Awake, ye blog.

"Just tilt you're head back please sir. Sir! Come on now, just do this one thing for me"

The man had a frightened look in his eyes. He swung his left arm out and struck me on the shoulder. I had been trying to avoid staring at him ever since he shuffled in and sat next to me. I knew he was troubled.

His wife was screaming.



She was squeezing his hand.



He fell on the floor.

I got up, nervously gesturing to the other civilians that we leave the room, though they were having none of it. Many just stooped and stared. Leant and glared.


I've never witnessed someone have a heart attack before last Friday. It didn't feel real. It looked painful. It appeared pretty fucking scary. Pretty.fucking.scary. I felt for the man.

My check up after last year's operation was hopeful. At least I wouldn't be having a heart attack that day, though I do have to go back for more bastard tests.



I picked up my leather holdall and walked out into the sun. I felt whimsical, a bit cocky, I suppose. I pictured another man walking across a bridge, with a holdall on his back, the sun in his eyes. He was "choosing life". He'd just stitched his friends up in a drug deal and run off with all their money. His name was Mark, like my brother's, only my Marc spells his with a 'C'. Like Marc Bolan.

I hadn't just stitched my friends up, and I didn't have a bag full of money. I had a bag full of pants and socks. The same bag I've had on my back throughout this whole damn year. I wasn't choosing life, the washing machine, the kids. I was choosing to put that off. Again.


I was going to Manchester.



Again.



I boarded the train and walked through two carriages that were relatively empty. My ideal would have been a set of four seats, alone. Though I weighed up the chances and realised this improbable, the next logical step being a set of four seats with somebody relatively pretty perhaps taking one.

Her name is Rebecca and I've decided that she is relatively pretty. Rebecca told me that she has finished University and is looking forward to a Summer with her boyfriend who is in the Police force. Rebecca took up two seats and all the over head luggage space with her University bric-a-brac. Rebecca ate two cheese and pickle sandwiches and drank two cartons of Ribena on the journey. I fucking love Ribena.

We said goodbye at Stockport and she got off. I put my entirely unread book in my bag and opted for fifteen minutes of Joni Mitchell. I listened to a lot of Joni Mitchell in the states, lines like "...Constantly in the darkness, where's that at? If you want me I'll be in the bar" make me chuckle. I heard that Joni Mitchell was the rock stars' hooker, bedding all sorts of famous people. I hope so, that makes her even more interesting.

Manchester was Manchester. Full of people I know and love. Full of people that can't talk properly and can appear sinister. These two groups of people are not related in any way, I always choose the former.
The rain splashed onto my shoes and I ate Pizza. Someone told me to "Fuck off" and someone told me they love me. I watched a hideously indulgent movie that left me a bit pissed off and I watched Radiohead in a cricket stadium.

I enjoyed peering from a distance, trying to see Thom Yorke's gammy eye, and I enjoyed the light show they had. Radiohead are a good band, it's just a shame that Thom Yorke is such a cunt.




I walked home through Hulme. Hulme is the gateway to Moss side. It's supposed to be where lots of people shoot guns and bite curbs. I think it's more full of mini motorbikes and people thinking school is shit. A wasp buzzed around my head. I told it to fuck off. I'm scared of wasps, they are the chav bee. I imagine they drink stella and watch football matches from the rafters. I wondered why this wasp was out so late. Perhaps it was lost? Or perhaps the hive curfew had been extended due to it being midsummer. I scratched a spot on my face and it bled, I thought about wiping the bloody away, but decided against it. "Blood on the face can sometimes make you look intimidating" I thought. Perfect when walking walking through Hulme. On reflection it was clear I represented a drunk youth on his way home from a "Rock Concert".

I slumped onto my brother's painfully designed futon and don't remember falling asleep.


I think about when this will end. When I will get a real job. When I will have a house share in some poor part of an English city. When I will have clothes in a wardrobe. When I will make connections with people that will last longer than a week. I feel it's soon.

My Mum has a nice house. Nice food. A real Piano that I play for hours and digital television. Though Leicester is slow. Unfamiliar. Without opportunity. Without friends.

London is large. Anonymous. Frightening. Expensive. Cut throat. It has a heart beat, one that is driven by the sheer magnitude of it's inhabitants, not one I could settle into. I go there this weekend for an audition of sorts. A replacement offer to appease a job I was unsuccessful in being picked for. One that will be enjoyable, good experience but still no solution to my need for a home.


Before all this takes hold though, I'll stay in Leicester for a bit. Think about the glorious south west. Ring my friends. Tut at Robert Mugabe. Press buttons on keyboards. Howl into a microphone. Stare at photos on facebook. Pluck wiry hairs off of my shoulders and upload my own photos of Spanish Music festivals.

Back to the future

Back in England now. I miss the states. I miss the food. I miss the weak beer. I miss the weather and I miss being constantly bewildered by the sheer magnitude of everything, the portion sizes, the girls voices, the amount of cars and the friendliness of almost everyone I met there. What a fucking great place.

London welcomed me at six on the morning with a grey sky, a shiver and a pouch of golden virginia. I really missed that baccy. Sad, I know, but definitely worth coming home for.

I stayed on in London for a few days. I saw my cousin. His name is Steven. I remember him as widget. He's a kind soul with a hearty laugh and a knack for having a good time. Good lad that Widget. I met up with some friends, one is called Emily, one is called Neda. They are beautiful people with beautiful faces. We sat in the cold and shared stories and chuckles. We drank booze and cussed "the old days". We smoked fags and celebrated "the good times". I'll see a lot more of those girls in the coming months I'm sure.

I fled London and went to Manchester. By now my stubble was growing thick and my lame attempt at a ginger man's tan, was all but a distant dream. I was still in high spirits though and decided to throw a reunion party. It went well of course. I ended up at home by midnight, having fled the scene of the party after fighting a bouncer. My crowning moments are usually drowned out by the sound of my own cocky, liquor glazed voice, shouting at someone for being a cunt, when it's clear who the cunt really is.

