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A recording diary - click opera
February 2010
 
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Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 01:35 am
A recording diary

To get you in the mood for the next release in the Creation Advent Calendar -- which will take us up to 1991, and my Hippopotamomus album -- I want to give a much more hands-on, unglamourous description of how an album comes to be recorded.



It's easy to get carried away with the sociology, the poetry and the glamour of an album, and forget the fact that recording is work, sometimes boring, repetitive and frustrating work. I've found my diary from 1991 and transcribed the entries dealing with the period -- a couple of weeks in March and April of that year -- when I was at work in the studio, recording Hippopotamomus. It's full of details I'd quite forgotten -- the fact that my brother came into the studio and laid down a spoken-word exegesis of deconstruction, for instance (it was supposed to go at the end of Bluestocking, but got replaced by my French ex reading some Duras).

There'll be a proper Hippopotamomus entry later this week with the songs themselves, the themes and assessments and context. The glamour! But here -- straight from the horse-faced young man's mouth -- are the interestingly boring details of how Hippopotamomus got pieced together, day by day, and how I came home to Cleveland Street and played the mixes to my New Zealand flatmate Vicky. This will be boring for many -- perhaps nobody will read all of it -- but that's kind of the point. It's here (under the cut) to show that being a musician means getting up in the morning and going to work as a musician. Oh, and queuing at Safeway for sandwiches.



Monday March 25th 1991

I phone Radio Rentals (once Vicky's demanded I get up to read Suzy's letter; there's one for each of us). Up to Euston Road for a taxi, carrying the Technics. The cheery driver takes me through the daffodil-filled Hyde Park and is pleasant until he calls a group of blacks on Fulham Road "Winnie Mandela's fans". We find Shorrolds Road and a long-haired, cut-faced Doug stumbles to the door in a tracksuit. Set up my keyboard and decide to start with The Painter and His Model. Do a vocal, replace most of the Technics sounds or put them to tape (a call to Key West confirms it's impossible to cut off the speakers). I explore Fulham; can't get Select anywhere. Shop at Safeways, full of mumbling, slow idiots. In fact it's much more provincial and proletarian than I'd imagined, not up to Chelsea. They do have my records in HMV, though. I ring Noko, leave a message. He calls at 7; is now a raga remixer. Devoto is a photo librarian! Will come down tomorrow. We slowly drag towards a mix (late afternoon, I fall asleep in my chair). Then I recast the song, making it more easy listening, setting the vox higher. We finish, sipping beer, at 10.30. I tube home. Vicky is watching the police cars on TV, snaps about dishes etc. also offers me some pulpy broccoli soup. I ring Thomi, who tells me the book jacket is in the Sunday Times (McLaren-Ross, me raising glass). I listen to the song, decide it's too polished and wimpy. Styron on Late Show.

Tuesday March 26th 1991

The usual dramas with Vicky about the broken TV remote -- ring Radio Rentals etc. As I'm leaving, she tells me to wash my cup. Outside it's cold. During the long wait at Edgware Road I read Tamms' Eno book. This whets my appetite for what is in fact a dullish day at the mixing desk. First we redo The Painter and his Model. Give the whole mix 100% compression. Then put a small "room" on the sound. This holds it all together better. I munch the chicken tikka sandwiches I've bought at Safeway and drink Doug's tea. Then we acoustically record all the Technics sounds for Pornography and I do a vocal -- two, in fact, one used as a reverb-swamped backing vocal for the other. Two bass sounds. Rhodes and Pro-Rack piano. Doug takes ages trying to program some mutes and failing. I go out to Safeway again and buy us more sandwiches. Noko arrives at 7.30. I play him Ventriloquists and the tracks we've done. He likes Pornography best, wants to play on it and add mix ideas. But some people arrive and we're shunted into the kitchen, where we discuss Devoto's 'Paul Morley mindset' etc. Then do several stressful mixes of Porno. Noko drives me home in his old Saab. It's hard to communicate, he's so into music, so affable. He borrows 2 Luxuria videos (interviews). The kitchen is full: Sam, Michelle and Malcolm are being educated into the Partridge Family by Vicky. I get a Ragam. Listen to tracks.

