The Craft Economy

Following on a bit from Saturday’s bitch about Fopp closing. As I hate the big chains with a passion, I’m now starting to use the web more as a source of cool stuff, and word of mouth and recommends from mags like The Word are becoming increasingly important. 

With traditional music retail and distribution going the way of the dinosaur, it’s blatantly obvious that small bands are much better off doing things in their own way. Myspace is the obvious example, but frankly you’re more likely to catch me in a dress than surfing that junkhole. Unless I get a very direct headsup to a specific band, I won’t be there.
Kudos, then, to The Craft Economy, who are using all the tricks of the new digital trade to get the word out. Posters to their local shows in Toronto have CDRs stuck to them with MP3s of their first EP, plus links to the website with tour dates, blogs and so on. If you like you can buy the album, complete with home-made covers. It’s a neat, cottage industry way of doing things, and I hope it works out for them. Plus the music’s good, which helps. Check out The Kissing Song.
Not sure if anyone’s doing anything similar on this side of the pond. The Horrors are good at throwing freebies around at their shows, including quite cool compilations, but nothing with quite this homebrew vibe.  

A Summer Of Discontent

I won’t mince my words; it’s been a rubbish summer. Much apart from the lousy weather, it’s seen the closure of my favourite record shop, cafe and local bookshop, and the death of my favourite author. There’s been little in the way of inspiring music or movies, and  even Virgin Media has seen fit to cut away the only TV channel with shows worth watching from my cable package. (actually this one’s my fault. Ill-thought out budgets cuts at Casa De La Verdad Fea. Doesn’t mean I won’t gripe about it though.) I’ve been generally grumpy, out of sorts, and unable to concentrate on much creatively.

It’s poo, and it needs to stop.  
I’m calling an end to the summer, and officially stating that this autumn will be the best one EVAR. We have an upcoming trip to sunny San Francisco, the London Film Festival and the best lineup of stuff at the Reading Town Hall Film Theatre, a new season of Battlestar Galactica and the new Springsteen album to look forward to as the nights draw in. Plus a little something I’ve been waiting for since January. 
Screw summer. I’m all about the season of mellow fruitfulness.

The Joy Of Comics

Monday night saw me happily planted in front of the first episode of BBC4s’ Comics Britannia. It was an utter joy, and had me loudly agreeing and reminiscing at the telly all the way through, while Clare rolled her eyes and got on with finishing the last bit of her final assignment before her October exams. She knows better than to disturb me when I’m wallowing in nostalgia. 

My love for the Beano stems from the era when I was a little speccy thing. My uncles had a thick pile of annuals from the 60s that they’d collected as boys. They’d left them at my Nan Gwen’s when they moved out. A surefire way to keep me quiet during visits to the grandparents would be to point me at that pile and tell me to dive in. Sometimes I’d have to be forcibly dragged away from them at the end of the visit. I was mesmerised by the Bash Street Kids, and Leo Baxendale’s extraordinary, annotated grotesquerie. Equally, Dennis the Menace and his smalltown anarchy resonated deeply with me, as a thin, meek shortsighted child who would never tear ass the way that spiky-headed terrorist would. 
Interestingly, I’d never realised just how crude and energised Davy Law’s artwork was until I saw some of the loving closeups that Comics Britannia layered thickly through the show. The word “punk” was used a few times, and pretty appropriately too. You could almost feel the glee with which ink was slashed over hasty pencils in an adrenalised rush. His art was impressionistic, anarchic. Small wonder I enjoyed it so much. 
On occasion, I would be allowed to take one of the precious volumes with me, and I would inevitably treat them with the respect with which I treated all of Doug and Sam’s valuables. 
They were read to bits, then swapped for the latest Whizzer and Chips annual. 
In mint, some of these early books are worth hundreds of pounds. To me, mint is something that comes in a tube labeled Polo. Books were a commodity, not a collectible. To some extent, I still think that way. I’ve binned, or more recently donated a ton of books and magazines over the years. 
Only the most priceless of volumes are worth hanging onto. And by priceless, I mean priceless to me. The dog-eared Kurt Vonneguts I picked up from my favourite second-hand bookshop in Woodford will always be with me, because at the time every book of his I bought was new to me, and because they were bought with my best mate Chris in tow. We were, and still are, serious bookhounds, and many of our happiest moments were spent scouring bookshops for strange and interesting stories. The Vonneguts, Asimovs, Ellisons and Harrisons we snarfed for pennies a go have history ingrained in every page, and informed the kind of reader and writer that I am now.  They are passports to memory, and as dear to me as any other possession.
I appear to have wandered off the point. Nostalgia will do that for you.

Mister Drumpants

Most people that know me must be aware of my nervous habit of nervous drumming and tapping on just about any available surface. What can I say, I’m a percussive kind of guy.

News, therefore, of odbol productions and their production of a pair of strides loaded up with midi trigger pads – turning the wearer into their own drumkit – will fill them with dread.
I can’t wait to snag a pair. And I’m much better than this dude…

The Ugly Truth About Immigration

The implied racism in any conversation about “illegal immigrants” always makes my blood boil. Any Daily Mail reader worth their salt will happily blather on for hours about how “they’re taking our jobs” and “they’re not paying taxes”. It’s ill-informed nonsense and I don’t have the patience for it.

