Sleep deprivation

Not going to bed can sometimes be a marvellous thing - sometimes it can also be a hideous thing. But Saturday was marvellous. Despite inadvertently locking chums in the gaff, spending a mild fortune and probably becoming a little bit thicker due to the starvation of oxygen to the brain and the vast intake of gaspers. What evs - it's fucking summer. This is how it's going down. You know how we're rolling. The phone died at about hour 36 but these were some of the images that will stay with us.






The carrot soup was a lot



On the brink

Dance 'til the Police Come

Here's a review hype hoving into view - Words have been flowing like water out of a tap of late cos there's so much good new musical shit spurting out. Get your quills and ears out for the lads. First up is this nu-soul business by Fatima and Floating Points. It's kinda mint in the kind of the slow-building, jazzy sorta way that Alice Russell and The Rebirth were back in the '03.

Fatima & Floating Points - Follow You EP review



Junglist man Peverelist also got a good going over - this is savage, man music strictly for the heads in love with low ends - Again, it sounds like the past coming up on the future and giving its ears a thorough nashing. Get out your sausages for the feast chumps.

Peverelist - Dance 'til the Police Come

We can help each other - can we find a way Eskiboy?

Wiley is a real nutbar. If you have the pleasure of following the man on Twitter, you'll be aware of just how fucking nutty he is. This dude is a bone fide pop star with a string of top ten singles lying in his wake. But he cannot stop sparking on Twitter about philosophical concepts ranging from toast to trust. This mixture of real-time chart success and real-time talk makes him a real-time hero. There aren't enough 'artists' smacking the charts around the chops with big singles while still being totally bonkers. I love him and can't get enough of his tunes and the drivel he spouts.



The man maybe mad but he has 'nuff tunes. 'Nuff parking. We went down to check him oot on his recent Elusive Tour, which has been rescheduled more times than I've had fry ups this year. But the talent is a temperamental beast - this is a dude who sacked his manager, left his label and gave away hours of tunes via zip file last year. Earlier in the week tweets were talking of sacking the tour manager but thankfully, when we got into the venue a little bit pissed up, he bounded out on the stage with a mike and no manager in a headlock under his arm.



A Wiley gig itself is fucking loud - backed by a child on the decks, the music was all taut and wonk, full of grime and ear shredding in volume. The ciders, the sea of camera phones and the hits made for an evening of total high energy. JME did his muscley Nando's loving ting earlier, prompting us to shout 'Where's yer fox at?' Plus the encore featuring Jamie, Jammer and Skepta was off the bloody chain. His album drops in the summer but this mint video came out the day after (it's streaming on the Guardian's website). Big tings? Big tings indeed.

Podcasting across E8

Sunday April 3rd was a big one - The Kiss the Fist collective put together a rambling podcast to big up our next bash down at the London Fields on April 29th. Fuelled by a collection of strong lagers, rollies and enough wires to hang an army of cats, it's resplendent with rambling and talk of the forthcoming royal wedding. It's gonna be a big day for everybody. You can listen to our shit spouting on the link below.

April '11 Podcast by Kissthefist on Mixcloud

How many eggs do you need to change a lightbulb?

No more banging on about what a lot the last week or so has been. It's always A LOT and it's getting boring saying it - Needless to say there have been a few firsts. Locking oneself out of the house. Going for a swim in the neaby lido only to find one's wallet in one's pocket after 3 lengths. Undertaking a minor amount of tattoo research. Biking around Elephant and Castle. Drinking Guiness Punch. Not feeling suicidal on a Monday. Speaking to members of Black Wire.

Saturday morning was an interesting one - there were three browsers open (Firefox 4 natch) on the laptop which could provide clues to the previous night's murky behaviour. The first was a wikipedia page entry for Placebo (the band), the second a recipe for whisky sourz and the third a Spotify premium trial offer. My digital bank statement also suggested I'd received £20 from a third party masquerading under the guise of Charlie Brooker. These discoveries raise as many questions as answers.



Jerk and Guiness punch



Watermelon stylez



Chilli willi flavourz



Drop down and get your alco-pop on



H4L



Mouthwash shots innit



Din dins



Wrecking revenge on an artisan food poster - that's right. You can take your £8 jar of gooseberry relish and stick it up your silver arse

Kiss your Royal Fistness

We've got a Kiss the Fist party coming up on the horizon - I say horizon - it's more of the middle distance but the special vibe is that it falls on the same day as one of the most anticipated unions of the year.