Wednesday March 27th 1991

It's a beautiful clear day of penetrative sun. I put on my sunglasses. Exchange looks with a black girl dancing with a huge teddy on the Edgware Road platform. At Fulham I queue for ages at Safeway with a pile of sandwiches. People are all so stupid looking. Fulham's Labour base becomes clear. At the Spike we load up Song in Contravention. Doug has actually worked with Galliano, plays me a track about cheese. Starting with their sample, we bring in a Jupiter 8 chord pad, D-70 strings (beautiful slow patch), a fat bass, and all the while the sun is on the white wall and bouganvillea. I go out for a paper, make more use of the diagonal streets which are a short cut to the tube station, where I get the only readable paper: New York Review of Books. This is actually fabulous; opinionated, excitable, political. Add some weird ascending bleepy noises on the Jupiter. At 5 we start to mix, Doug lights his grass. I startle Sally in the kitchen reading NME: she vacates quickly. The song is 'beautiful', but small adjustments take ages. Finish at 10.30. I get a takeaway MacFish burger which drips on me on the tube home. A man who has pissed himself hides his head in turned-up collar. When I get in Suzy is on the phone: she's down, talks of saving enough to come back to London. I play my songs excitedly. Vicky is unimpressed, though eager to share various smells and new tights with me. Play Dream Warriors in bed and wish I was that fresh (though not that boring).

Thursday March 28th 1991

Vicky and I take turns waiting for the Radio Rentals people. I read NME and, for once, have a civilised breakfast. Tube to Fulham. It's vaguely sunny. Okay the mix of Contravention and, embarrasedly, get Monkey for Sallie up and running. Leave out superfluous Technics pads. The 'acid' sample is dirty, distorted. I do a growly vocal. It's very quick to mix. We re-trim the Kontakte sample. Doug keeps demonstrating Notator functions like force legato and the Transform page. Angie rings, will visit on Tuesday. 'Monkey' finished, we get up Painter and Model again. While Doug goes out for a sandwich, I mix it anew. We sample 'Time from the Missing Channel' from the Dream Warriors LP and then put a very rhythmic gate on it (and the 'guitar' synth part). This works brilliantly, makes it much more compelling and contemporary. Commit the final mix at 9. Listen on the little cassette. Finish early. I wait half an hour for buses, starving. Catch a 14 to South Ken tube, opposite an African mother in white robes. Vicky is in a good mood, laden with merchandise from Our Price. She's got me the Galliano LP. I ring Elaine, just back from Leeds. Rather dull conversation about her field trip etc. She may come down next week. Simon and Tim arrive and have a dull, assertive discussion about who can / can't sing, who's 'happening', etc. I eat Vicky's pasta, ring Mick Head for her, listen to Lou Reed's rather good Metal Machine Music and Galliano and my stuff.

Friday March 29th 1991

Listen to Galliano in the bath. Take this and the Lou Reed tape in to Spike (wait at South Ken for a bus -- none come, so I hail a cab). Noko is already there. We transfer the Technics bits to tape for Ventriloquists and Dolls. I do a quick, but good, vocal. Then Noko sets up his guitar sound; delay, reverb, distortion etc, through Doug's AXX-man. Noko gets pretty excitable, apologises for wasting our time as he lays down solo after solo, getting less and less spontaneous. Eventually we blend his first, McGeoghish low solo with a high 'Boredom' simple one. Then he does a shimmering slide through the whole song, but takes a while to find something that fits with the chords and it's pretty laborious. He stays while we fit a rhythm break in. I go out for pistachio nuts and some provincial Fulham sandwiches. Later it's the off-license for Budweiser and Perrier. We begin mixing, programming mutes, and it all falls into place and gets 'funky'. Noko's girlfriend (?) Christine arrives and they leave, taking their heavy equipment. Doug and I get a good mix a bit later. D. is in a mood for fulsome tributes. The vocal sounds rather middish, but I keep it. Circle line home. V is in a sullen mood. We watch Ross on Almodovar, I get a Macdonalds, V snaps about dishes (get a life, V!) and I listen bewitched to Ventriloquists and then Luxuria.

Saturday March 30th 1991

I leave, clutching my sampler to my knees on the tube, reading 'Travels in Nihilon'. Precocious little girls misread the names of the Circle line stations. I take a taxi from South Ken -- a codger who gets lost in Fulham, stops the clock, promises 'kindly' to put a bit extra on the receipt then pockets the difference himself. We set up and tape Technics parts from Ate A Girl Right Up. Douglas Benford arrives at 2.30. I go out to Safeway for sandwiches. A mad Irishwoman in the queue wants to knife and hatchet the cashier and customers. Douglas starts to play around with the Casio CZ1. I'm 'sent' into the garden, where I have hand sex with a cat. Douglas gates then twiddles EQ knobs on a string part he's written over the break. This sounds very Shamenesque. I video the 'happening' mix. Unfortunately Doug has arranged to go to Jeffrey Bernard is unwell and so we whack to DAT something rather feeble and reggaefied and I catch a bus to the West End (Douglas has left). There's a vibrant, happy feeling as I walk up Charing Cross Road. At home I grab my cassette and don't talk to V. She, however, comes into my room to point out that Je T'Aime is on at the Scala next Monday. She's nursing her spots. Snaps at me when I switch off the heater. I order a Ragam. Call her a pig. She sulks. Vici MacD phones, talks about Vic Reeves, Artscribe, Steve's new flat, the end of cynicism. Fight on the street. 'The Servant'.

Sunday March 31st 1991

I forget to put my watch forward an hour and am 'late' at Spike. I've brought a whole bag of food from the Indian supermarket and an Independent, so I eat and read as Doug sets up a remix of Ate A Girl Right Up. Do some Casio SK1 trumpet pads on the 'cannibal' sections, restore old bass drum pattern. We get a new mix on DAT at 3.30 or so; it's acceptable, but not great. Douglas arrives -- no, first Preacher Harry Powell and his brother, shy and bearded, enter bringing the Hippopotamus Song by Flanders and Swann. Douglas gets in just as I'm doing a husky vocal. Then we all cluster round the mic and do backing vocals for the 'Hip hip, pop pop' choruses. Only Harry's voice is really good, so that's what we sample. Then take the long, low 'mud' from Flanders and Swann and spin it in. Then Douglas does an acidic bit on his CZ1. The 'boys' all leave to see some comedian perform at a Mexican restaurant somewhere. I'm in a nervous, peevish mood. Read about Slovenia in the Sunday Review. Doug sets up a mix, I take off reverb etc. Don't realise, as I mix, that I've overrun by an hour and a half (new time). Get a slightly chaotic version and leave. Fabulous moon, last Circle line train. Vicky has, thank God, a NZ friend, Alex, in; built like a shit house, he's very easy to talk to. We eat pistachios and drink Australian wine watching Woody Allen in Play It Again, Sam. I show them the video of last night's street fight, play Hippo and Ventriloquists to... acceptance, merely.

