Stretchcast Volume 4: More Skittish than Hashish

But other than that, we had a lovely day

Latest mixage

1: Battles – Africastle (Gloss Drop)
2. M83 – Midnight City (Hurry up, we’re dreaming)
3.Warpaint – Undertow (The Fool)
4. Grinderman – When my baby comes (Grinderman2)
5. Amon Tobin – Rosies (Out from out where)
6. Laurent Garnier – Gnanmankoudji (Tales Of A Kleptomaniac)
7. Shit Robot – Take em up (From the Cradle to the rave)
8. Two lone Swordsmen – Rattlesnake Daddy (Wrong Meeting)
9. Pavement – Perfect Depth (Westing by Musket and sextant)
10. The Fall – Paranoia Man in a cheat shit room (The Infotainment Scan)
11. NeuNegativland (Neu)

Downloadable it be (Click arrow on side of Soundcloud thingy)

Plink plink

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.

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.

Who turned the leccie on?


Oh NO, after a self-imposed exile of all events that are supposedly cool, Stretch here has had some kind of brain bubble develop in my inner ear, causing me to slam my head sideways off the keyboard, which accidentally triggered the evil t****tmaster, causing me to buy a ticket for the Electric Blanket festival in some godawful field in Laois at the beginning of September.

The one thing I love about festivals, is that within minutes of entering the campsite, some person with nothing better to do except moan, will tell you that last year’s jamboree was better. But we’ve only been here five minutes. Yeah, but those five minutes were a lot cooler and I’m telling you, a lot less corporate last year. Punnnnch.

Bonobo: Irlanda performance with attitude

As Ol’ Mama Stretch would say to me,

“Stretch mo ghrá, people who are bored are boring people. Now shag off, you’re irritating me and brush your teeth. You look like Shane McGowan.”

So anyway, I shall be heading to The Blanket with Dr Ballantine Baines and others to discover how many adults actually get nappy rash at these things.

Also, there do be some good reasons to attend:

1. The Fall. Always the Fall.

2. Bonobo’s first Irish appearance (bullshit, he’s DJ’d here before and besides what’s wrong with Irlanda cuz)

3. Laurent Garnier a la campagne! Formidable

4. The chance to hassle Steve Earle about Bubbles.

5. Steve Mason, Beta Man.

6. The chance to stand behind Frames fans and whisper, “You know you are slobbering over a paedophile?”

7. Also, I will stand in front of The National, point at Tom Berenger (or whatever) holding a poster of Peter Steele and scream, “J”ACCUSE!”

8. P.I.L. are there; Leftfield are there. What are the chances? What comes next?

9. and all the little bands who fill out these events making them a lot longer than they need to be.

10. Surrendering yourself to corporate consumerism under the guise of being a weekend hippie.

Coming back on the Monday, showering til Tuesday and swearing that it wasn’t as good as the last time. The chance to sleep in a tent is always exciting too, for the first night, then its straight to a hotel with power shower and spa treatment. Fuck me, it’s not about getting old. Comfort is NOT about getting old. Ha!

Je feel un moment Garnier comin’ on

Pour quand you feel the head starting to clear, pressez play, s’il vous plait!

Justice pour the leetle peoples

Maybe she’s born with it, maybe it’s Laurent Garnier!

Stretch ici maintenant pour les peops.

Laurent Garnier est un musician/DJ francaise. Ne confusez pas avec la companie Laboratoire Garnier qui fait,

Quoi!? eh!? Quoi? Stupide

Quoi!? eh!? Quoi? Stupide

“Maybe it’s Maybelline,”  qui me fait pukey pukey quand je l’ecoute. Ugghhh.

Anyway, there is something that draws me to Laurent Garnier’s musique. A Parisien techno DJ by trade and founder of the legendary Hacienda club, his albums tend to be radically different. From crowd-pleasing anthems to concept albums, from house to trance to techno he is constantly evolving and seems to be comfortable in his work. Garnier is releasing a new album, Tales of a Kleptomaniac next month and will be playing live and Djing in aul Dubalin on the Monday of Paddy’s weekend. No doubt someone wearing a green hat and malevolent face will be in my fucking way most of the night. What’s a gibbon to do? Maybe I should leave the country for the weekend. Anyway, I’m not completely sure if Laurent Garnier can make you prettier but he certainly will have you in toe-tapping ship-shape and despite the prescence of career clubbers, it should be a great night.

Clubbers are a strange breed though, have always thought that. Those who are on something tend to think everyone is in the world that their minds have created. Those who aren’t tend to look really sulky and flop about chill-out areas a lot. By using a combination of the two sets we can create a Venn diagram (of course this is based on a night when the music is so bland that you could even respect Paulo Nutini (as a person, don’t get carried away)):

Under controlled circumstances, the outcome is always the same.

Under controlled circumstances, the outcome is always the same.

Here’s some Laurent to banish the annoying wankers away.

now here’s another gem. Haha, enjoy!