ISSUE 29
JULY 2007
"He tried to weigh his soul to see if it was a poet's soul. Melancholy was the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it was melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple joy. If he could give expression to it in a book of poems perhaps men would listen." James Joyce
Welcome to Hiroshima Yeah!, a zine that is �published� as regularly (and as messily) as a cunt bleeds � just like all those �proper� mags� Mojo, Q, etc. Only WE don�t merely trade in safe and shallow sound-bite shite. WE give it to you RAW and BLOODY. FUCK the celeb interviews � those sad-sacks have ZERO to say that you�ve not heard a trillion times before - and FUCK the glossy colour pages and the worthless destined-for-the-charity-shop cover-mount CDs. HY! is written by the DREGS of society, who do it for LOVE not MONEY. You KNOW we�ll give you the truth �cos you KNOW we�ve got NOTHING to lose. This issue is by Mark Ritchie and Gary Simmons. You can point mice (and other small, furry animals that squeak) at www.geocities.com/sniperglue if you REALLY want to.
GOING INTO A HEALTH-FOOD SHOP WHEN DRUNK
It�s as if they have a machine to monitor your decay
as they watch you pay with pitiful eyes,
for your roll or your pasty.
Knowing it�s hopeless, they still ask
�Would you like to buy the new Men�s Health magazine?�
and you want to rip out their teeth
and swim with the goldfish in their empty head
but instead you say �No thanks� and wait
for the transaction to be completed,
so you can get back to the pub
and continue your work-out.
THE TRAP OF EVOLUTION
Funny little creatures, aren�t we?
Wasting our time with crossword puzzles, carousels,
following the racing results,
painting our nails, polishing floors that don�t even belong to us,
feeding the great jaws of death with our puny sacrifices.
Wasting our time feeling hate and greed and jealousy
and other emotions that only drain our spirit,
reducing mighty warriors to empty husks,
drowning in the shallows, gasping for air.
We�re funny little creatures who don�t know when to stop accumulating �
money, possessions, knowledge.
Enough is NEVER enough.
We call this evolution and the trap it has created
is that some of us exist in poverty and starve to death in rags
while others live in palaces and sleep on scented pillows
in rooms filled with fresh flowers.
Some people say that when we stop evolving, we die,
but don�t believe them.
Knowing when to stop is perhaps our greatest gift.
It means that we don�t push our bodies
beyond their capabilities (at least MOST of the time),
it means that we don�t drink ourselves to death
on quiet nights out with friends
or repeat the same joke too many times
for fear of embarrassing ourselves.
So, why don�t we all STOP EVOLVING
and instead waste MORE of our time
admiring sunsets, armadillos,
flooding the newspapers with pointless letters,
surfing impossible waves, screaming into the static,
fooling the hard and hopeless horror-show world again and again.
There�s nothing to fear, my friends,
for all of this time is ours to beautifully waste.
THE KIDS AT THE BAR
I see traces of myself
in the kids who sit
unsurely at the bar.
Looking at them, I think,
You�ll be old in the blink of an eye
and still you�ll be hanging around in this place.
You may have a better job
or no job at all
and you may be married
with a couple of kids,
a few wrinkles and a pot belly
but you�ll still be doing exactly what you�re doing now �
laughing, fading,
drinking away the doubts,
simply trying to stay afloat for a little bit longer.
So why you look so SMUG right now,
I just don�t know.
SHADOW BOXING
You see them everywhere -
ex sports stars hanging around in pubs
talking to strangers about past glories
on the pitch or in the ring.
They can never seem to give up on that buzz
brought by the roar of the crowd
so they spend their lives seeking it out
on a much lesser scale,
shadow boxing with the smalltime.
It's amazing how many people are impressed,
who sit and listen intently to the old stories,
proffering drinks, cigarettes and warm handshakes.
After a while though, when the tales get tired,
they leave them there and go on to dinner with friends
or go home to their wives, to whom they'll say,
"You'll never guess who I was talking to in the pub tonight!
This drunk old guy who used to BE somebody!"
MRS WRIGHT
Peroxide haired,
dark eyeshadowed,
she fills the crystal glass with gin,
drains it,
then puts it into the sink
for the maid to take care of.
Absentmindedly taking another painkiller,
she flops down on the leather couch
and flicks channels on the wide screen TV,
wondering what her husband's doing at the office,
counting the hours 'til he comes home
so they can argue about the state of their finances
and the state of their lives.
Both of them have worked hard for this,
in their own ways,
for this big house with so many beautifully furnished rooms
in which to feel alone.
