Stretch Songs of Joy 2010 parto duo:Home invasion

Stretch songs of joy pretty late yeah

Mad things…mad things….mad things… dad things… galahad things… fad things. spootnik

Well it had to happen, the angel is leaving and I am feeling prematurely bereft. Had to happen s’pose. Yi can’t want something and then deny yourself it at the same time…Jus doesn’t compute..

This one's broken. Ann, where's Nancy? Well, did you eat her? Annnn!

Stretch MacGibbon is generally a right thinking individual with a wrong thinking brain. Over the last year and a half the wrong thinking brain has been in control, or has it? Well? You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? Well, if you do contact me and explain it…If you really want me, I am here.

The ruination of the situation is the stagnation of the alternative…BBBBUt this is where my music taste comes from… the constantly evolving mind bubble that sends forth these great songs that have an essence that appeals to the Stretch mind, like what a Kylie song does for a guy in a denim shirt, what Coldplay does for unemployed accountants or what gangsta rap does for spotty Irlanda youths. When it plays, it travels deep inside you and you are that demographic….yi ken?

Anyway, here some more reasons why my musical mind was tickled in 2010…

The happiest of Valentinoness to you all. I hope your big red heart pumps more blood than mine will….ciao

Flying Lotus – Mmmhmm

It’s kinda weird to have the Suicidal Tendencies bassist sitting on a rock in the middle of some cosmic acid trip… But in the washing machine world that exists around Flying Lotus, anything is possible. Although critics have been dribbling about Cosmagramma this year, it is to me anyways, nowhere near as good as Los Angeles or indeed 1983. Indeed.  But that could be just me. When I stood on the hip-o-meter in my local chemist, it turned out to be a weighing scales. I am 12 and a half stone and unsure whether I am hip or not… That hip factor reminds me of the gushings that greeted every Prefuse 73 album a couple of years back. It is my mandate not to gush. If I am ever shot blood will seep or languish around my wound, but never gush. There’ll be no gushing on my munki watch.

Anodyne – Close your eyes (Autechre remix)

Imagine you are in a post nuclear wilderness, you haven’t eaten for days. You don’t want to, because you are too sick to eat. The blinding wind feels like a knife against you face. The distance fills you with fear, the future is uncertain. Shadows make you jump. There are threats everywhere, but you must go on. You must drive forward through this nuclear winter. That’s what “Close your eyes” feels like. Then Autechre come along and remix it, turning the post apocalyptic wilderness into a cool urban nightclub where people drink cosmopolitans and don’t eat bombay mix and are listening to old-skool hip hop beats over various depressing techno tunes. The waiter asks you what you would like to drink. You say “Close your eyes.” He says he doesn’t know that one, so you leave in disgust and vow never to return.

Pan Sonic – Pan finale

The great Pan Sonic released their last album in that year that I’m talking about. A really coherent piece of work with the usual mix of vibe and noises to wring out your mind. The world in which they inhabit must be fun. I’d say their wives/girlfriends/friends/childers must wince when the boys shout, “It’s finished! Come listen.” Into the garage they go with a earplugs and some Xanax, while the speakers are turned up real loud and the Finnish boys push a button on the homebuilt chainsaw/synthesiser/doomsday device. Having seen them live, I know that the experience is similar to that part of an acid trip when you’ve just realised you are actually on acid and the reason that gravity is upside down is because your mind has taken leave of your head. It’s fun, and only costs about a tenner usually. Try them, Pan Sonic and some Advil for a mighty fine time.

Meat Beat Manifesto – Quietus

More sub-bass explorations from the Jack Dangers, who has made Meat Beat Manifesto a genre unto itself. There is simply nothing that sounds like it. It sounds like the last music you will hear just before a particularly intelligent psychopath stalks and murders you. Kinda like SAW, but without the ridiculous attempts to drag out the flimsy plot. Anyway, this music is best listened in the quietness of your own quietness, and feel the queasy claustrophobia that this music creates. Not one for everyone’s tastes, but for those w2ho hate God and all his evil works will appreciate the dark undercurrents in this work. Those who like GOD, get down on your knees in front of Michael Bubbly and pray he’s eaten.

Adriana Triana – Lost where I belong & Flying Lotus remix

This wonderful artist gets two mentions this year, because her output has been of such high quality. This 21-year old has an amazingly powerful voice, and with a little help from Simon Green proves that doing it early is a good idea. I started doing everything very early, smoking at 11, drinking at 12, drugging at 14, yet when it came to the important things like starting a band, mating with women who looked like women, writing a novel, travellating, I somehow screwed that up. Now I am 35 years, made mostly of water, on this ball made mostly of water and still mentally 14. That can’t be good.

