‘Art of the matter (part 2)

I am  pissed off. Minor surgery means I can’t partake in my daily caffeine enema (Doctors’ orders;-). One day recuperating at my folks’ place in the wilds of Geordie Land – Newcastle upon (the river) Tyne for non-UK readers – I venture out into the ‘toon (as the locals would say). Now, half my genetic code hails from this part of the world; I feel an affinity with Newcastle – it may not be ‘Sweet Bo Town’, but hey, I can’t deny my ancestry – right?

Walking round the ‘toon looking for arty things to pap. The grey drizzle that passes for weather in this part of the world, makes what should be a pleasurable and recuperative occupation a labour of love. The rain becomes wet drizzling buckets of love sent from God to remind us we are mere mortals in the grand scheme of things. My mental processing is reduced to a tick-list: see something that catches the eye, find shelter near said eye-catching object, take camera out, lens cap off, zoom in, breathe out, hold breath, focus, shoot, cap back on, camera back in bag, hood  up, head down, wander around a bit more. Getting soaked to the bone is becoming the order du jour… As a kid I wanted to be a lyrical emcee/ str8, no lie, up in all honesty/ a Dubliner, James Joyce I’ll never be…

Here’re some examples of the civic sculpture and things I found amusing in and around the ‘toon:




Enough of this stream of consciousness BS  >>>fe fcuk’s sake, there has to be simpler way to gather material for a blog. To begin with I was pissed off, now I’m just getting pissed on. Is this stream from the heavenly ether trying to guide me somewhere?

Wandering down by the quayside I spot these two beauties – outside the city’s law courts.




Prime examples of corporate art – mildly offensive to anyone possessing one drop of African blood – yet strangely attractive. I won’t bore you with reasons why I found these sculptures offensive. I’ll just adopt the tactics of the Original African Oprah Winfrey (Hey there Aunty V;-) and ask: “Hey kids can you spell ORIENTALISM?” OK then define it. (Or in an attempt to be academically correct, I should ask: Why isn’t there a phrase to describe the simplistic way ‘exotic’, ‘other’ (black) cultures are depicted in public spaces?-).

(Pls direct any questions re:cultural representation to the artist – I’m just the messenger;-)

Anyway, art, design and craft; that’s what this blog is about. The fog on the river Tyne lifted providing a clear view for my next target: https://www.balticmill.com

This, my second visit to Baltic Mill,  an opportunity to vigorously  apply Guerilla Art Appreciation Tactics^ (see ‘art…1;-). Two exhibits catch my eye. David Maljkovic’s “Out of Projection”  and Heather Phillipson’s “Yes, surprising is existence in the post-vegetal cosmorama”. Both stood out as being intelligent, savvy and amusing.

Maljkovic’s “Out of Projection” is surreal – in the old school sense of the word. Featuring a white line, fantastic-looking Peugot vehicles (from their R&D department) and staring the workers who make these wonderful-looking machines, this B&W film plays with with language of film. Deliberately delivering the unexpected, with a knowing shake, stir, twist and nod to past masters. No diegetic sound (ie what you hear isn’t what the camera would have recorded), the soundscape of squeaks and squawks sound like modem-blips muted into bird song. Won’t spoil it by describing it in too much detail. The overall experience of watching “Out of…” is like witnessing a dream where car  designs are delivered from God to man. Rewarding, relaxing and contemplative, “Out of…” can be found on Vimeo https://vimeo.com/19763036.

Other Maljkoic work can be viewed here:https://vimeo.com/61897624

(if you have no clue what Vimeo is by now, pls stop reading – this blog is not for you)

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Phillipson’s “Yes, surprising …” has me smiling and laughing like a child. Using found images online, with a narration focusing on the mouth as the portal to the body; Phillipson is an artist in full control of her media. Using video, sculpture and installation she mixes and blends forms to deliver something new. I saw rightly told off by a Gallery Assistant for trying to sneak a few snaps on my phone – so you’ll have to make do with the official stills from the gallery.

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BALTIC_Heather Phillipson_1

In another section of “Yes, surprising …” she offers up a Peugot 406 – (is this car company sponsoring artists, just expressing its joie de vie or proving the company’s and by inference the artists’ ’Va Va Voomness’?*).   The best way to see this section of the exhibit is to sit inside the vehicle.

