Monday, 30 July 2012

ON THE SPECTRUM

"Has this mind, so replete with ideas, imaginations fanciful and magnificent, which formed a world, whose existence depended on its creator - has this mind perished?" - from "Frankenstein, or, The Modern Prometheus" Mary Shelly, 1818.

Why is it that every time I'm in the mood to let my fingers run wild on this QWERTY, the anti-virus software decides to slow everything down by installing updates? It's a sick joke. Right, are we ready? Can I stick some sentences together now without having to wait ten seconds for them to appear on screen? Good.
One more run at it. That's what I'm thinking. One more run at this thing. Go out fighting or just let it fucking go. All or nothing. The only place for my madness is on the stage, in the wave, or, as I've come to realise, on the page. There's no way I can carry this burden without having valid places to let it burst out. Get up or give up. What's the use? Words can't save me, I know that now. Life might break me, but not yet, NOT YET. My new found skills as a demented 'polemical journalist' or, quite simply, as a 'writer', are nothing compared to what I know I can create in music and music performance. I can't write my music down though, but I actually think that my prose functions as a pretty good substitute, hopefully translating from the screen into the reader's brain in the same way that a sharply notated piece of music should - like a bolt of lightning.
The new line-up for my pesky, polarising and potentially brilliant Perhower rock group is currently being severely whipped and massaged into shape. They have got a mammoth task on their hands - a huge challenge indeed, because I'm asking them to take a massive risk - I'm asking them to believe again. But how can they believe in something that is so blatantly full of shit? Well, it's a tough question, isn't it? For me, there would be no better achievement than being able to construct a live band that can play the wildest, toughest tunes, leaving me, the freaky master, free to flow, a pure yet mutant vision, a great way to travel and a beautiful way to live. But, the major problem is that it's difficult to believe in something that does't really have any worth in the 'adult' world. "Part-time" does not appeal to me in the slightest, if there's no chance of fulfilling the potential then I will have no choice but to become a sort of passenger for a while, possibly for the rest of my life - and why not? Sometimes the idea of switching off is really appealing. Fuck it, let the fakes take all the glory because I give up. Leave me in peace, will you? I'm capable of being normal, you know, I could probably be more boring than the average bloke if I could just stamp out this lust. I'd love to blend in, disappear, go on auto - cease to be a dangerous non-stop thinker / scanner - imagine the sweet relief. HA HA HA, yeah, for about a day, after that it'd be like going COLD TURKEY. Scarily enough, that time might come, which is sort of the main reason why I'm writing this garbage. I've got a feeling this will be my last Automatic Update for a while, possibly the last one ever, because it's time to concentrate on the music again. If anyone out there wants me for my words, well, you've only got to seek me out. In the meantime, you really should get stuck right into this spectacle of a companion piece, show some support, and maybe, just maybe, I'll come back here to tell you all about what happened in the next chapter.
Thank Christ for the imagination, because, let's face it, most days are just ordinary, too real for anything surreal to register - overcast weather, even more dulled by the sound of distant traffic, recycle bins rumbling (or is it thunder threatening?), shit flies buzzing around the room (the irritating little bastards always manage to find their way in via an open window with no difficulty but they seem to have no idea how to get out again - idiots), birds chirping utter gibberish, dopey cats meowing at nothing, old men droning on, young women moaning and snapping, vile little children whinging, wheels squeaking, dogs whining... interrupted by thunder, yes, definitely thunder... and rain - if you actually witnessed each of those aforementioned things, one after the other, like I did, at 10am on Thursday 28th June, then maybe you would realise, like I have, that the ordinary can quickly mutate and transform into something quite strange. It was as if the mundaneness had come to a head, vibrations sent to the heavens, a more electric atmosphere was on its way. The rain really started to come down, as I attempted to type coherently my mind began to wander aimlessly, both of the windows were open in the room and the rain sounded like it was filling up the street. Thunder, it was like the laughter of a spiteful god that appeared to signal an increase in violent downpour. I really didn't want it to be a wet day, let alone a fucking-well-soaked-to-the-bone day, but why not? Maybe it would make things a little more exciting or interesting? Interesting, yes, but hopefully not impossible. I was planning on walking to Birmingham, donning a mask, armed with twenty handmade copies of the new Perhower record, hoping to be able to give them out to random (carefully selected?) members of the public, but the evil weather was starting to give me the fear. Even though it had successfully drowned out the previous moribund sound collage, the now torrential storm was flash-flooding me with doubt. I hadn't planned for this.
I'd been on the god-awful wine again the night before, not that I'm much of a wino, like our depraved Prime Minister has proven to be, but after a day of intense old man checking, hardcore lawn mowing and relentless web design, hammering a bottle of red can surely be seen as a pretty acceptable vice, can it not? I had also been watching the euro semi-final between Portugal and Spain, smoking cigarettes on my own, frantically making notes and hysterically berating the screen with a curious mix of unnecessary abuse and appreciation. It had been a pleasantly sunny day and I was actually looking forward to waking up and getting stuck into the mission, but when I woke up I just felt weird. For some seriously fucked up reason I couldn't stop thinking about that disgusting crocodile headed Pink Panther I'd met in my dream. After hearing strange animal-like noises coming from down the dark hallway I stumbled out to investigate, unnerving, out of tune humming filled the narrow passage, I pushed open the door at the other end and discovered the ludicrous beast sitting at the keyboard in the back room, pawing at keys erratically, its gigantic mouth wide open with brutal teeth sticking out. Maybe it was because I had fallen asleep watching "Alien" for the thousandth time? Whatever the reason, my head was fuzzy and my shit was green. I decided to make myself a cup of tea and do the washing up (or did I?). It was just too mundane, too real, I was in no mood for public theatrics, no mood at all - that was until I heard each of those sounds like a chain reaction, the weather went crazy, and then I got a text message from Sarah saying that she'd won £56 on the lottery at work. OK, I thought, today might end up being a little more interesting than I had expected.
"Maybe the sun will come back!" I boomed for my own entertainment as I glanced behind to see the rejuvenated light penetrate my curtains. I heard fresh noises, the spooky sound of pigeons, warped sirens, excited screams, doors slamming, water dripping from the guttering like a slowed down ticking clock, accompanied by the warm chug and then silence of a parked car's engine...


