The Best DJ You've (Probably) Never Heard Of #2: Solar.

It's been a while since we last did one of these (over a year in fact!) when we featured Vladimir Ivkovic as the first in our series of 'the best DJ you've probably never heard of' and as such we move along without any further fuss to the second mix from San Francisco's 'Solar' that we've featured recently.
Actually that should read 'The second BRILLIANT mix from San Francisco's, Solar we've featured recently'. Another absolute stormer from the lad who's rapidly becoming one of our favourite DJ's.
Though he's been DJing for two decades now, until recently you would have been forgiven for not knowing who Solar was if you lived outside of California. You can find him more recently playing through Europe and further afield. His streamline sets never less than an education, taking in the more adventurous areas of techno, drone, industrial, electro and house without ever sounding too obscure or reaching too left of centre. In short, its an absolute masterclass and we implore you to check him out at any opportunity you get. You have been warned!!

Check out Solar on Soundcloud.



Till next time.
Big love. Mark. X

Good Friday action with 'Seekmagic present On The Beach' with PHIL MISON!!

Eager to invoke some early Summer vibes, the chaps behind the Seekmagic have taken the direct route to the sunshine and are bringing the sun-kissed sounds of Balearic heavyweight, Phil Mison up to Tynemouths Surf Club next weekend!

To those of a balearic persuasion, Phil Mison will need little introduction. Once described as a 'goliath' of the scene, Phil has been DJing all over the globe for the last 25 years, a notable career starting with stints at Londons 'Milk Bar' back in the early 90's, including a two-year stint at non other than Ibiza's Cafe Del Mar, as well as producing his own sounds as Cantoma and with Pete Herbert as Reverso 68. A doggedly independent eclecticism, restless archaeological thirst for lost treasure and a keen desire to mine new music that suits the more broadminded genre surfing 'post modern Balearic' brief put him up there with a lonely few - those unafraid who are not scared to cross reference, off road and experiment with the crucial narrative that is at the core of any musical journey worth your attention.

Seek Magic are delighted to bring Phil to Surfcafe Tynemouth, an intimate oasis on the seafront at Longsands for a special Good Friday (April 3rd) bank holiday party. No advanced tickets, just £3 on the door but we suggest arriving early as capacity is limited.



Till next time.
Big love. Mark. X

It's house music, but not as you know it. * 'The Robot Scientists' mix.

Firm favourites here at TOLAS for a few years now, Stefan Maurer and Markus Schneider from Saarbrücken in Germany have been playing together since 2007 and are most probably better known under their Robot Scientists moniker. As the Robot Scientists, they have been carving out a very respectable niche for themselves on the disco scene for a reason. They are both very dedicated diggers and collectors and really have mastered their craft of recent. They've been running their own label called Emerald & Doreen, which has been operating for over three years now and is a must-check for everyone who has a healthy appetite for leftfieldish disco, future funk and tripped out balearica. They'll be reaching their one hundredth release this year and they have some very special things cooking up, so be sure to check it out.
For this, they delivered a mix that goes very well beyond the borders of disco and showcases some of their more housier sides. But of course without losing sight of their funk, techno & disco influences.

deathmetaldiscoclub on Soundcloud

The Robot Scientists on Soundcloud

Till next time.
Big love. Mark. X

'Witnesses to a Downfall': Hitler’s last days as described by his Hairstylist.

The seemingly inexhaustible spate of literature on the Third Reich continues unabated with the soon to be published Memoirs of Friedrich Schmeed. Schmeed, the best-known barber in wartime Germany, provided tonsorial services for Hitler and many highly placed government and military officials. As was noted during the Nuremberg Trials, Schmeed not only seemed to be always at the right place at the right time but possessed 'more than total recall,' and was thus uniquely qualified to write this incisive guide to innermost Nazi Germany. Following are a few brief excerpts: In the spring of 1940, a large Mercedes pulled up in front of my barbershop at 127 Koenigstrasse, and Hitler walked in. “I just want a light trim,” he said, “and don't take too much off the top.”

