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



Brethren



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



Steeeeeze



Ultimate fridge



Fuck off a minute



Energy flash

Bleeps for the boize

If you're one of them grown men (or women) who receive an instant killer wood when they hear a bassbin rumble and a digital hish, they you'll know Hessle Audio. A label run by the impossibly young Ben UFO, Pearson Sound and Pangaea, they've been lording it up over the new, kinda percussive sound from way out - it's a dubsteppy, garagey, housey, bassy fusion dish - Certain types are claiming it's like mixing fish and chips with tofu it's so fucking radical. It's not - more like fish and chips and mushy peas but with an even better after taste if you're applying it to the ears. I'm feeling it but the whole sound could be picked on for being just a little over-serious.....

The first label compilation by the trio is the bloody bees knees if you're feeling this sort of shiz - The first disc is on a 'best of' vibe while the second one is where they're currently heading. I scribbled some left words on 'em for Hyponik.

Check the review over here - 116 & Rising Hyponik review while below are a few pair of choice cuts from da record. It's bass heavy and boyish...

I love Jackmaster and I'm not afraid to admit it

The latest Fabriclive mix is owned by Scottish DJ dude Jackmaster. He's one of the main players in the Numbers crew and one of the best DJs we've seen over the past year. He's disgustingly young but seems to be able to deeply tailor his sets to any kind of party - whether it be booty bass, grime or disco. His latest Fabric mix has been on repeat in our kitchen and my headphones for the past month and a half and there's still no sign of it losing its edge. It's energetic, exciting DJing which doesn't veer into the kingdom of the sausage fest, despite having a tracklisting which should make any IDM head weak at the knees.

You can read my review for Resident Advisor and the interview I did with him for Stool Pigeon underneath below...

Jackmaster Fabric mix Resident Advisor review

Jackmaster interview with the Stool Pigeon

This Anthony Shakir tune is one of the more exquisite delights from the mix - but everyone of the 29 tunes on there is a freaking minter. Brace...

Bang Face Weekender 2011 - I LOVE MY LIFE AS A DICKHEAD

Ooof - Last weekend was A LOT. The Bang Face Weekender is A LOT. It's the only festival I've ever been to where you're welcomed back by a chorus of faces exclaiming: "You're alive?!" Which is nice, but illustrates the perimeter of fear which surrounds the event.

It's easy to be put off by the day glo, neo-rave armageddon vibes which emanate off Bang Face - while the moniker doesn't exactly imply you're going to be enjoying a restful time of it at Pontins, where the shebang is held. But at any festival, whether it's the Ketamine Olympics or the Chelsea Flower Show, the appropriate vibe is always to go hard or go home. Bang Face isn't threatening. Although the vibe is wrapped in a dreadlock, a vague whiff of the nineties and mild bouts of madness. But nothing more nutty or deadly than you'd find in any other festival or 'warehouse party'. Plus it takes place at a perfect crossroads of rave - an axis which straddles a grey area somewhere between the past, future and present. But with perhaps one and a half feet in the past. In the best possible way...

We got to the site on Friday after boarding the bullet train and getting our cider on all the way to Rye. We stopped at the local Budgens to pick up a shed load of ale and fodder, before making our wonky way down there. At the entrance we were greeted by a brace of security guards who, after asking who we were, started shouting "Press! Press! The press are here" in a vague bid to find someone with some sort of authority. No one came. It was a suitably daft, yet joyous beginning to a well daft, yet totally euphoric 72 hours.

Friday was all about getting totally pished and massively narked up - Jeff Mills is the one thing that really stands out through a thick haze of dancing, sweat and jaw chattering good times. He laid down a thick, lean set of techno which still stands out through a fug of smoke and lairiness. After he'd wound us up as tight as a spring, we unravelled into pools of human mess via bouts of extreme beggaring in the main rooms and outside before ending up back at Chalet 21 for some serious acid bendiness. Memories fade at this point but we definitely went back to our adopted home for a horsey sit down. Our crew even went to sleep which says a right lot about the sort of massive state we were in. Wonked. And pooped.

Saturday involved emerging from the pit and tucking (that's right TUCKING) into a fry up before TUCKING into our fridge and watching Bang Face TV from under the cover of a duvet for much of the afternoon. When we ventured out, it was under an extreme cloud of murkage. I ended up swapping my socks in exchange for a balloon. There was a gabba rave going off in the chalet just up the road, which had to be visited bare of foot. The musical highlights were numerous but Space Dimension Controller and the Squire of Gothos both got the collective rave pecker standing firmly to attention. The Squires seemed to be playing in the midst of a sauna with sweat and tops off being the vibe. We didn't bother with sleep on the Saturday eve, instead choosing to wander around the chalet areas, which ensured we came into contact with a few nightmares nonetheless. One chap appeared to have completely lost his marbles and was screaming from the back of a van. Another chalet was shut down by security in the early hours of the morning after a man with a vaguely psychotic glint in his eyes and not much in the way of clothes was seen staggering about. The true cause will (hopefully forever) remain a mystery but the numerous balloons we embibed blunted any edge of darkness these scenes offered at the time.

Sunday was all about the mid-afternoon chalet rave - although Leftfield took what was left of Bang Face down a memory lane carved out of nineties bass and rave tackle that eve, one of the highlights was dancing on the scorched earth earlier in the day. A variety of rigs appeared to have somehow convened in one area and were doing their best to outblast each other. Mutant strains of jungle and gabba were both rinsed in this demilitarised rave zone but the best bits was the pop - hearing Madness and Queen in those moments nailed the vibe perfectly. Stupid, fucked up, fun and life affirming all at the same time. Which sums up the weekend perfectly.

There were shitloads of other moments - the signs ("The only thing I'm fucking tonight are my prospects", "Not marriage material", "I'm a massive cunt", "Hard Crew"), Bang Face TV with Normski and crew and the Hard Crew - the ravers who we danced, chatted and monged with other the three nights we were there. Without sounding like too much of a hippy twat, every year we've attended Bang Face, the Hard Crew have done much to make it. Everyone might be on a massive amount of drugs. Sure. But they still don't have to be so nice or accommodating. Massive, hands in the air style props to everyone we met and met up with again from the past two years. The previous two were tremendous. But this one was summat else. Roll on next year. I'm already contemplating giving up on normality, investing what little dosh I have in a rig and spending the rest of my days stumbling round Europe searching for the next rave. Alternatively I'll calm down and get on with the day-to-day. Either way "I LOVE MY LIFE AS A DICKHEAD".



Neon Ugly Crew



Scran and booze



'Not Marriage Material'



The Wizard



Jeff Mills leading Bang Face into the apocalypse



"Can I have 18 hot wings please mate? And make them fucking soggy. I've got a mouth as dry as the sahara."



Hard Crew going in



Fake benjamins



The 5th chalet mate - diet flex



Stan



Acid



Nelson Bangdela



Mr Ed's cousin on day release



Clown going large



Honesty is the best policy



Bragging monks



Atari Teenage Riot



Riot



Crowd surfing on a dinghy. Obvs



Mega 'Blackpool illumination style' murked



Catching some z'ssss - what a nancy



Roassssssst



Go West



Leftfield



Chalet mates getting (it?) on



Buried at Bang Face



The inevitable backlash



Too. Much. Sand



Sunday afternoon chalet rave madness

Bang Face is coming

It's nearly here - the neo-rave armageddon which is Bang Face. Just one small sleep until we journey down to Rye and get to Camber Sands for the ruffage. The past two years have been serious. This one should be similar. I'm feeling wrinkler just thinking about it... See youse on the flip side...