to this day a thoroughly humble man who is the exact opposite of the glamourous, swaggering chunderholes that pass for DJs on stations up and down the land. This man just loves music.
of course, none of this praise is returning the favour for Lamacq playing tracks from The Wookies' new EP, Sparks, on his 6Music show, the record being out this very week on Broken Tail Records. plug plug plug:
http://hmv.com/hmvweb/displayProductDetails.do?ctx=280;-1;-1;-1;-1&sku=212165
on his last show, Lamacq did manage to do something I at one point never thought possible - he managed to tip me over the edge into a fully-fledged fan of Fight Like Apes. i was not shy in sharing my feelings as to their inadequacy upon seeing them support Future of the Left in London this past May, nor was i shy of slagging them off to Kev as he played me 'Tie Me Up With Jackets' in his front room, but that hook kept niggling at me, wormed its way into my soul and onto my mp3 player and, eventually, with my guard down on his last Radio 1 show, Lamacq rammed the point home with 'I'm Beginning To Think You Prefer Beverley Hills 90210 To Me'. stunning. i think i'll track her down and steal her.
but.. er.. anyway, steve lamacq. on the Evening Session in the 90s/early 00s he was an essential listen - he did so much for the alternative scene and helped so many bands over the years, i have nothing but respect for the man. without him i'd probably have never heard of Chris T-T, never picked up 'Paul' by the Landspeed Loungers and all the other anthems from my university years. such is the impact, i even still remember the first song of the first Evening Session i ever heard - Grandaddy's 'A.M.180'. that i remember that surely just goes to prove how important he is, was, and shall remain
and at least he's escaped the wheels of the Radio 1 juggernaut before he's in his 70s, a diabetic and presenting shows thrice weekly from his house til 1am.
if you know what i mean.
Monday, 24 August 2009
tour blog: pt.4; the final chapter
newcastle: i probably owe you an apology.
for too long, to me, you've been some place up north typified by bare-chested manly-men, fiercly-optimistic football fans and, y'know, Ant and Dec.
not so, it seems, not so, for it's here in the city of Newcastle that the tour reaches it's peak, from a poorly attended gig where we make some new friends regardless, to an underground club in the city centre where the rock music mixes with the cheese like we're mixing the champagne with whiskey. they play PJ and Duncan. they play Bowie's Magic Dance. they give us another opportunity to dance to some horrific nu-emo-metal that's right up there with the playlist at the Cockpit a few days previous, only this time with added My Chemical Romance. but more importantly they're nice, friendly, the bar is cheap and the vibe is excellent.
a few hours later - 6.30am, to be precise - i've been spat back out onto empty city streets to wander, and think about what i've done. unable to rouse my sleeping touring buddies, i sit outside the civic centre and watch seemingly oversized rabbits bounding around, wait til Costa opens and find a quiet corner with the Independent for company, and generally fill myself full of caffeine until i start hallucinating, which happens about 10. still, it's great to see the city come to life. i hope to return very soon.
as well as marking the high point though, newcastle also marks the beginning of the end - by now all three of us, and our tour pet Kev, are the worse for wear. not enough sleep, too much alcohol and depleting brain activity has turned us into zombies, which is probably why Huddersfield was so much fun. the Parish is a zombie-themed venue (zombie free since 2006, they advertise), a pub with a venue slung on the side. again, the people are sparse but the goodwill is there, and despite our best intentions to sleep, before long we're dragged out again to Sectioned, some underground rock club which beats our ears in with all manner of punk and ska and rock and.. anything.
we go to bed too late. we get up too early. the drive ahead, from Huddersfield to our overnight stop in Reading, is a big one, and Lockey is by now too rough to drive it. barry manfully takes on the mission - single-handedly defining the tour mantra offered up by myself a few days prior, that "sometimes the only way to get back on the horse is to tie youself to the fucking saddle" - whilst i do my best to keep awake. and fail. still, we reach Reading in one piece for a night of rest, ready for the last date in portsmouth on sunday.
and that, dear reader, is that. we get there, we wander to the arcades, lose some money and i reign supreme at bowling, we play (apart from Jim, who manages a song and a half before his voice gives in for good), and we retire home to junk food and a sleep which isn't anywhere near as long as it should be before we have to get up and part company, home to the same people, past-times and problems we left behind eleven days prior, albeit with the memory of an incredible bonding journey fresh in our minds.
