Danny Drive Thru 7" Launch/ Mind on Fire's 7th Birthday

7 years. It's hard to believe it's been 2 years since I wrote about the party at Islington Mill, yet so much has happened since then. Like the mother fuckin record label. Pow. After last year's Great Minds compilation (which really packs a few heavy punches if you ask me), the next vinyl release is Danny Drive Thru's new 7 inch Psychedelia Smith. It's sick.

On Friday 14/10/11 at the Soup Kitchen we'll be celebrating both our 7th birthday and the release of the single, with sets from all the residents and Drive Thru. I probably don't need to tell you how good that's going to be.

On a side note:  two big 7's happening on the 14th is the kind of faux Kabalistic parallel that I tend to get excited about (but probably doesn't mean very much other than that we're all going to have a lot of fun). In the meantime check out  of Danny's Violence Makes The World Go Around (Naive Machine Remix).

  Danny Drive Thru - Violence Makes (Naive Machine Remix) by MindonFire

Dayse and Aver Interview

I've started writing occasionally for the Mind on Fire website now, so some stuff will be there and not here. One such article is an interview with Manchester Hip-Hop duo Dayse and Aver, who have just released a rather sick new EP. My review of the record soon to be appearing on www.mindonfire.co.uk 

The Death of Venice (A review of Old Story by Zoir)

A dignified death.

That’s all Simon really had left to hope for these days. After spending more than three decades as a copyright protection agent for a major record label, he had increasingly become sickened by his line of work. He couldn’t really put his finger on it. He was wealthy and working for an industry that many people, far more talented than he, had sold their souls to be part of. Maybe it was the thrill of the chase that he missed; back when the first MPC came out he used to handout lawsuits like they were fundamentalist hate pamphlets. With new advanced music recognition software anyone could do his job. Amateurs. Where were they when he was working undercover at Bronx block parties, sporting a ridiculous hi-top fade and listening out for Steely Dan samples? His name had been made by taking on the Zulu Nation. He’d given hell to those bastards, and he was proud to play his part in making a fiercely independent art form conform to the rules of his employers at The Majors.

Maybe this is was how Wyatt Earp felt, he’d think to himself. Once The West was won, what was there left to do? But Earp had Hollywood. Simon’s own autobiographical screenplay hadn’t even warranted a rejection letter. He was burnt out, an ageing relic of a history unknown. He wasn’t a hero to anyone- his daughter resented that he spent his life prosecuting teenagers for downloading music they couldn’t afford. Christ, he was pretty sure she was file sharing it too. But what could he do? Sue his own family? No thanks, he paid enough in alimony already.

Jaded, he’d made the big decision a while back. He had lived like a Narc, but he would die like a Roman Emperor. It was a simple plan, but quietly refined. He would see out his last evening in luxury. When his regal corpse was discovered, it would be clear that he had parted on his own terms.

Tonight was the night. Sweating and a little bit nervous, he began the ritual. It started, perhaps less divinely than he would have liked, by taking a dump. Ever conscious of his mortal legacy, he refused to be found amidst the ruins of his evacuated bowels. Emptying them of his own accord was his ultimate victory over Nature. Unable to adequately survey the dark forces stockpiled inside him, he sat there until he was certain that he was quite through. Satisfied, he donned his velvet dressing gown, opened a bottle of wine and sat on the sofa. He listened through the entirety of Fleetwood Mac’s Greatest Hits (Warner Brother, 1988), enjoying his last mouthfuls of vintage Bordeaux.

Music was his life, and now it would be his death. It was timed to perfection. As No Question Asked (Nicks, Kelly Johnston) began to fade out, he stood. Next song. Next step. He marched triumphantly to the bathroom, accompanied by the Second Prelude of Bach’s Cello Suite (Yo-Yo Ma, 1983). His soundtrack was audible in every room of the apartment thanks to the central music system the Bose engineer had installed. After running through a full mental checklist, he disrobed and climbed into the warm candlelit bath. When Tomorrow Never Knows (Lennon/McCartney) began, he took his razor and cut through the flesh of his wrists, wincing as he sliced through tendon and skin. To avoid any unnecessary mess, he maintained an impressive resolve to carry this act out below the surface of the water. He closed his eyes and tried very hard to imagine himself floating downstream.

