Monday, 27 June 2011

A love from outer space and Andrew Weatherall's small feet

Stoke Newington isn't the first place which springs to mind when contemplating psyche-house and slo-mo disco. You'd be forgiven for thinking that these strains of cosmic electronics would more likely be found orbiting the earth somewhere near Mars than tethered to the dancefloor of a basement in NW16. But A Love From Outer Space, the monthly club night lorded over by Lord Sabre Andrew Weatherall and his chum Sean Johnston, does the interplanetary hardwork so you don't have to. These elder statesmen of dance have been roaming through galaxies of cosmic house for time - they've plucked out throbbers from among the stars, then stashed them away in a dungeon out of sight but not out of mind - Thing is this bevy of electronic beauties are only allowed to roam free once a month in the basement of the Drop up in Stokey. So you need to act with due diligence if your ears are gonna catch a glimpse of them. Held on a Thursday eve, it's one strictly for the heads who don't care about tomorrow - or at least can get away with spending the day moping on Facebook or 'working from home'.

We journeyed up to Stoke Newington to see what all the fuss was about for the June session - having been on the pints straight from work, sustenance came in the form of sausage and chips - which is about as cosmic as it gets. When we landed at the Drop, greasey of face and mind, Weatherall was outside toking on a cig wearing prime cuts from the 'man of the sea' side to his wardrobe. There was no way of speaking to him without coming across as a fawning fan boy but I took solace in the fact he has a very small pair of feet. He may have produced Primal Scram's rave opus Screamdelica, is one of the best techno djs and producers in the land and taken so many drugs that he can't remember five years of his life during the early noughties but he seemingly owns a pair of feet last seen on a 13 year-old boy.

Once we'd stopped gasping over the size of his teeny hooves, we waded into the small dungeon. The Drop may be miniature in size but is massive in vibes and the two were laying some seriously tough digi-business. Every tune landed with a massive punching clout - it meant the tunes and the lager coursing through our veins ensured that whatever drops of 'cool' we'd saved outside were utterly lost - The two of us were whooping and dancing like loons right down at the front getting sweaty with the mixed up crowd of tourists, students and gnarled elderly gurners. The walk home was spennt banging on about what a fucking pair of genie-i these two are. The next day was spent eating stodge and attempting not to do anything too stupid at work...
Massive scenes...

Check my Resident Advisor review - I didn't send them any images of the sustenance...

Our pilot - nice tats

Having it

Pre-party late evening nosh up

Post-rave morning nosh up


The last few weeks or so have been pure and unadulterated hype with almost too much shizzle and bizzle going on. The standard bouts of extreme binging have been balanced out by behaviour which could almost be classed as civilised. Almost. Perhaps. In a parallel dream world where it's normal to consume lager all the time, sleep for an average of 5 hours and usually at a time when most folk are up and about going down Homebase to source new shelves.

Big tings include going up to London's zoo and checking in with perhaps the most distinctive of all the animals - the bearded pig. Other hype business included getting relatively close to a sloth (a sleeping sloth - natch) and the wonderful facial hair of an Emperor Tamarin monkey - Stands to reason that being a peacock is kind of a big deal round our way but these little tinkers take the proverbial style biscuit and make it their own by owning huge, white taches. They look preposterous... Other than that, we attended a 20-20 cricket match down at the Oval and Nando's have promised to open a new branch within spitting distance of the entrance to our office. Fingers crossed the birds come home to roost sooner rather than later. Big up the Peri Peri crew...

New mug - steeze? Steeze...

Hello you. That's right. You


A bearded pig

'Weeeeeeey' - down at the cricket

Sunday, 19 June 2011

Fist kissing with fractured arms

Muscle kissing when you've fallen in the shower and done a real mash up to a limb can be tricky. But Chinchilla Price AKA The Cosmic Chef went above and beyond the call of duty earlier in the month to show that you can still drink, DJ and kiss the fist despite being injured. Props to the champ. Only hours earlier he'd been in A&E being pieced back together again...