I explained to him there would be a brief wait because von Ribbentrop was ahead of him. Hitler said he was in a rush and asked Ribbentrop if he could be taken next, but Ribbentrop insisted it would look bad for the Foreign Office if he were passed over. Hitler there upon made a quick phone call, and Ribbentrop was immediately transferred to the Afrika Korps, and Hitler got his haircut. This sort of rivalry went on all the time. Once, Goring had Heydrich detained by the police on false pretences, so that he could get the chair by the window. Goring was a dissolute and often wanted to sit on the hobbyhorse to get his haircuts. The Nazi high command was embarrassed by this but could do nothing. One day Hess challenged him. “I want the hobbyhorse today, Herr Field Marshal,” he said. "Impossible. I have it reserved!" Goring shot back. "I have orders directly from the Fuhrer. They state that I am to be allowed to sit on the horse for my haircut." And Hess produced a letter from Hitler to that effect. Goring was livid. He never forgave Hess, and said that in the future he would have his wife cut his hair at home with a bowl. Hitler laughed when he heard this, but Goring was serious and would have carried it out had not the Minister of Arms turned down his requisition for some trimming shears. I have been asked if I was aware of the moral implications of what I was doing. As I told the tribunal at Nuremberg, I did not know that Hitler was a Nazi. The truth was that for years I thought he worked for the Austrian phone company. When I finally did find out what a monster he was, it was too late to do anything, as I had made a down payment on a new kitchen and some office furniture. Once, toward the end of the war, I did contemplate loosening the Fuhrer's neck-napkin and allowing some tiny hairs to get down his back, but at the last minute my nerve failed me.
At Berchtesgaden one day, Hitler turned to me and said, “How would I look in sideburns?” Speer laughed, and Hitler became affronted. "I'm quite serious, Herr Speer," he said. "I think I might look good in sideburns." Goring, that obsequious clown, concurred instantly, saying, "The Fuhrer in sideburns—what an excellent idea!" Speer still disagreed. He was, in fact, the only one with enough integrity to tell the Fuhrer when he needed a haircut. "Too flashy," Speer said. "Sideburns are the kind of thing I'd associate with Churchill." Hitler became incensed. Was Churchill contemplating sideburns, he wanted to know, and if so, how many and when? Himmler, supposedly in charge of Intelligence, was summoned immediately. Goring was annoyed by Speer's attitude and whispered to him,"Why are you making waves, eh? If he wants sideburns, let him have sideburns." Speer, usually tactful to a fault, called Goring "a hypocrite and an order of bean curd in a German uniform." (Goring swore he would get even, and it was rumoured later that he had special S.S. guards toss Speer's bed.) Himmler arrived in a frenzy. He had been in the midst of a tap-dancing lesson when the phone rang, summoning him to Berchtesgaden. He was afraid it was about a misplaced car load of several thousand cone-shaped party hats that had been promised to Herr Rommel for his winter offensive. (Himmler was not accustomed to being invited to dinner at Berchtesgaden, because his eyesight was poor and Hitler could not bear to watch him bring the fork up to his face and then stick the food somewhere on his cheek.) Himmler knew something was wrong, because Hitler was calling him 'Shorty,' which he only did when annoyed. Suddenly the Fuhrer turned on him, shouting, "Is Churchill going to grow sideburns?" Himmler turned red. "Well?" Himmler said there had been word that Churchill contemplated sideburns but it was all unofficial. As to size and number, he explained, there would probably be two, of a medium length, but no one wanted to say before they could be sure. Hitler screamed and banged his fist on the table. (This was a triumph for Goring over Speer.) Hitler pulled out a map and showed us how he meant to cut off England's supply of hot towels for shaving. By blockading the Dardanelles, Doenitz could keep the towels from being brought ashore and laid across anxiously awaiting British faces. But the basic question remained: Could Hitler beat Churchill to sideburns? Himmler said Churchill had a head start and that it might be impossible to catch him. Goring, that vacuous optimist, said the Fuhrer could probably grow sideburns quicker, particularly if we marshalled all of Germany's might in a concentrated effort. Von Rundstedt, at a meeting of the General Staff, said it was a mistake to try to grow sideburns on two fronts at once and advised that it would be wiser to concentrate all efforts on one good sideburn. Hitler said he could do it on both cheeks simultaneously. Rommel agreed with von Rundstedt. "They will never come out even, Mein Fuhrer." he said. "Not if you rush them." Hitler became enraged and said that it was a matter for him and his barber. Speer promised he could triple our output of shaving cream by the Autumn, and Hitler was euphoric.

