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December it is. Xmas it will soon be. And fucking hungover we are all destined to find ourselves come December 18th. Oh, throttle my exit with the raggy end of a pineapple, yes! You see, there is something strange going down in the darkest portals of SilverGingerVille, and it looks like a keeper.

I have known, or suspected, for a long time now that I / SilverGinger 5 / The Wildhearts / stuff-that-I-do-type-thing have the best fans around. I know this is a popular concept with all musicians currently ploughing the crevices of their own arses, but I was convinced – nay sure, nay surely convinced – that in this instance it was true. And then it was proven. And that, my small but very eager and constantly gaining momentum, bunch of cohorts, is a damn good feeling. Beaten only by childbirth and / or truly amazing quality cocaine.

Not only have you, the fans, voted Black Leather Mojo top of the nme.com readers’ album chart, but you also took us to the top of the Music Event Of The Year poll on the same site, with a voting margin of 20 thousand between us and the number two slot. And just as this is settling in and making some kind of sense, they / you / the fantastic bunch that call themselves ‘listees’ (ie, members of The Wildhearts Mailing List) decide to rig the most ridiculous idea I have ever heard in all the years I have been drawn to ridiculous ideas: the Fly The Buggers Over campaign, or FTBO, which entails someone from a foreign country so far away that they narrowly avoid being extraterrestrial being flown to the next SilverGinger 5 show (this time at the London Astoria on December 17th), following a whip-round from the fans themselves to cover the cost of the flight. Yes, we all know a whip-round can help pay for someone’s make-up to be replaced if their bag gets stolen… but over £800?! This is madness, with a capital THIS IS MADNESS.

I have been floored by surprise at the sheer generosity of human spirit in the past, but never by generosity channelled purely to enable someone to see one of my gigs! And from bloody Australia! Twenty-four hours on a plane. Animals with pockets in their guts. Shit, that place is so far away it’s warm there. So, it’s official – SilverGinger 5 fans are the coolest fans in the world. Can you imagine someone disagreeing? Me neither!

I read, after the Scala show, that a lot of people were looking forward to December so that they could see the “second best gig of the year”. I read, recently, that the Scala was like a first date, but come December that crush will have turned into full blown love. And we’re talking messy love that you can smell for weeks after. To me, the Astoria has overshadowed the achievements of the first date already. There is now a common bond that, if it had existed previously, has never been put into practice. We all fucking like each other!!! Now, compare that with the current rock scene. (OK, compare it just for a second then forget about it – those miserable fuckers don’t deserve your thoughts.) We are creating something here. Something new. Something a thousand times more scary than another American cutting himself. This is an army!

That is why Melody Maker can only give the Scala show 3 out of 5, the middle score. Sitting right on that fence with their passports in their hands waiting and hoping it will reach them, rub off on them, that they will feel it, that their time will come to be happy. Yet never really expecting it. Preparing themselves for the inevitable fall. The inevitable fall? Well, if you will go shopping with pennies, you will come back with jumble. And they actually wrote in that review, on the subject of the audience “how many will maintain a vigil when nostalgia gives way to more radical needs?” (copyright: Pippa Lang). Who is she talking about? What is more radical, in this day and age, than things that the very people she is writing about are actually doing for other people? Since when did we get together and pay for distant friends to visit our country for nostalgia? Insulted? I know I am… but not enough to override the sadness I feel for this poor journo that had to sit through one of the most joyful nights in recent memory, and force herself to have a bad time! Oh man, you can’t imagine how much that must hurt.

And there we have it, ladies and gentlemen. We are on a quest, and the going will be rough. There are so many miserable bastards out there that will attempt to kill our fire. But we burn brighter and for longer… and we touch people. And we help. We are few compared to the unhappy millions in this country, but we can invite them onboard… and we can fill the fucking Scala theatre without so much as an advertisement, let alone an album release!!! And, hopefully we can fill the Astoria. And if we do, we will have made history. Again. Our own version of the way the books should be written in the future.

Oh man, if any of you are looking forward to December 17th with the same zeal as I am then I salute you. If you are all looking forward to the Astoria this much then this ain’t no gig… this is a fucking rally. We are the future. This is good. Can you feel it? Can you feel it, I ask you, my brothers and sisters, CAN YOU FEEL IT?!!

We came… we saw… we didn’t agree so we made a few changes. Small steps first (yeah right, like flying people from all over the world), but with time, confidence and belief we will do some great things. And people will remember. So, for now, just give yourself a big fucking slap on the back because you deserve it. All of it. This is all yours. And for now all we gotta do is have the best night of our lives at the London Astoria on December 17th. We are really in this together. We are family. NICE WORLD… WE’LL HAVE IT!!! Next year is going to really fucking rock like none before.

I am so proud of you. The truly radical.

Peace, love and respect…
Ginger

It’s been some time in preparation and the past few months have been torn between public opinions from “can they pull this thing off live?” to “will they be a disappointment compared to The Wildhearts?” and “I hope to God it’s as good as I hope it’s gonna be”.

The proof of this particular pudding is in the playing, so we went to Japan to try it out in front of some of the most loyal and hardened of fans. This thing was going to either sink or swim when placed in front of an audience. Either way we had to find out quick. Before we could convince the world that we were the shit we had to convince ourselves. And there is no bigger critic.

Japan, as usual, welcomed us with open arms and flowing alcohol. Our tour manager, Johnnie Allen, took us to his favorite Osaka bar (the RockRock – check it out and tell ’em Ginger sent you) that became our new home and family. A huge amount of respect to Seiji, Nov, Waka and Yoko for the wonderful (Suteki) times.

Random Jon Poole surpassed his earlier attempts at appearing to be the most bizarre human being on the planet, and proceeded to amaze the Japanese with off-stage antics never before seen in this or any other country. A night out with Jon Poole is unlike any evening out with anyone else. This guy is a one man entertainment system that does not tire. From dancing on every shelf / table / level space in the bar (amid rapturous cheers from the patrons), to automatic-stream-of-consciousness ramblings, the show doesn’t stop when Jon comes off stage. In all the years I or any of the crew have been involved with musicians (ie, NiteBob, guitars, who has seem them all come and go since the sixties), no one has ever been around someone like Jon Poole. Not many people have for that matter, outside the confines of a padded hotel anyway.

Then there’s Tom Broman (drums) who is easily the most extreme person on this bus. The most extremely quiet person when sober, the most extremely extreme psychotic nutcase when pissed. Put another way, Tom had a fight before he had a gig. Conny and I have talked at length in the past about the perfect drummer being slightly unhinged, or wired up wrong in the attic. Careful for what you wish for.

