Congratulations to the people of Egypt, after more than two tough weeks, finally Mubarak has fled. I'm still a bit worried about what will come (any that gets the US/UK seal of approval will be just as bad), but for now let's celebrate with our Egyptian brothers and sisters.
The world is changing.
السلطة الى الشعب
Friday, 11 February 2011
Thursday, 10 February 2011
Bairaag Dance Music- Kalyanji Anandji
This is a tune right here...working on a podcast of Turkish, Indian and Iranian funk at the moment. Soon
Tuesday, 8 February 2011
Waiting
From the rocker on his porch, the old man watched the silhouettes appear on the horizon, barely specks descending the low treeless hill a few miles west of his cabin. He made no effort to gauge the time by the evening sun and needed not make any calculations as to the time of his visitors’ arrival.
A cool breeze ran through his tattered red shirt. Wind chimes sounded. He had crafted them from wood, so many years ago- a gift for his wife. The sweet sound, different each time yet so familiar, had always soothed him, and in these his last years, they heralded memory’s ebbing tide. So simple, just wood and string, but what else was required? The ancient notes, random and to no meter, were an immortal tribute to the old oak tree, which had been ripped from the earth in a fierce storm. In fact, it had been that very tree which had finally convinced them to settle there after so long on the dusty trails. Majestic on the banks of the fast flowing creek which cut through the stead, it summoned feelings they were beginning to forget. Home. Over the next decades it had rewarded their faith with shade from the sun and- once the children were born- leant its strong branches to climbing feet, untamed imaginations and rope swings.
Sad eyes, which had seen their fair share of both horror and beauty, tracked the travellers as they steadily made ground towards his home. Men had been here before- to rob and to destroy- but he’d always been able to keep them at bay. He’d had the boys around then though, born and raised on this land, they’d been a match for any newcomer. That was then. Now he was alone and all that was left to defend were the ghosts of a past more real than the present. More certain than the future. Alive within and around him, they spoke with each creak of the house’s wooden frame. In the tall grass, not far from where he sat, he still thought he could see his youngest son’s blood. A dark crimson pool had had welled up just short of the porch steps. That was the end. It had been just him and his daughter after that, for a few years at least, until the winter of the Fever. He found himself alone on land that he had always expected to share. Yet he could not leave; everything that was Him was here. So he remained.
Alone. But never without companionship. Perhaps, when he’d been young he wouldn’t have understood- but, somehow, he was content to sit back and watch the reflections of his life ripple in the wind of time. His life had been a full one, tainted by sorrow, untouched by regret.
The moment approached, riders passing a plot of land marked by five wooden crosses. He had buried them all himself, each time with one less pair of hands to help. There was not a soul left to put him in the ground, when the day finally came. Was this it? Surely, he had survived worse odds, but each day that passed was one less left to live. He waited. There was no point to rushing, nothing to be gained through recklessness.
Around him, songbirds sang their merry hymns of tranquillity. Soon they would flee, to be replaced by buzzards and crows- one way or another.
He breathed deeply, slowly reaching to his right where his rifle rested. He felt the familiar weight as he lifted it to his shoulder. The blueprints of his house were carved deep into the calluses of his hands and his aim was steady. As he waited, he recalled that he had used the same gun to put down the horse that had carried him here. And he thought, “It’s funny what you think of when you’re old”.
.
A cool breeze ran through his tattered red shirt. Wind chimes sounded. He had crafted them from wood, so many years ago- a gift for his wife. The sweet sound, different each time yet so familiar, had always soothed him, and in these his last years, they heralded memory’s ebbing tide. So simple, just wood and string, but what else was required? The ancient notes, random and to no meter, were an immortal tribute to the old oak tree, which had been ripped from the earth in a fierce storm. In fact, it had been that very tree which had finally convinced them to settle there after so long on the dusty trails. Majestic on the banks of the fast flowing creek which cut through the stead, it summoned feelings they were beginning to forget. Home. Over the next decades it had rewarded their faith with shade from the sun and- once the children were born- leant its strong branches to climbing feet, untamed imaginations and rope swings.