That's right Kiss the Royal Fist is going down at the London Fields boozer on April 29th, the day that Kate whats-her nibs and Wills McPoshgills get hitched proper stylez. Totes Rah yeah? The original plan was to source some hallucinogens and begin the day by heading into central London to cheer on the happy, regal couple, then hopefully vomit somewhere on a corgi. But the inevitable 12 hour panic attack has put us off. Plus we'll probably get murked somewhere on Thursday evening and spend the day inside with the curtains drawn shaking in a shady corner anyway. Embarking on an acid binge could make the evening untenable - and, at the very least, would impact the quality of the recorded blends. And, as always, we're aiming for seamless mixing on the night... Wimps/perfectionists that we are...

There will probably be bunting and some semi-pished attempts to tie the whole thing in with the regalness of the day - One of our party is even threatening to bake something. I might bring a cucumber and turn it into sandwiches at the bar. Like a culinary David Copperfield.

I'll also be paying all due respeckt to the Scandinavian king Todd Terje - I don't know what his marital status currently is but after clocking his latest 12 (see below), then it's probably worth me finding out. I'm smitten.

You can't hide from your bud

There are so many big tunes doing the rounds at the moment - big, rushy music to lose your mind, marbles and jaw line to. They keep coming. It's like someone's got a big tank and won't lay off blasting them out.

I did a few words on the new Hot Flush compilation for Hyponik - you can read it here - This Scuba tune is well grindy...



And Deadboy has re-emerged with summat aimed more at the Space terrace than a dark and dingy club. Wish you Were Here nails that holiday vibe - Review on Resident Advisor here

You can listen to it here - One for the motherfucking sunshine...

You can surprise yourself when you've had a few

Jesus - the flex has been very real since last Thursday night - A Nando's was taken down (thanks in part to Secret Santa - whoever you were. Hush. Hush. Wink. Wink.) which was one of the best meals imbibed this year - cheesecake even got ravaged for afters - good job it was a large slice as it an essential cog in the main meal until Monday just gone - apart from some delightful samosas and a late night chicken-based dish on Saturday which may or may not have been cooked. Ate it anyway like. But it was redder than Rudolph's nose. The poor thing.

Pretty much the entire weekend was spent on the piss. Which was obviously amazing 'during' but when you're necking jagers at just before 2 on Monday morning with a full day at work less than 7 hours away, the whole regime becomes midly ardous. It also leads to the standard feelings of remorse, regret and self loathing. Then you rethink, recalibrate, get reacquainted with veg and 40 winks. Standard.

However, sometimes getting shit faced can see you really right (as well as on top of the obvious golden bits - being extra witty, charming and dazzingly salacious) - a little note from the Royal Mail plopped through our letter box Monday suggesting that a parcel was awaiting delivery. That always creases a smile upon a face. Someone is sending something to ME. That's right. ME ME ME. The hype was especially big as this fucking bastard Donna Summer record had yet to show up from Discogs, despite being ordered some months ago - so the feeling was like -'Oooh - that dick has got round to sending it rather than ripping us off'. As moments go, it was a good one...

Work was spent salivating at the prospect of getting very initimate with Summer (during her 'Bad Girls' phase no less - that's right - keep your trousers creased gentlemen) but when the boiling hot post office was reached, no record was to be seen. The parcel was flat and fat like a stale and overbready lunch wrapped up in a box. The package was ripped open outside to find, surprisingly, 150 packets of rizlas. Apparently they were from the spoils of a prize which I don't remember entering. At all. Pissed up and on the internet. Again. But this time instead of being a cause for embarrassment and regret, it's a cause for celebration. Smokes. Loads of them. It's a real celebration bitches.

The only thing is that 150 packets of rizlas containing 50 rizlas each is deemed a life time's supply. I give them 6 months...



Jagers - one for the barkeep obvs



Pints - both for one mandem - obvs



Podcasting live from 'the pit'



Who knows where Doctor Fish is?



They did eggs



Just before some near nudity



Cheesecakeeeeeeee flexxxxxxxxxxxxxx



Best meal. Ever? Pics?



Samosa at the bus stop - standard

Keeping it dark - keep it funky

In betwixt binging and having a mini-momentary breakdown, time has been found to squeeze out a couple of reviews. Just like a little rabbit who deposits a small batch of bitty, miniature droppings. TBHBs I imagine these reviews will have about as much critical impact as said droppings in cyber space but here goes nothing...

Here's what wisdom has been wielded at the releases below... Mau'lin is a Hackney dude flexing his take on bits and beats. Below him is the new album by one time Drexciya dude, Gerald Donald. It's fucking weird and dark. I tried to review it after a bad one and nearly, to coin the phrase, 'spazzed out the beast'. If I could turn back time, (if I could find a way), I'd attempt to clock this while in the company of others. Or at least have a nurse on standby to administer something uplifting afterwards.

Mau'lin - Deeper than the Sun review

Zwischenwelt - Paranormale Aktivitat review