Is It Because I'm Swax?

Somewhere south of there, Somewhere north of here...

2011-02-19T17:19:00.001Z

You shot me
through the side of my eye,
those few days back.
From distance.
Naturally.
Blood welled up
in my heart.
My mind ran and ran and ran.
Came first down the dogs, actually.
And then I died around an hour later.
Now the blood is all gone...freeze-framed to a once-magnificent tiled floor.

Seemless...

2010-11-14T03:56:00.004Z

Perhaps it's just me, but
nothing ever really
seems
to seem
as it seems,
or at least as it
should
seem.
Does that seem right to you?

Ninety Three...

2010-11-02T19:38:00.001Z

...You would have been.
But then you still are...in my mind, at least.

Sat here in the back draft of some old theatre in Indianapolis, drums checking and ol' cotton mill blues and Augustus Pablo smoking through the PA. Daily.

Still sad, sometimes happy, generally a little lost, but still.

Here's to you...then and now, wherever you may be.

I love you.

Always...

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8th February...

2010-02-08T07:29:00.001Z

Happy Birthday to you, Mum.
Again & Always,
s
x...

Hello, it's me...still.

2010-01-27T23:05:00.000Z

Stepping out on the balcony, overlooking Vernon/Borden to the right, Empire State to the left, the sun sank into a muted blaze of old Iranian pink and rosey grey suede to the West.

Same sky,
Same time,
...Same shit; back when I left you for the last time.
Seven years all the same now.

Cigarette at an end, but no, my phone didn't ring. Full signal too.

You, of course, were there.
But all had gone...
...including you.
And as I walked back up Blakenham, eyes planted up into the celestial ether, I knew it...

That was it.

That's it.

Did you know?...that...
I knew?

I sincerely hope so.

And I miss you terribly...still.

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As if I ever really needed a reason...

2009-12-26T09:25:00.000Z

It simply has to...just...be.

And that's it.

Three hours and 59 minutes after the almost-same-day-each-year ceased to be, I have silence.

Well, kind of. I guess you could call it a peace, some sort of peace, in pieces as rare as they come. Yeah, people pay top dollar for that shit, or at least so I'm told.

Outside on fizzy, wet black Metropolitan, the sidewalk has changed; everything's melting down - both literally as well as figuratively speaking.

Everything's changing and changed...almost there, kids! All aboard!...

When we got back in from Tel Aviv the other night there...what was it: Monday?
Anyway, the sidewalk was dry and iced. Long lines of uncut blow piled high from curb to sewers...choreographed mess, if you will, beautiful like the clouds going into Osaka in August.

Equal measures of lengthy cigarette ash banks layered alongside the Charly...for sure it was some sight. Dirty and poetic, one could say.

Blue, but not ALL blue, my friend Facebook'd me earlier. "ALL was so last year," they said...and I still believe that.

Phonecalls to London, texts to NY, Milan and back to NY, emails West, South America...just for festive politeness, you understand, and then...silence.

In pieces.

Okay, so a little sadness thrown in for good measure, but only a wee dram. Equally, key catalytic inspiration and hope via Vermont, Jim Kerr and Andrei Tarkovsky...while Herbert provides soundtrack unknown. But what about scanning that thing there for tattoo man tomorrow?...you reckon on the left side of the chest, huh?

Everything makes sense now.

Doesn't it?...

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From Tuesday 7th August 2007...

2009-11-25T04:03:00.000Z

Moleskine & Stuff...

Seven or so months ago, I found myself aimlessly wandering the winter-frosted streets of Berlin; cold as hell and not really sure of where I was headed. Drunken-minded, I'd left my supposedly reputable guide to the city in the toilet of some random Moroccan-named bar I had just exited, so any further course of direction seemed totally futile.

Taking wrong turns off of various wrong strasses, even jumping the wrong U-Bahn, I was truly lost. Thankfully, I passed a brightly-lit bookstore, minutes away from closing, and somehow managed to cajole the kind owner into allowing me in to purchase a life-saving guide book - my only means of getting home without spending an arm and a leg on cabs.

Fate must have had its fat, sticky fingers in what happened next; an unassuming black leather notebook almost beckoning me to give it a good home. As I was soon to discover, this was no ordinary notebook. Sure, it was made by Moleskine, the Milan-based home of world-renowned notebooks used, over the years, by anyone from Apollinaire and Van Gogh to Picasso, Sartre, Hemingway and, more recently, Bruce Chatwin and Luis Sepulveda.

But this was something very special - unique in fact: a guide to your chosen city, complete with street maps, transportation networks, blank pages to note your favourite places and even your own itinerary section. Essentially, all of the key ingredients for the traveller to create their own personal guide to their respective destination and, subsequently, their own story of high times and adventure recorded for posterity. A treasure simply not granted via your average rough guide.

But then it was only a matter of time before Moleskine dreamed up such a worthwhile idea, now covering anywhere from London, Paris and Barcelona to New York and San Francisco, while guides to Chicago, Seattle and, of course, Los Angeles are due in the autumn.

If that wasn't enough, Moleskinecity.com invites writers, artists, travellers and free-thinkers the world over to share stories, experiences and general interesting stuff via the site's regularly updated City Blogs.

"The first idea for City Notebooks came from the fact that you simply can't offer tips on the top ten things to do, spots to see or places to go, to different kinds of people or needs," says Maria Sebregondi, VP of Moleskine Brand Equity and Communications in Italy.

"Moreover, in a world changing so fast, guidebooks can't be really updated, unless you do it personally, browse the web or are constantly exchanging information with friends. That's why we thought of something both analogue and digital: a guidebook still to be written, interfaced with the web. The new City Blogs of moleskinecity.com are a meeting place open to sharing and participation."

www.moleskinecity.com
POSTED BY SWAX T. MCIVER AT 1:10 AM

Absence...

2009-09-12T21:55:00.000+01:00

...Should ultimately make the heart grow fonder, as the saying goes.

Well maybe it just has...thanks to a late, or maybe even early, spring clean...

"Words dazzle and deceive because they are mimed by the face. But black words on a white page are the soul laid bare."

-Guy de Maupassant

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On the way, out of the way...in WA

2009-01-24T11:55:00.001Z

Two days down; Boise, Idaho to Everett, Washington State, and now onwards to who knows where.

Even in the new Washington, as of Tuesday this past week, it's a whole new state of affairs...a new beginning, hope, yes we can, and promise of better times.

Good Times, if you will. But no burgers and frozen custard, I hasten to add.

No way, puto.

Eleven months lost; for me, so far...but then maybe I'm now found. Yes? No?

Maybe?

Yeah, maybe.

It is what it is, and this is possibly it.

Hopes, fears, happy-sad, drunk, bored, bemused, amused, thoughtful, and I mean ALWAYS ridiculous.

Five basball caps down; Brewers, Royals, Rockies, Hawks and now Mariners. How apt.

Six if you include that obscenely essential barnet-topper from the Shriners back in Springfield, MO, the other day, eh?

Seven with the case of the curiois orange.

Besides, I'm beside myself.

Always was...usually.

But Ken's blueberry pie and ice cream, devoured just under 20 minutes ago deep in the Snoqualmie Valley, was just what I needed.

As I write, drift off and go for one more toke out the window...

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Bremen?...

2008-11-29T02:32:00.001Z

3 thirteen AM...

I must have cut my nails down way too short the other day - particularly the right thumb, as the fucker's killing me while I attempt scribing out the jibberish and mindless nonsense unfolding before my very own eyes. And mind.

Strange times at the moment...don't ask me why.

Lost and even more lost, but the same as...

If only it was always "sweet as", eh?

Listening to Photek's "Aleph 1", and yeah, don't you just love the way it melts into "124", no? Classic 97.
Cheers, Rupert.

"KJZ" for what's now called the FSB, if you will.

It reminds me of Moscow the other day; smoking, drinking piping hot black coffee and putting slippered feet up on the desk in room 527 of the Hilton on Leningradskaya. Nothing but bleakness, snow, no-one and dim streetlights on a cold November night.
Oh, and then the long stretch with us all in the van there out on the way to the airport...passing through industrial landscapes and tower upon towerblock on the outskirts of the Russian capital.

Fuck that for a game o' soldiers, mate.

Nah, but it was nice really. Moody almost.

Just like 97.

Regardless, the drive to Hamburg in just under five hours time this morning, Russian love of The Pogues in the front lounge, Ukrainian admiration of the Bossa in the back.
It's all the same, but always different.

Maybe feel better in the morning though, eh?

Yeah, maybe...g'night/good morning...

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Forest Hills? Queens? Nah, Clinton...

2008-11-10T06:09:00.000Z

Another morning late, another early afternoon spent, but only fifteen bucks or so.

That's without the chicken soup though...mmm!! Nice rolls! Toasted too.

Now it's late and Uma Thurman exacts revenge in part one on TV. Second time in a loop already.

Swiss/Serb/Croat/Albanian friends and acquaintances..."No, just one more stall...I just love that jacket." - at the flea market on Lafayette and Clermont.

"Fuck's sake! Alright, just hurry up already yet! Jesus!"

Cool Brownstones, serenaded by the trees down there on Clinton though. Yeah, nice. Autumn's always my preferred season...sorry, I meant "fall".
You catch my drift.

And the pink sky setting behind rooftops blows its own back down the street. Leaves and those midget black acorns, peppered down the pavement and around tree stumps like spices on all dry plate, crunch the path back to Lafayette.

Less safety, more solace down the steps and into an empty Clinton/Washington Avenues on the G. Five blimps down the line, that's all.

And then...bam!!!

...the day's done.

Again

Like yesterday, akin to tomorrow, but always slightly different.

I guess.

Anyway, fuck this; my thumbs need a break...

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Change?...One Day, Thirty Minutes Later...

2008-11-06T05:29:00.002Z

Yeah, I'm sure it'll work, but as an outsider it still hasn't registered completely.

The jury's out, mate.

Indoors, off of Bedford, exactly 24 hours ago; celebrating Irish-American birthdays with cheesecake, beer and CNN and MSNBC...non-stop.

Sure, it's great. The Daily Show made it so, I believe.

Yeah...fantastic, even.

If you're American, that is, but then maybe the scope spreads way wider than that now.

Actually, yeah...maybe it is an historic a moment as the pundits, anchor men and women and everyone has been saying since the call at twelve AM this morning.

A whole day ago already.

Apparently, the 'Times was sold out in every store too...across the city.

I don't know.

Change is good, and yeah, sure, Obama's got his work cut out, but we'll see.
Trust no-one until they actually deliver...

And as for those fuckers, pseudos and hipsters down on Bedford and North 7th...well, that's another story.

Change comes in packages way less fancy than American Apparel and Brooklyn Industries, no?

3-second sparklers and bad Roman candles strewn across from the deli on the corner; half sparked, half arsed...

Should've lobbed a whole bunch of those mini rockets into the crowd over there, eh?

Now that, I would have paid to see...

Floppy fringes, brand new Keds and fishnet stockings, frazzled in a flash...fo' sho!!!

Nothing serious though.

And my reply to any sensible, less agitated mind's questioning as to whether such a violent act should be carried out? Just for laughs?

"Yes we can"...

("Victory" image, courtesy of Shepard Fairey, Obey Giant 2008)

Dia De Los Muertos...

2008-11-03T04:56:00.002Z

I'm sorry for calling late.

I am now, and I think I always was.

Both.

Sure, I know Mexico was the day before, but to me, yesterday should have been today.

I feel sad.

I feel sad and I know all ninety one years of you would look away, laugh and call me a soppy bastard.

Of course, you'd be right.

Anyway, just thought I'd say hi; all's alright - sometimes, I'm older but none the wiser, and still here, just about.

Happy Birthday.

I love you, and I miss you.

See you at Christmas...

For Annie Joan Cross: 1917-2003

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("Dia De Los Muertos" image, courtesy of Shepard Fairey & Ernesto Yerena, Obey Giant 2008)

What Does Your Soul Look Like - parts four and one...Part 1

2008-08-13T22:09:00.000+01:00

Well...?

Well, what?

Well, now that you ask...

...cruising at sixty, a much-delayed ride straight outta' Gijon, stress factors and Asturias almost, if not already, behind us.

Maybe my geography's not so great, but still...Google Maps and/or Earth will either verify or deny. The truth's inescapable.

No wi-fi though.

Tough.

Front-lounge: 3 guitars, occassional flamenco, new riffs; expansions on a theme, blue ink on yellow-lined pads and calls for "breakfast!", "lunch!" and, of course, "Tube 8!". Simple demands, basic human needs. All will come, go and then repeat the cycle in due course.

Back lounge: Playstation, intense focus and little noise. The rest between are either kippin', watching Airplane on laptops or trying to learn chess from books bought in Providence, RI, the other day.

Oh, and American Psycho up front also.

Battery charge - still orange before green in around two hours, interrupted for jaw-dropping mountain-range shots. Meanwhile, jamon y queso sarnies go M.I.A at the gas stop and dust-drenched quarry trucks line up like tourists on the edge of the Grand Canyon.

Could be Westerns, Franco Nero and the Mexicans, could be the future in reverse: Charlton Heston and a load of old ape japes in green or tan leather waistcoats. The choice is hard to reach. Best take both options.

Mmmm!!! Nice in black and white, eh? Love the detail.

Yeah, s'alright, innit?...

Meanwhile, Italians, Irish, Israelis, the Dutch and two Russians, each donning new D+G chemises in red and white, respectively, finish coffee, sandwiches and Spanish Omelettes and are back on board. After smokes, naturally.

All aboard?

Fourteen?

Si..."We're a bus!"...

Galicia soon, Villa de Arousa tomorrow...Shadow's parts four and one - the perfect soundtrack. No, the ONLY soundtrack, in fact...in that order.

Thing is, how come he put 2, 3, 4 and 1 as 1, 2, 3 and 4 though? It's not like I'm on "random shuffle". Probably an "artistic" decision. Maybe not?

Part two; a surprise addition to 13-minute bunk entertainment while I write these very words - to whom, I really couldn't guess or tell, or want to, for that matter.

That's how it's looking for now.

Anything else?...

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St. B - to - St. P...

2008-07-23T02:37:00.002+01:00

Lying here, wasted at 5.10am, and I still can't sleep.

But then what a day though, no?

10am the previous - wake-up call from the man from Sakhalin..."Oh fuck, yeah, I'll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes then yeah?"

"Yeah, ok. Sure."

And so it was...

Back to Red Square following last night's moonlit walk back from the guff gaff at Justo.

Sure, it was all fine and dandy, but why the fuck would you want to nosh on Sushi, however good the Californian rolls are, here in Moscow?

I mean, really, what the fuck, man?!?!...

But anyway, seeing Lenin ths morning was good, no matter how rapid, waxy and peculiar it was, as was the beauty swooping around the corners and corridors along the inside of St. Basil's Cathedral. Was not was, but yes definitely.

1 thirty rubels extra for the photopass well worth the expense also.

Back around the square, where I used to see Breshnev, tanks and military muscle as a kid in the 80's, and down and out a few blocks to old places a must. Meanwhile, a swift 2pm return to the Kempinski across the river.

And so followed the B1 insanity for pretty much the rest of the day/evening/night.

Until now, that is. This is even more so.

Lying here, wasted on chunky cans of Baltika, one other beer and some shifty cognac whose name I can't remember nor pronounce, the letters are quickly becoming more and more difficult to scribe.

Here in cabin V1, carriage 6, the sun on the way to St. Petersburg pretty much rises behind my bed, musical chaos outside the locked sliding door nothing but the sound of a rockabilly-bandito-burrito memory the following morning. This morning, in actual fact.

The mist on the marshes and pissponds still hangs like heavy velvet drapes, but anyway...turn that alarm off already yet!

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The Best In Show...But Where The Fuck Is Mont St. Michel?...

2008-07-18T19:22:00.000+01:00

The clouds come down like a million cigarette smokes
at 7.15,
evening time, and we persevere.

Onwards and, erm, onwards.

Back on the bus from a couple of months previous; sandwiches and water stocked up from the gas station just now, though smokes are on low numbers; "Merci, monsiuer...au revoir!"...

"Yeah, 'bye..." The coffee wasn't so bad actually. Careful not to blow that big bastard of a gas tanker next to us with yer snouts though, eh?!

"So maybe we'll get a shot of St. Michel nearby?"

Maybe. But it's a fair way off.

Dinard - 25 km away; flashbacks to old school old-school trips there at the age of 13? 14? I really don't recall right now.

New songs, bare bones, honed and shaped via the acoustics two seats behind us. The sound of road trips, flamenco and Django westerns, plus more. Progression.

