May 5, 2012

And you do stop: Adam Yauch, writing and the toffs

It has been one of those weeks where I've been tempted to tape up my hopes and dreams inside a bin liner and brick them to the bottom of the Mersey.

Firstly, there was the tossbag of political moisture that was local election day. I've always been politically astute: I cried when John Smith died, I proudly voted against Blair Blue-Balls in 1997 and I've attended several counts in musty old town halls.

However, because Nick Clegg broke the entire of politics in 2010 by saying he was the progressive alternative then putting a bunch of Eton toffs in power with my vote, I don't believe in our system anymore*.

This picture shows pretty much how I felt about walking into a pointless polling station and being given pointless bits of paper. Still, my favourite (and mad) new Twitter feed, Manchester's drunk mayor, is giving me hope.

Secondly, the Hounds Of Hulme album has reached tug-o-war phase. I can't tell if a track is good anymore. I might as well dip my head into the washing-up and listen to the forks piercing my eyes. It's nearly finished, though, and you should like the band's Facebook page for news**.

This has brought on a wider malaise where I can't string one creative idea onto another. I'm performing 20 minutes of idiot fiction at Sounds From The Other City tomorrow (I'm not on the bill but honestly I am performing), but I've so little faith in the paltry new material I have***, I think I may request everyone sits in silence, crying. With forks in their eyes.

I know, I've still enough gumption to be able to plug my stuff here, but seriously... I'm bringing forks****.

And finally, the death of Adam Yauch. I used to be a pretty neat vinyl beatmatcher before the universe went digital, and I'd spin back beats to create new ones because that's what the Beastie Boys did. "Don't you tell me to smi.. Don... Don... Don't you tell me to smile..." 

The Beastie Boys (pictured, top) didn't just inform my musical world: they defined the universe in which I operate. This "Fat Roland" creature I foist upon an innocent world wouldn't exist without them.

In summary, I need a plan. And here it is. If I turn up at Sounds From The Other City tomorrow and find my slot replaced by the Beastie Boys featuring guest rapper Nick Clegg, I'm changing my name to Dorothy and moving to the Shetlands.

There. I said it. You can shorten it to Dot if you want.

* Why did I ever believe in the Liberal Democrats as a left-leaning force in politics? I'm such an idiot.

** Seriously, you should. The more likes I get, the less I'll bang on about it. Even I find this self-promotion tiresome, so goodness knows what it's like for you, you poor reader, you.

*** beware false modesty. I'm going to blaze it tomorrow.

**** I'm bloody not, because if I do, I'll lose them and I won't be able to eat pies.

Further Fats: "It's not funny"... the Beastie Boys cancer announcement in 2009

No comments: