(G)Usher

Gotta do it for the ladies
And I gotta keep it hood
Where we at Polo (Ay)
I see you Ryan
What you do was right
But we just gettin started
Yeaa Man..

Usher
You see you searching for somebody
That'll take you out and do you right
Well come here baby and let daddy show you what it feel like
You know all you gotta do is tell me what you sippin' on
And I promise that I’m gonna keep it comin’ all night long

Lookin’ in your eyes while you walk the other side
And I think that shorty I’ve got a thing for you
Doin’ it on purpose winding and workin’ it
I can tell by the way you lookin’ at me girl

I wanna make love in this club (in this club, in this club, in this club)
I wanna make love in this club (in this club, in this club, in this club)

Usher
You got some friends rollin’ wit you baby then that's cool
You can leave them with my niggas let em know that I got you
If you didn’t know, you’re the only thing that’s on my mind
Cuz the way I'm staring miss you got me wantin to give it to you all night

Lookin’ in your eyes while you walk the other side
I can't take it no more, baby I'm coming for you
You keep doin’ it on purpose winding and working it
If we close our eyes it could be just me and you

I wanna make love in this club (in this club, in this club, in this club)
I wanna make love in this club (in this club, in this club, in this club)
I wanna make love in this club (in this club, in this club, in this club)
I wanna make love in this club (in this club, in this club, in this club)

Young Jeezy
(Well, you know we always rollin!, Im on em')
Yea, Let's Go
I’m what you want, I’m what you need
He got you trapped, I’ll set you free
Sexually, mentally, physically, emotionally
I’ll be like your medicine, you’ll take every dose of me
It’s going down on aisle 3, I’ll bag you like some groceries
And every time you think about it you gon’ want some more of me
About to hit the club, make a movie yeah rated R
Pulled up like a trap star,
That's if you have yo regular car
You ever made love to a thug in the club with his ice on
87 jeans and a fresh pair of Nikes on
On the couch, on the table, on the bar, or on the floor
You can meet me in the bathroom yeah you know I’m trying go

Usher
You might as well give me a kiss
If we keep touching like this
I know you scared
Baby, they don't know what we doin
Let's both get undressed right here
Keep it up girl and I swear
I'ma give it to you non-stop
And I don't care who's watchin
watchin, watchin (watchin, watchin)
oohh, in this club, on the floor
Baby let's make love

I wanna make love in this club (in this club, in this club, in this club)
I wanna make love in this club (in this club, in this club, in this club)

Yea...


What a misguided fool!

Amy Winehouse is a cunt

'We only said goodbye in words; I died a hundred times'.

Once is enough you fucking wretch!

Donny Hathaway

I first heard about Donny Hathaway a couple of years back in an issue of Loaded. There was a small musical section in the back that dealt with new Cd releases: old classics rubbed shoulders with the latest d&b, r&b, rock etc. The article was about Extensions of a Man, an album I later checked out but didn't pay much attention to, sadly.
It wasn't until recently I picked up the thread again. Listening to some cheesily wicked Roberta Flack, I came across a few duets he'd done with her, the most famous being Where is the Love? I knew about this track from a Grover Washington cover, so the order of discovery was really fucked up. If the path there wasn't in a straight line, I still got there in the end.
So the album in question this time was Donny Hathaway Live, and my particular favourite track, and I do mean particular (imagine if you will a whole heap of wickedness, a pile of lusty gems the like to make your soul's fortune, and every one is a drooler, but you have to choose one above all the others) is Jealous Guy. Fuck me this guy's got a voice like a pan of warm caramel, and he just keeps on pouring it out. As my darling friend ____ said about Elvis' voice : 'It's like a warm chocolate egg bursting inside you'. And Al Green too : his voice is like a chocolate grinder, all that rich high pitched laughing goodness showering out from the speakers. You almost feel guilty it's that good.

A horifically trivial top 3 of my favourite voices (and subject to change):

1) Donny Hathaway
2) Jean Carne
3) Al Green (see what I did there? Clever eh?)

Get listening!

Fucking Funny Texts

This was initiated by a reading from Charlie Brooker's Dawn of the Dumb; randomly text someone you know this message: Wahey, I'm in a HELICOPTER! Hilarious! Anyway Batty took it a step further and the dialogue runs like milk & honeyz:

Batty: Wooo I'm in Florida
Me: Waaaa I'm indoors. Roly's mum's doors*
Batty: Ow my god just wrestled an aligator! Wow!
Batty # 2: Just found out I've been diagnosed with back cancer. They cut it open and found a diamond bigger than a peach!

Batty wins everytime.

Then a little later w/r/t his and Charlie's night out:

Batty: YES MAN! Were (sic) going to clean up man. Peoples be like 'wooooh these brothers be like straight out de jungle' womans be like 'who are those two?' i'm like 'yes babe i'm like the king of sting, the bruin of ruin, the mash in your potatoe, the knight of all knights at night time! I'm the rime in your crime doin overtime! Be leave babe'

Me: Classic: the chicks drop jaws like bible laws 'woah! who are those two crude dudes?' and we're like "peter piper, the midnight viper, come to clean up your dreams, drop a no brainer with brains, make your night out of ribbons and gold, hold you in bed so ya don't get old - we're miracles in male form and speak in rhyme like goats. Big willy = big happy. Moves like weird

Wicked!

*A story too long to go into here.

16:16

Yes, it could start here, and why not? The start of my five year plan to stop getting so fucked up in my head. Because I haven't smoked in a few days, an excess of saliva has built up in my throat. I've been blustering like an old Colonel in my bedroom, drinking flagons of tea to clear the blockade. Yesterday Batty & I sat in the garden for the first time over a cup of leaves. I noticed the tree at the back of the garden, as if for the first time. IT DEVOURED THE SKY like a green mace. The sky was seal grey, smeared with fatty clouds. It'd gotten hotter at last. My bones were warm. We talked with the neighbour.

'Alright lads. How's tricks?' It was the father of the house, with his screaming progeny running rife about him; he was continuously stopping to scold them in Indian or English.

Batty had picked up a toy from the paved upper half of our garden.

'I could use this', said the ever industrious Robinson,
'Keep it! I bet that's the first time you've heard that'. I liked the father: his face was kind and strong.

This lead into an inevitable conversation about what we do as artists.

'You do paintings then? You tried that gallery up the road? (the _______) etc. Touchingly naive, but interested, like a cabby.

Maddening to think we'd been in this house for eleven months and not once sat in the garden to drink tea and talk for an hour. One hour in the munificence of those many days. I felt guilty almost. It was like Batty said:

'You can hoard all that time up and not do anything with it. You keep imagining this vital time you've built up is mine mine mine, (making a scooping gesture, like a highwayman / miser drawing in his riches); and still nothing. It just goes to waste'.

(note the use of yellow for dramatic effect).

Soon after Charlie came and dropped Minda's keys off, discussing moving into the house. Joy! She noticed some weird growths coming from between the paving slabs. Batty plucked one and threw it at my bum crack as I was stooping over. They laughed.

From Horace's Odes: carpe diem quam minimum credula postero.

Seize the day, trusting little in the future. And I might add a little embellishment of my own:

Grab a minute, innit.

Uncle Ed is Dead!

What an appalling week. With unavailing constancy I have stared at the cracked walls and the sobering trees which are grey and smooth, from my garrett window. This was my hardiest attempt at reaching outside. Bleak days that stretch out, rain filled or gleaming in chill sunshine. A rainbow on Thursday, arching over the garden: changing nothing. Just another fact. Charlie straightening her hair on the bed. I stood quietly looking at the rainbow: the green shoots sitting in the gutter, in their crimson sheaths drinking the remnants of the rain. Not going out tonight. Not going anywhere. I'd be angry if I could summon the energy, but instead I'm listless and blasted in a clean - empty way. What is independence worth anyway, if it makes you so miserable and aloof. Ten years in the making. Dh Lawrence; the Trespasser, left open on my bed, upstairs, emanating. Invitation. Open, read, get really upset, relate, relate. Have a look in the mirror. I don't like you. It's funny, really. But...I think I've got past the stage where I can file and forget. I'm grinding my toes into the floor, thinking about what comes next. To belittle what I'm feeling makes me furious. A glowing stem of grudge, rooted deep. Yet I'm sorry.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, late into the night, staring at the mask on the wall. The ties and scarves have formed an elegant oriental shadow about it like an aureole. I realise all I have left now is my words. My title. I speak to you but you can't hear. My lips form the words, but the roaring of the gulf drowns them. My worst day this year. Jesus, I'm sorry.

Hear Here

Before I start proper: I forgot some of the performer's names from last night. When you see a _______, it's not a mistake.

What an insane night. The beatniks of lore would be proud. Approaching the gallery, you could smell the warm tang of buttery popcorn. A comfy set up of chairs and bean bags, and bring - your - own - beer. It had all the makings of an interesting event, as indeed for many reasons it was.
Michael Hesp was in full effect, doing what he does best - loud social pariahdom, with a streak of fear thrown in. Infact, he surpassed his usual antics, screaming down his megaphone in people's faces; falling over; abusing people and eventually being thrown out of the gallery only to come in and disrupt another performance (which was beautifully read by ________). I was surprised by how quickly the dude reacted, leaving his laptop and bottle behind to bring the appalingly drunk Hesp down, taking out a portion of the audience and spilling beer. 'He got me, he got me' blabbed Mike. It was almost funny.
Sliding back to the start of the performances: Ana Benloch was superb, intimating the cool (as in temp, not kudos) and plummy tones of her select automated voice recording. Fritz gave an amazingly concise and crisply dry anecdote about catfish and cyanide (a true story! - and talk about German efficiency); _________ strummed his ukelele and told a hilarious tale about learning said instrument, somehow incorporating Audrey Hepburn, cleavers and black eggs speckled with stars; Caitlin's short stories were bolstered by the addition of a very loveable dog whose barks complimented the applause at the end of each performance. Special mention to Stuart Tait, who never fails to surprise me. This time he told a wonderfully brief and hilarious faux naive story about a summer holiday. And Matt Westbrook, yeah man, very good indeed. Not forgetting Ben Neal's Bye / Buy performance which hypnotized me like Terry Riley's 'In C'.
As for David and I, let's just say I was well pleased with the reading. It's always a good sign when someone can suck on a lozenge and still speak with a tongue wrested in silver. My sincere thanks to Mr David for collaborating with me again.
But a super big up to Steve, Liz, Naomi and Jamie for yet another successful Crowd 6 event. As for Mike...yep, you guessed it: GROW UP!

