Toronto-shaped dreams

Disposable cameras used to be a minor pinnacle of image-capturing technology. Overpriced, throwaway and like a red rag to the amateur cos you could just pick 'em up and immediately begin clicking. As part of a very minor experiment (and an attempt to busy my brain with increasingly less important and self-indulgent tasks) I acquired a couple of the bad boys when we did one to Canada last autumn.

In 'omage to Oneman, one of the best, tightest DJs spinning around the current block, I'm gonna 'bite' his notion and use a Tumblr platform for these disposable graphics. I'm pretty sure any images I post up will be about a million years less exciting but f.u.c.k. it who cares.

I also found these videos on my phone while having a little scroll through my memories of the big trip from last year. There are more but some are so incriminating I daren't put them on the Internet. It'll break.



Toddla T in Toronto



Canada's Wonderland

Krystal Klear and Olivier Daysoul make beautiful slow jam

Slow jammmmmzzzzz - Not the preserve but the sensually inclined calling of the horn. It's not often any true slow jam emerges in this day and age but Krystal Klear and Olivier Daysoul have combined creative juices to produce a pure killer. I challenge you to not get the horn listening to this. Go on. Try. It's impossible...

I tickled out a little review for Hyponik over here. Oooh matronnnn.

Metal Jacket - Trevor Jackson

With the New Year now mounting our collective frowns like a vicious slug, it's the turn of all musically-inclined magazines, websites and periodicals to list and line up their great hopes for the next 12 months. I'm doing my best to keep up with all the new names and faces out of all the fresh young pups, but it's hype to see old flame Trevor Jackson move back into the frame. He's got an ace looking compilation/mix emerging on Strut Records in February. Check the mini-mix below for a sly preview of the goodness which lies ahead...

Metal Dance - Promo Minimix 2012 by Trevor Jackson

Decemberrrrrrrrrrrrr

2011 has come and gone in a right blur of activity - Here are the last few weeks of December in fleeting, shaky-handed camera glory. Check it. Don't wreck it.



New year, new diary, new vibes



The last Scotch egg of the '011



Christmas dinner innit



Cleaning up spillages on Christmas day



Bagel-tastic



Our new flat mate - equipped for all weathers



Ben's big, fuck off bath



Post work's do mash up



Xmas office suffering



Darts!



Total darts!



Stating the obvious in pen and post it notes



Shoreditch pizza in the house



Secret Santa speaks

Numbers turn a car park over

If you've taken just a small amount of notice of the sort of shit going down in electronic circles over the last 12 months, then your ears should be well familiar with the work of Glaswegian label Numbers.

Hudson Mohawke, Rustie, Jackmaster, Spencers and Goodhand are the men at its core but their releases and dances have incorporated sonic action from the likes of cohorts Deadboy, DJ Pierre, Redinho, Jamie XX and other key electronicy, wonky players.

To celebrate what has been a mammoth year for the crew, they hosted a huge party in a central London car park for their dedicated followers, who turned out in their droves to pay their respects via the rave. The bill was a wet dream for any fucker who reckons their fingers are wrapped around the pulse with much of the aforementioned Numbers team representing heavy stylez.

We arrived already in a half mangled state to witness Deadboy and Spencer sparring over a snarly mixture of fresh fire and older electronic classics before Hudmo sent the place totally upside down. The oddly shaped gent played a crunchingly heavy mixture of r'n'b and classic hip hop as well as many of his own big 'uns to send the car park spiralling into overdrive. It culminated in R.Kelly's Bump'n'Grind, which was a fittingly daft conclusion to a sweaty, party hard set of b.a.n.g.e.r.s.

Our collective sense began to deteriote rapidly at this point. One of our number was lost down the front out of his box on two bottles of cheap plonk while the rest of us were baying hard and boogieing strong. Rustie carried on where Hudmo left off with a large locker of hyper-real tackle whereas Jamie XX and Jackmaster were slightly less garish with a more standard selection of house. Although this was how it looked from where we were standing. Which was near the back. We left before the dawn close to go back round our ends and sing-along to Coldplay albums for an hour before straddling the hay. Big business from a big, young team. Do your maths 2012. Numbers are coming for you...

No pain, no gain

The Christmas party circuit is one synonymous with binge drinking, memory loss and acute embarrassment. All three are a total given. Year after year I've limped back to see my parents for a couple of days at Christmas with a sore gut, a red face and a long list of apologies. Doing daft, cringeworthy shit while being out of yer gourd on beers is, at this time of year, how you say, standard.

However, this December I managed to push this 'feeling' onto a whole new level by consuming enough red wine to brain myself on the steps of Bank Tube station. I managed to knock myself out and subsequently woke up in A&E. I didn't stir until the morning after the night before, only to find myself in a ward full of elderly, crying types in Whitechapel hospital. I was down to me pants, hooked up to a drip and incapable of remembering how I ended up there. Whoops? Whoops indeed.



Props to any well wishes and for one Bob Funkhouse for coming to get us out of there with a fresh pair of jeans and a t-shirt (they'd cut the clothes I was wearing during the incident off due to me being out cold). After the patient hospital folk agreed to let us go, we walked home via a lasgne and watched DVDs for the rest of the evening. There's definitely a lesson in this somewhere as long as I choose to listen. My ears are open. Fo' sure.



The best way to recuperate from a fall is to watch Bridesmaids and listen to pounding future bass. Obvious int it...

From the penthouse to the pavement

It's not often you get props from your heroes - so I spent much of the other Wednesday walking on the metaphorical cloud nine after getting a big up from Chic main man Nile Rodgers. He'd happened upon a review of our experience at the Warehouse Project in Manchester back in November. He was down with our party vibes. And this is coming from a man who died 8 times in one night. That's quite a feat...