Manchester was great, I stayed for a day. Or something. I bought guitar hero for my wii. I was dreading the wii would be gone upon my return, but my brother had done me proud and kept it well away from the clutches of the ex girlfriend. I'm not keeping scores against everyone I get one up on, but I'll quietly count that as one nil to me, with the assist going to my brother.

I drank booze all over manchester. I drank in bars I shouldnt go to, because people there hate me, and I drank alcohol in pubs that welcomed me with smiles and hugs. Great town Manchester, I just don't think I could live there again.

Next was Bristol. I stayed in Bristol for a good few days, with my friend Danny. I've known Danny for a fucking long time now and he hasn't changed a bit. Which is great, he'll be a perennial fixture in my address book for the rest of my life. We played football games and talked about Manchester United. We went to a house party with a fear and loathing theme, not only did we look the part, but we acted accordingly too. There were many people there, there was loud electro house Music, there were bats hanging from the ceiling and there was cider. I was glad to be in Bristol. It rained in Bristol and I grew tired. I stayed a few more days and went for dinner at a Lebanese restaurant. I drank warm oaky wine and ate a shit ton of hummus. Lovely.


I'm now in the homeland. The place I was raised. The place that grounds me and makes me forget everything about the world. This place is called Devon. Devon is a large county, with plenty of fresh produce, plenty of animals and beautiful countryside. Devon is full of childhood friends and memories too numerous to mention. Devon forgets about the word busy, about the word bustle, about the word stress. Devon does everything it's own way. I've been staying in Budleigh Salterton with my mate Ed. We ate great food and prepared for his birthday party. We stayed to the wee hours watching bullshit tv and talking bullshit. That's the thing I've been looking forward to the most this whole year. It's done now though, so it's on to the next.


Ed's 22nd birthday party had an eighties them and looked like this:



















After leaving Ed's me and a few friends decided to climb a radio mast at ten in the morning, I later discovered the mast is 1512 feet high. This is me at the top looking thoroughly unsafe.




Im in bed now and have been for a few days. Birthdays kinda take it out of you.

Miami. Fucking Miami.

Sunday we arrived. The air was warm and we were in high spirits. We'd left Austin, it's bats, it's Music, it's people and it's food. I'll look back on all of the people I met in Austin with fond memories, they were fucking nice people.


The air closed my breath as soon as we stepped off the plane. It's pretty humid here in Florida.


"Can you take us to 236 9th street, South beach please mate?"

"Yeah, yeah. Anywhere you wanna go" The cabbie replies.

We dumped our bags in the car and my brother said he was glad to be on terra firma. Flying ain't nice sometimes.

The rain lashed. 5 minutes.

The rain fell. 10 minutes.

The rain poured. 20 minutes.


"How has the weather been here the last few days mate?" I politely ask the cab driver, with a broad smile on my face.

"Where you wanna go?" He says

"No, the weather. How has the weather been here?" I reply

"Where you wanna go?"

"The weather. Has it been sunny?"

" Where you wanna go? Don't talk to me about the weather. I don't watch the news. Where you wanna go?"


What a fucking absurd response.



My brother and I began laughing uncontrollably at our confused cab driver, and he carried on driving.

The rain stopped. 30 minutes.


"Where is this place?" Our cab driver asked. I think he suffers a medical condition, not too dissimilar to Ronald Reagan.


"236 9th street" I emphatically reply.

"Where is that?"

"We dont know!"

"What's the address?"

"236 9th street!"


This continued for another ten minutes before I told the driver to drop us off right away. Which he did. After 5 minutes.


What a fucking joker.



We got another cab, driven by a real person, and everything was back to normal.


Unfortunately, things are rarely normal in Miami, and if they appear normal, you don't wait long for them to mutate into a bewildering mess.



We walked into the hostel, and were greeted by a stand by/understudy for a character in the Bill and Ted movies.

"Hey dudes! You checking in?"

"Yeah mate"

"Great bro, can I see your id's and have your names please"

"Sure"

I looked around at the lobby. there were computers and people sat on stools. Sting was playing on the hi-fi and everyone seemed happy.

Keanu wrote our names in the book and totalled the room charge.

I handed him my credit card and he went to swipe it. Then he paused, turned around and said this.

"Shit, I forgot to add the south beach tax dude!"

South beach tax! Are you fucking kidding me! I looked at Marc and he shrugged. Marc get's more annoyed by this sort of shit than me, so I think he was avoiding the imminent word vomit that was struggling to escape him.

"It's an extra 13 per cent dude"

"Right, fuck it. Whatever" Was my reply.

I handed him my credit card and he went to swipe it. Then he paused, turned around and said this.

"Shit, I forgot to add the credit card tax dude!"

"And what the fuck is that for?" I said sharply

"Oh, it's an extra five per cent dude, cos y'know, you're using a credit card"

And you are using the last five per cent of my fucking patience, you leather faced, dope smoking, sandal wearing, surf board carrying, reggae listening, school failing, tourist mugging piece of shit.

"Do you know what? Just fucking do it. Just get on with it" I said.

By this point I was ready to turn around to everyone in the lobby and scream so hard I'd shit myself, but I held back. We grabbed the keys and went and settled in our grimy little room.

My ass hurt a little after being butt raped so hard by the snotty little cunt in the lobby, but I put it out of mind, or tried to at least.


We moaned to our room mate about the hostel and he told tales of his experiences here too. Funny, they were the same. Cunts. Absolute cunts. cunts cunts cunts cunts.


Marc and I went for a walk and got some food. We ate seafood paella. It was expensive, but it was fucking beautiful. Lobster, oysters, baby squid, lock, stock, the fucking lot. We walked past Gianni Versace's house and I thought about the day he died. I remember watching it on the news. An aerial view of the steps to his house, shot from a helicopter. Proper American style. I remember the fashion world mourning over him. I didn't mourn over him. I didn't know him. And I don't wear ladies clothes. Or homosexual clothes. It was still nice to see though. Every year a huge party is held at his house. I thought about how many people get wasted and take photos of their mates, face down on the steps. Loads I bet.

The first night was a relaxed affair, we grabbed beers and saw ladies with enormous breasts and men with rippling muscles. We walked home and witnessed the aftermath of a shooting near the hostel. That made me feel really safe. Really welcoming that. I'd already begun developing a fear.