13.7 BILLION YEARS OF HELL
Selected Dispatches from an Unwilling Player of Gods� Little Game
By Gary Simmons
Pistols live at Finsbury Park 1996 plays, LOUD!! Had horrid dreams : I was drinkin� with Steve but he wanted to stay in this Tottenham Court Road pub and show me his work, some kind of book dedicated to/or about ME!! (In a GOOD way about me). And the time was getting late and I couldn�t afford a round for him and his/my (?) two mates and the night was ruined coz I wanted to be alone and do my OWN thing in my OWN way!! Then I dreamt of Philip Best with eyeliner and he�s gay and he�s talking to me and my Hinoeuma/Red Rose mates in some suburban street� Thank FUCK for reality!! If it IS reality. �If it IS they�� Wow, Pistols are powerful!! I play �em to start my day of mayhem!! I drink in 1� HOURS!! Saw �them� talking about stopping the dole to folk who see it as PAY!! On Matt Wright. CUNTS! It�s �conscience money� say Crass. Stop our dole, see the cuntry DESTROYED, baby!!!!
*
Saw Buzz Aldrin (2nd man on the moon, 21.7.1969) on that Cockney git�s program. The git was only JUST bearable and Aldrin was a charming gentleman as always, bless him. 2000 years from now, his and Armstrong�s names may be the ONLY names that humanity�s descendants will remember from this age. Or maybe it�ll be Bill Gates? Or Einstein? Or Gary Glitter. Think about it� 3000 years from now? 5000? 10,000? 50,000? How do you feel? I asked you; HOW do you FEEL?! 100,000 years?? Think man, THINK! Think like you�ve NEVER thought before! Think of the pyramids, think of Stone Henge� THEY lasted far, far longer than the world trade towers! The trip to the moon by �conventional� rocket takes 3� days to make the 250,000 mile journey. Travel at the speed of light and you cut 3� days down to 1� SECONDS! Travel to the sun at light speed, 93,000,000 miles away, and it�ll take you a hot-under-the-collar 8 minutes. Travel to the nearest STAR and it will take you 4 YEARS. A two-way phone-call (shock), a �Hello?� and a �Hello, this is�� would take 8 years to and from that star. The galaxy is 100,000 light years across. Look into the depths of space and see young galaxies as they were MILLIONS of years ago, coz the light has taken THAT long to reach us! And every cunt down here thinks they�re SOOO fuckin� important. Posh! Jade! Bush! Porsche drivers! Cowboy builders, �top� models, brat pop stars� Give us all a fuckin� BREAK, man!! �I saw my funeral that day, I KNOW who didn�t show remorse�� Megadeth. Dust in piss, the whole fuckin� dull LOT of you.
GEROGARY.K.K.K.�S �PELCOMBE TRAINING HAVE TOLD ME THAT MR. SIMMONS IS EXPRESSING CONCERN ABOUT A WORK PLACEMENT IN ILFORD BECAUSE HE FEELS HIS STYLE OF DRESS COULD CAUSE HIM TO BE VICTIMISED. I HAVE OFFERED HIM MONEY FROM THE ADVISOR DISCRETION FUND TO BUY SUITABLE BUSINESS ATTIRE FOR HIS WORK PLACEMENT. HE HAS REFUSED THIS OFFER AND DOES NOT WANT TO BUY BUSINESS CLOTHES� PLAY-LIST
THROBBING GRISTLE � PASTIMES/INDUSTRIAL MUZAC. Cassette (IRC. 198?)
THROBBING GRISTLE � SECOND ANNUAL REPORT. LP (45 fuckin� quid�s worth. MAGNIFICENT!! Industrial Records. 1977)
THROBBING GRISTLE � DIMENSIA IN EXCELSIS. LP (Live at the Veterans Auditorium, LA 22.5.1981. Tesco Organisation. 1998)
TIMO � SONGS ON A 1950�S TAPE RECORDER. Cassette (Given to me by the may-un himself, this seven-tracker has a �master� sticker on it so I ass-you-mmm� IT�S THE MASTER! Contains the wonderful song �Harry�, all about Timo�s mate who had a sex change. 1999)
TIMO � NUMBERS 2 + SONGS ON A 1950�S TAPE RECORDER. Cassette (Released version of the above, minus two songs but preceded by 16 more� includes the absolute classics �But I Did�, �Fungus Among Us� and, a song for killing yourself to, �The Point of Everything�. OUT-FUCKIN�-STAN-DING!! 199?)