one thing to bear in mind, before the post-tour blues kick in and i forget what this has taught me, and this should not be forgotten as you, like me, sit solemnly in your jobs from monday to friday:
it was Franklin D Roosevelt who said that we have nothing to fear but fear itself, but he was lying. what we actually have to fear is reaching some age where youth has deserted us only to realise we've wasted our lives.
never give up.
for too long, to me, you've been some place up north typified by bare-chested manly-men, fiercly-optimistic football fans and, y'know, Ant and Dec.
not so, it seems, not so, for it's here in the city of Newcastle that the tour reaches it's peak, from a poorly attended gig where we make some new friends regardless, to an underground club in the city centre where the rock music mixes with the cheese like we're mixing the champagne with whiskey. they play PJ and Duncan. they play Bowie's Magic Dance. they give us another opportunity to dance to some horrific nu-emo-metal that's right up there with the playlist at the Cockpit a few days previous, only this time with added My Chemical Romance. but more importantly they're nice, friendly, the bar is cheap and the vibe is excellent.
a few hours later - 6.30am, to be precise - i've been spat back out onto empty city streets to wander, and think about what i've done. unable to rouse my sleeping touring buddies, i sit outside the civic centre and watch seemingly oversized rabbits bounding around, wait til Costa opens and find a quiet corner with the Independent for company, and generally fill myself full of caffeine until i start hallucinating, which happens about 10. still, it's great to see the city come to life. i hope to return very soon.
as well as marking the high point though, newcastle also marks the beginning of the end - by now all three of us, and our tour pet Kev, are the worse for wear. not enough sleep, too much alcohol and depleting brain activity has turned us into zombies, which is probably why Huddersfield was so much fun. the Parish is a zombie-themed venue (zombie free since 2006, they advertise), a pub with a venue slung on the side. again, the people are sparse but the goodwill is there, and despite our best intentions to sleep, before long we're dragged out again to Sectioned, some underground rock club which beats our ears in with all manner of punk and ska and rock and.. anything.
we go to bed too late. we get up too early. the drive ahead, from Huddersfield to our overnight stop in Reading, is a big one, and Lockey is by now too rough to drive it. barry manfully takes on the mission - single-handedly defining the tour mantra offered up by myself a few days prior, that "sometimes the only way to get back on the horse is to tie youself to the fucking saddle" - whilst i do my best to keep awake. and fail. still, we reach Reading in one piece for a night of rest, ready for the last date in portsmouth on sunday.
and that, dear reader, is that. we get there, we wander to the arcades, lose some money and i reign supreme at bowling, we play (apart from Jim, who manages a song and a half before his voice gives in for good), and we retire home to junk food and a sleep which isn't anywhere near as long as it should be before we have to get up and part company, home to the same people, past-times and problems we left behind eleven days prior, albeit with the memory of an incredible bonding journey fresh in our minds.
one thing to bear in mind, before the post-tour blues kick in and i forget what this has taught me, and this should not be forgotten as you, like me, sit solemnly in your jobs from monday to friday:
it was Franklin D Roosevelt who said that we have nothing to fear but fear itself, but he was lying. what we actually have to fear is reaching some age where youth has deserted us only to realise we've wasted our lives.
never give up.
Thursday, 20 August 2009
tour blog: part 3
hello, and howay, from newcastle
day eight, and the most northerly point of the tour so far sees me sat in kev's aparthotel with Come Dine With Me on in the background. kev, ever the chef, is pointing out why this particular dish won't work. i, meanwhile, feel like absolute shit.
but this is no bad thing. trust me when i say this - i've earned this. this feeling that someone is standing behind me, pounding at my neck whilst gently kneeing me in the skull is one i've truly earned, having awoken this morning on a floor in Leeds feeling exactly as tired as i was when my eyes closed at 2am. last night was York, a city astounding in its olde worlde beauty home to a compact venue below a late night cinema. the people are - for the most part - quietly appreciative, and whilst the merch hasn't exactly flown out of our hands since we left Cheltenham on Sunday (more on that in a moment), we did at least feel like we'd achieved something.