Carhaix around 180 km off as it stands. Twelve pee em stage time, probably after Beard, Gibbons and the other one whose name escapes me, but he's basically the other beard, but not Beard.

Christopher Guest and Eugene Levy entertain us on the top lounge with spoof US Crufts on The Best In Show, and trees and fields pass by like a merry-go-round.

I guess an hour left 'til arrival, and let's just hope 'S makes it in on time from Oslo after this morning's fiasco, new passport in pocket.

Man, what a day.

And it ain't over yet...

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Independence Revisited...Almost Forgotten...Strictly Gonzo...

2008-07-16T04:34:00.005+01:00

AMERICA
+
JULY 4TH
=
GONZO: THE MOVIE...

by Swax T. McIver

Some people just have a bad day.

Outside on West Houston Street, while all is joyful, patriotic and another scorcher adding to an even hotter
summer this Independence Day, chaos spreads like a sweaty stink here in the foyer of the
Angelika Cinema, downtown Manhattan.

God Bless America!

Trying her best to appease a good few hundred restless countrymen and
women - the odd English accent spoken particularly quiet here and
there for obvious reasons, the poor young lady in charge of announcing
and organising the queue for today's 4.45pm screening sure ain't
having an easy time of it.

Meanwhile, the line of mid-thirty-something cutesie Tribeca couples
and Brooklyn/Queens b-boy skate kids, all holding tickets to catch the
4.40pm showing of The Wackness, are surprisingly reserved and as
compliant as it gets.
Lightweights.

We, on the other hand, are not.

Why? Well, it's simple...

We, the majority, have come to see the opening screening of director
Alex Gibney's long-awaited "Gonzo: The Life and Work of Dr. Hunter S.
Thompson", and tensions are running high.

"Apparently, there's a technical problem with the projector; the
film's coming out upside down, so we need at least fifteen to twenty
more minutes to fix the situation," the young lady owns up.

As typically Gonzo as this is, it still isn't good. Not only do we not have the patience; people here
have travelled from all over the city, have downed several drinks along the way and are
not that enthusiastic on having to either do handstands or hang from
their feet, just to see the movie the right way round. It could get
very messy.

Thankfully, for both her and us, it doesn't. Technical issues sorted
quicker than anticipated, everyone gets seated, popcorn at the ready
and the opening credits are already rolling in full glorious colour
five minutes later.

Given the plethora of books published on Hunter since his suicide in
February 2005 - only a select few actually being of notable reading, a
part of me is unsure of how frank Alex Gibney's documentary will
really be. But then at least half of us here are probably thinking the
same, that's if you're talking about those who've managed to read more than
just Fear & Loathing In Las Vegas.

Deftly-lit shots of an empty Owl Farm, Hunter's home for more than
thirty years in Woody Creek, Aspen, open the proceedings; the camera
panning over shelves of his books, old photos and assorted ephemera.
Meanwhile, Johnny Depp reads key lines from 'Hell's Angels' and
soundbytes from old friends or associates spell out that in his latter
years, the great Gonzo had, in all honesty slowed down on his creative
flow and may well have peaked way too soon.

A line written in his column for ESPN.com on September 11th 2001 talks
about the events that day and how, thanks to George W's (not so)
clever political manipulation, the start of a religious war was
inevitable. Footage of Bush and his subsequent Afghanistan/Iraq
wipeouts are run side by side with another of Hunter's favourite
presidents, Richard Nixon, and his exploits in Vietnam.

Great times for America, no doubt, and you can't help but feel an uncomfortable
sense of awkwardness shifting like a mist here in Auditorium 1 as the show
goes on. Maybe that's just me thinking too deeply on the subject.

Regardless, the attention to detail is commendable. Filmed reconstruction footage of HST riding the Colorado freeways late night while Depp narrates with text from Hell's Angels and interviews with old 'Angels chapter boss, Sonny Barger, tell of the film's subject being a "crazy bastard", even at the best of times.

And then it all reverts back to the beginning: the early days and how Hunter Stockton Thompson from Louisville, Kentucky, actually came to be.

Interviews with Sondi Wright, his first wife, follow, as do stories of high jinks and mischief told by old friends like Aspen Sheriff, Bob Braudis and George Stranahan. Even his one-time closest political allies; George McGovern, Jimmy Carter and known associates like Nixon's head of press, Pat Buchanan, give their five minutes worth of memories and thoughts.

What does come through in this silver screen biopic - his mad hatter journeys into drug and hedonistic experimentation aside, of course, is that Hunter was a man "who always wanted to get to the heart of the matter; the truth."

Whether it was his beatings at the hands of the Chicago police present at a Democrats convention in the seventies, the Freak Power campaign for office of sheriff in Woody Creek, countless wild excursions with artist and friend, Ralph Steadman, or simply himself in private at home with second wife, Anita, or son, Juan, Hunter was essentially a patriotic American at heart.

But in the most positive sense of the word.

Cult US soundtracks in the shape of Lou Reed, Bob Dylan, Jefferson Airplane and the 'Stones' "Sympathy For The Devil" work fitting, given the context.

Maybe it was, as he himself described it, the "death of the American dream", that finally ended in him shooting himself in the head that fateful morning, maybe it was just part of it.

According to those closest to him, it was his "get-out clause", that had always been on the cards during his life lived at full speed, no compromise.

Who really knows...

"The most satisfying part of the journey making this was through the
words of Hunter - thousands of letters, his many articles, books and
even unpublished manuscripts," said the film's director, Alex Gibney,
later, and after all posters had been torn down as souvenirs by the hungry savage masses on leaving the cinema.

"He was a phenomenal writer who was funny as hell and who had a unique
ability to embrace the central contradictions of the American
character: an unquenchable idealism mixed with a vicious instinct for
fear and loathing."

www.huntersthompsonmovie.com

(Published on 4th July 2008 online at www.anthemmagazine.com - Copyright: Swax T. McIver)

Goodnight on Petmeza...

2008-07-16T02:34:00.000+01:00

McGowan sings about "The Old Main Drag" and Waltzing Matilda, while I drink Heineken, smoke and look forward, hesitantly for some reason, to Norway via Vienna.

From the heat of here: central Athens, but not where REM are from, you understand.

But then that's tomorrow, so now is actually alright. Yeah, really.

Emails from New York tell of jackpot wins at the diner, and way too much stored under the bed in Little Italy...

"Yeah, sorry about that, mate. Yeah, yeah, yeah; I'll get it sorted as soon as I'm back, I swear."

Seems to be an ongoing theme.

But a particularly roasting day from where this message is being sent: the land where the Olympics came from.

Beautiful gaff, from what I've seen at least.

Passing the Acropolis on the way in from the airport yesterday; complete camera moment for all concerned, but...wait! Fuck! Nah, just missed it. Gone behind the trees now.

Days out in the Karaiskaki Stadium, sun blazing down, so yeah, just play frisby in the shade then, eh?

"Teardrop" wasn't as good as I'd always expected it to be - guess I'll stick it on the stereo in a minute regardless, but the full moon above the stage was essentially magnificent. Romantic, almost.

Could do with just a couple more days here really. But then couldn't we always?

Until then, good night from here.

So I'll see you there then, eh?...

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Rain Czech...

2008-07-13T15:37:00.000+01:00

4pm and we're still on the road to Ostrava.

A long night wasted in Serbia, a long morning wasted on the border Czech point after leaving the old Slavic city, false alarm.

Fuck, we're late!

Thunder strikes across the fields to the right, Frankie chats about the 'Pistols in Turin the other night.

Meanwhile, we plough through shiny-soaked tarmac, and I hope 'P gets to see his luggage turn up in Athens the day after tomorrow.

So what time we getting there then?...

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All points, erm, which way again?...

2008-07-02T04:55:00.001+01:00

It was fun, no?

Long walks instead of getting the F to West 4th, Spanish football from La Liga - entirely coincidental to the national team's Euro win the day before, of course. Oh, and a few good red wines and pasta, courtesy of bubbly, Georgian friends dodging bosses from Napoli.

The country, I mean. Not the state, though I'm sure they're just as hospitable.

Thanks a bunch though...ciao!

Walking back the long way again - this time under the cover of orange street lamps, 'cross Broadway, tourists and late-evening meal freaks. Everyone hustling and bustling the sidewalks like a market thoroughfare on a Saturday.

Ice cream?

Why yeah, sure...si si si si!!!!...grazzi!!

Back on home turf: East Side.

You said that one day the East will look exactly like the West. It almost does already, that's for sure.

Just less scummy, untowards-ness over on the W right now. But the rotten, stinky edge here on the E is sometimes the only thing that makes it right. We need that shit, though in small, immediate bursts.

Demographically speaking, the Vans and beaten-up All Stars counts are pretty much neck and neck on both sides currently. Jury's out on the Abercrombie + Fitch's though. Nevermind.

"So I'll be out here from tonight, right up until ten AM tomorrow morning, yeah," says the ex-NY cop employed to watch over the M+M's "Free Ice Cream" van parked in the middle of Tompkins Square Park. Generator running, and hopefully for him, it'll all still be here this time tomorrow morning instead of being sold for scrap over in Queens or 'Jersey.

"Come twelve PM, come and get your ice creams," he sighs, blahzay about the long night ahead.

"How are they? Any good?" I ask...

"Erm, I don't know."

"Ok, well thanks anyway, man. Good night."

We finish our shared, choc-vanilla ice cream that's not from our good friends at M+M's and go back to the shack on A and St. Mark's with the deaf guy behind the counter, but you still don't find the lost ribbon.

Cream, cones, cigarette cartons and slow-roasting hot dogs, they have an abundance of, however.

Aaaaah, baby. "It's not over at MacDougal + Bleecker, no? Did she find it on the floor at the bar?"

I guess not...

We both lose out; will that big shitty chocolate smear on my nice new white tee shirt that looks look Steadman actually come out in the wash?

Hmmm...maybe?...

Back home, wi-fi news from the BBC is equally as perplexing: Mugabe's rigged (again) landslide win in the Zimbabwe elections and Plaza de Colon in Madrid a sea of red and yellow jubilation as the footballers return home to show off their silverware, etc, etc...

But what about the twelve million bees that escaped out of an overturned lorry in St. Leonard, New Brunswick?

What indeed.

Let's go to bed, eh?...

The Ballad of China Town

2008-06-30T06:04:00.001+01:00

You look up at me and, trying to avert my view either down at the slippery ground or at passers by, I catch your eyes.

How many?

Fourteen? Fifteen? Twenty seven?

The count becomes too tiresome for both and words and for me.

Laid out cold from the crack of dawn, you look up at everyone looking down at you. Fingering and prodding you.

AC comes in the form of ground ice, and a whole host of blue-bottles will become your fast new friends. For a while anyway.

Deep in the ocean where you used to hang, back in the day, now laid to rest on the corner of Grand and Chrystie.

Shit, man. Bummer, eh?

Sorry about that. I feel bad.

But come with us to the East Village. We'll take care of you, have you over for dinner, drink wine and shoot the breeze together.

Yeah, sounds like a plan, no?

Six bucks?

Yeah, sure.

Let's go already...

Wrong or Right?

2008-06-30T05:37:00.002+01:00

Who knows?

Who is?

Fucked if I know...

Vivere...

2008-06-28T19:43:00.006+01:00

Saturday afternoons, here in June in New York.

Back after way too long, but then how long was that actually...really?

It doesn't matter so much now because here is now - here & now, and I have to get on with this whole nonsensical matter of everything from here on in.

My life.

Carlo Buti sings and my baby washes the humidity of last night's city and tri-boros off of her soft olive skin.

Meanwhile, I'm still stinky and sticky...recouperating from no breeze, but just enough water. I'll go after.

The main thing is this: I've started again...fresh, almost. Figuratively speaking, of course.

Ink on paper, pictures in digital format; all have to be reconcilled and turned into the next move.

"It's now or never..."

After one more coffee and another quick cigarette though.

"All or nothing at all...", sings Harry James and Frank Sinatra as I sign off, but it was Buti who really hit the nail on the head.

For now...

Swax T. McIver

O' Cave Plee...

2008-02-15T03:25:00.005Z

Been a long time.
Too long, in fact.

Where was I?
Where were we anyway?

Back there, but no longer there, just here.
Still "out there" though; the only place to be really.

Cats around me.
Surround me, but off in their own dream worlds.

Buster snores,
Frau perches elegantly on the edge - but that's her all round,
Ledley's peaceful and still, occassionally stinking up discreetly,
and Manky like the lion beast he is.
Minoush (did I spell it right?)...well she's out there and "out there" somewhere.

The coal runs low out back,
yet in here the plurals burn with maximum ferocity.

And the world outside is, again, quiet at 3.37am.

Work early tomorrow, today even,
but fuck it. It's alright.

Still in mourning
for the lost Church's.
Dead man's shoes from years past,
now dead and gone to the great cobblers in the sky.
So long, Balmoral friends.
It was emotional, comfortable, and it felt so right.
you were like a second skin, man.
We went through shit together, eh?
Adios, compadres!...

Eno's Deep Blue Day
makes me write again.
The first in ages.
Here?
Since last year actually.

But better late than never though.

Besides, what else comes from another dreaded
Valentine's
the previous day...

Tried to avoid the word like the plague.
At least the plague was honest.
It never professed to being anything other than a stone cold killer.

Love?

Well, maybe it's the greatest cause of fatalities there is.
Also the giver of life too.

Restoring the balance and all that.

Anyway, I digress.

It's good being back here,
for now.
And while Bono sings about 'Dirty Day',
I will sleep now,
while the only letters I could skillfully piece together
in front of the fireplace this evening
spell out the title you see above.

Scrabble for beginners.
We're absolute beginners.

See you tomorrow?

Call me?

Text me?

Yeah, I'll Myspace you.

Ciao...

Broke & It Doesn't Quite Add Up...

2007-09-28T01:15:00.000+01:00

Burning my water-logged
hands,
washing excess pork fat,
potato skins and apple rind
off of pans and glass baking dishes
way past the midnight hour.

Too many to mention,
too little to say.

Turning to look and lift my head
over the line of the broken window sill,
just to see how many pissed-up
rowdy German students
pepper the steps to the hostel this evening,
but no-one's there.

No-one except her.

The well-kept lady;
tanned,
blonde,
dressed nice in beige and suede,
but it ain't quite right, know what I mean?
Probably 42...43?
She could be called Laura Ashley.

In my heavy own-personal-space mode earlier,
bowling down Pentonville
onto King's,
I saw her.

Thought she was but a lost tourist
from the North,
maybe Scandinavia even,
about to ask me directions to
Travelodge or Holiday Inn
or the station
& that.

But no.

"Excuse me,"
she said softly and politely.
"Do you have a spare 50 pence for the bus?"

Eyes as solemn as a funeral for a dead baby.

"Nah, sorry, darlin'. I'm flat broke, y'know."

Which, of course, was actually the God's-honest truth.

37p cash money to my name, in fact.

And that was that: a fleeting moment where she went on and I went on.
One way and then the other.

Didn't fancy her or nothing - that never even crossed my mind; more like bumping into your best-friend-at-school's mum who was kind and like Felicity Kendall in The Good Life.

Proper, almost.

Yeah, proper.

This was more like the Inner City version of Good Life,
just without Kevin Saunderson on production and the word Good too.

Then, back to now, and
she appeared again up on
the steps
there.

Did she ever catch that bus?

Did she ever need to catch that bus?

Any bus?

Nah.

Looking up at me, then back down at the
shiny can in her hand,
grey leather handbag slumped
like a fat cat to her left,
she was on her own journey.

I pondered this sad & curious scene,
wishing I could do something, but
what could I do?

A quick wipe down
of the sink and draining board -
best to leave that pan to soak for the night, eh? -
and I turned back again.

But she was gone.

To where?

I've no idea...

Just hope she had somewhere warm to rest her
troubled self for the night...

It's Been A Long Time; Lights On, Lights Out...

2007-09-24T01:38:00.000+01:00

A week too long
without
words.

A week too short
with them.

Plenty happened,
even more than actually didn't.
Actually yeah, really.

The whole mess, almost - thanks to
Corso.

Just didn't fancy typing,
thinking
or any form of constructive activity.
Lazy.
Uninspired.

But yeah, what a week.

A week unweak, if you will.

Seven days previous:
bangs,
sparkles
and expensive glitz
peppered the skies over Farringdon,
St. Paul's, etc.

Should've attended for the Spanish connection,
instead I just blew it out.
Bad, bad, bad!!!
"Sorry, but maybe next week, si?"

Ok.