TIMO � A NICE BOY AND HIS FRIENDLY GUITAR. Cassette (Herein� doth be the now ultra-rare, chart-topping hit 7� �I Must Be Right�. 1993)
TIMO � MONO. Cassette (Contains the ballad, a true story, �I Scream�. I just LOVE that bit about molesting little girls in the back of the ice cream van. Fruity Loli�s Snickers anyone? Or a fudge brownie sore-bet perhaps? They�re DELICIOUS! Kaw. 1996)
TIMO - #199/QUIET SONGS. Cassette (Includes every Job �Seekers� Allowance claimant�s anthem, �Sick Note�� YEAH!! Also watch out for �Scotch and Water� and �The Dead Guy�. What a lost talent our Timo is. I love him. Kaw. 1999)
TIMO � I MUST BE RIGHT. 7� (Limited edition of 100. Very rare. Very expensive. Very give us the money please we�re desperate. Kaw 2001)
TIMO � THE LAST TAPE. Cassette (1998)
MUSIC
DJ UNFIT FOR WORK � STILL ALIVE- L.A.M.F. (MAD PRIDE) www.madpride.org.uk
The, frankly brilliant, artist�s name had led me to believe that this CD would contain hip-hop or dance type stuff, but NO! DJ Unfit for Work isn�t on the Mad Pride label for nothing, you know! Confounding all expectations, he delivers the singer-songwritery goods with pianos and guitars and a sedate yet passionate voice and many of the eight tracks here sound like a fucked-up version of the Pet Shops Boys. Opener �Watchover� is a stand-out, keeping itself afloat on undercurrents of feedback and warm, understated electronica while �Mellow My Madness� and �Stephen�s Homeless� are confessional, heartfelt and heartbreaking. The line �Phil Collins nowhere to be found� (which relates to the smug ex-drummer�s �80s mega-hit �Another Day in Paradise�, a song so patronising that he should have been �awarded� the DEATH PENALTY) is laugh-out-loud funny and also sad-as-fuck. There is more of a dancey feel to �Love in These Times�, which also samples the New York Dolls (the �L.A.M.F.� part of the album�s title was also nicked from them � well, from Johnny Thunders and The Heartbreakers at least), before �Marli� slows things down with a tune that is beguilingly cloaked in mystery thanks to some treated vocals that render its lyrics indecipherable. The twinkling keys, string effects and open-wound words of �Just Cos� recall John Lennon circa his �Plastic Ono Band� album while �Tomorrow� seems to go in a more George Harrison direction with a vaguely Indian feel about it, before it decides to explode into Bhangra-tastic beats aplenty! �Don�t Face the World Alone� is a sombre moment of reflection that recalls ANOTHER great self-recording songwriter whose life was ALSO blighted by homelessness, namely FM Cornog (AKA East River Pipe. Check out HIS music if you wanna hear the American side of this particular coin). The final track is a, rather pointless, reprise of the first but it (and the fact that the final three songs all run together as one) can�t spoil this nifty little album.
MARK TUCKER � BATSTEW (DE STIJL)
This 1975 home-recorded album from Mark Tucker is WAY weird. The CD Baby website calls it �non-commercial, convoluted, industrial crypto-psych-folk-rock weirdness� and who am I to argue? In between tracks consisting entirely of Tucker�s 1964 Cadillac (nicknamed �The Bat�) revving and honking and the nutter TALKING to said car, there are songs about pre-pubescent homo-love (�Sideways Love Forever�), �Wicker Man�-esque ballads (�Honey Tree�), hey-nonny-no type medieval madrigals (�Bataszew�) and a totally hilarious tale of the daily torments of a suburban housewife (�1964 Cadillac�/�Kids�). There�s also �Submerged Bat Vortex�, a nightmarish urban symphony of tape manipulation that sounds like being stuck in the traffic jam from Hell. At one point, while chatting to his car, Tucker says �I guess I�m just crazy, huh?� and that�s KIND of what makes this album so good. It pre-dates other home-taping legends like Daniel Johnston by several years and the sleeve-notes, telling of obsessive love, mental illness and �paranormal phenomena� go some way to explaining just why it sounds so strange and unique.
