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Happiness exists… it’s official.

2000 started on the roof of a skyscraper, watching scenes of firework mayhem and millennial excitement. Together with some great mates and a wonderful girl, I took a quiet moment alone to think… which normally, inevitably, leads to over-thinking and worry. And I could not for the life of me figure out where things were going to go wrong. And then it hit me… I’m in love.

I’m in love with life and the amazing chaos of chance and mystery. I’m in love with the sheer power of music and its many positive effects. I’m in love with being alive. I’m in love with me.

Happiness starts from within, and that’s often a pretty ugly place to begin panning for gold. The human has a strange need to know everything it can. And if it doesn’t know, it will improvise. Of course, improvisation is by its very nature chaotic, and from chaos comes both good and bad, right and wrong. It’s knowing the difference that really hurts. Being happy means debasing yourself; becoming a child again; holding your hands up and saying to yourself, “y’know, you think you’re pretty smart doncha? Well, you don’t know shit.”

Learning is a painful and humbling process in which one must graciously accept failure, never the most natural of states for a human. People don’t like to be wrong, and therefore stay locked in an eternal bubble of denial. Alcohol will give you good reason to complain instead of repair. Drugs will give you good reason to need instead of belong. The greatest gift, and the sole purpose of our existence, is others. Our effect on them, their effect on us. Everything else is denial, and denial is a drug – present only for the safety in ignorance and the assurance that because the weatherman says it’s raining we figure we don’t like the rain.

The news is it’s all good.

At the start of December I fell in love with Henry Rollins’ nihilistic and educated views on why life sucks. Late December I fell in love with Kris Needs’ desire to push the body towards Hell just to see if burning really hurts that much. Early January I fell in love with Boy George’s vaudeville-sized self-obsession. And now I’m in love with my way. I’m not Henry, Kris or George, and for some reason that never really connected before. We can get so wrapped up in other people’s ideas that we mistake recognition for agreement.

And there begins the downward spiral of self-destruction: the eradication of oneself and the repairs made using the hang-ups of others. I’ve got my own hang-ups, thank you very much. We are all important and we all have a story to tell, and usually that story isn’t too pretty. But the most important story is the one that is reluctant to be told.

In this world, belonging is everything. So much so, in fact, that people sometimes mistake the reality of the weak- and bitter-minded as a real existence. It is, of course, avoiding real existence. The true reality is staring you in the face, and it doesn’t matter how long one denies the truth, it can never be truly ignored. One day it’s going to have to be dealt with.

We know who we are, we just don’t always want anyone else to. Or rather everyone else to. But fuck it. Fuck fear. Fuck fucking around. And fucking fuck.

Tell the world! Tell the world that you aren’t really so tough. That takes guts. Tell the world that life scares the shit out of you. They’re too scared to. Tell them all that you love the fact that you are kind and gentle and forgiving and generous, and before you know it you will be. And they’ll want to be too.

It takes broad shoulders to carry a burden for life, but lifting it off takes a whole upper body workout. Who is the strongest person you know? If the answer is not you, then you just answered wrong. Be great. Be kind. Spread the word and do something nice for someone every day of your life.

If someone tries to fuck with you, answer it with good. The need to react violently and aggressively is natural. It is not tough. Anyone can do it, and it will always come back to you badly. Being tough is being gentle when everyone around you is getting off on acting like a movie character or, worse still, the supposed personality of a hardened musician that probably goes to bed early with a cold drink and a warm lover.

Don’t be fooled, everyone wants to be good. They just ain’t got the guts. Hey, try it out. Give it six weeks of biting your tongue when you want to shout. Try resisting the urge to break someone’s neck, and accept that that is just the way that they are. Let’s try it together, because this shit’s new to me too. And if we come through and can influence a bunch of people along the way then it looks like it’s gonna be a great year. Let me know how you get on, I’ll keep you informed too.

Being good… it’s the new punk!
Ginger

The album is finished. And like a proud father I’m standing back, taking a breath of fresh air and gloating. Yes, gloating – one of the more unsightly faces of arrogance.