Monday April 1st 1991

I start the day by asking Vicky to come into the studio with Tammy at 2. Ring Mark to request an exegesis of deconstruction (dialogue with Catherine, who I also ring). Also Tammy. Shop, eat, leave (the tubes are mercifully quick). I'm an hour late, nonetheless. Do a vocal (guide plus choruses) for Marquis of Sadness. Transfer the Technics tracks (Doug doesn't bother to separate percussion sounds). Tammy arrives at 2.30, having forgotten the number and rung lots of bells. Vicky gets there at 3, all dolled up for Dominic, whom she may (she doesn't) visit later at Tower Records. Tammy has laid down a rather out-of-tune vocal. Vicky's, when she's learnt it (actually I coach and conduct her through line by line, patiently) is little-girlish, rather pretty. After three hours' labour, we go out together to Henry J. Bean's and I get a ghastly burger and soggy chips. Back at the studio, Douglas arrives to collect his keyboard. He listens to a couple of tracks. Everyone goes, and Doug, quietly denigratory of the girls' chatter, mixes studiously. I highlight usable bits of Tammy's singing, mix her deeper in reverb and Vicky high up. (She's given me Justine's phone number in exchange for a meal next week.) We get a good mix at around 8. Doug then spends an hour trying to put in a very uptempo jazz drum sound -- great on its own, it doesn't work with the song. I zip off at 9, catch a 14 bus through town (interesting people). Play V the song. She laughs. Watch TV (French arts, French porn) til one.

Tuesday April 2nd 1991

Two calls wake me -- one summons Vicky to work, the other is Catherine cancelling her singing session this evening. I'm cross. Leave a message asking Angie to come. Lots of mail, including a letter from P, which manages to be prosaic, dull and utterly tragic at the same time. I read Magazine Litteraire (Derrida issue) on the tube. No District line trains, so I take a cheap cab from Gloucester Road. Do a vocal for Bluestocking, then Michelin Man and A Dull Documentary. Substitute the Technics tenor sax parts on the latter with sampled ones. Spend a while correcting the drum pattern on Michelin Man. A second, less growly vocal on Documentary works better. Visit Safeway for sandwiches. Everybody seems slow and purposeless. Later I get Budweiser from the 'offy'. I'm deliberately cool to a woman who has been cool to a black. Doug chats about Australia, lyrics, Thatched Cottage. Mark and Gillian arrive (as I'm carrying the beer home). Mark has prepared a speech about deconstruction. When Angie arrives we record a dialogue. A the thick Northerner, Mark the party pedant. Fits of giggles. Douglas arrives. M, G and A leave. Douglas fiddles with his CZ101, but I'm impatient, let him do only rudimentary noises. He goes. Doug copies Technics stuff to tape. I leave just before 10. It's raining. Catch an 11 bus to Victoria, tube home. V is out. I watch C3 and tapes. Ring Catherine, who talks for an hour about my taste for youth, tension, moving house, her new, effeminate boyfriend. On TV 'Slashdance' fails to live up to its title. Vicky arrives, reads me articles from Frisco magazine. Listen to Zoe tapes.

Wednesday April 3rd 1991

Receive a Complete statement: I'm only £200 away from the black on my whole account. Bathe, don polka dot tie, get a Circle line train. Read about Vic Reeves in NME. Taxi from Gloucester Road. Arrive at three minutes to 11. Doug has taped Technics parts to Michelin Man and we start the mix. Doug, perhaps upset that I rejected his jazz drum idea, leaves me to the mixing, going elsewhere. After, say, 40 minutes of juggling, effects-testing, EQing, I commit mixes of each of our songs -- Michelin Man, Bluestocking and A Dull Documentary. Munch sandwiches. I'm quite cool and bossy. Try a slowed then speeded drum loop on Documentary, but it works better with weird delays and transpositions. Michelin Man isn't great. I'm unsure about the dialogue at the end of Bluestocking, and mix the two tracks, to uncertain effect. Make a cassette off DAT at 7ish. Call a cab and leave, Doug cool and noncommittal, probably relieved it's over (he keeps the DAT... 'If it was any other company, man...') Cab home with a reticent Irishman. Order a Ragam, play Hippo and Galliano and Jordan. Watch TV with the sound down. Ring Tammy and Vici MacD, who goes on for ages about Vic Reeves (I see his show for the first time). Vicky gets in and demonstrates new clothes. She likes some of the new mixes.

On Friday April 5th Vici MacDonald -- who has the official function of the "judge" of my records -- comes round to listen to the album:

Vici MacDonald comes round from Steve's house at 7.30. Vicky is watching TV in her usual wilful way. But everything stops for a play-through of the new LP. I tremble before the verdicts: she likes all but Dull Documentary and Painter. Ventriloquists "is a work of genius", Pornography beautiful. She raves about the Telecom tower re: Contravention.