As usual with Simon, there were conflicting motives in this selection. The obvious reason was its reference to the Tibetan Book of the Dead. When his final playlist was analysed by a reverential detective, he was sure to be beatified. On a more personal note, he had made a lot of money suing artists for the unauthorized use of Beatles songs. Now all doubts and troubling thoughts were banished by the cheerful memory of bankrupting unknown bedroom producers stupid enough to sample Strawberry Fields (Lennon/ McCartney).

Lying in crimson water up to his neck, he felt calm, collected and proud that he had, at last, taken full control of his own destiny. He waited for his swan song to begin, already pre-empting the beauty of fading out to its glorious climax. Unfortunately for Simon Venice, it seems that fate was determined not to be outwitted by a man. Instead of hearing the opening organ and slide guitar of Free Bird (Collins, Van Zant), he heard a young boys voice speaking to him talking about old stories. What was this some kind of memory? Had he passed over? No something else. Drums. Oh Fuck. Fretless bass and piano arpeggios. Oh shit... oh God...Oh No. Please no.

He recognised it and knew what had happened. A few days back he'd been handed a copy of Zoir's EP to comb for copyright infringements. He'd given it a cursory listen in the car on the way home. It had made him feel vaguely uneasy and irritated so he decided never play it again. But something had gone wrong. Somehow this had made it's way onto his playlist, right where Free Bird should have been. He screamed, “No! This can't be! Free Bird! Free Biiiiirrrrrddd!”

He sobbed, muttering something about how “the bird changed” and began, as if by reflex, to analyase the tune to pinpoint the piano sample. “I'm gonna get this guy,” he spat. “He's history, wait till we file.” The obvious falsity of this statement only made him more irate. The music was taunting him. It had been chopped up so far beyond recognition he couldn’t make it out, not now anyway. There was a chaos wrapped around those notes, as if Zoir had crafted the beats just to torment a dying man. To taint his final moments.

He breathed a sigh of relief as the song came to an end. Maybe it was just that song, “If I leave here tomorrow,” he repeated to himself as if he could mentally control the computer in his living room. But he had to hope, and having lost so much blood, he was hardly in his right mind at this point. His petition to the gods of Southern Rock was in vain; as the synths of “It's on There” began to surround him he couldn't help but think of all the unanswered prayers of his youth. A torrent of bitter memories ran through his mind. He'd always been a disappointment to everyone he knew. And now his daughter, what would she think?

Fuck.

His contemplation was broken. The warm ambience and vinyl cracks of the song's intro had taken him on an introspective journey but it was soon severed by a total aural assault. It was as if Future Sound of London had OD’d on ketamine and been reborn as vengeful wraiths hell bent on ruining his party. He'd been in some tricky positions throughout his life, and usually managed to remain fairly calm- but in that moment he lost all self control. He lifted his arms out of the water. He instantly regretted breaking his first and most important rule.

Arterial blood pulsed slow and irregular from the demented grins on each of his wrists. Monochromatic rainbows arched sureally around him. Profundo Rosso. Deep Red. The whole world had been whitewashed and was being painted red by a mad man. This was not the plan. This could not be allowed to happen. Simon Venice was gripped by an irresistible force of self preservation. Vanity is a man's downfall, but also his greatest strength. “If I get out of this, I'll let Zoir know he saved my life,” he thought wistfully. Imaging his face on the cover of various True Story rags, he pulled himself out of the tub.

He tried to stand but was too light headed. Reaching for something sturdy, he put his hand on the toilet roll holder and lost his footing. Simon fell over. His fall was broken by the hard porcelain of the toilet, which his mouth wrapped around. Teeth cracked and tore through his lower lip. Lightning. Pain. He crumpled to the floor. Above him the bog roll was still spinning, coating him in paper like freshly fallen snow.

Resigned to defeat he finally let go. Simon Venice was overwhelmed by a feeling that his heart was pumping in time with the wonky Dupstep crawl of “Resh Kesh then Repeat”, struggling along and missing every third beat. He reached a stage of Zen like acceptance. This was it. This is what he was listening to and he was powerless to change it. He began to drift into unconsciousness.

It felt a lot like some of the trips he'd had back in the seventies. Strange patterns began to form on the walls and he had a hard time looking at anything for very long. He zoned in, blacked out and came back around again. Synchronicity. First his body had mirrored the music and now, as he became too weak to maintain any clarity the music blasting out of his speakers began to do the same. The fluttering samples and stunted beat of “How Far?” perfectly matched his fluctuation between Being and Not.

And then it was over. The EP that is. The silence was so loud it hurt his ears. A last injection of strength coursed through his broken body. “What?” He howled, fuelled by a hatred of Biblical proportions. ”This can't be right. How can a whole EP be shorter than fucking Free Bird!?”

Old Story is out Now

Get in the Van

We’d been driving for a long time. Those at the wheel were about to see their third morning in a row without sleep and our minds were beginning to play tricks on us. Strange things start to happen when a group of people are placed in a confined space for long periods of time. Add the constant vibrations of the road and uncomfortable seating arrangements to the equation and the results become truly chaotic. Our motley ensemble rapidly transformed from well mannered gentlemen into perverted truckers who suffered from severe Tourettes- involuntarily screaming at pedestrians and passing vehicles alike. The overall vibe in the van had shifted, without warning, from naïve excitement to road wearied sleaze. We certainly weren’t proud of ourselves but it couldn’t be helped. The mere sight of an attractive woman was enough to spark a fury of shrieks, hollers, moans and gasps as we grappled over one another to get a better look. This was not how we’d hoped to represent ourselves to the people of Europe but it could not be helped. We were possessed, condemned to cruise dark Gallic streets ordering innocent strangers to “Get in the van!” Imagine the sense of rejection as our advances were met by expressions of horror from the locals, who were certain that this was the beginning of David Cameron’s plans to transport dangerous sex fiends to Eastern Europe. Needless to say, nobody ever got in. However, it was in the grips of this animalistic state that we found ourselves facing our first real test of character. The Law.

If you worked as a Customs Officer, patrolling the highways of rural France, it's likely that you would have, sooner or later, devised some kind system for spotting potential criminals. This would, almost certainly, be based on stereotypes and wanton speculation, but- hey- if it works it works. Perhaps you would keep an eye out for tinted windows, loud music or simply nervous behaviour, but- if you know what to look for- travelling drug casualties are pretty easy to spot. As the Mind of Fire van pulled up to a deserted toll booth at 3:00 am on that Tuesday morning, it's pretty safe to say that we ticked all the boxes. The pounding 4/4 Techno beat blasting out the windows, may well have woken them up. If that didn’t get their attention, the frantic shouts of “EUROS! WHO’S GOT THE EUROS?” and the howls of rage as yet another beer spilt across the passenger seats, must have. To be honest, though, even with out these distractions, nine dishevelled English dudes in a fogged out van was always going to raise some eyebrows.
As the first torch glared in our faces, we decided to play it cool. “Guten Tag, Herr Officer!” we called out, before someone remembered that we weren't in Germany yet. We were directed to a lay-by a few metres away, where we were met by several police cars. The cops gathered en mass around the van. “Where are you going?” they demanded.
“Croatia,” we replied, “We're musicians on the way to a festival.”
“Musicians? What kind of music do you play?”
“Umm... Well, reggae... I guess.”
Wrong answer. The female officer raised an eyebrow. “Ahh! Like Bob Marley?” Within seconds, the side door was yanked open, and with it several empty beer cans fell to the ground. The degenerate state of the van's interior can only have confirmed their suspicions, as they shone their flash lights around a dank cavern of cigarette butts, spilled beer and bent playing cards. Six strange men, in various stages of mental decay stared back at them, eyes adjusting to the sudden influx of light. The cops eyed the scene suspiciously. Then they discovered The Smell. Their noses twitched in disgust as the first wave hit them. A Victorian work house for hydrophobic necrophiles would have smelled like the Body Shop in comparison. The questions began. “Do you have hashish, ecstasy or acid?” they asked in chorus. It goes without saying, the Mind on Fire band would never even consider smuggling such dangerous substances across International borders, but they were not having it. One of them, with seemingly no concern at all for due process, attempted a childishly transparent act of entrapment; asking us if we wanted to buy any cocaine.
I decided it was time to create a distraction, so, after making sure there was only a small danger of being shot, I got out of the van and beckoned to the one that seemed to be in charge. We walked to the front of the van. He followed eagerly, perhaps expecting me to reveal a stash of black tar heroin hidden in the wheel well. I didn't. Instead, I began asking a series of questions about the converter stickers that we had placed over the headlights. He stared blankly at me for a moment, so I began gesturing wildly and pointing at the beams. Bemused, he said, “Look, I really don't care. I'm Customs- not some Traffic cop. Are you on drugs?” I replied that I was very concerned that we were breaking his country's laws with misplaced stickers and that I had not taken any drugs. As my attention turned back towards the headlights, he walked away back towards his car. Meanwhile, the interrogation in the back had drawn to an end.
We breathed a collective sigh of relief and set back on our way. The short spell of trying to act like normal people had taken a big toll. It had been the first time in over a day that we had been forced to let the outside world in, and it had raised some serious questions about our sanity. Like I said at the beginning; we'd been for a long time, but there was still a long way to go. The van pulled back onto the highway. After a while, a voice from back seats broke the silence. “That lady cop... She could well have got in the van!” And with that, we were on the road again.