Orson Scott Card, noted SF author and  rightwing thinker takes these lazy arguments and gives them the thorough reaming they so richly deserve. I’m thinking of memorising it. Or carrying a printout around in my back pocket.

Monday Ephemera

The new volume of Rian Hughes‘ comics work YESTERDAY’S TOMORROWS is framed with a couple of beautifully drawn (as his stuff always is) endpapers featuring the interior of a scruffy looking 50s caff. Although he’s shifted the ablutionaries closer to the front, I’ll be darned if it’s not closely modelled on the interior of the New Piccadilly. A fitting tribute – Rian’s work is heavily front-loaded with retro charm – much like the NuPic itself!

On my way back from lunch and a Forbidden Planet splurge (Martha Washington Dies, Coward, Desolation Jones vol. 1 and DMZ – Death of a Journalist, thank you for aksing), I very nearly walked straight into Julian Cope. He’d planted himself in front of the windows at Macari’s Guitars on Charing Cross Road, and was toting a very heavy looking guitar case. The arch-drude does not do disguise. He was done up in full Freak Stormbahnfuhrer mode, head to toe leather and a German Army cap jauntily atop the whole ensemble. And shades. Biiiig shades. 
It’s nice to know some of us are still keeping up standards…
UPDATE…
while walking home tonight thanks to the three-day tube strike that’s going to make my life real interesting this week, I saw Simon Le Bon stepping out of a limo outside the Sony offices on Golden Square. Boy, he’s let himself go. Sweatpants and a beer-gut. Hadn’t shaved in a week. Brown Crocs.
Just kidding. He was disgustingly dapper. The hand-made brogues he was rocking must have cost more than this here laptop. 
Bet he never has to walk to Paddington from Soho…

A Culinary Day

We finally had to address the issue of the ice monster that has taken over the freezer, so I’m making stuff out of the detritus and strange objects one comes across whenever one bites the bullet and has a clearout. Chicken carcasses, old squash and toms well past their best are puttering away on the hob, collating slowly into an absurdly fragrant stock. Later I’ll make a crumble with rhubarb from my garden, and pears from Mum and Dad’s. That could go either way. I’m not an expert in the art, unlike my mate Chris who has a black belt in crumble fu. 

To soundtrack this activity, what better than some mellow sounds from the Vienna Vegetable Orchestra?

Kenneth Foster – the best news I thought I’d never see.

I spent my train journey home tonight writing a furious diatribe to the state of Texas on the death of Kenneth Foster. It was probably the angriest thing I’ve ever written, and I was fully prepared to throw it on the blog tonight as soon as I got the news I had been dreading.

I’m almost tearfully happy to tell you that I’ve just dumped that piece in the trash. 

Kenneth’s death sentence was commuted to life by Governor Rick Perry this afternoon, on the day he was scheduled to be executed.

I’m a little drunk and a lot emotional at the incredible news, so I’ll let Michael Graczyk of AP take up the slack…

HUNTSVILLE – Gov. Rick Perry accepted a recommendation from the state parole board and said today he would spare condemned prisoner Kenneth Foster from execution and commute his sentence to life.

Foster had been scheduled to die tonight.

“After carefully considering the facts of this case, along with the recommendation from the Board of Pardons and Paroles, I believe the right and just decision is to commute Foster’s sentence from the death penalty to life imprisonment,” Perry said in a statement.

“I am concerned about Texas law that allowed capital murder defendants to be tried simultaneously and it is an issue I think the Legislature should examine.”

The seven-member parole board had voted 6-1 to recommend the commutation.

Perry did not have to accept the highly unusual recommendation from the board whose members he appoints.

Foster was the getaway driver and not the actual shooter in the slaying of a 25-year-old man in San Antonio 11 years ago.

Foster acknowledged he and his friends were up to no good as he drove them around San Antonio in a rental car and robbed at least four people 11 years ago before the slaying of Michael LaHood Jr.

“It was wrong,” Foster, 30, said recently from death row. “I don’t want to downplay that. I was wrong for that. I was too much of a follower. I’m straight up about that.”

Kenneth’s commutation is of course just the tip of the iceberg. 5 men are scheduled to go under the needle next month. Texas is still head, shoulders, chest and belly above every other US state in the numbers of men it sends to the death chamber every year. The fact that Rick Perry has seen sense in a case that reverberated around the planet should not make this the end of the story. I should of course mention that Gov. Perry also mentioned the Law of Parties in an aside as something that needs to be looked at by the legislature. I absolutely applaud that move, as Texas is the one state of the union to feel free to use that controversial ruling in capital cases. 

However, for now I’m going to simply breathe a sigh of relief, and offer a toast to the luckiest man on God’s green earth today. 
Kenneth Foster, say hi to the rest of your life.

Don’t stop the signal. Keep an eye on the shenanigans of them crazy Texans by visiting the Texas Moritorium Network, campaigning to end the death penalty in Texas.

Yippeekiyay, melonfarmers.