Lady Chann chit chat

I've been on the interview haul this week for the Stool Pigeon inkie magarzeene.

It's involved walking to Elephant and Castle and Islington due to being too skint to afford public transport, then chin wagging with Hot Chip-affiliated house boys the 2 Bears and dancehall queen Lady Chann.

Her ladyship was bothered/perturbed enough to tweet about the 'experience'.



I think this is called pulling the wool over someone's eyes. Readeh.

Wordy wordy wordy

Here's a couple of reviews I churned out last week for FACT

Tanlines and Four Tet's new rewiring by Floating Points get the treatment. Both worth a punt. Check the latter here and the former here

The less said...

... about Sunday night the better. What happens in the London Fields, stays in the London Fields. However, the music on display was too strong. Wham were a highlight. Getting to bed past 2 was not. Hey ho...

Hanging with the real life Arthur Baker

Thursday night saw us down at the Scala for Red Bull's penultimate party - 12 X 12 - an evening full of dance music heavyweights taking their best tune and stretching it out for 12 minutes. Why? Who knows but we, like nearly everyone else who rocked up, were there on a freebie. Who cares why.

Although the night itself had all the vibe of a corporate Christmas lunch, we made our own fun by getting pissed, smoking doobs and hanging with the 'celebs'. Jazzie B, Arthur Baker, A Guy Called Gerald, Shy FX and a fake Andy Williams were all papped. We hobnobbed with other members of the glitterati, aka totally fucked PR people and Observer journos too shitted to even speak.

We even asked Gerald how much Red Bull was paying him to tarnish his legacy of acid house in such a manner. My one regret (apart from not getting in until gone 3am. Again) was never having a chance to ask Heaven 17's Martyn Ware what the fuck he was thinking in providing the gakked up crowd with a karoake take on Temptation. I think we could have been watching an old man breakdown. I guess he could argue he was overseeing the breakdown of 'youth culture' in thrall to an energy drink.

Whatevs - the turn up for the books was hearing him not maim Heaven 17's Let Me Go. Such. A. Big. Tune.






Andy Williams vs the Dominator



Heaven 17's Martyn Ware committing a crime



Vibing in the VIP area



Shy FX vs the Dominator

The Cosmic King reaches a milestone

Last weekend was another large one. Almost too large for the brain and body to take. After embarrassing myself on Friday, Saturday was the Cosmic King's birthday. Following a breakfast involving a hearty, artery sludgifying black pudding scotch egg, it was time to continue playing up to parody. We took a trip down Old Compton Street to search out the original strength formula room odouriser, then burrowed our heads in boxes of 12 inches. We found this monster for 20p.






Beautifully packaged words



Pouring over the FT's obituaries



The evening was a suitable celebration befitting of the Cosmic one's 30th. Embarrassing images of the past coupled with a strong cake, delicious beers, solvent abuse and outlandish dancing. We even ended up at a house party with a PA in the front room and a floor buckling number of people dancing to the best Modular releases from 2006. Too strong.



Eyeing up the goods



Down the hatch



The Cosmic King goes mutant



Vogue



Bashy denim vibes

Midweek deviancy

Benj B's Deviation night went down in the bowels of CAMP yester eve. Skream was the guest player hammering out a one off disco set. We were right down the front on a school night. Today has been all about manning up and gross acts of moral turpitude. Eek.

Two men vs a pot of gherkins

During Tuesday nights at the fag end of winter you have to make your own fun. Skintness has descended like a murky fog, your guts hurt from overegging the boozey pudding at the weekend and there's nowt on the telly.

The only thing for it is to get on the bike, get to Lidl and buy a kilo jar of gherkins. These vegs are the most phallic tings I've ever seen. Like a jar full of pickled nobs from the 16th century that eccentric diary keepers would host on their desks for inspiration. Difficult to get into let me tell you...

Saga Africa launch bagel delight

Post zoo over da weekend was not as animal fuelled but still suitably savage. We headed straight down from Camden to Shoreditch for a deliciously metrosexual cocktail (it's all about the confidence) before nipping over the road to the Legion for the Saga Africa compilation launch party.

Put together by Radioclit, the record is a collection of artistes born out of the Very Best. Unbelieveably the dudes on the compilation manage to coerce the sonics of afro-house and house electronics into surprisingly fresh sounding bedfellows. Thankfully the vibe is much more hype end gutter than Womad.

So the compilation is ace, and despite the Legion being populated by too many twats to mention and particularly pricey drinks, most of the night was hanging off the chain. The first two dudes, Douster and Myd, absolutely slayed it. Tropical house with drops deep enough to drown in...

This is some of the tackle they were fronting. I'm bouncing on the poof in our front room while I'm laying this verby shit down - it brings the taste of overpriced Sailor Jerry's and coke straight back...







The last dude Lazy Flow was a slightly different kettle of French fish. He rocked up in a flat cap sporting a chain straight out of Barley, then proceeded to bully his mates off the decks with his silly set up. The young cocker acted like a right tool for the rest of the eve - he played the Ghostbusters theme, then insisted the camera man dude catch a great shot of a slice of staged mix. Grow up mate.



Eyeing up bagels post Legion



Lazyflow ensures the camera points the lens at him



Lazyflow in da mix - note Barley chain. Nob.



Lazyflow bullies better dj off the decks



No room for the ego

Large amounts of offal-based strength

The month of February has been characterized by great displays of sheer strength. Last Saturday was perhaps the third weekend on the trot where I slept little, laughed hard and woke up on a Monday without wanting to leap off the roof of our flat. This has nowt to do with approaching the weekend with anything resembling moderation and everything to do with pushing so hard that the vibe is off the cliff. What would Kevin Rowland do? He'd burn it down.

Friday eve was spent enjoying a large helping of offally cuisine. I've never dined on the bits of meat that Macdonald's usually throw away. But funnily enough, at My Old Place, they were delicious. Even the intestine was lovely until it cooled and then carried the strong, earthy taste of pure, unadulterated shit. The first potential skat scene of the weekend.

The next day we took a trip to London zoo. Props to the anteater, the aardvark and the gorilla for daring to eat its own shit with such unadulterated glee. I have never seen anything quite like it.



A deadly, yet retiring snake. Who would have thought...



Spitty flex



Glitter flex



Jedward



Piranhas on the lose


Long necked vibes



He wasn't there. Lying bastards