Tara a bit.

Post Wunderkammer

It's not just your general public that are idiotic. Within Brum, we also have a select idiotic art public. The mind boggles. More about this later. I don't want to taint this blog with grumpiness; nevertheless - some things have to be said.
My nerves were ringing about quarter of an hour before I was to get in my cabinet. David was resplendent in his gimp suit, atop a silky mattress, his supine body tied down with delicate strands of ribbon. Presentness is grace as I recall the line from an essay. I, on the other hand felt like a clumsy oaf, with my entourage of ridiculous objects, which would not stay in place. The volume on my amp was wrong, and needed speedy adjustment before the performance began proper. Even so, as I was later told, you could barely hear the sound. No matter.
I adopted the mummy pose which I was to hold (supposedly) for the duration of the private view. Once the lid had been put down I understood immediately the painful position I had put myself in. The pressure was distributed on the tips of my skinny elbows, maybe the funny bones. Within ten minutes my arms were fizzing with pins and needles: as I was supposed to be lying 'in state'; any movements I needed to make to alleviate the pain had to be tiny. Same went for my feet - though I had a little bit more leeway because I was wearing my boots.
Then there was the breathing. This was the weirdest part and required the most concentration. At times I felt like I was suffocating - at others I was breathing regularly and unusually focused. The music I had used in my sound piece got me hyper at some points - though anyone observing me would have been at a loss to see this, obscured by a cheese face mask as I was.
This was my first attempt at a durational performance and it took me to many different, unexpected places. Pain was evident, though not foremost in the piece. Second was the awareness of myself in relation to the people around me. I felt twice removed. Hidden by my mask, then segregated by the cabinet. This was where the problems began. I can allow for people being naive, but there comes a point where sheer ignorance kicks in. For those who really should know a lot better. On more than one occasion, someone left a drink on the cabinet - and in the crucial moment which made me decide I wanted to get out, someone (not mentioning who - needless to say I think you're a CUNT) left a can of Strongbow right above my head. It was left there for about two minutes, which is a cunting long time when you're trying to concentrate and not move; incredulous and really really angry, I wanted to scream. Then my breathing became really difficult: it was time to get out. This spoiled the experience for me. Otherwise, the performance, however successful others deemed it - was rich, giving me time to reflect and think hard about future performances of a like ilk. Still I am baffled by certain individuals behaviour. People in glass houses don't throw boulders. I have only to think of when I scattered Greg Cox's sculpture with a kick at Candice's show at Moor St station. I don't want to come across as a pedant, I am amongst the ignorant: but on Wednesday someone wore the crown of foolishness so well you'd have thought they were born wearing it!

A very big thank you to Charlie and Cujo for curating such a good show, and for giving me a chance to reconstruct my badly ailing practice. There may still be time.

Pre-Wunderkammer

What is it about your general public that makes them so jaw droppingly idiotic? At first I believed my scorn to be born of egotism : look only to my withering 1997 comment 'Chimps ; all chimps' to describe almost everyone around me. Hermeticised in the belief neatly surmised by Dan Ashcroft in Nathan Barley: THE IDIOTS ARE WINNING! But I knew I wasn't the only one. The question is how far do you object without seeming pedantic?
They knock things over; they don't look where they're going; they ask ridiculous questions you don't need to answer; they lurk. Of all things I hate most it's loafers, lurkers and hangers on. They drift on the fringe of action and inertia - maddeningly poised. I wish you'd do something to break the tension.
Nowhere was this more evident than in Borders. The larger an institution the more it magnatizes the flotsam; induces the destitute hour. Perfect for loafers and non-buyers. I've seen people spend three hours just leafing through books, sullying the pages with their fingers.
If all this speaks of regimentation and haste; I assure you the opposite is true. Chill out is maximum priority at our house. But I dislike and mistrust sharing my time with passive, spectral hangers on. I insisit you give me something to do with our shared time. CHOP CHOP! Lest I become as you are.

Wunderkammer tomorrow. Maybe some pre show nerves are playing in my head.

Je suis headache

This morning I was watching Deadwood; one of the best shows on tv. In one of it's typical moments of casual and outrageous violence, two giants (Dan Dority & Captain Turner) have a royal rumble in Deadwood's thoroughfare. I was laughing at the sounds of porky fists mashing guts and blasting faces. Bone on bone! At the climax, the Captain smashed Dan's head into some rocks, but in an unexpected turn, Dan lifted his hand and clawed out Turner's eye. I was nearly sick on my cheese toastie. But then I thought: 'This is what great television's all about!' I watched it again and laughed.