Minutes of The Tiny Dancing Social Committee Annual Planning Meeting

Present: Mr. Tiny Dancer, Mr. Crisp Debris, Mr. Ricky Stardust, Mr. Casanova Cox

Apologies: None

Location: Mr. Dancer’s Lodgings


Mr. Dancer welcomed all to the meeting, and thanked them for attending. He also congratulated Mr. Stardust and Mr. Debris on their recent co-habitation, commenting on the elegance of the arrangement. Mr. Cox also offered his congratulations. Mr. Stardust and Mr. Debris offered their thanks in return.

Mr. Dancer confirmed that the purpose of the meeting was to agree the first outing of the year of The Tiny Dancing Social Committee, and stated that he hoped a suitable agreement could be made that met the requirements of all concerned. All confirmed that they were hopeful that this could be achieved in a timely fashion.

Mr. Debris asked where more ale could be found, and was directed towards the local emporium. He decided to remain for the moment.

Mr. Cox commenced proceedings by stating his vehement opposition to attending the Glastonbury Festival this year, indicating that after last year’s farce, his patience had been pushed beyond the pale. Mr. Stardust seconded this feeling, Mr. Dancer concurred. Mr. Debris stated that as long as he had breath in his body, he would not sleep in a tent. It was therefore decided that The Committee would not attend the Glastonbury Festival this year.

Mr. Stardust took the opportunity to recount an amusing tale, wherein Mr. Baker (S), an acquaintance of The Committee, relieved himself of his dinner in a stranger’s tent whilst watching Bjork at last years Glastonbury Festival. All found the tale very amusing, and Mr. Cox thanked Mr. Stardust for reminding him of the occasion.

Mr. Debris enquired as to whether there was any wine available. Mr. Dancer stated that there was a bottle of port in the pantry, which was swiftly fetched by Mr. Dancer’s man.

Given Mr. Debris’ strong feeling against the use of a tent as a means of accommodation, Mr. Dancer moved The Committee’s attention to the forthcoming All Tomorrow’s Parties functions, taking place at Butlins Minehead and Pontins Camber Sands.

It was explained to Mr. Debris by Mr. Cox that attendance at said extravaganza would allow him to sleep in a bed in a chalet. Mr. Debris confirmed that he would find this agreeable, as it would allow him to reside in a manner as a gentleman might expect, and not in a fashion that would not even be suitable for swine, at which he consumed a generous glass of port with a decadent flourish.

Mr. Dancer then moved proceedings on to the tricky choice of whether to attend the Minehead or Camber Sands Parties. Much heated debate was held on the aspects of both options, with the pro and contra arguments given equal regard. At one point, Mr. Debris attempted to leave the meeting without prior warning, but was persuaded to stay by Mr. Dancer, with the help of a brass poker.

Following a sustained period of in depth and intellectual deliberation, the balance of opinion was deemed to favour Camber Sands. At this point, Mr. Cox reminded The Committee of the performance of Mr. Baker (T), an acquaintance of The Committee, at the first All Tomorrow’s Parties in 2000, which included accusing Mr. Lamacq of being "two bob" and the excellent achievement of consuming ale through his blouse. Everyone agreed that it was a most commendable performance, and that all hoped that similar feats could be achieved in Mr. Baker (T)’s absence.

Mr. Dancer dispatched his man to the local travel agent, to make the appropriate preliminary arrangements for The Committee’s attendance. A celebratory port was taken by all.

Whilst this business was taken, Mr. Dancer confirmed that he was very much looking forward to taking in the performance of A Place To Bury Strangers whilst at the event, and Mr. Cox agreed that he was very much anticipating their performance, especially given their reputation as New York’s loudest band.



A Place To Bury Strangers – Missing You


Mr. Stardust concurred with Mr. Cox, and added that he was glad that the chance would be presented to renew his acquaintance with Mr. Lekman, of whom he had not had the opportunity to discourse for some time now. Mr. Debris agreed that it would be excellent fortune to take ale with the Swedish troubadour once again, with which he took up the bottle of port, and drained the remaining liquor.