Miami South Beach has a sinister undercurrent, one that is the pulse of this faded town. The people are parasites, every single one of them. They live for themselves and no one else. They're out for a quick buck and a good time. I can't deal with this well at all. It's something I've hard to learn about myself this week, whilst being here. I've never experienced such a melting pot of shallow, gaudy, vacuous beings in my entire life. South beach is like a ten mile catwalk. A catwalk that struts and shakes every single thing I despise about this country and modern culture.

Every girl I have met is a singer, an actress or a model. This I sincerely doubt. I've been serenaded by two girls since being here, both with atrocious singing voices. One girl at the second hostel I've stayed at, told me she was a model. She told me she gets 2,000 dollars a week. I suppose that justifies why she's living in a hostel. I asked who she has modelled for and she told me Cavalli, Gaultier and England's own Vivienne Westwood. I feigned shock and encouraged her to keep lying. When she went to the toilet, her friend told me that she is, in fact, a nude model for local Miami smut. I didn't know who to feel the more sorry for, the liar, or her bitchy mate.

The guys here are dominated by one group, a group that owe a lot of their personality traits to movies with Jean Claude Van-Damme as the lead role, though you do meet a few with some trace of brains. They're clearly more fans of Steven Seagal. They ponce down the road with plastic ladies on their arm, chewing gum. If your male and you're not one of these men, you're either a fat cuban, or a dope peddling beach bum.


I'm here for a reason though, and this is what kept me here.


The Winter Music Conference happens once a year. For one week, South Beach becomes abuzz with Dance Music fans, talent and industry professionals, all here to have a good time, talk 'business' which I translate as 'bullshit' and hold seminars. I was intrigued about these conference shenannigans, so decided to come this year. In fairness, I haven't been disappointed, and this is the sole positive I can bring from my time in Florida.

The first couple of days were spent with my brother, strolling the beach in the day, and partying at night. We spent time with a funny as fuck Irish man named David and saw some good Music. We caught up with Andrea, the girl I met in Austin and we partied with her for a night. Drop the Lime and others plied us with fun, and Indra lounge plied us with fucking expensive beer. I don't tip in Miami, because I don't tip for a ten dollar bottle of beer. And I don't tip cunts.



My days in the conference have been worthwhile. I've met lots of people listened to some interesting new Music. I learned that Paul Van Dyk is actually a fucking top bloke, very fucking witty and we are in agreement that Europe kicks the shit out of America. It's just a shame he plays such waff Music. I saw some new hardware that made me want to squeal like a little girl, and some audio visual software that made my brain hurt.

I perched on a sun lounger by the pool in the resort, and watched the DJ spin off. I was thoroughly unimpressed, most notably with a girl called DJ Tickles or some bullshit name, from London. She mixed poorly, she mixed Music that has an incessant drive, that idiots dance to, with lots of loud snare drums and intensely boring basslines. It's called drum and bass, and it fucking sucks. When I was sixteen I'd listen to drum and bass mixtapes with fervent glee, hearing large black men shout bibby-dibby-ribby-jibby-fibby-wibbly-wobbly down a microphone. I thought it was the pinnacle of good dance Music. I'm glad those days are gone.



I got given a ticket to the International Dance Music Awards.


I didn't go.


I don't think anyone went.



My bro and I wiped sweat from our brows and complained about Miami. We trotted down sidewalks, sick of the sight of silicon and in need of stimulation. We queued for a stupid amount of time to see the same dj we saw in Austin, Deadmau5. Deadmau5 is a talented producer, and his set in Austin was top notch. Unfortunately, at BED in Miami, he was outrageously boring. The club was full of people lying on beds, drinking bottle serves of grey goose and talking about nothing. Theoretically, it's impossible to talk about nothing, in the same way it's impossible to be a size zero, though Miami defies the odds and is full of people talking about nothing. Baffling.

Deadmau5 arrived in a bright red suit, and that made me smile. He opened with a remix of his own tune 'the reward is cheese' and Daft Punk's 'Harder Better Faster Stronger'. It's a nice mix, but if I hear one more DJ using ableton lay that Daft Punk tune over a breakdown, I'm going to throw my drink at them. Unfortunately, that was the hghlight, as soon as he brought in the next tune, it went wrong. His beat matching was shoddy and he was playing absolute bullshit tunes. Perhaps he was catering to the Miami crowd, I don't know, we left shortly after the first hour.



The sun has gotten progressively hotter over the week, and the conference was proving more difficult to get to every day, the combination of staying up late and waking in the heat really takes it out of you. I somehow have managed to get to everything I wanted to though and that pleases me. I have met people who are interested in me playing in their nightclubs, and people who have taught me a lot about things I know nothing about. Legal things. Money things. Music things. Bullshit things.


My brother left me in the stark, bright light of day and I felt depressed. I had a current of anxiety running through me, and had done for a couple of days. It's Miami. I felt on the verge of some sort of panic attack, though managed to reign it in by downing a beer and giving myself a good talking to. I saw my brother drive away in the cab and I prepared to check into a different hostel.


Luckily, the hostel is full of English people. For the first time on this trip I was delighted to meet fellow Brits. Some are from Barnsley, that's even better. A very very close friend of mine was from Barnsley, we lived together in a room. We had beds side by side at an institution that makes you practice classical Music for a ridiculous number of hours per day. His name was Oliver. He made me laugh uncontrollably. He kept me sane for the whole time I was at Chetham's, and I think about him every fucking day. His name is written across my stomach, and no matter how hard I rub, it'll never come off. Me and Oli always planned to come to the states, and I think if he was with me here now, everything may have been a little bit easier.He would have laughed at all these people strolling by, he had a knack for subtly placing his tongue in his cheek.


I chatted to my new Yorkshire pals, and we became animated. The boys had shaved heads and looked English, and the girls looked so English it's untrue. I forgot that English look, it was so relaxing to be around them. We spoke about football, music and jobs. I felt safe.