HERE COMES THE SUPERVISOR,STAND UP STRAIGHT AND TRY TO LOOK BUSY. I'VE JUST SEEN A SPECIAL ADVISOR, PORTION OF CHIPS AND A PINT OF CIDER. THOSE WERE THE DAYS, WELSH MEMORIES INVENTED A VILLAIN CALLED "CLAY" APPLE JUICE INSTEAD OF WHISK, EH? EVIL AND DISTRESSED. A CLEAN AND TIDY MESS. DISTRESSED TO IMPRESS, A CLEAN AND TIDY MESS. WAITING OUTSIDE. CAR PARK / GRAVEYARD / HOT RIDE, ABIDE WITH ME, ABIDE. (QUICK SAVE) TAKE OFF YOUR CLOTHES, PUT ON THE UNIFORM, OLYMPIC TORTURE, BUMPER PICNIC. GOLDEN SORCERER, TOUCHES LANCE BOIL-SHI-BURGER, AVID DEBAUCHERY, SILVER HORSEMANSHIP, ANCIENT VERMIN. BURN MY CLOTHES, IN 5 MINUTES, I'M VERMIN. UR DIN DIN. WIN WIN WINDOWS. POLE TO POLE. ADULT CONTENT. ENOUGH TO TELL A STORY. ENOUGH IS ENOUGH IS ANY MORE. TORCH THE ARCHIVE. KNOW YOUR LIMITS. MEET BY QUEEN VIC.

