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Salutations.

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Savage

Savage

For some reason, our TFL Overlords decided, in their infinite wisdom, to completely cut off that part of London in which I reside from every other part of London that I must to reach. On top of that, the Central line - onto which I was forced out of necessity - was more packed than a proverbial jar of juvenile octopodes and hotter than the surface of Sol. To say that it has been a somewhat humid couple of days here planet-side, would be a little like saying it is somewhat tricky trying to order an appropriately iced coffee, before having had said coffee. It’s a gecko/egg thing. Forming words is difficult. Corralling them into an acceptable sentence? Out of the question. Peeps are planning to raid Area 51 on September the 20th. I think they want to free the aliens? Or feed the aliens? I have no idea but I guarantee one thing: If they get in, they won’t be coming back out. Place is toit nups.

the band’s general assertion that the record is to be played loud in the foreground is terribly good advice

It is a given that it was He Who Does Bass made the initial introduction between myself and the band officially known as Savages. Their first album, ‘Silence Yourself’ (Pop Noir / Matador, 2013) is that kind of loud and originates from a corresponding layer of the Common Era. It’s highly likely that we had discovered fire and even guitars by that point and were fashioning stuff together. Savages’ delicious breed of bass & kick would have been of keen interest to our nascent noise-making collaboration. I also know that Mr. R is extremely weak to that type of four-string tone. Jehnny Beth is a formidable lyrical and vocal driving force and I am reminded of that live video with the spoken word from this album’s cover. The guitars are convinced they are chainsaws and the band’s general assertion that the record is to be played loud in the foreground is terribly good advice. It feels and sounds like 180 gram. ‘Shut Up’, ‘I Am Here’ and ‘She Will’ are all out to put the boot in your chest and that clarinet solo on ‘Marshal Dear’ is a wonderful job on production by Johnny Hostile. I’m seeing now that he and Beth have a soundtrack for Tim Hawkin’s documentary, ‘XY Chelsea’ about Chelsea Manning that came out last month and the pull from this rabbit hole speaks of critical mass.

Calling it a $500.00 piece seemed like a sensible suggestion, ensuring a very good home

The truth is that I don’t always circle back around as promised. That being said, it can just be taking it’s sweet while and I’d like to think this is one of those cases. We last spoke about Bowie’s soundtrack for ‘Christiane F.’ in April of last year, when I saved it from an ill-deserved end. On double LP - transparant tobacco yellow, smoked vinyl / transparant rose, smoked vinyl picture discs - it was the find of the summer. It also has the English/German version of ‘Heroes’ on side A which might be better than the original. I’ll totally include it above, for your delight. Since then, I have spent many a quiet Sunday afternoon, digging around both on the interweb and also inside the brains of my compatriots elsewhere in Europe, Asia and America, trying in vain to discern more of the history and origin of this particular specimen. Consensus is that it is legit; it has a serial number and no pirate, in their right mind, would go to the effort to press something in so breathtaking a fasion. Consider then, that - it being a unique artefact - it could be worth anywhere in the thousands to the right collector. Consider also, that we just don’t know for sure. Calling it a $500.00 piece seemed like a sensible suggestion, ensuring a very good home, belonging to someone who appreciates it for what it is. I had been waiting for that person for more than a year. Today, they walked in and they left with Christiane. We go a little further down the road, falling through time as we do so.

I had them for two days in uni once and had to sign off class for a week because I was so messed up afterward.

Sometimes I have hiccups for days. It’s horrible, quite distressing and I promise you that - in the past thirty years or so - I have tried holding my breath, I have tried stretching and I have tried drinking a glass of water. Backwards. I’ve even tried all three at the same time. Don’t “at” me, motherfucker. There are times I can spot them coming and try to head them off. If I’ve had a tipple and I hiccup once then that’s the end of fizzy drinks for the night for me because all those vices irritate your diaphragm. That’s just science. It can be funny to start with, sure but also painful and tiresome after a while. Different methods work on different occasions but the best one is usually to lie down, drink the healing waters, relax, read and not talk to another soul or stress about the fact that, you know, I have hiccups and this is where I live now. I had them for two days in uni once and had to sign off class for a week because I was so messed up afterward. It stops you from socialising, from eating, from drinking, from sleeping; it becomes a kind of internal panic, fighting your own body and the more you think about it, the worse they get. I know it all sounds very dramatic but I hate them.

So much.

JD - TACOCAT


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