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By placing the viewer in situ (inside the car to you and me;-), Phillipson forces me to consider many pop cultural references dealing with the motor car: drive in movies, the youthful freedom felt when owning your first vehicle (snogs and furtive fumbles;-), and the fact that cars have become an in-disposable site where art, design and crafts(wo)manship are all brought to the fore.

A wearer of many hats (all of them perfectly fitted), Phillipson’s guided tour of the ‘toon offers visitors to a take-away present. Having a non-native guide you through the city’s industrial streets brings the local culture to life, in a vibrant and more accessible way than a local guide might do. Sometimes a strange perspective makes you see the familiar with a new light; this my friends is how art should be – pushing, pulling cajoling the eye to see the world in a different way.

The hilly streets and industrial heartland of Newcastle become a backdrop for Phillipson’s verve, wit and unique take on this thing called (post)modern life. A trailer for the tour can be found here:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MGmsIDliCGI&feature=youtu.be

^ – for those too lazy to scroll down, Guerill Art Appreciation Tactics (G.A.A.T.) = giving an art peice a maximum of 3 minutes to interest, bemuse or amuse you (w.out reading any explanatory text); if nothing stirs your soul…. it’s onto the next one.

* yes I know Va Va Voom is the stapline for the the other French car maunfacturer, but I’m sure you’ll allow me this poetic license

Till next time
Ciao for now

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I like riding on my bike

Tax-evading, personal information-sharing ghoul-gol try to soften their image.

I like riding on my bike. To be honest that’s a lie. I LOVE riding my bike. Sometimes I dream about open roads, car-free open roads. And winning the tour-de-france on my imaginary child-hood chopper, riding past Lance Armstrong, kicking him in EPO addled face as I zoom past – like I was saying, I dream.


On occasions I’ve had such dreams, I’ve gotten out of bed, changed in to my cycling gear and gone for a quick burn around Mcr’s roads, paths and canal towpaths. My fave ride is between the twin towers of the city’s testosterone factories – Old Trafford’s ‘Theatre of Nightmares’ and the Etihad stadium. No traffic, a bit of road and a dash of nature (well as if some dirty canal water and sleeping ducks count;-), on such nights this boy is happy.

Should this boy be fortunate enough to have a girl in his bed, he still dreams about bikes…think I may need some therapy, but rather than spend the dough pouring out my heart to some stranger, I’d rather save up for pieces of kit. Well designed and durable kit that does what it says on the tin. Can’t live without my camel back, wouldn’t leave home without a spare inner stowed away, and having bought my dear old Mum some waterproof Ortleib panniers for her B.day (yes I come from a family of cyclo-phants;-), I’m saving my sheckles so as to get a pair for myself.

My first mountain bike was a Raleigh Mustang. Big heavy, is a pukey-purple colour (hey I was a younger then) it took me to school quicker than the bus. In my mid-late teens I discovered the holy trinity of drink, (soft) drugs and girls. Rocking up for a date on a push bike wasn’t considered cool back then (not sure if it is now), so the bike got stowed and I got on with things you’re meant to do: (trying to) grow up, going to Uni, getting a job… all that good stuff ;-(.

Fast forward a few years and I wandered into a bike shop, well a bike co-op to be honest. “I want a bike I can cycle to work on, and go off-road with, win Le tour and be back home in time for me tea…” The cooperative bike shop sales geezer told me about this brand new style of bike The 29er. I chose to buy a Marin Bolina Ridge (a bike with 29inch wheels for my non-pedalling friends). It is bike designed for long-limbed fcukers like me. A hard-tailed steed (front suspension only – no bouncing rear = better transmission, more power going directly to the back wheel)… my bike is a beast.

(If you don’t like bikes, I suggest you stop reading now;-) I make no apologies for the man-love I extend to my bike. An entry level off-roader, I spent under £500 on it. Pushing myself and my machine to the max (went through 3 chains in the first 9 months), I have never looked back. Shit I’m beginning to sound like some radical Californian surf dude(but hey natural rush of blood to the head that goes along with biking can do that to you;-).

Much to the disgust of the co-op mechanics, I insisted on weighing down my beat with panniers so I can strap on a lightweight tent, some spare duds, a sleeping bag and I’m off. Last summer I volunteered to look after a group of yout’ man and woman dem on a cycle mobile. Although I thought the cycling a touch lightweight, the chance to take my beast out into some hillier terrain was not to be missed…

Anyway, art and design is the topic of this blog so I’d better shoe-horn something design related into this piece. Check this beauty out:


Not sure how happy I’d be cycling with my arse in the air at such an angle, but I bet this fcuker moves like the proverbial shit off a shovel. Love the design on the disc wheel.


