Saturday, June 16, 2007




"Hollywood Star Juliette Lewis in Yeovil - it's unbelievable!" LOL! God, we're soooo star-struck down here...even the Wurzels get backstage blowjobs.

Farmer Glitch and I had a laff about this a couple weeks ago. Actually, I like to think this is the Yeovil Ski Lodge's response to us putting on Geitevuyst - they're obv. running scared and have upped the ante by promoting international acts of their own. I shall probably retaliate by putting on Amon Duul 2 at the Liberal Club...

Strangely, I don't mind Juliette Lewis - she's the only person I've seen take on those insufferable pricks on Popworld and win without losing her rag or getting puffed up, pompish or diva-like about it. Tho Chris thinks she might be a (boo! hiss!) Scientologist: they're trained to be impervious/non-reactive to insult, etc, so maybe that explains it. Either way, I prefer her lukewarm post-Huey Lewis brand of alt.AOR Rawk to the luminous stream of rank indie-piss known as Get cape. Wear Cape. Fly. If there was ever an argument for not banning napalm, chemical weapons, land-mines, etc then it's this smug little post-Jeff Buckley twerp. I fucking hate, hate, hate, hate, hate ,hate, hate, hate, HATE! him and his stinky saucerful of self-satisfied 'singer-songwriter''s the bloody XFM generation's answer to Al Stewart. Actually, I'll take "Year of the cat" over this any day. The only difference between him and Blunt & Co. is that he's N.M.(ptui!) E. friendly. Rancid little dork. Janis Ian w/ a shrivelled dick. What's the matter w/ kids today, huh? If you go to his MySpace site (but get vaccinated first, tho!) you can play "I Spy" on his MySpace music-player at the same time as you play the live YouTube vid of the same track...the two go in and out of time with each other w/ hilarious results. The gtr/voice are slighty out of tune with each other on the two versions (I guess he's singing slightly flat on the live version), so the resulting fusion sounds like some sort of solvent-abuse nightmare, or a PTV live album from the mid-80s. I would like to start a campaign to send him disheartening messages ("You sing flat, pal!" "Do you know any other chords? That one's getting a bit tired." etc) thru the MySpace email system, but I suspect they'll only be read by the poor, underpaid sap who runs his site for him.

Oh, and did I say how much I hate the way he nods his head when he sings? Like, deeeeep, man.

This needs to be stamped out immediately before it poisons our children.

Still, Streetlight Manifesto sound interesting.


I dreamt I went to some sort of music festival - there were no bands there - but when I got back to where I was staying, someone had stolen all my food, clothes, etc. The 'accomodation' was a set of grim concrete cubicles, like shower-stalls. A sort of public convenience. Not enough room to sleep horizontally. People's belongings had been left randomly in them, but mine were no where to be found. I felt dismay and irritation - a typical anxiety dream scenario. But there was a sort of positive resolution: I thought: well, if someone can steal my stuff, then I'm justified in stealing theirs...there was a fridge stocked with food, jam, etc and various clothes, t-shirts, etc. No problem, I could help myself to whatever, but I felt a strong moral reluctance...stealing is wrong, etc. However, I no longer felt angry as I now had the option to steal, as I myself had been stolen from.


I was writing a novel...there was 20 or more pages, handwritten in an old spiral notepad. I read sections back to myself - it was good stuff. Better than I thought. I wanted to show it to someone. There was a middle-aged man, but I couldn't get him interested. He didn't see the point to it. I walked down Earle Street, Yeovil, towards the house where my old friend Dave Hunt used to live...the street was restored to its former 1960s glories, the gardens were well kept, local businesses flourishing, not run-down like today. At Dave Hunt's house, no Dave Hunt, but instead my teenage/college friend Gary Harper who I recently made contact with...tho he wasn't actually there, just the sense of him...I'd started to draw a scene from my novel, using a photograph as source material...there was a 1950s American car, a Chevvy or something, some people inside it...a woman outside, 50's hairdo, pinkish pullover, leaning over, maybe talking to someone in the car...objects hovered in the air above her, and over the car...banal household stuff, levitating like a Dali painting...the drawing was very good and I became convinced I could draw every scene in the novel, by myself, using would be hard work, but I could do it and it would be a worthwhile Dave Hunt's house, the sense of the presence of a woman, a bodiless apparition who I loved very much.

First section is basically cycling anxiety on writing/music writing...irritation about stolen ideas, concepts, etc, also feelings of 'stolen thunder', lost opportunities...the idea that I could pinch ideas, concepts, pitches from other writers, but have moral reluctance...whoop-de-do: what a stand-up guy, huh? Grow some skin, arsehole.

The last section, a no-brainer...writing or displaying results of writing (blogging?) to get approval from absent parental figures. Disinterest from practical-minded father-figure; taking 'work' back in time to childhood, searching for mother (?) in hope of getting a better response from her than dad, presumably. Dream becomes a sort of self-fulfilling prophesy as I then post it in hope of 'approval' from readers. Blogging readership = substitution for absence parents, blahblahblah?