POTENTIAL NEW DRUMMER OBVIOUSLY HAD THE FEAR - CHEEKY LITTLE BASTARD WAS LISTENING IN FROM OUTSIDE - SAID IT WASN'T FOR HIM - SO I WENT BERSERK - SCREAMED AT THE OTHERS - "THIS IS THE FUCKING BAND NOW" - "YOU ARE MY FUCKING GROUP" - "ARE YOU WITH ME?" - "THIS IS IT" - A PIVOTAL MOMENT. BE PREPARED TO BE DESPISED BUT ALWAYS GIVE IT YOUR ALL. THERE IS NO SHAME IN BEING UGLY AND REAL. LET US SQUASH THE FAKE AND MOCK THE POSING PUBLIC MASTURBATORS. WE ARE THE PROFESSIONAL REBELS. WE'RE RATED AND HATED. WE'RE THE SACRED CHILDREN OF PERHOWER. IN TIME WE SHALL CONQUER THIS COWARDLY WORLD. FIBASS, ROSCOE, AND ROSE OF BEARWOOD - MAKE SURE YOU DO YOUR HOMEWORK - LET ME FEEL YOUR POWER AND I WILL UNLEASH THE BEAST...ALWAYS REMEMBER THE EVACUATION PROCEDURE...

By the end of our brief, masked, "promotional rampage" across the streets of Birmingham city centre, our chat-up lines had resorted to "This is the worst record I've ever heard," and "I'm trying to get rid of this pile of shit," but it had a surprisingly positive effect. Roscoe's first line was "Are you a big music fan?" to which a fair few people answered "NO". I supposed that maybe they just considered themselves "small" music fans. After knocking back a couple of pints and a Bell's, myself, Roscoe and The Documenter gathered our stuff and headed towards the transparent exit, into the muggy outside world, two casually dressed boys wearing backpacks, one clutching an umbrella and wearing sunglasses, both wearing masks and holding plastic bags full of CDs, followed by a geeza with a digital camera.
Each time I managed to pluck up the courage and approach someone, tantalisingly dangling a strangely annotated CD wallet in front of them, trying to forget the revolting mask I was wearing, saying something along the lines of "Would you like a free record? I made it myself, made in Birmingham," it was frighteningly easy to tell whether they would be interested or not, but not so easy to tell whether they would bother listening to it later. Obviously, I didn't want to waste too many of these delightfully 'hand-made' little psycho-gems, but I was trying to make a conscious effort not to be too prejudiced with my choice of person to disturb. In many ways I felt pathetic but I had to keep reminding myself that I was giving out something special here, a real piece of outsider product, a gift - nothing religious or related to business / lawyers / insurance / restaurants - no, I was simply offering these complete strangers a free album of original, self-produced music to scrutinise and take home with them.
Of course, I was not alone on this mission. I couldn't go through with this type of public madness like some strange loner, so, my late-blooming guitar wielder, Roscoe Theodore Balaban, was dragged along for the ride. He had ten CDs to give out and I had the same. This was a kind of mini-promo test run, for there was no point lugging hundreds of copies around with us yet because the record itself is merely the beginning of a new era of development. Scott "The Documenter" was also part of this experimental 'street team' (urgh), armed with his HD camera, he did his best to capture as much footage of each encounter as possible. We had hoped that the public would feel slightly more willing to engage with us if they were made to feel important - being filmed - such is the vain nature of our times / our species.
Regardless of the fact that we are not the best looking bunch (ordinary at best, slightly scary looking at worst) there was an air of confidence about us for some mysterious reason, or maybe not so mysterious, considering the fact that we were wearing really fucking weird rubber masks and sunglasses, cunningly disguising and protecting our overexposed souls, censoring our identities and the hideous evidence of unsavoury and intoxicating habits. "IT'S AN IMPROVEMENT ON BEFORE!" was shouted at me on two separate occasions. I couldn't help but agree.