Wear a helmet and save your life. Having been recently knocked off my bike > than once (thank you iidyat taxi driver), I’m not one to diss the wearing of a prophylactic. However like wearing a piece of plastic on yr todger, I find helmets get in the way. Don’t get me wrong, on a first date (especially when going down(hill);-) it would be madness to attempt to reach top speeds without one, but I find helmets just get in the way of the thrills, spills and thigh strain that a good ride should deliver.

My major beef with MCR is how bike-unfriendly parts of it can be. I’d like to meet the fool who thought to put this sign on a dedicated cycle-path.


Bike thieves deserve their own circle within Dante’s Inferno; especially inept (drunken?) ones. I mean, if you are going to steal a bike, at least choose a decent one. Top marks to the fool who tried half-inching this one… liking the way they give up and resort to kicking the wheels in. (note to readers I AM BEING SARCASTIC;-)


Having said that the city boasts a velodrome (for those who get this kicks going in circles); several small bike boutique type shops. The most recently opened and best of which is the Pop-Up bike shop behind Victoria Station. Hidden away under the arches of the railway Dipak runs a tight ship. You can store your bike for the cost of a cup of coffee, pick up some bike-related info and generally have a fine old time.


Sitting typing this, my feet are air-pedalling, my shoulders hunched over the keyboard and my head in the muddy trails of Chorlton’s water park…

Till next time
A bientot mes Amis

‘Art of the matter (part 1)

Feeling a bit like the thinking man’s favourite negro ‘Don’ Hennessy Youngman, dashed around Mcr’s graduate end-of-year art show.


Now, me and art have a wierd relationship. I went to a university associated with Saatchi, YBAs and all that arty-farty BS, some of my good friends are practising professional creatives making a decent living selling images they created, manipulated and marketed. I’m all for a bit of creative joie de vie, a lickle song, a lickle dance to elevate the monotony that modern life can be.

Having read a few books, listened to my tutors, and more importantly kept my eyes open and observed the world around me; I like to make sure the art/design/culture I consume has a message – it needs to communicate something. In the real world, I have seen a great deal of talent struggle to make ends meet; the old maxim ’if it don’t make cents it don’t make sense’ ring true.

Running round a gallery is the best way to analyse its contents; if something doesn’t arrest my attention, I’ll pause give it a few moments then it’s on to the next one. Brutal but necessary to quickly sort the wheat from the chaff.

Starting with the most surreal experience, I ask you to picture the scene. I’m standing, looking at this ‘art piece’: copper pipes, dirty water and a a cup. I was struggling to read anything from this ‘piece’, until I noticed the newspaper clipping and a brief from a it’s sponsor. Ahh OK then, it must be art ‘cos it’s acknowledged by the backing of money… hmm.

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There I am wondering WTF this piece was trying to say; I mean some dirty water, a tap and a cup – now if that water was whiskey the artist would be onto something. Briefly lost in my own world, I was brought back to reality (if that’s possible in an art gallery;-) by a French accented voice in my ear. I turned to se a cute girl reciting from a piece of paper; confused I ask her name: ‘Juliet’, getting my game on I reply ‘I’m Romeo’ (think I may need some fresh chat-up lines;-)… one thing lead to another – but that’s a different story. Her playful collection of definitions of reality made me reconsider my cynical stance to the surreal. Check http://about.me/julietdavis for more on her installation and performances.

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Affairs of the heart aside, I was here to consume art. Ignoring the voice in my head that encourage me to chirps away in my school-boy French I returned to my mission. Man was here to see young contemporary art. Starting at basement I was taken by these pieces:


A punch bag after a stern seeing to from Brian Sewell (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brian_Sewell)


Blobbing out on the couch; really liked this commentary on contemporary culture’s favourite activity.


In a corner of this basement I found a video installation. A bricolage of soft porn, narration from “Human Traffic” (every young ravers favourite manifesto) and a cheeky deposit of a pair of trainer and bottle of water – this was my kind of art. Maybe cos I liked the balance of shock tactics and gentle humour, but I reckon if Calum continues to produce work of this calibre, it won’t be long before he’s bossing a gallery of his own.



http://www.calumcrawford.info/ for more.


