DOWN with the kids


Sometimes I look in the mirror and see Henry Hill in the final scene of Goodfellas. That moment when he realises the mundane future,  that expression of weariness stares back at me. I’m not old or young: I’m in the middle, the horrible middle youth. Too young to retire and give up, too old to join a band. Too exhausted even to bother with a mid-life crisis. The span between 30 and 50 is as demanding mentally as the hormonal mess of teen years, filled with the same ‘what the fuck?’ moments every morning when you open your eyes. Is this middle youth? Or something else?

Now, I’m a professional something, with a wife, child, mortgage, car loan, two dogs and a non-stick pan. I’m also an uncool, balding, cynical, wrecked shell of a human, who has finally lost control of the handlebars, looking at music reviews, wondering at what point I started missing all the new bands.  My interests aren’t represented in the media, I am unlikely to harass Joe Duffy of an afternoon, am Irish but not that Irish kind of Irish. Demographically speaking I’m from that group who drink heavily, mangle the guitar, play playstation, write, work in a demanding job and worry about money all the time. If that is a demographic.


My dressing room of disaffection contains black t-shirts, black jeans, black boots, pretty much the same uniform since I was eight, but I was cooler then. The use of branding or logos is prohibited by a demented code I developed as a teen. Colour is always the enemy, as is self-help. I am Max Schumacher in an Anthrax t-shirt.

Why? There is nothing that irritates my soul more than when I see people with GAP or FITCH illuminating their chests. Why be a walking billboard? People are conditioned to wear clothes from the many outlet stores that have popped up because they are on special offer and some weird set of unwritten fashion dogma tells them that a little alligator on their shirt will make their peers sit up and demand to know who this fantastic character is. If you’re not going to bother then don’t. Or else become a hipster, but then again I don’t really know what a hipster is. Someone with skinny jeans, no defined muscle mass and cardigan buttons in their earlobes, right?

I do not react well to that market which feeds us. Maybe I’m William Gibson’s Cayce Pollard, who had a pathological sensitivity to logos and brands. Yet, I’m also that loser who wears band t-shirts at age 37, ha! I met a guy in the lift in work a few years back who commented on my Front 242 t-shirt, sarcastically pointing out that he used to wear such t-shirts before he stopped being angry at the world. I stared at this chinless, overweight shit and resisted the urge to punch him. Who is not angry at this world? Oh.


It all comes down to my teenage obsession with music and how certain people remain consumed throughout their lives. Others choose to drop these childhood things and wear ties and jodphurs and place Dido on their stereos as it is unlikely to offend anyone. People like myself, whose religion changed after hearing Nick Cave’s “Tender Prey,” feel heartache that the underground we loved is now sponsored by mobile phone companies. We grew up with American or British punk, metal, indie, goth and dance music, not because we didn’t love our country, but because the rare Irish gems faded quickly. We listened to those influential groups long before their recent wallet-filling comeback tours. These days I can’t even listen to the amazing Pixies without a sick feeling in my stomach.

I wonder how weird will it be bringing my son to a Metallica gig when he’s old enough? A guilty pleasure since the age of 11, the thrash metal behemoth stopped being any good after 1988, yet like Fall gigs you go to see them live just in case it’s the last chance you get. The anxiety-ridden metallers are not an underground band from the Bay Area anymore, but a corporation in their own right. During their set, a few years back, I stood happily drunk and watched a man with his son on his shoulders. They were both in awe at the spectacle. Ah, one day, yes, one day, I will force my son to see Metallica and demand that he sit on my shoulders regardless of his age.  Later that night I high-fived the kid a few times until the father got uncomfortable and moved position.

Growing up we watched everything that was new and cool, tried to race ahead of hungry marketeers who needed to commodify everything that we loved and ultimately destroyed any feeling we had for it. The music marketplace annihilated itself because of arrogant executives who didn’t believe in the power of the internet. The tools of production and the ability for music to be uploaded to sites means anyone can be a musician and exist outside of the limitation of record companies.

Oddly this has meant that us middle-youthers get to experience the thrill of our youth for a second time, because the bands of my youth are either starting up again or never stopped. They know that they will make more in this era’s consumer model than in the days when they were popular and influential. This isn’t brilliant news for the current generation. Thousands of new groups fall by the wayside: burning brightly and fading away, all in the space of six months. There are too many old bands releasing event albums and headlining festivals, filling the space young acts should.  Look around now, every festival is headlined by forty or fifty-something rebels with mortgages but no cause other than the derivative output of their generation. How many new bands will be plying their trade in 20 years? They’ll be gone, but there will probably be a new Iggy album.


Depressingly evil waking moment: Apple computers have control of my body! My fingers, eyes, ears and lumpy arse have been borrowed at a price by this corporation that constantly bangs me over the head telling me, “No, we’re not a corporation, but your friend. Look how well designed our products are, look how good they go with any room in your house. Doesn’t your dog look cooler standing beside the MacBook Pro? Quick take a pic with your iPhone. Hey is that Gun Club on your iPod?”

Typical though, I am such an old hypocrite, railing against the MAN for all these years, and it turns out the MAN is a geeky fucking hipster who sees even a mess of a human like me as an integral part of his marketing strategy. Apple have since the early nineties forced their oh-so-cool products on a wanton sector of society, the ‘we didn’t have that shit when we were young’ crowd. The age profile for the highest consumers of iPhone and iPad? 30-50, my age-group.

We are willing computer and internet junkies. We don’t see the little adverts flashing through our heads. Every site we go to has a shopping basket, ‘inviting’ us to exist in a global department store. We are the ‘cooler than our kids’ generation and being hooked up to the net, it is mournful for us because we remember the time before. The time before we lost our ideals, that golden time when we ran around fields and wished we had something to stop us from running around fields. Here’s an iPhone! Look! With this app, you can not only control your bowel movements, you can control other people’s too! That’ll be 99c, please.


We are always being informed by the media that we have a unique culture. Do the people who leave comments on the Journal have culture? Those poor bastards can barely raise their knuckles off the floor to actively miss the point. Yet, these are the people who engage with media, my compatriots.

Culture can be video games; gigs; sport; Hello magazine; drinking yourself to sleep after a hard day’s work; the occasional night out surrounded by massive televisions showing footballers at actual size in bars that used to be nice; hoping you will stay alive long enough to finish the many boxsets you are watching and hating Ryan Tubridy because, y’know, he’s Ryan Tubridy.

However, the Irish Times weekend magazine seems to think that the nation is full of upper middle class people who knit their children’s clothes, then wonder why the poor itchy fuckers get bullied at school. Do these things relate to my generation? ‘What to wear when killing foxes. How to stop people killing foxes. Are foxes spreading diseases and killing livestock? Are we too quick to dismiss the ways of the countryside even if it even means the odd fox will get ripped to pieces? How to make fox risotto, with cranberries and chestnuts, YES! CHESTNUTS!’

On the other hand, I am supposed to care about Georgia Salpa, Kate Middleton, Rosanna Davison, John Terry, David Beckham, Tom Cruise, Adele, Susan Boyle, Una Healy, Gerard Kean and Simon Cowell? The question is: would Michael Collins have made this country better or if he lived would he be just another big wanker? Look what happened to Bono.


While some people are out on their mountain bikes, orienteering their fit bodies around grim mountains, others are spending large sums of money in restaurants to eat chips that just don’t fit in your mouth. A few still sit around and pray to gods who have nothing better to do on a Sunday morning. But then there are those who can tell key events of their lives based on what version of FIFA football they had at the time. Alternatively they are racking up bodycounts so impressive that their Level 50 status brings them to the attention of various military dictatorships, leading to their dream job: John Cusack’s character in Grosse Pointe Blank. The only downside being the eventual marriage to Minnie Driver’s enormous head.

Teenagers of 2013 have more problems than they realise. Not only are they dealing with the adolescent nightmares of peer pressure, alcohol/drug abuse, fraping, and pus all over their visages, now they’ll have to fight for control of their own game consoles from a growing population of aging gamers who remember playing Sonic and Mario and are damned if they’re going to miss out on the latest gems on the gaming market.

Adults my age play computer games. My Dad didn’t. Your Dad didn’t! The supposedly productive hours in our lives racked up in gaming universes mean that to ignore the incredible new games and game engines wouldn’t be fair on us.  These worlds are so advanced that they transcend the divide between traditional adult entertainment of movies and television. The ability of some games like the Call of Duty series to sell more units than any traditional media is pushing them into a prominent area. Pong is gone. The games developers know that their audience are not just kids, but stressed out adults with disposable income who demand quality and the ability to shoot someone in the face.

Alan Moore, the comic artist who created Watchmen and V for Vendetta, has talked about my generation’s retreat to infancy, pointing out that we didn’t really want to take the responsibility of being an adult in the world we live in, since it’s a pretty shitty world. Middle youthers, although that label is redundant, exist in some horrific Judd Apatow version of reality – minus the misogyny. We are immature, yet have mortgages. We don’t sacrifice our enjoyment of the world in order to survive. We vote the lesser of two evils then vote them out when they become all scaly monster. The church didn’t own us like it did our parents so the guilt isn’t really there. But middle age is real, it is coming and it will be interesting to see how the market is preparing for our generation’s needs. What games will we need? Which bands will still be touring? How will we fill our days? Is it wrong to read the New Yorker on the toilet? The country is a mess, but the market is depending on us not to grow up for a little longer


Who ever met anyone like Sean Sherlock, the Minister of State for Research and Innovation (Ministry of made up ministries)? Where did he come from? Why does he represent my interests in this internet age? He is three years older than me, looks twenty years younger and smiles like he’s telling you to fuck off. I have never met anyone like him. Maybe I could befriend Sherlock, force-feed him brandy and digestive biscuits and while holding his hair over the toilet bowl as he vomits, demand to know why he is representing me. I might just get an answer. More likely, through the tears and snot he will tell me that he has no idea why at our age I am wearing a Cramps t-shirt, smelling of rum and covered in his sick.