Ever felt that you were doing something beyond you? Something that fits so perfectly with everything that’s missing from people’s lives? No? Me neither! ‘Til now. It’s a feeling of weightlessness that’s not dissimilar to the first rush of a drug buzz, albeit a cheaper and longer lasting high. Every move I’ve made, every mistake I’ve lived through – it’s all a dirt road behind me leading to the point at which I find myself now.

If mistakes are there as lessons, then I’m about to pass my final examination. No more messing about. I know what I have to do. It’s all there in full colour, 3D cinemascope with Dolby quadraphonic sound. I’ve begun the true test of my faith in myself, and it’s starting to feel good. Very scary and very good.

I am to let myself go with the mission I was put onto this Earth to do. I was born with a talent that I have sometimes squandered. I was not put on this Earth to become another dead rock star. I was not put on this Earth to out-drink and out-drug the world. I was put here to rock. To entertain. To give exactly what is expected of me, with a few extra bits thrown in for gluttony.

I read magazines and see faceless musicians at the top of the charts. I listen to the radio and hear polite, introspective music that sings to no one but the writers. I don’t see anyone being me. Where are the rock stars that want bright lights and stage shows that stick in your hearts for the rest of your life? Where is the passion that involves ‘being’ the music. For fuck’s sake… WHERE ARE THE SONGS?

I want you all to hear this new album so badly. I’ve just bought you the best present in the world and I want you to open it before Christmas Day. But patience is how I’m going to make this work, and patience is the first thing I’ve got to get crossed off my new year’s resolution list.

I’m going to make you, the trusty fans, so fucking proud to have stayed with me for so long. I’m going to treat you to sights so awe-inspiring that they’ll burn an everlasting impression into your retinas; sounds that will see you and your children through times of melody drought. And I can promise all this and more because I’ve become possessed with this new goal. I am in love with music again.

I’ve done things in the past, set out for me by my own sadistic nature, that I’ve considered impossible. I’m a big enough man to know my limitations and work on them. But I will say, with hand on heart, that next year I will be very famous indeed; successful beyond anything that I’ve ever done before. I will not be able to do it without the constant assurance that you are still there, and I send out advance thanks to each and every one of you. My payback will be to make you all very glad that you bet on this particular horse.

2000 will be a massive year, with the reintroduction of old-style entertainment values. I will not put on a show that I wouldn’t pay to see myself. I would, and probably will, buy my new album because it is that good. I’m going to entertain you beyond the parameters of what is expected in rock music today. You will, in short, be glad to see me back. We’re in this together, and together we’ll make them stand up and take notice. We’ll make them see that we were right all along.

“Who are ‘they’?” I hear you ask. They are not us. Watch the press turn on a penny over this ‘new’ musical force, and be proud that you always knew. They will be many, but we few are where the ball starts rolling from. We built this city. Rock ‘n roll is a sharing experience. Let’s share it with them. They’ll soon be us.

Question: How much fun can you have?
Answer: All of it.

Please have patience and very soon life will be back to normal again. There will be reason again to get excited. You deserve it as much as I do.

Have a happy Christmas. Start the new year with the same passion that you mean to carry on with. And take this trade secret with you… 2000 ROCKS.

I LOVE YOU…
Ginger

It’s Blair Witch mania time! And I thank the Devil for it.

Has anyone but me been really, stupefyingly, clinically BORED recently? Big budget Hollywood blockbusters and dull computer generated effects… have you noticed the distinct shift in movie ‘entertainment’ values? Until very recently, the art of entertainment had been renegotiated yet again in favour of bland, faceless, big money, sales-related ‘products’. In other words: CRAP.

Movies and music, though having a much different agenda and long term effect, are very closely related from point of fact that in neglectful hands they can both be controlled by multinational corporates. Big companies whose only directive is to make as much money as possible from people like you. Money is made far easier by pandering to demand, and demand has been shown to be controllable.