Honorable mention out to Sakara Dawson and her intriguing installation; looking like something from a minimalist take on Captain Nemo’s submarine, this was ‘High Art’ at it’s finest. I won’t try and describe her installation – cos sometimes even a thousand words can’t do justice. Just click through http://sakara-dawson-marsh.blogspot.co.uk/ to see examples of her work.


My favourite piece of art in its most traditional sense belonged to Roisin Keown. Small in statue, vast in vision this Scottish-born artist unleashed her visions of mother nature’s wrath.


‘Zeke’ – a word loaded with power (Ezekiel meaning ‘God is my Strength”) – in this case referring to the naming of tropical storms and cyclones had me awestruck. I admit to being one of those tossers who thought they’d seen it all, but observing and listening to this artist explain her work humbled me. Here was my kind of art; arresting aesthetically and with hidden depths – if there is a God, I pray for her success.

roisinkeown.wordpress.com for more.

Heading back down to basement to collect my bike; I had a brief chat with Guy. Quietly confident he talked me through his work – a meditation on tactility (touch to you and me;-). An ipad on a table loaded with CAD images of rocks sat side-by-side with paper-mache (?) mock ups of rocks – this had me wondering about the future of art in a world controlled by microchips. http://www.guybroadhurst.co.uk/ for more contemplative images.



With time running short, I had one last pap at these pieces before wheeling my self out into the real world .











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Best. T Shirt. Ever. (part 1)

I like T-shirts. They’re simple and honest. They let you know fcuk loads about the person wearing them. Tucked-in, box-fresh, bearing disco-dirt from too many all-nighter; all T-shirts tell a story. From the garishly gash, to the most cripplingly clean kriss cuts, T-shits are versatile beasts. I’m not a fashionista so I’m not gna issue instructions on what to wear; but here’re some T-shirts I find interesting.


I like it when you see people wearing T-shirts that you wouldn’t expect ‘em to. Best example of this was an stocky street looking caucasian kid @  Notting Hill carnival rocking a purple version of this shirt. It may look a bit shit in white; but trust me the purple wigger version rocked it. Ambling amongst the post-party rubbish he’s an image I’ll not forget for a while. Purple, a colour commonly associated with royalty, his meandering gait was a bit like the bloke in an advert for Southern Comfort.

(Whatever’s comfortable – Southern Comfort spot – shit, they really should throw some sheckles my way for this;-)

NEway – T-shirts… In this day and age we’re all encouraged to recycle and I reckon the best T’s are those found through second-hand means: thrift/charity stores, friends’ bedrooms and in the developing – where our ‘old’, ‘unfashionable’ garments end up after charitable donations.


I took this pic in Sierra Leone in a remote village. Walking round the place I loved the way kids without a proverbial a pot-to-piss in were making good use of our surplus wealth, I especially loved the way this village elder was porting something I would have stolen off his back – a bit juevenile – (but hey I’m a Bo Boy;-).

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During my time in Sierra Leone I saw, and (over)analysed the shirts I saw people wearing. As it was just after Obama’s first election and there were shed loads of made-in-China-tat bearing his mug. Although I always thought he was a bit of a puppet, I liked the way they made local people proud to be a part of global events.

As I’m a now an ex-media hoe, I’ve gots to mention the plethora of fcuk Micheal Moore T-shirts I saw in Salone. I quite like his docs and think he’s one of those rare commodities – an independent creative film maker – still it tickled me to see black Africans wearing advertising pro-right-wing republican political views.


As it’s getting late and I’ve got real-world shit to do, I’ll end with some of my favourite T-shirts.ever.

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laters ppl 1.x

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I like things simpl, str8 & tru, I’m a boi so my favourite colour is blu


Cocky Warholian tribute.

Through no fault of my own I made the mistake of going to a university renowned as being a good arts and culture school. It was the place where Young British Artists willingly pimped out their souls to Saatchi’s hijacking of contemporary art; a place where young (wannabe) artists learn the tricks necessary to to trade in modern art world. On a basic level art and culture deal with visual viscerality. Sounds, touch, taste and smell all have their place; but I’m certain if you asked the layman, the girl in the hood or the proverbial pedestrian observer: Art =  Pretty Pictures. A lot of contemporary cultural creations (arts/fashion/design/etc) are ruined by the infusion of the dirty dollar. I’m not saying that all expensive art is necessarily shyte; I mean take this stunning piece of modern art from YBA’s granddaddy:


A prime example of money’s inability to polish a turd, that fact that Damian (son of) Hirst’s “Most Expensive piece of Art.EVER!!!” was the result of too many cooks following a recipe for disaster. I imagine Saatchi egging Damo on ‘Go on so, wack a bit more bling on it and I’ll make sure to use my advertising agency to fleece any idiot trying to fill that hole in their soul with dollars’ #JustSaying.

