Tuesday, 25 November 2014

Ivan Smagghe * Sunray Sunset 'Unmixed Tape'.

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A man who could not marry off his ugly daughter visited his priest for advice. "My heart is heavy," he told the priest, "Because God has given me an ugly daughter." 
"How ugly?" the Padre asked.
"If she were lying on a plate with a herring, you wouldn't be able to tell the difference."
The priest thought for a long time and finally asked, "What type of herring?"
The man taken aback by the query, thought quickly and said, "Er,- a Bismark."
"Too bad," the priest said. "If it was a Maatjes, she'd have a better chance. 

Here is a tale that illustrates the tragedy of transient qualities such as beauty. Does a girl actually resemble a herring? Why not? Have you seen some of the things walking about these days, particularly on the coastal areas? And even if she does, are not all creatures beautiful in Gods eyes? Perhaps, but if a girl looks more at home in a jar of wine sauce than in an evening gown she's got big problems. Oddly enough, the wife of the priest from the tale was said to resemble a squid, but this was only in the face, and she more than made up for it by her hacking cough - the point of which escapes me.

Anyhow, all that apart, here's a mix from TOLAS favourite Ivan Smagghe. Earlier this month saw Ivan donning the sandals and balearic vest for the launch of 'Sunray Cider' with a pair of gigs in the exotic locals of Jakarta and Bali. Luckily, thanks to a heads up from our good friend Mo Morris (Zsou/Mountain Of One) we were able to get our grubby paws on this rare as hens teeth 'Unmixed Mix' that Ivan put together specially for the occasion. As you can imagine, its chock full of some of the most gorgeously weird, un-Shazamable nuggets you'll ever be lucky enough to hear. Waste no time and jam this into your head.

Cheers again to Mo and the good people at Sunray for chucking this our way.

Big love.
Mark. X

Saturday, 22 November 2014

WARNING!! Right speed not guaranteed. New Needle Exchange Mix.

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Reet then! It's back. The eighth installment of the frequently infrequent 'Needle Exchange' series of mixes. I try and knock one of these out every 8 - 10 months now with the same M.O. as always. Ruff and ready. All done live in one take, complete with crackles, jumps and the usual faux pas on a pair of 1200's, but now with this attempt, we've shot ourselves into the future and added some Traktor Vinyl action.
As ever, this one was cobbled together earlier this week in the sunny northern climbs up at Love And Smoking towers with the usual lack of care and attention you will have come to expect if you've heard any of the previous entries.
Enjoy, or don't. It's entirely your own choice.
Big love.

Tuesday, 18 November 2014

Craig Richards @ The Love Inn (18/09/2014).

Just shy of 5 hours worth of music from the gentleman DJ, Craig Richards. Playing alongside residents with Dave Harvey and Christophe at Bristols 'The Love Inn', its just as good as it sounds!

Wednesday, 12 November 2014

The 6 Mix with Weatherall and Fearless.

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Originally broadcast on BBC 6Music back in November 2011, a brilliant '6 Mix' special we thought we'd give a re-up to, where Richard Fearless droped by Weatherall's show to play some records which influenced the 'Trans Love Energies' album and have a chat. 

From the Beeb: 

“Iconic DJ Andrew Weatherall returns for the latest edition of his 6 Mix residency and brings along a special guest, Richard Fearless from Death In Vegas. 

One of Britain’s best loved DJs, Andrew has been busy touring the world with Primal Scream celebrating the twentieth anniversary of their seminal album Screamadelica. He has also been remixing the likes of Toddla T and Death In Vegas whose frontman, Richard Fearless, joins him on a two hour journey of sonic wonders. 

The band, which was formed in 1994 by Fearless and Steve Hellier, released their 5th studio album, Trans-Love Energies this year. In this programme Richard plays the music that has inspired him, past and present, from the dubby delights of King Tubby to Throbbing Gristle.”

Tuesday, 11 November 2014

Diary Of A Man At War With Himself.

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Hoorah! A new week has arrived. I awake at 5 a.m. to find that a flock of seven white doves of peace has flown in through the bedroom window and begun flying around the room in a kind of 'flight of harmony', casting a Disneylike sense of well-being about. Finally they roost on my bust of Caligula and in the dim 1/8th light I'm sure I saw one of them wink at me, in a sort of 'wink of peace'. I take this to be a sign of good fortune in the forthcoming year and fall back asleep.
I re-awake at 8 a.m. to find that the doves have flown off with my bust of Caligula. Obviously they have carried it off to their mountain eeire; a foreboding sense of dread now hangs over the home.

I rise and decide to design a new type of hat. The place of work I choose this morning is under the sink unit in my kitchen, a safe place if any. My designs are at first sketchy, looking more like a fat young man than hat, but by 6 p.m. my design is complete and ready to be sent to Kappa & Co. for approval. I hope they like it. I think it would suit a more formal gentleman like a King or Harrison Ford.

At 8 a.m. the sleepy antique-shop-filled seaside village of Newbiggin is woken by the kazoos and snare drums of Britain's criminals as they march down the main street beating out the melody of felony. What a sight this is, with the petty thieves and shoplifters bringing up the rear, through to the arsonists and fraudsters filling the mid-ranks, right up to the leading gangsters heading this march of villainy.
Amongst the crooks I spot my old University Lecturer, Ian 'Fingers' Foster'. So called because he regularly fingers not only the various foods in our local delicatessen but the serving ladies as well, and when accused of his behaviour he blasts his way out of the shop using a 75 mm Howitzer. Also present are some of Scotland's most famous baddies like '2 Biscuits' McDouglas, the Grocer of Kilmarnock, and 'Westy' Hancock, who once farted in front of the Duke of Westminster at point blank range.
As the underworld parade vanishes into a hotel for their annual villains' breakfast of fried eggs, I too vanish back home for my breakfast of boiled eggs.
I spend the rest of the day looking at my feet.

