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Thu 5th July 2012 Confirming live dates for JEEPS over the next month or so, click HERE to go to the site for that. Gonna play ACUD open mic in Prenzlauerberg tonight. Does anyone wanna buy a real wicked bike with a cool red springy bit in the middle for 40 Euro? A USA Fender Strat? I gotta sell some serious shit if I'm gonna stand a chance of getting my ass to Mars anytime soon. |
Thu 5th July 2012 Don't stop playing along with this mutha & don't stop downloading the free MP3 either mate: |
Wed 4th July 2012 |
Wed 4th July 2012 Blatantly it's a fundamental scalar, what a boson. |
Paul Greenhorn, Berlin 2008 I'd just moved to Berlin, and the only contact I had was a guy called Daniel who I'd met randomly a few months previous on a Days of Disorder tour, and I owed him a drink. I walked all the way from my hostel in Kreutzburg (South East) to the Prenzlauerberg address (North East) he'd given me, and before I'd reached the place I bumped into him crossing the street with Richard Hate & three Swedish girls who they'd just met in Mauerpark. One of them would turn out to be his girlfriend, Julia, and one mine, kindof. I was introduced to Richard for the first time, and he remains one of my best friends to this day. Altogether a very fortuitous event, these introductions at the crossroads of Eberswalder, and before long a small party generated at Daniel's apartment which lasted for almost two years. He had recently moved into this place, replacing a guy who'd left all his belongings in the room, not wanting them back, and there was a lot of stuff in there - some valuable, some trash, and a gun. Richard fired the gun, imagining it to be a fake, and nearly blew the roof off the place, though loaded with blanks. Daniel went for a walk with Julia while the rest of us sat on the balcony, surrounded by abandoned junk & bottles of beer. Five floors up, we stared for a while down at the train tracks below & the street. Richard was in a frustrated mood. "I just feel like throwing this chair over the side of the balcony & watching it smash into a hundred pieces." "Do it. Man, if it'll make you feel better, do it." "Ok then I will!" And with that he picked up his wooden chair and launched it over the railings, and we watched it spin slowly as it fell, exploding on the pavement below into a hundred pieces indeed, with a most satisfying crunch followed by a rattle of spinning wood that echoed between the blocks & the bridge beneath. I wanted in. "Man that was amazing, I wanna chuck something off!" I turned, and as I entered Daniel's room, hunting for something to throw & destroy, my eyes fell immediately, hungrily, on a two foot tall model dinosaur that annoyed me from the cluttered desktop in the corner. It annoyed me for being so useless & so easily destructible; it's pathetic, proud horn protruding fragile & harmless on his stupid, green, toothy face, and as I held the plastic monstrosity up & asked if Daniel liked this thing, I had already decided that it had to go. Out in the air, Whoooosh & Pheeeewee! Jutter-titter-silence, it was fucking magic. Everybody got the fever. Ida, the third Swedish girl, threw her bottle of Sternberg high into the air, and we watched in awe as it arced like a rainbow, spinning slowly on it's own axis, plunging earthward toward it's violent end amongst the debris, forming scatter-patterns on the street. I dashed back into the room & emerged with a huge glass head. The sound it made as it exploded almost into fragments of air was one of freedom to me at that time, nothing mattered, life was young again somehow. I was 28 & behaving more like a trouble-teen in search of his crowning ASBO. ANother chair went over. Ida was giggling with vitalised spirits, nothing was sacred & everything must go. Most things went. We came inside, and then the bell rang. You don't see much of the police in Berlin, but when you do, it's rarely a pretty sight. They were making their way up the flights of stairs, I was desperately chaining a viable story together in my mind, ready to somehow bluff us out of this situation, but also aware of the awkward fact that nobody who lived in that apartment was actually there at this time. They knocked at the door, Richard answered, and four armed men entered the room, not in uniform. They flashed badges & demanded an explanation. I began my story. "We're all quite shocked - A friend of ours just had a huge argument with his girlfriend on the phone. He was screaming & shouting & throwing all his things out of the window, and then he left in a rage & we don't know where he went. We're all quite worried about him, did you pass him on your way up?" The policeman with the notepad looked at me through discerning eyes. One flinch in my brow & he would know immediately that I was talking directly out of my arse without an interpreter. He formed his words slowly & with precision. "What was the name of this friend of yours?" One second passed. Another second. How could I get away with this one? Who can I pin this on, now? I can't say I don't know his name; I've just expressed concern for an imaginary person & now I have to put a name to him. My eyes shifted to Richard, who stepped forward gallantly and spake. "His name is Paul Greenhorn." The image of that stupid bastard plastic dinosaur flashed before my eyes, the policeman's stare never strayed from it's intensity & I nearly died on the spot. I could have laughed for a fortnight, but my stomach tensed & I bit down hard on the inside of my lip. If I'd laughed at this point, the game was up. Ten seconds passed, and then finally, the policeman's face softened, and he actually smiled himself. The tension had passed, I laughed, we were all safe now. They took my passport & address, which at that time was a hostel in Kreutzberg, and said we had to clean up the mess. I volunteered, and they followed me down the stairs as I walked down those 5 floors with a broom in one hand & a dustpan in the other. On the street they stood round me with their hands on their guns as I swept up poor old Paul Greenhorn's remains & put splinters of chair legs in orange bins. And as I swept I sang, quietly, the chorus of I Want To Break Free, feeling like the luckiest man in the world. I'd found something, and I had no idea what it was. |