THE APOSTLES � BLOW IT UP, BURN IT DOWN (SELF RELEASED)/RISING FROM THE ASHES (SELF RELEASED)/THE CURSE OF THE CREATURE (SELF RELEASED)/SMASH THE SPECTACLE (MORTARHATE) by Gary Simmons
Maybe Brother Jim MacDougall Suckfizzle wanted rid of these four manky early-to-mid-80s anarcho punk 7�s. Why ELSE bother to send �em to this most venerable MOTHER of all zines? The postage would EASILY have bought a bowel-stool of Sainsbury�s Basics cider� I just don�t get it. A not-too-detailed inspection of these records brings to light the dreary old clich�d themes such as; pay no more than bla-bla-bla price (what, 22 years latus RECTUM?!?!), anti-police, anti-racist, anti-vivisection, pro-class war, pro-squat, pro-homes-for-the-homeless (aw, FUCK OFF!), pro-care for the infirm and elderly (what a fuckin� WASTE of resources!), pro-sexist, pro-rapist, pro-nuclear� nah, just kidding, but at least I made a point by trying to �entertain�. This here is just dreary and tee-dee-arse and it bored the living FUCK outta me, on an ALREADY fucklessly boring day. LITERALLY! Slogans? �Why experiment on animals when you can experiment on scientists instead?� Er, yeah, right, that should well-solve THAT almost impossibly difficult and contentious ethical and moral debate, easy-fucking-PEASY! Gods� gracious arsehole all beturded!! These four EPs come in fold-out poster-like baggy-wags, some with twee little photocopied booklets, containing more text than your luscious editor and I have exchanged with each other over the past YEAR! Crass brought all these hyper-leftist ideologies to your attention by kicking you in the aural cunt �n� cock department, but this is just bland, wishy-washy yawnsville. That ISN�T to say that The Apostles don�t (didn�t) have their own take on the genre, but it didn�t inspire ME to get out of bed at some ghastly hour and set to work exhuming someone�s granny from her mouldering old grave. (Yuk� although SOME girls do look GREAT in body-bag and panties. Maybe some fucking �celeb� sow will start to MARKET �em as a set? Kate and co?? Go on, zip-it-up, BABY!!) Anyway, this whole affair just makes me so snug and cosily glad that I became an extreme right-wing Burlington Berty RACIST, an Al-Qaeda-supporting binge-drinkin� dole scum manic depressive oligist DRUNK, a Rabelaisian promoter of libertinage, and a staunch affinitarian for the commonplace obsession of the middle-aged wreck of rock �n� roll former-self for the adolescent white-hot 21st century puberulent punk chick. YEAH!
EDITH FROST � WONDER WONDER (DRAG CITY)
Had a dream I was hanging out in a flat with Stephen Boyd and James from the flat and we went to collect a 3-piece suite and were on a train. Weird. Got up at 5am for a piss and heard James knock on John's door for a drink! Dunno WHY I'm fuckin' surprised anymore. Went back to sleep and woke up at 8.25. Had a coffee and a hot cross bun and roll. Finished doing a tape for someone. Walked to Shawlands, stopping to buy Koka noodles in Super Asia on the way and reduced indian snacks in Somerfield on Victoria Road. Looked in the charity shops there and got this Edith Frost CD for 99p in Oxfam Music. Only noticed when I got out of the shop that it was a CDR copy, but still - a bargain! Sat by the pond in Queens Park for a while, watching the ducks and swans then went to the Bay Horse just before 1pm, got a pint of Special and read the Metro while waiting for Joe, who showed up about 15 minutes later and told me all their news - they'd been to a funeral and got really pissed on whiskey and can't recall getting home. That's when Cat did her back in and she's still off work with it but they were out in Sir John's yesterday and saw John McMaster, who was really pissed. I gave Joe his birthday shit - a DIY card, a Murakami book I had a double of and a homemade video of Gillian Welch and Townes Van Zandt. Had about 6� pints cos I accidentally spilled about half of one. It was a good afternoon and we left just before 6pm and I got a bus into town (misheard the driver and paid �1.50 instead of �1.15). Had a couple of pints in the Horseshoe, standing by the door. Drunken Eyes and Cider Jimmy were both in. After that, I had a dump in the nearby public loo and got some grub and 3 litres of Sainsbury's cider and got a subway back. Was in just before 8pm. Listened to music and drank
till I can't recall when. Does it REALLY matter?
VARIOUS � GODSPUNK VOLUME FIVE (PUMF) www.pumf.net
Here�s the latest compilation CD from Blackpool�s mentalist Pumf label, with the usual impressively odd, full-colour packaging. Previous Godspunk comps have been turning up in various charity shops in Glasgow recently and I pity the poor, unsuspecting old dear who purchases one of these thinking it�ll be �nice� music akin to the usual charity shop fare of Vera Lynn and Neil Sedaka. There are 25 tracks here, spanning vast expanses of modern music � from the ambient/dance trillings of the taurus board (like ee cummins, they don�t �do� capital letters. Like, how fuckin� bourgeois, man!) to growly �n� wordy Yank band Bartles via the twisted pop of Howl in the Typewriter and Las Vegas Mermaids. There are also some remixes of Ceramic Hobs songs, �performed� by The Haddenham One and a horrible noise piece from Wound which I think has something to do with the Hobs as well but I�ve mislaid Simon�s letter so can�t be 100% sure. Actually, their untitled track isn�t TOO horrible and is kinda FUNNY, which is something that seems lacking in a lot of noise stuff. The only two �songs� I�ve ever been able to stomach by Whitehouse are �Cruise� which, to me, sounds like a psychotic John Lydon ranting hilariously over the sound of an old Spectrum game loading and �Dance the Desperate Breath�, an eerie tale of a man who kidnaps a woman and starves her close to death for his own sexual kicks. Now THAT�S entertainment! There�s yet MORE noise from a lovely band who call themselves Satan The Jesus Infekt�d Needles And Blood with their piece entitled �Thank You For Being Insane Pervert Human Being � Try Getting A Hearing Aid On The N.H.S., Shithead (Sorry If This Is Printed Upside Down)�. Also, for some reason, there are several songs here called �Bus Driver� but I suppose that�s some in-joke I�m not privvy to. I haven�t given any of MY Godspunk compilations to charity shops, by the way, but I DID once donate one by The Digitariat which was full of TRULY horrible noise SHIT. This collection is way more eclectic, good-natured and cuddly, I�m glad to say.