Sad eyes, which had seen their fair share of both horror and beauty, tracked the travellers as they steadily made ground towards his home. Men had been here before- to rob and to destroy- but he’d always been able to keep them at bay. He’d had the boys around then though, born and raised on this land, they’d been a match for any newcomer. That was then. Now he was alone and all that was left to defend were the ghosts of a past more real than the present. More certain than the future. Alive within and around him, they spoke with each creak of the house’s wooden frame. In the tall grass, not far from where he sat, he still thought he could see his youngest son’s blood. A dark crimson pool had had welled up just short of the porch steps. That was the end. It had been just him and his daughter after that, for a few years at least, until the winter of the Fever. He found himself alone on land that he had always expected to share. Yet he could not leave; everything that was Him was here. So he remained.
Alone. But never without companionship. Perhaps, when he’d been young he wouldn’t have understood- but, somehow, he was content to sit back and watch the reflections of his life ripple in the wind of time. His life had been a full one, tainted by sorrow, untouched by regret.
The moment approached, riders passing a plot of land marked by five wooden crosses. He had buried them all himself, each time with one less pair of hands to help. There was not a soul left to put him in the ground, when the day finally came. Was this it? Surely, he had survived worse odds, but each day that passed was one less left to live. He waited. There was no point to rushing, nothing to be gained through recklessness.
Around him, songbirds sang their merry hymns of tranquillity. Soon they would flee, to be replaced by buzzards and crows- one way or another.
He breathed deeply, slowly reaching to his right where his rifle rested. He felt the familiar weight as he lifted it to his shoulder. The blueprints of his house were carved deep into the calluses of his hands and his aim was steady. As he waited, he recalled that he had used the same gun to put down the horse that had carried him here. And he thought, “It’s funny what you think of when you’re old”.
.
photo by Fazal Sheikh
Thursday, 3 February 2011
Letter from Cairo
It is with great regret that I find myself locked inside my hotel room, typing this letter of complaint, when I should be outside enjoying the package holiday that I paid a bloody fortune for. This won’t do, and I can assure you that I won’t be using your services in the future.
Since arriving in Cairo last week, the holiday has gone from bad to worse to absolutely bloody disgraceful. For starters, it’s just too damn hot… which wouldn’t be a problem if I could sit beside the swimming pool in a civilised manner. However, the air is heavily polluted here- the horrendous stench of burning rubber is enough to make anyone sick, but now they seem to have started burning human flesh as well. Not on. To make things worse, the noise pollution is extraordinary. All this incessant chanting…what are they even saying? It all sounds the same to me, they could at least have the common courtesy to speak in English. Their entire economy is built on tourism- show some bloody gratitude!
I have never before experienced such appalling customer service. I doubt that Jamie Redknapp would stand for this, and I certainly won’t. It took me three hours to get a beer in the hotel restaurant the other day, an absolute shambles. It’s like a ghost town, only a handful of staff have even bothered to turn up and they are just moping around with million mile stares. Totally unprofessional and, let me tell you, thoroughly unacceptable. It seems like these people lack the basic values to turn into work each day. Sure, go out and make bloody racket- it is a free country after all- but do so in a way that doesn’t affect people who have paid good money to be there. I didn’t get where I am today by skiving off work and shouting in the streets like a bleeding Bolshevik. Those last years of Gordon Brown were no picnic, let me tell you, but you didn’t see me rubbing my shoes against a picture of his face. You know why? Because I was in work, doing my bit to put the Great back in to Britain.
On the rare occasion that we have deemed fit to leave the hotel premises, we have been appalled by how filthy the streets have been. You can barely walk without tripping over flags and rubble and all manner of debris. Hardly the immaculate beauty promised in your brochure. Furthermore, the “friendly vibrant culture” that you promised seems to be a gross fallacy. I was expecting much more of the people here, but my confidence seems to have been misplaced. I can hardly begin to tell you how much I was looking forward to being mobbed by street vendors hoping to sell me sunglasses, bongos and other such hilarious trinkets. That’s the kind of go-getter attitude that I thoroughly approve of, but it is no where to be seen.