On Wednesday April 10th I visit Paul White at ME Company to give him instructions on the sleeve:

8.30 -- immerser on. 10.30 -- bath. 11.30 leave for Kentish Town. Along Leighton Road in carefully-chosen grey, cream, black plastic. A summer day of languid sensuality. Up the spiral stairs to the ME company. The office is big and chic, Paul White has a view south over the Telecom Tower, London. He's baldish, stubby, quietly friendly, but inarticulate and not quite as fizzed to meet me as I am him. He likes the Michelin Man idea, finds a big, cropped image of him, chooses orange and blue, and looks up a Disney hippo's head. We discuss Duffer and Banderas and he says 'I think I can do this'.

On April 11th Catherine finally turns up for her reading. The deconstruction dialogue is replaced by a passage from Marguerite Duras. The album is finished. Hear it here later this week.

52CommentReplyShare


(Anonymous)
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 03:57 am (UTC)

So, you had sex with a cat?


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imomus
imomus
imomus
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 10:23 am (UTC)

I guess I just stroked a cat, but was so bored I described it as "hand sex".


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imomus
imomus
imomus
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 01:10 pm (UTC)

On the Winnie Mandela thing:

"In 1991, she was convicted of kidnapping and being an accessory to assault... Her six-year jail sentence was reduced to a fine on appeal." I guess she was both a figurehead for anti-apartheid and seen as corrupt, and therefore just mentioning her was a way for a racist cabbie to discredit the anti-apartheid struggle.


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(Anonymous)
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 07:22 am (UTC)

Ah yes, beautiful handwriting.... recently been pining to return to London after being stewed in sexual prejudice and privilege for too long on mainland Europe. Picked up in a second hand bookshop (disclaimer : hardly any English books there) a copy of Bracewells 'The Conclave' and this entry dovetails neatly (more in time and place than in subject matter). The two words 'Radio Rentals' are enough to transport me back to the whitewash of Queensway and long spring walks in Hyde Park with a wonky walkman whose headphones only worked in the left channel (reason for damaged hearing in that ear). Are documents in the aftermath are stronger than the actual thing? I don't know if stronger is the right word to use, or it is appropriate to weigh them up (so to speak) like that. I suppose simply, if you don't know London then this diary fragment doesn't mean what it means to me : Safeway queues, African women waiting for buses, Telecom Tower, Circle Line, Fulham, Vicky, Catherine, Mark, Gillian, Angie, Tammy, Sam, Michelle, Martin (for me in Queensway they were Kate, Charlotte, Alan, Fiona, Jacqueline, Alison, Julie, Gena, Stephen). Walter Benjamin (he who must be quoted to meet already before 9A.M. the designated daily pomposity quota) said “A chronicler who recites events without distinguishing between major and minor ones acts in accordance with the following truth: nothing that has ever happened should be regarded as lost for history” Very stirring to read in the early morning darkness Sir.


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imomus
imomus
imomus
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 10:27 am (UTC)

There was actual dovetailing with the actual Michael Bracewell in this era for me; he was a friend.


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subalpine
subalpine
subalpine
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 08:10 am (UTC)

there's something particularly interesting (to me, at least) about reading something like this, not written with publication in mind. not that i haven't been enjoying the song-by-song evaluations for the other advent releases, but i got a lot more out of reading this than, say, the 33 1/3 series Loveless & Daydream Nation books..
it reminded me a little of reading Jean Renoir:Correspondance, even if most of the references weren't entirely clear to me, in both cases.
any chance you might continue this for Voyager..?


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imomus
imomus
imomus
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 12:02 pm (UTC)

Not sure if I have diaries for that one -- may do.


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(Anonymous)
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 08:27 am (UTC)

It's interesting that you talk about Noko and Devoto. Have you seen that Noko has been confirmed as the guitarist for the reformed Magazine concerts next year?