DINOSAUR JR � BEYOND (FAT POSSUM)
Dinosaur Jr were one of the many bands that I lost track of somewhere during the long, strange ride of the 1990s, but their seminal single �Freak Scene� has always remained one of my favourite EVER songs. Still, there�s a lot of potential baggage attached when any classic band reforms and the possibilities for failure are multitudinous. And, even if they still SOUND good, there�s always the worry that they�ll look like a bunch of old HAGS (check out photos of the recently reformed Only Ones if you want a PRIME example of THAT). Well, I�d already SEEN this new/old line-up of Dinosaur, when they rocked Glasgow�s ABC in August 2005 (see HY!#7). Lou Barlow looked as youthfully geeky-chicy as ever, while drummer Murph resembled a post-electric-shock-treatment mental patient and J Mascis looked like GANDALF (which, let�s face it, is cool as FUCK!) So, with all the traumas of their past seemingly forgotten (read their chapter in Michael Azerrad�s brilliant book �Our Band Could Be Your Life� for the full, gory story), here is the first PROPER Dinosaur Jr album since 1988�s �Bug� (Mascis continued the band with various different line-ups after that point but it was never QUITE the same) and, incredibly, it�s packed with a brand new set of glorious slacker anthems like �Crumble� and �This is All I Came to Do� that would no doubt wow today�s �kids� if they could be bothered to drag themselves away from their cosy world of bland MTV wank and online gaming/grooming. Opener �Almost Ready� reminds me of another song I can�t quite put my finger on and �I Got Lost� blatantly cops the riff from The Velvet Underground�s �Heroin� but the band who gave us some of the most thrilling guitar records (and solos! At least outside of a H�sker D� record) of the 1980s can be forgiven ANYTHING and this album is GREAT.
MIDLAKE � THE TRIALS OF VAN OCCUPANTHER (BELLA UNION)
Bought this album after hearing a couple of great tracks by Midlake, a five-piece band from Denton, Texas, who make charmingly eccentric music which mixes together elements of bands like Grandaddy with sweet Beach Boys harmonies to form songs of natural wonder and pastoral delight. The woodland setting of the cover art carries on throughout the album and there are songs about hillsides and branches and chasing deer and catching rabbits and �Roscoe� and �Head Home� are just JOYFUL folky pop songs that put a smile on my face every time I hear them and that�s no mean feat, �cos I�m a miserable CUNT!
JUDEE SILL � HEART FOOD (WATER)
I�d never heard of Judee Sill until recently. Seems like there�s ALWAYS another �essential�, long-lost female 1970s singer-songwriter ready to leap out from behind the bookcase when you least expect it. Vashti Bunyan, Laura Nyro, etc. Some are better than others, of course, and sometimes these people were �forgotten� for a very good reason. Happily, though, Judee Sill is really, really good and this album is the perfect soundtrack to those dry-mouthed mornings of boozy comedowns with the soothing Karen Carpenter-esque voice of bittersweet reflection and longing.
CATHAL COUGHLAN WITH THE GRAND NECROPOLITAN SEXTET � FOBURG (BENEATH)
Without wishing to generalise, the Irish have a marvellous way with words, to be sure (just check out the quote on the front of this issue for proof of THAT) and Cathal Coughlan seems to be amongst the most prodigiously talented of his countrymen. Even though I�d liked the odd thing by his previous bands Microdisney and Fatima Mansions (�Only Losers Take the Bus� and the exquisite �Behind the Moon� spring immediately to mind), it wasn�t till someone recently sent me a compilation with his song �White�s Academy� on it that I was compelled beyond reason to seek out some of his solo offerings. I�d predicted that they�d be extremely hard to track down and I wasn�t wrong. This 2006 concept album (God!) was the only one of his CDs I could find after scouring all of Glasgow�s finest (and seediest) record emporiums and even a couple in East Kilbride (though, to be fair, I was mainly there to visit a mate, drink lots of cider and come last in his local pub�s ridiculously difficult quiz). Despite not recognising any of the songs on this disc and the fact that concept albums are notoriously arsey, I dove straight in and wasn�t at all disappointed. Many songs, such as magnificent opener �Ophelia Crescent is Burning� and the bonkers �Fur Jacket on a Hot Night�, start off low-key before erupting moodily into vast, expansive landscapes for Cathal�s narratives to spill out across. There�s an embarrassment of riches here, in terms of great lyrics and weird and wonderful stories and it�s all a bit TOO much to take in at first. Reminding me of the Magnetic Fields, Tom Waits, Nick Cave and the Divine Comedy without really sounding much like any of them, this is an album that demands repeated listening, that grows on the listener like moss grows on an old wall.