Waratah Blossom

Here is a new(ish) song I've made as Spurious Scholars. It's available as a free download on a recent Mind on Fire compilatonalong with tracks from a number of Manchester musicians including CZUK.

More songs from the Spurious Scholars studio are on the way.

Waratah Blossom by OG Spurious Scholars

5 Years of Mind on Fire

Allen Ginsberg saw the best minds of his generation destroyed by madness. We've had the distinct displeasure of watching our's nullified by sanity. Aspiring musicians spend more time learning about the industry than improvising, while shoes and haircuts have become the defining characteristics of punk. The spirit of adventure is becoming a rarity in music these days, as typified by the corporate circus of the mundane which graces the venues of Manchester each year- I'm far too tactful to name this annual alter to Moloch, which under the guises of showcasing what's “In” in “The City”, opens its doors to Southern Oligarchs who, for a small fee, can take their pick of our prettiest young bands, all nicely lined up- bare asses splayed ready for the big time. Through the hideous echoes of hollow laughter, jargon pierces the skull. Beneath the nauseating odour of overweight balding men - all dowsed in the same cologne- the smell of bullshit is always there, demoniacally clawing at our spiritual nostrils.

As I walked into Islington Mill on Saturday night, I was immediately reminded why I've been proud to be associated with Mind on Fire for the last five years. As others have sold out, MOF have, somehow, retained that sense of adventure- somewhat akin to sticking your balls in a rats nest and trying to pull them out while you still have something left. There's another word for it... Fun. As the Mind on Fire House Band bounced from Dub to Hip-hop to Afro-Beat to just about any rhythm they cared to conjure, I entered the time machine of my mind. Suddenly, I'm much younger staggering around Po Na Na on a Tuesday night dancing like mad, with a mouth full of love hearts and acidic sweat soaking through a cheap Hawaiian shirt. Handshakes. Sick tunes. Now we're in the Garrett skinning up while Wols (not yet the International sensation of modern days) is on the decks laughing and Loga's vomiting into a pint glass. Gigs and gurning, the twisted wreckage of God knows how many coach trips. Who was the last man standing?

