Great session from Bonobo at the Boileroooooom….remixing the Black Sands album.
It’s downloadable too…so do…
Stretch here…again…sick, sick, sick, y’know how sick I am? I’m in bed with me sistah! (Thanks Fast Show)
It hasn’t stop snowing in 14months…This littul munki has been suffering influenza for 6 of those months, the Irlanda Government borrowed all the money on earth and forgot to pay it back. Little Squishy at one year, already has accrued debts thanks to the banky people and if people really think the Rubberbandits are going to cheer up the country, then people are fucked.
Anyway, what happened in music this year?…Miley Cyrus researched a duet with Cypress Hill, by taking a hit from a bong, all the while recording it for posterity. Cynically, it ended up on Utub and Daddy Warbucks was disappointed. How disappointed? Well, he took his shiny belt off and our Miley sure knows what that means…Bonio had back problems which stopped him performing at onshore corporate rock site Glastonbury. Disappointed hippies had to make do with Stevie Wonder who slagged off Bonio saying that having no eyes didn’t stop him from performing…In Irlanda, the annual faction fighting festival, Oxegen, caused JowwwwDufeeee to peel his translucent skin off as stories of gang rape, stabbings, genocide, moider, people catching their death, casual racism and Eminem latest moanings were transmitted through the airwaves to the unemployed, the old and ne’erdowells who all got outraged for an hour and a half, then went back to reality…Finally, many Irlanda people lately have lined up to defecate on Gerry Ryan’s grave…the dead radio star’s penchant for coke seems to be more newsworthy than the rape of the Irlanda by men in white shirts. Miley Cyrus be aware!
Marcus Lambkin makes house music that sounds like eighties music which sounds like the future. It’s very cool and the vibe makes Stretch feel like dancing and I is not even at a wedding. At a wedding, the practice of dancing and holding a full pint of Smithwicks is a necessity. Putting the pint over a friend’s shoulder while screaming “New York! New York!” is another necessity. Waking up naked in the shower covered in vomit and flowers is not a necessity, but can happen, just that once.
I like this song…that’s it really. Nah, a band that grabbed my attention when I saw them at Electric Plink Plink. Wasn’t expecting much but got milled with loads more. The song concerns the need to find the “right one for me.” An interesting idea, if it truly exists. She is there, then she’s not, then she is, then she’s not…frankly, it’s probably meaningless. Still, this year Stretch hovered on the brink of utter out and out madness. In 2011, I will replace the word “hover” with the word “teeter,” until one day, I will just stand nearby making smart comments about the stupid brink.
A lot of kids around my area seemed to have got prams for Christmas. I hope this is the case, coz a lot of the fat ones ain’t fat no more.The Fall, the Fall, the Fall… At that festival I have mentioned, Mark E.Smith apparently screamed at those Scottish lads, Mumford and Sons…Here’s what the Big E said “”We were playing a festival in Dublin the other week. There was this other group, like, warming up in the next sort of chalet, and they were terrible. I said, ‘Shut them cunts up!’ And they were still warming up, so I threw a bottle at them. The band said, ‘That’s the Sons of Mumford’ or something. ‘They’re number five in charts!’ I just thought they were a load of retarded Irish folk singers.”
Anyway, the Fall gave the best gig of the year at Tripod (according to Stretch taste) and their latest album, Your future Our Clutter is as good as anything they’ve done. Buy it and keep him in fags!
The award for the happiest song of the year goes to this. It is impossible not to throw your hands up in the air everytime he sings “And it’s okayayay,” unless you are John McCain, coz that’s just not going to happen… A good comeback album and a great gig in Dubalin sees them bringing back the nineties to those of us who haven’t left them yet. I was watching that thing about Live Aid last night and it made me think how awful the second one was… There aren’t enough threats in the world these days to cause Duran Duran albums.
Winner of many awards and just the coolest fucker on the planet at any one time, this is the opener to Black Sands which continues Bonobo’s exponential growth. I know it’s an idealistic view, but if more people encourage their kids to listen to Bonobo and turn off the aul Xfactah, then the future will be bright and Simon Cowell will melt. This won’t happen, because there is always another cover version to do.Vote for the right Simon!
Right, that’s the first, more to come eventually, if I can get my shit together. Now, I’m going to see if rum really cures influenza
Stretch again and again and again…
So, a fairly rushed number deux. Still, it’s loud, uplifting, downlifting and slightly treacherous, poignant and obnoxious. Just like me. Anyway, a special Christmas one coming soon. Now, Stretch will re-enter real life where he is not welcome. Flump!
INTRO: Ivor Slaney – Easy Prey (Terror/Prey) 2. PVT – Window (Church with No Magic) 3. Various Productions – Maskmen (Maskmen EP) 4. Selfish Cunt – Feel like a woman (English Chamber Music) 5. Meat Beat Manifesto – Acid Again (Actial Sounds and Voices) 6. Modeselektor – In loving memory (Hello Mom!) 7. New Order – The Him (Movement) 8. Prolapse – Bruxelles (The Italian Flag) 9. Bonobo feat Andreya Triana – Stay the Same (Black Sands) 10. Underworld – Scribble (Barking) 11. Anti Pop Consortium – Volcano: Four Tet Remix (Volcano EP). 12. Roots Manuva – Again and Again (Slime and Reason) 13. Negativeland – Over the Hiccups (Escape from Noise) 14. Jaga Jazzist – Oslo Skyline (What We Must)
Increase Volume for Number 14. Downloadable (Click arrow on side of Soundcloud yokey)
So, your son is sitting in his room reading Nietszche, Baudrillard, Jameson and some pretty damn fine radical literature.
“Why don’t you go out and meet some girls? You are in your prime lad”
“I’m just reading Dad.”
“Postmodernism never got anyone laid son!”
“Don’t say that Dad, there’s some really good ideas in here.”
“Good ideas never got anyone laid.”
“Bullshit, gay guys don’t read Nietszche. They are out. Out listening to ridiculous dance music and cruising guys while wearing ill-fitting shirts.”
“That’s a fucking generalisation Dad.”
“Is it fuck? All I’m saying is that reading that shite will have you sitting around a table talking to other losers about the nature of television or why owning one Count Basie album makes you defeat the iPod shuffle crowd. One day, one of our loser friends will bring a loaded revolver to the meeting and shout out some spiel about how there needs to be a blood sacrifice so that people take you guys serious and that you need to unite in the struggle. After a few moments of really excruciating silence, you all to a person will think the same thought. “I HAVE to get laid!” Then you will very carefully work out a way of getting away from your disturbed colleague. I suggest that you order him sternly to pay for the coffee and say something wanky like “meetings adjourned gentlemen and of course lady, pardon my manners.” This will confuse him and give you a short window to go like Buffy and get the fuck out of there.”
“Thanks Dad…I eh never thought…”
“…Stop ya there. Hey pal, don’t worry bout it. Once you’re a little older, you’ll realise how pointless everything is. Here, Happy Christmas. I love you. Here’s your present and maybe neck this Hoffman. It helps with the visuals.
click on my munki detritus for details
Now here’s something to chew on
Here’s Amon Tobin with a motherfucker. Genius
and here’s Bonobo’s excellent mix of same track. More genius.
So it’s over. I have a Lemsip drip and an evil case of time loss. Meeting mental people, including one who seemed to be able to garner alcohol and fags off people with his little finger during the Fall. In society, what he did would not be acceptable. Meeting people I work with was full of weirdness… Met one while badly wiped and about to engage in open warfare on two small children; one who while badly wiped and needing to piss badly, so talked at him a three thousand miles an hour, while Dr Ballantine Baines cackled at him and screamed “they’d need a big bloke like you where you work, eh?” Finally breakfasting on Rum on Saturday meant a pretty peculiar conversation with an angel where I may have not, despite my best efforts, put on that sober a face and as I was on my own at the time, may have come across as a colourful tramp or general weirdo. Although sometimes I can be damn convincing, as all of those things… My previous conversation twenty minutes earlier was to try and convince two workers who were selling pork burgers in a forest that they should assassinate their boss. Not the Mama, indeed. Amyway, I’m fucking tired, so I will elaborate later.
So yeah, the Fall, Laurent Garnier, PIL, Jonsi, Bad Lieutenant/New Order, Hypnotic Brass Ensemble, Fight LIke Apes,the Afro Celts, Leftfield all delivered. Suprisingly good gigs by UNKLE (mental gig) and the demented but lovely reggae ska of Al Capone and the Dubcats (more later on that one).
The amazing Bonobo took an empty field and filled it by their third song. He did not have my barbie. Only disappointment for me was Hot Chip, the crowd loved them an all but I just found them annoying, a rare case of something not really sounding right live, but that’s just me.
Here’s friday night action. You can just about see my munki-head up the front at P.I.L. getting bruised but doing evil things to one crowd surfer. He will tell his children one day: one day they will know why Dad’s the way he is.
So, ridiculous amounts of alcohol, one fearful night being attacked by water, just one major regret (the usual) and an incident with my teanga beag which caused me to exercise my gag reflex and others too. Oh man.
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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.
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
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.