And then there’s Conny, the gypsy, the guy that makes every Japanese girl blush when introduced to him. Conny is a dying breed of guitar hero where cool and talent share equal billing. Sometimes you just know that someone is going to be special but can never be truly convinced until you actually see it live. Conny is special.

The first night started out as the most shambolic mess of nerves and pre-gig anticipation, only to transform itself into a slick, professional and confident show when the lights went out. It had been so long since I had this much to prove… and we pissed it! Easy! Osaka rocks. It rocks like fuck.

Nagoya, the next show, wasn’t so great. One good gig down and it was time to have one dodgy one. Well, not so much dodgy as uneven. Two guys loved it, two guys hated it. The result? A band that weren’t communicating. Shit, I know we were only two shows into our new life but like I said we are our biggest critics.

Following the most amazing / disturbing / hilarious ride on the bullet train to Tokyo, we had just enough time to drop off our bags at the hotel and run to the gig… just in time to be really average again. Just as two guys had a bad show yesterday, today the other two guys had one! Of the two nights in Tokyo, the first night barely passed the standards board of excellence… still, there’s always the Lexington Queen to retreat to and sink our misery. Check it out when in Tokyo, guys.

And suddenly, within ten days of leaving London Heathrow, we were backstage at the Akasaka Blitz waiting to go on for the biggest concert of out short lived lives. A 2000 capacity venue and every important person we know in Japan had turned up. Even Seiji from Guitar Wolf (whom I had met properly the day before – the absolute coolest person alive in Japan, and the biggest beer drinker!) was there, as well as five beautiful young ladies who had won a competition to dress up as schoolgirls and sing onstage with us. Promoters ran around officially. The wait was endless. Too much time to think. Too much thinking to rock. Almost too much rock to warrant for a brand new band.

Man, the nerve of this band. If we pulled this off we could all look forward to taking London apart limb by limb in November. If not, we’d better start worrying about the reality of selling out our first headline show in a 1000 capacity venue, to a homegrown audience. Without an album having yet been released. Without any advertising, promotion or press. Man, this could backfire and blow us straight into an embarrassing retirement!

… ALRIGHT TOKYO…

Lights went down, NiteBob introduced the band and the crowd went ballistic. Like The Wildhearts all those years ago we were welcomed like returning sons fresh from battle. The band played like we’d been touring together for ages. The sound was fucking loud, but as clear as Michael Jackson’s criminal record. The girls sang like birds leading the dawn chorus. Guitars were smashed. Explosions the size of Godzilla’s hangovers were ignited. The light show looked like Kiss and Queen had both pooled together to make us look bitchin’ and dazzled the crowd into submission.

The show was pure magic and all thoughts strayed to London, November 9th, where we would do this again in front of our British friends and fans. Only bigger, better and with a more extreme stage show.

To attempt something as large as this, with a relatively unknown band, takes an awful lot of balls, and not many people would even bother. And I can perfectly understand why. If something like this failed you’d be better off having your parachute fail – at least you wouldn’t have to face public humiliation for the rest of your life. Staging something this ambitious has massive risks involved and these are not only financial. But in the gamble that is this business the odds are high that no one else is going to be trying this same trick. If it works we’ve pretty much got the monopoly on big, stupid rock! None bigger… none more stupid!!!

I don’t want to talk specifically about the stage show – for that, you’ll have to buy a ticket. But suffice to say that if I ever mentioned anything about “how much you lot are going to enjoy the Scala show”, I was off by miles. Many, many miles. Venus is closer. The Scala will be rubble on November 10th. All shows so far this year will vanish from memory. Your life will be altered and your standards will be heightened. From now on bands will have to measure up to your new level of expectation.

My only regret is that I won’t be in the audience while we are playing. (Or maybe I will?) Having said that, the stage may well be the safest place in the room come show time! Intrigued? Curious? Well, you’d better get down early. AntiProduct are going on first, and Alex is as on the edge of sanity as I have ever seen a man. Things can only get crazy… there can be no other way.

We’ve been talking about this for a very long time. Sooner or later it had to come, and here it is. It should by all counts be a bit of an anticlimax, shouldn’t it? C’mon, in this age of angry young men, complaining about having the right to complain, this shouldn’t really work. Good-time-core anyone? By rights it should suck large quantities of pink piping, right?

Hahahahaha.

God… this feels good. Wonder what the rest of London will be doing on Thursday November 9th? Tell you what they’ll be doing… they’ll be saying “WHAT’S THAT FUCKING NOISE?” Kings Cross? The last thing to happen to mankind of this magnitude involved a cross too, and guy with long hair.

There. Official. SilverGinger 5 are louder than Jesus.

Repeat after me… SHAKE, SHAKE, SHAKE!

See you there.
Ginger

So, now there’s a band in place and the songs sound great… but something is missing. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, either. Mind if I just throw some thoughts your way? If any of them stick then maybe we’ll have made some use of this time together, ‘cos chances are my little baby boy is gonna start the dawn chorus any second now and we’ll be back to where we came in. So, for now, just me and you… let’s just talk.

Y’see, I’m the kind of guy that loves music. With me, it never had to have any chart reference. In fact, that sad shower of faceless poodles always reminded me of those old shooting galleries where the ducks would appear for a few seconds, only to trundle on by and be replaced by a different piece of tin, maybe with slightly less bullet holes. I think they made Space Invaders from that design too. And I heard someone on TV the other day saying that Space Invaders was the originator of shooting games?!?! I guess time renders everything historical but this comes with no guarantee of value. It just gets old, right?

Anyway, where was I?

See, I tend to do that sometimes these days. Parental sleep deprivation they call it. I think it’s bullshit myself. If that were the case, then how come there aren’t more interesting parents? Don’t get me started on that bag of cats. What is it with people and babies? The cool people you know don’t change at all, but the other people – y’know, the ones that you always knew wouldn’t be there for you anyway (y’know how you just know that?) – those guys just get indifferent to you. What’s that all about? It couldn’t be that they’re jealous of the fact that all your parts are all working and they harbour some fear that theirs might not be? Naaah! That can’t be it. I prefer to think that they were just that shallow all along. It’s just that, until having a kid, it didn’t bother you too much. Nowadays you don’t want those kind of people around your baby, so the radar is a little more sensitive. But how about those good friends, though? Didn’t you start loving your real friends more than your family?