I resolve to orienteer in space…That bring happiness methinks….yeah? You love me don’t you? I am…

Being attacked by obvious insects preview no 2 the drag queens


Stretch was thinking of something the other day; something so perfectly formed in a smaller package; a thing of such beauty that my stomach churned on so many levels; an odd incidence of connection that muddles the brain and shifts radiance on to a phenomenonal level, but, hey, then again I was always a remarkably beautiful munki. More Electric Picnic previews which should make the peoples grimace rather than smile; tut rather than laugh; perspire rather than sweat.

The Fall

Weeeeeeel, it’s only been months since I did see Paul Daniels live and here he is again. A field in Laois is not the place you expect

Es magicah

to find Mark E. Smith but there you go. Expect something really bad to happen because realistically, it’s been a while since he produced any real drama. A must for the potential of hissy-fits. Watch old men gasp at the audacity of party-types who try to dance to the Fall, common occurrence over the last few years. You don’t dance to the Fall, you just don’t. It’s dumb. Stop it!

Played Laois two years ago and put on a fairly intense performance. This time will involve glass breakage, ahm sure.

Laurent Garnier

Nobody has ever seen Laurent Garnier and order giver Raymond Blanc in the same room. No one has ever messed with Raymond Blanc’s iPod at a party. No one has ever criticised Laurent Garnier’s pre-gig pavlova. No one has ever told Raymond Blanc that he should go back to being old-skool. No human ever went up to Laurent Garnier and said “aren’t you that chef guy?” No humanoid has ever gone up to Raymond Blanc and asked, “Jewananyeesforagoodbuzz?” Certainly not outside of Dubalin towin. Y’see peoples are more careful than you think. The wrath of Garnier/Blanc can result in botulism or acute deafness. Fear them. They both speak as if they know what they are on about. Fear them. They will take you down.

If you see one, you see the other.


In Ray Bradburyland, every band who go into a hall of mirrors will come out fat as fried cheese. John Lydon went into that Hall

Go to woodies for the love of....

of Mirrors, but never came out. If he doesn’t do “Open Up” with Leftfield, then I’m a munki’s uncle. Actually, scratch that, I am a munki’s uncle. Jah Wobbles but wont fall down, coz y’see Jah Wobbles but wont fall down. Do you dig? Jah Wobbles but wont fall down. The only pity for Stretch is that Martin Atkins isn’t drumming as I have followed his career closely, much like Al Pacino followed hollowed out beach-boy Keanu Reeves’ career in that ridiculous movie about lawyers and satanic forces and Charleze Theron having a nervous breakdown in an undecorated penthouse apartment. I mean decorate woman, if you are bored and hearing and seeing weird shit, put up a fucking picture at least. I’m not saying I’m Satan, but I’m pretty sure Al Pacino may be.

Bad Lieutenant

Barney is at the festival. Hoookey is at the festival. They not on best of terms. A recipe for insanity. Stretch predicts George Galloway (a man so vain that his mirror regularly windolene’s itself) will in a bout of posterity try and get the two boys in the same tent. A glassing will occur and Brendan McWilliams (a man so vain that his mirror regularly windolene’s itself) will interject describing the men in a cliche so nauseating that the vomit will stop the row for at least two minutes. Guest speaker in the tent, a very drunk Rosanna Davidson will get messy and eyebrow McWilliams. He won’t have seen it coming, but the blood that coarses from his face will remind him to never take his eyes off a DeBurgh set of eyebrows. In jumps Ryan Tubridy (a man so vain that his mirror regularly windolene’s itself) who drags his nonsensical degree-laden girlfriend, Unpronouncable O’Unpronouncable onto the stage and screams like a girl,

“She used to be a fucking Rose of Tralee, and now look at her!”

Steve Bell sits quietly drawing these characters, but becomes uninspired and fucks off to see the Redneck Manifesto. Meanwhile


Senator Dan Boyle tweets about this Donnybrook, but the fact that his tweets are only read by shoddy journalists means that he’s fundamentally a non-human and disappears as fast as a will-o-the-wisp. Steve Bell comes back does a quick drawing of a will-o-the-wisp and imitates Kenneth Williams causing loads of gay guys to imitate him and an unfortunate case of inconsequential sodomy occurs. George Galloway enters proceedings.

