Rough Disko and a bite

We threw another Rough Disko party at Penelopes in July - It was a ‘residents special’ which translates in promoter terms as ‘we’re skint and we can’t afford any guests’.

However, in this case it was pretty sweet to get the chance to flex a bit of musical muscle from behind the decks. And it went off in a satisfying manner. One of the best moments was when the 'party bus' arrived at 10.30pm with a gang of revellers in tow. It stops off at various places around Yorkshire, transporting piss heads to various locations in search of good times.

This group of shitfaced teachers waltzed in, demanded the new Chris Brown single, smashed a glass and then fucked off. I was glad to see them go.

We’re throwing a series of monthly parties from October. Keep those peepers peeled for line ups…

Afterwards we celebrated by getting on a ketamine tip. It’s an experience which has punctuated the summer like an occasional equine-based bomb blast to the brain. It’s pretty disorientating and results in the user reverting to a child-like state. It is meant for horses so I guess this is unsurprising.

The next eve we missed the C90 party with DJ Rupture due to a bbq engagement in Beighton. It was a delightful experience until a gang of marauding slugs bum-rushed the show. One minute there weren’t any around - the next a whole tribe had started to get jiggy with the burgers. It was unfortunate I’d reached the stage of wolfing down a steak sandwich fresh off the grill. My fragile state of mind led to me believing that the bap I was sticking in my wobbly gob wasn’t stuffed with lovely, fragrant meat - but a gang of hungry slugs. Cue food popping back into mouth, cue little bit of sick in hand, cue giving oneself a talking to. Topping that Jeff bit me.

It hurt.



Raving - this guy was here before we opened the doors and danced around like a loon til the end. Props.



Bite marks

Paris, Paris, Paris, Paris, Paris

A har he har he har he har - A har he har he har - Je vais un lucky strikes muchos grandiose - that’s as far as my fragile grasp on French can flex - so you can imagine the horror with which the channel tunnel swallowed the Eurostar choo choo with our bad selves on it.

We entered France as we do any other situation - hungover, groggy and in need of 850 winks rather than the 17 that were accrued the previous evening.

The journey over was an uncomfortable affair. Squished up in a seat that would have been more at home in a concentration camp than a form of public transport. Obviously sitting next to the world’s thickest couple.

However once descending into fair Paris the inner tourist emerged and decided to strut its stuff like a peacock high on tat.

We did it all - The Eiffel tower, the porn museum, picking up a cock shaped egg mould, going for a freaking boat ride.

Due to unfortunate circumstances we missed Weatherall at the Rex Club and Metronomy at Durr but we did eat a lot of meat…and got a private tour of Parisian streets in a car at break-neck speed thanks to Joss and Anna. Here’s some of the highlights in photo form.

That guy up there was hanging outside the pornography museum. In the background you can just about make out the chair with tongues on it. You sit on it and the revolving spoke of plastic tongues 'licks' your bits until you explode. Well sexy innit.




I was just pissing by



Answering the phone



Answering the phone part deux



Pouting in Paris



Paris is a city of great lovers - even this hunchback is on it



Lost



Day One - Hungover



House of Gyro

Not only that but when we returned to the UK, the crew ended up going for a meal in an Indian restaurant near Tottenham Court Road. They served these dosa parcel type tings but the best bit was when they brought this cheesey monster out. Compliments of the chef... Big...

Edbanger Volume 3

Yo - I did a review of the relatively recently released Edbanger 3 compilation for Fact magazine. Admittedly late but here it is as they neglected to put it up and I don't seem to have covered as much sonic science as I had intended. I still love Edbanger. Those you tube clips of their parties look like nowt else and some of the music on this compilation is totally next level. Some of it is also utter shit but that's hype for thee...

Here's what I had to say....

A case of solid gold hype accompanies the third outing from Edbanger, Paris’ most outrageous electronic party fashionomonstas label. You know the drill by now and if you’re this late boarding the hype bus then you’re probably not fussed or been living in some sort of blogless box.

For those with short memories these are the ice-cool collection of Frenchoes with short fuses who love their metal to wear leather, their hip hop to swagger and bass to slap you round the chops wearing knuckles dusters carved from some of the harshest, ballsiest bass-bin breaking electronic dance out there.

