Friday, July 02, 2004


Just found this in my Weird Cassette's got a countdown to the new year, sound-effects and everything. Loads of great early 90's pop-dance stuff like Belinda Carlisle, Kim Appleby, etc...and some pop-rave like N-Joi...but the biggie is "Dance, Dance" by Deskee which I fucking love...Hip-House from 1990, Big One Records...Trendy Brendy turned me onto that one, I seem to remember. It's actually German: West Bam/Low Spirit Records. Monster tune.
But who is Super 'DJ'? Love the (presumably) ironic use of quotes round DJ...guess it refers to the fact that the DJ doesn't actually exist...there is no DJ, just a sequenced cassette-tape. Nah, I'm not happy with that; I prefer the idea of Super 'DJ'. Shit, I wonder what other stuff he's done? That's got me thinking...What would his stage-show be like? I guess he wouldn't have one. Total Zen. There'd just be a bank of white lights that you couldn't see past. Generic early 90's 909-beats with perky Korg lead-sounds generated by some sort of PseudoSmart-Koan type system...or an AI that thinks it's a Scandanavian corporate-dance DJ from '91. The tape has a European vibe, but it might equally be HK or Singapore. Darned if I can remember where I found it. Although it's extremely easy to date, it has a curious Ballard-like sense of Placelessness about if it were designed to be played in any Disco anywhere in the world. Which it probably was. Just another symptom of the creeping US-lead global pop-culture that marched out of the mid-Eighties to the beat of a gated Linn snare-sound. I blame it all on Tina Turner.
Someone please wake me up before the Early-Nineties Revival starts. Though down here in the West Country Happy Hardcore never quite died.
Friday night means gin on the terrace, so I'm mellow. Sad to say, talking to John from Wolf Eyes has got me back into early SPK...haven't played any of that stuff for donkey's yrs; I just assumed that it hadn't dated well, and it probably hadn't, but my post Wolf-Eyes brain is suddenly receptive to it once again...playing the 'Information Overload Unit' LP tonight after a couple gins I was amazed how, un-Industrial is sounds to me right now: my ears are (re-)interpreting it as a series of low-fi throbs, pulses, tones, drones and cheapo drum-machines rather than just sub-TG posturing. It feels like, for the most part, it's been prised loose from its original context: apart from some crap (staged?) dialogue talking about self-inducing an abortion it actually sounds pretty fresh to me again rather than just drab and fact, the trashiness of the recording makes it sound pretty, I dunno, authentic. Whatever that means. One of the curses of old age is that we are forever doomed to compare new things to old things, so, by definition, they never seem to sound quite as good as similar stuff we experienced when we were 18...we have a larger mental database of experience, so newer things sometimes have to fight for the limited shelf-space in our head...but maybe an unexpected blessing of Second Youth is that a subtle shift in perception can suddenly recontexturalise a whole raft of old stuff and allow us to see it with fresh eyes. Or maybe it's just the gin.


Finally rid of the Paul weller haircut: Thank Christ for that. Mike is the latest addition to Mervyn's crack team of haircaredroids and he did the biz. Unfortunately, I didn't get a John Cale circa 1964...but, hey, anything, even Death, is an improvement on a Paul Weller. Surreally, Mike, the new guy, looks (and talks) exactly like Vic Reeves. He even has the same black thick-rimmed glasses. For some strange reason Mervyn has placed a series of embroidered cushions (similar to what you might find in a Granny Cafe) with badly-sewn pictures of owls above the mirrors. It's a bit too much, quite frankly. And while Mike cut my hair, the radio played Howard Jones and Manfred Mann's Earth Band, which added to the general sense of unreality. The clientelle are a mixed bunch too; some middle-aged gaffers and a couple of skateboard kids who walked out with scraped-back wet-look Mullets of Death. Get on down there; I seriously recommend's not a haircut; it's a life-affirming experience. Take the whole family...dig up your dead relatives: there's ample free parking. But what's with the "70 years..." bit? No way he's that old. And "barbering" that a verb now? No one told me.