Listening to: Alice Cooper - Halo of Flies

Ok, so I bang on about the weather. We know this. For us Brits (especially us Northern Brits) it's a national obsession. It's written on our coat-of-arms ferchrissakes...
Thing is, I'm worried that The Weather is becoming, or has become, the dominant feature of Sonic Blog, so most of the time I try very hard not to mention The Weather. However, right now this would be a ridiculous feat to attempt.
Yessir, Old Testament-style flooding has battered Cruel Britannia in a most vicious and unrelenting fashion this past week or so.


Back in April - which now seems like a very long time ago - I was basking in sunshine, slapping on the factor 30, and enjoying al fresco dining. (Was pretty bemused as I did so I have to say, but I digress). A record-breaking summer of eternal sunshine was confidentally predicted by the Met Office. All the people in the village rejoiced.

Come June however, the weather is not so much a national obsession as a national emergency and the cause of six fatalities so far. Insurance claims have topped the billion pound mark.
The party ain't over yet though funsters; Severe weather warnings along with flood-alerts in certain areas have been issued for this weekend too. Personally, I just wish that this kind of thing could happen in October/November. It wouldn't seem so ... spooky then.
So dear reader, as I'm sure ye will agree, now is neither the time nor the place to not mention The Weather.

Listening to: Prince - Sometimes it Snows in April

This time last week I swore I wouldn't do it but tonight I did.
Yessir, sucker that I am, I've just finished watching another instalment of The Seven ages of Rock on BBC2. Not that I ever expect truly insightful or revelatory television where popular culture is concerned - though there have been some worthy moments over the years - but this deserves a special mention.
Here is a series which, in one episode, charts the rise and rise of what became known as Heavy Metal without once mentioning Led Zeppelin. Not ever. Not even in passing. Tonight, as if to continue this theme, the life-cycle of American Alt-Rock was documented without once uttering the words Sonic and Youth. Not once. Not even in a 'What links Mudhoney and Nirvana?' kind of a way. Very special indeed.
BBC2: Ring me - I can do it better and cheaper, I guarantee this.

Anyhoo, bad rock-docs are probably not currently at the forefront of Salman Rushdie's list of gripes. No sir, he's had an undeniably bad week.
I mean, it's not like he put in a personal request for a knighthood or anything, the poor sod. As if he didn't have a bad enough time of it back in his Satanic Verses days, when even sensitive troubadour Cat 'Peace Train' Stevens (allegedly) supported having him whacked.
Sal subsequently descended into that murky underworld aka The Witness Protection Programme, and in all probability only recently started to relax a little.
Next thing he knows, they publish the 2007 Honours List, he dares to say yes, and he's right back to 4 hours sleep a night, wearing a wire and being shadowed by 2 stern fat chaps in aviator shades every time he wants to nip to the Co-op for a paper and a pint of milk.

Crazy Cat coincidentally picked up an Ivor Novello award last month for Outstanding Contribution to something or other. For me, I'm afraid he peaked with his paean to Working Class 9-to-5 drudgery, Mathew & Son way back in his Swingin' London days.
Forget I Love My Dog, this was poetry on a stick, Pop-Kids.

Listening to: Pepe Deluxe - Mixtape

In an effort to forget the flood-warnings and unending drizzle us Brits have to endure every June, I took myself off to the local Googolplex this afternoon to catch Vacancy, which is just out in the UK.
Not so much a Horror flick as a thriller with a horror concept at it's core.
What this means in real terms is a not-so-happily married couple (their constant back-biting puts the audience in a twitchy, unsettled state even before they arrive at their destination) staying in a scuzzy middle-of-nowhere motel and discovering a grim selection of Snuff movies in their room, which unfortunately for them look to have been made in their room.
The rest of the film documents their frantic attempts not to star in the latest, yet-to-be-made one.

Now, you know when you're at the cinema and, in time, feel the primal urge to urinate? (Well, if you'd consumed as much Sprite with your salted popcorn as I did this afternoon you would).
Anyhoo, common-sense urges you to merely wait for a low-key part of the film to make that toilet-dash. Under normal circumstances it's not hard to judge this, and when you get back to your seat you'll hopefully have missed no important developments at all. I consider myself a Master of this art.

Well, I have to say that Vacancy tested my talents in this area to the utmost, and by the time I eventually ran from the cinema auditorium, my bladder was screaming louder than Kate Beckinsale. An accolade indeed.
At last, a scary movie that features two adults (as opposed to the ubiquitous college kidz) with some semblance of 3-dimensions about them. Some nice visual touches in there too.
More please....

Listening to: David Axelrod - Holy Thursday

And so it came to pass, that this last weekend saw me celebrating the joint birthdays of Ma & Pa Sonic.
This involved a trip to sunny Liverpool via the Devil's own highway, referred to in The Book of Revelations as the M62.

Never a relaxing drive, this. Lots of out-of-control lorries, their crazed, hell-bound drivers high on Full Metal Breakfasts, pornography and Pro-Plus tablets, death-racing battalions of t*ats in 4x4's - for they are Legion.
And there's me, strapped into the Sonic Chariot solemnly observing the speed-limit in the inside lane, praying to the twin-Gods of Guidance and Safe Passage. Added to this, the M62 takes us hapless travellers over some of the darkest, most desolate, rain-lashed and goddam spooky moors this side of American Werewolf in London.
Anyhoo, following my eventual arrival in the city of culture, a good time was had by all I think.
Food, drink, cake and candles - just as tradition decrees for us simple, God fearin' folk born in the shadow of North-West England's dark satanic mills.
Life is good pop-kids, life is good.

Listening to: Simon Dupree & The Big Sound - Kites

Greetings Blogworld. So what's new I hear you ask?
Well, Summer has gone into recession again.... but then you know by now that this ain't exactly news where I come from, so what else?....
Ok, The White Stripes. I've personally been a big fan of this particular 2-some since I heard The Big 3 (Killed My Baby). I'd say my fanboy-dom peaked with the White Blood cells album, and got a little less commited though Elephant and Get Thee Behind Me Satan. Not that these were bad offerings to my ears, I still bought 'em ... just less crucial somehow.

So I have to say that for me, the new single Icky Thump sees the pretend bro & sis right back on form. 4 minutes fifteen of gloriously messed-up off-the-wall punk-prog (if you will) featuring what sounds like a Stylophone strained through a fuzz-pedal. Really looking forward to the album now, even though it's title means I'll never shake off the mental image of Bill Oddie in an outsize flat-cap brandishing a similarly outsized black-pudding (U.S. readers: blood-sausage) Bruce Lee-style. It's part of my past and I'll just have to live with it.

Something else I'm giving a lot of thought to at present is the 21 London dates Prince is undertaking from August 1st. I need to see at least one of these shows, but naturally haven't joined in with the feeding-frenzy where tickets are concerned. This is where I need to reach out to friends in high places to secure an invitation (+1) to the Purple par-tay. Apparently His Royal Purpleness has rehearsed around 150 songs to give each of the proposed 21 dates maximum scope and eclectic-osity.
150 songs....most artistes/bands whatever never get to write that many.

Personally, I could live without seeing anyone play at the 02 Arena, neé Millenium Dome (how acoustically geared-up for live music could that place be?) but would kill to catch one or more of the alleged secret club gigs. He was well known for those back in the 80's.
Whatever the case, it's great to see that the passing of years (and even hitching his wagon to Jehovah's star) hasn't diminished his attention to detail in any way. £31.21 admission to each show, including a copy of the 3121 album? Serious bargain!
What with all this and the New Cold War hotting up, this could be one helluva summer pop-kids. Sit tight.....