Bartlett goes out in style

And so it came to pass that the local authority in Bethnal Green deemed the W.S.Bartlett building the perfect place to erect cheap student accommodation. That a thriving gallery space had existed there for the last year was of no consequence to them, down it must come. Thus, we gathered for the last time on that blustery rooftop, to pay homage to Tortured Artist and his crew and see the old place off with a somber little gathering, quiet contemplation and birdsong.

Ha, fat chance, instead we have a fuckwackdoodly balls-to-the-wall Hooliebashjam-athon. (a party so big, it requires new words to describe it) Don't get me wrong, there was a lot of art going on too. Dunebug did the installation you see above involving a caravan of clay boxes being dragged through various holes and some cathartic hammering. TA did some of his distinctive daubing and profound doodles. A lot of insects gave up their limbs in the name of fashion jewelery. Art was definitely there, but so was everyone else. By 2a.m the place was seething and the Bastard Sons of Bass had already been on the decks for 3 hours. Much to the relief of the crowd, we'd taken over from the noisecore four piece 'band' who'd punished everyone beforehand with a diabolical cacophony that couldn't even hide behind the term avant-garde it was so shite. We banged it out to the very limit of both our tune collection and our bladder capacity. With a distinct lack of ablution in the place, the men were forced to take measures, ahem, into their own hands and pee off the roof into the alley below. I'm not wild about such fetid behavior, but desperate times etc, and anyway, the whole place is being demolished next week which is the kind of giant pisser you just can't top.

Hopefully the legacy of Bartlett will live on, perhaps to be reincarnated elsewhere, we can only but hope.

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Bartlett's last hurrah

Tonight heralds the final exhibition and closing party for the W.S.Bartlett gallery, home to not only Tortured Artist, but also to many TA's in training. There will be much revelry and we might even get to play the odd tune, if we can bludgeon one of the other acts off the decks.

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Daywalker

As the weekend was spent in futile pursuit of an elusive dream (house hunting) not much happened to inspire profound blognacity. So look upon this picture as a sort of ghastly piratical test pattern. The ghastly ginger pirate it depicts is so truly ghastly and ginger, I was forced to try turn his picture a colour as far away as possible from ginger, so as not to scare those of a weaker disposition visiting this site. Despite this, the sickly copper hue of the eyebrow still glows through sufficiently to cause unease. It proves beyond doubt that a lifetime of persecution has evolved the ginger in such a way as to exert its innate gingeness, even in the face of attempted eradication. This must be the reason why they still keep being born, turning up unexpectedly and unwarranted in maternity wards all over the world, like those inexplicable glistening carrots lurking in your Guinness and kebab vomit.

Hahahaahahaha, jokes man, I love redheaded people, don't get me wrong.

Ghastly gazing ginger pirates however...*shudder*


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The endless wedding

The first thing people ask when you tell them you attended a Sikh wedding is "Was there booze?" This is just plain ignorant, do some research for God and the Ten Gurus sake. There was enough booze there to mash the four hundred odd people attending into a giant alcoholic cottage pie. Tray followed tray, crammed to the edges with pints, chivas, bacardi, whatever you fancied. I warned my table not to overdo it with the first course, but did they listen? Noooooooo. Between courses, young and old staggered onto the dance floor and threw shapes to some belting bhangra. Then more food arrived, then more booze, then more bhangra, thrn mroe fude, thrn mre buzee, thin mere bunga, tghvn mghjr fvdd, zzzzzzzz. Mr.Goeey Cree sensibly ordered a cab for our hotel for 12.30, giving us a clear window of escape from this excessive loop. Naturally we made our way straight to the bar because obviously a night cap was in order. No officer, I don't have a drink problem, honesht.

Many thanks and best of luck to the happy couple, especially since I hear they're packing the whole thing up and doing it all again in Leeds. I didn't notice a new liver on your John Lewis list, but I'll put in an order for you anyway.

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Dystopia 2

Obviously speeding on an enormous chocolate egg high, the denizens of Clapham descended en masse on Lost Society this Easter Sunday. Fortunately, the combined forces of Expairofmentalists and Mindlobster were sufficient to keep them in check. EPM managed to give us some lush sonic landscapes, despite being crippled by excessive high jinks from a mate, resulting in a 3 hour visit to casualty the day before. Mindlobster must have been boiled lobster after 45 minutes inside the hardest working helmet in showbiz, but he too wielded his magic power block with great elan. The crowd were hungry for more and Lo, we didst give it to them, at least until we were rudely hoofed off by the owner who wanted to lay down some cheese in celebration of aging or some other bollocks. While this was extremely tedious we must not despair as there's always May the 13th and our Highpointlowlife extravaganza, huzzah!

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Children and dogs

Apparently you should never work with them. You can take pictures of 'em, just don't work with them.

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Saltbreaker

Haahaahahaaha, screw you 100 Club, not only did I take a picture of the band, I also took a picture of your stupid sign, hahahaahahaa, I am anarchy incarnate!

Anyhoo, Laura Veirs eh? First of all this is not my musical genre of choice, not even sure what to call it, Indie chick folk rock perhaps. The crowd at the 100 Club look like a panel from Ghost World come to life, lots of earnest bespectacled boys clutching journals and er, strong women, bristling with equality. Laura herself has the old Speccy Seattle Kook Thing(TM) going for her and she wears it well. Her atonal angst-lite voice washes over us like the waves she constantly references in her songs and apart from the odd idiot demanding 'the single', her acolytes are generally a passive lot. The occasional 'whoo' cuts out from the front row as Loz strums an old favourite, and I am shushed by my companion She-Jay, for mock whooing in response. She-Jay speaks fluent Indie and eats kookflakes for breakfast, so is able to guide me through the intricacies of each plaintive cry. The Saltbreakers themselves are sporting curiously embroidered jackets and effectively re-produce the unobtrusive noise that floats behind Loz on the new album. Sometimes though, as I jerked back into reality from one of a number of micro sleeps, I wished they would let loose a bit more. Bless though, this was their first gig of the tour and I'm sure they'll be burning their geetars and playing piano with their feet by the end.

Note to Stephen Merchant (who is no doubt reading this blog and taking notes) your quest for a she-jay for your podcast has ended. As you can vaguely discern from the pointillist picture above, my She-Jay has all the rock chick attitood and Indie nous you could possibly want, and she's tall, call me now Stephen, call me!

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