i was already half-dead before that gig, mind. Tuesday night was Leeds and a mix of music and poetry, in which the writers got fairly drunk fairly quickly and we all ended up - somewhat inevitably, for me - at The Cockpit at Slam Dunk dancing to a whole bunch of emo songs we'd never heard of, and some shameful ones we had (Fallout Boy, Goldfinger, Sublime, Alkaline Trio..). a fantastic night was had by most, i'm sure, and the hip-hop soundtracked cab ride home just drove the point home. i have a lot of time for Leeds, a sprawling, crappy metropolis of a party town, in sharp contrast to the Oxford-like lush feel of York.
oh, but by the time we got to Leeds i was already worse for wear. the night before we'd been in Walsall at James Addis' house party, complete with friends and lovers, where the drink flowed readily and i'm already well, well on my way to a good night in by the time we take to the patio as a trio and run track by track through the EP we're all here to promote.
Then we do a gig in a cupboard under the stairs.
Then we do one in the shower.
Then we do one in Barry's car.
Then apparently we do one in the bedroom, though by now my chances of recalling this are fading fast. All i know is waking up the next morning partially on a bean bag but mostly on the floor, some terrible cramp in my legs and a pain in the brain. I take my guitar to the garden with my mp3 player, lean back and paint my thoughts onto the open sky. Only less pretentious than that sounds. And with a fucking massive hangover.
But i was already feeling a bit rough by the time we even got near Walsall, the previous night having been where i last left you, on the way to Cheltenham. The show at Slak is superb, and whilst my guitar is still playing up, the crowd are responsive and out for a good night. Jim Lockey brings his full band for the hometown show which is a sight worth seeing, and we soon head home to our host, Ed, who is as welcoming to us as old ladies are to royalty. We stay up into the night watching Labyrinth (with shouts of "wang!" where appropriate for Bowie) before drunkenly collapsing in on ourselves.
indeed, Ed isn't the only great host we've had - this tour has been a collection of excellent people and faces almost too numerous to name.
now, all i have to do is make it to huddersfield alive..
x
Sunday, 16 August 2009
tour blog pt 2, or, we're still not dead
hello once again.
today, you find me holed up in Barry's computer room, the lure of the internet too much for a 21st century boy like i. tired and happy, and in need of a damn good shave, this is day four of the tour, and tonight we go to Cheltenham. but not until i've read some more of the brilliant charlie brooker book that barry hides in his toilet, and i need to change the guitar battery that gave up on me mid-set in bristol last night.
aaah, bristol. that was a weird one. an all-dayer curated by barry himself, we arrive at the venue before 1pm to find the Bristol Bike festival - sorry, this keyboard seems a little picky about what it wants to capitalise - and a lot of bikers milling around. the venue itself - upstairs at the mother's ruin - is less a venue and more a space cleared in a room where some microphones are set up. oh, and it's hotter than a star. naturally, we open a window. naturally, someone knocks a glass out of the window and narrowly misses the bikers. naturally, we nearly get into trouble.
naturally.
but the people are, for the most part, nice and polite, and the food and drink is incredibly cheap. ten hours later, the day is over, but not before some people i randomly know from reading turn up - these days living in bristol, evidently - and my incredibly drunk friend Charlie. we have some nasty shooters and check up on jim Lockey (curse you, shift key!), who departed the gig early as he had another show in somerset, where he wasnt on until 10pm. we dread to think what state he might be in for his home show of Cheltenham tonight.
oh, Devizes, that was alright in the end - more like a gathering of friends rather than the sweaty all-out super-show of Reading the night before. we drink, we shake hands, Jim hugs people who bought our stuff. it's all good.
after cheltenham, it's off to james addis's for an outdoor love-in, and from there it's out into the great unknown - Leeds, where i have been once, then to york, newcastle and huddersfield before we grab a day off. that's truly northern territory, and a long way from home. i do miss it, slightly, the comfortable familiarity of my flat, friends at easy touching distance, lovers at.. only kidding. but this time away is a good opportunity to let my oft-befuddled head settle and have a go at some self-assessment (although, thankfully, not in a tax return way).
naturally.
today, you find me holed up in Barry's computer room, the lure of the internet too much for a 21st century boy like i. tired and happy, and in need of a damn good shave, this is day four of the tour, and tonight we go to Cheltenham. but not until i've read some more of the brilliant charlie brooker book that barry hides in his toilet, and i need to change the guitar battery that gave up on me mid-set in bristol last night.
