We were a fine bunch – drunks, junkies, phobics and some serious nutcases. One actual nutcase. Dante we called him. When I was introduced to him I remember thinking ‘fuck that’s an even cooler name than Racine,’ but what can you do? He reckons we were all on Dante’s trip through the hells or something but that was obviously bollocks since we never went anywhere. No arguing with Dante though, logic, sense or clarity didn’t particularly take his fancy. As far as I can make out he went tripping one day with his mates and spent the next thirty years doped up in a loony bin. Couldn’t say what he died of, boredom maybe. He’d fill your mind with nonsense if you paid him any attention. Sometimes you would because listening to him was like watching colours spinning.

”Doctors told me no razor blades between meals cos everything’s red between the sheets and then they plug you into the motherboard off with eyes like a slot machine”

After a while it got annoying. Maybe after all those years he had a backlog of thoughts he had to get rid of. Maybe I’m full of shit, who’s to say?

And so we’d spent our nights chattering and our days wondering around looking at
people. After a while you’d take a few as pets. Once you knew the basic pattern of their lives, where they worked, lived, hung out, you could check in on them anytime and see how they were getting on. Like a soap opera, only with better dialogue. Cathy was my favourite. She was eighteen when I met her, in her last year of school and fairly typical in most respects. Young, optimistic, bubbly, pert. She was quite pretty and had such a natural and easy laugh I kind of fell for her. In my sad and pathetic existence I had long experience with unrequited love so it wasn’t that much of a stretch for me. Everything was so exciting to her, going out, drinking, talking, shopping. All she needed was another person and she burst into life. She talked such sweet silly nonsense I loved to just stand and watch her gush. It’s those babbling brooks again.

As for my life since that morning, I think it would be just fine if I could only sleep. Just to forget I exist for a few hours. Being constantly awake turns reality into Chinese water torture. Every moment clangs through you. Endless time. I’ll never make it till the sun burns out. Plato thought me to meditate and that helps a little. I go down and stare at the river for a few hours each day. It stops your mind degrading into a babble of nonsense.

Back when I was alive I became over time terrified of reality and proceeded to divorce myself from it through drink and drugs. Now I find myself staring at it constantly and hating it even more.

Plato was the best of us and he became a kind of mentor to me. He taught me the lore of the blues. He said he never knew a blue that was dead for more that a hundred years. Once, soon after he himself died, he met a blue who died in the civil war and that was back in the twenties. That blue, Carson, had wandering into an ambush meant for someone else, killed by his own side. After seventy years of hanging around Carson said he always wanted to see America and walked off into the sea. That was eight years ago now and I sometimes picture Carson wandering around the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, having long since lost all sense of direction.

He told me there was a psychic up in Henry Street who could see us but she wasn’t much use as she assumed we knew more about the afterlife than she did. I went to see her one time and she kept telling me to move toward the light. Once I explained there was no light she kind of dried up on me.

Plato said we’re in limbo and we’ll stay here until we’ve served our time or had some
insight or something. He said he knew plenty of blues who just disappeared. One day
they just weren’t there anymore. He’s convinced they went upstairs but nobody can say for sure.

“Yes, right everybody”

“Oh a new one.”

“Yes everyone meet -”

“You poor boy”

“Calm down Rebecca, meet Racine.”

“Racine? That’s not your real name!”

“No, but if I have to be a ghost I’m going to have a cool name.”

“Mine’s Rebecca.”

“Hi.”

“How did you die?”

They all listened like vampires feeding off the fresh energy of my voice. Their own
stories had been told to death and now they listened and questioned and listened until I was drained, sucked dry.

“Do you want to hear how I died?”

Jesus no, I thought, Rebecca seemed nice enough but seemed to have a kind of tragic
rebel hero notion about herself and by God I’d enough of that for two lifetimes.

“Sure, I’d love to.”

There were one or two groans from the congregation.

“I was a junkie for about four years-

Rebecca talked real fast, a real energizer bunny of speech.
“-and I tried to quit one night, so I locked myself into a room but the withdrawal was so bad -

she was very pretty though

“-I had a heart-attack and died -

I would have loved to have fucked her

“-I couldn’t get over the shock, I couldn’t believe I’d never be able to take smack again, not to mind-

If only I could

“-I screamed and shouted for days. Some guy down the road died at same time and
everybody thought he had a banshee. The family were always well respected after that, cos you know only noble families get a banshee.”

Ah well.

DAER IN THE LORD,

I THINK THE REQUIREMENT HAS BEEN COMPLITED WITH DIFFRANT PICTURES AS YOU DIRECTED THAT WE SHOULD TAKE IT.

THEREFORE, I WILL BE LOVED IN YOUR URGENT REPLY TO THIS ´MAIL;

LOOKING FORWARD TO HEAR FROM YOU.

NB: THAT I AM STILL EXPECTING YOUR PHONE AND FAX NUMBER FOR EASY COMMUNICATION.

MAY THE GOD ALMIGHTY BE WITH YOU FOR EVER;

EVANG SAMUEL EZE.

Dear Samuel,

Thank you again for the picture which you sent to me today and I am sure that the donation committee will be happy with them when they are seen in the next meeting.

Samuel, I am sad to say that I have received a disturbing email this evening.

I was sent an email from a pastor Joseph Otumba who also claims he is from the God’s Love Bible Ministry. He is asking for money, clothes, books and other materials. I contacted him to tell him that I was already in contact with you (Samuel Eze) but he contacted me to tell me that there is no such person in his ministry. Please can you tell me what is going on, this is very disturbing.