Fatherhood is weird, man. It’s kinda like ‘out with the old and in with the new’, except no one tells you what’s old and what’s new. It just kinda presents itself. You’ve gotta improvise. Back to that guarantee of value again, right? Old just seems old these days. I always thought that I’d feel older somehow after having a kid. D’ya think maybe that’s just an excuse not to have ’em? ‘Cos I feel more into life than I ever did with nothing to do on a weekend. Hangovers don’t really piss me off any more because there isn’t enough time in the day to think of myself any more. Wallowing seems to definitely be a thing of the past. Man, sometimes I want to tell everyone to have kids – y’know, maybe it’ll lighten them all up. It sure did me.

And there ain’t half some miserable, self-absorbed, motherfuckers out there. They could use a lift. A loss of self. That’s what I always thought wisdom was anyway, loss of self. Accepting things without judgement. Action without premeditated thought. That way you can’t ever be scared of anything… except for your kids being brought up around a bunch of morons, that is! Man, if those people made my lad stupid I would personally kill them all. See? That’s another thing that comes with kids – the ability to kill. Man, I wouldn’t even think for a second about it, those fuckers would die. End.

So I’m getting too heavy, right? Well, there’s nothing wrong with getting heavy now and again… as long as it’s only now and again. So anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, music.

What is it with music these days anyway? No one seems to be looking forward to much any more. OK, I know the Scala show is gonna be pretty spectacular, but people sure are quick to dismiss something nowadays. Take, for instance, the first day of sales for that show. Those tickets went out quick! HOT, HOT, HOT! And boy did everyone think they were working with Bon Jovi for a second! Then the tickets dried up because there hadn’t been enough supplied for demand. Well, you can guess what happened then can’t you? The sales slowed down and all the suits decided it was just a flash in the pan – y’know, no need to get too excited. For a second there I thought everyone was really into it, but they aren’t are they? They’re into looking good, and fast sales make other suits stand up and notice. Imagine if everyone worked as hard as they want to be admired… man, this business would look like the golden age of Hollywood! When, in reality, it looks more like Blackpool on a Wednesday night. But those suits, man, they can sure talk themselves excited when they want to. I think it’s nearly sold out now. Don’t really matter somehow… it didn’t sell out in a day!

Good job we’re still together, though. I wish I didn’t want to make money, y’know? Life would be so easy. Just stick out a record every now and then and play in front of your friends, now that would be cool. I guess I’d have to be much, much, meaner than I am to do that, what with a kid ‘n’ all. Still, if there’s any comfort in this shallow business then it’s that no matter where you go in the world people are all the same… but your friends are different!

Speaking of friends, did I tell you about the band yet? Oh man, we make a great noise! Sounds like we’ve known each other for years. Remember asking me “how are you gonna do the harmonies live?” a while back? Just wait until you hear this shit! People are telling me that there’s a lot of competition these days. What’s that, a threat? Then fucking bring it on!

Great music always takes people by surprise these days. That’s my secret weapon, I guess, the element of surprise. Thank fuck no one thinks much these days, or I’d be out of a job! I’ve never been in a band with a real-life guitar hero before either! Never needed to be, I can always pull something out the bag myself. But having Conny around has been a real ear-opener. Man, those guitar heroes… now they can shred! Conny is too cool, man! It’s handy him being a singer ‘n’ all that too. Makes those ‘difficult’ close harmonies seem like maths homework – y’know, something that used to be a problem. And I’ve always been a little scared of third part harmonies because if they aren’t right they’re just about the most wrong thing in the world. I’m a country and western fan so I love harmonies. But in the way that a good chef loves food, I hate bad harmonies.

Man, that Jon Poole can sing too! Jon is the guy that played bass on the album, but he never sang. I mean, I knew he was talented but, fuck, man, that guy can’t do things wrong. OK, I take that back. Musically speaking, he’s as solid as the pavement, but he ain’t called ‘Random Jon Poole’ for nothing. From fucking in the toilets, to sticking chewing tobacco on his dick, to having what can only be described as ‘fits’ when The Who come on the pub jukebox, to consistently coming out with the most abstract conversation I’ve ever heard… there’s no mystery to why this guy is in the Cardiacs.

There is, however, a mystery to the Cardiacs.

And I have never played with a rhythm section as tight as Jon and Tom. Oh yeah, Tom Broman. He’s this Swedish guy that learned the album in three days by tapping on his legs and playing air drums to it! The guy is ridiculous, man. Used to play with a band called Send No Flowers. Does all the showman stuff everyone’s too self-conscious to do these days (but are all sat in their room practicing!) and plays double bass drums like a machine gun through a PA stack. Takes a guys face off when he goes. Astounding! Yeah, I’m more than happy with the guys. No bitching, no moaning, no pussies, no problems.

Well one little problem.

I really don’t like this business I’m in. It really is too empty. Too easy to deceive. I could cut off my hair and play acoustic numbers with a boyish grin on my face, and I know I could sucker all those other suckers into thinking I was the next real deal. Can’t do it. Not for me, not for Jake, and not for you. Of course I’ll keep going, it’s what I do. And how else am I gonna get to see the best stage show in the world? No one else is going to do it, are they? They’re all too busy making suits happy. Me? Let’s just say I don’t get nervous about music. It’s my gift and no one can take that away from me.

Ah, there goes little Jake now. Guess I’ll have to drink up and split. But, hey, I’m glad we can have these little chats. It’s good to talk, right? And you’re a good listener, man. Thanks for being there and I’ll see you again real soon. Maybe at the Scala? Oh, and bring a crash helmet. I’ll be armed that night!

Love ya, man.
Ginger

And there was me thinking I’d seen some interesting stuff. I must have asked God for an interesting life somewhere along the line, and in the true tradition of being careful what you wish for, I certainly got one. Witnessing your baby arriving into this world is pretty spectacular on any level, let alone when it gets as traumatic and as scary as this shit.

I’ve got a baby! I’m a dad! That ambassador of all things violent and cowardly in my life as a small child. That paragon by which all things are measured in the transition they call manhood. I didn’t have a dad until I was too old to really have a use for one, and there I was sitting in waiting for my turn to add to the list of possible embarrassments to the term fatherhood.

Meeting God in a dentist’s waiting room is a pretty accurate description of the amount of trepidation I felt. It’s a feeling of hopelessness beyond anything you could have nightmares about. After settling into the long labour, and thinking this was an ass that could be made mincemeat of, the real world kicked in with a force as familiar as any sudden dread ever previously felt. The pain that the brave mother (aren’t they all? Damn right they are!) had to endure became too unbearable to continue the ‘natural’ approach to deliverance, resulting in an epidural (a tube inserted into the spine – one scary fucking procedure guys. Do not watch). And as the waiting started to feel like it would go on forever and ever and ever, little Jake decided this would be a cool time to suddenly sneak up on everyone and show up. Bang!!! From boredom to birthing in seconds. Or at least that’s how it felt.

