By the time you read this, we should be en route to, if not already inside our new digs. I have said before that I hate moving more than most things but this time round has been…less arduous than previous transitions? Cool peeps and nice bricks make up for a multitude of evils. There are definitely still too many guitars (if that’s even a thing) and certainly a gratuitous number of books, many of which I have not read in the past two years and are in need of gifting to worthy souls. I have bear copies of ‘The Tempest’ and they can all be yours.
‘Femenists: What Were They Thinking?’ on the Newflux is a trip, mainly because I had a copy of ‘Emergence’ by Cynthia MacAdams sitting in the shop and this combination of the two made for the most sensory of experiences. Printed by Dutton in 1978, it is an uncompromising collection of hella strong women. There are painters, poets, writers, actresses and bag ladies, all wonderfully photographed and all of them taking no bullshit from anyone, least of all themselves. The opening address by Diane di Prima [taken from Loba, parts 1-6] sets the tone firmly and without superfluous elegance, ‘neath the ‘dark o’ the moon’ and Kate Millet’s introduction is on point, mirrored in the documentary with MacAdams’ own notes. As she said, they were all women who would have no qualms about telling someone to fuck off if they didn’t agree with what they had to do or say. They were disobedient out of necessity and they aimed to balance a very broken set of scales on which they were expected to stand like so many aesthetic vaginas. They were anything but pussies. As a paired set of artefacts that look at the emergence of feminism in the 1970s, they are well matched and they are here now and you should verse yourself accordingly.
In two short orders of business, I would like to present the above items. The first is a rather fucking excellent graphic of my time travelling techno wizard who is also a sad lizard bird, initially spoken of in the Ask Me Some Things post back in January. For some reason the idea mirthed me enough that I thought he needed to exist in the real world. He embodies the noisy breed of alchemy in all the best possible ways. Some say that he is partially responsible for our summery new colour scheme and they may be right. As soon as I figure out how to get him on a fucking T-shirt, he can be your friend too. PNG files are not the Cat’s friend. The second is a photo of my Bulbasaur because it is summer, it’s hot and I’m wearing shorts. He is a good boy and I love him. There is a very funny story somewhere - I think from the eponymous documentary - about Lemmy Kilmister’s shorts and Scott from Anthrax and if I can find it then I shall share it with you. You should know that both of these wondrous designs were created by the very talented Ms. Robin Vvolf, who’s cooking is rad and you can check out all of her things right here.
Glastonbury happened last week and whilst we were not in direct attendance, I did catch certain elements via the BBC’s dedicated portal and also through other accidental means. Sunday happened late at The Pride of Spitafields, post a mystery poop incident at another regular watering hole that shall remain nameless on this occasion. On arrival at The Pride it became apparent that The Cure, not Kylie were actually headlining and the audio production was unbelievable. The Cure themselves are just as inaudible as ever and amazingly so, forty years after the fact. Elsewhere a Streets crowd surfing session was in progress, part of an excellent performance by Mike Skinner & party, viewed predominantly by people who really wanted to be there specifically. We should definitely talk about Johnny Marr. It should pretty evident to anyone who saw that set on Saturday, that Marr is the performer we all deserve and he behaves like it too, which is nice. I think it’s also probably fair to say, following his cheeky little number with The Killers (Mr. Flowers also very, very good) that we can have everything that was great about The Smiths without any of the stuff that was not so great. Bullshit is not a compulsory component for ‘This Charming Man’ and it wasn’t present at Glastonbury. Honourable mentions go to Goat Girl, Pond, Pale Waves, Tame Impala, and Fontaines D.C. Oh, and let’s not forget our very own Paul’s The Good, The Bad and The Queen.
There is an argument to be made that mystery poop, as a synthetic festival element, is to Glastonbury 2019 as the whole borrowed backpack thing was to Nirvana, Live at Reading in 1992.
And I maked it.
JD - TACOCAT