Long days up Bruton;
uncertainty of where it's all going -
where I'm going, and so on.
In fact, where the
fuck
am I going?

Straight to hell, fool.

Just like that new Hank Williams III LP.

Goodnight and goodbye
to an abundance of unused CDs;
shame to see the Gainsbourg and
Joy Division box sets go and that,
but hell, I need to survive.
And drink occassionally...
And smoke...
And...

Completely forgetting Yom Kippur -
due, largely, to shock and anger
of Mourinho departure,
and where do we go from here?

Not with Grant, that's a cert.

Time to go old skool
and get
Zola
rolling into the
role.
That's the only way,
but the Moscow bank rollers
would disagree, I'm sure.

The 2-0 whipping up
North
was to be expected though.

Hoodies and the usual
suspects
swagger and peddle in grey trackies
as per usual outside,
while Aussies, Germans
and Spanish
plot up with cans and idle banter
on the steps of the hostel.

Caught some of 'em
spotting in through the kitchen window -
shouting "Oi! Mate!" -
like I was their best mate or something.
I mean, what the fuck??!!

More concerned with nostalgic cheese/mayo/pickle
brown bread sarnie and Observer digestion
than waving across buildings, twenty feet up.

But then that's me, so...

Marcel Marceau pegs it;
unless he's pulling some sort of
sick, extended mime, that is.
Paris, French and the arts world mourns.

Reminiscing upon old flames;
romantic lights,
kissing and
soft skin,
until crazy bitch texts saying;
"How are you? Blah, blah, blah..."
The reply consists of;
"Do Not Contact Me Ever Again."

Verbatim.

Vermin-strength memories. No more time for such things.

Real good seeing Rootsman up Muswell and that though;
head nodding to reggae faves at weddings,
neck nodding the red wine like water - for religious reasons only, obviously,
and hearing the Marrakech sessions.
Wow! Man, I love it!
Inspired again.

Meanwhile, the MS 13 boys
of San Salvador's street gangs
live and die by the gun;
Grant from Eastenders delivering a
commendable insight indeed.

Iggy's "Down On The Street"
draws white heat out of the little tin can speakers,
thoughts of that Swedish girl from Camino resurface again -
"what's her name again? Ulrika? Unrika?"
I have to get it right, say hello sometime, etc...

The moon rises over
Busch Stadium
in Missouri
as the Astros step to the Cardinals plate,
but I've to work in a handful of crumpled old
second-hand hours, so nah, not tonight.

Thanks anyway.

The turn of Slum Village
and, of course,
"Fantastic Vol. II"
cranks, crunks, rolls and buckles
beautifully as the gas lighter's dwarfed orange
flame suddenly cuts out in front of my face,
under the night air
and I smoke, thinking about
just how the fuck I'm going to write
something interesting again tonight...

And On The Seventh Day...

2007-09-16T02:04:00.000+01:00

...the good Lord's phone went straight to voicemail, no question.

Left to your own devices, fucker!

That's ok...that's alright.
Yeah, it'll be just fine.
Watch...

Woken up the previous day
by dreams
of both the previous
and the previous-previous
days before,
and their respective dreams
the nights
thereafter.

All very confusing.

Not much recollection actually.

Just that the
Konstam beauty
probably has a
boyfriend,
or girlfriend,.
maybe even both!

Lucky them.

And vivid scenes
in a parking lot -
maybe around LA
way,
maybe not.
Definitely an abundance of
sunshine,
dirt tracks
and weird,
horrific creatures -
akin to that of the American Werewolf In London,
but called bears (?),
chasing and blood splattering everywhere.

Told this to a colleague
up Bruton Street there
10 hours later,
as if they were to possibly shed
possible Freudian
light on it.

"S'probably the alcohol, mate, eh?"

True; probably, but definitely not definitely.

But then again...what the fuck is nowadays?

Coppers in black
yank horse shanks
and straps
and ascend the Horse Wagon
outside the old copshop on
King's Cross Road
for 8.30am;
ready for a big day out
at the races, of course.
Of course, no bets placed here though.

No cause for celebration.

Cold blue New York skies
and golden planet
spreads the city from here
to Mayfair, and beyond.

Staff sit rigidly,
listening to/looking seriously/inattentively focusing on manager,
regional manager
or some person of false
hierarchy
at Russell & Bromley
on Conduit and New Bond.

Way too early for that kinda shit, dude!

You must be kidding.

Need at least 9 espresso's beforehand,
4.5 ciggies too!

Minimum...that's standard!

Nonetheless,
green tweeds,
framed egg sculptures,
ties and all that,
change from hand to hand,
shop to customer,
road to home.

All is well again.

For today, at least.

Back in the manor,
9 meat wagons -
some engaged like glorified porta loo's,
some not,
line the bottom end of Caledonian.

Why?

20-30 of the fuckers,
riot gear donned,
checked, peaked silly Nazi caps
nodding and shaking,
looking indifferent,
searching & joking and interrogating
Spurs or Gooners or both
outside the Flying Scotsman.

That's why.

3-1 to the latter; K-O'ed
for this side of North London for tonight.

But still,
no messages
displayed via silver fruit,
just the odd gmail
for either replica Rolex's
or having a "bigger cock for yer girlfriend"
and that,
and too much time spent pressing the
delete button.

Besides,
wise words
and plans
and ideas;
"you gotta have a plan; some sort of goal, man,"
from Frankfurt at home;
"get your shit together now,"
made all the difference.
Simply have to keep the momentous flow -
well, flowing.
Going...

Still in the mind -
processing and forming plans
& strategies and so on,
meanwhile,
"bang!"..."crash!"
and the funk of
Gil Scott-Heron's
"Hello Sunday, Hello Road"
tells the time -
both physically and mentally,
through the stereo cones.

The clock reads 2.34am,
and I board the bus for lands far and
away.

Until tomorrow, but then tomorrow's here already yet...

...And Up...

2007-09-13T01:30:00.000+01:00

There's nothing
more
difficult
than a line.

(Pablo Picasso)

Word up...

2007-09-08T00:34:00.000+01:00

It's easy to write one's
memoirs
when one has a
terrible
memory.

(Arthur Schnitzler)

Cruz del Rey? Yeah, 'course, man...

2007-09-07T23:46:00.000+01:00

Course?

Path?

Track?

Route?

Chimney?

...what's the best course of action in the circumstances?

Camino, of course!

Yeah, 'course, man...

Another sweaty day, another sticky dollar.

Long days, no AC,
"drink plenty of cold, fresh water there, mate!"
"Yeah, thanks for that. Gulp!"

No option but the gold,
dark fizzy stuff
in misty, frosty,
icy glass receptacles.
'Quid ninety-five, guv!...I mean, Sir...or Señor."
"Okay then, just one more.
For the road, you understand.
Nah, not as in "the road I'm driving on.
Don't drink and drive.
Although 'How's My Drinking?'
Simply a turn of phrase; for the journey ahead
& all that."

"Sure. I get it."

Strange week for sure.

Calf skins, cartridges
& ties with wild boar and
partridges
for sale.
Love for sale.
Hot week in the shop there.
Hot as a chip shop for sure.
No accomodation for Mars bars though.
But yes, accomodation for Lagos by Saturday morning, direct flight for Francis.
Plenty transactions, plenty coin,
no commission, unless you got the code
and permanent status.

Erm, well...actually no.

Sorry 'bout that.

Eye infections,
hours at Moorfields,
fingers in eyes
and the nauseating feeling of
cold sweats,
dizziness
and needing biscuits immediately.
Cold water and fans relieve the horror.

Uncertainty of the future,
the present and the
now
of
NOW!

What am I going to do?

Work it out quicktime.

Maybe even film it and put
the fuckin thing into QuickTime
and sell
the beast, eh?

Yeah, maybe.

But not YouTube though.

Too obvious.

I digress...

But a strange week nonetheless.

Madness,
no chance of sanity,
copious amounts of alcohol,
trying to right the world -
Israel, South Africa, Iran & all,
but getting nowhere.

Slowly.

Unsurely.

Especially on the long trek home
from the Coach & Horses.
Dangerous grounds,
moving targets,
and so on...

Pavarotti pegs it,
Maddy case plot
twists and thickens
in the most sinister of ways.
"So d'ya reckon she did it?"

Who knows.

Heavy shit though.

Drunken calls to Arkansas, Queens,
drunken emails to LA.
Sleep deprived,
sweats,
no dinner and
texts to Ukrainians in NY
wishing Happy Birthday for yesterday.
Still, Bradford and Morocco all went smooth though.
New chapters.
Congratulations!

Life never ceases to amaze.

Never enough questions,
but too many question marks
in blog titles.
Maybe that's the only way though, eh?
See what I mean?
?

Besides, it's getting cold now,
all my £1.95's
have all but disappeared south into liquid
while the other fiver
went north;
up in bright blue, silver smoke rings.
Gone but for a distant cough, and bursting of the bladder in ten minutes.

Nice though.

And that crazy part in
Shantel's
'Andante Levante' -
the bit at 3 mins 41 seconds in where it goes out guns blazin...

Wow!

I love it.

Good work there, chap!

Time for an other Rewind...and no, I don't feel like going home yet.
Too depressing right now. The art of that conversation is dead.

But anyway, chin-chin...and here's to the catharsis already...

And Another Thing...

2007-09-04T00:09:00.000+01:00

We stayed at home
to write,
to consolidate
our outstretched selves.

(Sylvia Plath)

End Of The Line? 'Til Thursday? But First...

2007-09-03T23:27:00.000+01:00

(random thoughts, events and general nothings and no things...)

Conversations throughout the day
swirl
round everything
from 'Big Bruv"
to the price of
eggs
and "Do you speak Russian?"

Literally.

The latter two need only apply.

End of story. Not that there ever really was one as such.
Or maybe there was...

"Yeah, so it's on from tonight then?"
These are the other words.
Repeated,
questioned,
repeatedly questioned,
and so on and so forth.

"Yup! That's the deal, fuckers.
No call-offs. Hardcore strike all the way down the line,
or not, as it may be."

French buy socks;
"Oui...er, yes, what colours do you have?"

"Only the beige left, I'm afraid.
C'est d'accord?"

But of course.

No Arabs, no falcon hoods and gloves today.
Maybe
tomorrow.
Just maybe.

5pm clock off - "bye-bye" to New Zealand, London,
Lagos, Sardinia & Paris
until morning, while
the rest of New Bond Street
retail
continues as normal.

After all, since when did "the strike"
affect beemers and mercs and
bentleys and rollers? Blacked out?

No black out.

But down here,
well,
yes.
Of course.

Last train Northbound
on the Victoria line,
up from Green Park
leaves at 5.33pm
on the
dot.

Commuters faces
a sharp-fixed
blend of
shock!
awe!
amazement!
...and child-like naivety
as the carriages turning up
are as empty as if it were
5.33am.
Possibly even more so.

It's like the end of the world, mate.

Madness; everyone and no-one,
all together and apart.
The rush for the buses,
and the rush for seats,
while the bus rushes you to your seats,
so more can board,
and leave
and the next can arrive...
Sometime soon.

Norwegians and Brazilians
behind the bar
at Camino
talk of thinking about opening
Sundays.
"Yeah, man. That's a great idea,"
I say.
"It's what we need here right now. You'd make
a killing for sure."
After all, where else is there
on the Lord's holy day, eh?

Just ain't feelin' the Ruby, really.
Apart from the Latvian who sounds Irish,
but then...

Cruz Campo cushions the blow
of the day today.
The first of many.
But so many to be drunken down the neck without
realising what "time it is" -
in its most profound sense.
Time to realise.

Airbus air bus paints the light-gold
sunset
with plumes and fumes
so beautifully.
Etcha-Sketch - carbon-footprint style,
but still looks great over Acton and Grays Inn
at 7.50pm.

Do the passengers on board see this same
magnificent spectacle?

Well?

Do they bollocks.

Just a case of either jubilation
or sadness
of coming back down to land
at LHR.

Welcome...

Excitement -
like first date,
big day anxiety,
bright, red-chested Robins bursting their chests on winter mornings
or the adrenalin rush
of words not yet written,
flows
concerning the prospect
of "getting on it"
with the blog
and of words not yet written.

Flow stays,
stoops,
then comes right back round again.
Until now.
And then now.
And hopefully to be continued.

Night almost AM
and a day closer,
meanwhile
the music plays.

"Let the music play..."
as old Bazza once proclaimed.

"...fruit basket from the Lord,
sprinkled with nectars,"
replies Hütz
at the turn of
Greencard Husband.

Praise the Lord...

But wait...oh...fuck!

Means I gotta walk in tomorrow then innit?

A Fine Line...

2007-08-31T00:38:00.000+01:00

It's a fine line
between
promotion
and
prostitution.
Faint as hell,
but bold
and apparent
as fuck.
I should know.

(Anon. August 2007)

What Did You Mean By That? (Worldwide)...

2007-08-24T01:39:00.000+01:00

(...it's all in the mind, isn't it?)

paranoia [pӕrəˈnoiə] noun:

a type of mental illness in which a person has fixed and unreasonable ideas that he is very important, or that other people are being unfair or unfreindly to him

Arabic: بارانويا: جُنون الإضطِهاد أو العَظَمه
Chinese (Simplified): 偏执狂
Chinese (Traditional): 偏執狂
Czech: paranoia
Danish: paranoia; forfølgelsesvanvid
Dutch: paranoia
Estonian: paranoia
Finnish: vainoharhaisuus
French: paranoïa
German: die Paranoia
Greek: παράνοια
Hungarian: üldözési mánia
Icelandic: ofsóknarkennd
Indonesian: paranoia
Italian: paranoia
Japanese: 偏執狂
Korean: ?정신병? 편집병(偏執病)
Latvian: paranoja
Lithuanian: paranoja
Norwegian: paranoia
Polish: paranoja
Portuguese (Brazil): paranóia
Portuguese (Portugal): paranóia
Romanian: paranoia
Russian: паранойя
Slovak: paranoja
Slovenian: preganjavica
Spanish: paranoia
Swedish: paranoia
Turkish: paranoya

(www.dictionary.com)

Shortest Rhyme Poem...

2007-08-24T01:33:00.000+01:00

I?
Y?

(Gregory Corso)

Writing...

2007-08-23T23:48:00.000+01:00

Words dazzle
and deceive
because they are mimed
by the face.
But black words
on a white page
are the soul
laid bare.

(Guy de Maupassant)

What? You're Breaking Up. What?...

2007-08-23T23:40:00.000+01:00

(from a brief, decidedly random telephone conversation - 23rd August 2007)

...yeah, you there, mate?
Me? Yeah.
Where?
Oh, there?
Where?
Yeah?
Oh yeah, yeah, yeah...
Yeah, there.
Make sure you're there, yeah?
Yeah...

Alienation...

2007-08-22T23:34:00.000+01:00

(first published in Dazed & Confused, April 2007)

The Aliens

When the photographer taking today's shoot suggests a local kiddies' playground as the key location, a collective look of bemusement and desperation falls upon everyone's faces. All except for his. He knows something we don't.

Suddenly it all seems to click into place; where else other than a bright, multi-coloured mini assault course for minors - slides 'n' all, would form the perfect background for The Aliens, Scotland's finest wacky, happy-go-lucky musical export yet. The photographer has the last laugh.

In the wake of The Beta Band's 2004 split and front-man Steve Mason's subsequent decision to go it alone as King Biscuit Time, the two remaining original members - drummer Robin Jones and keyboard/turntables/sound-effects wizard John Maclean, had other plans. Saddling back up with long time compadre, collaborator and the man who gave us the Lone Pigeon, Gordon Anderson, the journey was about to get a whole lot weirder.

"We all go a long way back and I know them (John and Robin), but I don't think they really know me," cracks Gordon, drying off his jacket in a local alehouse after an intense snowball fight atop a luminous blue climbing frame. "They don't even read my poetry, the bastards."

Three-way jests and general piss-takes ensue. "Gordon's so deep that even we've only just scratched the surface," John retorts, "and I've known him since I was twelve. Anyway, his poetry's just guff!" Robin adds the final, wry-smiled blow, "Yeah, it's just all words and that."

Jokes aside, these could quite plausibly be the most constructive times yet for all three concerned. Manic depression kept Gordon out in the wilderness long enough to miss The Beta Band years - who he co-founded with the others, and so tracks like The Aliens' infectious guitar pop anthem 'The Happy Song' have truly significant meaning.

"Ten years of solitude and extreme mental illness, it wasn't good," he opens up. "It was way worse than manic depression. I went to dark places that you just can't imagine the mind going to. 144 electric shocks to the head? I wouldn't wish that on anybody. Horrible times. I just wanted to get well."