Dilating like a mothermother, and speeding downstairs in a lift seemingly a century older than the hospital it operated in, this child seemed intent on doing things his way even before his arrival. The chances of your first baby landing on the predicted due date is, by all accounts, pretty slim. But this guy obviously plans to use rules like toys, so he arrived bang on time. Delivery wasn’t helped by a fever that Angie was going through in the later stages, setting the baby’s heart rate racing out of normal rhythm… still, all’s well so far.

OK, so the looks of derision from the delivery staff when the father turned up with dreads poking out of the top of his regulation hospital-green paper hat bordered on shock. Rock ‘n roll births aren’t as common as they used to be apparently. The doctor in charge of containing the ensuing panic was a man called Dr Teo (of St Mary’s Hospital, Lindo wing, Paddington, WC2, should anyone need the best at any time… hey, send him a card if you’re touched!), who ranks as my number one most impressive man in the history of awe (knocking Keef Richards from the top spot after a run of 35 years, no less). Dr Teo rapidly realised that the baby wasn’t coming out, even with the aid of the most brutal looking ‘plunger’ device seen since the illegalisation of burning witches, and the heart rate was plummeting rapidly. When the baby retreated back into the womb, twisting around and tangling itself in the umbilical cord, the decision to perform an emergency Caesarean operation was swift and unavoidable. And a truly harrowing experience, even from my side of the experiencing… and thank fuck for that epidural.

To see your girl sliced across the lower stomach and a doctor reach right inside and pull out your baby is something that there are no words to describe. Shock doesn’t even skim the brim of the surface. Wonder usually describes something that you take photographs of to show your mates. Even joy merely explains a bundle of emotions that you feel. But this feeling isn’t even expected, let alone digested, and leaves the observer in a state not unlike an out-of-body experience. On acid.

Jake arrived armed with an un-wrinkled face (one of the few cool side products of a ‘Caesar’, as well as what someone charmingly called ‘honeymoon freshness’ – you figure it out!) and a heavy mass of black hair. Very blue and very weak, but very much happening. Unlike the scene going on behind me where a young girl was losing half her body’s worth of blood as claret sprayed in every direction and a bunch of bags and tubing, designed to be on the inside, lay sprawled out upon her stomach… for around 50 minutes while the womb became healthy enough to have the various organs placed back inside and arranged in their proper order.

Saving Private Ryan was anaemic in comparison.

And then the sewing started. Man, those doctors don’t know the meaning of fear and deserve medals every time they do this shit. Stretching, stitching and stapling, and then back upstairs to the relative sanity of our room where the true miracle of this whole thing came full circle and baby took to breast. Man, this sight beats anything. Seeing God, boarding a UFO, awards ceremonies, giving awards to people that deserve ’em… nothing is this gratifying. It proves that Nature has it all under control and anything that seems unfair in Nature’s world is all part of one grand design. Nature kicks ass.

Well, little Jake is fantastic, Angie is doing better than a girl with a bellyful of embroidery should be expected to fare. And me? I’m convinced that no matter how bad it gets, it can always improve. And if it can improve, it can be fantastic. And if it can get fantastic, there’s a very great chance that it’ll get so good that you’ll sometimes have a hard time believing that it’s you living it. And you’ll get a little pang of guilt that’ll last for a second or two, until you realise that you deserve it; you deserve everything that’s coming your way.

Stay in there, kids, this ride is a lot crazier than you could ever guess. Life man, life. Everything else is stupid! It may be be hard sometimes (and sometimes really hard), but bravery in the face of adversity sure pays back good.

Yours… proving it over and over again.
Ginger

Patience (a truly ridiculous concept).

And the Lord said something like, “if you hang about for ages, until whatever it was that was so important seems such a distant memory that its importance has become diluted to the point of ‘oh what the fuck, eh?’, then you shall get whatever it was you wanted in the first place.”

And you also learn the valuable lesson of having to sit on your bored duff like a piece of furniture, whilst having proved that boredom didn’t make you go out and murder someone or do your body weight in drugs, therefore you’ll get into the house of God without a bad rep to contest.

Patience has no natural place in the western world, where competition and social placing are the common denominator of the masses. To win, but how long the race? “Is it really that important to be great? Maybe if I’m just a little better than everyone I know, maybe I’ll look pretty fucking cooking then, huh?” Unfortunately the judge, in this particular competition of will, is you. And you’re judging yourself… shit, how do I cheat my ass out of this one?

Patience sucks. It sucks big cocks.

Patience is hanging out in a gym for a little bump on the upper arm, and for that ugly stomach to be a little less ugly. Patience is fishing. Patience is waiting for paint to dry. I hate patience. Patience is waiting for something that you are so sure of happening actually happening. Even if it means waiting for much longer than is classed as sanity. Even if it means suffering the shit and arrows of outrageous misinterpretation. Patience… I shit it.

Unless, of course, it pays off.

That is one motherfucker of a day to reckon with. It’s a large anticlimax when it eventually drags its ugly phizog round your pad, granted. But the only thing that matters is that you are going to live an awful long time, and to make that time more bearable you must figure out how to maximise it wisely. And usually on a strict time budget. ‘Cos, let’s be honest, wasting time rocks. It’s fun and takes zero discipline. And I’m young for shit’s sake… I’ll worry about not being able to walk when I’m too old to walk.

But no, this isn’t the way we live a life. This is the way we live a piece of our life and blow the rest in the inevitable event that our existence becomes so dull that we talk constantly about a ten year period like it will make up for wasting the other 40 or 50 years. Ouch! Anyone have a life plan to be the most boring fucker that they, or anyone else, knows? Didn’t think so… otherwise you’d be reading someone else’s ramblings. And they wouldn’t rock. And I do. Read on.

Patience is only the waiting time. The real deal is the idea from which you are prepared to invest this time. The pure germ. The nucleus that is inherently you and the only reason for being such a presumptuous prick as to expect your ideas to manifest themselves as anything other than giant excreta biscuits. Does the waiting scare you? Maybe your original idea stinks and you should start again? Stop the waiting? Try something more likely to succeed on a less demanding basis?

Y’know, underachievers are pretty dire, but mid-achievers still make the rent, right? Are you happy being grey? Of course you aren’t… you’re here to make something happen. And only because no one is doing it your way. Sure you wanna get a few pages of those history books to yourself, but that’s not the reason for doing it the hard way. Well, not the only reason.