Jens Lekman – A Little Lost


Mr. Cox took the opportunity of Mr. Debris being silenced by intoxication to confirm with The Committee that his anticipation was piqued by the planned encounter with Fuck Buttons, after a recent appraisal of the Bristolian ruffians synthetic noisings and shoutings. Mr. Dancer was in the process of agreeing, when his man returned and confirmed that all had been arranged with his travel agent.



Fuck Buttons – Sweet Love For Planet Earth


The sound of rejoicing roused Mr. Debris from his slumber, from which he emerged with a somewhat disagreeable disposition. This was exasperated by the discovery that there was no more ale or spirit or wine in the vicinity, and in order to placate him, The Committee took the decision to retire to the local hostelry.

Before they departed, Mr. Dancer requested whether there was any more business to be had, and with nothing tabled, it was agreed that the next meeting would be held at the earliest opportunity, with the possibilities of attending The End Of The Road Festival and Bestival still to be explored.

With that, Mr. Debris burst forth from the lodgings whilst spouting extreme vulgarities, and the meeting was closed accordingly.


Tiny Dancer


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The Flawless Joy Boys

The music of Campag Velocet is a strange beast. It’s either barely tolerated at best or fiercely guarded like a slightly simple, untoward cousin. A kind of yes, I know why you might not like it, but you are wrong – there is something good at the heart of it. Even if you’re not sure what it is.

Led by Pete Voss, they appeared out of the arse end of Britpop with a slightly abrasive, faux thuggish play on a mixture of guitars, Weatherall-ed Primal Scream, and Eno-ish soundscapes. They hit with Bon Chic Bon Genre, a 97 second statement of booming, snarling intent that disrupted the flow of pop from the previous four or five years. I remember hearing it for the first time on The Evening Session, and then in the weekly visit to the slippery floored palace of dreams. It sounded immense.



Campag Velocet – Bon Chic Bon Genre


And that’s probably where it started to go wrong. Instant attention was paid, and unfortunate comparisons were drawn. Voss was modelled in the image of the still ruling Liam Gallagher, but where his unfortunate personality was tempered by his brother, Voss went it alone and was pretty much unlikeable, press wise anyway. He was aggressive, but he didn’t give way into soundbite or pap shot, and it didn’t really sit well in the likes of NME, it couldn’t really be sanitised.

Then, the album came. Bon Chic Bon Genre opened with the single, but then segued into all kinds of moments that didn’t quite match. The instrumental soundscapes, the odd indie pop song, the incongruity. Voss’ lyrics were open to ridicule – an over reliance on Anthony Burgess’ Nadsat suggested both unoriginality and over adherence to the droog mentality. The rest of the apparent stream of consciousness spewing producing anything but lyrical couplets.

They did get about, but within a year or so, they were gone.



Campag Velocet – Caught Unawares


But not forgotten. The snapshot coverage gained meant they got out there, and opposing tasteful indifference they built up a vociferous following. They popped up here and there keeping the people happy, until they returned in 2004 with It’s Beyond Our Control. More or less of the same, but this time embittered by the experience of the past five years. Vindictive Disco came out first, as a shot across the bow – the indie moment that didn’t represent the album.

I managed to see them a couple of times during the supporting tour, a genuinely good band fronted by a desperate man. It’s not often that you see the premeditation of putting on weight lifting gloves so that a tambourine can be driven into a palm as hard as is possible. Scribbled sheets of A4 were rifled through, until something suitable came to hand. Sometimes it matched, sometimes it didn’t. What struck me though, was the crowd. They’d been waiting for the return, and they were jubilant. They were sharing something, and they knew what it was.

The stand out moments from the album demonstrate everything you need to know – lyrical questions remain, but the intent is there. And you make your choice – you either like it or you don’t.



Campag Velocet – Motown Clic...

Campag Velocet – Ain’t No Funki Tangerine


And that, disappointingly, was it. The courage didn’t really match the conviction, and the fight was over. There isn’t even that much out there about them - the net based fan organisation is gone, a myspace remains (worth visiting for a live download), there are scraps. But that’s it. They’ve almost been erased.

