fredag den 17. september 2010

Excerpt from Dave Courtney’s book “Raving lunacy"



"Raving Lunacy" is a book of a different sort. It’s the sort of book that charms, disgusts, repels and attracts all in one. The sort of book that raises heckles and tickles funny bones, the sort of publication that none other than the loved, hated, famous and infamous Dave Courtney could write. Amongst the many intriguing anecdotes of his escapades on the rave scene back in the day is the entertaining tale of the two police officers that Dave and a mate of his called Wolfie spiked with speed whilst they were on a routine patrol. Whether this is a true story or not, or whether the facts have been exaggerated or distorted in one way or another is irrelevant. It’s downright hilarity all the same.


Over summer we’d have all night barbeques at Queen’s on the veranda and these dopey police would call on their rounds at midnight and then later at two. So this time these two plods came around. I offered one a drink and he refused cos he was on duty but said he’d have a burger. Fair enough. I went to get a burger. Now the geezer doing the burgers and hot dogs was also the geezer that sold the speed…and I bet you’re doing now exactly what I did then aint’cha? Putting two and two together to get a big fucking four! – Yes! How could I resist? I felt it was almost my duty, my duty as silly cunt who likes seeing other people be silly cunts to do it.

So there’s the burgers, a dollop of mayonnaise, a good sprinkling of amphetamine sulphate, a piece of lettuce and a dab of mustard all put expertly together in a sesame seed bun. I believe it was what you would call in your local burger joint (if the cook was a whizzhead) a Quarter Ouncer. Me and the hot dog man were fucking wetting ourselves.

So the coppers walked off munching on these burgers and saying thanks. I said, No, thank YOU. You are very welcome officer.

An hour later the diesel astra comes up the hill, going a fair bit faster than usual I can tell you. The windscreen wipers were on as well, and it was dry. Not a good sign. They both jumped out of the car like a couple of keystone cops. Their hats are off, their ties are loosened, top buttons undone and red sweaty faces. If I hadn’t known better I would’ve thought they’d been shagging each other in the back of the squad car. One of them said “ I think I’ll have one of those beers now, mate” We were going “OK Sarge, whatever you want” I was cracking up so much I had to go inside.

Eventually they realised at some point that they had been spiked – I think it was when they found themselves doing 50mph in first gear with the windows down and the radio on full blast chasing an aeroplane’s wing light over a field. Or was it when they broke the Astra Diesel In Reverse Taking a Roundabout land speed record? But when they got back to the club it was too late. We’d all fucked off. So they had to wait until the next Saturday to catch us.

* Dodgy" Dave Courtney (born 17 February 1959) is a self-proclaimed former British gangster who has become both an author and celebrity-gangster figure. He often refers to himself as Dave Courtney OBE–"One Big Ego"–but is not an Officer of the order of the British Empire. His house in south London, called 'Camelot', is decorated with Union Flags, a painted depiction of himself as a knight and a large knuckle duster. Courtney is now an author, having had six books published: Stop The Ride I Want to Get Off, Raving Lunacy, Dodgy Dave's Little Black Book, The Ride's Back On, F**k the Ride, and Heroes & Villains. He has also starred in, directed, and produced his own film, Hell To Pay, and took on the leading role of Mad Dave opposite Manish Patel in cult British film Triads, Yardies and Onion Bhajias. Courtney has claimed to be the inspiration for Vinnie Jones's debt-collecting hard man in the movie Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. (1)

mandag den 16. august 2010

Inundated.





This is a poem I wrote inspired by the floods that ravaged Copenhagen on the 15th Of August 2010. I found myself caught in the downpour on the day, and had to wade through the inundated Ryparken train station to get home. The station resembled a sinking ship, as the flood waters came rushing in. I stayed long enough to see the lights go out, snapping away with my primitive camera, desperate to linger in the decadent abyss of destruction before my eyes for as long as I could before catching the train home. Once at my station, I trekked down the hill to my abode barefoot and soaked to the skin, as the rain continued to hammer down. The sheer force of everything that was happening all around, and the panic it induced was breathtaking. The streets before me were clear and lonely, left to their decadence by the fleeing world and the sounds of the rushing waters were like a symphony to my needy ears. There was a certain cleanliness in the air, a juxtaposition of destructiveness and sheer beauty that kissed my soul. This was the foundation for “Inundated”


I’m inundated with love for this mise en scène

The trickles, so clear, so simple so clean.