I told the Yorkshire posse I would see them later and headed to the conference. I met a man who has signed me up to a promotions company. It's a really good idea and the website is very user friendly. It allows you to host events and promote all your goings on in one easy package. You can create an event on their website, and they distribute it across all of you contacts and social networking sites in one swoop. The guy was very young, though all these internet bods are these days, he had a great character and we joked about Miami. I was beginning to feel a lot better.




I got back to the hostel and took a shower. I don't have a towel because someone who i envisage to resemble Gollum has stolen both my towels. What sort of person steals dirty towels? Incredible. Considering I have a kaoss pad in my bag.......


I put on my finest clothes and headed to Chocolate's, a venue in town. I was playing there. I took my laptop and headphones and trundled down the road. I walked in and there was Andy, the man who promoted the event and got me on the setlist. I grabbed a comlimentary beer and had a dance. There were people dancing and laughing. It was a fun vibe.


I set up and started to mix. I was only playing for 45 minutes so I went in head first with electro house and just piled loads of shit on top of each other. The crowd enjoyed it a great deal and so did I. I used more effects than were necessary, but I was having lots of fun. I played around with a shit ton of new tunes I bought on beatport this week. For the last ten minutes must have mixed about six tunes. Andy asked me if I wanted to stay for a party later on, but I had more pressing matters.



I headed for Mansion. I received a reminder from a man named George back home to go, and off I went. Lot's of people have told me to go see certain things this week, though George has taste in Music similar to me, so I'd rather take his advice. Thanks George.

The queue stretched five blocks. "What the fuck....." I whispered to myself.

There was a group of scantily clad young girls claiming they were on the guest list, though the man on the door was having none of it.

"You queue like everybody else. Sixty dollars to get in" He said in a French accent.

The girls got angry and started being racist towards him. He turned away from them.

I've noticed this behaviour a lot in Miami and I don't like it, though in truth I didn't want to queue and was gagging to get inside.

"Excusez-moi monsieur" I said.

The man turned around, smiled at me and came straight over.

I'm not as good at French as I was, though I can squeeze out a conversation, so I seized the opportunity. I politely asked him in French if there was any way I could get in without having to queue, considering I was on my own and I had a delegates badge. He was taken aback by the effort I had made, and was thoroughly overjoyed to talk in his native tongue. I think he's been here a while now.

"Of course" he said. He opened the barrier and the front door and I waltzed in. I felt good and a complete nobhead at the same time.



I went to the bar and bought my 10 dollar beer, left no tip and headed for the dance floor.

Mansion is a good club. It's massive. It has quite tasteful, large chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and an impressive sound system. I stood on the balcony, sipped a beer, smoked a fag, tapped my foot and watched thousands of people having a great time. I saw girls moving on poles, on the bar and on their boyfriends shoulders. I saw a man fall over.


I headed down to the dancefloor in time for Sasha and Digweed. I was excited. Sasha and Digweed are two people that know how to turn it on, every single time.


Digweed came out and began his evening. I danced buck wild with a Japanese guy who I thought was a nice guy, until he stole my sunglasses.


I had my sunglasses in my back pocket, as I'd forgotten to leave them at the hostel, and I wasn't prepared to wear shades in a club. Like a cunt. I was dancing in front of my Japanese companion when I felt my sunglasses were missing. I turned around to senor, and asked him if he'd seen my sunglasses.

"Mate have you seen a pair of white sunglasses?" I asked

"Erm......No, no I haven't" he replied


I knew he had them so I asked him again, then he made the foolish mistake of quickly trying to put them in his pocket, right.in.front.of.my.fucking.eyes.


"I don't ha your sunglass" he said

"Right. Ok" I said.


I turned around and thought about just letting him keep them, though the fact that I'd seen them go from behind his back into his pocket annoyed me, so I turned around and punched him in the leg. If he's going to keep my sunglasses, I'd rather they were broken. Cunt.


I moved further towards the stage, to the right by the air conditioning. I found the perfect spot, and that's where I stayed. Digweed played a rip roaring techy set, and I listened to a lot of tunes that are currently all over my Ableton screen. I chain smoked cigarettes and felt good to be alone. I sipped the last of my beer that had lasted me two and a half hours, and headed to the bar. On the way I was pushed into someone, I pushed someone into someone and pushed my way to the bar.

On my return to the sweet spot I saw a little bald head under Digweed's armpit and that made me smile a bit more. I was now surrounded by a group of Londoners. They were a rowdy bunch, and they all had their hands in the air. I knew they from London because they had cockney accents, cockney accents screaming "Sasha!" at the tops of their voices.


The atmosphere was fucking great in Mansion and the Music was to blame. Sasha laid a laptop down and took over from Digweed. He played progressive house in a very aggressive manner from the start. Every build up was buttered with Ableton's stock effects. I could hear lots of beat repeat, flange verb and filter delay. Fucking perfect for creating a wily, intense sound. Manipulation of sounds in Ableton can make even the most droll progressive Music sound fucking intense. I fucking love it.

The night continued in this manner and it appeased all of my anxieties concerning the town outside. I trotted back to the hostel at sunrise in a fucking good mood.






I woke up at twelve and rushed to the hotel wearing the same clothes as the night before.


I sat in on two remix and editing workshops and learnt a lot of interesting tips from producers. They played a lot of interesting Music, Music I wouldn't normally listen to, and displayed a real passion for what they do. I thought about how much effort they put into their work, I admire that. I don't think i can apply myself to anything with such verve. The Swedish house producer Stonebridge gave a link to a website that has great samples. Stonebridge produces Music that I'm not into, so I was wary of checking it out, but it was a good recommendation.



I got back to the hostel and had a mix. My hair was wiry and large from the humidity. I stank of sweat and was hungry. I thought about going home. Back to my friends and family. Back to my piano. Back to England. Back to being able to practice Music through speakers and record something again. I thought about my friends again. I thought about how much money I've spent and how I do actually miss having a job. I thought about changing my flight home.

I did.



I'm leaving Miami. I'm going home.


I went to a club called Studio A and saw two other British Dj's. James Zabiela and Nic Fanciulli. I posted a link to one of their mixes on this blog back in January. They're very talented and I had a great time. I left relatively early and went back to the hostel.


