tirsdag den 5. maj 2009

Sexy Salamanca

When one pitches up in whats been rumoured to be Spains wickedest Partying collosus, the hopes are naturally high from the onset. This is one city that doesn't disappoint, providing an overdose of fun-filled fracas and frenzy that'll leave even the best bon viveurs knackered and in need of some shut eye. Salamanca basks in her own golden glow emitted by the natural ageing of her plethora of eye-catching architecture; embalming her palpable aura in a sheen of class and dapper panache. It's her nightlife however that reels in the accolades; as her quaint streets teem with a myopia of merry youth from all over the planet, bound together by the warmth and festive feel emitted from the numerous discos and bars, each adding elements of their own unique distinction to the overall mosaic of fun. I was personally well enamoured by the Bani-Aqua bar; a grunge joint splurting out some brill Indie / rock set in the backdrop of grafiti-filled walls which one is free to write on should one wish to leave their mark and be a part of the exodus. There's also 'las Almas' where Spanish pachanga never sounded better; the joint sports a real tree behind the bar; burgoise-clad Bouncers...and a slightly older crowd no less barmy by such virtue.... how ace is that?! Come the after hours, and 'Cubic' takes the honours; steaming out some frivolous electro and house chimes that set the scene ablaze, continuing to the dawn and beyond. The Irish disco is also a dope hangout, packed with Anglo-speaking folk (thats about all i remember of it though.....)... Nos vemos en Salamanca...una ciudad de puta madre!

Harry's Ankle Escapades, May 2008

Trust Sunday's to conjure up anything but the most enthralling heralds, what with their lackadaisical tonality and void streets. Yesterday however proved to be a most aberrant exception to the zeitgeist, providing unending sequels of drama and gimmickry thanks to the adventures of one Harry Greenfield, who after falling into an open drain on Sato, danced the night away having himself a right brill time before realising that his ankle had swollen to astronomical proportions come the morn. ..:What should have been a simple medical procedure turned into a series of asinine antics propelled by the condemnable inefficiency of Leonese healthcare. The taxi ride to the hospital panned out to be a hair-raising roister past red traffic lights complements of one amber-gambling lout of a driver, who consolidated his unimpressive mien by frequently hurling foul verbal abuse at other motorists who stood in his path.

The usual flabbergasted stares at the sight of anyone foreign in these parts warmly embraced our presence in the hospitals waiting room, a wait that seemed to drag on incessantly. The eventuality of things however, saw Harry patched up in plaster of Paris for the second time in 3 months, the ailment affecting his left ankle this time round. Bizarrely enough, there wasn't a pair of crutches in sight at the hospital indeed upon our inquiry germane to the above; we were simply directed to the services of some downtown pharmacy.

What should have been a simple procurement of crutches and prescribed drugs turned hence into Michael Moore worthy film material upon our arrival at the 24 hour Ordono pharmacy. Apparently, Harry was required to procure a set of vials and syringes to add the ignominy of the already odd malady, which weren't available at the Chemists. Ryan and I thereby had to traipse off to another nearby pharmacy and buy the stern looking syringe kits and their vials, which together with some made-in China-like crutches tallied to an acrid 75 euros. Our sojourn was still far from over, as the vials were apparently not readily loaded as they should have been, and we were concurrently directed to some private health clinic who'd in the Chemist's words 'know what to do'. So off we went again, turning up at the dank-looking sanatorium welcomed by some surly Spencer of a mong at the reception. It then transpired that the vials were faulty merchandise and we'd been conned by the Chemist who'd bumbled the prescription, selling old Hazza syringe kits that were a far cry short of what he actually required.

By this time, the clock hands were already well past the 11 pm mark and in no mood to continue the ethereal saga, we belled what would be our last of 4 taxi rides that day and minced off home well unimpressed with Spanish healthcare albeit all the more baffled and dazzled by the gist of things in these parts. And you thought you'd seen it all!. pero que va?!!

Copenhagen electronic music festival. August 2008

The concept behind this novel ensemble was as radical as it was evocative. Shrouded in the sacrosanct purlieus of the Trinitatis church, revellers were treated to an alluring display of some flagrantly avant garde electro delivered by a series of adept artistes whose performances were frequently punctuated by sermons from the resident priestess endorsed by hollow background chant monotones.