My previous points pale in the face of our trip to the museum last night. All around us people were screaming and lashing out. Save for a few rather friendly fellows on horses, the crowds were an absolute disgrace. Crikey Moses, you’ve made your point, now go home and let me enjoy the Jewels of King Tut in peace- or at least have the common decency not to run about ripping the arms off mummies and using them as weapons. I tell you, the things we saw we will never forget. Blood everywhere. People on fire. We even saw a man with his brains hanging out; really shook up my missus, that did. If you think that you can get away without paying us compensation for this you are greatly mistaken. We have human rights too, and it is clear that the tourists are the real victims here.
I have never been so angry in my life. Having flown half way across the world to experience the ‘Wonders of Egypt’, I now find myself wondering how I could have been stupid enough to use your services after a long history of disappointment.
I trust you received my letter from New Orleans.
Sincerely,
Nigel H Mortimer
Tuesday, 14 December 2010
Review: Trojan Horse
It’s a good job I don’t do this for a living. I was asked to review Trojan Horse’s album weeks ago and am only really getting around to it now. But here I am, typing some words. In order to do so, I’ve decided not to go to work- which, coincidently, is where I do make a living.
Like any ne’er do well, I’ve got my excuses. A big stumbling block has been dark associations that the band’s name has in my curiously fragile life. Some time ago, when my over used collection of asphyxi-cuckoldry videos began to feel a bit stale, I set out in search of a new exciting alternative. I delved the recesses of the human condition (feltch-gasketing, HIV bukake, train track bondage etc. etc.), hoping to rediscover that indescribable thrill of the decadence nouveau or, at the very least, achieve something resembling an erection. For those of you unfamiliar with these passions, be advised, the internet is a dangerous place- particularly for your computer. Within minutes of starting my lonesome journey into the wildernesses of perversion, my PC began to show the first tell tale sign of wear and tear- advanced intelligence. The computer began to think for itself, the curser struggling free of my mouse enabled ownership. I watched in horror as it drifted around the screen for a few moments, before opening my online banking account. It then made several large transfers to the Vatican, only stopping when my overdraft had reached it’s limit. The blue screen came next. Efforts to resuscitate the machine had various degrees of success, but all came to the same end- a series of beeps, several error messages and then a crudely made, and unstoppable, Powerpoint presentation outlining the benefits of the Rhythm Method.
Back in the present tense, I’m currently using a borrowed laptop with several keys that stick (see above paragraph), writing a review for a band which, ironically, shares a moniker with the film that killed my computer. In hindsight, I probably should have given that one a miss.
Trojan Horse kicks off with the rather ecstatic ‘Mr Engles Says...’, which nicely charters out the band’s own manifesto. Tight stylistic changes, lush arrangements and catchy choruses abound here- it is clear that a lot of time and effort went into this album and the results, for the most part, reflect this. The Horse take a no holds barred approach songwriting, bouncing between genres regularly without ever feeling forced. It’s a tapestry of familiar sounds, patched together to make a finished product which is unique and interesting. Not an easy feat. There are, however, moments that let the album down- it occasionally ventures in to blander pop territory with tracks like ‘…And the lights went down’ being less than memorable despite some nice flourishes.
Minor flaws are forgiven, as Trojan Horse have created an album which fully showcases their elaborate sonic spectrum. These 10 songs certainly hint at their reputation as one of the more exciting live bands in the Manchester area (an opinion that I whole heartedly endorse). I’m not sure if they’d like me saying this or not, but there’s a very British feel to this LP, kind of like drinking Liberty Cap tea with the Mad Hatter in the pouring rain. By which I mean to say, the album is euphoric and rich, full on and excessive… it’s likely that too much of it could make you feel a bit ill, but there’s only one way to find out. TH make nods to an eclectic mix of bands, ranging from the Beatles to Mastodon, but manage to mould their own sound throughout. The lasting impression that I got from listening to this album was of a band that immensely enjoys making music and sees no reason to pretend otherwise. Hopefully, I’ve burnt down enough churches not to be kicked out of the Burzum fanclub for finding this joyful approach to music refreshing.
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