Led by Daft Punk’s manager and moustachioed party boy Busy P, the third label compilation is a patchy, day-glo affair which has been lampooned across blogs and internet forums for not carrying the same weight as the previous two.

To these ears not much has changed. Edbanger have always been all over the place, a small record label who wield a massive amount of clout on the cyber waves and who enjoy partying, smoking and drinking as much as they love making music. As with the previous collections the bigger names don’t quite cut it. SebAstian shows off his muscles by throwing the devils horns on Dog with a bass riff reminiscent of Rage against the Machine, Uffie does her shouty hip hop ting on Robot Oeuf and Mr Oizo may as well have not left his boudoir for all the impact Minuteman’s Pulse has on yer lobes.
It’s down to Pedro Winters himself to show your ears where it’s at with Protect and Entertain feat dot veteran MC Murs. As fat as Mr Winter’s tache, this is a hip hop pastiche full of niggas, hoes, dicks (theirs is as ‘big as texas’ apparently) and possessing an illicit electronic snake for a backbone. As an album opener (and a ‘hip hop’ track from Edbanger - only as confusing as having the jigga headline Glasto I.e not very) sets the bar high…
Elsewhere it’s the least obvious moments that set the party torch paper alight. Dj Medhi brings the disco to the table, DSL the hip hop and Feadz a scatter gun electronic house (with added smut from Spank Rock). Add to this more ace artwork from So Me and you’ve got yourself a party. There maybe some duffers and yep they’re all over the place, but you wouldn’t really want them any other way…

Below's a hot remix from wonky Italians Crookers. This pair love bassline, house and are, as they say, totally killing it right now.

Check it...

The Rugby Ball

The day after Rough Disko was total fucking agony. After collapsing into the sack around breakfast time, my deeply shitfaced sleep was terminated before we’d made it to midday. I had to shake a wobbly leg as we were due in Wolverhampton for a ball at Jeff‘s brother‘s Rugby Club.

I’d never been to one before. During the hazy days of studying, they seemed to be mainly populated by posh tools from the home counties who used them as ways to show off the contents of their wallets and trousers. But the idea of dressing up now is a freaking treat. The week up to it was spent scouting out potential outfits which I fucked up totally by hiring a pair of trousers that a 13 year old girl with an eating problem wouldn’t be able to fit in. Cue frantic ringing of chums in an attempt to locate a pair of pantaloons that would allow me to breath. Props to Andy Pembs for coming through at the last minute and making up for my poor movements. Following the pick up of a pair of pointy shoes and a lengthy brushing of teeth we were off to the party…



new fucking shoes friend



Ancient couple getting all cute and freaky on the dancefloor



Drunk fireman Sean

On arrival we were surrounded by big burly rugby players. I was a little groggy when we descended but one fellow took pleasure in informing me it was gonna be a late do and that a lot of booze would be sank. It took me a while to realise he was taking the piss but thankfully he was so fucked later I could rip it out of him without receiving a cauliflower ear (which appeared to be de rigeaur - no one told me otherwise I would have spent the previous night getting in a fight rather than getting in a mess)…

There was a Tom Jones tribute act (second in last year’s Britain Got Talent natch), a ton of orange war paint, a great deal of mutton trussed up like lamb, dancing, shouting, several wedges of fine cheese, a hog roast and a drunk fireman. All wrapped up in a lovely Wolvo twang. It was top. Ta-ra in a bit.



Wetting the whistle



Lovely, stinky, lovely cheese



hype?



The Tom Jones impersonator



Laying it down



Vibe?



tit



Raw bloody nostrils the morning after

DJ Mossadon in Sheffeeeel

Oh oh here’s a bit of business on what’s been happening Sheffield style people…

We threw a bash last month with electro DJ Mossadon who journeyed all the way down from York for the June Rough Disko freak out. Go (RIP) were responsible for the beautiful flyers and we snuck around Sheffield in the weeks before like a trio of slobby wolves brandishing these pretty promotional tools at anyone who’d listen and many who didn’t. The street team even braved the tie-die wearing, poi throwing and chick pea gobbling hippy fest that was Peace in the Park to try and spread the legs of the vibe even further…

Unfortunately the attendance was sub-sub-sub-low but big up to Mossadon and brother in arms Def Stef for taking the time to do their thang down at Penelopes.