CHERRY GHOST � PEOPLE HELP THE PEOPLE (HEAVENLY)
Had never heard of this lot until I saw them performing this song live from the Glastonbury festival on BBC2 (apart from this and the ONE song by the Hold Steady they showed, the highlight of the Beeb�s coverage was Iggy Pop instigating a stage invasion during a storming �No Fun�... it�s rather SAD when a guy in his 60s is more ROCK �N� ROLL than shite young upstarts like the Crappellis, etc. Shirley Bassey was pretty cool too!) I instantly loved it and, by a happy coincidence, it was released as a single only a few days later! None of that downloading shite for ME. THAT�S why yet another fine chain of record shops, Fopp, has been forced to close its doors, �cos everyone�s downloading instead of actually BUYING records and CDs. STOP IT! This is a LOVELY song. The guy�s voice reminds me of Paul Buchanan from the Blue Nile and Stephen Jones, AKA Baby Bird. Don�t let THAT put you off, though. Cherry Ghost are from Manchester too, like the Smiths, Boddingtons beer and Myra Hindley.
RYAN ADAMS � EASY TIGER (LOST HIGHWAY)
It�s a funny old world, innit? Some people take YEARS to write songs � Leonard Cohen, for example � while others come up with the tasty songwriting goods so often that it makes you wonder if they�re actually HUMAN. Ryan Adams is one such creature (in 2005, he put out THREE albums which were ALL great and his website is overflowing with silly side projects in various styles, from hardcore to hip hop). This, his latest �proper� offering, contains many treats, like the Grateful Dead-esque �Pearls on a String�, potty-mouthed rocker �Halloweenhead�, moody ballads such as �Oh My God, Whatever, Etc�, �Off Broadway�, �These Girls� and �I Taught Myself How to Grow Old� as well as numerous heavenly country rock numbers like �Two�, �The Sun Also Sets�, �Rip Off� and �Two Hearts�. If that wasn�t ENOUGH, the CD booklet contains a photo of Ryan comparing Black Flag tattoos with Henry Rollins! Cool! Shame the �bonus track� is a rather duff REGGAE song, only rescued by its intriguing lyrics. Oh well, no one�s PERFECT.
SIMON JOYNER � BEAUTIFUL LOSERS (JAGJAGUWAR)
Got this for �3.99 in Avalanche, mainly because sometime contributor to this zine, Lonnie Methe, played violin on one of its 21 big-hearted tracks - the gorgeous �Is This How Generous You Are?� - AND has a painting featured on the inside cover. That�s not the ONLY reason I bought this, however, because Simon Joyner is a really fine songwriter, beloved of one Conor Oberst, no less, and this CD comprises various tracks that originally appeared on singles and compilations from 1994-1999. From sketchy lo-fi strums to gloriously fully formed marvels of small detail, this is a very nice collection indeed.
GIG
DRESSED TO KILL � THE STANDARD, LONDON, 25TH MAY 2007 by Gary Simmons
��UNDOUBTEDLY THE WORLD�S TOP KISS TRIBUTE� � KERRANG!� boasts the flyer. You mean there�s OTHERS?! I started drinking on the tube at around 11:00am. Hung about Scamden with Queen Gabriella, the victor, who I honour, but there was no sign of Carlos. He�d thrown his mobile into the canal. I called his number. No fish, just the Orange girl. Got bought drinks by two guys, brothers, Karl and Si, in thee Elephants Head, then I took �em to the Dev where they happily bought me MORE. I�m SUCH a girl, oooh! Gave them a copy of HY!#27 and various pieces of my own sad and warped literature. Saw them off, kiss-kiss, at Camden tube� they were going to see Meatloaf at Wembley Arena. God! �70�s rock must DIE!� Lard. Arrived at The Standard in Waltham-fuckin�-stow at 9:00�ish. Saw Hannah and her sisters, phwoar! She could bring a DEAD man back to life� so imagine the effect on a LIVING specimen! Then I got into all SORTS of trouble:
1. I knocked some old git�s glass of wine over, by the stage. He had actually parked it on the fucking FLOOR! There were loads of bloody shelves around the gaff, thoughtfully provided for resting your drink upon but, oh no, HE has to keep HIS on fuckin� ground-level. WHY?! That�s just TYPICAL of some 40-somethings, they don�t EVER sodding-well GROW UP! He told me off (I�d not even realised what I�d done) and said that I should buy him a replacement! I protested that it was HIS fault for leaving his oh-so precious glass of white PISS on the floor and, besides, I�d got no dosh ANYWAY. Maybe a red-hot incense down the dickie-eye would suffice as suitable pay-back/chastisement? (As luck would have it, I had one on me). Nah, I just said how sorry I was, in order to stop a pointless, pathetic and futile ruck developing. I mean, Christ, did he actually think I did it on PURPOSE? Then he said �That�s what I wanted to hear� and proceeded to buy ME a beer!!!! We huggy-wugged and he proudly informed me that his two sons were in the support band, even giving me a free 3-track CD of �em (it�s awful) at the end of the evening! Go figure.
