***cyberspace race***
the cyberspace and reds mixtape album (not to be confused with computers and blues) is coming together. engorged with guest vibes from the likelihood of Trim, Loudmouth, Wretch and hopefully Kano aswell as at least that again twice over of barzmen that have influenced and inspired me over the course of my 10 years in the game. some HOT POTATO shit. I will be posting the ZIPPETY ZIP as soon as the mousework and knob twiddling has terminated. it’s a grimey race against the timer
i was also thinking seeing as we crowd sourced the cover artwork (thanks again to @lukeferrar), maybe we should crowd source some barz. so I’ll post up a beat on bln.kr tommorow and then if anyone thinks they’re any good at rapping they should spit on it and post it back up there. if any of them are overly boom we’ll put them on the the final work of darts. mix it up like gumbo
and if you want to pre-order Computers and Blues it can be done here
waiting for christmas
Online shopping is the devils work.
I could have just gone to the shops. The actual physical shops, in my actual physical car. Driven down the real street, fought vigorously with a couple of grannies for the latest hype toy. Gone home victorious but battle scarred. I could have.
Instead i chose to buy shit online.
After going through a 20 stage process i gather all my gifts into a metaphysical basket. Then I need to register, putting in loads of personal details and yet another fucking password for me to forget. Having finally got through that we get with only a couple of crashes I get to the page where we put in our delivery address. This should be easy but for some god forsaken reason the fucking bastard automatic address finder absolutely point blank refuses to acknowledge that my address exists. Having suffered the anguish of the thought that perhaps they are right and i don’t exist in anyone elses head but my own i give in. I have to admit that i am wrong and the address that is on my front door and all the fucking bills that have no problem in finding me, no iwantnoneofthose is fucking right and i have to accept that my address is actually on a completely different road. I can only pray that the local postie will use the same diligence in finding me as he does when he comes armed with four bills in stark crimson. Of course none of this fucking matters half the time because the fucking website insists on sending my shit to the credit card address anyway so that the accountant ends up with a bumper load of anusol.
Nearly there.
Nearly there.
One more step before processing.
Verified by visa.
It’s like Satan waiting at the gates of hell.
I fucking hate verified by visa. No matter what i put in it denies my password is correct. I’m sitting there thinking what the bastard 2nd, 4th and 7th symbol is and i can’t work it out. I’m sure i’ve got it right, but no it seems they know how to spell my mothers maiden name better than me. Fuck it i’ll reset it
I don’t know why i bothered. What was the fucking point in any of this because apparently somewhere in the small printt of the the box you have to tick in order to absolutely GUARANFUCKINGTEEE that the parcels will arrive in the next couple of days there’s a clause i missed. Somewhere hidden deep in the small print like the watch in punchys bum in pulp fiction, deep deep down inside there is a clause that says the guarantee is not fucking valid should some snow appear on the horizon or indeed there be any climactic change whatsoever. if there is, it means the parcel could arrive at any point within the next four weeks. Brilliant, Christmas is off till Parcelforce decide the sun has got it’s hat on.
Of course in the end a lonely and disgruntled parcel guy armed with an etch a sketch and scalpel to cut his own wrists when it’s all too much arrives at your drive. At least the fucking parcel tracker says he has, but somehow by some fucking miracle which can only prove the existence of god, by some absolute freak of nature, the fucking parcel tracker bitch of a website claims that he tried to deliver but somehow on this one occasion you were not in. I HAVEN”T LEFT THE HOUSE. This cannot be!!! The mother fucker. Did he ring the bell? Did he knock? or did he just drive by and deduce it was too fucking cold to get out of his warm van ensconsed between dog eared copies of razzle and old ginster packs.
So now, because it was my fucking fault for somehow not knowing that the courier guy had metaphsyically presented himself at my closed door, because of this they have now carried away my precious gifts to their “delivery base” from whence i now have to travel forth and retrieve it. Fortunately this HQ is only open 5 hours every morning and is situated in such a shit hole of an industrial estate on what can only be deemed london as optimistically as Luton airport is, even my sat nav decalres this part of the world out of bounds. After having paid an extra £10 for the priviledge of not receiving my packages i must journey far and long to stand in a long queue of similarly disillusioned punters in order to be ignored for as long as possible by the sour faced man behind the counter.
After looking quizzically at my delivery card as though he has never ever seen such a thing in his entirely life he waddles off into the back for half an hour with my goods. Hooray Christmas is here!
Earnestly clutching my hard won Christmas presents to my chest i waddle precariously to the car happy in the thought that Santa has at last arrived.
Joy at last, good things come to those that wait, i rip open the tardy jiffy.
Hang on i didn’t fucking order this!!
***opening the cage***
today magic opens the cage. the cage is the storage space we rent that the touring machinery returns to once the tour is not touring. all the instruments, the audio hardware, the drum kits. all that shit that gets assembled and repaired and sweated on and thrown about by regional stage hands with less care for it than it’s owners. my cage has become a museum of my life. but only the one that has been on tour in the last decade. there’s a microwave in there, a selection of fancy dress outfits, about 5 boxes of the lesser selling tshirts (XXL/XS sized, unapealing designs), a fluffy snake, a selection of boomboxes, some prints of various historic portraits (hanz holbein, joshua reynolds, jacques louis david- that sort of thing) and the complete history of computerised multitrack audio playback going right back to the beginning of this millennia. not forgetting the XBOX, PS2 and rack of games in their blue promotional copy case. theres also a small motorbike (featured in the remix video for fit but you know it). the case of tequila flavored beer has been backlined by a tech
we begin rehearsals on the 10th january at a secret underground bunker in hemel hempstead. i will be at the first rehearsal bright as a button but then once the joy of reaquaintance with old collegues subsides and on the realisation that rehearsals are a tedious, noisy, dank, repetitive way to spend a cold january i will gradually move through chronic tardiness into complete absence. magic is going to be experimenting with a live looping machine called an octatrack which will make exciting stretchy noises and loud explosions. this will sound amazing in a noisy rave but not as nice for 8 straight hours on a tuesday daytime.
today i experiment with timelapse photography in the view to setting it to my UK garage mix of the spark tune i talked about last year. hopefully youstube will be blessed with it’s experimentation on the morrow
***in the steam room***