aaah, bristol. that was a weird one. an all-dayer curated by barry himself, we arrive at the venue before 1pm to find the Bristol Bike festival - sorry, this keyboard seems a little picky about what it wants to capitalise - and a lot of bikers milling around. the venue itself - upstairs at the mother's ruin - is less a venue and more a space cleared in a room where some microphones are set up. oh, and it's hotter than a star. naturally, we open a window. naturally, someone knocks a glass out of the window and narrowly misses the bikers. naturally, we nearly get into trouble.
naturally.
but the people are, for the most part, nice and polite, and the food and drink is incredibly cheap. ten hours later, the day is over, but not before some people i randomly know from reading turn up - these days living in bristol, evidently - and my incredibly drunk friend Charlie. we have some nasty shooters and check up on jim Lockey (curse you, shift key!), who departed the gig early as he had another show in somerset, where he wasnt on until 10pm. we dread to think what state he might be in for his home show of Cheltenham tonight.
oh, Devizes, that was alright in the end - more like a gathering of friends rather than the sweaty all-out super-show of Reading the night before. we drink, we shake hands, Jim hugs people who bought our stuff. it's all good.
after cheltenham, it's off to james addis's for an outdoor love-in, and from there it's out into the great unknown - Leeds, where i have been once, then to york, newcastle and huddersfield before we grab a day off. that's truly northern territory, and a long way from home. i do miss it, slightly, the comfortable familiarity of my flat, friends at easy touching distance, lovers at.. only kidding. but this time away is a good opportunity to let my oft-befuddled head settle and have a go at some self-assessment (although, thankfully, not in a tax return way).
naturally.
Friday, 14 August 2009
tour diary: part 1
hello from Devizes.
i sit on day two of this Exclamation tour, in the function room of a pub in Wiltshire. tonight's show will be two sets of three songs mixed into an open mic style, and if Devizes hits its normal form, there'll be stories today. It is here, after all, in this very venue where I mounted an unsupported monitor and fell butt-first to the concrete floor, inadvertently naming a record label in the process.
Oxygen Thief is here, sat aloft my shoulder, still reveling in the glory of last night's opening show (and what a show) in Reading, where three increasingly buzzing folk musicians gave a lesson in unity. Jim Lockey's Morning Wake Up is a highlight, easily, though his morning today was less comfortable. we're not sure quite where or how it happened, but Lockey opened tour proceedings this morning with a monumental hangover, which was only made worse by the sight of food and some Murder She Wrote. surely he has set the bar for the tour. A kebab didn't help when we got here, some chips set him on the road to recovery shortly after and he has just declared his desire to drink some more.
Tomorrow he has two shows. Jim - good luck.
Back to Reading though, and i'm warmed to my very core for the support i received there. A packed house, a couple of encores and some ridiculous merch sales later, we return to chez Marwood (or Marwoody, if you believe the posters on display at the Oakford) tired and proud. Truly, it was the best show i've had in Reading for a long time, perhaps ever.
Onwards and upwards.
i sit on day two of this Exclamation tour, in the function room of a pub in Wiltshire. tonight's show will be two sets of three songs mixed into an open mic style, and if Devizes hits its normal form, there'll be stories today. It is here, after all, in this very venue where I mounted an unsupported monitor and fell butt-first to the concrete floor, inadvertently naming a record label in the process.
Oxygen Thief is here, sat aloft my shoulder, still reveling in the glory of last night's opening show (and what a show) in Reading, where three increasingly buzzing folk musicians gave a lesson in unity. Jim Lockey's Morning Wake Up is a highlight, easily, though his morning today was less comfortable. we're not sure quite where or how it happened, but Lockey opened tour proceedings this morning with a monumental hangover, which was only made worse by the sight of food and some Murder She Wrote. surely he has set the bar for the tour. A kebab didn't help when we got here, some chips set him on the road to recovery shortly after and he has just declared his desire to drink some more.
Tomorrow he has two shows. Jim - good luck.
Back to Reading though, and i'm warmed to my very core for the support i received there. A packed house, a couple of encores and some ridiculous merch sales later, we return to chez Marwood (or Marwoody, if you believe the posters on display at the Oakford) tired and proud. Truly, it was the best show i've had in Reading for a long time, perhaps ever.
Onwards and upwards.
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