Take music, for instance. The buyer likes ‘best of’ albums to safely familiarise themselves with the artist. Big time, money-earning artists are the best bet for this kind of audience / music manipulation. So, regardless of the ‘brand loyalty’ of old, the marketing people now know how fickle today’s buyer is. After all, they programmed the market themselves. The ‘best of’ will then feature a new song, unavailable anywhere else. This will reluctantly pull in any ‘older’ fans still left out of the picture, that wouldn’t mind shelling out for the singles neatly packaged and in a different order from the last one. Everybody forgets the last time they were ripped off, subscribes to the cult of the new product, and everyone is happy again.

“Ever felt like you’ve been cheated?”

Movies act in the very same way. Anyone fucking sick of Ewan McGregor’s face? Or Leo DeCaprio? Not that they are particularly unappealing faces, but c’mon, burgers for breakfast, lunch and supper? While the artist must outstay his welcome or be cast aside for another young hopeful, the audience are once again treated like the monkeys that we statistically, as consumers, have voted ourselves to be.

It goes like this…

1) Crap product, nice packaging, big budget, exposure.
2) Audience buys said product due to the bland nature of shopping and the brainwashing of the advertising campaign.
3) Product ceases advertising overkill to make way for new product.
4) See 1.

This works for music too. There is no secret why the biggest bands / artists are the ones you see on TV. And if Leo DeCaprio or Marilyn Manson is pulling in the biggest audiences due to the above mentioned strategy, then who doesn’t want to be a part of the next big thing? The next big thing is sexy. And the next big thing is already sitting on the desk of some fat mega-bucker’s desk. On paper. Designed. Ready to roll. And you are in there as well. And the beauty of marketing is that you didn’t even know how big a part you played in its success. Much like the artist thinking that he or she did actually have something to do with their superstardom. If you own the latest Marilyn Manson album / Titanic video, it has already worked, and you have not been thanked on the Oscars / Grammys for your involvement. THE CORPORATES CONTROL YOUR NEXT FAVOURITE THING.

Or at least they did until The Blair Witch Project.

No one in Hollywood saw that one coming. And they see everything, right? Wrong! Mike Tyson went down. Princess Diana died. The aliens might even fucking land. We are reaching the greatest stage of paranoia in the history of man. Man has convinced himself, and his loyal legion of followers, that they are right! He is that good. No longer of mere mortal form, he has become the Last Word.

And then history decides that enough is enough and chooses to readdress the picture. And we are back to where we came in. Every generation repeats itself. It is a certainty that only the truly ‘full’ can ignore. Fashion, art, music… it’s all in the hands of the consumer. And eventually the consumer rebels against the system and challenges the boss to the chair. Only this time, they use the ammunition gathered up from the boss’s negligence.

Hollywood cannot copy Blair Witch, and copying is what corporates do. Strategies, proven methods, etc. Blair Witch has fulfilled the consumers’ need for ‘The Exorcist of the Nineties’ where Hollywood has been sleeping on the set of the ‘new Scream for the year 2000’.

Hah! Missed it completely, you fat bastards!

Music is going the same way. The taste-makers, movers and shakers are onto the desire for guitar-based music by the consumer. And, like their computer generated counterparts on the celluloid side, are in the design stages for the new Millennial Star. Leather clad and longhaired, he comes from America via Hell and he’s here to shake your foundations. And, hey, it will probably work too! But in the fight for the seat they’ve forgotten the one main ingredient of rock, which is identical to the main ingredient of horror… the reality.

Everything I regretfully concluded about the shallow nature of consumerism is coming true. But I’ve had a plan for the last year and it’s going really well. And, like Blair Witch, it is going to come from the most unexpected of angles: the blind side that no-one has guarded. Time will prove my theory just as Blair Witch has proven theirs. The person most likely to scare the pants off of you is the person who has the pants scared off of them. They are, statistically, you, after all.