Damien Hirst Unveils Major New Work

As I’m not a practising artist, I’m not qualified to pass judgement on Damian’s work; I’ll leave that to an older, wiser head: “Everyone in the art world knows Hirst hasn’t sold the skull. It’s clearly just an elaborate ruse to drum up publicity and rewrite the book value of all his other work.” Shock horror! Mediocre artist pumped full of filthy lucre by the advertising man who got Thatcher elected, uses media-training to dupe bloated art fools into believing all that glitters is gold.


Now, don’t want to knock a fellow northerner, but somewhere between Leeds and Ldn-town; the the UK’s most famous artist sold his soul to Saatchi’s sheckles;  pretending to be Leonardo di Vinci (a genuine Renaissance man) meets Andy Warhol (he of Factory fame, known for industrialising contemporary art) ever since.


MCR. The. Greatest. City in the World (north of Watford;-). The birthplace of the industrial revolution, the place where Karl Marx studied and formed socialist ideals: = rights for the workers & all that. One thing MCR has over Ldn is the fact that people here are (usually) more co-operative and community minded. If the UK was a family, Mcr would Ldn’s bloshier more rebellious elder Uncle. The size and cosmopolitan make-up of the place mean different ethnic populations have to rub along together; the flip side is that anyone using works with more than three syllables is considered middle-class, bourgeois or (worse still;-) French!

Anyway, Mcr’s end-of-year design degree show was where I found myself on a sunny Saturday morning. WTF was I doing here – bed, breakfast and the weekly paper are my usual fayre this time of the week. Feeling like a fish out of water I mingled with the excited parents, bored siblings and expectant students. http://degreeshow.mmu.ac.uk/


This playful piece is the work of Elizabeth Winstanley – a designer working fixated with illusions, alternative media interacting this modern medium with the more traditional trope of embroidery. http://www.elizabethjanewinstanley.com/

Not knowing where to start, I figured the best place was the top where I found a textile/fashion collection. Now I’m bloke, who likes deign but has a boy-like approach to aesthetics; probably not the best person to pass judgement on the work of others in this field, but flicking through work-books was like reading ID/face/Dazed&Confused magazines back in the noughties.
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The fusion of different fabrics and juxtapositioning  of different cultural aesthetics made me reconsider my preconceptions. Finding two young designers (one Jamaican, one caucasian-blonde;-) sitting by their work, I talked to them after browsing the collection. The pieces I’d assumed the work of one, belonged to the other.
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Check blondie beside the neon cape thing with ethnic tassles (told you I’m a bloke and know sweet FA ’bout female fashion). IMG_2395
Check (nervous-looking) gyal from Jam-rock (rocking a Ramones T), beside her Prada-esque (a distinctly Italian/Euro/White?) dress-thing.http://embroiderygraduates.co.uk/graduates.html – for contact info on these young designers. 

Working my way through the exhibition I was tickled by the wit, impressed by the practicality and awed by the range of modern designs on display. Honourable mention to Becka Saville for having the sharpest-looking business cards and a most-media-savvy-name…Seriously check out this girl’s work:
Headhunted by Adidas to produce online virals, due to work at Esquire magazine, this young designer is going places. I was also taken by the work of Alice Ellis-Hayle. Her bird-boxes, designed to help older folk deal with dementia and placate so-called ‘hard-to-teach’ kids; released the my inner-child. I was making and remaking the boxes, placing them in the tree, suggesting blinged-up verions…
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If I get to be a contented old man, sitting on ma porch, shooting the breeze with a mate then I might consider purchasing such a bird-box – (if only to give me easier targets for ma’ shot-gun;-). For the record I’ve never owned, or would want to own a shooter; I just have a gun-ho attitude to metaphors. Boom! Boom!
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On the topic of guns, props out Ban Hawamdeh a designer from Dubai using 3D printers to create expensive-looking bling. I liked her work if only it made me realise cutting-edge tech could be used to make the world a better place…well a prettier one for those into wearing trinkets and rings.
A final shout out to Sarah Walsh – and her playful artifice on paper. As I was leaving the exhibition I was struck by the sight of a tree growing indoors.  Looking like something dreamed up by Salvador Dali, Sarah’s final piece brought a wry smile to my minds eye.
Here are some pretty pictures that caught my eye.
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(If anyone out there wants to contact any of the designers depicted here holla – preferably @ mmu, or @ me if you must;-)   Till next time: cioa for now. 1.x

