Mommy & Daddy - What Is The Function?
The Futureheads - First Day
Youth Movie Soundtrack Strategy - The If Works
Ex-Models - The Idea Of Peter North
Relaxed Muscle - Sexualised
Kenosha / The Black Helicopters / The Tennessee Traincrash demos

 

Hello chaps, my name is Lord Shuteye. Every so often I'll treat you to another installment from my memoirs 'The Japes Of Wrath'. Read on dear friends....

"Dawn," quoth Homer, "came early, with rosy fingers". Maybe so, (I mused), if glimpsed through the veil of poesy above the sparkling vista of ancient archipelagos ; yet to my jaded eye the skulking visage of the celestial orb presented itself like the flushed cheek of a cider fuelled pork butcher. I hurriedly closed the drapes and, whilst waiting for Gonzales to ready my kedgeree, rummaged through my trunk for suitable attire.
The morning's press cuttings had been annotated and laid out for my perusal on the usual silver platter beside the lacquered Chinese bureau. (Ah! Not a day passes but I recall once more the months I'd languished in opiated ignominy within the sacred confines of the 14th pagoda).
But what do we have here? The Byzantine complexities of Wrath's inner workings read like the confused ramblings of a deranged Victorian colonel. And I should know. Net-web downloadable cyber files? What hocus pocus is this? Though I must confess, the spanking red jackets of the new Super Sevens series evoke quite splendidly the proud tunics of our noble forefathers. Form square, dear fellows! Form square! And in scarlet majesty repel the filthy encroachment of the massed ranks of sanitised mainstream rock-tosh!
Blast me, I'd rather defecate lukewarm porridge for a month than endure another lack lustre recital from the lamentable Coldplay and their cheesy ilk.
Meanwhile, Gonzales, humming a lopsided flamenco counter-point and daydreaming no doubt of his imminent departure for the Iberian peninsular, is taking a damnable time to prepare my vittles. Ever since Farming Incident released their long playing disc the supply of ingredients from the allotments has been decidedly erratic. Only young Dave Mays has yet to be enveloped by the tempting yet suffocating bosom of the rock star lifestyle, and can still be glimpsed sweltering over the turnips like a rural Adonis. Ah, dear reader, it does indeed warm the very cockles to spend an afternoon listening to the primitive tribal thump of Mays and Count Simon, their meaty fingers grasping succulent leeks in lieu of drum sticks, pounding out vigorous versions of The Great Drum Breaks of The 20th Century on a selection of root vegetables, laid out in an exact replica of Keith Moon's Picture's of Lily kit, circa 1967.
But I digress. Glancing once more at the plethora of documentation upon aforementioned argent platter, I fear I may have been remiss in imparting certain intelligence appertaining to the ever shifting roster of the Wrath empire. For, whilst the malefactorus march of the mighty Six continues unchecked and those that Earthmen call The (supreme) Being infiltrate the remotest bed-sits of our over-heated planet, there have been, as in any great endeavour, casualties.
"Whither now the deranged punk rock squall of Les and his flickering Flames?" Asks "Wanted" of Middlesbrough. "Where also," enquires a certain Miss Love Panda, of Woodhouse, Leeds, "the supremely talented and astonishingly good-looking purveyors of post-indie majesty, Galitza?"
Fear not. To paraphrase the inscription at Thermopylae, - "Here, obedient to Wrath's Laws, they lie".
Yet rest assured, though the incarnations that justly brought them the devotion of discerning music lovers the world over no longer prance upon the defiled and greasy boards of showbiz, the composite parts thereof, scattered though they are, still burn with the incandescence of inextinguishable talent.
In short: you've not heard the last of those bastards.
But hark- that slovenly miscreant Gonzales has finally emerged from the domain of saucepans and infernal steamings with me long over due breakfast.
What's that you say sir? Huevos and Chorizo broiled in Rijoca?
Damn your Catalonian impudence!
Still, no point letting it go to waste.
Until next time then,
I remain,
Your Humble, etc etc.
Lord Shuteye.

Ah yes, the joys of drunken bloodsport. Dash those infernal clay pidgeons!

Archive:

Japes Of Wrath - Jan 04

Japes Of Wrath - Feb04

Japes Of Wrath - Apr 04

Japes Of Wrath - July 04