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imomus
imomus
imomus
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 10:29 am (UTC)

Oh, I didn't know that. That's good news -- he's super-talented. And, as you can see in my account of his solo in Ventriloquists and Dolls, he's a master of pastiche: he was doing Shelley and McGeogh styles


ReplyThread Parent
endoftheseason
endoftheseason
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 08:52 am (UTC)
A very small studio diary

My paltry and sad experience of recording back in ye olde day involved lots of sitting and standing around and thinking, "My back: she hurts."


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boof_boy
boof_boy
boof_boy
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 09:08 am (UTC)
Vicky

She sounds like she was a bit of a nightmare. What was going on in HER life? She's definitely the star of this entry.


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imomus
imomus
imomus
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 10:34 am (UTC)
Re: Vicky

She's a teacher in New Zealand now. We're in touch on Facebook quite a bit.

It was a strange relationship; she was Lawrence from Felt's lover, but she lived with me. A very beautiful girl, but quite "difficult" at times. But we totally shared a reverence for french girlpop and Gainsbourg and Mylene Farmer, and she was very formative on my style at this point. Her collection of records was much bigger and better than mine, and when she returned to New Zealand she left most of it with me. So these Unheard Vinyl things I'm doing are all me listening to Vicky's records.

It's funny, when I think about Vicky now I miss her a lot, but when I read this diary I don't!


ReplyThread Parent
petit_paradis
petit_paradis
erik
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 10:02 am (UTC)

could it by any chance be that the goodiepal song intro is a sample from the rockers movie?


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imomus
imomus
imomus
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 10:35 am (UTC)

Well spotted!


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autopope
autopope
Autopope
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 10:46 am (UTC)

It's easy to get carried away with the sociology, the poetry and the glamour of an album, and forget the fact that recording is work, sometimes boring, repetitive and frustrating work.

Count yourself lucky: you could always be a novelist instead.

("Day 52. Got up, cleaned cat sick from foot of the stairs, made a pot of tea, went into the office and sat down in front of computer. Surfed internet for two hours until boredom and/or existential ennui forced me to look at the manuscript. Six hours and four pots of tea later, look out the window: it's dark. Only sixty thousand words to go. The cat is watching me intently from the arm of the sofa. I think she's waiting for me to die ...")


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imomus
imomus
imomus
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 11:14 am (UTC)

Oh, I know the novelist's ennuis all too well; that's basically how I live now. My diary for yesterday would read:

Up at 10, check comments for the Creation Advent Calendar -- disappointingly few -- answer mail from editor Kari querying punctuation in Scotlands 48, 281, 318, 587, 945, work out a system for our editing work which doesn't use Microsoft Word, go out for shawarma to the devout muslim kebab shop on Boppstrasse, buy cold green tea in pet bottles from the Asia store. Hisae goes to the supermarket and I head out to the bakery. Transcribe 1991 diary for a blog entry, bring up more boxes from the cellar, work on edits for Scotlands 43, 787, 963, 141, 689, 67 and 154. Hisae -- who's feeling fragile and dizzy -- makes us soba for supper and we project the Mushishi movie again. I show her Pop Up Computer, a CD-ROM too old and glitchy to run on the iMac. Post my blog, go to bed at 2.


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(Anonymous)
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 11:14 am (UTC)

yes I got a bit stuck on

'People are all so stupid looking. Fulham's Labour base becomes clear'

The new town's prejudices become clear. You can see that that's an unpleasant thing to think/write/publish, can't you?


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imomus
imomus
imomus
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 11:35 am (UTC)

Yes, I was a bit shocked to read that. I'm not quite sure what I meant -- I was a Labour supporter, and certainly couldn't have been implying that people who voted Labour were stupid. Maybe there'd been some recent story involving a by-election in Fulham or something?

Anyway it's a bit mystifying, but I left it in.