In life there are doers and there are followers. Then there are the many that for whatever reason don’t get the recognition they deserve, thus leaving a legacy that no one would trust to be worth anything. In this day and age Leonardo Da Vinci wouldn’t have become the legendary morose genius that he did after death. He would have had his name scratched from the records on the grounds that there were American students selling paintings in greater numbers.

I was once foolish enough to believe that if you didn’t succeed in your early twenties you would have officially blown it in this business – not understanding, of course, that people buy records (OK, bloody CDs – I’m never gonna feel easy calling them that. It’s still ‘Hammersmith Odeon’, ‘London Town and Country Club’, ‘Marathon bars’ and ‘records’ for me) at all ages and therefore there is a fine living to be made for the rest of your life. And the longer the cooler.

A year ago I was frustratingly trying to put together a band to record and tour my record. Had I succeeded you would have been looking forward to me and a bunch of my mates playing some tiny clubs on our way to retirement at the edge of a darkened bar, somewhere you don’t know your way around after dark. The patience I learned when putting the sounds on tape (OK, OK… digital computer memory or whatever the fuck it’s called now) gave me time to think about the likelihood of being in a real band again and playing some BIG shows in BIG venues. The patience of sitting on this album until the right deal comes around for it means there will more than likely be a single and video out of one of the new songs (probably Walk Like A Motherfucker), songs that wouldn’t have been around if I hadn’t had the patience to find the right management company with cool ideas.

By the time the band have actually formed it will be a thing of great splendour with no holes in the armour for journalists to penetrate by means of dismissal within the first two years of our tenure. The musicians in the band will have also been waiting for a gig like this for some time. And with their patience having been paid off you can bet real money on this being an intense experience unlike anything in this genre of music before.

I do not want to be in a band as good as The Wildhearts. It will need to be better. Much better. In every way. Even down to the commitment and passion… and this is not an easy task. I have never in all my years met a band that could walk in the shadow of The Wildhearts when it came to sheer passion. Oh, I’ve met loads that thought they could (even some that were convinced they actually were), but those bands have since split up and now they don’t even speak to each other. It’s true that things like passion and conviction are judged on time and not mere words. In the end it all comes down to time. What you are / were / will be is all about who you are when your time is up. You will not see your true effect in this life… or at least not within the portion lead by ego and bravado.

Anyone can walk it for a while. Anyone can talk it for a while. Only the very special few can be it forever. Those are the guys that legends are made of. As anyone with children will know, the time it takes from conception to collection is one filled with fear, hope and endurance beyond anything they have ever known. And when the day of ‘the drop’ actually arrives every memory of the hardships is forgotten in favour of something bigger.

Being a musician (and at times a frustrated one) I can easily compare the patience needed for a successful and happy pregnancy with the same patience needed to succeed in this or any business. The demands, compromises, control and sense of the ‘bigger’ picture are all startlingly similar. Not everyone makes good parents and some people make real shitty rock stars / musicians. Divorcing oneself from oneself without losing one’s essence proves two things:

1) That the essence was still strong enough to shine through.
2) If you are that good, you can never forget about yourself no matter how hard you try, so you don’t lose out on anything!

Patience equals cool. Cool will get you through times of no luck better than luck will get you through times of no cool. The bottom line is this: if you are going to get it you are going to get it. And if you aren’t you’ve got nothing to lose… it might still happen! Patience only works with the right tools, and only you know what tools suit your style.

Waiting rocks. Well, it’s a drag too. Anyone can get, but only the truly patient can plan on getting. And keeping. And doing it all again when they feel like it.

Here’s to waiting… but hopefully not for too much longer.
Ginger

Doing stuff (a modern ailment).

It’s 4.30 in the morning and I’ve gotta be up in a few hours. Not very rock ‘n roll, nor even all that outrageous considering the lengths and breadths I have often gone to to push my body into some experimental realm of consciousness just to see what it feels like. Oh, and drugs help too.

But here, sans any narcotic stronger than insomnia, I sit wondering why the fuck I can’t fall sleep without thinking ‘how does a person fall asleep?’, or ‘so what does happen in that last twilight moment between being awake and actually falling asleep… ah here it comes… AAAARRGGHHH, I thought myself awake again!’. You know the drill.

This morning I was awake at an ungodly hour in an attempt to do so much stuff with my day that I would be snoring before the jacket came off. But whether trekking across the Himalayas, wrestling greased buffalo or completing a list impossible to complete in 24 hours, come midnight it’s Groundhog Night. Any remedy that attempts to combat the effects of Being Awake Too Long Today Syndrome is as effective at curing this kind of insomnia as ice cream sunglasses.

The human is capable of pretty much anything he / she sets their mind to. And if it’s setting out to prove yourself wrong then you will succeed… but that means proving yourself right, of course. And therein lies the crux of this particular dilemma. How much is too much?

Conny came over to London to audition some bass players (did I say that was a load of fun? Nah, guess I didn’t) and generally ‘hang’. On getting the management into the fact that we were both top writers that would work great together given the chance, they called our bluff and booked us into a studio for a week to start this ‘writing’ shit. A week? No problem. Not only will we have five (natch) songs by then, but we’ll also record ’em in the same amount of time.

So in we go with nothing further planned than the directions to the pub, but we did it. Five songs written from scratch and completed, recorded and mixed. If we’d had a month we’d have come out with exactly the same amount of work… but we didn’t have a month. It had to be done, you see. Ironically one of the five (incidentally incredible) tracks is called More Is the Law, a song written about just this kind of approach to life. It’s an anthem to doing stuff. A lot of stuff. More than is necessarily needed. ‘Live by the sword, die by the sword’. Or, ‘careful what you wish for’, if you like.

So, back to my problem that I’m sure some of you are wondering stuff like ‘what’s his fuckin’ problem?’ about. Here it is: I have been cursed with the ability to do loads of stuff. But, like the first guy with a telephone, I’m kinda speaking a language that doesn’t compute with the most of the normal people that sleep, eat regular, watch TV and get tired.

I know people like me too, guys that do stuff. Two things happen to the guy that can do loads of stuff: 1) Most people around him let him do the stuff because they don’t want to do it, and figure that he enjoys it anyway. 2) He spends his waking hours thinking of extra stuff to do in fear of running out of stuff and getting BORED.

Just for the record, I would love to be bored. I mean, sitting in front of a bad movie or dull programme and just being bored. Like ‘phoning people because you’re bored’ kinda bored. I’ll never let myself get bored because I see boredom as the resting place for the low of imagination. But if it’s that simple then why am I jealous of people that want very little from life? Well, exactly that reason for starters. How great must it be not to care if nothing ever happens?