Whilst the marriage of experimental electronic music and church ethics may seem highly controversial to some, its union in this case certainly came across as a very agreeable, well-measured initiative that cordially squashed any dubious presumptions one might have had beforehand.

Music wise, as aforementioned experimentalism was the order of the day as multi-layered drum loops, cacophonous synths and low-end bass riffs filled the cavernous church walls, creating a mis en scene of a most mystical and soothing nature. Background video skits either side of the alter peppered the cryptic, cabalistic feel of things, churning out a series of articulately prepared visualisations centralising primarily on scenic urban takes and daily life rituals, all fast forwarded, cut and scrambled for good measure.

Despite the setting filling all tick boxes, some performances lacked refinement and came across as slightly unvarnished therein. Unlinked tracks created several distasteful moments of silence every now and again, reflecting a distinct dearth of continuity and fluidity. Some performances also seemed excessively dispassionate and mundane. Adding to the inconsistency were several streaks of decibel violations that left a disturbing ring in the ear, amplified as it were by the myopic church walls through which the sound percolated untethered.

Aside from the discordances, Copenhagens electronic music festival has plenty to be proud of thus far, if for nothing else than the church / electronic music alliance and the quality of the daring music on show. Whilst lacking finesse and consistency at parts, the novelty and provocation of the overall concept shone through with credible brilliance, yielding a highly stimulating, indulgent experience of memorable proportions.

Spasmodically amiss

Spasmodically Amiss, tis bliss that contaminates my ears,

The Doldrums are far and gone, The ship’s now chartered by dapper verve and witty zest

Musical monotones we beseech, steadfast in the face of savagery and mockery

A spinal column tingles fleetingly to the manic riffs of anthems of stature,

A soul sings to unseen ears; an overture of peerless proportion

At this very instant, sound is the only constant, the sole solace

And I wish with every last atom of life within me that I could linger in this abyss for all eternity.

I was born when she kissed me. I died when she left me. I lived a few weeks while she loved me.

Last night I felt the simplicity of your sacred touch

The troublesome teasing of an us that never amalgamated to much

In my dreams I held you, in my dreams we soared above all

To reality’s dreadful dose I awoke, slamming into it as if it were a wall

Last night my soul skipped to the symphony of your sullen voice

The jovial jests of the sins of time, of the ignominy of choice

In a far away place we kissed, your lips soft and silky as the petals of the reddest rose

To a shrewder tiding I arose, one of a stature all too morose

Last night my heart chanted mellifluously to the tonality of your aura

Times articulate abuse of the faults and frauds of a bygone era

On dreamy chariots we raced, the wind our compass, the horizon our tangent

To dreary depths I fell, to the shameful regrets of a fool all too impudent

Last night my eyes fixated unabated at the mysticism of your gorgeous gaze

The utopian taunts of wishes embalmed in a most incarcerating haze

On a ghost vessel I skippered, your fine form stood akin, my first mate, my soul mate

To David Jones voraciousness we succumbed helpless albeit irate

Last night we were one, bound ubiquitously by loves lustful laments

The fabricated portends of a non existent surge of foolhardy intents

On escapist errands we gambolled, through picturesque paddocks and parched pasture

To deserted dreams I veered, clamorously clattering to the horridness of such juncture.


A repugnant aroma wafts cantankerously through the almost sacrosanct purlieus
Tis the smell of my own flesh and sweat that are killing me.
Materialism rears its ugly head doing her bit to stain the milieu.
And so I sit and stare inevitability in the face with the eyes that see

Meekness, in all her mildness has long since jumped ship
Dexterity, arcana, will and whim now all lack quip
These stanzas form no shape, no certainty no mien
Yet the words splutter fort as if hurled from hands unseen

The Silver Sun

A crimson dawn I saw, a burgundy foal, desperate and forlorn
Life’s in your loins, Life’s over and bygone.
Bewildered and bedazzled mine eyes stared forth,
Riveted from the helms of their sockets they might as well have hung.