I have had some thoughts on the possibilities of opening new enterprises in the district, for example:

A) A combination asylum and pot-purri centre where the inmates create bags of pot-pourri to allow your cabinets to smell sweetly, it shall be called 'Scenti Mental'.

B) A series of old peoples homes. I've gone as far as deciding on one of the following names:

1) Yesterday's People
2) Forgotten Faces
3) Time's Up
4) Conclusions.

Also, feature within the homes would be a dating agency for old people called 'Expiry Dates.

C) Failing to secure the neccessary certifcation for the OAP's home, my back up plan is to open a string of health farms called either:

1) Bye Bye Bulk
2) Fit And Farty

I have also sent off a number of ideas to the government in a bid to aid world peace. These products are presented in advertisement form to aid the politicians to understand them and realise their true potential for global and universal harmony.

I awake to find thousand upon thousand of tiny hairlike baby snakes on my head, but on closer investigation find that it's mearly my own rapidly depleting hair, which disappoints me tremendously, although the thought of charming the baby snakes into exciting new hairstyles with a flute thrills me 'nuff! Never mind, I have recently discovered a new snake in my trousers which seems to react to kindness as well as threats!

I realised mid-morning that my bones had emerged through my finger tips. The doctor tells me this is quite normal and I should in future refer to them as 'fingernails'.

At dawn I ring the police and tell them that I have shot the rebellious Nashville singer Waylon Jennings and his undisturbed corpse is lying cold and motionless beneath the pear tree with robins circling overhead.
Twelve hours later the police strolled up to my door and asked to see the body. I led them through the house and down the garden past the ornament to the pear tree. JESUS CHRIST OF BETHLEHEM!! The carcass had gone. I explained that the robins must have devoured him and suggested they keep their eye's open for a flock of robins with more red on their chests than usual.
They left silently and I cooked some of my secret recipe Wild West Pork.

Flies swarm round the pork in my attic, so I get rid of it. all 160 lbs of it, in a ditch near B & Q.

Wednesday, 5 November 2014

Food: The terrible truth.

Eating is a necessity. Invented in 1982 by Masterchef’s creators, it is as much of a necessity as breathing and owning the internet. Without any of these, you die. That’s what it says in the bible. I’ve not read the bible, but it says it in that.
Water. That’s the other one. Luckily, water’s in a lot of stuff, so you can drink that instead. I want to talk about something that terrifies me. Eating out. Not out of a lady’s chuckle-hole, but I mean out with friends, or family. I don’t like it, i’ve never liked it. Here I try to explain why without sounding like a massive pebble.
Firstly, I am something of a solitary eater. I always have been. I like my own space. By space, I mean like being in space, with nobody around. In space, nobody can hear me eat, and that’s the way I like it.
My nightmare begins with the suggestion. An example:
“Phyllis. (My nickname) We are all having some sort of a night out, it will include some drinking and merriment, and possibly some bonhomie, but at some point, we’re going to have to eat.”
Already, the sweat beads on my forehead, the lines curl into a frown, my brow furrows and burrows into my eyes. I shake, I shit myself, I sit down and curl my knees around my head, pounding the floor and crying, until my knuckles bleed. When I’ve calmed down, I notice everybody’s gone anyway. Then I wander into traffic, while a piano plays somber music to accompany my shivering, red-eyed frame.
Eating out is one of the things I fear the most. The other things are being in a position of speaking to a group of people, and the birth of my first baby. Oh yes, they say, this is a miraculous thing, an incredible thing, the birth of your first child. I’d just be in there watching the head emerge thinking this:
“SHIT! This is horrible, it looks like the bit out of ALIEN 3 with the dogburster. Imagine that, ALIEN 3 with babies instead of bald prisoners, that would be horrible.” Then i’d start crying, shouting, and vomiting all at once. I would be dragged off, sedated and miss the whole fucking thing. Life ruined.
Anyway, i don’t like restaurants for the main reason that I don’t like people being aware of me eating, or me being aware of them eating. Sitting there for an hour, and half, if you’re lucky, listening to the sounds of mastication, smacking, chewing, lips flapping up and down, mouths opening and closing, matter being ingested and dispersed, a host of human cows chewing cud, mooing words through their sodding maws, and behind each one, a slimy lump of matter being turned over by moist tongues. Disgusting. I hate the whole sound of it all, and become aware of my own mouth, opening and closing like a fucking fish gob, plates clattering with cutlery, trapped in this consumer nightmare.
Nobody else thinks about it. They chatter happily, while I shuffle nervously in my seat, wedged into a corner, unable to leave. I think I am going to go crazy, I imagine myself relieving the tension by sliding a hand into my jeans and pulling myself off, just to distract myself from this hell. I think what it would be like if I started kicking everybody under the table and screaming hysterically until people leap on me and hold me down to tape over my screaming mouth. I imagine hurling plates directly into the mouths of other diners, and sitting on a table crapping into the breadsticks, bellowing like a stuck pig and hurling fruit into the eyes of all and sundry.
I don’t do this. I just sit and hope for the pub.