Needless to say, seven years later and off all medication, Anderson now finds himself fronting one of British music's most important bands yet, complete with space masks and various quirky stage-dress antics. Add to that their debut album, 'Astronomy For Dogs' - influenced everywhere from Madchester and electro ('Robot Man', 'Rox') to country ('Tomorrow'), tear-jerk ballads ('She Don't Love Me No More') and even a little sixties surf pop psychedelia ('Setting Sun', 'Glover'), and the plan's as watertight as it gets. Well, almost.

"The day-to-day reality is that we do bicker a lot, worse than old women sometimes," Gordon laughs. John sums it up, adding, "Yeah, we're either arguing or are in fits of hysterical laughter."

2nd Gogol, First Bordello...

2007-08-21T23:13:00.000+01:00

(first published in Dazed & Confused, Late Summer 2005)

CULTURAL REVOLUTION AND THE BALKANIZATION OF AMERIKANIZATION

Great expectations and a distinct lack of sleep can play the most deliberate tricks on you. I know this because I experience it and confirm all suspicions during Christian Bale’s lead role as schizoid insomniac, Trevor Reznik, in ‘El Maquinista (The Machinist)’ playing on the screen in front of me on Virgin Atlantic flight VS0045 bound for New York JFK from London Heathrow.

Thirty-six hours without shut-eye and my train of thought is at its clearest and most succinct ever, or at least I think. While the film spirals deeper into insanity and confusion, I find absolute clarity and a way forward past the madness and conscious paranoia of morning flights.

I remind myself of the sole purpose of my mission: the story I’ve convinced my editors at the magazine to run on gypsy punk cultural revolutionaries Gogol Bordello has to happen within the next week. No sleep ‘til Manhattan. I’ve already come way too far to even think about going back.

Just feet away from me, the red-skirted, blonde-haired stewardesses break their tarty politeness reserved for the other passengers by avoiding my sporadic bursts of laughter derived from hallucinations. A lethal concoction of altitude and aspirations of the journey ahead lead me to self-induced inebriation, alcohol-free.

I toy with the fantasy of assimilating Hunter S. Thompson’s hazed trip to ‘Vegas in ‘Fear and Loathing…’, the only difference being that the coke, acid, weed and mescaline be replaced with cigarettes, vodka, caffeine-driven adrenaline and the occasional Twinkie. For in-flight entertainment, the band’s four studio albums that I burned into i-Tunes the previous night play in succession on my i-Pod until the battery runs dry.

The story of Gogol Bordello and its handle-bar-moustachioed, live-wire front-man, Eugene Hütz, has no set beginning nor end, just a series of events, journeys and intertwining situations that happened to collide head-on at the turn of the 21st century and subsequently bring like-minded “characters” from Russia, the Ukraine, Israel and America to torch the brightest burning beacon in musical, cultural revolution since Strummer, Jones and Simenon first decided a jam wasn’t such a bad idea.

A spiked Molotov cocktail of breakdancing to local punk and metal bands, constructing DIY drumkits from fish-cans, bootleg Dead Kennedys and Sex Pistols tapes, the Chernobyl disaster and seeing Thurston Moore & Co. play in his native late eighties Kiev all fused to form the explosive catalyst that propelled the young Hütz onto the route of transmigration, travelling through Poland, Hungary, Austria and Italy, with “people that, given the choice, you really wouldn’t want to hang out with”, and ending up in the northern backwaters of Vermont, Canada, six years later and were all part of the masterplan to get to New York via refugee status by December 1999.

After leaving Vermont-based multi-sexual punksters, The Fags, dreams of landing a cushty spot playing guitar for post-punk-funk-jazz maestro hero James Chance and the Contortions upon arrival in the Big Apple took an unfortunate pummelling as soon as the band’s other guitar player – “you know, the big Italian-looking guy,” took an immediate disliking to Hütz and promptly kicked his ass out of the studio. In hindsight, he may well have done him the biggest favour. “I pretty much personally hold Sonic Youth and James Chance responsible for me moving to New York,” Hütz told me when we first met in 2003. “It was either that or go to South Africa and do what? Hang out with fucking Manfred Mann Earth Band? I had to get there no matter what.”

Solo shows – part-done in Eastern Bloc cabaret style around the East Village, turned into duos with an accordionist, then trios, then quartets until he had finally cemented the core foundations upon which to kick-start the motley crew who would jack 19th Century Ukrainian author Nicolai Gogol’s surname, marry it to the ‘bordello’ euphemism for houses of ill-repute, erotic pleasure and blatant street vulgarity, and, in the process, begin a right royal gypsy punk revolt. “I knew that I wanted to start a band of my own,” he’d add, “and so meeting all the others was a snowball effect. I already had the vision of what I wanted, but knew that I didn’t have like six, seven, eight people, so I started out on my own and the other guys just rapidly happened to come along via Russian weddings, Ukrainian engagement parties, Valentine’s Day parties and then finally hooking up with the Israeli crew. It couldn’t have been any other way.”

Twelve hours after donating both oily index fingerprints and a lunatic smile for immigration control at JFK, the story begins. Almost forty-eight hours awake and the uptown-bound N train drops me off at Canal Street ‘round midnight. By now, I’m aware of where I am, but have lost all sense of self. I just have to remember that my pen, notebook and pocket camera are my closest, most trustworthy allies. Coffee keeps me alive.

The photographer assigned to the story calls me on the mobile and we promise to meet in half an hour. Two or so dozen folk shoot the stifling summer non-breeze outside the Mehanata Bulgarian Culture Center/Bar/Restaurant/TV Studio on the corner of 416 Broadway and Canal Street and, on closer inspection, I spot Hütz. His weekly Gypsy Mania parties have been key in instigating a non-apologetic cultural revolution here over the past four years, yet this is only the beginning.

He breaks from chatting to an associate with a film camera and we greet like old comrades. “Hey, man. What’s going on?” he welcomes. I caught up with him two months ago in New York to give him a set of shots from the band’s last London show at The Garage in December 2003 and, thankfully, he remembers me, or at least pretends to. “I’ve just got to square up this filming for a second,” and he’s off up Broadway while the cameraman chases him and gathers footage for the video to forthcoming ‘Bordello single ‘Start Wearing Purple’. “So who’s DJ’ing right now?” I ask, concerned at the selector’s absence. “Don’t worry,” he jokes from down the street, “I’ve got it on remote control.”

Inside the wood-panelled-walled confines of Mehanata, a hundred or so revellers congregate with cheap vodka and Bulgarian beer upstairs while the dub-heavy Arabic soundtrack increases in volume. Some time later, the Ukrainian ducks back in with the cameraman in-tow and the party is now officially on, remote control-free. The lean, wirey frame of resident disc jockey Hütz contorts as he selects another CD-R from his bulging wallet of discs. Disco balls, Manu Chao’s ‘Radio Bemba’ documentary and Balkan film footage darts the throng and Hütz’s “what the fuck style” musical policy of “Balkan Reggaeton, Sex-crazed Gypsy Punk, Speedball Dub and Flamenco Dancehall” soon morphs at a breakneck rate – one minute per record, maximum, for the six-hour duration.

While the interior of the sweatbox begins to show beads of perspiration, I catch my friend the photographer at the door. He too has had equal lack of sleep – “just got in from London, dude, been up for days,” and so we toast drinks to getting sharp angles and quality coverage on the story that we haven’t quite yet worked out. ‘Where the fuck are we going with this?’ is on both our minds, but we’re not worried.

‘Yardie beats from Hungary via Romania and Serbian folk-electro set the scene while ‘Bordello personnel; Yuri Lemeshev (Accordion/Vocals, Russian), Sergey Rjabtzev (Violin/Vocals, Russian), Oren Kaplan (Guitar/Vocals, Israeli) and Eliot Ferguson (Drums, American) pass by the booth – manly hugs and handshakes ensue. Actor Elijah Wood - just having wrapped the production for Liev Schreiber’s film adaptation of Jonathan Safran Foer’s novel ‘Everything Is Illuminated’, in which he assumes lead role alongside Hütz who plays Ukrainian rude-boy-wonder Alexander Perchov, arrives in time to boogie to dancehall, flanked either side by the band’s regal female contingent; Pamela Jintana Racine (Percussion/Vocals/Dance Troop, American/Thai) and Elizabeth Sun (Percussion/Vocals/Dance Troop, Chinese/Scottish). Remaining Gogol; Rea Mochiach (Bass, Israeli) follows soon after, as does Liev – tango dancing with actress Naomi Watts, and antics continue with both Eliot and Sergey being filmed miming their respective instruments horizontally on the dancefloor while party-goers bop and sway, if somewhat miffed, in circles around them. This is normal.

Pan-cultural DJ’ing and general Vodka/red wine-fuelled tomfoolery aside, Gogol Bordello’s manifesto couldn’t be any more simple than wanting to induct cultural change in these apathetic times with their own infectious brand of unorthodox edu-tainment, equally influenced by Hütz’s Roma (gypsy for, well…gypsy) family roots, Perestroika and old traditional Soviet songs as it is Iggy Pop, Klezmer, GG. Allin and Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry. Four albums in five years: ‘Voi-La Intruder’ (1999, produced by the ‘Bad Seeds’ Jim Scavlunos), ‘Multi Kontra Culti Vs. Irony’ (2003, self-produced), Gogol Bordello vs. Tamir Muskat’s dub-slanted ‘J.U.F.’ project (2004) and the Steve Albini-produced ‘Gypsy Punks: Underdog World Strike’ released this month, ain’t bad going. Align this with near on 500+ kick-ass live shows anywhere from New Orleans and LA to Zagreb, Tel Aviv, the Tate Modern and hometown stints at the Whitney Biennial, Irving Plaza and beyond over the same period and you’ve a global pandemic already in motion. “Now the band is like a full-on orchestra,” Hütz tells me the following day. “The only chemistry we’ve ever been looking for is to connect with a musical friend. That’s all it is. We never put out ads or anything, it’s simply, ‘This person is a fucking character and they know what’s up,’ and that’s it. The main thing has always been that the person has to be a character and luckily they’re all great musicians. I’m still curious as to what it would be like if we just had tons of characters who were horrible musicians! (laughs), but we can always digress and get sloppy.”

Eighty-four hours later, I pass punk-mecca CBGB’s on Bowery and head up and across a few blocks to meet Hütz at his apartment. This afternoon’s at-home-with-Eugene shoot and interview kicks off an hour later after I meet him on the corner of East 3rd St and Avenue A. He’s just back from visiting his folks in Vermont over the weekend and, while he ascends the stairs to his apartment – I follow with his guitar case in hand, he’s still humming old Russian melodies that he sang with the Georgian cab driver on the way back from JFK. He looks tired, almost as if he drank the entire contents of Russia over the weekend, and then goes on to explain that instead of relaxing with his family, he actually ended up drinking more than he would do even with his friends.

Suitcase contents – comprising mainly CDs, his laptop, more CDs – “correspondence and trading currency for the music heads I meet”, he states, and a handful of clothes are emptied out and as my friend the snapper turns up for shots around the apartment, Hütz flicks through i-Photo at an armoury of pictures taken by the documentary team who followed him on his recent trip back to the West Ukraine. “There were a couple of strong reasons for that trip,” he recalls, “as I’d been thinking about doing it for several years. One was to find more of my extended family in the gypsy camps and the other was to see with my own eyes what the situation for gypsies out there is like, and which is quite fucked at the moment. I wanted to see what we, as Gogol Bordello, can do with our resources to help that situation, like what would be the most practical thing to do. There is no better way to stay in touch with the world than to see it with your own eyes, obviously, and so I wanted to start a two-way artistic communication with the gypsy camps in the Ukraine because as an artist and as a band we’ve always found much inspiration in that tradition and I’m from those roots, so it was always going to come up at some point. I took my music to them, saw their reaction and wanted to build on that connection. That was really important for me.”

After the photoshoot, we chew the fat some more about back home, how Hütz sent a tape to Manu Chao and got him to play with the band, both at Mehanata and at Central Park’s summer-stage last year and how he ended up playing the supporting role to Elijah Wood in ‘Everything Is Illuminated’. “I really wanted to do something that’s not on my map yet,” he says of his time spent in front of the camera on location in the Ukraine and the Czech Republic. “Liev, the director, warned me that it wasn’t going to be easy and so by the time I made it home three months later I was totally fucking fucked (laughs). I couldn’t even see straight! Years worth of touring with Gogol Bordello couldn’t have prepared me for that as originally, the producers wanted me to come in and have Gogol Bordello play the soundtrack to the film. I met Liev and he was like, ‘Wait a second, have you ever done any acting, my friend?’ and that was that.”

All becomes increasingly evident that with Gogol Bordello and all that surrounds the chaotic, anarchic mysticism of the band, everything happens for a reason.

Outside the Earthmatters.com internet café on Ludlow street, lower Eastside, fifty-two hours later, Oren, Yuri, Rea and Sergey dodge the 10pm light rain shower and await the arrival of Eliot and Hütz. Bar-crawlers pass by and Sergey tells me to take the B/Q train down to Brighton Beach in Brooklyn sometime and try the fresh Piroshky that the old Russian ladies sell underneath the subway station. I promise him that I will.

The band flies out to LA in under forty-eight hours to begin the West Coast leg of the annual Warped Tour - jam-packed full of MOR-punk bands with an illegally-young audience, and so tonight is rehearsals for the next two hours. Hütz arrives, pack of Heinekens in hand and sporting the most ridiculous-looking huge gold watch you’ve ever seen, complete with spinning hash-leaf cover. “I saw it and also this,” pointing to his iced-out, diamond-bling “PAPI” belt buckle, “outside Mehanata today for twenty bucks, so I had to get them.” The band look on, part wonder, but mostly laughing, and we descend the steps that lead down to Studio A.

More like an excavated mineshaft than a room fit for temporary human inhabitation, the walls of Studio A are lined with desecrated Zildjian drum cymbals that could come crashing down at any minute. Yuri gets his squeeze-box on and bounces notes back off of Sergey who angles his violin with prime, sniper-like precision. Hütz strums familiar gypsy chords, Rea cranks the bass, Oren sets the levels, Eliot shows up and heads straight to the drum-set and Pam and Elizabeth soon follow, trademark battered ‘Bordello stage drum in-tow.

It’s hard to imagine this as the same band whose part-acted-out, part-costumed, but always full-on live shows and inevitable crowd surfing by Hütz have been the talk of New York, Europe and now the rest of America over recent years, but as soon as they lunge into ‘Never Young Again’ – the girls supplying the backbone b-movie screams, it all begins to make sense. Energy is all that you can see, hear and feel and you are completely engulfed. Hütz asks whether they should do ‘Passport’ or ‘Chinese Lesbian’ next. The majority choose the former. Disagreements rise, fall and then rise and fall again as to the arrangements of certain parts as these songs haven’t been touched for some time. Yuri gives me the mischievous smile of the kid who stole the sweets, adamantly denying it, while Sergey acts out the part of the knowing, more sensible older brother, yet he’s in on the joke. “Yeah, it’s cool, but it still sounds like shit,” Pam says of the once-over, and so they run through both tracks again…twice. Hütz steps out of singing in cross-Ukrainian/Roma/English-mode and asks Sergey in Russian to double-up on the fiddle-riffs. He complies while I endure the rain and head to the deli next to Katz’s diner and stock up on twelve more Heineken and some cigarettes; our only food until midnight.

Back in Studio A, Hütz jokes, “Yeah, let’s finish each track and then bam! 1,2,3,4!!!!…Ramones-style into the next one.” The others half agree, half disagree. “As a band, it’s always good for us to have some sort of a fight or disagreement when we rehearse,” Oren smiles afterwards. “With bloodshed always comes a solution and that then gives us the confidence to take it out onstage and do what we do. It’s all music-driven.” Hütz concurs, adding, “Our goal is always to evoke reaction wherever we play. We’re not really interested in people thinking, ‘Oh, this is really good,’ or ‘this is really bad,’ as we want them to be more like, ‘What the fuck is going on? As long as it sets their little apple-carts going then we can sleep, despite our ringing ears (laughs).”

