excess baggage

Wednesday 22nd February, 11.43 am, Beijing. To 2 Kollegas last night for unambiguously named "Experimental Night". This Night really holds a mirror up to one's face and asks the important question 'Are you deep enough?'. Having ruminated on this for a while, I can now disclose that in no way am I 'deep' enough for 'Experimental Night' or, indeed, any sort of evening that involves tremendously focused people twiddling knobs on a box and producing scarcely-altering feedback notes. That's consecutive feedback notes, not layers of notes - just one earspliting note careening across the audible spectrum from 21kHz to, ooh... 21.01 khz. I apologise if this makes for distasteful reading, but I'm a philistine who appreciates dynamics in my music. I'm not so trite to demand anything so bourgeoisie as a tune, but, y'know, the odd pulse or blip would go down a treat. But that's just me. The great thing about this night is that the audience [mainly French so far as i can tell] are so intent. Let me tell you, if you haven't been to one of these extravaganzas yourself, this ain't no spectator sport. But, again, that's just little old me. Every Tuesday night the place is full of otherwise well adjusted people [so far as this description applies to the French] enrapt by every flick of a switch, every twiddle of a dial, every time the guy in the beanie sitting on stage surrounded by enough machinery to launch, guide and ultimately crash a probe to Venus scratches his head or scowls at a screen. I tried watching for a while myself - just to see if i could keep it up. I could - for about seventeen seconds before i started desperately wishing that someone would send me a text message or start a fight with me or announce they were running for President or anything that would relieve the visual monotony. Last night, however, was an extra special evening, being 'Experimental Film Night'. They'd rigged up a sheet on the stage and a projector at the rear and we were in audiovisual heaven. I'll try something unusual here and attempt to be fair... to be fair some of the films were halfway interesting - with half hearted attempts at narrative and suchlike. See there I go being all crypto-fascist again with my implied need for 'narrative'. Didn't I hear that 'narrative' is dead? Well, no, I didn't. It must have been in one of the pamphlets they were handing out that I didn't bother to read. Unfortunately the vaguely interesting films were outnumbered by the, ahem... abstract films. Films of Japanese guys climbing trees and then playing lullabies on ukuleles for no discernable purpose are not really my bag, nor are 'travelogues' of the same Nipponese guy in Australia collecting his saliva in a bottle and then, in the final set piece, frying it up. But then again, as I've already mentioned elsewhere, I'm a philistine. Once again, there was the same audience, entranced by this - even friends of mine. I spent a lot of time looking around trying to find an ally in childish sniggering. Not a smile in the place. Felt rather ashamed of myself. I was very thankful for the arrival of Tom, whereupon we retired to the bar and mocked like the naughty school boys we both undoubtedly felt like. For all that, i really do actually enjoy Tuesday nights at 2 Kollegas. It's a strangely nice little place with a warm cozy atmosphere for such a dump. The staff are nice, the gin seems kosher and its wall to wall foxy French birds who seem to smile at me. But seriously, if I'm ever to pull one of these foxy French birds I need a chronic attitude adjustment. Now, where's that copy of Derrida? Sunday 19th February, 3.45pm, Beijing Let's talk about Martin Carr. Lyricist/Guitarist/Arranger for long forgotten 90's British indie rock heroes Boo Radleys. The Radleys, as no-one except me ever called them, were in the second [possibly third] wave of bands that followed in the loud distorted 'shoegaze' wake of sonic genii 'My Bloody Valentine'. First album - 'Everything Changes' was fairly generic pedal-effect-guitar-noise stuff with one or two stand out tunes. However, it was enough to get them signed to Creation. Alan McGee [head cokehead at Creation] was convinced that he'd signed himself the next, much much lower budget, 'Valentines'. As it happened he was right about the budget, but wrong about the valentines-hope. Whilst Kevin Shields [head timewaster for the Valentines] fired the rest of the band and disappeared into the studio for the next 20,000 years, Carr and the embarrassingly named Sice Rowbottom crafted 'Giant Steps' - one of the great undiscovered classic albums of the nineties. Full of sudden gear changes, sonic experiments and, lest we forget, the earth-moving 'Lazarus', still a necessary play at every Indie Night. It was inconceivable that the Boos [as everyone except me called them] could top 'Giant Steps', and they presumably realised as much themselves. One hopes so anyway. It would be a terrible thing to accept that 1995's 'Wake Up' was a legitimate attempt to match the grandeur of 'Giant Steps'. 