It was the KTF First birthday bash down at the London Fields and was, as per, a suitably messy affair - the session culminated in a brief dalliance with psychedelic worlds while still physically being in our front room in Hackney. Roll on the next dance. Hopefully we'll have all our limbs and brains fully-functioning and pointing in the right direction by then...

This is how we roll

Some hype business has been thrown our way of late - Lando Kal is one half of Laser Sword and has drummed up a house ting which is suitable chopped and screwed. Check it here

Lando Kal - Further/Time Out review

Elsewhere the first collaboration from Zed Bias and Steve Gurley is sounding pretty fresh...

Bias & Gurley Roll review


Scran of all levels appears to have been high on the agenda of late - Eaten some rubbish, eaten some gold. These are the highlights...

Frying spears in a small frying pan




Stoke Newington butty

Add to fry up for additional stodge

Cheesecake - guilty

The fodder equivalent of a dinghy to a drowning man

Getting baked

The art of baking is not summat indulged in much round our way. Unless it's the collective mind on a smoking herb flex, it's something which has been treated with a combined sense of fear and dread. Which is what those unused to getting baked would say that smoking a reefer does to them. Think about it. Pretty cosmic right? Anyhoo a copy of the Guardian ended up in our gaff the other week (standard) and one gent (who shall remain unnamed) decided to take it upon himself to bake these brownies. You can see the results directly below. They were beautiful to the eye and to the mouth...

As much of the ingredients were in the gaff after these were made, I foolishly attempted to ape our man's masterful efforts. There aren't scales in our residence so somewhat recklessly I decided to judge all measurements by eye. Yep. By mine little eye. The whole process was a gripped-by-the-seat-of-your-pants-style emotional rollercoaster ride - There was fear when it looked like there wasn't enough chocolatey paste to use as a base. Guilt after beating the peanut butter into a pulp in the blender with a wooden spoon, then realising that the spokes in the blender were now bent out of all useful shape. There was also shame when I found the other part of the blender and realised I could have used that instead of standing in the dark kitchen beating the shit out of eggs for aeons by hand in a desperate bid for a stiff peak. But in the end, they came out all reet. No one, to the best of my knowledge, died during the journey or when they reached the final destination of a mouth. Next up - pies...

Melting down £5's worth of chocolate

Striving for a stiff peak by hand

Blending peanut butter in the blender with a wooden spoon. It's just so easy

Chocolate paste

Mid-bake off

The finished product

Tuesday, 7 June 2011

Skepta on the starboard bow, starboard bow starboard bow

'It's grime Jim but not as we know it' is probably something Captain Kirk would say if he was kicking about in a trendy environ of east London listening to the latest Night Slugs release from Bok Bok. I don't know if he is cos he could travel through space and that but if he was I reckon he'd be into it. I am and spilled the proverbial guts below...

Resident Advisor Bok Bok Southside EP review

Hard Crew - You Were Warned

The Bang Face weekender seems like almost a lifetime ago - one where acting like a horse in pain was de rigeaur and not going to bed was essential. In many ways it's a lot better than reality. We went sort of get murked and sort of to review it. Here's the review - I left out certain bits. What happens at Bang Face gets put on the internet but only to a very select few.

Bang Face Weekender Hyponik review

The village of the damned

Sometimes the only thing that can save you is a Tesco meat feast pizza. And then you know you're up to your gullet in trouble. But so, somewhat predictably, it was the other Monday. Walking round Tesco with your brains hanging out of your ears and your eyes going in different directions can lead a man to make choices he could regret. The kiss off from making such a purchase was that there were no looks cast back in anger - it actually tasted fucking amazing - At the time of consumption, which was the day after, the combination of cheap meats and pure dirt was like a rubber dinghy to a drowning man. A much needed meaty tissue to the tears that inevitably follow three days of getting totally murked. Thank you Tesco. Here's a brief display of what happened...

Trailer Trash

Jager men

Mr Creamy's been round again

Lunch and din dins all at the same time

The only way to watch the football


Stinky feet

Sunday, 5 June 2011

Bear Hug

Pour moi, the moniker 'The 2 Bears' conjures up images of two big chaps with beards cavorting together in a bush somewhere near Vauxhall. Or maybe sharing a milkshake in a posh cafe. But in housey housey terms it's Raf Daddy and Joe from Hot Chip making daft, but P.O.S.I.T.I.V.E dance music to grin your tats off to. Bear Hug is being bummed to death by Annie Mac at the moment on Friday nights - And it's no wonder - it's nutty enough to be a genuine hit but still untapped enough to love.

