Kevin Saunderson in Shoreditch...

It's been a bit of a wait to reflect on the events of da other weekend. We went to check Kevin Saunderson and Inner City in a car park in Shoreditch and we had a right old time but Inner City were a real pisser. Like reaching for a piece of fine stilton only to find that it had turned and gone all green. Deeply Disappointing. The photos say more than a 1,000 words even though I tried to spin it out for Resident Advisor. I could have been nastier. Maybe next time...

Resident Advisor Kevuin Saunderson review



Inner City doing their thang



Bored onlookers




OOOOOOOOhhhhhhh



My face is melting because these drugs don't work. Again.



Fuck off mate



Stop it




Two men for chicken. Flex.



These fucking drugs STILL don't work. Kevin! Kevin!



Yes?

Bizzy B

Eventually got round to vibing on this. Bizzy B is a badman. Read all about it on here...

Bizzy B Retrospective review for Fact...

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

Duck Sauce

This is exciting. A-Trak and Armand Van Helden. Rubbing each other down in disco duck butter. Perhaps not the most aesthetically pleasing image you've ever come across, but for the ears it's a little treat indeed ... Here's a Youtube-esque rip.

Kanye Vest

A pair of tits.

It’s been a big week for checking out ‘legends'. Or tossers depending on yer perspective. T’other Sunday we managed to score tickets for Kanye West at the Wireless Festival on the Sunday eve in Hyde Park. It was a weird old day as the line up stank like an old man’s bridge in many parts. Alesha Dixon resembled a cutprice Beyonce straight out of Iceland’s two for one range. Diversity were the dancing troupe from Britain’s Got Talent. Yep. That's right. Buuuuuuuulllllllshiiiiiiiiiittttt.

And there were hundreds of kids squawking about the place. Little bastards. It wasn’t until Tribe Called Quest’s Q-Tip jived around the stage that there was anything worth giving your ears over to. By this stage the doobs, cider and sunshine were all taking hold, the children were melting away into the night and we got a right bounce on to the ‘Tip’. What a bad man, especially the three rewinds of Award Tour.

While Q-Tip was willing to get his fingers dirty, Kanye was an altogether more ego-tactical proposition. Equipped with a space-age set, leather gloves, trench coat, shades and a quartet of ladies with their tits out covered in gold, it lurched from the top smart to the extremely self-indulgent. The new material was reminscent of waving an aural wand in a massive cave. The sense of disappointment was removed by the intense high we got on during his set. Phew.



Kanye with his dancers



Baked and bored (waiting for Alesha Dixon to fuck off)



An incredibly strong look. The bottles were empty

Shithead

Competitions are usually all about winning and losing. But in Shithead there are no winners. There is the shithead and those lucky (or skilled) enough not to be.

After necking a few lovely pints at the boozer, we purchased a big bottle of gin (‘just in case’) and got the cards out. Good job the booze was bought as we needed it when it reached 4am, the thirst was still on and the scent of losing was thick in the air.



Quiet contemplation



Victory never tasted so sweet



Sultry way with the cards



The smell of Shit(head) is in the area

Bottin

Check oot a few of my boring thoughts on Bottin’s Horror Music album here.

William Bottin is a synth freak with a passion for Vincent Price and vampire films. It’s peculiar, danceable and very italo. Oh yes.