We had good reason to be proud and confident in our strange product, our fearless gift to the world, because we believe in it, whatever it is. That's not to say all of our confidence was au naturale, far from it, we were, of course, inwardly sheathed by chemical imbalances, protected by adrenaline fuelled madness, overloaded with testosterone - yet numbed by years of disappointment. We thought we looked friendly enough, with the masks and all, but we actually must have appeared to be a threatening trio of deranged thugs...
I have come to know the streets of Birmingham pretty well over the last few years. My sense of place and direction, on foot, is phenomenal whatever state I might be in. I'm genuinely comfortable walking around the area for MILES. I gave up driving years ago because the car is one of the few things in life that I enjoy more as a passenger - I'm in the driving seat for almost everything else and I like it that way.
The thinking behind this initial burst of bite-sized promotion was to leak our latest set of recordings via the physical world, face-to-face, hand-to-hand, without the use of the internet. However, by the time you read this piece, the tracks will be available to stream from our online HQ, perhower.com. 
Directly handing out a small number of physical copies to potential first-time listeners on the City streets just seemed like a worthwhile thing to do. But, don't get me wrong, I never expect too much of an instant reaction any more. I don't expect any kind of great buzz until a few years have past (I'm like a fine wine or whiskey, you see?) but the process of constructing a physical version and then handing it out to the general public has proved to be somewhat therapeutic and even vaguely exciting. A few people actually bothered to have a conversation with us about the music - ie; "It's not rock is it?" and "My mate got slapped in the face in London when he filmed someone without permission," which brought on a real sense of almost dangerous engagement that I'm not sure exists properly in the virtual world. 
Having said that, considering the very useful technology that we have at our disposal now, in terms of presentation and access, the 'virtual' platform can be pretty effective in its own way. Saturation is still very much the main issue here. The very painful truth is that someone like myself can't effectively reach the potential thousands that I probably should be able to because the whole system is clogged up with sewage, just like my upstairs toilet, it's there, it looks nice, but it won't flush properly. I do have some faith in the future, I believe, on some days anyway, that humans need ear-sex as much as they need real-sex, so I'm going to keep on fucking your ears until you come, OK?
Me, Rossy and Doc were, at the very least, having a fun couple of rampant hours out in Town on a Thursday afternoon in the miserable summer of 2012. We never really get to do stuff like that, my time with the Hadlington brothers is usually spent in a stuffy, grey tiled kitchen, sweating my bollocks off, glugging pale ale, spouting seemingly random technical instructions and wrestling with cables. Scott's knees, neck and back are constantly done-in due to him being persistently bent double while operating the computer that we use for recording. Hours crouching on that floor, locked into a bizarre technological trance, is enough to wreck anybody's knees and neck (and mind). We really need to sort a desk out because we're nearly at the stage where we can call that kitchen a STUDIO - KITCHUDIO? STUDITCHEN?
Anyway, it was just good to be buzzing in the 'real world' again, armed with the fruits of our labour and ready for action. This was not a day for reclusive reflection, no, this was a time of celebration and potential liberation...