The heavens have burst the banks of affection

And unleashed their content with sullen dejection


There’s a stream beneath my expectant feet

Soft, slippery…smooth as sleet

My heart flutters in tune with the falling drops

Tamed, charmed and seduced by their delicate hops


There’s a symphony in motion, whispered and delicate

An overture, morose and sedate

Amidst bleak and unperturbed winds I slide

Shocked, inspired and mystified by the tide


I’m inundated with love for this mise en scène

The decadence, the loneliness… the clarity of the unseen

The blackened skies churn with a venomous disposition

And here I stand, inundated with love for this juxtaposition.


Mutukz5




Here’s a video of Ryparken station filling up with water. A summer’s day gone Pete Tong in Copenhagen.


http://jp.dk/jptv/indland/article2151445.ece


mandag den 7. juni 2010

The gust in the shadows




A poem written in the wake of the Deepwater horizon disaster. Makind, you've screwed up yet again. I'd say this ought to be a wake up call, but it's more like a defeaning shriek falling upon deaf ears.


Homo vitae commodatus non donatus es

(Man has been lent to life, not given)


The ripples on the water shimmer with a riveting blue brilliance

Misaligned and mangled from their symmetrical sojourns

The dolphins of the sea, shriek in subtle agony

Discombobulated, devastated…dreary of the desolation ahead

The crystalline sparkles of the coruscating sands dim their brilliance

Dampened, darkened…destroyed by the vicissitudes of greed

Plumes of pitch invade the purlieus, and the silence shrieks...

A deafening roar falling on deaf ears

Gents in high quarters tell tales of illusions to conceal their deed

And to this end, the ocean’s porous pores continue to bleed.

Homo vitae commodatus non donatus es

(Man has been lent to life, not given)


AMK

onsdag den 26. maj 2010

Take me back to the genesis of house music




On the eighth day God created house music...

(Ecoute / listen):


The more I listen to today's commercially motivated airwave violations screaming in my ear from every money-seeking radio station around, the more my love of the underground sparkles and shimmers. Here's a toast to a time when music was about something more than earning em. Long live Larry Heard.

(Lyrcis from the aforementioned tune follow, aren't they potent? )




In the beginning, there was Jack, and Jack had a groove.
And from this groove came the groove of all grooves.
And while one day viciously throwing down on his box, Jack boldy declared,

"Let there be house!" and house music was born.

I am, you see,
I am the creator, and this is my house!
And, in my house there is only house music. But, I am not so
selfish because once you enter my house it then becomes OUR house and
OUR house music!" And, you see, no one can own house because
house music is a universal language, spoken and understood by all.

You see, house is a feeling that no one can understand really unless
you're deep into the vibe of house. House is an uncontrollable
desire to jack your body. And, as I told you before, this is
Find More lyrics at www.sweetslyrics.com
our house and our house music. And in every house, you
understand, there is a keeper. And, in this house, the keeper
is Jack. Now some of you who might wonder.

Who is Jack, and what is it that Jack does?

Jack is the one who gives you the power to jack your body!
Jack is the one who gives you the power to do the snake.
Jack is the one who gives you the key to the wiggly worm.
Jack is the one who learns you how to walk your body.
Jack is the one that can bring nations and nations of all
Jackers together under one house.

You may be black, you may be white; you may be Jew or Gentile.
It don't make difference in our House.