'Wake Up', whilst containing saving grace tunes such as 'Find the answer within' and 'Wilder', wears its' mid-90's wannabe -Britpop heart on it's sleeve. Risible single 'Wake Up Boo!' rose to the top of the charts but was in no way reflective of the power under the hood of the Boo Radleys. Some sort of retrenching seems to have taken place after the commercial success of 'Wake Up!' - follow-up 'C'mon Kids' is an almost-return to gorgeous eclectic form. However, the band seemed to have been listening to a little too much 'Guided by voices' for their own good - not in terms of the music produced, which couldn't be farther removed from GBV, but in terms of the almost flippant way glorious hooks are used and then willfully discarded before they've had time to register. Almost as if in seeking to distance themselves from the Top Of The Pops fodder of 'Wake Up', they'd become embarrassed by their pop nous. Still, 'C'mon Kids' was a large step back in the right direction... swiftly followed by the huge pratt-fall that was 'King Size'. The less said about this travesty the better. Their final album, one understands why. So the band split up... Sice went on to plumb the depths of mediocrity as 'Eggman', the pseudonym an ever-so-clever reference to Sice's bald pate which tells you all you need to know about the music he produced under it. The rhythm section went on to do... erm.. whatever it is that rythym sections do when bands splits up. Martin Carr, meanwhile, went on trading under the name 'Brave Captain'. Truth be told, this is when I more or less stopped caring... until I heard this tune while sitting on a 'plane to South Africa and was inspired to spew out the following alcohol-feuled bilge about it: "All watched over by machines of love and grace" [off his new album] is a berserker of a tune. Not in a Number Girl/Lightning Bolt kind of way, but in a totally mad way. Starting as a fairly innocuous, almost 'twee' tune sung in fairly broad scouse [Sice on backup vocals?], all casiotone rhythms and simple couplets. Hell, it could almost be a Lightning Seeds' tune! But then... but then... around one minute everything starts to go a little strange. Martin Carr has found himself a drum machine! For the next minute or so vaguely 'drum n' bassish' fills pan around the stereophonic field, but as time passes the fills become more and more forceful and, perhaps, sloppy - slipping outside of what would seem to be their metrical bounds. By about two minutes in - you should be convinced that it's the best song ever written. But wait! There's more... the ride has just begun, to paraphrase the Doors.. There's a little bridge of horns and, dare I say it - CLARINET - to get you where you're going and where you're going is... TWO MINUTES TWELVE SECONDS in... this is the point at which your discerning listener [i.e. me] loses the plot. What the fuck happened to the Lightning Seeds' tune of a couple of minutes ago. All of a sudden it's Sonic Youth.... it's Suicide... it's Flying Saucer Attack... it's all gone fucking BEZERK! A solid wall of distorted guitar, a succession of tremeloed fucked up notes overlaid with random electronica - beeps and whistles - take you in the direction that now seems inevitable, inexorable, but which seconds before would never have crossed your mind. This song is STEREOPHONIC SEX. You realise that now. And not the kind of sex that you have with your partner of many years standing. This is the kind of dirty, borderline illegal sex you have with some bird/bloke you met five minutes ago and whose name has escaped you. Nasty, guilty, uninhibited by fears of tomorrow kind of sex. But Shit! It's not even over yet. we're only two thirds into the song. As we wipe our metaphorical willies off and smoke our symbolic post-coital cigarettes Carr and his music lead us in yet more directions. Like the coquette it is, the song has already moved on, even while we're still gasping for breath and tying a knot in it. Bitch! At the three minute mark, you begin to think that Itunes has fucked up again and started playing another tune. Something by Tubeway Army or some sort of electroclash shit has ram-raided Carr's song. You check the play list, nope - still the same song. WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON!? This song has more faces than a dungeon and dragons die [and an advanced on at that]. Finishing with a triumphant chorus - an halleluiah to brilliance and genius and comfort and fear and suspicion. That once - perhaps twice - in a career moment when all the experience - all the shit - all the dues - all the near-misses before - it all comes together in an incandescent package. In other words - it's a pretty good tune. Get it here: BRAVE CAPTAIN - ALL WATCHED OVER BY