“Hey Ginger, what’s been happening with you?”
“Ah, nothing much.”

Or…

“How’s life?”
“Ah, mustn’t grumble.”

This sort of stuff used to drive me nuts. When I’d hear that someone had done nothing with their day / week / life and were “boooooored”, I’d be up in arms about why they were wasting time, blah blah blah. And now I’d give anything to be able to just close my eyes and think of nothing. To represent nothing. Sleep. So, how do people do that again?

It all comes down to what you represent. Do you represent? How are you going to be remembered? Do you want to be remembered? Do you care? I’m sure that if I knew ten people that were just as obsessed about doing stuff, I’d have a pretty tidy little army. That ten people would have the effect of 100 people. And they would never rest. But the sad truth of the matter, my attentive, maybe tired, sometimes bored, friends, is that if someone is getting away from doing anything strenuous or taxing, you can put your last slice of bread on the fact that there’ll be a crew of people wanting to work just as little as this guy too. After all, why should someone else get away with being a lazy bastard if I can’t? And I guess this is where I came in, right? The problem: not wanting to turn into a lazy bastard. The solution: doing stuff.

Although the symptoms may manifest themselves as frustration or anger, these symptoms are far less harmful, let’s face it, than complacency or sloth. Inside any man / woman is the basic ability to be as lazy as the next person, and in spotting this basic human failing we can counterbalance the work vs rest ratio to suit our own personal need and satisfaction that we are trying our best. The fact that our best is already good enough to compete is neither here nor there. Look at Oasis. Very little work put in for massive payback. The dream come true, right? A few years ago I would have loved to have been Oasis. They seemed to have it all. More cash, girls, fame and newspaper space than I could ever hope to garner in my whole life. And then BANG. Just like Tyson and the Berlin Wall and everything else in life can fall, so do Oasis. A lack of graft ethic and humility, and from the same spoon that fed came the famine that will see their careers fall and disintegrate long before I’ve tired of the buzz of making enough money to pay the rent.

The point? We are here for a very, very long time. I want to do too much. Not because anyone gives a shit – jeezus, Trent Reznor will still sell more records in this country than I will, and we all know how much he cares (“we’re in this together now”, right Trent?). No, the only reason for doing anything is for yourself. The only reason for not doing anything is for yourself. You do, or you do not. I do, therefore I exist. Breathing just isn’t good enough for me so I will push that extra mile. Who knows, maybe I’ll be reincarnated as someone who doesn’t mind representing nothing. That would be the dream. To be reborn as a lazy sod. Imagine the company… not exactly riveting, but plentiful.

Or maybe I’m destined to give a fuck.

There’s a Rainmakers lyric that goes: “Give a man free food and he’ll figure out a way to steal more than he can eat, because he doesn’t have to pay.” There’s a Nine Inch Nails lyric that goes: “You and me, we’re in this together now.” It’s all nonsense and may the best man win. This year’s trend will dictate what ‘best’ means this year. There are no markings, there are no rules. There are no guarantees. There are no awards. Everything must fall.

Represent.
Represent.
Represent.
Represent.
Represent.

Idle hands do the Devil’s work.
Ginger

The entries have been charging through my front door at a fair old rate of knots. Those slices of joy that reek of domineering young men that demand the chance to shine – to seas of fans around the many stretchmarks of the world. The newest Rock God to hit the magazine racks. The freshest face, the craziest character, the coolest haircut, the snazziest stage gear, the best moves, the wildest ambitions… the bass player that’s going to refill my dwindling supplies of patience in what has to be the ugliest, most character-free country of musicians on this planet, and that is including Pugnatia.

Ever been flat-hunting? You know that first couple of days when it seems like fun? Where the advice that “it won’t be easy” falls on deaf and optimistic ears? Imagine the exasperation of flat-hunting combined with the biggest hangover you ever had… and then give yourself the flu on top of that, and you are still nowhere near the sickness that fills my gut at how miserable the bass-playing entries have been so far.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Far be it from me to call anyone ugly. Or tell you that you look like your mother dressed you… fucking last week. I mean, by the looks of it you’d all get a chance to jam with Paul Weller, Travis or even Oasis. Happy? Put it this way, if there was a chance to join a troupe of green-haired midgets that speak fluent Greek, I wouldn’t have got the job. I’d be wrong, you understand? I wouldn’t be surprised when they said “oh no mate, you’re far too tall, with the wrong coloured hair, and your Greek stinks”, etc, etc. Do you see my point, or at least the looming spectre of the point that I’m about to make?

Now, there have been exceptions to the rule that all bass players must look like ‘bass players’ (you know, the guy that gets stuck at the back in pictures – Ken, that’s usually his name). There have been a few amazing characters… and they have nearly ALL BEEN FROM FUCKING A-M-E-R-I-C-A. Or Scandinavia. I mean, I’m English, and I’d like to think that we were pulling our weight as far as rockers go. Keef is from here and so is Jimmy Page, Sid Vicious and even Geri bloody Halliwell. We do have characters in this country, albeit the most reluctant characters ever to avoid standing out in a crowd. Oh, I have seen some sights lately. Bobbing heads, guitar straps the length of the average necklace and enough static stage presence to make Noel Gallagher look like Angus frigging bastard Young. I’m talking world domination and some of you are talking Bull and Gate, with a view to maybe headlining one day.

Call me heartless, shameless or just fucking bassist-less, but I didn’t get a single chance in life from trying to be average. Or ‘giving it a bit less because that’s what everyone else does’. Yes yes yes, I’m fully aware that not everyone wants to stand out in a crowd, or try out a few moves in front of an entertainment-starved audience, and that’s just fine and dandy-o-grande. OK? Good.

Now, I’m not going to buy a ticket to see a band that resembles a retirement home at bedtime, but just look at how well bands like Travis (great band, don’t get me wrong – great but very boring) are doing. It doesn’t take extreme people to make millions. There is a good, healthy market for humble, average-looking guys with that ‘earthy vibe’ that always sells in this country when ideas are scarce. Look at Cast, Ocean Colour Scene, Stereophonics, and the many, many bands that have neatly filled a gap when extrovert behaviour has been thin on the menu. Good luck to you all and I hope you have a good laugh at the business that is making you rich. Come on guys, this music isn’t designed to sell in the millions, which is why the bands are all pretty surprised at their success. And humble. And dressed in denim. Good guys do get paid after all. Especially in this country. Which is why we fill in the fucking lottery every week, and that’s why we dress to blend.