There was hardly anyone on the train when we got on. Roscoe sat down and rummaged through a plastic bag, jostling with an array of chocolate and pastries. Doc wedged himself into a corner and lasted about ten seconds before he fell into a deep, deep sleep. I fidgeted in my obsessive-compulsive manner, attempting to get comfortable for the journey back to Cradley Heath, feeling pleased about our successful afternoon of distribution.
"What's that woman doing over there, Miles?" Roscoe asked, momentarily distracted from his sweet treats.
I peaked over the top of the chair and saw the woman at the other end of the carriage. She was quite a big lady, sat cross legged on the floor by the doors, unnaturally bright red hair hung loosely from her head, abstracting her pale face and hiding her dark eyes. She was wearing a large black over-coat which seemed to sparkle when the light caught it. I really couldn't see her face properly but she appeared to be middle aged. Something was spread out in front of her, some kind of peculiar pink grit which she rubbed around the dirty floor with her hands and feet while making a very weird humming noise.
"You don't see that everyday," I muttered.
"What the fuck is she doing with that stuff?" Roscoe questioned.
"God knows, maybe that's what's making her hum?" I suggested.
"She's probably just some poor old wreck," Roscoe concluded, his head now lost inside the plastic bag.
"I'm not sure..." before I could finish the sentence the humming got louder, much louder, so much so it made us both sit up straight. Somehow, Doc remained fast asleep and the woman didn't appear to change, she just continued to push the grit around, her head hung low, still humming, but it was getting louder and louder, weirder and weirder... it started to sound like two, even three humming voices...all of them coming from her direction.
"We should go and see if she's all right," I whispered.
"Where's the bloody ticket inspector when you need him?" Roscoe blurted.
"I'm going over there," I said, feeling strangely nervous.
Trying to look inconspicuous, I stood up and carefully made my way over to the woman. The humming got unbearably loud until, when I was only about a metre away from her, it came to an abrupt stop. The shock of the silence was almost enough to knock me off balance.