I sat next to two English boys from London. We drank beer and talked. We went out and talked more. We drank beer more. We went to an abismal funky house night that they wanted to go to. Then we came back.


Im going to check into another hostel, drop my bag and go to the Ultra Music Festival. I think I'll see Sasha and Digweed again. Get me in the mood for going home.

SPAM

Today I received three emails telling me I'd won a million pounds for my contribution to the arts. I replied to each one saying:

"Fuck off"

"Lying cunts"

"You're full of shit"

I decided this was the best way to deal with it. One thing about spam is, when it's on your plate it smells of shit, when it's in your inbox it stinks of shit.

Old friends, familiar faces

On St Patrick's day, people drink guiness, wear green and act like idiots. I always thought that the Irish would do St Patricks day with the most pride and passion. I don't believe that's true. In Chicago, they die the river green. In Boston, the whole town transforms into "little Ireland" and in Texas, in Texas, ginger Englishmen wear stupid foam hats and get drunk with their friends. One of their friends actually ends up getting a harp tattooed on their forearm. Luckily, the ginger Englishman holds it together and doesn't follow suit.

If you're not interested in what a ginger English man looks like in a stupid foam hat, then look away.










This week has consisted of walking around in the sun with my brother, Marc. Marc likes Texas, he doesn't like the heat as much as I do, but he likes the food, the Music and the Beer.

This week has been a little different to the rest of my trip, as instead of forcing myself to make new friends, and ending up in strange situations, I have wimped out and kept myself within the company of people I know well. Firstly, my brother. Secondly, John and Liz, my friends from Chicago, and thirdly, Mandy and Jason, my friends from Louisiana. I believe that this may lead me to enter a truly fucking boring post. Partly because I prefer to tell tales of the freaks and randoms I meet. So, I've decided to save time and everybody's interests by taking ten minutes to decide whether I should write a 'real post' or not. I'll be back.







I'm back.









Went to a park and drank beer in the sun with John and Liz.








Went to the ginger man pub and played pool with Mandy and Jason. I got a free ginger man tshirt from my friend Dave who runs the place. I wear it with pride.










Stayed in a motel called Super 8.




Went to bars.




Ate catfish.




Ate pulled Pork.




Got a phone call from Andrea telling me she may have some sets lined up for me in Miami.




Applied for a job in Berlin.




That is all.









That's it.





Keep reading. Next week will be the bumper Miami issue. Limited copies available. Free pair of x-ray glasses for the first ten comments made.




That is all.




Goodbye.

SXSW

This post may end up being long. I haven't decided yet.

The sun is hot. I found this out this week and was glad for doing so. I've spent the last week in the searing heat, cold beer in hand, spectating on what can only be described as 'Music'. Most of it was impressive. Some of it was confusingly bad. Some of it hilarious, truly.

I spent the early part of last week alone, drinking free beer in bars, provided by faceless corporations wanting everybody to enjoy themselves. I didnt wear sunscreen, and continually wiped beads of sweat from my brow. I had a routine of frantically seeing as many artists as i could in the day, followed by getting blind drunk in the evenings and making new friends. If I attempt to list everything in order I will be here for hours, so I won't. I'm going to give the highlights. And the lowlights. And funlights.

One of the first bands I saw at southbysouthwest were British Sea Power. I hate British Sea Power. I was watching them because the venue had free beer and a roof terrace. That's nice. I'd heard that I wouldn't be allowed on the roof terrace because I didn't have a badge, wristband or ticket for SXSW. This is a lie. I rapidly gathered that buying a ticket for this festival is a complete sham. I came with nothing and managed to see and do more than most people. Though there was some force involved on my part sometimes.

On the day of British Sea Power I was nervous. Nervous I wouldn't see any bands. Nervous I wouldn't get in anywhere. Then I met Jen.

I wandered down to a venue sponsored by Levi's. My friend John from back home had told me to see a band from Manchester called the Whip, who were playing there, so I went. I queued in beautiful sunshine and sipped a cold beer away from the eyes of the law. Jen said I looked alone. I said I was. "Well you can spend the day with me then" she stated quite frankly. I agreed. In this first ten minutes of meeting her, she explained to me that I was wise for not buying a ticket.

"Im from Austin" She says.
"I never buy tickets" She says
"You don't need them" She says
"Unless you want to go to some bullshit seminar" She says

"Perfect" I think.


True enough, we get to the door and have wristbands strapped on our right hands by burly Texans. "Step inside" They say. We walk through a labyrinthine warehouse full of jeans and turntables. I saw lots of girls wearing gawdy dresses and large sunglasses. I saw men in skinny jeans and large sunglasses. My eyes began to ache from frantically trying to read every quirky slogan on all the undersized t shirts, so I concentrated on rolling a cigarette.
We walked out into the sunshine again and were greeted by a band wearing large sunglasses and checkered shirts, complimented by hair cuts fashioned in the shape of a bowl. I recognised this look, and tried to place it geographically. Manchester seems like a distant memory to me now, but it didn't take me long.

"These guys are called the whip" I told Jen.
"They sound good" She said
"Do they?" I thought.

I am not going to say the whip are shit. Im just going to say that they're not very good. There is a man in England called Ian. He created the hairstyles that a couple of these band members had. Ian looks like a monkey, as do lots of men in Manchester. I believe that this hair cut is the cause of this.
The whip have one band member that uses a laptop. He stands, craning over the 15" screen with a worrying look on his face. It's the "I'm about to poo myself" look. I think he feels obliged to make this face, because in some circles it is known as the "Im currently having to think very hard about what Im doing" look, though in truth, he wasn't really doing anything at all. He had samples and sounds and was pressing play. The sounds he had on his laptop reminded me of that man Ian's band, and I started to notice a trend. The Whip also reminded me of a band from Leicester who have a singer called Tom. Tom's band's self-titled debut album is known by some as this decades version of that man Ian's music. So, in all I was stuck listening to a band I'd heard before, only with different faces.

The whip finished and the yanks roared. They had gone down well. I wondered if Kasabian and the Stone Roses had ever played SXSW? A few minutes later, one of the men from the whip called Nathan introduced himself to me after he heard my accent at the bar. We talked about Manchester for roughly 40 seconds and then said our goodbyes. Nice guy, but i don't really want to hear that god awful accent whilst on the other side of the world.


I spent the rest of the day with Jen. We moved from venue to venue, getting in free every time. We drank lots of beer and people commented on my t-shirt. I was wearing a brown t-shirt with the name of a small rockabilly outfit from Arkansas on the front. Lots of old men with tattoos and young men with 'Arkansas' accents said they liked my t-shirt. I like my t-shirt.
The sun set slowly and the Texan sky went into a yellow ochre, I sat on the ground and watched a group called Okkervil River. I smoked cigarettes and drank beer. I ate a burger and smiled. It was a pleasant evening.


The next day got better.

I woke with my friend the sun on my face. My couchsurfing host Rob dropped me into town and I went in search of food and fun. I grabbed a breakfast taco and bounced down the road. I stopped by the river and dipped my feet in. I liked it so much, I took my trousers off and went groin deep. The river ain't that clean, but it sure felt good. I dried my legs off with the bottom of my trousers and carried on walking towards venues of interest. I spent the whole afternoon watching bands i know and bands i don't. I saw another man from Manchester called Jim Noir, a rather feminine sounding outfit called cut copy, a man called Jens Lekman, some rappers called clipse, a young californian sounding duo called no age and bald geek called Moby. I remember seeing Moby at Glastonbury when I was about twelve. I didn't like him then, and I don't like him now.

I sat on the steps, drinking my free beer and eating my free hotdog provided by some radio station. I thought about my brother arriving in 24 hours time. I spat gristle onto the ground. I wiped my lips with my forearm and I thoughtfully stared at every cigarette that I smoked. Ive had lots of fun on my own, but when you watch Music and drink, it's better with company. I forced myself into conversations with people for a short while, but most of them were so agonisingly shallow that I would switch off and appear rude.

I quickly learned that it's imperative to stay away from people at SXSW who wear their badges around their neck. These are the people who have paid hideous amounts of money to go to seminars and pretend they work in the Music business, when in fact, they had guitar lessons for roughly four years at school, but were never that commited, and now want to bore young ginger englishmen with tall tales of their plans to build a record label with no experience whatsoever. Perhaps that's just being nasty, but I have a feeling it's the truth. This makes me worry for the next conference I attend in Miami. I have never been to a conference before, and so don't really know what to expect. I have a ticket for the Miami do, because it allows you free entry into all the clubs, hotels and remixing and editing workshops, and I have a feeling it's harder to get in free there than it is in Austin, as a lot of the gigs here are in car parks and outside in the streets, whereas nightclubs have doors and fat bald bouncers. I hope that's the case, otherwise, someone may write a blog entry in Miami about meeting some complete douchebag from England, who had been stupid enough to pay for a ticket, because he was scared he wouldn't get to see the dj's he wanted.


I got tired of talking to middle aged men and drew out another cigarette. I sat on the floor and this person came and sat next to me.




This person is called Andrea. Andrea is 25. She has brown hair and good dress sense, though I queried her when I saw her wearing wellington boots in the sun.

"I know" She replied with a smile.

Andrea has a radio show back home and is doing a Music business thingy. She lives in Miami. We talked a while in the sun. We talked about Miami and the Winter Music Conference. We talked about the noises I like to make on my laptop. She said she would like to interview me for her show. I felt silly, but said ok. She said she could play some of my stuff on her show. I felt a lot more silly, but said ok.

Andrea had been separated from her friends and was hungry. I had no friends and was hungry, so we went for dinner. Her friend Brandace came along and was delightfully rude to me, something I've learnt pretty well to deal with over here. Particularly if the person your dealing with has the intellect of a feral child.

We sat at a barbecue and ate meat. I drank a bloody mary and felt revived. Brandace wanted to see N*E*R*D that evening and so we went towards the Levi's place again. Brandace got aggy with me because I had no tickets, so I politely looked at her with eyes that screamed "I don't like you, so leave me alone" and she got a bit quieter. She went inside with another of her friends and Andrea and I wandered elsewhere.

We drank beer and caught bits of Music, then we decided to go back to the N*E*R*D venue. I walked straight in with no problems at all. Looks like I didn't need those 600 dollar tickets after all huh Brandace? I watched N*E*R*D and passively smoked Marijuana, it was entertaining. Their bassist is very talented and Pharrell Williams does have an undeniable charisma on stage, so I didn't get bored.


After the show, Brandace waned to meet Pharrell so she could put him in some Music review she writes online. We duly agreed though I was keeping my distance. I have a real problem with meeting famous people. Firstly, I don't know them. Secondly, I have nothing to say to them. And thirdly, after a gig, I'm sure all the guy wanted to do was have a shower and drink a beer in peace. Though unfortunately girls like Brandace come ten to a penny, especially in the states. To her credit, Brandace seems very well connected in these circles and she had no problem meeting him and having a brief chat. At least that's what it looked like as I stood roughly thirty yards away on the other side of the road, chain smoking furiously.



Brandace seemed pleased with her meeting and we left for an after party at a lodge out of town. I knew nothing about this, though followed my new found acquaintances in the hope of more free beer and good music. I wasn't disappointed. We were ridden out of town to a location in the trees by a man on a bicycle. We arrived at a large house with a pool and bass reverbs bouncing off the walls. I smiled and quickened the pace. Brandace kindly put me down on the list and I held out my wrist for yet another band.

We climbed a cold, stone staircase with maple bannisters and entered a large hall. I swiftly turned right and headed for the bar. No need for a wallet. All this stuff was free. I grabbed a couple of vodkas and went for a dance. A DJ called Steve Aoki was playing. Some may know him as Kid Millionaire. He is the son of a Japanese wrestler. He lives in Hollywood. He runs the label Dim Mak who are known for discovering Bloc Party. I was pleased to see him there as he is known for usually playing 10,000 dollar shows, not free parties in the Texan Springs. I liked his style, he provided relentless bass lines and interesting snippets of classic tunes turned upside down by the use of effects. He jumped around lots too and looked like a happy chappy. Nice.