My friend the photographer weaves, snake-like, in amongst the band to get his vantage point while devouring roll upon roll of film. 12pm arrives and we all have to collectively split; Sergey and Yuri back to Brooklyn, Eliot across town and we’ll meet the others in the bar across the street. I follow Oren, Rea and Hütz, now adlibbing songs on his acoustic as he walks down Ludlow, and we reach Epstein’s bar on the corner of Allen and Stanton. J-Lo’s blasphemous-for-hip-hop ‘Jenny From The Block’ blasts from the speakers while we meet up with the girls who are sat drinking with Elijah. Greetings all round, vodka/cranberrys and the medicinal poison of Jagermiester ensue, as does Hütz when he tells me about his special techniques of editing down tracks in i-Tunes. “Yeah, you just go to preferences and then select the times of when you want it to end and finish. It’s easy, man.” The rest, after a visit to Rosario’s pizzeria for a slice while Eugene plays Manu Chao covers to his friends behind the counter, all becomes a blur. All that my memory can salvage is that Elizabeth and a friend of hers kindly drag my drunken ass to the members-only Milk & Honey bar a few streets down and that White Russian after White Russian is consumed until the daylight hours. In ‘Bordello style it would have been rude to decline their offer.

Midnight the following day - all of New York, or so it seems, have descended upon Mehanata. In previous days, an email has been circulated to ‘Bordello website subscribers that tonight’s bash is a benefit for Yuko Sueta, a close friend of the band, who is in need of urgent treatment for cancer. Everyone obliges, right to the point where you can’t even enter the club it’s so packed. “We’ve already raised a thousand bucks,” Oren says outside, pleased at the turnout. “The place is packed and very sweaty, too sweaty, in fact, but it’s important that we do this for our friend.” Having felt not too clever the whole day, two hours sleep and already 148 hours since I first arrived here last week, the overall sense of spirit leads me to sobriety and I enter the push ‘n’ shove sweat throng with force, pay $10 entry and an extra $10 donation and eventually get to the booth where Hütz drops Sean Paul bootlegs over ‘Billie Jean’, Lee Scratch’s ‘The Upsetter’ and a slew of Eastern Bloc anthems that see him grab the mic, mount the booth’s pulpit and deliver a lyrical assault more resonant than even the most fervent Reverend Al Sharpton sermon. Mehanata’s faithful congregation go wild and camera flashes light the spectacle. “He’s playing ‘til 5am,” Rea says of comrade Hütz’s lengthy duration, “and then we have to be at JFK for 10am to meet the others. As long he sleeps, he’ll be ok, and then once we’re out on the road we’ll all come alive again. That’s what being in this band is all about; we live for the show.” I bid my farewells to Rea, Oren and Hütz who shouts in my ear over the music, “Stay in touch, man…I look forward to checking out your story.”

We part ways and I head back out for oxygen. Past the drinks/hot dog stall in front of the Bulgarian Bar, I hail down NY’s finest yellow transit service. “Downtown – Broadway and Rector,” I ask Michael Eastwood, tonight’s driver. We move at speed and cool air rushes in through the window. I hear jazz on his stereo – Miles Davis’s ‘So What’, and I ask him about his musical tastes. “Yeah, all that old stuff; Miles, Coltrane, the Rolling Stones, even Elton John,” he tells me in his broad, old skool Brooklyn accent, “that’s what I love. All this music nowadays, y’know, with those kids talking about guns, bitches and all that. What’s it all about? The music just ain’t like it used to be, huh?” I agree, but as I’m about to give the $7 fare plus tip, I hand him an extra $20 and tell him to pass by Mehanata on the journey back. “What’s that for?” he asks, giving me the same bemused looks as the Stewardesses on the flight over. “Just check it out, man,” I assure him before sloping off into the night, depraved of sleep, but sure of what I’ve just experienced. “It’s a cultural revolution and it’s already begun, so get a move on.”

1st Gogol, First J.U.F....

2007-08-21T23:08:00.000+01:00

(first published in DJ Magazine, Spring 2005)

Some say that the most momentous, life-changing situations are always found in the least likely of places. If that be the case, then to the casual passer-by, the unassuming front door leading up to the wood-panel-walled Mehanata Bulgarian Culture Center/Bar/Restaurant/TV Studio on the corner of 416 Broadway and Canal Street in downtown Manhattan, New York City, could prove an extremely auspicious find.

If it’s past 10pm on a Thursday night and you’ve paid your $5 entry tax, chances are that life will take on new meaning…albeit in the most subversive context, of course. The lean, wirey moustachioed frame of disc jockey Eugene Hutz, the wired-yet-totally-composed front-man of gypsy-punk band Gogol Bordello, contorts as he selects another CD-R from his bulging wallet of discs.

Disco lights and Balkan film footage darts the 150-strong throng and Hutz’s “what the fuck style” musical policy of “Balkan Reggaeton, Sex-crazed Gypsy Punk, Speedball Dub and Flamenco Dancehall” morphs at a breakneck rate – one minute per record, maximum, for the six-hour duration.

While the past half-decade has seen Ukrainian-born Hutz and his assorted Russian/Israeli/American comrades who make up Gogol Bordello forge their own gypsy-punk sound in bars, clubs and concert halls across their now-native Big Apple, it’s Eugene’s weekly Gypsy Mania stints at Mehanata that have since given birth to a new strain of the Bordello phenomenon, namely J.U.F.

“Your art is always basically the reflection of your personality,” he philosophises, “and so Gogol Bordello is very multi-levelled because of that. But even then we have to have side projects.” Decidedly more left-of-centre than that of the Gogol Bordello sound, J.U.F (Jewish Ukrainishe Freundschaft) – coined after early 80’s electro-punk instigators D.A.F. (Deutschland Amerikanishe Freundschaft), still adheres to his original Eastern European punk ethics, but with outside influences anywhere from Sean Paul and King Tubby to Manu Chao, Oum Kalthoum, traditional Romanian folk songs and Klezmer.

“A lot of it comes from travelling,” he says of his never-ending quest for new sounds and inspirations, “but then a lot of it is from hanging out in Brighton Beach and Astoria in New York and all these neighbourhoods where the fabric merchants play whatever is hot back in their country. I like to fish out the nastiest beats even if that means going to a restaurant and hanging out there until the place closes down at the end of the night when people in the kitchen start busting out their favourite tracks, and then you’re like, ‘What the fuck is that, man? I want that!’ (laughs)”

The brainchild of both Hutz, ‘Bordello guitarist Oren Kaplan and beats-man Tamir Muskat, J.U.F.’s second long-player is already underway while Gogol Bordello’s third studio album, ‘Gypsy Punks’ is due at the end of August after their slot on the Warped Tour of the states over the summer. Hutz heads out to his native West Ukraine this month to visit the gypsy camps where his family originated from as part of an ongoing documentary, in the meantime finishing off his lead role alongside Elijah Wood in the film adaptation of Jonathan Safran Foer’s novel ‘Everything Is Illuminated’.

“Behind it all, and what everybody’s really after is energy,” he sums up, “the magic, universal energy, and music as an artform just happens to be one of the most valid vehicles for that. It’s in the nature of Gogol Bordello to keep mutating because we’re searchers and discoverers and it ain’t gonna stop.”

Was That It Already Yet?...

2007-08-20T22:58:00.000+01:00

And so what was intended to be a daily operation
fell off the edge of the back-burner...

Temporarily.

One day was enough - more than enough, in fact,
to gather stock, chill the fuck out and actually think of something worthwhile to write.

The problem was that one quickly turned to two, rapidly sloping into three, hopping to
four, five and then bang!...hit on the head at six. Done.

Just in time.

Nip it in the bud real quick, that's what I say. But then I would.

Anyway, in answer to the question in the title...

No, that certainly wasn't IT ALREADY YET...

Sure, it could have been; it's not like I really felt I had anything of any great significance
or interest to say, but it would never have been left to die on the side of the road. Dust settled.
Couldn't let the bugger happen.

No way, Gustavo! Gotta keep on keeping on.
And on, and on, and on, etc, etc, etc.............

I had plenty to say - I always do, one way or another (I'm gonna get ya),
but at the same time I didn't know how to say it. That doesn't make any sense whatsoever,
but then neither did any of it at the time when I was supposed to be putting finger...lingering thoughts &
inspirations, etc, to the keypad.

Where were you when I needed you most? Fuckers.

And so to now...

Well, where shall we start?

The beginning?

Or the end?

I guess it all starts wherever you want it to.

But yeah, it was a weird week.
Very weird.
Very emotional.
Very...well, just, erm...yeah. Strange.

It's like one of those fairground rides -
y'know the one that looks real easy.
Child's play, almost.
But once you get on and...whooooaaa!!!
Oddities, queasy guts
and white knuckles the whole way.

Index finger headed straight for the inside of the throat immediately after.

Aaaaaaaaaand...release.

Nah, not for me next time round, mate.

But thanks though.

I'll sit it out for the rest of the day, cheers. Yeah.

Finding out that that instinct,
that dark as hell hunch you had about
that friend being dead - both mobiles disconnected,
no email reply, etc, was true and real was horrific. The worst.

Didn't know what to say.

What could I say?

What could I say?

The worst, I know. The heaviest bummer there is, and never even had a chance to say goodbye.
Just bringing sweets and Foxes Glacier Mints from Holborn station to Barts around 8 months back...
and then now...nothingness.

Damn shame.

This was all going on; emotions yanked, beaten and splattered all across the bedroom walls,
meanwhile, press releases for showgirls and dance choreographers and actually-quite-interesting
happenings - all held up on the cyber trolley.

No way through for days, but got there in the end.

And scatching from rodents above ceilings, under boilers,
long walks and drop-offs & wondering if that girl's "about".
Roundabouts.
"Is she a lesbian?" I asked my friend.
"I'm not sure," she said. "Don't really know her at all, but what beautiful eyes she has, right?"
"Right. Exactly. Anyway, call you tomorrow, eh?"
"Bye..."

But still there's mouse shit above the microwave and, dude,
you should really move yer shades there. Away, I mean.

The rest is like the ingredients of a cake-mix:
all just about visible, raisins and dough combining, glistening,
melting and weaving and dancing the sexiest grind,
but each individual part of the recipe way too long ago to remember
on its own.

Or something like that at least.

'Ank Marvin, Linguini and Lee Marvin -
Point Blank.
A '67 classic, no less.

Hyperventilating on the way
to an interview at the Vans store -
no way, mate. No way.
"Just be yourself. Stay calm. Stay calm."
"Yeah, fuck off and get me some oxygen, arsehole!
Oh and 10 Lucky Strike Silver while you're at it. Keep the change, yeah.
Thanks."

Losing breath after on the way down Bruton Street
& still wondering why.
Loosen the tie, mate. Just a little.

Everything & Nothing...
all coming together,
all at once, but never at the same exact time.

Exactly!

Nothing makes sense.

But those 36 pages of Songs Of The Doomed
down there on the Northern Line,
up there on the bus,
on the way to Mum's,
and the same the way back...
yeah they really did the trick.
Big time.
Old Uncle HST
instilling heartfelt good advice,
insanity,
wonder,
humour lines,
incisive
and the best writing there both was and is.

Omnipresent...still smoking.
That pensive look through.

Oh, and those giddy pints the other night,
with Bill & Ben up on Leigh Street there.
Nah, not the flowerpot geezers,
but the real people.

Assuredly, they broke it up just right.

"Same again then yeah?"

"Oh, and can you lend us two quid?"

"Yeah, but you should get your eye looked at, mate."

Beards & Beaches...

2007-08-14T21:19:00.000+01:00

(from 10&11/01/07)

'Untitled: Beards'

"Always listen to your mother
and never trust men with beards,"
my mother
always used to tell me.

"But what about me?
I've got a beard, ain't I?"
I said,
protesting my innocence
as an honest young lad.
Not yet shaven.

"Nah, that's just bum fluff,"
she replied casually.
"You're alright, for now."

I looked at my reflection in the mirror,
confused and decidedly anxious,
only to see her pull her bedroom
door to and,
tilting her head back to the light,
apply some facial hair remover
sparingly on her
upper lip.

(copyright: Swax T. McIver 2007)

'Untitled: Beaches'

Words form their aural
candy
out there at the edge
of the beach.

The fizzy flotsam
and jetsam
of waves
once broken
washes up
in C's
and S's
and R's,
sometimes even cyrillics if you're on Brighton Beach.

Further out,
tubes for surfers
spell out lower case
N's
and O's (non-case-sensitive, of course),
as well as the occasional
P.

Great whites bring with them
finned A's
and razor-sharp
V's rotating all ways
and always.

The sun blots out
the whole sentence -
seagulls, punctuation & all,
like brand new Tipp-Ex,
and clouds
erase
where pencil drafts were once sketched.

(copyright: Swax T. McIver 2007)

Like, Just Do It...

2007-08-13T21:37:00.000+01:00

I started this sorry excuse for a blog...what was it? Yeah, just over two weeks ago now, right?

Yeah. More or less.

More is more and so is less, I think.

Nonetheless, I started it, partly because I had nothing better to do, partly because it seemed like a good idea at the time, and completely because of the fact that I was simply tired of using the same old verbal vocabulary, night after night after night, etc, etc...

This basic word selection uttered from my tired mouth usually consisted of "Yeah, just another Cruz Campo then, yeah?" and "Can I just ponce one more fag off of ya?" and "Thanks, man. I'll sort you out when I get paid, don't worry...yeah, yeah, yeah."

And so on and so forth, and usually in that very same calculated order, night after night after night.

I still do that, but just on less nights now than before; mainly because of having no money, apart from enough to buy an occassional sausage roll on the way home and ten cigarettes - if I'm lucky, but also because I wanted (and still want) to make use of my time a little more constructively.

Just a little, of course.

Sometimes it's good - amusing and enlightening even, to combine the two.

Interesting.

Why I do it is somewhat more perplexing...

Surely, it should be to convey something that you want to say, good or bad, no?

Well, that's what I'm thinking anyway.

Ok, so some days I have plenty to say - fresh, almost, some days less, some days just getting old stuff up and out to the world, and some days...well, nothing whatsoever.

The thing is, I just want to have something to do.

Just SOMETHING!!!

TO SAY!!!

There's no way back to the old routines of coming home from work, scoffing dinner, drinking copious amounts of tea, smoking endless cigarettes, watching crap on the box, sleeping late...and then, surprise surpriiiiise, the circle comes back round again for Tuesday, etc.

It's not 'appenin, man.

No sireeee!

Cycles are there to be broken, I feel.

Whether I have something to say...or not, I'm still gonna say it.

Like it or not.

If only people would read this shit...

...or maybe not.

Ha!!!

Russian Winter Stories In Germany...

2007-08-12T21:46:00.001+01:00

(published in Anthem Magazine No. 28 May/June 2007)

COMING IN FROM THE COLD...

by Swax T. McIver

Ten O'clock on a rainy Saturday night in Berlin. The sound of wet tyres from cars whizzing up and down Torstrasse is all your ears afford you. The bright, luminescent glow of buses chugging late-night commuters and hobos home is all your eyes register. Until you reach number 60 on this particular street, that is. Situated slap-bang in the Mitte district (centre) of Germany's still-relatively-new capital city, the throbbing red-lit sign telling you you've arrived at your destination: Kaffee Burger, gives little away.

Upstairs inside the restaurant on street level, you could be almost anywhere: Paris, Moscow, Budapest, even New Orleans, but definitely not London. Way too bourgousie for that. In fact, no, forget everything. You could only be one place and that place happens to be right here; where the old swinging Berlin of the late 1920's and Russian nostalgia meets the new Berlin of now; bright-eyed, forward-thinking and certainly as uncertain as it gets. Low-lighting, quiet conversations and random glasses clinking set a sleazy, sophisticatedly European tone.

And then, straight out of nowhere, it hits you. Like a great, fat crimson fist in the ribs. A bulbous, brass-driven bassline pounding through the floorboards from the sounds system downstairs, a couple of stray violin notes breezing their way up the stairs, hand in hand with amorous accordion ripples and an uproar of joy, high times and adventure from the heaving masses filling every corner of the main room - the queue snaking back for miles.

Welcome to Russia - done, appropriately, Berlin-style. Welcome to Russen Disko.

Almost seventeen years after German re-unification, following the fall of the wall in November 1989, and the subsequent exodus of many Soviet guards who once patrolled the city's wall perimeters and various checkpoints, Russen Disko (literally translated as "Russian Disco") represents rapidly changing times in today's Berlin.

So much so, in fact, that a growing influx of curious next-generation Russians and immigrants from all over are flocking back to the Deutsche capital in search of that certain something in this hotbed of cultural diversity in what was known to the rest of the world as the Eastern Block.

The by-product of two of its more prolific CCCP ex-pats; DJ/musicologist, Yuriy Gurzhy (Ukraine) and journalist/novelist, Wladimir Kaminer (Russia), this bi-weekly melting pot of alternative arts from the ex-Soviet Union has reached boiling point.