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imomus
imomus
imomus
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 12:23 pm (UTC)

There's a wider picture that emerges from this diary, combined with hindsight, a picture of how politics and culture dovetailed, or rather how Britain went thattaway in the 90s and I went t'other.

What's clear here, both in and out of the studio, is that I'm attuned to non-white Britain. Outside the studio, the people I notice are wearing African robes. I bristle with hostility towards white people who seem dismissive of blacks. Inside the studio, I'm excited by french pop, sure, but also a new crop of 90s bands like Galliano, the Dream Warriors, Massive Attack, Soul II Soul. These are mixed-race bands on new labels like Talkin' Loud. They're making distinctively 90s forms of fusion music, acid jazz and trip hop.

So, although my own label Creation is about to take white indie guitar rock massively mainstream with Oasis (who fuse Status Quo, the Pistols and The Beatles, basically), and although grunge is about to be a worldwide white rock phenomenon, I'm far, far away from those developments. It's as if I feel there's a connection between all that stuff and the racist cabbie who alienates me so much. I'd much rather be a marginal figure like Rob Gallagher from Galliano -- a man with Celtic roots who lives out a romantic bohemian vision of black subculture, especially jazz culture.

It's not so surprising, given these feelings, that I'll shortly marry a British Bangladeshi woman and leave the UK. I won't be around for Britpop, and all those union jacks. That stuff rubs me up the wrong way.


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(Anonymous)
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 07:51 pm (UTC)
The end of Altermodern has already happened

I think I read too much into Britpop. I saw it, essentially, as post-altermodern. We'd had hybridisation, creolization - the chicken tikka masala effect (Glaswegian diners obviously years ahead of dutiful, authentic, by-the-book French intellectuals) (although Bourriaud admits he is no philosopher) that Britpop was a way to reassess legacy cultures (even nationalism) in light of grass roots change.


ReplyThread Parent

(Anonymous)
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 01:36 pm (UTC)
Thanks for this

I love reading about being in the studio. That grounds-eye view of a record when you see mostly the parts and not the whole is a fascinating time. I love slaving over the tiny things that most people will probably never notice, and I love reading about other people doing the same.
>Oasis (who fuse Status Quo, the Pistols and The Beatles, basically)< good god, that is unbearably precise.


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(Anonymous)
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 02:34 pm (UTC)

Looking back on life through a diary shows us how much time is wasted on trivialities and minor annoyances. Out of all the things that occupied you during this time, the album and your ideas are the only things that had any lasting importance. Eno's diary was similar. His important contributions are his music and his thoughts in interviews. But the diary is just him jetting around to art openings/charity events and talking about his kids. I liked the blend of biography and sociology in the pre-Click Opera essays best.


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imomus
imomus
imomus
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 02:44 pm (UTC)

Oh, I quite agree. But there's a body / mind issue here -- it does take this crowd of trivial details and experiences to provide the material from which we refine and select our biggest, most abstract ideas. We aren't brains in jars.


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pay_option07
pay_option07
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 02:38 pm (UTC)
listen to Lou Reed's rather good Metal Machine Music

I thought I was the only one that ever purchased that album. I would never go near anything with the name "Bogen" after that. Like the diary and comments about food and supermarkets. You should do a song about it!


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(Anonymous)
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 03:21 pm (UTC)

For someone so attuned to the sensual pleasures of life, you've never had much interest in food, have you? In your diary it's all McDonalds and Safeways sandwiches, yuck! Didn't you ever go to the deli and get a nice bit of prosciutto or something?


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(Anonymous)
Wed, Dec. 17th, 2008 03:40 pm (UTC)

I find it quite fascinating that there are so many food references in these diary entries, and almost all of them express disgust. A girl offers you "pulpy" soup; there's a "takeaway MacFish burger which drips on me on the tube home"; "provincial Fulham sandwiches", "a ghastly burger and soggy chips" etc etc. You never seem to make your own food, only eat your flatmate's and then leave the detritus for her to clear up, which she complains about vociferously. I'm sure Freud would have something to say about it all!


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