Then, in the winter of 1942, the Russians launched a counter-offensive and the sideburns came to a halt. Hitler grew despondent, fearing that soon Churchill would look wonderful while he still remained "ordinary," but shortly thereafter we received news that Churchill had abandoned the idea of sideburns as too costly. Once again the Fuhrer had been proved right. After the Allied invasion, Hitler developed dry, unruly hair. This was due in part to the Allies' success and in part to the advice of Goebbels, who told him to wash it every day. When General Guderian heard this, he immediately returned home from the Russian front and told the Fuhrer he must shampoo his hair no more than three times weekly. This was the procedure followed with great success by the General Staff in two previous wars. Hitler once again over ruled his generals and continued washing daily. Bormann helped Hitler with the rinsing and always seemed to be there with a comb. Eventually, Hitler became dependent on Bormann, and before he looked in a mirror he would always have Bormann look in it first. As the Allied armies pushed east, Hitler's hair grew worse. Dry and unkempt, he often raged for hours about how he would get a nice haircut and a shave when Germany won the war, and maybe even a shine. I realize now he never had any intention of doing those things. One day, Hess took the Fuhrer's bottle of Vitalis and set out in a plane for England. The German high command was furious. They felt Hess planned to give it to the Allies in return for amnesty for himself. Hitler was particularly enraged when he heard the news, as he had just stepped out of the shower and was about to do his hair. (Hess later explained at Nuremberg that his plan was to give Churchill a scalp treatment in an effort to end the war. He had got as far as bending Churchill over a basin when he was apprehended.) Late in 1944, Goring grew a moustache, causing talk that he was soon to replace Hitler. Hitler was furious and accused Goring of disloyalty. "There must be only one mustache among the leaders of the Reich, and it shall be mine!” he cried. Goring argued that two moustaches might give the German people a greater sense of hope about the war, which was going poorly, but Hitler thought not. Then, in January of 1945, a plot by several generals to shave Hitler‟s moustache in his sleep and proclaim Doenitz the new leader failed when von Stauffenberg, in the darkness of Hitler‟s bedroom, shaved off one of the Fuhrer's eyebrows instead. A state of emergency was proclaimed, and suddenly Goebbels appeared at my shop. "An attempt was just made on the Fuhrer's moustache; but it was unsuccessful," he said, trembling. Goebbels arranged for me to go on radio and address the German people, which I did, with a minimum of notes. "The Fuhrer is all right," I assured them. "He still has his moustache. Repeat. The Fuhrer still has his moustache. A plot to shave it has failed."
Near the end, I came to Hitler's bunker. The Allied armies were closing in on Berlin, and Hitler felt that if the Russians got there first he would need a full haircut but if the Americans did he could get by with a light trim. Everyone quarrelled. In the midst of all this, Bormann wanted a shave, and I promised him I would get to work on some blueprints. Hitler grew morose and remote. He talked of parting his hair from ear to ear and then claimed that the development of the electric razor would turn the war for Germany. "We will be able to shave in seconds, eh, Schmeed?" he muttered. He mentioned other wild schemes and said that someday he would have his hair not just cut but shaped. Obsessed as usual by sheer size, he vowed he would eventually have a huge pompadour — "one that will make the world tremble and will require an honor guard to comb." Finally, we shook hands and I gave him a last trim. He tipped me one pfennig. "I wish it could be more," he said, "but ever since the Allies have overrun Europe I've been a little short."

Till next time.
Big love. Mark. X

Diary of a man at war with himself + Sacha Mambo mix.

Seeing as we've been off-line for a while now, we thought it was the least we could do to explain our absence here are some excerpts from our daily journal that should clear up any questions you have,,,,

16/01/15:
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 Disney-like 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.

19/01/15:
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 Pappa & Co. for approval. I hope they like it. I think it would suit a more formal gentleman like a king or Harrison Ford.

23/01/15:
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 Freddie 'Fingers' Ferris, 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 Scotlands most famous baddies like '2 Biscuits' McDouglas, the Grocer of Kilmarnock, and 'Westy' Hancock, who once farted in front of the Duke of Westminster.
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.

29/01/15:
I have had some thoughts on the possibilities of opening new enterprises in the district, for example (i.e)

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:
1) Yesterday's People
2) Forgotten Faces
3) Time's Up
4) Conclusions.
A feature within the homes would be a dating agency for old people called 'Expiry Dates.

C) Health Farms:
1) Bye Bye Bulk
2) Fit And Farty

I have 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.

05/02/15:
I awake to find thousand upon thousand of tiny hairlike baby snakes on my head, but on closer investigation find that it's merely 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 and, equally, threats!

11/02/15:
I realized 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'.

15/02/15:
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.

017/02/15:
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.