"Essentially, it's all about celebrating the music from our homeland," says Yuriy as he dips out of the chaos around his DJ booth downstairs for a necessary visit to the bar. "No matter what it is or where it's from, it has to be what we both dig."

Now in its eighth year of existence, and established globally through a tight network of like-minded artistic instigators - anywhere from Vladivostock and Kiev to central Europe, Tel Aviv, the Balkans, Brighton Beach and beyond, Russen Disko has made giant steps forward, both musically and culturally. Metaphorically, East meets West, gets it on, falls in love and the two go on to produce a plethora of beautiful babies that, ultimately, defy categorisation. Roots and Russian past and experience form the influence, the rest of the world is then added and what you end up with is the ethos behind what Gurzhy and Kaminer do as Russen Disko.

But it wasn't always this easy, and no way near as certain. While Yuriy's arrival in Berlin didn't take place until 1999, Wladimir - whom he had not met with by this point, had already been living in the city for over five years. The two would, however, soon cross paths at a gig for one of the psychedelic Art-house bands Yuriy was playing in at the time.

"Wladimir was invited to film it, basically because he was the only one with a video camera," he laughs. "The next day we went to his place to check out the video and I ended up borrowing some cassettes from him. It was a major moment for us both, absolutely. We became close friends; meeting up, exchanging music and ideas, and then at some point his wife, Olga, asked us if we could make something more constructive out of it apart from just sitting in the kitchen, smoking and drinking too much and listening to those damn tapes for hours."

Needless to say, they heeded Olga's worldly advice and, if somewhat by chance, coincidence and fate, set plans for the big adventure.

Five years later, connected to everyone key in post-wall, late nineties Berlin, Wladimir was soon approached by a guy intent on putting together a party celebrating the anniversary of the Red October Revolution. They talked, Kaminer then banged heads together with Gurzhy, and it was on.

"We just did it for the fun of it: having completely no idea of what it would be like, what sort of people would come, if any, so we were like, 'Fuck it, let's just do this!'" Gurzhy says. "All we had was two CD players and twenty discs of stuff we thought was danceable. The whole point was to use music from the ex-Soviet Union, no matter what, just stuff we liked - anything. That was it. Three or four hundred people later and it was absolutely insane. The best night."

It just so happened that the future-owners of Kaffee Burger were there that night, soaking up the experience. Seizing the moment, they asked Gurzhy and Kaminer if they fancied doing something similar at the venue they were opening on Torstrasse about a month later, and, well...you can pretty much pre-empt the rest...

Back in 'Burger on that cold Saturday night in January, the lunacy continues. Girls, boys, men and women serenade both themselves and each other on the dancefloor to a clear, heady brew of music not heard outside of these burgundy, GDR-wallpapered confines yet. Rambunctious soundtracks comprising choice Moscow ska, St Petersburg punk, Romanian reggaeton, American klezmer in all its illustrious guises and even a little slice of sixties Kingston, Jamaica, are all thrown in for good measure.

Orange lanterns above the packed bar and choice Communist ephemera peppered around the glass display cases are all that remains still as Gurzhy drops Nayekhovichi's tearing rendition of 'Paint It Black', followed swiftly with Madness' 'Nightboat To Cairo', courtesy of King Django. If 'Burger's roof could lift off, landing somewhere far away and remote, it surely would. Sensing the heat, Gurzhy promptly removes his Fedora before studying his CD collection and planning the next move.

Far from over, a steady slew of revellers, be they Berliners, Spanish, French, American, Italian, English or African, continue to pad out the already-dripping walls with bodies eager to move under the soft red lights of Russen Disko. Such is its reputation nowadays that people will literally head to Berlin from wherever they are on anywhere listed on Google Earth, just to come and experience what it is they need to experience. But look for any Russian faces outside of Gurzhy and Kaminer's, and you'd be hard pushed to come back with much.

As he explains, "Immigrant-wise, there is a big Russian population here in Berlin now, but we're not really connected to (the) community, and I'm very happy about that. I mean, community has its own rules, its own scene and its own parties - if you can call them that (laughs). We're playing kind of music Russian community doesn't dig. They're into the cheap pop stuff, so in the beginning of Russen Disko, some Russian people were coming, but they were not really even curious about what we were doing in the first place. I remember them saying, 'Hey, there's too many Germans here, where are all the Russians?' I mean, what the fuck is that about?"

With or without their fellow countrymen and women, Gurzhy and Kaminer are continuing to push the boundaries in their chosen fields, whatever it takes. While both travel, together and individually, to regularly DJ abroad, Wladimir's acclaimed novels have earned him literary renown near and far. Meanwhile, Yuriy's rock band, Rotfront, and his Shtetl Superstars alter-ego build on their live success and a host of Russen Disko-related compilations and high-humour shows on Radio MultiKulti 96.3FM in Berlin permeate the ears and minds of listeners the world over. Meanwhile, the club is expanding to concurrently run related events at Club Rodina, just up the road, where themes are set to take in Bollywood, Turkish and Egyptian Punk, film and bare-fist-fight dance choreography. All in a day's work though, obviously.

"The thing is, we love it here in Berlin," says Yuriy, the time now 5.30am, and what was night turns over into a long morning at the bar. "We've everything we need; friends, family and everyone connected with what we do as Russen Disko, so we'd be crazy to leave just yet. Also, the city is changing all the time, which is a good thing. You never quite know what to expect."

With that, he buttons up his jacket, dons the Fedora again, shakes hands and slopes off into the wet street outside, his figure becoming an illuminated-red shadow against the light of dawn...

www.russendisko.de
www.multikulti.de
www.kaffeeburger.de

WC1 x 3.36 = Insomnia...

2007-08-11T23:31:00.000+01:00

Electric blue sky
clocks in day shift from mushroom cloud,
just in time for 3.36am.

Blondes,
big arses,
high heels
and low skirts,
try to keep balance
alongside oafs in suits from taxis.

Orange light.

The end of Suburbia's
big night out/
/morning in.

Correspondence with LA,
Vienna
and London,
all taken care of.

Sorted.

Well, temporarily -
through the internet and so on.

Thoughts, feelings
and ideas
still to be finalised and processed;
ulitmate realisation.

Alkies and smackheads,
hardcore dope fiends,
walking fast and arguing.

Local ambience as always.

Men in white overalls
under strip lights
and green stair rails
in the Konstam.

Brush strokes and all that,
but fuck DIY.
Okay, so while the world
sleeps, but not for me.

No way, man.

No way.

You do it.

Dreams of scribbled words,
places
and rain-soaked countrysides
and soundsystems,
and the last few days.

Aspiring to actually get somewhere,
and like it there.

Maybe already there,
but quite probably not.

Possibly.

Have to make payday
and make sure the pay
pays the next
rentday.

What day is that actually?

Can I make it?

Coltrane spills
'Mr Day' off of the shelf
under 40 watt
table light lamp glow.

Everything begins here.

If only I could sleep.

Maybe tomorrow...yeah?

Aretha & Harlem...

2007-08-11T23:19:00.000+01:00

(unpublished - from 20th June 2006)

Picture courtesy of Andrzej Liguz
www.moreimages.net

It was the show that everyone here tonight had known was long overdue. Twenty years, to be exact. Aretha Franklin, the ‘Queen of Soul’, was to play the Apollo Theater, Harlem’s most historic landmark, for two nights only, as part of New York’s Black Music Month celebrations.

At anywhere between $75 and $175 a shot (face value), tickets weren’t really considered affordable by the average Joe living anywhere near 125th Street, unless your surname happened to be Clinton. Nonetheless, hoards of respectably-dressed patrons, clutching their tickets for dear life, pack the sidewalk’s humid melle as the sun goes down over uptown Manhattan and the glitzy lights of the Apollo’s world famous vertical street sign fizzle into action.

Despite numerous facelifts and new ownerships over the years, the Apollo is essentially the same small, red velvet venue with, most probably, the very same gold leaf trim that had initially been exposed to Aretha’s enigmatic voice when she first played here in the late sixties alongside legends like James Brown, The Temptations and Martha Reeves at the renowned Amateur Night.

Forty five minutes later than billed, AC is turned off under management orders, the house lights finally go down and the curtain raises to rapturous applause and cheers; Ms Franklin’s backing band, centred around the grandest of grand pianos, are dressed in black, complete with conductor, ‘H.B’, swinging his arms in time to the medley of bite-size Aretha classics his troops knock out in swift succession.

While a billboard-size screen drops down halfway over the stage and blasts out vintage shots of the lady herself in the fifties, sixties and seventies, ‘(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman’ flows into ‘Chain of Fools’ and the fulsome diva waiting in the wings on stage-right gets her all-important introduction. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the man on the mic announces, boxing match style, “would you please put your hands together for the undisputed queen of soul…Ms Arethaaaaaaaa Fraaaaankliiiiiin!”

Harlem’s favourite surrogate daughter returns home, dressed in a shiny light blue dress and shawl, and is helped onto the stage just in time to grab her microphone and unleash some of soul’s most famous words; “What you want, baby I got it…” ‘Respect’ is due, literally, and Ms Franklin is showered with it right from the off while the crowd fill in any available gaps in the song that she wryly lets them take. Naturally, she has them eating out of the palms of her hands.

As joyous and downright soulful as the first half an hour of the show is, you can’t help but feel that Aretha still hasn’t quite yet warmed up. However, when she launches into ‘Ain’t No Way’ and a righteous cover of Curtis Mayfield’s ‘What Can I Do’, her ability to sing acapella on whatever octave she damn chooses sends electric waves throughout the entire auditorium. Words to the effect of “That’s it sister…you go for it, girl,” resonate around us.

By this point, the ‘Queen’ is waving her right arm royally, almost lassoo-style, and bumping her hips to conductor, H.B’s deft commandment of the band. He turns around and, as if to acknowledge her acknowledgement, nods his head a couple of times and smiles.

Any cynic could quite rightfully point out that the show has been choreographed and rehearsed to a fine art, again and again, but seeing Aretha putting her all into ‘Until You Come Back To Me (That’s What I’m Gonna Do)’ changes that. She dances around playfully like the teenager who once trod the boards back in the late sixties and she doesn’t care what anyone thinks.

Leaning at the base end of the piano, she kicks off her heels, light blue feathers from her dress blowing around her feet, and gets down and dirty to ‘Do Right Woman, Do Right Man’ Exposing a little more chest than earlier in the set, she struts her stuff across the stage, almost losing her left diamonte ear-ring down her cleavage before it falls to the floor.

Beaming smiles to the left, right and centre of the house, she bows out for a brief interlude while the band swing into a rapturous rendition of Quincy Jones’ ‘Killer Joe’ and she freshens up in the wings.

Back within minutes, Aretha has most certainly warmed up - “So how do you feel? Did you come to party? So what do you wanna hear?” Requests are abound, but not before she asks for the houselights to be turned on and that her friend in the audience, the Reverend Al Sharpton, make himself known. Naturally, he does and is promptly cajoled into joining her highness onstage. She breaks out into James Brown’s ‘Cold Sweat’, the Rev. busts a few old school moves much to the delight of everyone here and the night takes on a distinctly religious tone.

It’s almost like a scene out of ‘The Old Landmark’ in The Blues Brothers; gospel and Motown soul fuse to the point where it nearly takes the Apollo’s newly-refurbished roof off. “Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” is chanted by women in their mid fifties and sixties while they fan themselves to cool down from such hot flusters.

Accordingly, after sharing a few funny stories on Mohammed Ali and Count Basie, Aretha takes her place at the piano and goes through a couple of tracks from her new self-titled album before a spine-tingling version of ‘Nessun Dorma’ paves the way for an epic, if somewhat unnecessary, ‘The Greatest Love of All’.

Thanking tonight’s faithful congregation – “Coming back here to The Apollo has been a wonderful experience for me,” she says sincerely. “When I left Detroit for my first show, this was the place where I took my first bow. Thank you.”

With that, she throws her diamontes into the front few rows, takes her final bow of the night and, several encores later, the curtains finally fall.

Out on the sidewalk, old friends take photos of their friends under the bright Apollo signs and souvenir T-shirts with the venue’s trademark slogan - “…where stars are born and legends are made…” ringing truer tonight more than on any other.

Travelling back downtown on the A train, 3 x street kids and 1 x older guy rollout the boombox, spit rap and rhymes - 80's South Bronx style, and swing off handrails for coins...

Monika...

2007-08-10T22:00:00.000+01:00

Oh, Monika...

If only I'd a pound -
fifty pence even,
for every morning
spent
waking up,
dreaming of
you.

Awake and asleep,
asleep & awake.

Cold cream white barnet,
crystal blue minces,
Sahara sand skin.
Hotter still.

Good morning, beautiful.

My favourite Polish moniker.

If only I had,
then I'd be able to afford
that train fare up to
Glasgow.

First Class and back.

Twice.

You might have to lend me
the cab fare
to your house though.

Where The Fuck Have All The Scouts Gone?...

2007-08-09T20:42:00.001+01:00

Seems there's something big goin' on
in town this week.

The world's largest
Cub Scout conference/seminar,
apparently.

Yup, it's jamboree time, kids!
I wondered why,
on my way both to and from work -
even during the day on a fag break,
all these random characters
looked the way they did?

Simple: they're cub scouts.

It's a cult thing and I don't like it.

Scares me greatly actually.

Travelling in from all over
the world,
they descend upon the rich-poor streets of The Smoke;
stripey, multi-coloured neck ties all in check, of course.

Woo-Haa!!

Very strange; the whole affair, if you ask me.

Not for dirty old nonces & Jonathan King though, obviously.
They'd love it immensely.
And I'm sure they've already checked themselves
in -
undercover covert scoutmaster guise,
into the converted Court House where they all congregate,
like tourists,
many times each day on the corner of Great Percy & King's Cross.

So wrong.

Morally.

I mean, some of these kids look old enough
to not be termed "kids" anymore.
Yet they still bowl up the steps
of the hostel,
laughing, joking, waiting,
anticipating,
and then some more of the same again,
like eleven year olds.

Maybe they are,
just a little "big for the age" and that.

Naturally.

I don't know.

Truth be told,
I really don't care.

All that concerns me
is having 35-58
of the bastards
staring up at me
through the window in my humble shared kitchen -
their beady eyes
peircing my right shoulder & neck,
while I slice garlic and prepare
a "tasty pasta" dish of an evening.

I could either pull the shutter
down,
or just go all out,
guns blazin',
and piss on the fuckers from a great height.

That'll teach people to
mind their own business, eh?

Aaaaah, bless 'em...

More From Recently...

2007-08-07T23:02:00.000+01:00

Man walks into afternoon car park,
dodging lakes and lochs
of rain puddles on the even tarmac.

Bandit country.

Swivels and rolls sad & lonesome-looking
shopping cart/trolley
off to the wall - not even "off the wall" like 'Jacko,
but more like Tim Robbins with Suzie the dog in Short Cuts.

Pure abandonment.

So sad. So sad.

Turns to walk back to see
vulnerable shopping trolley
pull a full 360 degree
spin -
on its own
and start rolling back to its previous owner.

Once upon a time, they were in separable.

All lost and nowhere to go,
but here.

Man stops it in its tracks -
almost as if to say
a stone-cold, silent
goodbye.

This is it, kid: end of the road.

He leaves.

Shopping trolley stays completely
still,
right in the middle of the busy car park.

Death valley, kiddo'. Certain suicide.

Nothing to live for now,
expecting to meet its maker
when the next car comes bounding round the corner.

Imminent.

But maybe a new owner
and the chance of a better life...

Or...?

From Recently...

2007-08-07T22:50:00.001+01:00

Late night -
sleeping.

Maintenance works on
the Hammersmith & City Line -
under the bridge on Acton.

3 doors up.

Flooded with light
and various multi-drill sounds out
the night after midnight.

I'm AM already.

We all are, except for Australia, America & Vladivostock. Oh and Tokyo, of course.

Up and awake,
waiting for mouse sounds,
rickety walls
when the articulated trucks swerve the corner
like Mansell back in the day in Monaco.

Sleep seems
but a pipe dream.
Pipes would help me dream easier, actually.

Y'know; organs, cathedrals, church music,
sombre sobriety, catholicism, white widow, etc, etc.

Early morning;
trickling water - showers and taps and dishes and so forth.
Coffee, cigarettes
and nostalgic bouncy-ball-rubber-smelling flip flops
take it all back to childhood.

How Did It Come To This?...A Round-Triptych...

2007-08-06T22:12:00.000+01:00

...no sleep all weekend.

Not entirely because of fun, but almost.