But my problem is this: where did it say on this web site that I was looking for ‘average-looking players with very limited stage presence and no decent clothes’? (Or indeed green-haired dwarves, of which there were more to choose from, I swear.) Is this what is seen as ‘having it’ these days? Has every band from America (that’s sold over a million, dresses in sports gear and the latest haircuts – i.e, that short one that takes about half an hour to get the ‘just woken up’ look going) really influenced our sense of style to the point that no one has any any more? Or is it the fact that Oasis made millions utilising the image of ‘dressing down so you don’t get into too much trouble when out on a Friday night’? Or is it even the ‘Travis are the latest thing and I want to look like them because I really believe the next new thing is going to look just like the last new thing for just this once in the whole of history’ syndrome?

Don’t get me wrong, I love you all. And when I get through having this baby I want to have lots more with all of you. But I’m struck dumb with disbelief that there is not ONE person from this country that is getting an audition for this band. I really wanted (or still want) a British bass player, but we have huge stages booked in Japan and if you aren’t dancing substantially more than your guitar stand you ain’t even in the running, mate.

Would you pay to see you?

Angus does what he does because it sells and people love it. Dregen doesn’t have to move more than the rest of his band. These people know that if you look good you get places. Image, man, image. What are we so fucking afraid of? Looking like a fool? Does Angus feel like a fool? He’s still up there rocking; still raking in the millions and getting the girls. Or does everyone want to be the guy in their local that used to be in a band? Who’s the fool here? You are only getting ONE chance at this. And if you get to 40 without doing anything… YOU. HAVE. BLOWN. IT. You can’t go back and sort out that haircut. You can’t pull on those tight leathers, the ones that the guys used to laugh at but you always got laid in. You can’t go and see the world in a tour bus, because someone young will have your job. AND THEY WILL FUCKING LOOK GOOD.

I can’t stress enough how important it is to use every day of your life like it’s your last. Make every hour count. And never, ever (ever ever ever ever ever) regret not getting something because you didn’t give it your best shot. Because that, ladies and gentlemen, will kill you just as sure as an Exocet missile to the back of the head. Except it will take longer and will be much more painful. Yes, the bass players that came bravely forward were not really hoping to get the job as the wildest man in the world and so they didn’t.

I also need a drummer. Please let me find him in Great Britain. Email us here and we’ll tell you where to send a video. And please remember to read the small print:

DRUMMER WANTED. MUST BE GREAT. DOUBLE BASS A PLUS. MUST BE A FULL-ON ROCK PIG. MUST BE SCARY. MUST HAVE LONG HAIR (AS IN LONG, NOT SHORT… BUT LONG). MUST WANT TO SEE THE WORLD. MUST WANT TO DRINK THE BARS OF THE WORLD UNDER THE TABLE. MUST WANT TO GET INTO LOTS OF TROUBLE AND NOT GIVE THE SLIGHTEST SHIT ABOUT WHAT ANYONE THINKS OF HIM. THINK BONHAM, THINK KEITH MOON. THEN STOP THINKING, YOU’RE A DRUMMER FOR GOD’S SAKE, AND YOU HAVE A TRADITION TO UPHOLD.

Looks are not important, so if you ain’t pretty you have a better chance of getting the gig. I swear there’s a promise of good times and more girls (or boys if that’s what floats your ice cream) than you can kick out of a tour bus. Parties and good times are included in the deal. This band will do exactly what it says on the packet.

So whaddya say? Does the meanest, ugliest, dumbest, biggest, wildest, toughest, craziest drummer in the world come from Britain? Or is it America? Again?

Hurt me.
Ginger

And so it is done. The album is finished, mastered and completed. The artwork is done. After nine months of serious work, the end has finally arrived.

When I started this album there were a whole host of differences in my life. I was living in America. I was reliant on drugs. I was single. I was unhappy. I was confused. I was desperate. I lacked confidence. I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my future. I hated the world. I wasn’t expecting to be a father… ever. I wanted to die. I was a year younger. I didn’t have a dog.

Since then I’ve found that the love of a good woman is pound for pound better value than that of a thousand wrong ‘uns. And there was me denying that love existed. I still don’t believe in all that Mills & Boon crap, but I do appreciate the whole point of companionship. Guess I stopped being so hard, and in its place came something to truly die for.

I stopped needing drugs as a tool of motivation and have become much more confident in what I’m able to achieve. There are still cases from my past where friends are killing themselves, and their careers and friendships, due to dependence on drugs. I honestly thought that I could not exist without a daily fix / hit / cop-out, and really believed it was a clinical addiction. All addiction is in the mind. That’s where it starts and, if you want it to, that’s where it ends. The world is much wider without drugs. And, although I can’t deny that it is slightly more boring being clean, the thrill of not knowing what crazy shit is going to happen in my future, but knowing that I’m going to be there to experience it, is a huge buzz in itself.

I don’t hate myself to the point of self destruction any more. Yeah, sure, sometimes life gets to be a bit of an uphill struggle that isn’t always apparently worth the climb, but those moments fly by these days. I guess the whole ‘boredom threshold’ thing has taken a different shape. Life seems to go slower, and is therefore less chaotic. Things just make a little more sense.

I’m still an impatient bastard though. And now I’m on the threshold of a new band, career, life experience, and it’s all down to hard work and good company. I’m going to be a father to a baby boy in September. I have a dog (well, Angie has a dog and it also has me) that everyone in the world seems to be in love with. And I also have a life with a great woman to look forward to.

In my endless search for the perfect partner over the years, I came to the conclusion that I was one of the most stupid people in the world. I know there are many, many stupid people – so many in fact that it’s easy to become inconspicuous in the crowd – but when you are faced with your own stupidity it kinda hurts. The reason for this is that I thought I was going to find someone to share my life with, and they weren’t going to notice that I wanted to kill the world and rid it of love, peace and sober thought. What a catch I must have seemed!

You don’t just love, you are love. You must radiate a warmth and kindness, otherwise all you are going to attract are the ugly, cold people. And, believe it, ugliness is all inside. And now I must carry a certain confidence in who I am that attracts enough attention from ladies that I would have been honoured to attract. (And, secretly, still am.) It’s nice to go home and know that you just ‘connected’ with someone without having to desperately try to ‘conquer’ them. I see old friends trying for a different girl / boy every night, and I listen while they constantly complain about not having found a Mr / Miss Right yet. Just plenty of Mr / Miss Right Nows. How could they? They still need a different sexual partner each time to convince themselves that they’re still attractive. Now that’s ugly.

Times change and stuff gets done, and nothing means that much. At times I still would like to die. At times I still get lonely for no reason. At times I still want to kill / get high / fuck a stranger… y’know, all that common human shit that we all think is really individual and unique. Sometimes being a human being is a fucking drag. But only the weak fall.

