Hi...
Not dead. Been very busy with all sorts of thingies. Music (recording debut single. Went splendidly), Reading (Miller "Tropic of Cancer", had totally forgotten what a fantastically talented misogynist penis he was. Great stuff.) Sleeping (lots), drinking (see sleeping), writing (not enough) and cinema going (X-Men 3: drek.).

Also been stupidly busy at work due to people being ill/going on holiday etc. So, all in all, not much time to onanistically bellow into the wiry bullhorn of cyberspace.

You'd have thought that, what with all the excitements mentioned above, I'd have something pertinent, clever and important to say about a whole series of issues, would you not?

Well, you're not wrong. Let me repeat; X-Men 3: Drek.

That is all.

OK, Doctor Who...

I imagine that if you are reading this then you know me to some degree. I therefore imagine that you know that I am a big fan of the Doctor and his time travelling adventures (though not as big a fan as some) and have been since I was a kiddie. I therefore extrapolate that you will already have worked out how dissapointed I was with the first installment of the new series, which, not to put too fine a point on it, was bloody awful. Confused, badly plotted, stuffed with unsympathetic characters and bad SFX, it was exactly the start to the new series I had been dreading. It seemed that in a rush to please the series' new foreign investors/fans, every last ounce of charm and wit was erased from the characters and script, leaving us with he kind of unimaginative mulch that passes for so much Sci-fi television these days.

The sudden transformation of the plot into a pointless, zombie filled running-fest left a hell of a lot to be desired. I don't want Doctor Who to turn into a series of tributes to genre movies. Yes, in the past there have been zombie-esque episodes, as well as vampires, ghosts and lots of other kinds of things that go bump in time, but they were always handled with an element of originality (check Charles Dickens battling gas-powered zombie ghosts in the last series for a cracking example). When the Dawn of the Dead tribute money shot occured (y'know, lots of deadites pressed against glass and groaning) I nearly threw my glass of Merlot at the screen, and I do not waste wine lightly. So all in all a very bad start.

So, to Saturdays episode. I had spent most of the day preparing myself for dissapointment, by getting as sloshed as possible on cider (c'mon, it was a hot day) and I arrived at the house of my host for the evening a little worse for ware. My alarm bells were already ringing after seeing preview shots which featured what looked like a load of Ninja monks indulging in some "Bullet time" action (NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!) but I was pleasently suprised. Not suprised enough, I should add, to set my fears entirely at rest, but, on the whole, the script was wittier, the scares more suprising and Tennant's performance more convincing than I had feared.

I have a feeling that Tennant is going to take a lot of flack over the new series dip in quality (and, even after Saturday's werewolf fest, there is still a dip in quality going on here). I don't think that's entirely fair. Yep, he's no Chris Ecclestone, but he has a manic-edge that's very Troughton-esque and might just take a bit of getting used to (he's not very good at "doing angry" though). I remain to be convinced, but some of my previous fears have been assuaged slightly. I mean what the fuck do I know? I'm going to see Silent Hill tomorrow and really looking forward to it so, critical facultys: not my strong point.

Plus; Cybermen. Lookin reeeally cool. We shall see. More soon I'm sure.

Tuned in to BBC 3's Doctor Who night last night. Nothing particularly special, couple of repeats, few talking heads, you know the score. However; previews of the new series....

A BLOKE IN A DRAGOONS OUTFIT SHOOTING A WEREWOLF!

and....

and....

AIRSHIPS! HUNDREDS AND HUNDREDS OF GASPOWERED BLOODY AIRSHIPS!

Following on from the Mighty Boosh episode where they search for the new sound and the sight of a score of aiships over an alternative London, I'm beginning to wonder if someone at the BBC has put a camera inside my head. I am squeeling with excitement.

I feel utterly bloody awful. I mustmustmustmustmust stop staying up 'til ridiculous o'clock, drinking myself into oblivion. Well, on school nights, anyway. Well, unless it's a special occasion. Well unless I'm bored.

Not going to happen, is it?

PS V for Vendetta? Sodding brilliant, matey. A very pleasant suprise.

Ouch! We've had to stop smoking in the office. I'm sure this is no bad thing in the long-term, but it has meant that I can taste my tongue for the first time in years, and IT IS NOT NICE.

Apologies to anyone I've french kissed recently.

"Gonna stop smoking then, Mat?"

"Well, yeah, eventually, y'know?"

Well, that was the busiest weekend in quite some time. I am utterly knackered and really want to be tucked up in a shoe somewhere, maybe wrapped in cotton wool. Mmmm, cosy.
The Burning Idiot Noise (mein beat-combo, for those who don't know) had two gigs at the weekend, one at Brighton's unavoidable vortex of stench The Freebutt and the other in Shoreditch's Old Blue Last. Can you guess which one of these gigs we were more excited about, dear reader? Yes, I bet you can.

First off; Freebutt, Saturday, in support of local legends Deadbeat Descendant. Now, I'm not usually one to complain, especially at the Freeb' which is usually dedicated to giving you a good sound, but I could barely hear a bloody squeek up on stage. This, needless to say, is not the way it's meant to be. It also strikes me as a bit odd that whenever I looked up to our designated soundman in order to request more in the monitors through the medium of mime, he was furiously playing tonsil hockey with some lucky lady. I'm not one to begrudge the youth of Brighton their enjoyments, far from it, there was a time when I enjoyed a good game of hide the beef jerky as much as the next man, before age and being drunk before seven-o-clock took hold, but I couldn't help but think there were some priority problems here. Still, that doesn't excuse the fact that we weren't particularly on it that night. Yeah, we played well enough, but we certainly didn't hit gnosis overdrive like I know we can.

