Hello people, apologies for the lack of posts but Juan’s pooter was finally taken by the creepy guy who lives with all the spiders down the corridor after he refused to give him his babies (the creepy guy took the babies anyway), and Steven is finishing his teletransportation to Genuine Towers with an exorcism of Ikea furniture from its middle class Sartrian hellishness. Stuart is still fighting for his unlife in the (ICT) projects. It’s a weird world this one we live in, we smile and try to keep fighting the good fight, god knows it’s a fucking bummer sometimes.

But enough of moaning and groaning, sit on our skinny knees now and let us tell you a tale…

There was once a pretty shepherd who lived with his father in the middle of a big forest. He was a small and fancy and all the sheep loved him and gave him their wool with no need for shearing, they just unzipped it like a some sort of furry sweater and piled it outside him room.

The shepherd had something of the night to him, maybe because his ma had been a bit of a witch back in the days. He liked to dance in the forest at night muttering weird stuff (we’re talking about the shepherd here, his mum had died of scurvy five years ago and gone to hell, she liked to dance in the forest too).

Once, a bit carried away by the strange words in his head he got lost and while trying to find his way back home he heard a strange noise closing in, some bizarre cacophony of grinding whistles and shrieking piercing tones, a bit like the sound of his dad bringing water out of the well with his rusty winch, only if the bucket coming from the darkness below had been full of nasty devils not dead japanese ghosts. Needless to say, the Shepherd was well excited by this happening and instead of running for his money he hid beneath a big stone and waited impatient. He saw a wolfy coming down the path, it walked on its hind legs pushing a big organ, and whenever its claws pounded the keyboard, sounds of happy death came from its metal pipes like lightning bolts made of barbed wire, zapping creatures of the night left and right, the wolfy stopped from time to time to pick up the tiny charred corpses and put them inside a big pouch hanging from its shoulder.

The wolfy had claws like interrogation signs and eyes like rotten toenails and fangs like a herd of waxing moons, everything in the wolfy was sharp and wiry and curved and scary, but the shepherd thought it was well cute. He decided to make friends with the wolfy and stepped from behind his cover, as he did so a rogue banshee sound from the organ started in his direction and he thought he was done for. But instead of burning him like a cinder, the evil ray stopped in front of him and grinned, waiting for something. He knew that if he didn’t do as expected, he would burn and go to hell with his ma, which was good, so he let fear slid from his shoulders like a smothering wet shawl, and the song crawling up his throat burst out out like a geyser of iridiscent acid. His voice and the organ sound danced in the night sky and the wolfy’s yellow eyes glittered approvingly. They became friends, started a band and terrorised the region, making the cow’s milk sour and the god-fearing burguers shiver in their stuffy bedrooms for a hundred years thereafter.

And all were very happy and gay
But to me who watched they gave no thought nor pay.

Child Pornography- The Best of Rock and Roll

This song, which ends Child Pornography’s (myspace) side on the 12 split they have released with Quem Quaeritis at not not fun recently makes 20jazzfunkgreats wet their wicker pants, it is a bit like Mars and Les Georges Leningrad trapped in the cabin from Evil Dead going ah why bother, don’t fight it feel it, let’s become hosts to Kandarian demons and fuck shit up (even more). You should really really buy it (for example from Rough Trade) because it rules.

Little did the Shepherd know that he had a half-sister living in a Palace very far away, she was none other than the Princess of the Sun. How come you ask? His dad, quite a sorcerer himself, had fancied the Queen of that Kingdom back in the days, and thanks to a shapeshifting potion purchased from a wise Owl, managed to spend a night with her under the guise of her lawful husband, and thus was the Princess ordered from Paris.

When his wife (we are talking about the Shepherd’s mama, i.e., the one who died from scurvy and was a witch etc.) found out about this whole business she turned the Queen into a moth who was immediately smashed by the unsuspecting moth-averse king (yeah this is a bit unfair but hey), so the Princess grew up lonely and motherless in a huge castle full or mirrors and shadows and shadows reflected in mirrors that projected shadows, no wonder she turned up a bit weird, giggling, cackling and crying all at the same time, and scaring the poo off the servants with the weird glimmer of her scarlet eyes.

Her concerned father purchased a regiment of tin soldier automata to keep her company, which she ordered up and down with her arms like an orchestra director, round and round they marched in perfect formation, clop clop clop clop clop, like that band of thieves who galloped away in the darkness carrying ten bags full of stolen golden spoons, they played their tiny flutes and drums and trumpets creating a delicate symphony, a trampouline on top of which the Princess jumped, sometimes happy and up, others sad and down.

So sang she, wistful with heartrending melancholy or bristling with intimidating enthusiasm, and her voice pranced over the loyal soldiers’ furry hussar helmets like a diamond eyed fairy, eventually flying out of the window and into the forest where the alchemist Owl caught it, immediately realising in his quasi-infinite wisdom the Princess’ real origin, sleazy magus and dead moth queen, ah, it’s a weird world indeed.

The owl knew that a boring stiff upper lipped palace was no place for a teenaged sorceress to grow up in, so it told the king hoping to find her a better home, but the monarch, crazed by retrospective jealously, genetic instinct and religious intolerance, decided to have her burned in a pire instead. Alas, she escaped by the skin of her teeth and ran away with the gypsies, joining their travelling fair, where she became a famous performer, accompanied by the tiny tin automata orchestra, taking princes, peasants and priests’ breath away with her songs of lust, loss, longing and love. Finally the King died and she (being the next in the line of succession), became Queen, and everyone danced jigs in the gold paved streets.

They had a big feast> I was there, under the table. They threw me a bone, which hit me in the nose and stuck for good.

Dynasty Handbag- Oh Baby

Or a sweet song of escathological love by Dynasty Handbag, a strange and captivating lady who, with her debut album ‘Foo Foo Yik Yik’, soon to be released by the ever-excellent Lovepump United label joins Planningtorock and Kevin Blechdom up there in the fancy constellation of experimental electronic chanteuses whose bleeding hearts never end raining beautiful crimson stars over us.

God knows when I’ll be back, this little text was inspired by Italo Calvino’s compilation of Italian folktales.

It’s Lilo Feast this Friday, the 8th, you know, Edd Chaddtobruce (who just joined the Do gang, check out our fancy revamped vampiric banging new website), Kathryn, Linda, Sam, Ben, gosh knows playing all the gnarly hits we love: Noise, Gabber, Glitch, Riot Grrrl, love, pain and rockets etc.

Penthouse 8-1 Free entry Stoopidly cheap drinks and stuff.

Before heading there wish happy birthday to the master of reality Matt Colegate at the Heart and Hand.

Epilogue -
This post is tagged with italo rave