Extra reading




fredag den 14. maj 2010

Pour Faire le Portrait d'un Oiseau




Jacques Prévert
"Pour faire le portrait d’un oiseau"

Whilst deeply engrossed in the downtempo Hôtel Costes, Vol. 1: France et Choiseul compilation, I stumbled upon Stéphane Pompougnac's "Pour faire le portrait d’un oiseau" track, inspired by the poetry of the post war French poet, Jacques Prevert, recited by none other than Yves Montand. I was spellbound from the onset. Catch the soundtrack to the poem below:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oJpxhq6Uq0Y



Jacques Prévert (1900-1977) was a French poet whose poems are often about life in Paris after the Second World War. He also wrote several classic screenplays for film director Marcel Carné, the most famous of which, Les enfants du paradis (The Children of Paradise, 1945), is considered one of the greatest French films of all time.
translated from the French to English by Jacqueline Michaud (scroll further down)



"Pour faire le portrait d’un oiseau"


A Elsa Henriquez

Peindre d’abord une cage
avec une porte ouverte
peindre ensuite
quelque chose de joli
quelque chose de simple
quelque chose de beau
quelque chose d’utile
pour l’oiseau
placer ensuite la toile contre un arbre
dans un jardin
dans un bois
ou dans une forêt
se cacher derrière l’arbre
sans rien dire
sans bouger . . .
Parfois l’oiseau arrive vite
mais il peut aussi bien mettre de longues années
avant de se décider
Ne pas se décourager
attendre
attendre s’il le faut pendant des années
la vitesse ou la lenteur de l’arrivée de l’oiseau
n’ayant aucun rapport
avec la réussite du tableau
Quand l’oiseau arrive
s’il arrive
observer le plus profond silence
attendre que l’oiseau entre dans le cage
et quand il est entré
fermer doucement la porte avec le pinceau
puis
effacer un à un tous les barreaux
en ayant soin de ne toucher aucune des plumes de l’oiseau
Faire ensuite le portrait de l’arbre
en choisissant la plus belle de ses branches
pour l’oiseau
peindre aussi le vert feuillage et la fraîcheur du vent
la poussière du soleil
et le bruit des bêtes de l’herbe dans la chaleur de l’été
et puis attendre que l’oiseau se décide à chanter
Si l’oiseau ne chante pas
c’est mauvais signe
Signe que le tableau est mauvais
mais s’il chante c’est bon signe
signe que vous pouvez signer



"To Paint a Bird's Portrait"


to Elsa Henriquez

Paint first a cage
with the door open
next paint
something pretty
something simple
something lovely
something of use
to the bird
then put the canvas near a tree
in a garden
in the woods
or in a forest
hide behind the tree
say nothing
don’t move…
Sometimes the bird comes quickly
but it can just as well take many years
before deciding
Don’t be disheartened
wait
wait years if need be
the pace of the bird’s arrival
bearing no relation
to the success of the painting
When the bird comes
if it comes
keep very still
wait for the bird to enter the cage
and once it has
gently shut the door with the brush
then
paint out the bars one by one
taking care not to touch any of the bird’s feathers
Next paint the tree’s portrait
choosing the loveliest of its branches
for the bird
paint likewise the green leaves and fresh breeze
the sun’s scintillation
and the clamor of crickets in the heat of summer
and then wait until the bird decides to sing
If the bird does not sing
that’s a bad sign
A sign the painting is no good
but if it sings that’s a good sign
a sign you can sign

• • •

Links:



Stéphane Pompougnac


torsdag den 13. maj 2010

Invictus, by William Ernest Henley


Two days away from the biggest match of the hockey season, and my stomach is coiling with tension.


So close to glory, so far from reality

So dexterous and so boisterous, so naive and so plain,

So assured and so upright, so humble and so fragile


To merit we trek, to the glory of an earnest fight.

Hope's a tangent we beseech, for our goal remains within our reach.


AMK, inspired by the words and wizardry of William Ernest Henley.


Invictus (Latin for "Unconquered")


Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

fredag den 30. april 2010

Sometimes it may seem melancholy on the surface





A musical homage to my childhood under the Savannah sun. To the shapes, shadows, scents and vivid colours that inspired me then as they do now. To the distant treeline on the horizon, lit by embers of the rising sun, to the crystalline sparkles of the morning dew on the green grass, to the feisty midday heat, the tranqulity of the twilight. To the diurnal cacophony of calimitious birds singing with their beaks pointed to the heavens and to the nocturnal symphonies of crickets that carried me to my dreams and beyond aboard chariots of fire.

Give it a listen below: