The new order of New Order

Stretchcast Volume 2: Cheep cheep seated hatred/Snow means Snow

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)

No ChikChok! It is my turn to listen to the Stretch MacGibbon Stretchcast Number Deux

mani vs hookey

Say whatchafeel

ehhhhh...

Mani:

3 things visible from space, the Great Wall of China, Peter Hook’s wallet stuffed with Ian Curtis blood money, Man City’s empty trophy cabinet!

Used to adore the man, now he’s a self-centered sellout reduced to hawking his mates corpse around to get paid. And he can’t play

either personally or professionally. ever wondered why I’m universally loved, and another Manc ex-legend in his own mind is despised by most.”

we were all laughing behind his back watching the stupid wank struggle to do the same old shit he’s done for the last 30 years !!

Stretch say, No matter how much an asshole you can be in life, no one will ever call you a Peter Hook.

Before it all went wrong!

I got these quotes from Slicing Up Eyeballs, who got it from the Guardian, who got it from some bloke down the pub. Ned, I think his name is, he likes the horses and occasionally when tipsy, dancing to the Selecter. He luvs Pauline Black he does.

Wait there’s more:

It appears everything’s gonna be awwwwlllright

“I wish to apologise unreservedly to Peter Hook and his family regarding comments made on a social networking site which was totally out of character for me. It was a venomous, spiteful reaction to a lot of things that are going on in my life right now and I chose to vent my frustrations and anger at one of my true friends in this filthy business, and ventured into territory which was none of my concern. The Freebass thing has tipped me over the edge and became the focus of my bilious rants. Twenty two years of being tripped up, face down in the mud and being kicked in the face with an iron boot will do that to the most stable of men. I hope I haven’t blown a great friendship forever. Sorry Pete.

“In a funny way my outburst might make want people want to check the record out. I’m proud of what we achieved really. It’s not often bass players get to step out of the shadows and create something from scratch, and between us we’ve managed it. A bumpy ride but we got there… give it a listen.

“I hope I’m not turning into a bitter and twisted old rocker, that’s not what I’m about as anybody who knows the real me will be happy to confirm.”

Gary “Mani” Mounfield, September 2010

“Mani is a great friend of mine and he always will be! I have the upmost respect for him as a person and a musician! Have none of you lot ever fallen out with somebody you love? Hooky”

Peter Hook, September 2010


Oh, for fuck’s sake. Taxi to Dawson’s fucking Creek!

Ceremonial misgivings

After seeing a fatter version of this minus a Hook on Saturday, Stretch needed to see the streamlined version…

Up in smoke, that’s where I am………………..no more elipses

Being attacked by obvious insects preview no 2 the drag queens

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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.

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.

P.I.L.

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

Oillgemedaafteryanahewilllbatthurya

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)

Bonobo

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.

regrets I’ve had a few…too many

Okay, the A-Team looks demented. Truly demented.

Here’s the… elipses and here’s Stretch coming up on one truly shit anniversary, which is affecting my littul head mo much. It’s funny coz you’re driving along at night with Revolting Cocks smashing through your stereo, when BANG, you are back there again. A sunny morning, a view of the Dublin mountains and the surreal and shit nature of what followed. The apparent natural way of things. The pats on the back and the whispered words. Fuck that. The endless days that followed. Fuck that. Back to life, back to reality to quote… The types of things that drive a munki to the bottle and away from what he cannot help but want.

Bad munki, Mad munki.