Here’s the eye candy for youse - didn’t quite catch Mossadon in full bass wobble but you can see the sweat and tears outside. The despair was translated into the half litre bottle of Teachers that’s been hanging around my flat since Zombie Disco Squad rejected it back in December. Some people have no taste…



The team



Mossey laying it down for all 17 punters



Another money-making evening...

Breakfast vibes

Vibing - vibing... Here's the breakfast of a recent Saturday hangover. It was a fucking sweet make no mistake...

Recently I’ve been getting signed up to all sorts of record label mailing lists and press tings. You’re thinking free records yes yes yes but it sounds a lot more exciting than the reality is. Although good stuff does sometimes wind its way to me, usually it’s some fucking minimal remix of those winging posh lads Foals or a breaks related ‘piece’ that makes the letter box attempt to sick it back out on the postman.

If the music itself isn’t total bad wank, then the delivery of it is overly complex. I’ve travelled all the way to Doncaster to pick up a cd-shaped parcel that, with a bit of thinking outside the box on the part of our postman, could probably have slipped in through our front door like a slug in a slot machine.

That shit is all by the by. What I’m hollering about here is that last week I received two records which maybe possibly the worst tings I’ve heard in some time.

I had to review ‘em and slagged these pair of aural hate crimes mercilessly. However they need to be avoided like an itchy paedo. Or a ploughman’s package with a mouldy spoon. So watch out for them.

First up are A-Human, an electro-rock band birthed skawking and screaming from the Jesus Jones school of dance music.

If you don’t hate them from the first listen, (with songs as Post Post Modern Anxiety Blues and The Fraudulent Truth of an Office Worker, it’s difficult not to), then a few excerpts from the press release may tip you over the edge.

The band is led by singer Dave Human, who modestly describes himself as ‘modern day literary oddball’.

Let’s let Dave explain his (piss) artistry and the brilliance of his odes- “I don’t see myself as a poet necessarily - I muse on things. It’s just a silly perception of whatever it is that I feel particularly at that time of day is bothering me so it could be anything. I’m a fumbler.”

The pr spiel concludes that A Human, “as a package, are a real slap in the face. Distinctly odd, a bit over the top, whatever the label - this is one band that won’t, and shouldn’t, be ignored.” Jesus - don’t fucking ignore this bullshit - run for the fucking hills.

The Infadels’ new album shows a shameless attempt to bite down on the jugular of the mainstream with a lack of dignity akin to fun bag inflater Jodie Marsh. Their second record has seen them attempt to reinvent themselves as a baggy guitar band rather than the peddlers of snotty (admittedly average) electro rock that they were before . Any band who appear to want to ape James need to be put down. Simple…

Both on Wall of Sound and both total turd - and this from the label where Stuart Price aka Les Rhythmes Digitales released records that made Madonna’s musical growler weep for joy. They’ve fucking lost it - FACT.

May Rough Disko post mortem

Right right let’s get to it. The last party was a right fucking jump off, if not a red hot sausage fest.

That’s right the music went SKONKN K NKNKN BBBBBBIOIOI, then flexed its muscles before punching you between the legs and tweaking yer balls/cameltoe.

Boys loved it, so did a few girls, and many ladies hated it. However, that me ducks is the way we fucking roll.

Props to Mr Oris Jay for properly slaying it, whoop whoop to the C90 dicks for sticking their fingers in our pie again and to anyone who ventured down. It.Was.Good.

Here are some pics from Penelopes to show how big and bouncing it was. Check out Mary Anne Hobbs offa Radio 1 who was in the area for her birfday. We didn’t get her anything.



Radio 1 in da AREA! avec beaux - marvel at the fun she's having



Action shot of foliage in Penelopes - this sums up the point of blogs nicely.



Revellers 'having it'/'going extra large'/'throwing the dummy out of the pram'/



Darqwan/Oris Jay laying it down