A silver sun rose audaciously to embalm the scene in a sarcophagus of sin.
Fleeting clouds of miasmic red and scathing orange tinted the continuum
Glooms gnashing jaws ripped the suave soigné cotton of my dreams to shreds
I felt in every last nerve ending, the plundered plight of time, the sickly sin of man, the ingratiating injustice of ignorance.
Aboard a mahogany hull I stood, a wispy sea breeze kissing the freckles on my cheek,
To untold horizons we chartered, no end in sight, no origin to found our fears on.
Through musky, murky seas we limped, sickened with every passing silence.
Deadpan as driftwood to the clamorous cynicisms of dignity and vicariousness.

The silver sun writhed in her self solicited discoloured agony,
The golden skies glazed with fiery ferocity and swerved sophistication
Still we stood in an ecstasy of awe and fear, tourists in the course of our lives
Still we kept our conscience’s savage shrills and shrieks at bay

To untold horizons we chartered, no end in sight, no origin to found our fears on.
For we were but naïve nomads straddling the unkempt paddocks of our self made fates
And to such errands we cantered like white ponies with wispy tails on dress

The Solace Tango

It’s an odd jig I dance, not quite a trot, nay not yet a gallop
A jig unseen, a ballad most morose, some might say it were codswallop
The fervent walls stare back at me, mocking my flirtations with the floor
Whim’s the word, aye sir we’ll party till the Achilles goes sore

Nature flings her protests at my jig, at my jig odd and queer
Fickle fingers point out the poignant, crafty grins squirm and sneer
Yet my tango continues, oblivious to mock and jeer
And my feet twist to the rhythm, compelled to endear.

Choose life

Choose life. Choose
a job. Choose a career. Choose a family.

Choose a fucking big television.
Choose washing machines, cars...

compact disc players
and electrical tin openers.

Choose good health...

Iow cholesterol
and dental insurance.

Choose fixed-interest
mortgage payments.

Choose a starter home.
Choose your friends.

Choose leisure wear
and matching luggage.

Choose a three-piece suite on hire
purchase in a range of fucking fabrics.

Chose D.I.Y. and wondering who the fuck
you are on a Sunday morning.

Choose sitting on that couch
watching mind-numbing,
spirit-crushing game shows...

stuffing fucking junk food
into your mouth.

Choose rotting away
at the end of it all.

Pissing your last in a miserable home;
nothing more than an embarrassment...

to the selfish, fucked-up brats
that you've spawned to replace yourself.

Choose your future.
Choose life.

But why would I want
to do a thing like that?

I chose not to choose life.
I chose something else.

And the reasons?
There are no reasons.

I could offer
a million answers, all false.

The truth is
that I'm a bad person.

But that's gonna change.
I'm going to change.

This is the last
of that sort of thing.

Now I'm cleaning up,
and I'm moving on.

Going straight
and choosing life.

I'm looking forward
to it already.

I'm gonna be just like you.

The job, the family,
the fucking big television...

the washing machine,
the car, the compact disc
and electrical tin opener...

good health, low cholesterol,
dental insurance...

mortgage, starter home,
leisure wear, luggage...

three-piece suite, D.I.Y.,
game shows, junk food, children...

walks in the park,
nine-to-five, good at golf...

washing the car, choice of sweaters,
family Christmas...

indexed pension, tax exemption,
clearing gutters...

getting by, looking ahead,
the day you die.

Mark Renton, Trainspotting.

There clearly is a deeper and more intrinsic nature to the eccentric complexity of life, yet most refute its existence, consigning it to being the sum of all their natural fears as they continue to slave away for the Babylonian existence we’ve created for ourselves in the form of society. Equilibrium is a notion that flummoxes most as we teeter between one extremity and another, either this that or the other, but never balanced. You’re either a degenerate pothead or a fearful goodie two shoes keen on rubbing shoulders with the rich and supposedly fabulous on your way up to being the next Bill Gates, or at least trying to be anyway. Casual substance use is termed substance abuse, yet coffee addiction, sex affliction, fearfulness and of course the feast of legal drugs we pepper ourselves with to sleep at night, to look better in the mirror, to escape depression, to live….all go unheeded to the screams and protestations of our supposedly moral social conscience. Therein lies the question as to whether the dogmas we abide by are worth us doing so. Are our servile social exploits morally wrought on moronic tenets or morally magnified by purportedly virtuous accords?