Corporates have had their honeymoon period, where fear was the guy downstairs’ job. And now they are feeling that fear. And it feels like the woods. It feels like, if anything is going to get them through this, it’s going to be primal human reserve. And then the old boss will no doubt become the new boss and Blair Witch will be yesterday’s big news… exactly what was the big fuss about? Remember the Prodigy?

This is the time where anything can happen, and you as fans / consumers / the dissatisfied will make the biggest impact of your lives. And then, of course, it will be back to normal. But for now it’s fucking great. And for now Blair Witch is just about the best, most ‘punk-as-fuck’ movie of all time. Sure, it ain’t The Exorcist, but the Prodigy were never the Sex Pistols either. It could never live up to its own hype.

But Blair Witch is your best friend. This won’t feel like this for long. Blow it at your own risk.

Hey, someone’s got to stand aside and buy this shit!
Ginger

I feel happy. Happier than I’ve ever felt. It seems like a pendulous weighted pressure has subsided and I’ve come away from it refreshed and cleansed. “Riding the storm” is a phrase that gets used in dodgy metal tunes with the same frequency as “living on the edge” and things “cutting like a knife” (and it’s very likely that these phrases too mean something deeper than running out of lyrics or not being able to find a rhyme for “life”). But “ride the storm” I most definitely have done.

When your own experience enables you to make an educated guess that you really know what is what (and what isn’t) it’s handy to remember that you really don’t know anything conclusively, otherwise you wouldn’t have been in any of your previous messes in the first place. Mistakes are as common as heartbeats, and making them gives us all a sense of belonging and comradeship. But the real lesson is recognising them. And, of course, trying not to make the same ones again.

How many times have you been reminded, in glorious detail, of how much you fucked up? Even by supposed friends? You can bet that these people are convinced that nothing is their fault. If you recognise that you, yourself, have made a terrible blunder somewhere, somehow, who in the world could make you feel any worse? And who, with a basic grasp of humanity, would want to? When putting this logic into practice it makes complete sense that someone who has wronged you does not need the extra self-loathing that you could try and push on them. It’s the most cruel and selfish form of emotional manipulation, and sounds, on paper, like the act of an enemy.

But are enemies so far removed from friends? Aren’t the people you love only so lovable because you recognise their flaws and insecurities? And isn’t it also true that you only recognise these flaws and insecurities because they’re the same as yours? Otherwise how could you possibly recognise them? Are we really that telepathic?

The human being can be so cruel to all other animals, including other humans. It seems that in an increasingly loveless world, it is the final form of communicating with others on some – any – basic level. Except, of course, all other pack animals act together for the betterment of the pack. We, on the other hand, go for the popular opinion in almost all levels of social behaviour.

How often have you heard that “so and so is a such and such,” and everyone you know within hearing range not only finds themselves agreeing, but has a specific example of why they think so too (usually followed by a similar anecdote, to establish that they are not making it up just to be a part of the group vibe)? You’ve probably found yourself subscribing to this ugly scenario yourself… I know I have, and have been left with a feeling of letting myself, and the unknowing victim, down badly. Oh, how human we all are.

But a mistake is a mistake, and can only be laboured over for as long as a personal decision to make amends comes about. Your friends, your family and your lovers / partners… they all fall into the bracket of “human.” In other words, THEY CAN’T HELP IT! To insult a friend behind their back is to insult your ability to act as a good judge of character.

So, who is the jerk?

If something traumatic has happened that makes you take stock of yourself, then isn’t that traumatic event worth it? Wouldn’t things be much worse if something hadn’t happened to turn you into this fantastic person?

Gossip is usually the conversation of one who has nothing interesting to say about himself. And it only goes to prove how infinitely more interesting the person taking up valuable conversation time really is.

Happiness is obtained by being the sort of person that you would like to get to know. Happiness pours all over your friends and loved ones, and before they know it, they’re happy too. And aren’t they worth it?