Music happened; not all good, not all bad.

It just happened.

Insomnia 141's it on that "Private Number" slant.

Guess I'll have to answer it sooner or later.

Never goes to voicemail. Funny that.

Part 1...

At the bar downstairs -
that dodgy one on the corner of Frederick and King's Cross,
yeah, the one with the Highbury posters and Championship team mirror out back.
I don't like what they do.
On weekends, at least.
Karaoke!
Didn't go in. Never do.
Unless I really HAVE to, but very, very rarely.
Sure. Don't even know the name.
Guy there who is maybe a girl, or a girl who is a guy - I don't know.
I'm confused, but not in that way.
Started singing an endless slew of "hits and classics".
Fucker.
Windows open; maximum heat for Saturday,
11.40pm.
Wow!
Yeah, he/she kept 'em coming,
delivered in hybrid style; Boy George-meets-Will Young.
Way more traumatic though.
Great, man. Great.
Thanks.
"Brown Sugar", Buddy Holly, Everly Brothers
and, apt enough, "Help" and "Let It Be".
Hehehe!!!
Yeah, exactly.
Let that shit go, mate.
Please.
No sound but this.
Only this and this alone.
Art imitating life -
imitating art
when "I Still Know What You Did Last Summer" promptly cuts
to Karaoke scene where she sings
"I Will Survive".
Will I Survive?
I mean, really?
Can't hold on too much longer there.
Eyes shut, mind on the go.

Part 2...

The 1-2-3-4 Shoreditch.
Erm...yeah.
Okay.
Agreed to not go,
but then disagreed with myself
to please friends,
and so going was the only way.
Sun blazing,
no air, and 28 and counting on thermometers city-wide.
Rescued after realisation that really this is not real.
Carbon copies of
everything,
everyone,
everyfuckingwhere!
What the...?
Leave immediately.
Hoxton's a sunken beast.
Dead & gone...for years now.
But you knew this.
Saved, unbelievably, by old folk,
dancing arm-in-arm,
hand-in-hand,
to original cha-cha-cha's
and waltzing the Square just up the street.
Cold, golden alcohol respite and good friends
and shade & breeze alters the afternoon.
One song, in fact, IS The Shining.
You know; the scene at the end,
where it zooms in on the black & white picture
on the wall of the hotel -
Jack Nicholson smiling at the front of the crowd.
But how?
Yeah, that big band beautiful music,
somehow twisted into something
horrific -
due to context.
Now twisted back into something again wonderous as Doris and Arthur
hold each other and sway,
70+
in the early evening sun...
No sleep -
short sofa in N22,
bad dreams and that.
Yeah...

Part 3...

Regret from day off
of blog entry.
Shit!
Gettin' slack again, man.
Come together
already yet.
Late evening;
the end of the day, almost.
Raise eyes up and switch on the light
of the 40GB white soundbox;
my best friend.
Well, sort of.
Bright lights up my face,
Fela selecting "Fela" -
track title
"Look and Laugh".
Yeah, all becomes clear.
Thanks, man.
It's been emotional.
Really.
Thanks for everything.

Me, Myself &...Why?

2007-08-04T21:36:00.000+01:00

...well, actually no, but I do seem to be one of those people who talks to themselves when drunk.

A lot.

Don't know why, don't know how, but it always seems to make much more sense in this semi-conscious state; dizzy, goofy, playful, aware of everything, smiling and really not caring at all, and so it continues.

Maybe I always talked to myself. I can't remember specifics, but I did always argue with "me", literally while in the process of speaking a sentence, alone or with friends, and then changing it around, even with the addition of just one or two simple words right at the very end.

The thing is, after a few drinks; like today, for instance, I'm back to my old ways: laughing, joking, ranting, soothing and in heavy debate - with no-one but me, myself & I.

Perhaps it's good. In moderation though, obviously.

Sunshine, on your feet for 8 hours at work in a black suit and the relief of clocking out by 5pm sharp does this. Well, only if you want it to.

I was sat in the Cruz Del Rey bar drinking, dressed fairly dapper, in actual fact, and people thought I was either a waiter or the head bossman, the big cheese dude.

Unbelievable.

"Thank you, the food was great," said one pretty Polish girl as she left with her equally-cute brunette friend, both smiling and acting all girly.

"No, thank you...my pleasure," came my reply.

Hahahahaha!!!

The time that followed - around two hours or so in total, consisted of one side of me talking to the other. Not really coming out with anything concrete or of any great profound substance. But I kept "I" in good company, and then walked myself home.

Sobering up, I suddenly felt particularly lonely...

Counter Culture Kulti Storytime...

2007-08-03T20:12:00.000+01:00

KEBAB SHOPS...STRANGE MOTELS...WHERE THE FUCK IS PEDRO?...
& OTHER ROAD STORIES...

by Swax T. McIver

The clock strikes 4.17am on Thursday 31st May 2007 and I arrive home, here in London. Admittedly, not so sober and clearly a little absent-minded, but everything clicks into place. Like an epiphany, almost. In fact, exactly like an epiphany. Total clarity in such clouded times.

Dawn cracks like pale blue egg yolk over the window, and the walking jazz of Miles Davis' 'So What' strolls in on the stereo. 'So what?' - I think to myself. 'Yeah, exactly; so what that I have to be up in three hours time just to slog it out for another eight hours at my "day job"! Fuck them! This is far more important.' If the last month is anything to go by, 180 minutes' shut-eye is more than ample time. I'll sleep when I'm dead.

Tonight, or should I say, the past eight or so hours, simply put everything into perspective and was sealed by the most random, most amusing of sights. Gogol Bordello's long-anticipated, long sold-out club show at the Electric Ballroom in Camden blew the roof off and marked the dawn of new and even more insane chapters for the nine-piece gypsy punk band, and subsequently the continuation of a never-ending story of the greatest significance. That is what I'm thinking to myself while standing in the heaving queue for falafel in the late night kebab shop next to Camden tube station. Post-after-party partying almost always has to involve some sort of instant, easy-access cuisine. It's totally essential.

Suddenly, while I'm lost in thought, a long pointy finger taps me on the shoulder, and I turn to see Eugene Hütz, the band's irrepressible front-man and chief instigator, looking somewhat different. I can't quite place what it is, but as soon as he says, "Hey, man. You like my new shoes, eh?" - it all makes total sense. OK, so I laugh a little, but more out of honest shock and awe rather than plain ridicule.

Brought into full glorious colour with the over-bright strip lights of the kebab shop, his newly-acquired zip-up front, pointy ankle boots - suede and beaming galaxy blue, are pure decadence. Particularly when they top off a fetching pair of ankle-length purple drainpipe trousers. I don't know what to say. Neither does Oren (Kaplan), Gogol's guitarist, who I'm stood with in the Shish/Doner-waiting melee. "Dude, what's up with those?" he gestures to Hütz. We both laugh and look up to see a huge grin beaming across Eugene's face, "They're the shit, man - that's what I'm talking about." Only he could get away with this, no one else. OK, maybe Hendrix or Iggy Pop, but that's about all.

Some time later, I stumble home on the half-hour trek back to deepest King's Cross, still chuckling away and half-heartedly humming Elvis Presley's 'Blue Suede Shoes' while I recollect the events of the night. And of course, everyone took great care in not stepping on Eugene's new footwear, as tempting as it was.

But the whole point of tonight and the past four weeks spent on and off with various members of the band is this: Gogol Bordello, a group primarily made up of various immigrant nations now relocated across the US in New York, Washington DC and Los Angeles, are very much a family operation. And in order to understand that family mentality and the dynamics that make it work, you simply have to be inside that environment: on the road and with the stamina needed to last the party. "At the beginning of a tour, when the bus first arrives and you're just walking in and seeing everyone again, everybody is like, 'Yeeeeaaaaahhhh!" Eugene tells me a few days previous to the show. "Because we're all already comfortable with the situation and so it's like we're all coming home - back on tour again. It's just that now, we're grounded, and the concept of our band is that our whole psyche is grounded. It's like a social structure that can be your home, and when it groups together you can literally feel the serotonin wailing inside your system."

Four weeks earlier, the journey begins as I dump my bags in the hold and board to meet the band inside their bus just outside the Tom Bradley arrivals Terminal at LAX on a late Thursday afternoon. We're headed out of town and in the direction of the desert-set landscape of Palm Springs, Indio, California - where Gogol will be headlining in one of the main tents at the Coachella Festival tomorrow night. Perhaps on a smaller scale, but still as important to me, this feels like coming home; seeing everyone again, handshakes and greeting hugs and lots of "Hey, man...how the fuck are you? Long time, eh? Good to see you." - the first time since we last all crossed paths at the Brixton Academy gig back in November.

Tal', our resident driver for the next four days, keeps total sturdy control at the wheel while heavy dub booms over the in-house system. This is home: air conditioning, tinted windows and the warm glare of sunlight shining in as we reach a standstill in the early evening rush hour traffic clogging up the Palm Tree-lined freeways surrounding downtown LA.

If you take into account everything that goes and has gone on in the world of Gogol Bordello since conception just after the millennium, it kind of works along similar principles to that of the freeway system. Various characters - the word meant in its strongest sense, and various travels down particular lanes, all at one point or another destined to cross and intersect at some junction along the way; subsequently merging and creating a formidable nine-lane convoy of force. Well, something like that anyway.

What originally started out as a trio playing small burlesque-style shows in and around Manhattan's Lower East Side - headed, of course, by Hütz, soon turned into four, then five, and so on and so forth. The tale has been told countless times and to countless people in countless places, but essentially, the Ukraine (Eugene) met America (drummer Eliot Ferguson/US-Thai percussionist Pamela Jintana Racine), Russia (Violinist Sergey Ryabtsev/Accordionist Yury Lemeshev) and Israel (Oren), and the rest, well, you can piece it together yourself. More recent nations into the fold: Scotland/China (Percussionist Elizabeth Sun), Ecuador (MC Pedro Erazo) and Ethiopia (Bassist Tommy 'T' Gobena) simply complete the GB circle.

Bringing together Eugene's gypsy Roma roots and influences from the old Soviet Union, 'Bordello would inject raw energy via Western immigrant punk ethics, a little cabaret here and there and live shows that ultimately left audiences anywhere from Kansas City to Croatia and beyond dripping with sweat and completely void of speech. Such is the effect of a Gogol Bordello live show.

Almost seven years, dozens of tours across the US and Europe and now five studio albums (including the J.U.F. side project of 2005) later, and we've only just scraped the surface. Literally.

Meanwhile, back on the bus, Eugene's white Fedora-topped head is deeply submerged in his laptop. Wi-fi is at full signal here and he pauses occasionally to put words together in long email conversations, the majority of which are with New York-based producer Victor Van Vugt (Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds/PJ Harvey) who is busy putting the finishing touches to the band's almost-completed new album 'Super Taranta'

He looks up from the computer and gestures his hands broadly and skyward, "We wanted to make this album even wider than anything we've done before. Total cross-pollination." With that, he jumps out of his seat, pulls a burnt CD from the laptop and aims it straight for the now-empty disc tray of the stereo. A knowing grin, swiftly followed by volume increase and track selection and "So, check this shit out, man," and the music hits me like a weighty punch in the guts. But the best punch you could ever receive. 'Forces of Nature' lifts off of a single guitar riff and crashes magnificently into pure octane 'Bordello, heavy rock style. The look on the faces of Oren, Tommy, Yury, Pedro and Sergey - who breaks his concentration from reading a Russian book about the Egyptian gods, says it all. No need to use words for moments like this. Eugene's jested air-guitar, pseudo-muso-wanks are all that's needed.

"So is that the rough mixes of the whole album?" asks Tommy. "It's sounding good, man."

"Yeah, it's like seven or eight tracks that are almost done," replies Eugene. "But, I mean, it sounds almost there already. We need to go back in and tweak some things here and there with Victor, but maybe we should just make pressings from this CD here (laughs). It's raw and I like it like that." The bass-infected ride of 'Dub The Frequencies of Love' - known to everyone as simply 'Dub It', comes next and Gogol chief soundman and live show mixer, Eyal Midyan, smiles, nods and joins the lounge of listeners while the bus makes steady headway into the roads leading out of LA.

Already an opener and crowd favourite at recent live shows, 'Ultimate' kicks in, dropping half tempo, then stepping up double pace. Eugene and Oren discuss key tracks: 'Zina-Marina' - based around the sex slave trade in Eastern Europe, and 'Suddenly...(I Miss Carpaty)' which was written loosely around the story of a disgraced Ukrainian priest who, shall we say, preferred sex with those no longer alive rather than with those still with a pulse.

"Basically, we need some sort of statistics and sound dialogue sample that we can use on 'Zina...'," Eugene says to Oren. "And then like an old bell toll noise, as dark and satanic as hell, for 'Suddenly...' Where can we get that from?"

"It's ok, I'll find it," assures Oren. "There's a lot of stuff on YouTube that I can take the sound from. I'll check it out."

Accordingly, more in-depth net surfing ensues, in search of the perfect sample and statistical information for research purposes, and talk turns to the new album itself, recorded over the previous six weeks in a barn in remotest Massachusetts.

"The last year has been really powerful for us and so the record is going to be even more powerful," Hütz confesses in between web searches. "I tell you what, in reality, as successful as 'Gypsy Punks' was, and it was a great album, but we didn't even have our classic line-up at that point. It was really like looking for the sound. Now the sound's found. Now we have the classic line-up. The addition of 'T is...basically that whole dimension is just right. I felt so great about going to Russia with 'T now in the band because it I felt like I'm protected from any kind of criticism with him (laughs). He has a gut feeling for everything that goes on around us. Anything from now on is gonna bounce off of us like beans against the wall."

Brief stops are made, first in Glendale to drop off one of Yury's accordions that needs fixing and then later a park-up at the desolate confines of the Wal-Mart car park in the City of Baldwin Park, out in the furthest reaches of a largely Latino-populated suburban district of Los Angeles. Food, DVDs for the journey ('Get Shorty', 'Fargo' and, of course, 'Borat'), cigarettes and beer are salvaged from the aisles and we soon head back on the road under the black of night in search of the desert.

The next two days that follow could have been taken straight out of a David Lynch or Wim Wenders road movie. Waking up the next morning to find ourselves hauled up in the parking lot of the Empire Polo Fields in deepest Indio - the festival site itself, we step out, sleepy-eyed and still sleep-deprived, into the dust tracks and take a stroll around the fields. These same fields, by 11pm tonight, will be a heaving mass of folk old and young bustling to hold their spot in the Mojave tent where the very people I'm travelling with will be playing their first fuel-injected show together since a debut Moscow gig back in January almost three months ago. Three months off the road in Gogol terms is like a lifetime for a band that usually spends more than three quarters of the year gigging (and partying, of course), night after night.

As Eugene explains, the transition from tour-back-to-home is an art form that has to be mastered, "I've been through several stages: where I was happy only on the road and then when I was needing real breaks, but at this point I'm pretty much happy to go and happy to stay - make a reach to my balance-o-rama. It's quite a search, I tell you. Because you get newer people like Pedro in the band; you go on tour for one month and he's like 'Yeah, this is easy, this is fun,' and I'm like, 'Yeah, but wait 'til you get home.' And the fucking post-event gonna kick in. Then we'll talk about if it was easy or not. That's the whole thing: the hardest part of touring is coming home. Just nothing makes sense."

Back on the bus, we head out to basically the middle of nowhere for the band's press pictures photo-shoot. Eugene, Sergey and Yury chat together in Russian, Oren and Eyal in Hebrew, and I swap mp3s with Pedro. He wants some old Madness tracks, Russen Soul compilations and an untitled album a friend gave me of new Mexican Cumbia/Reggaeton. "Yeah, man. Go for it. Take whatever you want," I tell him as I pass my laptop over. He starts burning, sticks on my headphones and smiles like a Cheshire cat as he nods to 'Baggy Trousers' while looking out the window at mile upon mile of solar wind turbines peppering the baron horizon outside.

Over at the photo-shoot, Eliot, Pam and Elizabeth have made their own way here from LA and are all getting their relevant stage outfits on, as is Eugene with his trademark green-stripped trousers, yellow 'Rebel Truce' collar short, woolly hat and pointed Leningrad Cowboys-style leather shoes, complete with sewn-on Slayer badge. Shades and water are essential out here in the stifling heat while room 102 of the not-so-palatial and particularly sleazy Desert Sky RV Park & Motel, literally located in the arsehole of nowhere, offers little respite during costume change. People would rather stay unwashed than the use the shower provided, put it that way.