Now then, I'll be as honest as I can be (not very) and admit that I know very little about Sacha Mambo, the man behind this weeks featured mix. In fact I actually poached from the always brilliant Noise In My Head website after having spending much of last week hunting about for more of his work.
You may recognise his name from the excellent Ivan Smagghe mix we recently posted where Mambo shares warm-up/cool-down duties with Zlatan at Le Sucre in Lyon. We've got a few other bits from these cats to drip feed over the coming weeks so we'll keep it mercifully brief here today and let the music do the talking.
Dig in. Its TRES bon!!

Till next time.
Big love. Mark. X

Shan Sportswear and Shoegaze: A guide.

A History Of Ugly Sportswear.

Troop:
At the end of the 80s Troop sportswear appeared on the backs and feet of the second generation of first American then British hip-hop artists in a 'Patrick Bateman-like' statement of wealth that went hand in hand with huge gold chains and cars with dead massive exhaust pipes. The XR3i of sportswear, Troop trainers were covered in all sorts of unnecessary accruements, eg, a see-through plastic bit in the sole, a stupid logo on the heel, and of course, a tongue so huge it could sleep a family of four in relative comfort.

British Knights:
A favorite with the early rave crowd, British Knights begged one question: What was a British Knight? Was it some ancient order of Arthurian warriors bent on defending the glory of Albion? Was it a secret Masonic organization? Or was it just a shite American sportswear company who made boots so obviously rubbish, that only people who'd spent the 80s wearing Gallini and Bukta on the mean streets of Blyth or Darlington would ever consider them remotely stylish! Hmmmm.

Admiral:
Admiral are the Mary Celeste of sportswear, disappearing for years on end (thankfully) before re-emerging from the ether with another batch of shit, unwearable gear, usually made of shiny fucking polyester. Their most memorable reincarnation took place in the mid 90s when the tache-sporting 'Happy Mondays' were brought in by their advertising company in order to convince us that Admiral were in fact 'old skool', as opposed to the makers of the worst England Football kit of all time.

Prada Sport Trainers:
There is a wise maxim that goes:

"Thou shalt not, under any circumstances wear sports shoes made by anyone other than a sportswear manufacturer."

Prada Sport proves this. The makers of this shoe got one thing wrong about the product: a trainer must be designed - at least on the surface - for some sort of sporting activity, even if we all know they're only going to be used for hanging around outside an off license.

Prada trainers contravene all trainer law. They are not for anything, except drinking in identikit central Newcastle bars talking about sepia-coloured fashion spreads in shite Sunday newspapers. The fact that they look like a pair of geriatric slippers that Buck Rogers would wear when he got old only rubber-stamps their god-awfulness.

LA Gear:
LA Gear trainers were bought by people who thought that 'authentic' street wear had to have some sort of link to America. The fact that their LA Gear shoes had suspiciously thin soles, sparkly laces and a range of colours thought up by Zippy off Rainbow didn't seem to put off the large numbers of clueless posh tossers and teenagers who bought these monstrosities in order to get 'hip to the beat'.

Rugby League Tops:
Up until 1990 rugby league manufacturers churned out the same kit designs year after year - simple, unfussy, middle-class garments that while not exactly threatening 'Chanel' or 'Armani,' had a simplicity that reflected the tiresome nature of this incomprehensible game. However, with the advent of the Murdoch money and the Super League, the teams decided to inject some much needed glamour into their sport by adding ludicrous American-style suffixes to their names. Suddenly Wigan became the Warriors, Newcastle, the Falcons and Huddersfield, yes, that Huddersfield, the Giants! Shirts-wise, out went the simple lines of old and in came crazy splashes of colour, three-quarter length sleeves and big sponsors' logos. Luckily, the fans kept a link with the past by continuing to wear half-mast Lee Cooper jeans and Hi-Tec Silver Shadow trainers.

Travel Fox:
Kylie Minogue wore them, Shaun Ryder wore them, even Tony 'I used to present the weather on Granda Reports' Wilson had a pair. Yes, they were Travel Fox, the glamour training shoe that said, "I am a pop star and I live in a hermetically sealed bubble of bad taste and too much money, please feel free to laugh at me openly in the street!" Most things the Italians design are low key tasteful affairs, yet Travel Fox, however, unfortunately appealed to the other side of Europe's most stylish nation - the part that likes ugly fuck-off gold jewelry, Buffalo platform shoes, sleeveless t-shirts and trance music.

Acupuncture:
If 'Ultravox' were around today they'd wear Acupuncture trainers. Think about it: Acupuncture shoes have space age bendy rubber soles, a preoccupation with the colour grey and a clumsy 'A' logo that sits atop the ridiculous Velcro fastening they use. Appealing mainly to post-university Jesmond types who take their fashion cues from magazines full of pictures of skinny models wearing sriped tank tops. Acupuncture are for people who decide to re-invent themselves as tag writing 'graf' artists after spending their first 18 years 'fagging' for prefects at public school.