We stayed until the hour of midnight passed and the day was young again. Andrea and I talked for a very long time about our lives. It felt strange, spending such a huge amount of time with someone I didn't know, though by the 13th hour, felt very comfortable with. We went downstairs and I put my hood up on my head. I was still wearing these massive white sunglasses I found and thought it quite amusing, so didn't take them off. We went into the V.I.P room and stood with Steve Aoki whilst Brandace taunted his penis with naughty words in his ear. I think she gets off on all that. Im sure he didn't mind. He told us he was going to the Playboy after party and asked us if we wanted to go. I've heard about these playboy do's and thought to myself I'd be be a fool to turn it down, so I said yes. The girls said yes too. Thank God. We got in a car, and I was driven down town. we pulled up outside a warehouse and I felt silly. I felt out of place. Many people must have thought the same too, after they saw me in flip flops and shorts.


My throat was dry and my legs aching. I had fatigue from the sun and thought about bed. Brandace and the rest of the crew were hanging outside the warehouse trying to blag their way in. I took a spot roughly the same distance I took from Pharrell earlier and looked up to the sky. I told Andrea it made me cringe, the though of trying to blag my way into some celebrity party, and she agreed, so we walked away. We went to a bar that had no booze and talked some more again. Then we decided to sneak into the playboy party.

It really wasn't that hard. We skipped through a fence round the back, laughing as we went, and then just walked in the back door. No one even batted an eyelid.

There were lots of bunny girls being entertained by men in suits. I looked a while, but it really wasn't as cool as I thought it'd be, so I went to the bar. I downed free Jager and drank free whisky before heading into the main room. A group from London called Simian Mobile Disco had the honour of performing, and I stood and watched. My view was this.










I do have some evidence of bunny girls at the party, so if anyone wants videos/photos, please send an S.A.E to
Pete
That ginger one
Texas
Umerikha


I had fun at the party and so did the people I was with. They invited me back to their flat for a party till noon and I said yes.





This is the longest post so far. I hope people are still reading. I probably wouldn't be.






The next day I woke in a strange house I don't know. Until I saw Andrea and Brandace and remembered we'd come back to continue the night out. I rubbed my head and coughed. I knew I had to get my brother from the airport, but I couldn't move. My brother flew in at 8:30pm. It took me until 7pm to leave the house and get sorted. The whole day was a write off. I felt disappointed, though happy in remembering the night before. I picked Marc up and we checked in to our hotel. We hugged and I felt ecstatic that my bro was here. I'd been waiting for this.

We went into town with some Texans we met at the hotel and downed Irish car bombs and shots of Jager. We went to see a band called Tapes'n'tapes and some others. Then we went home. Tired. Before we got home, I bought a hot dog. I laced it with Louisiana hot sauce and Jalapeno peppers. My brother took a bite and told me I was insane. I didnt know what I was doing, choming away in the back of a cab, tears rolling down my cheeks, barely being able to mumble "What do you mean? This tastes great"



I awoke the next day in pain. I heard the toilet whispering my name, so I went and kept it company for roughly one hour. I wondered if I could sue the hotdog man. I also wondered if it was going to be my last day on earth.

I gathered the courage to go into town, forced only by my anticipation of seeing more Music. And for today, particularly good music. We went to a barbecue called Stubb's and bought burgers. A couple of Dj's were playing lots of mash up and it was hot. I smoked a cigarette and immediately my bowels gave way. I ran to the portaloo and became well acquainted with surroundings. Those thoughts entered my head again, the "Am I going to die?" thoughts. The heat in the portaloo must have been topping 35 centrigade. Sweat poured off my face and all I could do was press a warm can of stella against my head and wipe my brow with a soggy napkin. I wanted to cry.

I re emerged feeling lighter and dehydrated. I grabbed a water and headed back to the stage. I lasted roughly three minutes. The frequencies from the rig were making me want to embarrass myself, so I told Marc we had to sit down. We sat down and I breathed heavily. I sighed. I whinced. I went to the toilet roughly four times. Then, it almost instantaneously disappeared, which was fucking lucky, because Chromeo were starting up in about 5 minutes. If you don't know Chromeo check them out here. Or here

Chromeo make me dance like a child and put my tongue in my cheek. I like them a lot. They are these men here.








They played an amusing set and I felt happy. My brother did too.

We met Andrea once Chromeo and Digitalism had finished and went in search of free beer. We stumbled across a band called Peelander-Z. I cannot begin to describe this absolute fucking circus, so I urge all to look them up.

Peelander-Z

This girl is from Peelander-Z. At one point she dressed up as a skittle, while her friends ran towards her in an attempt to knock her down. The board she is holding has lyrics from their songs on it, so the crowd could join in.






The rest of the day was spent eating and drinking. We managed to sneak into another exclusive. The Q magazine party. I don't think I've been that bored in a while. I played guitar hero, whilst Kate Nash sang on stage. If the guitar was wireless it may have ended up in her brain. Whiny faux-cockney bitch. After the Q do, a pleasant surprise occured.

Liz Green is a singer songwriter from Manchester. I have met her a couple of times through my good friend Sam. Liz has a distinctive style and her voice is enchanting. She played on Saturday, and we had the pleasure of watching her do her thing.







After Liz, I felt excited.


We made our way to Sky Lounge to see Deadmau5. That's why.

I've had a great time seeing lots of bands, but by Saturday I was ready to dance like jafooly and listen to some damn fine Music. I was not disappointed. Neither was my brother. Neither was Andrea. Neither was the weird Mexican. Neither was the dude with the orange tan. Nor the girls with perfectly spherical breasts and sausage lips. I had a fucking ball and haven't witnessed a night in a club like that for a while. I got similarly excited when I saw Sasha at the warehouse Project in December. Though being abroad in a hot place, makes everything that little bit sweeter.

Nothing has come close to Saturday night yet, though yesterday I had dinner on a cliff, 450 feet above a massive lake out in the "countryside" of Texas. I ate Anaheim Chiles and shredded pork, and of course, black beans. This place is incredible.

Andrea said goodbye to us today and left for Miami. We'll be following her shortly. I'm sure it'll be just the same when I'm out there. If not better. No bands, but hella Music.