2. Told the middle-aged barmaid that she looked as if she belonged in a body-bag. (I�m sure I had good reason for this outburst but it�s now all a blur). The young casual next to me said �That�s my mum.� Oops.
3. Got myself barred from buyin� more booze (or, rather, havin� more booze bought FOR me!) but some other �barree� trustingly gave me �4 to sneak-him-a-drink, not knowing that I�d ALSO been barred from the bar (�OK! I never much liked (drinkin�) there anyway�� Crass) I got served, after a bit of fuss, but when I delivered the goods (�that people wanna� wanna receive�� Whitehouse) to that rather charming man, complete with his change, the (very-fair-and-professional-I-must-say) Leroy-of-Gossips-like big black bouncer took the glass of rip-off priced nectar and ambrosia out of his manky paw and showed him and his mate theee back exit! Dunno why he allowed ME to stay? Out of pity, perhaps?
4. In Soho, the rat-arsed Finnish girl I was travelling with (another Hannah), she who wore just 25% of her jeans, booted an abandoned half-full can of beer down the street and, of course, by God�s very own FUCK, it HAD to fuckin� hit some well dodgy black fucker�s trouser bottom. He told me that he�d �slap her up� and that he didn�t wanna go down �the� club with his strides stinking of beer (yeah, like anyone would notice OR care) so muggins here had to negotiate a peace settlement as lovely Miss Suomi 2007 danced off happily and obliviously down the dark �n� tanked-up Friday night West End street (Dean Street, I think). Fun, eh?
And the Kiss tribute band? Quite fuckin� amazin�� BUT; you know Gerogarycome�n�play.H.A, he donut give a TOSS for Kiss�s Friday night rock club anthemic stifled and claustrophobic music NOR their tedious theatrics and, no matter HOW good a �tribute� band is, they�re all a bit �Stars in Their Eyes� SAD when all�s said and done. It�s the rule of the R�n�R jungle. I�d rather have seen an Abba tribute to be honest. Or Carpenters� song-wise THEY rule. I met a guy in the Elephant who said he �does� Johnny Rotten for FUCKS SAKE!! And me? �Well, tonight Matthew, I�M gonna be William Bennett�, he�s MY favourite pop star. Nah, I�M the real G. Simmons, it said it on my Tower Records clocking-in card. I ate lovely chilly-willys and kebabbie-wab from the Oxford Street bins (coz I�m a�savin� the fuckin� planet), spoke to various freeks, faggots, dykes, whores and junkies, a drunk or ten, got the N55 to Wanstead and passed out in bed at 4:30am. What ELSE is there to do?
BOOKS
KOREN ZAILCKAS � SMASHED : GROWING UP A DRUNK GIRL (EBURY PRESS)
Got this in a charity shop (where ELSE?!) and thought it looked RIGHT up my street � the autobiography of a fucked-up Yank chick who gets smashed to a soundtrack of Beck, Nirvana and Elliott Smith against a backdrop of small town American summerhouses and keg parties. It takes a while to get going and I kept thinking how the author was perhaps OVER-REACTING slightly to her teenage booze adventures. I mean, having a few beers and puking is a RIGHT OF PASSAGE, not a reason to go into REHAB, for fucks sake (thankfully, though, even when Zailckas eventually renounces booze at the end of the book, she doesn�t go down the whole rehab/12-step route), but it all gets a lot more EXCITING when she goes to college and embarks on some SERIOUS drinking. While the author�s middle-class lifestyle may be a million miles away from my OWN experience, there�s much I could relate to here (using alcohol as a social tool and as a remedy to dull the self-hating chatter in one�s own head, for instance) and the book is filled with people who could be characters straight out of a song by the Hold Steady! This is like a female, American version of Nick Johnstone�s brilliant booze memoir �A Head Full of Blue� (see HY!#10 for review of THAT little beauty). Very good. Koren looks pretty hot on the back cover too!