You've been me.
I've been you.
Now what shall we do?
Always hurt the ones that are closest,
Ain't that true?

What's the time, Mrs Wolf?
"There is no such thing," she said with a smile.

Everything change,
Versions of events to the events themselves.
My eye is doing my head in,
And my computer is a pile of shit.

-DOUBLE YOU HOOPS...
-OUT OF BODY EXPERIENCE
-STRANGE JOY AND PAIN
-STUPID LOOKING LETTERS
-PLUGGED INTO THE MAINS
-DAY TO DAY
-FIXATE
-THE NTH DEGREE
-AMUSEMENT
-SURVIVAL
-AMUSEMENT
-LEGACY
-ME
-WHOOPS
-NOT
-SO
-CLEVER
-NOW
-RESORT
-TO
-VIOLENCE...
An earthquake of dodgy connection noise rumbled through the room, loosening bowels, eardrums and teeth. The air smelled like vinegar and rice - with a disturbing rotten pineapple tinge after a while.
"I'm gonna jab this right into yer cheek if you don't stop playing that fucking riff," I screamed, violently, desperately grasping the tiny broken screwdriver I'd found on the shelf above the dusty speaker.
"Oh yeah?" CN responded, "COME ON THEN YOU CRAZY TWAT!"
"DIE, YOU FUCK-DICK!!!" I wailed, lunging at that freakishly tall beast like a demented kangaroo with putrid whiskey saliva strings flailing from a burning mouth, bloodshot eyes, tears welling and stinging... strange saxophone music playing in the background... With one swift slash / gouge I managed to slice his eye completely open, blood spat everywhere, every direction, bright red-black gloop inflated and puked out while he squawked and squealed like a stretched guinea-pig in hellish agony. I rammed my knee into his groin and then, as he hit the floor, viscously stamped on his hand until it shattered and resembled mangled beached Cephalopoda.
"You like that, huh?" I laughed, "I'm gonna cut you a new face, bitch, I'm gonna bore ya some more!"
At that moment, the tiny screwdriver, covered in a thick red syrup, began to glow. It was as if there was a sacred light coming from within - a stunning orange-red spark of eternal love accompanied by the salty / fishy smell of seaweed. Static noise began to pump out of the newly-formed bulb, cracks and pops, a radio-voice, a walkie-talkie sound, but amplified, modulated, finally tuning in clear - a female voice - synthetic wobble:
"Remoteness and talent in language,
Inattention, withdrawal, reliance on obsessions,
Hyperactivity, or aggressive or oppositional behaviour,
The "different-ness" adolescents experience can be traumatic.
Stereotypy,
Greyman-Silverman,
Loudness addiction,
Packed full of pick-ups,
All on maximum.
Feeding back my volume addiction,
Such simple things,
I drop to my knees for them.
On the spectrum,
I want to bury my face in them,
This cruel and complex complex.
Stay the fuck away because I'm giving birth.
I need to hold your hand because I'm giving birth...
On the human planet,
On this planet, Earth.
Chances of survival are, like, what on Earth?
Stop thinking like that.
Coincidental.
Maybe the Sun will come back?
Neurodiversity?
Homosexuality was removed from the manual.
Remarkable contributions to human history.
No therapy,
I fought sponge.
Turned into gold,
You don't understand.
How could you?
Now I'm admitting it,
Putting it out,
Tech what you can,
The consequences,
Because I suffer,
This ignorant world,
Leak the truth,
More ways than uno,
A style of my own,
Sharing traits others,
Hans:
"It seems that for success in science or art,
A dash of autism is essential"
If you're feeling down and out,
No appetite, a happiness drought,
Take my advice and cold call all the cold callers.
Pick them off one by one,
Remember to dial 141.
Do it face to face if you're sick of all the boring fashion...
Cuddles for you, cuddles.
If you're feeling underexposed,
No audience, no help for growth,
Take my advice and grab hold of the English language.
Hunter Thompson, George Orwell and William Burroughs,
Words like bullets,
A bear-hug form of psychopathic...
Cuddles for you, cuddles.
Massage parlour, massage parlour.
The stupid, inbred hounds couldn't finish it off,
Even though they ripped a chunk right out of its brain.
They couldn't get the better of a digital fox,
Although, there was no blood, there was plenty of pain.
THE HUNTED IS NOW VERY MUCH THE HUNTER.
LOOKING THROUGH YOUR WINDOW,
GOT ITS EYES ON YOUR DAUGHTER.
FOR SOME IT IS A PEST,
BUT FOR OTHERS, A HERO.
THE LIKELIHOOD OF KILLING IT IS NEXT TO ZERO.
What's that sound?
Is it the penny dropping?
Is it danger, is it saviour, is it chaos mocking?
Can you measure success?
Can you measure the love?
Can you measure the ego?
Can you measure the dumb?
Don't be afraid to run,
But be prepared to fight,
When the running is done,
There will be time to take stock.
The sheep will get bitten,
Some wounds will never heal,
Try to keep the numbers down,
The fox just won't give up.
Analogue for a second,
Electric fever,
Cunning zeros and ones,
CULL DIGITAL FOX.
Chimpanzee Gorilla Pig Bat,
Chimpanzee Gorilla Pig Dog.
In the bog,
In the swamp,
It's a slog,
It's a song.
I'm breeding an interesting, mixed up animal,
An interesting, dangerous animal,
An interesting, controversial animal.
You're an interesting, controversial animal.
I'm an interesting, controversial animal...
Do you want to know the reason?
"STRAIGHT OUTTA THE TUBE!"
Now mixed,
I'm working with redundant software,
And trying out insane techniques.
This time I'll try them with some lube,
And if it still sounds shit, well,
You'll just have to deal with it.
Dunderexposed...product"
Out of nowhere, compressed white-soil fangs came at me with a purpose, chomping at high speed, calcium carnage, something got me, something got my head in its mouth, chilli membrane stinging through the bright compost, DING DONG... "Ve're not religion zellers...ve're not zelling religion..." something about LOVEFiLM... where am I? Low notes, like a belly-laugh, fade out - echo chamber...pitch shifted voice... "Vere's my tobacco?" "You've been me!"