The problem is that the shoot takes a long time. Far longer than anyone originally predicted, in fact, so by the time we head back over to the festival, geared up for 11pm show-time on stage, the energy has to be available on-tap. However much everyone's feeling totally knackered after spending the past six hours standing and posing out in the blazing desert sun while bearded hobos rambled jibberish about their caravans and rabid dogs barked constantly, each has to naturally give their all.

Nonetheless, by the time that El-P's stage set has been taken down and all Bordello staff, including tour manager, Paolo, and long-serving backline tech', Kevin Devogel, are anxiously waiting their cue behind the tent, all natural adrenaline reserves kick furiously into action. Everyone is ready.

Five thousand plus faces fill the marquee to maximum capacity, 'Ultimate' kicks into action without further a do, and the band's first show in over ninety days cleans up. Job done.

The rest of the night becomes a blur. Why? Well, the strike of midnight ushers in my 32nd birthday - which I obviously inform everyone of in due course. Strangely enough, the slow, mushy sound of DJ Shadow's 'Midnight In A Perfect World' blows downwind on the desert breeze from the tent next door while my head tilts back and Grey Goose vodka flows like water to quench the thirst. Eugene returns back to the bus a little later, still buzzing from the show and from bumping into Sonic Youth's Thurston Moore afterwards - being told that Gogol's show was "pretty punk rock, actually. He really liked it."

We hang outside the bus, smoking profusely and shouts of "Happy Birthday, dude!" fly at me graciously from the 'family'. Needless to say, several glasses of champagne, whiskey, beer, wine and vodka down the line - let alone the Ritalin I've necked for the past two days, I spark myself out cold on the bus sofa while the 1967 cult classic Russian movie 'Viy' - some say loosely based around the madness of Nikolai Gogol himself, is narrated by Eugene and Yury, themselves both fans of the film. "This is basically us," he says. "This film is our story. You know what? We should send to MTV and say it's our promo video (laughs). They play all this Arctic Monkeys and Kasabian and then they can play the entire film, which we tell them is the new Gogol Bordello video. Ok, so it's an hour and a half long, but I think they will like it."

That's all I remember...then...bang!!! Out cold...nothingness

Later the same day, after a slow start, too many hangovers and helping ourselves to some very useful free clothes - even Yury got himself a nice lemon yellow pair of jeans, at a Spin Magazine-sponsored "Meet & Greet" in a lavish hotel somewhere in Palm Springs, we return to the road and back to LA. Picking up Yury's fixed accordion along the way - "yeah, he did good job on it, I think. It sounds a lot wetter now. I like it," and grabbing fresh Taco's with Oren, we arrive at the Bombshelter Studios on Bay Street in industrial, downtown East LA. Here to record two live songs: 'Ultimate' and '60 Revolutions', for the Henry Rollins TV chat show, we literally missed old Gogol comrade Manu Chao, who was here filming his spot the day previous. Apparently, Iggy and the Stooges are due at some point.

Looking more like a swanky, brick-walled loft apartment than a TV studio, we settle in, three takes on 'Ultimate' - "Ok, can we do it just one more time please, guys!' Obviously this gets a little tiring for all concerned; having to re-do the same track again and again, without an audience - even Henry himself isn't around as he's on tour. Come '60 Revolutions' and the girls are ready, but where's Pedro? Ten minutes later and it's more a case of "Where the fuck is Pedro?" Apparently, he met up with some friends before the show, but no one knows where he is, and his cue in the track is due any second. Like clockwork, he literally runs in through the door and dashes for the mic, hitting his part straight on the dot.

Following the show, I head with Oren and Eugene to find a bar somewhere in East LA that is still open and where you hopefully won't get shot at when entering. After all, it's our last night before everyone heads back home. Eugene leaves at 5am for New York to go straight back into the studio with Victor for a handful of retakes and final tweaks before the courier arrives on Tuesday to pick up the final mastered version.

Cruising up Pacific Boulevard, headed in what direction God only knows, Eugene spots a place, "That's it, man! Little Siberia yo!" Hoping for a little home-grown Russian comfort and a few good vodkas, we park up and head in. As soon as we step in, we quickly realise that this is no Russian joint. Instead, the cheesiest Mexican Boleros and pop ballads blast distorted over the stereo while drunken guys in checked shirts, cowboy boots and Stetsons dance, slumped over their girlfriends/wives/smooching partners for the night. It's totally hilarious and completely surreal. At this point we could either head for the exit and get the fuck out of dodge or pull up a chair, beckon the ample-chested waitress with the even bigger gap between her teeth over and order tequilas all round. Obviously, we choose the latter. "Party!" says Eugene as we toast and try to hold in the laughter without getting lynched in the process. This continues for several drinks or so. When we are all eventually kicked out at 2am, drunken dancers and all, we grab more taco's and head back to the bus, still laughing. I kick back on the soft leather sofa and, with no Ritalin left to keep me awake and focused before the flight home the next morning, pass out...

Four weeks later, back in London, I look out of the window as dawn almost tips its weight into morning, my body aching and my ears still ringing from the show at the Electric Ballroom a few hours ago, and begin recollecting the past two weeks. The band have been in London for most of that time while Eugene has been playing more or less himself - but with a twist, in the lead role for Madonna's directorial debut 'Filth & Wisdom', alongside Richard E. Grant and 'This Is England's Stephen Graham, among others. The band spent a couple of days on the shoot, also playing themselves, and then we more or less hung out from there on in, whether at bars around the way or catching the likes of Russian gypsy legend Sasha Kolpakov play with Eugene at the Barbican's '1000 Year Journey' Gypsy Festival. Good times were had, complete with the necessary inclusion of London-based DJ Scratchy - the band's touring selector and obvious tenth member of the fold.

Running it all through in my mind, moment for moment, I smile profusely, no matter how tired and in need of sleep I happen to be. And I immediately remember those few lines at the end of Chapter 8 in Hunter S. Thompson's 'Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas', where he talks about the late sixties movements and radicals who changed the course of history and fought the system; "...you could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that what we were doing was right, that we were winning...we had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave..." For me, those exact same sentiments apply completely to Gogol Bordello, what they do and what they ultimately stand for in these crazy, uncertain times. A total tribal connection and, without question, the most important band of my generation...

www.gogolbordello.com

They Call It Madness...

2007-08-03T00:33:00.000+01:00

"...Buster, he sold the heat
with a rocksteady beat..."

Nodding and bumping to uptown nostalgia from back in the 80's days,
figuring out hard-drives,
cigarette-count for the morning (five...I think!)
and how relationships can be less complicated.
Is there really such a thing?
And were they all Arsenal fans?
I once thought it was Tottenham, but now you come to mention it...
Probably Gooners, yeah.
You tell me.
Closer to 1am than the hour before,
carbs from pasta
and sugar rush from half-Rolo-doughnut
gift from German house guest still mainlined and flowing.
Go easy on that shit, man.
I mean, really. Think about your health and that.
But vielen dank though. Yeah, very kind of you.
You shouldn't have.
Distantly eyeing up the cutey, chic chick from the Konstam -
she's on her second oily now; afterhours relaxation and so forth.
Me too.
What was her name again?
30th birthday gift given in time for Sunday
in Kyrgystan.
Did I spell that correctly?
"Don't open it up 'til you get there though!"
Nice, man. Nice.

"This may not be uptown Jamaica, but we promised you a treat..."

Must sleep now.
Yeah, sleep.
Yes please.
Dream up the next lot...

"Bring back the...
who is the...
we want the...
bring back the prince..."

My Friends...

2007-08-01T21:35:00.000+01:00

John & Jehn

The Long Way Round & Other Stories, Etc...

by Swax T. McIver

Midnight, Central London. Outside, traffic cuts loose and eases up off the corner of two busy, usually somewhat sleazier streets. Inside, all hell breaks out in the van, but for no sinister reason other than fun. Parked up on the curb, dodging late-night hoodies and rogue traffic wardens, the silver-lined exterior and tinted windows give away nothing. Rien. Well, nothing but the sound of something vast looming on the horizon, poised to blow the in-car stereo and everyone's minds and eardrums in the process. Countdown underway...

The guitar section linking 'Turnover' and the title track on seminal D.C. dischord band Fugazi's 1989 long-player, 'Repeater', has everyone's spirits rising high; surely the calm before the storm. What else? Instigation is what it is.

And then the wave breaks, just as planned and not a moment too soon. Nostalgic musical nirvana mainlined and already in the bloodstream, if you will. John & Jehn - the name originating from nameless 'Doe' type anonymity, glance up from the glow of neon light on the i-Pod on the dashboard and beam a knowing grin. J&J roadie, close friend and all-round honest shot of bright-eyed support and inspiration, Kairos, follows suite. Tonight is complete for now, all are happy. Again.

An hour earlier, similar feelings of adulation, great hope and raw adrenaline were running just as fervent. But for another reason. Sure, the sound of music was the main protagonist, but this time around it was way closer to home. The next drop of a healthy, much-needed dose of John & Jehn shows across the 'Smoke had taken us all one step nearer. Nearer to what? Who knows. No-one cared much about specifics, it just felt right, whatever it was. Whatever it is, in fact.

Essentially, it's all about dialogue: a conversation, per say. Not one in particular, more an ongoing means of communication between two people; a necessary catharsis involving words, verse and, more importantly, music...

"It's a really weird thing for us," says John on life as an artistic twosome. "In some ways I don't know where it (the music) comes from. To this day, it's still a surprise for both of us to come up with these songs that we've made together - and actually like them."

Jehn elaborates: "What we're doing now is the only thing that matters, as far as us being musicians goes; to find the truth in something that is relevant to you. It's about judgment: how you judge both others as well as yourself."

While formative years for both had been spent, in the large, via the decidedly-less-lively French rural towns of Poitiers (Jehn) and Angouleme (John), their backgrounds couldn't have been any more different. She: ten years studying the piano and acting, schooled heavily in rock and jazz - He: ten years banging the drums, raised on a steady diet of grunge, drum and bass, electronica and punk. Apprenticeships were commendably served.

But it wasn't until much later - at least six months after they'd met and subsequently entered into the post-honeymoon-period, serious boyfriend/girlfriend relationship stretch, that anything of any considerable significance was to happen. Musically-speaking, at least. In many ways, it was time to start again from scratch.

As John recalls, "When we first got together as a 'couple' we were both in bands, and we each thought that the other's bands were totally shit (laughs). The thing is, I wasn't even a proper guitar player! I only began playing it when we started up together, and the same with Jehn when she first picked up the bass."

Logically then, it was only a matter of time before each ditched their previous band and brought everything; new instruments, learnings 'n' all, back into the fold.

"We were really serious about it," adds Jehn. "Not in a heavy way, but just in the fact that we'd wake up early every day and work hard - putting together a song over two days. Then we'd move on to the next and so on. We really wanted to make something good."

An ongoing process of writing, recording, scrutinising, re-writing, re-recording and then a little more scrutiny - just for good measure, resulted in the birth of their first musical offering, the 'L'amour Ne Nous Dechirera Pas (Love Will Not Tear Us Apart)' 5-track EP, in the summer of 2005.

As much an ode to themselves, past experiences and hopes and fears as it was to do with the Ian Curtis-inspired wordplay, the debut would go on to help develop each individual as a creator of forms, together and as one. Art reflected life - reflecting art, and so on.

Twelve months later, the confines of leafy suburban North London were considered by both to be their new home, and have since been as such. Studio functional, creative flow in check and new friends to aid with advice, support and, dare it be said, love, when needed. Life is good. Well, sometimes.

"I don't necessarily see what we do as John & Jehn as a rock 'n' roll thing at all," he says. "It's more about us choosing the way in which we want to deal with life, every day life and expressing ourselves in some sort of form. The big reason is for us to live, to do something and to grow. We simply like to make our lives a little bit more interesting."

"Yeah, it's for us to get better in what we do," she agrees. "It's very much a channel, a direction...a faith in something that we believe in."

Where the world of John & Jehn truly makes sense, outside of the day-to-day jokes, problems and their natural solutions, is onstage. Since relocating to this side of the English Channel, London spots anywhere from the 100 Club, George Tavern and Social to the 12 Bar and a regular residency at the Luminaire, have added a new slant to the structure. Of course, collective influences including; Gainsbourg, Johnny Cash, Joy Division and The Velvet Underground all surface somewhere along the line, but that's how it works. The edge is theirs to own and sharpen accordingly. Subsequently, live favourites; 'Blacktrain', 'My Friends', 'Ice Cream-Eating Mother Fuckers' and the ubiquitous 'Make Your Mum Be Proud' have cajoled interest and speculation from all corners.

But what it all boils down to, essentially, is that ongoing conversation of theirs and so long as they keep talking, who knows where the hell it'll lead.

Meanwhile, back in the van, Jehn concludes, directing her thoughts back at John: "It's funny as I just remembered tonight that I learned all about song-writing from you, all that time ago."

"Really?" He looks puzzled. "Actually, I thought it was you who taught me..."

With that, they reflect each other's cheeky smiles - faces lit up orange by cigarettes just sparked, and turn back to face the night and the long road ahead. Accordingly, the stereo is cranked back up to max and the van moves off at top speed, out of sight, deep into darkness...

Check out: www.myspace.com/johnjehn

Lost & Found...1

2007-08-01T20:20:00.000+01:00

Verse, poems and thoughts; unearthed and worth a second chance...

Part One:

"They may kill the revolutionary, but never the revolution."

"Siempre que nestro grito de guerra haya illegado hasta un eido receptivo." ("Until our war cry reaches a receptive ear.")

(From the "Ché" exhibition at the V&A, London, 26th August 2006)

Part Two:

"Poem 1" (13th October 2006)

Counting down time
through means of communication.
Eighteen minutes closer,
but to what?
Black, sticky liquid
and sharp blue-silver smoke
are my mates at the table.
Me alone.
Puddles splashed
reflect the orange light
and pink mouths chattering white walls.

(Copyright: Swax T. McIver 2006)

"Poem 2" (same day)

Always through a sudden sense of abandonment,
it comes to me.
That nothing is everything
and all is not always enough.
I pray for these times, these moments,
and when I forget it all,
they deliver themselves like surprise presents on random days.

(Copyright: Swax T. McIver 2006)

"Poem 3" (22nd October 2006)

Scribbling pages,
for ages.
But will it ever form
my wages?
Build from stages
until my age is...

(Copyright: Swax T. McIver 2006)

Stay Out of Trouble?

2007-07-31T01:38:00.000+01:00

Well, that's what my friend told me tonight / last night. The question mark was my slant, really. Great girl, she is; got a heart of gold and looks to match, but anyway that's besides the point.

Got in late; drinks and food with friends and meeting friends of friends in and around the way. WC1X. Drinks necessary, as with the cigarettes; recreational pastimes, research, etc. Naturally. London being London, no shops open for top-ups on the smokes. Shit! Means I'm gonna have to hold out 'til the break of dawn - well, around 9ish AM.

Checked emails, Myspace; the whole darn lot of 'em and yeah, jack to report home about. Anyway, not wanting to feel completely left out of cyberspace, bounced into IM mode; such a sometimes-great means of correspondence if you feel like speeding up the email process, but not as far as a telephone call, but anyway, you know this. You choose the one you like best.

Hit L.A. running, eh? Yeah, live and direct. Mainlined. But what she said made total sense. No more, no less.

Basically, the whole jist of it was simple; stay out of trouble, keep out of those messy boy-girl conundrums - for now, get writing, get working, fucker! - oh, and let the fun come to you. But KEEP WRITING, ALWAYS!

She's got a point - THE point, even; no more of my being slack, lashing up, blowing out and forgetting the pen-to-paper/finger-to-the-keypad any more. JUST WRITE, DUDE!!! WRITE.

I feel it would only be right for me to oblige and yeah...write. Like this, but better, maybe funnier if at all humanly possible, and jot ideas, thoughts, fantasies, tall stories and so on and so forth, down each day. If I can. No, not good enough, fucker!

I will.

It's funny; was on at Yonos to do the same as his are much better than mine, and probably always will be. But I just blathered in his ears over pints of Cruz Campo that, "Yeah, man. You gotta keep going with that. Great stuff, etc, etc..." That told him. And maybe he listened, maybe he didn't. I think the former is more likely the truth.

Then again, it'd be highly hypocritical of me to not do the same.

Always listen to your friends...even if they do think you're crazy. We're all crazy.

It doesn't matter.

I Have Arrived...

2007-07-29T20:26:00.001+01:00

Now where?

Nowhere?

What to do?

What to say?

Is less more?

Is more less?

Enough questions already yet.

Discipline.