Ball Of Confusion

Unfinishe, the self-made, self-produced, self-mutating opus of Design A Wave is enough to send me tumbling over the edge.

It's all over the place. Just when you get a little bit comfortable, just when you think you've nailed down where this one-man electrorchestra is coming from, it's off on another tangent, be it beat driven noise, John Carpenter inspired soundtrack, or one-man-and-his-4 track-in-a-shed thrashes / ambles.

These are the facts, as my troubled mind sees them:

- 26 tracks of mystery
- over 62 minutes in length
- from 6 minute long movements to 60 second ideas
- apparently spanning 6 years of output from 1999 to 2005

Stats-tastic.

As the briefest possible sampler, we have Track 03 (the tale of the evil-animated-teacher from The Wall, waking up after a night on the sauce, before going down the roller disco, and eventually busting some truly massive moves), and Track 26 (pre-free-jazz played by poorly-designed-yet-nonetheless-charming-robots in the aforementioned shed, or the accompanying theme to the long forgotten secret ‘Jazz Club’ level from Double Dragon), but there is more, so much more.

You can get Unfinishe from the man himself at his Myspace, for the princely sum of £3.50. Truly, for an hour of constant yet entertaining self doubt, you won't find a better bargain. Magic.

Design A Wave - 03

Design A Wave - 26

Boredoms, Griefs Fade Away

A bit contradictory this one, as it's going to be short and sweet, which is more or less the polar opposite of today's chanteuse of choice.

Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Grace Jones.

I wasn't planning on posting this, but following a particularly fruity weekend, my journey in today was even more pony than usual. It was raining, my eyes weren't working properly, and I'd just sandwiched myself into the 08.04 sauna to nowhere. But, just as I was about to attempt an escape through the smallest window in the world, La Vie En Rose popped up on shuffle, and suddenly, everything was a little bit better.

I'm fairly sure Miss Jones isn't entirely of this world, in body as well as mind. And I'm fairly certain she would have kicked Roger Moore's khaki-klad-kods all over Paris if she hadn't wanted to jump off the Eiffel Tower instead. The fact she didn’t, shows just how much of an extra terrestrial lady she truly is.

Buy Island Life. Now. Thank you please.

Grace Jones - La Vie En Rose

Lords, Get Me Through The Wrong Way Home...

Sometimes, when I have to wait too long for the right train, I get the wrong train home. The right train is right train, because it leads me through hills of Royal fecundity. The wrong train is the wrong train because it leads me to the barren barren heath.

Last night, I got the wrong train. And last night, the barren barren heath was bathed in grey broken light, swept by wind - weighed down by history and host only to a murder of crows and grown men trying to fly with kites. Brutal and desperate in equal measure. But the scene was only complete with an appropriate soundtrack, and last night, that was These New Puritans.

With distorted concussion/percussion, low freq-buzzing bass, fuzzed vocals and background squawks and bleeps, and lyrics concerned with Middle Age physiological beliefs and the contextual crimes of the Empire, These New Puritans take a determined step away from the current crop of perhaps simpler pleasures.

Dressed in a uniform part suicidal-Mod-in-negative, part youth movement, and with a clinical, pre-tensed live set, they almost dare accessibility. But with tunes not too far removed from Elvis Costello classics, and chant along vocals, there creeps through an almost pop sensibility that allows the listener in. So dark and foreboding, yes, but also enticing and the the right side of salvation. Enough to get you through the wrong way home, anyway.

They've been in the studio putting together an EP which will hopefully see the light of day sooner rather than later, and have some live appearances coming up starting tonight at the 333, Artrocker on the 27th of June, and In Your Ear at 93 Feet East on the 28th of July. For more demo clips, videos and impenetrable musings, their website is the best bet, closely followed by their Myspace.

These New Puritans - I Want To Be Tracy Emin

These New Puritans - C16th

And Lo, The Devil, He Did Bleep

Two men of questionable means, more bleeping lights that you can shake a shitty stick at, bpm turned up to 280, and some Ivor Cutler and Roy Orbison thrown in for good measure. This is how we spend our Tuesday nights.

Skin Mitten - The Sign Of The Devil

The Sound Of The Sea

When I was but a wee nipper, Mrs White would often tell me that if you put a sea-shell to your ear, you can hear the sea. I believed her, as any honest young boy would. But now, I realise she was lying to me. My very own mother.

I now know Mrs White was lying, because I'm a little bit older, a little bit wiser, and I've heard Captain Blood Blood And The Seadogs - and now I know that they are the sound of the sea. Well, the Thames Estuary anyway.

The British seaside can be split between two types of treat - either a quaint, well kept haven, scented with the whiff of the old and the infirm, or a desperation fuelled, end-of-the-line nonce-hole, reeking of meths. And to my mind, the second type is generally preferable.

I've spent many a happy hour wandering around such barren wastelands as Blackpool, Margate and Hastings. When I was little, it was all a bit dazzling and exciting, but as you get a bit older, you start seeing the cracks, the filth swept into the corners, and the grotesques that congregate there, because there's no-where else to go, apart from the cold salty embrace of the sea. Loving it.

And Southend is my favourite nonce-hole of them all. It's probably not the most horrific in all honesty, but I've got fond memories. When I was still at school, and we weren't old enough to get into the local hostelries, Phil Strickland would sometimes borrow his dad's company car, and we'd drive to Southend to spend an evening 'cruising' along the seafront, whilst idly sipping Super Strongbow. We stuck out like a tricky kipper, because in amongst the Max Powered simple-mobiles blasting out tawdry house, we would play a nice bit of Dionne Warwick, or whatever else Mr Strickland had left to hand in the glovebox. Surprisingly, we never got stabbed.

In the most tenuous of links, the good Captain and his 'Dogs don't come from Southend, but they do hail from Leigh-On-Sea, which is just up the road. So it's no surprise that they've captured the true sound of the sea, and proven my good mother wrong. The Swamp gets this best, with the timeless couplet The skinny eyed, bug eyed, one eyed with five teeth / She was my favourite - then she died. Beautiful.

More songs and links to videos are on their Myspace, but I imagine the true beauty of the Captain will only come through in person - so see them on a boat in Falmouth on the 17th of June (apparently), the 12 Bar Club on the 1st of July and The New Cross Inn on the 3rd of July, and hear them on Dexter Bentley's Resonance show on the 24th of June. Ooh. Arr.

Captain Blood Blood And The Seadogs - Back Into The Sea

Captain Blood Blood And The Seadogs - The Swamp