So, do yourself one big favour. Next time someone you know is being slagged off by so-called friends of yours… SHUT UP! Or better still, reprimand these “friends” for being so cruel about someone who is not there to defend themselves. You never know, they may well learn something. BUT AT LEAST YOU’LL FEEL A WHOLE LOT BETTER!

Love and peace…
Ginger

Welcome again to the site that changes more often than stuff that never stays the same… even for a second.

The newest news on the page is that I’m currently rehearsing the SilverGinger album with Blads (The Yo-Yo’s’ amazing drum guy), and we have Tim Smith of The Cardiacs producing. The music is the stuff from which dreams are made. And I’m not talking about those sweet little nap-type things that go unnoticed until something reminds you of that dream you had that no one really wants to know about anyway (or something). Oh, good God, no. These are sprawling nightmares complete with fiery jaws and dripping eyes… and teeth, did I mention the teeth?

In short, the stuff is sounding so damned hot we’re having to wear asbestos ear muffs just to listen back to the rehearsal tapes. Fact. The melodies are sweet kisses that bite your lip at the last moment; not hard enough to draw blood but enough to leave a little scar that from a distance, whilst it’s healing, looks like a cold-sore… but you know better.

The riffs… oh my heart, nurse, the riffs! Like hungry dogs barking at your door, demanding your attention. And to ignore hungry dogs would be the actions of a fool. Riffs that stutter and splutter like the butter of a nutter. And then some. There will be saxophones. There will be glorious gospel-sized vocals. There will be laughter, tears and the pounding of impatient feet upon the floor. The feet of a million rock-starved fruitcakes, deprived for too long of their daily juice that they call ROCK.

How long has it been since a record made you want to take off all the clothes of your best friend and burn them in a fit of over indulgence? Can you even remember when a song made you shave your armpits and give yourself a girl’s name? And don’t even get me started on you boys.

No, brothers and sisters, the wait is almost over. The time is now. And the disease is spreading. Give in to the power of the crush. All but the most desperate will be soon sailing the boat. The beat boat. The sleaze ship. The chorus catamaran. And the seas are bumpy tonight, boys and girls. So strap your sweet little selves in. The destination? Do I look like a captain to you?

Can you feel it? Can you hear the ground tremble as it awaits the oncoming stampede? No, me neither, because we start recording tomorrow. Next time we meet at this very spot it will be done and the word will be official. And that’s official.

Been spending too much time in the house? Can’t seem to muster up the courage to go and phone the number of that special girl / boy on your mind? Video player not taping the shows you wanted it to? There is hope, brethren. Hope and joy. You will be glad. And I will be happy to gladden you. It is my job, after all, to provide a healthy alternative to entertainment in the 20th century.

And if I say it ROCKS, you best believe it rocks… R O X.
Ginger

Travelling. Seeing things for the first time. Feeding your head with new stuff whilst simultaneously emptying it of some of that old stale crap. Making new friends, meeting old ones, and sticking brand new stamps on your passport. Anywhere in the world you go to, you bring something home with you… and I’m not talking about the clap.

The thing about travelling is that you can get by without it. If you abstain for long enough you will convince yourself that holidays are overrated. Y’know, you saw it on telly – what the hell do you want to go there for?

The first thing that always hits me in a foreign country, apart from the heat, is the music. Every country is playing music (most are playing steady rotation rock) and it ain’t what you’re getting on British radio or TV. I recently went to Japan (an experience that you have to do before you give up on having fun) with my partner Mr Clinton Abuse, who had never visited this fine, fine country before. But, you know, he “knew” all about it from magazines, TV and Cheap Trick live albums: ‘that place where anyone can be big’. Arf arf. Just clocking his expression on landing was something I will never forget. And as every stereotypical idea of Japan was discarded, I saw the guy fall slowly in love. Not some bullshit boy meets girl love either. Oh no, my brothers and sisters. The guy fell in love with himself.

You see, in a foreign country you are no one. You have no school chums to stand by you. If you’re a dick you are a fucking dick (and the Japanese are far too cool to tell you), and if you’re OK the benefits start to pile up in unprecedented proportions. Getting out of your environment introduces you to yourself, and if you can look in the mirror and say, “yeah, you’re OK”, you will need an extra suitcase to carry home your expanded heart.