And back to the start. When I first met Joe and the crew five years ago, it was in the Music Box. Or maybe it wasn't, but for the purpose of this story it must have been. I was a student, lacking any academic ambition, but hoping to find a city full of musicians, poets and artists. Now, I know all too well that this was a naivety which a thousand comedowns and Manchester winters would soon kick out of me. But that's exactly what I found. Before long the few jazz chords I could barely pry out of my guitar had been transformed by a band of musical wizards into something I could never have hoped for. Next thing you know Go Lebanon are playing in Marbella's Cafe, cops crowding the room and demanding that we shut the night down. The GMP hates music. The trick is not to let them get to you, but if, somehow, they do, NEVER let them stop you. Even if they stop you.

Five years on, and some of the faces have sprouted a bit more hair but nothing changes. We're still sucking from the tits of the chronic mammal. We're still straight from the M16, with rhythms so potent they might just set absent minds on fire. There's no use fighting it, even if I can't think of a way to name check Making Faces. And I'm still in the Mill and the House Band is tearing the place a new asshole. The hypnotic Cycloptic visuals that have been a staple of Mind on Fire, are on full display tonight and party hats are bouncing across the floor. This is what it's always been about, putting on parties for people who like to party with people who like to party. Bullshit free entertainment, leave your ego at the door. Mind on Fire is all about creating a Mecca for people who recoil in disgust at cheesy tag lines like “Home of Forward thinking music”- no wait, sorry, I got carried away for a second. But I guess you can't have everything.

Review: Not For Prophet - 03/04/09

“Five pounds please”.

“Sorry?”

“You've gotta pay a fiver to get in”

“But I'm reviewing the night”

“You've still gotta pay to come in, you see this guy next to me? Yeah? Well he's pretty big isn't he? And he would absolutely love to kick your malformed ass across the street if you keep asking me questions.”

“Ok! Ok, but I thought this night was call Not for Profit.”

“No you misread, its called Not For Prophet, we're quite happy to pocket some coin. Just don't expect to stumble across any pearls of wisdom once inside, we're strictly not here for enlightenment.”

With this cleared up, your humble reviewer made it's way inside Saki Bar, where some kind of snuff film was just ending. It pays not be squeamish in this job, but somehow I got the feeling this was going to be a strange one. By the entrance, a make shift merch desk consisted solely of crack pipes and 9/11 conspiracy theory books. Prying one such manuscript from the post rigour clutches of a severely burnt-out Ket fiend, I began to leaf through the pages. According to this poorly produced and badly edited document, in 1969 when the WTC was nearly complete, Donald Rumsfeld (then Director of the United States Office of Economic Opportunity), arranged for each tower to conceal an incredibly powerful electro magnet. When activated, the monoliths would create magnetic fields strong enough to pull an airliner out of the sky. It was a long shot, but as the man in charge of Economic Opportunity, Don had the vision to see it to completion and 35 years later he was leading US troops across Iraqi oilfields. A dastardly plan, so far fetched it could only be true.

As I became more and more immersed in this putrid pile of polarized propaganda, I could hear several poets harping on about something or other. In the face of this revelation, and I've got to be honest here, I just didn't care. Same goes for the DJs (some kind of low end rumbles) and the bands (acoustic hipsters, I imagine, but can't for the life of me recall); entertainment had suddenly become trivial, a bourgeois exercise in self-denial. As I finished book after book, cover to cover, sheets of cold sweat dripping from my brow, I became ever more oblivious to my surroundings. I was coming to terms with an awful truth (and let's not even get into Michael Moore's involvement in this cyber-Fawkesian plot), a slow dawning that the hand that had fed me all of my life had also been the very same that kept pushing me under.

Later, as the aforementioned bouncer dragged me away from the table (book still in hand- apologies to the organisers), I found myself shivering in awe, trying to take in the significance of what I had just experienced. It is only now that I find the words to describe such a profound gathering, a commune forced to operate under the guise of a club night, in order to spread The Truth. Not For Prophet changed my life- rarely has such a visionary and subversive collective graced this, or any other, city. When you get the chance to rub shoulders with intellectuals, freedom fighters and artists who are in it for something much more important than money, five pounds seems very cheap indeed.