Here endeth the lesson.



OK. Now some things that are truely close to my heart. Namely blisteringly loud guitars. Dreamy gossamer, half heard songs of love. Distortion. Lots of distortion. And reverb. And phase. And flange. And delay. Basically, anything involving effects —by effects pedals, guitar re-wiring, amplifier manipulation, or studio experimentation— so all consuming that individual instruments blend into giant, glowing clouds of thick, foggy tonality. Like alt-rock smothered in fog, or ambiance rife with tension.

The term 'Shoegaze' was said to have been first coined by Andy Ross who ran 'Food Records' in the late 80's and early 90's when he described the band 'Moose' and dismissed the band "a bunch of shoegazers" in an interview. Doc Martin and salad enthusiast Steve Lamac picked up on this and soon after used it in an NME article and the rest as they say, is history. Initially a negative description, it was soon turned around into a more positive ideal and quickly, the pejorative 'Shoegazing' was embraced, and, through use, it was shortened to the two-syllable 'Shoegaze'. So now you know!
There was never any easy dictionary definition of what 'Shoegaze' actually is. There is no way of pinning it down as there are so many strands, electronica, indie, heavy rock can all said to share some of the base aesthetics of shoegaze, the obvious link is that they share a grander more ambitious make up. No angular, post-punk posturing, this is all big, curvaceous music in the grandest tradition!
The genre's founding forefathers were, in all likelihood, two bands who were not true shoegazers themselves. When Velvet Underground-influenced Scottish outfit the Jesus and Mary Chain released their legendary debut, Psychocandy, in 1985, they gave the world rock’n’roll songs swathed in reverb and distortion. Spacemen 3, a gospel-tinged garage-rock band founded on excessive drug-use, released their The Perfect Prescription set in 1987, furthering the cause of walls of sound built from guitar noise.
The other spiritual forebearer of the genre was the 4AD-centred ‘dream-pop’ scene (personified by bands like the Cocteau Twins and This Mortal Coil). Shoegazers took the detached, ambient, effects-draped, cooing-vocal style of dream-poppers and amped up the volume.
Though the name really only refers to it's initial, self-contained era, the spirit of shoegaze is still summoned every few years when some young sonic scientists, usually at University, stumble across the sacred mathematical formula of 'effects pedals + melody {LOUD guitars} 9% audible vocals = Shoegaze'.
Kevin Shields of shoegaze pin-ups My Bloody Valentine, famously described his band as having a 'fluff on the needle' sound. And, sure enough, My Bloody Valentine used effects-pedals to build walls of opaque guitar sound, burying their songs under torrents of reverberated guitar noise. The effect was to make the noise the centre of it's musical universe, with vocals, bass, and drums all submerged under guitars nearly reduced to sine-waves.
Whilst you could get into pedantic, semantic discussions about the differences between dream-pop, space-rock, and shoegaze, there are very little misconceptions about shoegaze as a genre. True shoegaze bands are few, and they all hailed from pretty much the same time (1990) and place (Reading) and most of the bands, as well as the scene had died out, split up and called it a day by 1994.
Despite the tiny scale of the movement and the brevity of it the current ranks of shoegaze-influenced artists, (quite direly described in the press as 'nu-gaze') all appears to be alive and well in the modern world of the 'fluff on the needle' sound. Loop, Slowdive, Ride and My Bloody Valentine all reformed, the latteractually returning to the stage with new material in tow. Since they released Loveless in 1991, the Irish band have attained a legendary status — not least of all in Shields' inability to make a follow-up album — inspiring countless bands year in and year out.
The bands who drew from shoegaze are too numerous to mention, but some of the more notable staying-true-to-shoegaze acts like Seefeel, SchoolOf Seven Bells, Engineers, Bowery Electric, the Radio Dept, M83, Over the Atlantic, Asobi Seksu, Rumskib, and Sereena-Maneesh are all still making great music, the sale of 'Slowdive' t-shirts is at a 17 year high and peoples hair seems a lot messier than it's been for a while so I guess the whole thig is ticking along nicely thank you very much!

Till next time.
Big love. Mark. X

"MAAAAAM! WHERE YOU PUT MY CRUSHED VELVET PANTS AND MY GOOD CAPE?!"