Of course, it was only a dream, a nightmare, a disturbing few seconds which seemed like hours. Fortunately, these hideous events were not real, but I had woken up thinking so clearly about them it was hard not to be put slightly off guard. I needed to be strong that morning, for it was a vital, potentially challenging and important day. I had wanted to be in a confident frame of mind for our hysterically generous assault on the unsuspecting public. Thoughts of eye stabbing and being eaten alive by spicy-compost-spewing Bulgarian LOVEFiLM cold-callers are not useful things to have rolling around your brain when there is dangerous promotional work to be done. I went over to my desk and picked up the new Perhower album, "ON THE SPECTRUM", one of a small number of specially produced promo CDs which we were planning on giving out to the general public. I opened one of them and read the message inside:

"Most people write this kind of thing twenty years later or at least AFTER completion, but not me. I've nearly finished mixing this thing and it's sounding miraculous despite the fact that I'm losing the will to live. I've lost count of the amount of times I've smashed my head off this desk. Attempting to make a BIG, BAD and CRAZY sounding DIY record with hardly any top notch production gear is an insane, almost unreachable ambition, however, I think I've almost done it... OK, well, it's sounding quite strange, I'll admit that - in a way it feels more like a ridiculously ambitious set of demos, a scatter-logical, unpredictable sonic assault which has been pieced together like a demonic puzzle, forming a kind of Lo-Fi trance-rock concept album for the new age... (GENRE = DIY-DEATH-SOUL)
Thanks must go to Scott "The Documenter" for investing in the very decent studio mics and interfaces, through which much of this album was recorded. Thanks also to CN Support for 'acquiring' a couple of external sound-cards for me to abuse over the last couple of years. The biggest thanks go to Sarah "Rose of Bearwood" for being the closest thing we've had to a record label all this time, she has truly devoted her life to the art of music and insanity.
Although this piece will extend beyond the CD insert (there's only so much I can fit on a single sheet of paper - shoestring budget? More like a sturdy pair of scuffed boots with no laces), those of you who are lucky enough to have been GIVEN one of these handmade beauts will be able to experience it the old fashioned way. Perhower, in terms of playing live, is still very much an eponymous mini-orchestra, but I'm working on a new tight rock sound for the new line-up to absorb themselves in. The record is almost a separate entity, certain tracks (notably the ones featuring JF) exist purely as recordings, but you can expect to hear interpretations of much of the rest of it at our live shows / invasions. Unfortunately, I'm finding it painfully hard to believe that we can somehow put a worthwhile tour together again or at least get a few decent gigs booked in, but, knowing what I've managed to pull together in the past, I know that it's far from impossible - just a shame it's also pretty far from possible too. I'm fucked if I give up and I'm fucked if I continue, the only difference is that we'll have more fun if I go out fighting...
I'm pretty sickened by the lack of open public support for what I'm trying to achieve here, I do really need you, stranger, humanoid, MOTHER FUCKER, to take a risk and give MPH's strange Perhower vision some generous exposure - tell the world, update your status, yeah? Share this wonderful CD - after all, it was hand crafted by "The New Son of Odd". Why not link to perhower.com or twitter your dirty stinking socks off - because I CAN'T do that stuff. It's not that I'm totally against it, it's just that there's no way I can effectively argue my point on those things - not without having to concede, I can't get bogged down in that kind of virtual buzz making / war - I have to concentrate on making the FUN stuff for you lot, the filthy public. So come on, you sexy pigs, use me as your wildcard and I'm sure we can have a good time together. You are one of the first lucky buggers to hear this collection of tracks because it hasn't even been released online yet. Just because I'm handing out free CDs doesn't mean I'm desperate (but I am) or running low on ideas (but I'm not). Just because the bar has run out of WKD and bottles of lager there's no need to stop the party, when there's plenty of beer left in the barrel a crazy time can still be had by all. We never run dry.
PS make sure you have a listen to the unlisted track at the end, it's a special trip...MPH"

I'd forgotten about that track, man, what an ear shagger that one turns into! Shame I couldn't be arsed to put any bass on it, still, there's plenty of low notes elsewhere on the record to keep the down and dirty deviants happy. Fucking hell, after such an unhinged array of tunes I'd like to think that people would be thankful for the relieving ambient mutations at the end.

I quickly jogged downstairs, switched on the big stereo system in the lounge and put the album on from the start, at high volume. Jett Fyter's voice boomed out "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen..." and I was hooked all over again. I threw on my jacket, got my bag, grabbed an umbrella and braced myself for the harsh conditions. After doing my usual last minute O.C.D. checks I stepped out of the house and felt a significant rush of heat and dampness run through me. Cold rain and hot air, what a delightful sensation. It wasn't the most comfortable of walks but I just gritted my teeth and managed to get to town in a rapid slog, which left me with plenty of time to sip on a cloudy "Old Rosie" and stop off at 'Baguette World' for a spicy cheese special. Simple pleasures.
Roscoe and The Documenter would be arriving very shortly and I needed plenty of fuel to see me through. Hearing my own twisted and addictive sounds cranked up to the max before setting off was a good start, but I blatantly needed that special something extra, something to keep me from being too light-headed and earnest, something potent to guide us on this journey, this potentially frustrating and embarrassing day of intrusion and confusion. Ah, regardless of all that nonsense, I was looking forward to thrusting our new sparky little fucker of an album into the sweaty palms of random people, for it was sure to give me plenty to write about. Even if those palms were undeserving - and many of them would be - we were doing this for our own sense of release / relief in order to realise that we have successfully made the first steps towards producing decent, indecent records, using only the bare minimum in regards to technology, but at the same time unavoidably embracing the idiosyncratic techniques and innovations that bring life and plenty of flavour to our discs.
POWER SHOWER WAKE ME UP - RINSE OFF ALL MY SWEAT AND BLOOD - HOT AND STEAMY CLEAN ME GOOD - STEAM INDUCED AMNESIA - IT'S TIME TO TUNE INTO - TIME TO TURN INTO - RADIO DILEMMA - TALK SHOP OR DON'T TALK AT ALL - KWIK SAVE CHIC - BEWARE OF THE SUPERVISOR...