Still standing…
Ginger

The album is finished. Finished as in done, dusted and rarin’ to rock. Six months of intense rehearsing, recording and mixing and suddenly it’s over. The sadness I had anticipated didn’t arrive as planned. The final day was a blast of activity that negated any emotional involvement. Champagne was uncorked and congratulations were passed around, but in a strangely muted workmanlike manner that was completely out of character with the sessions.

Ending things always brings with it a numbing sensation that signifies the beginning of something else. The day you leave your holiday, job or relationship is the day you get the overwhelming urge to taste the unknown and savour its strange delights. The new beginning. New beginnings are what it’s all about. All it’s all about. When nervous apprehension makes way for confident new steps. This is the business they call music.

I’ve never been too good with goodbyes and this was no exception. Roger Tebbitt, the engineer, has become such a familiar face in my day to day workings that to say I’m not gonna miss him would be blasphemous. And Tim Smith, producer and legend, has become family. I’ve fallen in love with Tim. He is just about the greatest living musician, and to be able to place him in the ever-growing list of ‘people I’d like to work with and have’ is both an honour and a life-enhancing experience. And now I’m alone again. Only for a short time, until the next stage of world domination commences, but enough to feel confused and elated at the same time.

The new chapter will see me putting together the band that will make this idea flesh. The musicians are starting to show up, and auditioning is taking the shape of meeting people recommended by fellow musicians that I have particular respect for. The idea of sitting in a room full of hundreds of hopefuls depresses me beyond endurance. Been there, as they say, and fucking well done it. Never again. Not in this lifetime. No way. Putting a group together that does not mirror any of the inherent flaws that marred the progress of The Wildhearts is not an easy task. But then neither is rehearsing for an album that is months away from release.

The patience that one must endure in such matters is easily the hardest thing about this business. The temptation to say “that’ll do” and suffer from reckless ambition over suss is incredibly hard to fight. Even though one knows that careful thought and planning will always win out in the end, it’s so tempting to just go with the first idea and take a risk that it’ll all be OK.

After months of painstaking work, finding the band to play this shit live is by far the most crucial task in making this dream a reality. Time passes so slowly at points like these that one can be forgiven for thinking that nothing is happening. There are names, management companies, record companies and fantastic ideas that cannot be mentioned until legally possible… so, no news to report there I’m afraid. You’ve been very patient so far. I’m desperate to spill the beans, but have to stay focused on what really needs to be done. And this is where I came in.

The album is finished (more news on that in the news section – go see) and it sounds absolutely amazing. And I want you to hear it more than anything in the world. But to do this properly means that I have to do things properly. I will stand back and suffer the mind-bending pains of patience and discipline. And you, my loyal friends, will have to do the same. Life is a bit like that I’m afraid. But ponder this…

I’m going to be a father in September.

Thought that would shock you!
Ginger

Rock is here, and I won’t say I told you so.

Well it happened, and is happening, after all this time. It’s coming home. It’s back big time. It’s gonna be big. It’s gonna be wild. And it’s gonna be loud.

When I was a kid me and my mates thought nothing of buying a ticket for a band we didn’t know much about, because you were guaranteed a massive show with bombs, volume and rock stars. For far too long kids have been buying tickets to see bands dressed just like them, looking for all intents and purposes like they’re bored and a bit lost on a big stage.

Where have all the performers been? Well, they’ve been hiding out until they can show off their goods to an appreciative crowd. A few years ago they would have been laughed at and seen as being old-fashioned.

Who am I talking about? The ROCK STARS, that’s who: the people that live the lifestyle you want to live; the people that make you want to get yourself in a band because real life is just too depressing. Showing off is this year’s misery. On they shall come. Marching to the tune of a thousand hand-claps like a baying rally of hungry animals, frothing at the mouth and ready for some mayhem, the likes of which have not been seen since the Romans started wearing trousers. The army of the living.

Saturday night will never be the same again. On every block around Great Britain there will be bands playing that hire in extra PA and lights. They’ll do it because if they don’t they’ll look puny next to the band who did just that the night before. The hair will be long and the solos will be short. Good times are around the corner, and the only difference between the rock of old and the rock of new will be that the rock of new will be better, louder, wilder and much, much more exciting.

We have suffered from personal complexes ever since Kurt Cobain hit the shops. Nothing against old Kurt there, but come on… he’s dead and we are alive. We don’t want to hear how fucked up musicians are. We’ve heard it before – from the likes of The Wildhearts, amongst many others – and it was OK as a distraction. It was better to hear about real rock ‘n’ roll casualties than sit listening to some grunge sob story. But the furthest anyone can go on the ‘fucked-up-ometer’ is blowing their head off with a shotgun. Kurt Cobain was much cooler when he was alive. Now we have to put up with rubbish like <insert band of choice here> because it’s OK to suck a little. He’s got a lot to answer for, that boy.

People are still fascinated by Richey Manic’s disappearance. Richey was a great guy, but wouldn’t he be of more use here making some entertainment? The art of being willfully absent as a form of entertainment must surely be dead. Unless someone starts putting the ‘boom’ into ‘a wop bop a lula a wop bam boom’ then we are going to Hell in a Ford Fiesta. And that, my little savage rock demons, is a bad thing. Punishable for eternity as a memory. Memories suck compared to the real thing. The past sucks. The only good thing about the past is that it’s a gauge by which to make things better. But it’s gone, and good riddance.

We are here now, and doesn’t it feel fucking electric?

Clothing stores like Top Shop are turning onto the new rock thing. And if someone doesn’t get their lazy rock arses in to some tight-fitting leather jeans they are gonna leave us behind and we will become followers. Followers of our own creation.

Britpop / Britrock is dead. If you own a guitar and are into breathing as more than a chore, you owe it to your country to Rock. Rock mighty. Rock proud. If you do not heed this message you will miss the best time of your life. The bus is leaving. There will be passengers and there will be drivers, but the bus will most definitely be leaving. All aboard who’s coming aboard. Destination? You decide. We’ve got a full tank of petrol and we’re wearing sunglasses. It’s the year 2000 and it’s gonna rock like a motherfucker. Is that not cool? Does that not ROCK?

It’s a glorious time. We are very lucky. And we deserve it for listening to so much crap for so long. Our ears are offended and in need of refreshment. Go out. Form a band. If you’re good I’ll get you a deal. That’s all you have to do… NOT SUCK. Let’s sort out the suckers from the fuckers. No prisoners, only glory. That is the future.

ROCK OR DIE.
Ginger