I’m in love with music, strong people and, most importantly, myself. Ask yourself how much you spend on cigarettes or booze. Or clothes to wear out to the same old pubs and clubs. That’s a plane ticket. A trip to Youville. And it’s leaving whenever you want to. And when you get there (wherever), do yourself a favour and break with your old routine. No one knows you’re the rockinest rollinest monkeyfunk in the western hemisphere, so go visit a Buddhist temple with your new friends. Soak in the culture like a junkie. And when you get home, people will think you’re on drugs.

Feeling down? Finding it hard sometimes to figure out a reason to stay around? Or just plain bored? Listen… you are worth it. Every penny of it. Recharge those batteries this summer and git gawn. Don’t think about it or you will figure out a reason not to go. You’ll bring back a new found love for music, a new respect for yourself, maybe a cool tan. And if you’re that way inclined, the clap. We all deserve a little spoiling every now and then, so take a tip from a moodswingin’ Geordie bastard and hop on a plane. Anywhere. Just do it. Go on. Book it… now.

And send me a postcard.

Matane…
Ginger

Dear all at home on the waves,

Oops, another potential number one… Unlucky In Love, a song about a lady with a very unlucky vagina that kills her lovers before consummation. Not a very popular subject for hits, I’m sure you will agree, but funny things happen when you’re having fun.

Anyway, I’ve put off writing this new welcome message until I had something to say. What started out as a joke has fortunately (or unfortunately, as some of you may think when you hear it) turned into a thing of great beauty. It’s corny and classy, funny and disturbing… and it has no electric guitars on it. It features a song about Geri Halliwell that some of you may not appreciate.

The thing that hit me when I came back from America is how serious everyone seems to be. Next to Hollywood that’s not surprising, as most people over there don’t know what they’re smiling about half the time. But I’d always seen British people as having the best sense of humour in the world. So while the solo album is being planned, Clam Abuse is being done quick and cheap, if only to show that millions of pounds aren’t needed to make amazing records. Anyone with a love for tunes will fall in love with this. It features a guy called Alex Kane who goes under the disguise of Clint Abuse, and I get to be called Clam Savage. And providing beats and noise toys is Keiron, or Poop Uma Harnie. And it’s good fun.

The solo album is going to rock so hard. Super Shit 666 and Clam Abuse are going to put people into complete confusion as to what to expect. And it will be mental. I get so fucking bored doing the same thing. So from now on expect the unexpected. Music is getting so safe. Where’s the buzz? Top of the Pops seems to be a programme where rock bands get to play their ballads. I’d love to turn on the TV and say “Wow, look at that! Rewind it!”

For me, TOTP was always full of nutcases, and that’s not just “I remember the time” bullshit. Sweet, Wizzard, Slade, Bowie, T Rex, Mott the Hoople, Roxy Music (you gotta admit, even if you haven’t heard any of this lot, just the names sound great), and then punk. Nostalgia shmostalgia music these days is bland. Not bad… bad would be much more entertaining. Parents are more in touch with music these days, so grandparents are probably getting off on some of today’s ‘cutting edge’ stuff. If anyone is in a band out there, do you sound mental? If not, why? All you have to do is make the radio and TV sound like they’re alive again. That’s not much to ask for a life of luxury and mayhem.

Sounds like a good deal. How about it? Tell you what, I’ll start.

See you soon.

Love
Ginger

Welcome to our little over one month old Silver Ginger web site. This thing is updated regularly, so keep hitting that button. We’ve been getting over 1,000 visitors a week, and to be brutally honest with you lot, I’m honoured, chuffed and just plain old proud that you still give a shit. I know I’ve said that you are the best, but it looks like you ain’t going to let me forget it either.