182870_527665477279926_395253768_nThis bunch of words I did wrote was published in the summer issue of CULT magazine 2013.


How you found STRETCH today?

The filth will fine me, they will.

Search engine term of the day 7,004:

“amy huberman is a twat cow bitch”

Full frontal lunacy: time to remain monochrome

In these times of uncertainty, and Stretch knows best, you can always throw on Front 242.

It does eggsactly what it says on the tin.

You actually thought you knew all there was to know about FRONT 242 circa 1980s? Really? Well, aren’t you just Mr Peter Perfect?

Hey You! Down in the Front242!

“The Pixies in my head

are running out of thread,

I offered them some glue

they said that wouldn’t do”


“And I felt like

and I felt like being numbed

I felt like Mesmerised”

(Quite Unusual – Front 242)

SOMETIMES, sometimes the best way to feel alive is to push yourself to the limit of your being. Wandering around a city looking at all the young people can make you seem full of regret. Hey though, fuck regret. I was trying to figure out what it was about last Saturday night watching Front 242 that made me feel so fucking alive. All night pummelled repeatedly by a small Belgian skinhead, (who like a cartoon character would be returned by me to his original position as if he was on an elastic band). It really is quite unusual.

So, spent the whole week preceding with “Midnight at the Oasis” by Maria Muldaur running round my little head which wasn’t the best preparation for an industrial gig. Happens a lot. It’s usually the theme from the Magic Roundabout or the !!! lyric “like I give a fuck” or embarassingly “Forever Young” by Alphaville. Uuurghh.

Baines wasn’t particularly happy about being duped into going to this event, thinking for some reason that he was going to a Maria Muldaur concert. He was shocked to find no sign of shiny perms anywhere, except trace evidence on the scalps of the many skinheads/bald men who populated the Factory of Buttons.

Pre-gig we went to Mulligans and watched the wretched Irish rugby-robots play the

Get over it Steve Mack

Get over it Steve Mack

ridiculously cliched Englanders in a sporting occasion so rotten that it felt like watching a set of perpetual motion balls. In fact, it was like watching That Petrol Emotion. Get over it Steve Mack! Oddly enough there were loads English talking about work to each other. It’s facking Saturday people. Baines suggested we drink pints of McArdles with Guinness heads and that helped us on our way. A drink so cheap we ended up skint but with change to spare. People looked at me uncomfortably as I was wearing a Front 242 t-shirt. I suppose due to the amount of Engilanders around, they may have thought that some of Cheltenham’s favourite sons had gone on holidays. They seemed to relax when they heard me use expression such as “Ananyway,” “Oh be the hokey,” “it wasn”t abuse, it was just confession,” “ara dry-up ya big commie” and the age-old Irish slang expression “that’s me fifth dole cheque this week.”

So Baines and myself put the world to right, by laughing at the Engalanders with their sense of entitlement (so you have that here too do you, peasant?) and silly wax jackets. We figured out that no end of rum will end a man; that Baines’s child has no soul; that filter lanes don’t reduce the amount of carbon monoxide in the atmosphere; Sheena Easton was really a total slag; Glic and Jor are only made up Eastern European cities; the devil IS in the details; Stephen Mangan and Sharon Horgan’s new show isn’t hilarious but IS comforting; Ryan Tubridy is the TV creature from Aphex Twin’s “Come to Daddy” video; Happy Feet was shit and oddly depressing; Santa Claus is German therefore very well organised, well done Santa; Satan can never be forgiven; Natural Law is a key term in the Irish Constitution (Good Fuck) and the Littlest Hobo is dead. Awwww.

In fact, here’s the opening to the show. All very cute until the “right to bear arms” right-wing agenda kicks in. Back to the compound dog!

So we got to the gig and downed drinks. The factory of Buttons is a much more lush place than the cold pretentious TBMC usedta be. Baines bought a t-shirt which he would never see again and ambling up to the front, I caught sight of Danny Glover. I felt chilling pains in my bones immediately and worried for my safety. I was expecting to scratch my chin alot going “alors, alors” but hadn’t realised the crowd were going to go so nuts for the band. I participated gleefully in the mayhem and it was pleasing to know that very few people on the island knew that such a strange event was going on in the capital. A band who have been on the go since 1981 were rcoking out, and if I could’ve questioned a thousand peops in Dubalin, no-one would have known who these four strange guys were. Yet the coupla hundered loons at the gig loved every minute.