MACHINES OF LOVING GRACE 8.10 am, February 15th, Port Louis, Mauritius Wannabe stewardesses. Lots and lots of wannabe stewardesses... ehm, sorry, cabin crew. Anyway, you get the point. February 12th, c.5.00 am, somewhere over the Indian Ocean en route to Jo'burg But enough about me, let's talk about you? How are you? Feeling good…? OK, bored now, back to me and the fabulous wonderful effervescent cavalcade of joy and sexual satisfaction that is my life. Oh, yeah… and mention some music stuff. Music stuff first... Thousands upon thousands of shiny plastic discs containing Lonely China Day's much-spunked-on EP [download "Beijing.Realise" here] are currently on a big big ship sailing its leisurely way across the Pacific in the general direction of you lucky bastards in America. Since I'm currently sitting on a 'plane next to a large woman with tiny toes, the exact 'street' date for the EP has temporarily fled my mind, perhaps scared by the presence of so many nasty thoughts concerning the aforesaid tiny-toed heiffer. Anyway, recent proclamations from 'THE LOFT OF A THOUSAND STARS' [Tag Team HQ] indicated some sort of early March release, but that may have changed, these things do - all too frequently. It'll be posted up here somewhere or other. Oh no! She's splaying... ..................................................... Indie Night last Thursday went down a treat, if I say so myself. It's possible that the Sherman streak of rejections is over. I use fairly diffident language not because I'm unsure as to whether I pulled or not but because I'm unsure as to whether it counts. She was/is, after all, a slightly crazy ex-girlfriend of mine just passing through town. Not only that but I think the poor dear is madly in love with me - even after having not seen me for a year. Frankly, and I hope to God she never reads this, I think this comes under the heading of 'bonus pull' [or 'hook up', for any yanks bored enough to still be reading this] under international conventions and doesn't signify any sort of new age in the life of Sherman. But then again, maybe I just like to look every gift horse in the mouth and complain about its teeth. The next Indie Night, should you live in "the Big Slab" [Beijing] and have a pulse, is on the 23rd March. I'll be the one wearing a paisley moo-moo and waving my hand in the air like I just don't care. 1st February, 12.01 am So there I was - driving along with the guy I'm here to meet in one of those small tanks that many Americans insist upon calling 'cars' . He owns and runs a smallish record label here in LA. So I think we maybe have something in common. I don't run a label but I do know a shitload about music. However, he's coming from a very different musical place than me - he's this big, black urban-music kind of guy. I'm, um… not. I know nothing about Hip Hop beyond a deeply held belief that Del tha Funky Homosapian is a god and should definitely guest on the next Built To Spill album [Hey! It could happen!]. While we're at this point in the narrative I have a small point to raise; Why is black music referred to as 'Urban'? What?! As opposed to 'Rural'. As a very urban white man, I take offense. If, for example, the Wurzels moved to the city and recorded an album, would it be 'Urban' music? Aren't there any black people who live in the country? These are all questions that need to be asked... Anyway, so where were we? Oh yeah - driving in his tank, trying some experimental bonding over music. I apparently make an initial faux pas with a comprehensive drubbing of the plastic fantastics [no, not the Japanese loungecore band but the Britneys, Christinas and Ashlees of the world]. That gets me a look of incomprehension bordering on hostility from my host, so I back off that a little, question him about his preferences a little - turns out he 'hangs' with Snoop Dogg and has just recorded an album by Snoop's nephew - Scrapp Dogg [no, I swear I'm not making it up]. OK, so we're on fairly solid ground here - I am familiar with the oeuvre of Mr. Dogg. My host then asks me about the music I like. This is always tricky no matter who asks me, because I really do listen to some pretty obscure music. So my answer to this question is always couched in accessibility. If it was some vaguely indie-ish person asking I'd go with Broken Social Scene or Bloc party - not necessarily the toppermost of my pops but something they'd likely know. My host didn't strike me as one who would be down with the 'sound of young Canada' or British Post-Punk revival, so I decided to go with a band that surely everyone knows and loves - the Pixies. 