It's every parent's nightmare. Their apparently well-adjusted child suddenly comes home with hair the colour of a coalface, a face whiter than anything made by Dulux, and announces, "Mummy, I'm a goth." However, according to a new study, parents of goths will probably end up boasting about their son/daughter the doctor, lawyer or bank manager.That is the surprising finding of Cockblock University's Dave Thumb, whose doctorate in 'Looking At People With Funny Hair And Eyeliner In London, Brighton And Leeds' has become the industry standard guidelines to all things Goth.
'Most youth subcultures encourage people to drop out of school and do illegal things,' he says. 'Most goths are well educated, however. They hardly ever drop out and are often the best pupils. The subculture encourages interest in classical education, especially the arts. I'd say goths are more likely to make careers in web design, computer programming, knitting and Wicca.
In addition to their studies, hours are spent by the Goth adopting the requisite air of mysterious gloom, reading the spines of Dostoevsky novels, and gazing forlornly at spots. (However, similar experiences can still be found among people in much more respectable professions.)
Goths are like masons I have also been told. 'They're everywhere!' But rather than blaming some sinister conspiracy, let us look at the reasons people become goths in the first place. According to Mordin Grindle, formerly of goth band 'Baroque Back Mounting' but now running a dentists surgery in Vauxhall, "I loved the bands, but it wasn't a pose - I felt authentically depressed. I was a teenager in Great Yarmouth, where I felt that people didn't like me. I drank cider and mulled wine and painted my nails a lot. I just couldn't understand why nobody liked me?' Amazing. He goes on to add that Goth is a non-violent subculture. 'Goths are more like hippies. I don't know any goths who are into graveyard destruction or cat slaughtering. They like their graveyards and they love their cats.' Nor do drugs seem to be much of a problem. 'Speed is a goth drug because the ideal is to be skinny,' says Grindle. 'But for most of us it was Blue Nun wine because Wayne Hussey drank it.'
So perhaps parents shouldn't be too worried that a new generation of goths is cropping up again. There's a goth couple on Hollyoaks and for some goths, enterprise is automatically thrust upon them especially if born within a 2 mile radius (as the bat flys) of Whitby and their biannual Gothic festival for there's untold riches to be made by selling 2nd hand Harry Potter books, broken hair crimpers, henna dye and cheap vampire related tat to other synchronised non-conformity practicing nobs dressed as Ray Reardon.

Is your boyfriend/girlfriend a goth? 10 tell-tale signs.

1. Drinks snakebite. Former or closet goths still display a lingering thirst for snakebite - half a pint of lager with half a pint of cider, sometimes with blackcurrant. Snakebite is the worst thing the goths ever did after their invasion of the Roman Empire in AD 268.

2. Penchant for eyeliner. It seems everybody's wearing eyeliner these days, but a goth's make-up is a smidgen more extreme: the skin is powdered white, and black eyeliner is used on eyes, brows, lips and sometimes - to draw cobwebs, probably - the skin. NB: goths do not use bronzer, rouge, or St Tropez self-tan.

3. Cape. Capes have been fashionable this winter, but don't let that confuse you. A goth wears a cape so long it grazes the floor. Looks a little incongruous over a business suit.

4. Went to Leeds university. Strangely, Leeds has a nigh-on magnetic attraction for goths, and there are more cape shops per capita in the city than anywhere else in Europe, Transylvania included.

5. Whistles Fields of the Nephilim/ Sisters of Mercy/ March Violets/ Subway to Sally songs. This is why no goth ever had a successful career as a milkman.

6. Strange hobbies. Many of your colleagues will spend the weekend at B&Q, drinking Lambrusco and playing five-a-side. Not goths. They read preposterous fantasy books, do a spot of Wicca and anything "a bit medieval".

7. Black clothing. Though both wore a lot of black, it is easy to differentiate between the goth and the 80s throwback by asking this simple question: can you imagine this outfit in a Robert Palmer video? The Goth's predilection for black clothing is a reflection of the Black Aesthetic - taking those things society regards as evil or wrong and making them beautiful. Many items in the longtime Goth's wardrobe may now have faded to a sort of charcoal shade.

8. Disturbing dancing at Christmas party. The goth sticks rigidly to the routine of two and a half steps to the front and back again, while gazing at the floor in an affected fashion and waving hands around mysteriously.

9. Disarmingly pointy boots. It is a little-known fact that inside their shoes, goths' feet are just as pointy as their winklepickers.

10. Drives a hearse to work. And doesn't work at a funeral parlour.

Till next time.
Big love. Mark X