After the gig I was in a bit of a strop and stomped around like a hippo, moaning at whoever would listen. If you were one of those lucky people, I apologise. I should also like to point out that I love the Freebutt. It's Brighton's best, nastiest venue and we'd be buggered without it. I suppose everyone has off nights.

Sunday, however brought fresh hopes. A gig in London, put on by those Krautrockin' motherfuckers at Kosmiche and in London's fashionable Shoreditch, no less. After a huge degree of arse-ache with hiring the van (I won't go into detail, but Choice's vehicle rental of Hove, consider yourself newly added to my airship bombing run) we finally piled in and began our trek. Me and Fraser (our noise maker and keyboard bog monster) were in the back, playing a game of "guess the flavour of the Rowntrees Fruit Gum" (suprisingly difficult in the dark) which managed to sustain us for the entire two hour journey. That and moaning about the night before's gig, obviously.

Finally we disembarked and entered the venue. Imagine my suprise, when upon entering I bumped into my friend Vicky, who had been one of the psychedelic ladies I had hung with when I first moved to Brightonia. Imagine my even greater suprise when I went to get a drink and realised I was being served by my first ever serious girlfriend from bloody Devon. It was all a bit "This is Your Life". But I'm never one to shy away when serendipity is on the cards.

Soundcheck was fine and it was good to see Richard the promoter again. He is a fine gentleman and suprised us all by providing a rider of countless bottles of lager, which we got stuck into as only Brighton bumpkins lost in the smoke can. The night itself was a great laugh. We got to go onstage to the soundtrack to Suspiria, which made us all feel super-fuckin'-scary-cool. The sound for the gig was a real problem, though. No matter how many times I requested more in the monitors (and I didn't just restrict myself to mime this time) it never happened. The frustration at this was over-riden by our enjoyment of the gig, though. An enjoyment heightened by the French hecklers (friends of the soundman, I believe) who enlivened the evening no end with their amusing exhortations (my favourite being "YOU MUST TRY HARDER!") and absolutely hilarious 80s Euro-punk stylings (y'know, red leggings). I was less amused by the snot-tosser who tried to steal my beer from the stage (yeah mate, y'know I mentioned that airship bombing run earlier?), but none the less a good time was had and we ended the evening dancing like utter twats to 80s German electro. None more Teutonic!

The ride back, I must confess, I cannot remember. We had my good friend Dan in the back, as well as several bottles of wine and my heady happiness, fused with this alcaholic bacchanalia, short circuited my memory banks completely. Although I do know that my flatmate and Guitarist, The Rusty Pimp, had to carry me to bed about five-o-clock in the morning.

All in all a fine weekend. Ta' to any who attended either of the gigs. It wouldn't have been the same without any one of you and here's to more in the future. I'm going to go and find a shoe to crawl into. N'night.

Does everyone suffer from an attack of verbal diarroeah (is that the right spelling?) when they start one of these things? The sudden urge to tell you that I watched a film with bloody Hugh Grant in it last night is almost overwhelming. Instead, I will talk of something that I've been thinking of a lot recently. Feel free to judge just how single you think I am from this post and the above mentioned Hugh Grant incident. Then send me new PS2 games. Or prostitutes.

Miles Davis: Kind of Blue
Following on from a recent thread I wrote for 20 Jazz Funk Greats (best music blog on the web, people. And not just 'cos I write for it) about Davis's terrifying testament to the bubbling powers of Funk; "Dark Magus", I should like to say a few words about the Great Grumpy Sod's beautiful "Kind of Blue".

This album has been soundtracking my life (and recently, all my nights) since I was about 14. At first I dismissed it somewhat, with all the fervour you'd expect from a teenage Sonic Youth fan who (thought he) only liked jazz that sounded like it was soundtracking a primary school being crushed by Galactus (hey, I still like that stuff, but y'know, not exclusively). Recently, however, I've started listening to it in a very different way. I've stopped thinking in terms of it being an unassailable masterpiece, have got past it's veneer of "Cool" and am thus enjoying so much more (if enjoy is the right word. See below).

To start with you just have to forget about it's nullifyingly classic status (Yeah I've just worked out how to use italics). Rather, I started thinking about it in terms of who from outside of jazz it influenced. The number one name I came up with was Talk Talk. Both their really fantastic albums (Spirit of Eden and Laughing Stock) have Davies influences up the wazzoo. Muted trumpets, yep, and other cosmetic influences, but what really started coming through when I listened to the albums back to back, was a striving for something that not many other albums have gone for (let alone acheived). Namely; Grace.

Everything on this album, every spaced out note, is striving (and if there's one thing that Miles communicates when he plays trumpet it's longing) for a state of natural fluidity. Not Cool, with its rigid behaviour codes, modes of dress and all that bloody finger clicking, but rather a state free from constriction, with every pause and note seemingly held for a heartbeat and in every heartbeat, a lifetime. Miles's tone is so thin and fragile, but filled with inner strength and purpose. I don't play trumpet, but sometimes it sound like he's right on the edge of faltering. Of simply collapsing into the breeze. He never does, and his icy tone of pure heartbreak is our guide through this album. He never lets us down.

The support from the band has that same tone of near silent rigidity. How hard he worked them to get them where they are, I don't know (knowing Miles, it was probably bloody hard). But they are perfect. The heartbeat to the horns breaths and moans. Silent post-coital ecstasy in every note.

It's an album unique in jazz (as far as I know) for it's subtlety, awareness of space and emotional pull. I've been listening to it for half my life and I feel like I've just cracked it. It was well worth the effort.