Hookey and Barney, fresh from rolling around in their own glasses, sit up and realise that they have the guts of a new New Order album which will sound pretty much like every other New Order album and will be good, not great and wont hold a candle to anything they did with Joy Division. (Stretch loves Movement, so that’s not included in this bitch)


Finally my cuz makes an appearance in Ireland, which doesn’t involve being fed at intervals. After countless letters and emails, I

The barbie was my birthright right. Go on, you say it, Yehudi Menuin. Hahahaha. STUPAH

have finally blocked his email address and sent a ‘cease and desist’ legal letter to stop his bragging about what he has and I do not. I mean there are plenty of things I want that belong to other people that I know I can’t have and in turn, there are things people want from me. You see, in this world of munkidom in which I live, us fellows tend to get a bit protective about our stuff, not property or automobiles or even the fantastic Technics stereo I have. We get protective over simple shit, like for example, an extremely hot Barbie doll (actual size). When people throw peanuts at munkis, we are like yeah, whatever. It would be like throwing bacon fries at Irlandish people, pasta at Italialionions, snails at les Franchees, a stick or rock that reads “we dont think we are better than you anymore, it’s just we evolved by thinking we were better than you, so naturally we can only suppose we are better than you. No offence” at the Ingelandeese and human flesh for the Scotified (based on SKY tv footage).

So Bonobo and myself were loitering in our captivity a few years back when over the fence came this Barbie doll. I spotted the young grinning boy who threw it and his tearful sister and looked away all nonchalant like. Bonobo was equidistant between the doll an ol’ Stretch here. For a few hours we ignored it, but we both started to keep an eye on the doll, and each other. When our keeper, VS Naipul called us for our dinner, we froze. Neither could move. He wandered between us and the doll and tried to get us to eat our grub, but soon became transfixed by the doll. Now, the three of us sat there, staring at this doll. Not a word passed our lips, although I was dying for a piss. The urinals were about 100 feet away and I didn’t trust these fuckers. Naipul had edged slightly closer, so we did the same. After a while, we were sitting in a circle.

The doll was pretty ordinary. It was no Canturi Barbie, but it wasn’t a dirty slaggy Barbie either. In fact it turned out to be Edgar Valdez Villarreal, one of the most sought after drug dealers this side of Tijuana. We did not know this at the time however and because “the Barbie” never spoke we were unaware that it was a man, not a plastic doll. Naipul made the first serious move. Bonobo launched a vicious attack to his face. I adopted my customary fight position, by grabbing on to Naipul’s head and swinging around. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Salman Rushdie writing yet another boring overblown novel about this. I’m sure it will take 4,000 pages before anyone gets a slap.

In the melee, I had accidentally pissed myself and as any gibbon knows, this is not socially acceptable, especially in front of another of your species. The break in concentration allowed Naipul and Bonobo to skip out the gate fighting still, but locking me in the enclosure. I spent years in that place dreaming of that Barbie, its shiny head, pink taffeta dress and stunning pumps, (again, I am sorry but I was completely unaware it was a mexican drug dealer, known for hanging his enemies off bridges). They found V.S. Naipul in the Booterstown Inn a few weeks later drinking silently but sullenly. He refused to speak of the incident. All he would say was that all was lost, but he meant the Barbie. A bit over dramatic that one. Bonobo concentrated on his music career and locked the Barbie in a vault under his treehouse.

This weekend he will be in possession of that Barbie. I will kill him if the need arises. I mean it. Adriana Triana won’t save you.

Brendan Perry

In a tent with knobs on. Bangin’. The only way to describe his music is that it’s like being attacked by an angry rainforest.

Fight Like Apes

A band that do what they do. They are very hard to criticise properly, because you either love them or hate them. The fact that one of them calls himself Pockets just doesn’t wash in Irlanda. Stretch was over in Londondondon a few weeks back and saw so many skinny jeans that he so nearly hyperventillated. Saw so many punks with Green Day Ts on that he nearly vomited. Saw so many blokes wearing fat black circular things in their ears that he was exhausted calling them all individualistic bastids. Saw so many people who bought into the Pete Doherty thing, it just made him sad. Saw two men wearing t-shirts saying “Anarchist.” They may as well say “Antichrist” with an apology saying “Shit, I let the cat out of the bag. Stupid of me, Ol Beelzebub coming down here to earth and the first thing I Fackin do is go to London wearing a t-shirt saying who I am. Thus, completely upending “Verbal” Kint’s argument.

Hypnotic Brass Ensemble

I don’t need to say shit about this bunch of fellas. They just rock.

That’s it. Go to these musicians and you’ll have a good time. Go to Robyn if needs be. Apparently she has lovely hair.

Eat, drink and be the Virgin Mary. It IS all a Catholic conspiracy.