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Mende Boy ventures into Mcr’s urban Jungle; infectious #Antwerp Mansion Shebeen is the #Bane of Local neigbourhood. (I’m not as ‘ard core as i fought i woz;-)

OK. I admit it. Used to think I was rough rugged & raw; but now I can’t even hear the score. Last weekend I bopped along to Antwerp Mansion.


Quickly becoming a legendary venue round these parts. My first time out for a while; I was wondering what to expect. First thing I must state is Antwerp Mansion isn’t anywhere near Belgium. If you asked for a Kriek beer, you’d probably get a face-full of phlegm from the take-no-prisoners nice-once-you-get-to-know-em barmaids. To say the place is dutty would be to call King Kong an overgrown monkey; a polite euphemism that overlooks the obvious.

Maybe showing my age, but the place stank of pissed-up youth, beer swilling geezers (& geezettes;-), and the obligatory stone-faced Northern Monkeys; the Costa Del Salford playing host to ‘the only Ldn MC we can stand’…

Now, MCR’s antipathy to the Ldn’ers always amuses me; true you should represent your ends, your manor, your place of birth, but let’s not get too partisan about it ey? Typing the name of that record label into google reveals http://godisnolongeradj.wordpress.com/tag/partisan-recordings.

End of an era for old junglist mastiffs like me. Metalheadz @ Blue Note is over, Rave is long dead, the time when you could only hear dnb on Kool are dog-gone days.

Welcome to the Northern metropolis; new breaks to cause havoc with your ears. The heat, the dust, the wood-sprung dance floor, ‘chill-out’ room reminded me of raving at Labyrinth. Back in the day it was acid techno, crusties and their dogs on strings; in Antwerps’ dry-smoke atmosphere neo-punk tattooed fashion dreads, the moss-side man dem, the obligatory new-in-town-students and kids from Bolton get down and dirty. Did I say it was dirty? Did I say the barmaids were a bit stroppy? Was I drunk? I know one Dj who was.

Jim Bane’s sold me records during my student stint in town… Remember trekking to Eastern Bloc as gren-in-the-gills teenager from Bradford. Back when records were things you worked hard to afford, spent time tracking down. I’d go to Band on the Wall, listen out for the latest Calibre tune; wake up early the next day then try and whistle the bass line to E.Bloc staff and hope they wouldn’t laugh as you tried to remember which DJ played the damn tune…

That was then. This was last weekend and it was Blane’s B.day. To celebrate in true monkey-chester style, the MC’s Strategy was to goad B.day Boy into downing a bottle of some evil-looking spirit.

A souped up version of Adam F’s Metropolis  and short but sweet set followed. Heading out for some ‘fresh air’ to steel my lungs for the forthcoming inevitable Breakage I papped these pieces.


Outside the Mansion Islamic youth breaking fast with a sly smoke mingled uneasily with the imbibing Westerners. Northurn English Bolton accents mixed with Spanglish. Some Polish-sounding Sklepie-shop-keeper’s (son?-) asked me who it was? Hendrix I shouted back as I tumbled back in for some more audio carnage.

Bolton Bird (after a particularly heavy night;-) – scroll to the right to view the alfresco ‘gents’ urinal.

Current under kings of break driven amen music (am sure there’s a snappier term but that’s what it was: Pure, Simple, Dirty, bass – EDM is dead long live PSD&B;-). Breakages’ own Clarendon tune was a highlight of their set for me. Liking the syncopation between the MC’s tone and the tune’s bass – any tune with that level of bass and an ‘O Dread’ sample is all right by me.

At the end of the night it was late (or early depending on which way you looked at things;-); I staggered to my bike and pedalled myself home. A good end to a dirty night.

Woke up the next day with an ear infection (so now I know better than to stay up beyond my bed-time;-)



Can’t resist by offering this anthropological definition of dirt… (don’t eat the yellow snow kids;-)