They come in great numbers

I went here today.





This is a building where people go to talk about fiction. They talk loudly in a manner which points to them believing they are better than people like you and me. They read science fiction and call it religion. They give each other tests and point out each other's weaknesses. They empty their wallets and get financially bum raped by their church. It's ok though, because one day they will be a superior thetan and that will appease all the charity.

The scientology building is located right next to the University of Texas. Which is convenient for all those weak minded students that need something to latch on to.



It was warm. Not a cloud in the sky and I felt good. I walked out of Mariette's house and smiled. I had Music made by a man named Liam Howlett piercing the wax in my ears and making the hair on my neck stand to attention. I swept my fingers through my hair as I crossed the road, and said hello to everyone I passed. I made my way to Guadeloupe and bought a sandwich. I ordered a side of Black beans because I'm addicted to them. I gazed out the window as people lazily sauntered down the road. I was glad to be alone.

I tipped my waiter seven bucks because he was a very nice man and we said our farewells. I made my way down Guadeloupe towards town and swept my fingers through my hair again. My hair was wiry from the heat. It wouldn't stay out of my eyes, it kept nagging at me. I don't know what it wanted, so I decided to get it cut off.

I walked into a barber shop and sat down.

"A little off the head" I said with a smile.

"Coming right up" She answered.

She did a good job. It was quick and I don't look like a marine, which is what I feared may happen. I thanked the lady and squeezed her forearm as we said goodbye. I thought about that as I left. I felt a bit silly for doing it. I'm sure she didn't even bat an eyelid, but I felt I may have crossed some sort of barrier.

I bought an Orange Juice and changed the Music in my ears. I felt Brian Wilson was appropriate, so I listened to 'Smile' the album that took him thirty years to record. It was a long time coming, but it was worth it. I hummed along to heroes and villains whilst watching students talk about 9/11 conspiracies and bands that haven't even been invented yet. I made conversations in my head. In the guise of a hipster. I pictured myself at a gig with lots of my hipster friends. I imagined saying things like

"This band make my shoes look sooo awesome"

and

"Does this band make my ass look fat?"

and

"Ever since they got signed I've lost interest in them"



Then I saw it.

The Church of Scientology in all it's glory.

I wandered in.


"Afternoon sir"

"Afternoon" I replied.

"How are you today?"

"I'm well. I'm just glad I found this place"

"Oh.....You from outta town?"

"Yes. England"

"Fantastic! Come this way"


I was led into a side room and introduced to members of the Austin Scientology clan. They were polite and courteous, though I had little to say to them. I don't know why I was there. I did the same thing in Manchester a few times, just wandered in and had conversations with scientologists. I even strapped a mic up to my ipod a few times and recorded the things I heard. The things they said.

I have a fascination with Scientology. I want to now how they believe in it all, and one day, I want to pluck up the courage to tell them they're all cunts. Not yet though. Not yet.

I had a glass of water and talked about Saint Hill in East Grinstead in Sussex. This is the UK base for scientology. I said it was a beautiful place and a nice home for a cult such as scientology. Yes, a cult.

Anyway, I got bored, made my excuses and left.


I carried on towards town. I changed the Music in my ears again to people named 'Architecture in Helsinki' I smiled again and crossed the road. Austin is a beautiful place, it has charm and looks sexy in good weather. I saw lots of people on congress and decided to follow them. They all had badges around their necks. They were all geeks. The beginning of SXSW is the interactive and film seminars. I was with interactive people. Interactive people rarely wash. They don't speak. They type. They have long hair, masturbate furiously to large posters of actresses like Gillian Anderson in their bedrooms, and wear t-shirts with shocking statements on them. In general they're a friendly bunch, if a little sad.


We all trooped down congress and they ducked off toward the convention center. They went down 6th street to get there. 6th street is the bourbon street of Austin, the Deansgate of Austin. It's where lots of bars are crammed next to each other, in order to promote vomiting and promiscuity. I haven't been down there yet, and don't really want to. Not yet anyway. I thought about beer and felt slightly sick. I was still ravaged from the night before. And the night before. And come to think of it, the night before that too. The lower right side of my torso hurt, I believe that is where the liver is held, so I decided against a beer.


The night life in Austin is a bonus. It's a young town full of bars, clubs and obviously, with SXSW, great Music. Last night I went out with Mariette's two house mates Dave and Paul. Dave works in a bar called the ginger man. I walked past it on my first day here and thought I have to drink in there sometime, for the sheer enjoyment of being a ginger man in the ginger man. Paul works in a restaurant as a waiter. I don't know what it's called, but don't believe it has any ties with my hair colour.

We went to an Irish pub and did a quiz, we downed beers and went to Karaoke. A young man sang 'Common People' by Pulp. I haven't heard this song in years and it made me happy. It is, in all honesty, a fucking great song. After that we met an English guy I met on the train journey and went to a bar called Mohawk's. Mohawk's has a terrace which resembles the terraces I see at MTV parties on the television. A band called Tokyo Police Club were playing on the terrace. Someone told me to go see them if I got chance because they are good. They're not good. They're utter waff. I hated it and was very disappointed. I drnak more beer and went inside. There was a dj playing lots of 80's Music. I immediately began dancing like an idiot and ordering Jagermeister. I drank with the English man and Dave and Paul. We had fun.

When we got home I fell asleep quite quickly, though listened to some Miles Davis as I nodded off. I thought about my family all those miles away. I though about my friends all those miles away. I thought about my best friend Ed and the fact that I will miss his birthday this year. I can't remember the last time I spent his birthday with him since I moved to Manchester. That's a bit shit. Though a flight home for a messy night in Devon is definitely not in my to-do book. I thought about the amazing people I've met here and I thought about a man who gurns harder than anyone I know. I don't know his name, but he looks like this.



I also thought about getting another tattoo. I think I may do that while I'm in Austin. Something big. Something American. Something all the way up my arm. I would be welcome to designs, ideas and general suggestions.

Tonight, I sit hungry in the front room. My brow is furrowed and my eyes tired. I may go downtown to get some food. I may end up in front of the internet for hours.