Not a Dry Ice in the house

Not a Dry Ice in the house

The night was organised by those crazy ghouls Tower Promotions who have been on the go for as long as this monkey has had a drug habit/mortgage. They had residency in my ol haunt the Thirteenth Floor and excel at bringing deranged music to Irlandia. Major coup this one, so Kudos Dudos!

Watching Front 242 playing synths kinda reminded me of Stretch’s family who I am told were all sitting round their living room recently, each with laptop on eh…lap, kinda like Kraftwerk do MFI or Dave Gahan’s life now. Scary. Emailing each other to change the channel etc. Still, that’s how most peace processes start, right?

Dancing with men, that’s real;y what it is, dancing with men, unashamedly. If you were asked would you like to dance with men, you’d say NO, but hey fucking presto, there you fucking are, dancing with men. Who woulda thunk it? Anyway, in the middle of the melee I shouted for “Quite Unusual” to be played and just like that they played it. Many revellers slapped me on the back and commended me for my amazing insight. However, due to the synth element of the gig, I suspect the guy just pushed the button marked “Quite Unusual.”

Here’s some footage from the gig. You can just about see me scuttling between legs losing all my shit, spectacles, souvenir t-shirt, house keys. Still it was worth it. My partner-in-crime seems to think I was at some kind of Neo-nazi rally, however I explained to her that men, while singing along with the band, like to show they are making a point about evry line of the chorus. You will see what I mean.

and then some guy loitering at the back pressed record.

On the way home, me and Baines held up a train while we used a vending machine. I balanced with one foot at the door and my hand in the vending machine. The fat controller was angry at us and shouted,

“The train is about to leave”

“But I need crisps, I have no salt left in me body” I intimated.

“Get on the train!”

“Yo, itsa Get on the Bus man” souled up Baines.







Anyway we ended up in Drogheda somehow and felt the need for more drink. We breezed into the nearest hostelry. Aww shit, it was midnight and this place was playing “American Pie” and gruesome men and women were paring off for romance or statutory rape, couldn’t tell which. We sat in the middle of this genetic cocktail and prayed they wouldn’t smell us.

Anyway, I’m tired now and have run out of Hobgoblin. Many a witch has uttered the same words.

Get to the Front 242

When bono goes bald

When bono goes bald

In ten days time, I will be standing in a club in ol Dubalin watching Belgian men create havoc with my mind. Not those men you read about in the papers, but Front 242, one of the most influential industrial-electro groups mid-Europa has to offer. They got together in 1981 and released album after album of odd deconstructed industrial sounds, then full-on electronic mayhem over which these very strange voices provide a kinda melody and a weird urgency. I know the place will be packed, but their fans aren’t generally seen in polite society. Where do they hide? Is there one beside you now? They try to look like you.

Stretch got into industrial type stuff as a teenager after listening to Nine Inch Nails’ first few albums, Pretty Hate Machine, Broken and the remix of that album Fixed. While listening to Fixed especially, I realised that listening to this music would be a solitary pastime.  I bought albums by Front Line Assembly, Pigface, Foetus, Ministry, RevCo, Lard and Lab Report. Addicted to strange sounds, I sought out Skinny Puppy, Cubanate and basically bought the entire rack from the old Comet Records shop in Temple Bar. Ogre and En Esch were my heroes then. Still, nobody I knew was listening to this stuff, so in my head I was surrounded by this music and living life with a nihilistic outlook. I may as well have been smoking gitanes, reading Kant, shredding my knuckles with cheesegraters while shooting up.

The first album of Front 242 I bought was Mutage:Mixage in 1995 and it included remixes of their songs by The Orb, Underworld and the Prodigy, but the album was ordered by the band and involved some of their own remixes. I fucking loved it. Freaky, beautiful, cold, layered, dancy. It had everything, so I bought up as much of the group’s output as I could. Each album was completely different and well mad.

I used to go to the 13th Floor club in O’Connell Street which doesn’t exist anymore. The DJs would play great industrial and trance music in an intimate setting. Great club. Three floors: first floor was bang-bang skanger fest, the second floor was a Salsa club and the top was the 13th Floor (I know). So, you could be standing at the urinals with a seven-foot punk, a man with a puke-stained tracksuit and a fucking Mariachi. I was usually taking acid while there so the fun I had, I tell ya!  The cops would raid the place occasionally, not for drugs, but to make sure the various groups stayed on their floors…not for the faint hearted.

Anyway, Front 242 (you gotta love them) are playing at the Button Factory on Saturday 28th. Bring some Nachos, just in case.