'yeah, I think maybe I've heard of them, was the only response this elicited from mein host. This was a real revelation to me. In the musical world where I live - everything begins and ends with the Pixies. They are the alpha and omega of [American] Indie Music. Not knowing and loving the Pixies is to be scorned and socially excluded. But here was this bloke - professional music industry type in his early forties - who had no idea who they were. I say this not so much as an indictment of him, but rather as an indication of how dangerous and insular different genres of music can be. I think this especially applies to those of us who spend a lot of time submerged in the ever changing and ever-anal waters of indiedom. Hmm... got a little pompous there for a second, didn't it? Don't worry, more tales of sexual rejection and plugs for wonderful Tag Team releases coming soon. Not that you care. Los Angeles, 30th January, 5.01 am [PST] So here I am in sunny, dull, vast, monotonous Los Angeles. Here to meet with the gentlemen from the Barbary Coast to finalize a shipment of pickled spider-monkey bladders that we urgently need back in BJ [they're on the Submissionaries' tour rider]. Having just written that steaming pile of nonsense, I've just realized how easily it could be the synopsis of a Decemberist's Song. Hmm, I thought I had lots of witty things to say, but they've all evaporated - just like my interest in Weezer. There - now I've given you even more reason not to care. 29th January 2006, Somewhere over the pacific ocean en route to L.A., c. 6.00pm [Beijing Time] Everything ROCKS! 6.02 pm Ok, ok, so in actual fact everything remains pretty shitty, but I thought I'd take this opportunity, while the free wine that the lovely folks at United Airlines supply me with is coursing through my veins, to underline some of the things that are slightly less shitty, Viz. Indie Night Rocked! Which is not something I would usually say while I'm pretending to be British, but there - I've just gone ahead and said it. Indie night was a resounding success [that's better - Ed]. Kyle slipped right into the mix like George Michael entering a pretzel - but in a good way. Good crowd - showed up late, but I guess we'll have to forgive them. Even had a couple of local celebs show up - well, Gregg and Kelso from the Submissionaries, but they still count. They still seem to be looking for step one of the twelve-step programme. Initially, felt slightly ashamed at the amount of pandering necessary to get people on the dance floor, but then Kagler played the Killers and I felt like Billy Graham next to his soiled Jerry Fallwell. I have some vague memories of actually dancing at points. This would be the second time this year that I have been seen dancing in public - I think I might be having some sort of nervous breakdown. Fear not, I was rejected at least once during the night, so normal service continues. There was some fairly overt eye-contact maintained with various other women throughout the night, but nothing'll come of that, either. Besides, while stipulating that sexual confidence is not one of my strong points, I do tend to reach a certain point of inebriation where I become convinced that women are eyeing me up. Most unlikely. These days there doesn't seem to be any amount of alcohol I can consume that would enable me to actually talk to any of these women without dissolving into a pool of sweat and self-effacement. Having said that, there most certainly is an amount of booze that enables me to maintain brazen eye-contact with the poor unfortunate creatures at the wrong end of this conviction. Be honest, you don't care. Stumbled home at some point [after my final rejection of the evening], kidnapped Kagler on his way home, and we spent the rest of the night 'grooving' to the Grateful Dead [just like in that Loudon Wainwright song]. That's RIGHT! The DEAD! We're not ashamed, nor are we alone - have you ever listened to Stephen Malkmus? Sure as Billy Corgan's summer home is up his arse, you know Malkmus has got a full set of Fillmore Bootlegs at home and knows all the words to 'Terrapin Station' and he FARTS Indie! Deal with it!*. *Admittedly, Kagler later insisted on listening to some 'Loving Spoonful' and smearing himself with patchouli oil - this may have been a step too far in the wrong direction. I woke up at about 5pm the next day on Kagler's sofa, and here's the weird thing, with my cat. Total blackout. No memory whatsoever of getting to Casa Kagler. This never happens to me. I'm occasionally drunk, but always have embarrassingly total recall. And what the fuck was my cat doing there? Weird. Kagler showed up and explained that he had feared for my safety or something so resolved to manhandle me up to his place. This made more sense when I got back to what was left of my place, which I had whimsically decided to redecorate with broken crockery and glass. Strangest of all, I found my telephone, disconnected, under my pillow. What strange madness. Definitely a nervous breakdown. When last I saw her, the cat was understandably giving me the evil eye. Let's face it, you still don't really care. Do you? [back to Excessbloggage Archive]