ZORAN ?IVKOVI?� HIDDEN CAMERA (DALKEY ARCHIVE PRESS)
Another writer with an almost unpronouncable name. This guy has an EXCUSE, though, �cos he�s Serbian and he�s written a great little novel that brings to mind both Murakami and Kafka in an increasingly surreal and absurdist tale of one individual�s mounting paranoia and panic when placed in a nightmarish situation beyond his control. The book�s hero, a neurotic undertaker who keeps tropical fish, gets an anonymous invitation to a film screening but soon finds out that he�s the STAR of the film as he�s been secretly followed and filmed by persons unknown and it only gets weirder and weirder from there. You can imagine a film being made of this, one that would be shown late at night on Channel 4 and have subtitles.
GREEN EYES
She leaves her coat lying across the bar and walks out to the street with a man old enough to be her father. They touch and kiss as he rubs his hard-on up against her thigh.
�Say it again,� she whispers in his ear, hitching up her dress to examine a run in her silk stockings.
�You have the most amazing green eyes I�ve ever seen in my life,� he says, breathlessly, his hands gripping onto the firmness of her buttocks.
She giggles girlishly, spits out her chewing gum and lights up a cigarette, blowing curls of smoke into the early evening sky. Crowds of office workers swarm past, on their way home or to clandestine liaisons with work colleagues.
�Are you going to take me dancing tonight?� she asks. �It�s been AGES since I�ve been out dancing.�
�Anything you want, baby,� he replies, nibbling her ear. �I�ve just got to go and see a man about a dog first.� And, with that, he slips out of her embrace and disappears back inside the darkened bar.
After a few more drinks, they make their way to The Rumpus Room, a nightclub specialising in two-for-the-price-of-one drinks promos. The decor reminds him of the garish colours from a children�s cartoon and none of the patrons appear to be over the age of twenty-five.
�God, this place makes me feel old,� he says, but she simply laughs, settles herself on a stool at the bar and asks the blonde barman, who is wearing a �Surfer�s Paradise� T-shirt, for the cocktail menu.
�I�m going to try one of each,� she says, after studying it for a few seconds. �I love cocktails.�
�I just BET you do!� he smiles, knowingly.
�Don�t be NAUGHTY! Now, I think I�ll start off with a Tequila Sunrise. I used to go MAD for them back in college.�
He orders the drinks � two Tequila Sunrises for her and two bottles of Belgian beer for himself � and tells the barman to keep the change. The music is thumping, monotonous and extremely loud and he wonders how anybody could actually listen to it for pleasure. But his mood soon brightens when, after downing her first drink in only a couple of gulps, she pulls him to his feet and leads him onto the half empty dance-floor. He doesn�t notice the derisive stares of the other dancers as he presses his huge paunch brusquely up against her slender young frame and attempts some sort of vaguely rhythmic swaying. But, before long, she�s thirsty again and they withdraw back to the bar for more drinks. This time, she orders two Long Island Ice Teas and attacks them with a ferocity that has him checking his wallet to make sure he�ll be able to afford this date.
It�s when she goes to �the little girls� room�, as she calls it, that he slips something into her glass.
There�s a tune by Fatboy Slim playing when she suddenly begins to feel strange. The sounds of the now crowded club have become warped and start to echo as if they are being played back through loud speakers in an empty aircraft hangar. People�s faces seem distant and blurred. When she makes an attempt to rise from her barstool, dizziness and nausea immediately overtake her.
�What�s the matter, baby?� he asks, sipping from his beer bottle. �Tired out from all that dancing?�
She tries to speak but the words come out as an incoherent jumble.
�Tequila. I� first time� never knew� nobody told me��
�I think maybe your girlfriend�s had enough,� the blonde barman says. �Perhaps you should take her home.�
�Good idea. I was just thinking that myself. How about that, baby? Do you want daddy to take you home and tuck you in?�
The barman shoots him a disgusted look.
�Home. Never knew� what did he mean by that?� she slurs.
The last thing she sees before passing out is the logo on the barman�s T-shirt melting away into the distance.
She wakes up lying in a deserted car park behind the club, her stockings ripped and her shoes gone. It�s raining and, from the colour of the sky, it looks like early morning, perhaps 7am. Her head feels foggy and sore but she�s more confused than frightened. Getting to her feet is a struggle but she eventually manages it and then steadies herself against a wall that smells like someone�s recently vomited against it. She checks in her handbag but her Hello Kitty purse is gone, so she pulls out her cracked compact mirror and gingerly holds it up to her face. It reveals itself to be a horror-show of bruises and smeared make-up, with a little blood glistening on the lower lip. For the first time, she also notices a puddle of blood forming at her feet, the source of which appears to be coming from under her dress.
As the shallow stabs of shock begin to creep in and quicken her breath, she lowers herself down once more onto the wet concrete while continuing to stare into the mirror at her own refracted image. Both fascinated and appalled, she sits there blankly, peering into the green pools of those lifeless eyes. Who do they belong to, she wonders? They certainly don�t look like mine.