I have copied Mr. Otumba’s email below for your examination. Do you know this man, and why is he claiming that his God’s Love Bible Ministry does not know you?

Sincerely,

Father Ted Crilley.

419 Eater. Big in Nigeria.

So the spammers won. I tired of waking up every day and cleaning up penis enlargement spam. Goodbye, b00mbl0g, I’ve abandoned you to the giant dicked, brute force marketeers of the Net.

This software is already in use for the mix section of the site. This is actually another installation of WordPress, so any user accounts there don’t work here. The easy thing to do is to just register under the same password I’ve found.

All the authors are transferred and just need to contact us re getting a new password. Anyone can now register an account and login and write an article. These articles won’t be published straight away, but will be reviewed within 24 hours and most likely published. Unless it’s penis spam. I’ve had enough of that stuff.

There was some formatting issues with some of the blogs I see, some ?s listed where there used to be ’s. Why did it do it for this and not for the mixes? Who knows. Some of the old comment author names are listed twice, eg, naz naz. That’s a little annoying.

I suppose we need a new blogging tutorial too.

This week, it’s a shrinkage of format from 12 inches down to 7. And rather than dwelling on the highlights, I’ve included some lowlights, too.

First up, it’s:

Red Organ Serpent Sound - In Search of Orgasmuz (Vertigo)

I’m usually one to grouch about all things retro but while this one wears it’s ’60s garage influence on its sleeve, it pulls it off very well (****). The flip side is a live cut called Cruisin’ - like many live recordings it’s not ideally suited to a record but it certainly does enough to suggest that they’re a band worth seeing (***).

The Warlocks - It’s Just Like Surgery (City Rockers)

It’s Just Like … the Marychain, to be honest. Had the Reid brothers not been born, it’d be a decent record; as it is, it just makes you want to listen to the real thing (**). The b-side, Heart Thief, wins the day comfortably as a decent stab at ’60s style psychedelia (***1/2).

Misty’s Big Adventure - The Story Of Love (SL)

Quite simply, a good song. The lyrics are good, the tune is good. The sound is fairly sparse but there’s a warmth to it. It’s good! (****) I Buried The Neighbours is one of those odd little numbers that you could only possibly put on a b-side - quirky but entertaining (***)

Mando Diao - Down In The Past (Majestic)

Didn’t Kingmaker used to sound like this? I can’t quite remember. It’s a decent enough track, though it gives way too much emphasis to some fairly non-descript drumming. It’s good to let the drummer take the lead if he happens to sound like Budgie or Bonzo but not if he sounds like her out of The White Stripes. (***) On the flip “India Love” suggests all sorts of musical limitations. The singer is quite good, though. (*)

Humanzi - Fix The Cracks (SFR)

I quite enjoyed this at 45 where it sounded like some mad Japanese thing. At 33, it’s got a nice guitar sound to it and its not too bad. But someone really needs to tell the singer that he’s not Shaun Ryder (***1/2). On the other side Get Your Shit Together grooves along nicely enough but does everything to reinforce the idea that these guys need to sell their old Mondays records (***).

The Paddingtons - Sorry (Poptones)

Sorry, indeed. (*) B-side Claire My Dear is a painful reminder of just how bad the singer is. (no stars)

Richard Hawley - Coles Corner (Mute)

Blimey! A proper song by a proper singer with some lush string arrangements by a chap called Colin Elliot. The sort of thing Sinatra might have sung and while this guy might not be able to sing as well as the great man himself, he’s clearly a very talented singer-songwriter. (****1/2) Backed by A Bird Never Flew On One Wing, a pleasant slide-guitar instrumental that suggests he has more than one string to his bow. (***1/2)

My Morning Jacket - Off The Record (ATO)

Hardly the best pressing I’ve ever come across and I rather suspect that Off The Record should sound a little brighter than my copy suggests. (***) How Could I Know sounds destined for third-rate accoustic miserablism but turns into something rather engaging (****)

Happy Mondays/Graeme Revell Playground Superstar/Santiago’s Theme (Big Brother)

It might not be up there with Kinky Afro but it’s certainly as good as anything they’ve done since Thrill’n'Pills. A lesson from the old masters to the likes of Humanzi. It’s good to have them back. (****1/2) The Graeme Revell track is slightly incongrous company for The Mondays (both are culled from the Goal! soundtrack). It starts off all classical and then gets funky on us, a nice track (****)

Drive By Argument - Sex Lines Are Expensive Comedy (One)

Good title, bad record. (*) The Afro Ninja Remix on the back is slightly more bearable (**)

Engerica - Roadkill (Sanctuary)

Punk rock of the tuneless and talentless variety (*) The flip, Detective Show, left me feeling highly embarrassed for them. Imagine David Brent reading you his poetry. Lamentable. (less than no stars)

Corinne Bailey Rae - Like A Star

Smokey, late-night jazz. Well sung and well arranged. Classy (****1/2). On the back, Enchantment is given a more modern arrangement which doesn’t really do it any favours. The vocal is excellent, though. (***1/2) Nicely pressed, too.

Morning Runner - Be All You Want Me To Be (Parlophone)

Histrionic, over-blown and self-consciously epic. It will probably go down a storm at Glasto but, to quote Morrissey, it says nothing to me about my life (**). Frayed Edges is a little more interesting (***1/2).