Bear Hug Resident Advisor review

Thursday, 2 June 2011

Thunder Bay

Hudson Mohawke makes music bent all out of shape - he changed the game last time and this ain't no different. FEELING THIS ONE. MASSIVE STYLEZ...

It's nice to go away - and it's nice to come back

A week off from an office should never be sneezed at - even during these highly pollinated times. And when yer skint. So when presented with the opportunity to fuck off for a bit, whether your nose is runny or your wallet empty, there's only one thing to do. Raid the penny draw, get a tissue out and snort it up. Time off is time off. Get out there and see the world. That's what I thought when I was working through the final three days of my notice period in a previous job. And so fate (and the generosity of the trainline's early booking system) enabled us to get out of the smoke and hit up Stafford, North Wales, Manchester and Sheffield in a blizzard of smoke, pints and hot wheels. That's right. Probably about as far from new horizons as you could get without returning to the womb, but a change is as good as a rest isn't it? Or a womb?

Turning up in Stafford dead gaseous and baggy of eye wasn't initially the one but, after letting the 'devil' out at Northampton, the rest of the seven day cup did runneth over with thrills and spills. Stumbling round Mam Tor talking shit and picking through sheep bones was one. It was exhilirating to get a real Heathcliff/Wuthering Heights flex on while everyone else was in school. Having to run from Salford to Manchester Piccadilly Train was even more exhilirating. The lungs have yet to get over it, but the sprint was part of a pre-planned strategy to prevent missing yet another train after getting bastardised in Manchester the night before.

Signs of supposedly oncoming maturity were confronted by meeting a pair of drooling babies. Lovely. Cars also played a part as I took a ride in our uncle's Chrysler and discussed Great Uncle Len who was so fed up, he threw himself in front of a train. An even happier ride was taken down in the vehicle that my dad's retirement is riding on - his italian stallion is his pride of joy and possibly receives more care and attention than his better half (my mum - #justsayin'). We gambled on two pence machines in Wales, danced to Simply Red in Sheffield and watched men who'd supposedly survived four heart attacks snort industrial strength gak in Manc. The jaunt culminated in a fry up and an intense, pissed up battle on the snooker table. Before heading back to the smoke on the Friday to reboard the murky choo choo... Nice one to everyone who put us up and propped us up. Fuck it was mint...

Roule is the one

Trains run through Edale like smoke through the nostrils of a dragon

Lost dog walker out of his mind on a Kelham Island brew

We all know what that's code for don't we boys and girls?

A badly turned out ankle - standard dog walker flex

Who are ewe looking at?

Curiousity could kill the lonely dog walker

It's like nature and that innit

Pissing on nature - call the National Trust helpline

Death stalks the earth - especially if you're a hungry sheep lost near Mam Tor

Breakfast in Manchester

Everyone knows Bobby in Salford. If you don't know, then get to know


Culkin on da toilet wall - Usually is. He usually is the dirty bastard

Mash up dog lighter crew

Salford by night - pished and urban

Just a little supper

Does it what it says on the bar

Boudoir attire

Elephant baby flex

Penguin baby flex

Mancunia - they know what time it is

Bread and butter cake Welsh stylez

Pork belly business

Family tree scrawled on back of an envelope in the pub - 'not marriage material'

Gambling mumsy

The stake's is high. We played to win

Lunch in Welsh cafe - big looks

Going up for illegal drugs, panty hose and cottaging

The windiest, most desolate place in North Wales - so windy they forgot to name it

An aircraft with a massive rubbery tit

808 State - they call it Aciiiiiiiiidddd...

Vet magazine business

Midlife crisis in stasis

Behind the wheel of Pa's motor

Stafford is a thriving metropolis. Don't forget that


Ultimate fridge

Fuck off a minute

Energy flash