Showing posts with label Grace Jones. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Grace Jones. Show all posts

Wednesday, 28 July 2010

Lovebox was a lot



Groove Armada's Lovebox festival went down the other weekend in Victoria Park. In many ways it went off much more than it went down due in part to a strong line up, intense heat and even stronger merch.

We spent the Saturday evening outside the arena listening to the pensionable Roxy Music meander languidly through a smattering of hits and more obscure selections while watching the more messy contingent of the crowd get booted out. One young lady in particular was a sight to behold. Dressed in a leopard skin dress ting, she was unceremoniusly given the hoof before propping herself against a tree and screaming 'You're all cunts' at the top of her lungs. I've never heard such whinging from someone so totally out of their mind. She went for fucking ever.

Another dude in a cowboy hat rocked up sporting slightly more sunny vibes by arriving in a mutant tricycle. He spent the eve peddling up and down the track in front of us giving people lifts with a cart, which, like that girl, appeared to be increasingly on the brink of collapse. Make no mistake - the vibe was strong out there.

Sunday was our day, Grace Jones our woman and it was another scorcher. The afternoon passed in something of a blur, mainly due to a slightly twisted notion that as we were going to work the next day, the murkage should descend much sooner than later. This way bed would come easier, therefore making the forthcoming day at the office a more palatable proposition. Predictably this backfired on a massive scale. It meant we succeeded in massively high levels of self murkage. Headliner Grace Jones is a very hazy recollection. Although I do remember My Jamaican Guy.



Derrick Carter smashed it in the dust of the Rizla stage, which is fast becoming my favourite spot at any festival we visit while Cut Copy provided the perfect soundtrack to jumping up and dwon while smashed on cider. I spent an hour on a park bench after the festival necking beer in a vain attempt to calm down while conversing with a fellow fuck head about the healing qualities of liquorice rizla.

You can find a review of the day I pieced together down here.

Resident Advisor Lovebox Weekender Review

The image above is the singer out of Hard Ton. They release records on International Gigolos, make music which is possibly utter rubbish but have one great idea. That record sleeve. It's amazing...

Tuesday, 21 July 2009

Grace Jones in the summertime



‘I’ve got the William’s Blood in me’. That’s Grace Jones’ battle cry. I’m not 100% sure who William is, what he did to find himself dancing round her veins or even how he got in there. Whatevs though Wills. You should be well chuffed that she’s made such a strong tune out of your dalliance. And you received a holler from a psychiatrist’s wet dream. Wow.

Myself and the brethren went to Somerset House to watch the 60 plus Jones shake her toosh just the other week. At one stage during the two hour show she screamed ‘I think I’ve got brain damage’ which was pretty self aware for a grandma who, a few songs earlier, had been humping a pole and flashing her thong at an audience made out of bears and pensioners.

My man describes her as being ‘sweet like Amazonian chocolate’. My ma reckons she’s violent, even though her performance as Mayday in the James Bond film View to a Kill was fictional. Whatever your thoughts are you should go and check her live show. It’s well wild…



There she is - Can you see her?



Smoking outdoors proved to be a lark



Pole dancing appreciation flex

Tuesday, 20 January 2009

The 09



Check out the ring-side shots of my ma on the table below. This is how we roll during the festive season. Gin and pool. Basically, the acid never lies.

Here's a selection of shots from the 09 thus far. We played a New Year's eve party at 93 Feet East in the members bar for a sharp suited evening called Jack to the Future. We killed it big style.

Since then it's been a case of rubbing those pennies hoping they'll get it on and produce lots of little pennies which will grow up big and strong and become pounds.



Aww - xmas house



Mum on the table - Pure acid



A quiet night in with the Tiga podcast

Incidentally every fucker in the universe is compiling top tips for the 09 - they’re citing a wave of keyboard waving sirens as the antidote to the past year of guitar wielding Gratton catalogue-esque numpties clogging up one’s lobes. Fuck them they don’t know anything. Here’s a proper slice of aural hype from an original madam with a little help from some lads. Grace Jones vs Aeroplane. Get on it mothers…