If you look at the news page you’ll see that things are getting under way for the recording of the Silver Ginger album, so I won’t repeat myself. I’ll just tell you that this is gonna be the album that blows the cobwebs off the stagnant scene that woefully calls itself entertainment. This album is going to make the dead dance and the mute sing. And with more hooks per square inch than a pirate’s convention, there won’t be a dry tongue in the house.

Yeah, I know the last band was a catchy little combo, but I’m streamlining the beast, removing the excess metal. And I’ve ended up with something that gleams like a platinum-coated mirrorball on fireworks night. You thought you’d heard catchy before? You thought you’d danced before? Forget what you’ve been used to for the last year or two. Rock ‘n’ roll is coming home, and it’s bringing the party with it.

Since I’ve been here in the US, I’ve discovered two things. One, music has turned into grunge again. Fucking grunge, I tell you! OK, so the lank hair has been replaced by neat styling; actors and musicians have started sharing the same hairdressers again, and the clothes have gotten more colourful and cleaner. But this is due to the latest skate designers, not musicians mixing, matching and trying to look like rock stars. I mean c’mon, snowboarding, skateboarding – the only thing that’s changed in the last ten years is the surface. This is not rock ‘n’ roll.

And secondly, America is the same as everywhere else in the world – it’s the same in Japan, Britain, Europe and even the darkest reaches of Africa… everyone’s bored shitless. Where’s the entertainment? The only people putting on a show are metal guys like Manson and Zombie, and although this is very healthy and good, where are the tunes??? Where’s the action?????

Everywhere I go, all I hear is the same old complaint. ‘Whatever happened to bands that made songs for the soundtrack to my life?’ ‘When was the last time I got a girl / boy from being at a gig?’ Metal is music for boys. Girls don’t go to metal concerts and if they do it’s to humour their boyfriend, or because their friends have crap taste and they can’t dance. They certainly don’t go to pull guys! Everyone’s bored and nobody’s fucking. And someone needs to do something about it.

So here is my promise… Silver Ginger music will get you laid, or your money back. I know that’s a tall order but I’m confident. As soon as the world starts singing and dancing and smiling again, the walls will come down, the clothes will come off and rock n’ roll will live.

Trust me on this one.

Love And Rockets…
Ginger

Hey, you. Nice to see you dropped by.

The Wildhearts were a good band and it’s nice to see that they had an effect on people. Job done. And this is now. Danny is rocking like a bastard in The Yo-Yo’s, Ritch is newly married to his gal Emma B (formerly Emma B) and is making ultra-huge rock dance beats, and Jef is doing something called Plan B that I’ve yet to hear. And I’m bumming around the world.

Since this month finds me in LA, I’m doing an album here featuring nearly all of my favourite people in the world. Sooner or later you’ve got to treat yourself and that’s just what I’m planning on doing. For the rest of my life. Give it a shot, you might like it. One of the familiar faces (to some of you) that will be on the new album is Bam, who played with us on our first two EPs and was better known as one of The Dogs D’Amour.

This whole computer lark is a bit new to me, but I’m going to make best use of it as a means of making available rare pre-album demos (that I only slightly remember recording) of songs that never saw a studio. There’ll also be rare Wildhearts video compilations filmed by ourselves and our friends, with early gigs featuring early line-ups, and stuff that I’m recording but will never release. And rest assured, these CDs will be professionally mastered and packaged. We never willingly ripped anyone off, so I’m not going to start now.

And seeing that The Wildhearts have cleaned up our act, you are welcome to ask anything you want and we can clear up some of these rumours that have been flying around for the last few years. If there’s any reason in the world to get into this, then it’s to give young bands a few tips on what not to do and save you a bit of time, and to answer any questions you want to ask about pretty much anything. I’ll keep updating information as soon as I get it, and let you know any touring or album news before some magazine gets hold of it. You kept us alive so the least I can do is speak to you on a more personal level. So keep those questions coming in and I’ll eventually answer them all.

Music is supposed to be fun, so let’s go.

To the beginning of a new chapter, glad to have you along…
Ginger