Take it – here - or leave it. It’s your choice.


Tiny Dancer


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Calm Down You Silly Silly People

The Brit Awards are on television. I’ve just watched a pube headed twot scream the life out of something with a young lady who should probably have known a lot better, before an apparently pissed up old crone tumbled out of the wings with her inconsequential brood, and shared platitudes with the most fatuous waste of space our hallowed shores has produced in a number of years. I’m not surprised, but ever the optimist, I was vaguely hopeful.

So, before my brain starts eating itself in pity and escaping out of my earholes, I need something that doesn’t involve hordes of sniffing industry fools wailing and clapping like a speared sealion. Something that isn’t an under rehearsed collaboration between two ironically opposed artists, that of course demonstrates how the organisers are switched on and ultimately the most powerful people in the universe. Something that isn’t the Brits.

I choose the Poles. About 18 months ago, I posted a couple of songs by Milipop in accompaniment to a celebration of autumn on the brink of winter, and the beauty that all that holds. Minimalistic, understated, reflective, claustrophobic beauty. And so in this time of need, I turn back to Milipop, or as is now, Tomasz Bednarczyk. The step out of anonymity has done nothing to deter the flow of repeating seconds, stuttering glances and veiled moments, and to my aching brain, this is a good thing.



Tomasz Bednarczyk - Love

Tomasz Bednarczyk - Bike


Unfortunately I don’t read Polish, but I know a link when I see one, and that’s how I ended up at home.pop.rec and their stable of like minded souls. As you might or might not suspect, Tomasz is not alone in his retrospection and At Home are alongside him in glorious shadow. I know not what they get up to in those parts to trigger such thoughts, but you will not find me complaining, especially in current company.



At Home – 02


I’d love to know how to get hold of more Tomasz and more At Home, but all I can make out is that Room40 are re-releasing Summer Feelings at the end of March. That may be enough to retain the sanity. Please, let it be enough.


Tiny Dancer


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February 2008 Podcast - What Doesn't Kill Us Makes Us Stronger

And so we come to the difficult third podcast.

Songs about London, the shocking revelation of Debris’ web exclusive, the truth about midgets, a band that aren’t called Monkey Fish, and we reveal the best London band ever.

You couldn’t make this shit up.


The Difficult Third Tiny Dancing Podcast



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The Greatest Music Ever Made

To commence, a simple logic equation:

(1) Wendy Carlos composed the soundtrack for the motion picture Tron

AND

(2) Tron is the greatest motion picture ever made

THEREFORE

(3) Wendy Carlos composed the greatest music ever made

Like I said, simple. I think you’ll find we’re all in agreement, and for those that aren’t, have a bit of this.



Wendy Carlos – Tower Music – Let Us Pray


But it doesn’t end there. In fact, it doesn’t even start there.

Then Walter Carlos, in 1968 he created and released Switched On Bach, which is sometimes thought to be the first recording in the history of the world ever to use synthesizers as a genuine musical instrument. Such was the human populace’s shock at this sudden shift into the future, it sold more than half a million mind bending copies, and became the biggest selling classical record in the world ever in the process.

This was followed by a couple more variations on the similar theme, before the fates brought him (still) and that most treasured of filmic nutters Stanley Kubrick together under the united banner of Clockwork Orange in 1971.

Although Alex DeLarge’s obsession with Beethoven and the futuristic setting of his existence would seem to feed directly into Switched On territory, Carlos started the collaboration whilst working on some new music that he thought was right up Kubrick’s dystopian alley.

The legend has it that Carlos was about three and a half minutes into this new work when inspiration struck with the news that Kubrick’s long planned project was underway – and this is clearly borne out in the resulting Time Steps, when at 3 minutes and 17 seconds the first classical, recurring motif drops into what has previously been a ponderously abstract wander.

Who knows where Carlos was going, or even if he’d even truly started at that point, but with the re-focus of Anthony Burgess’s narrative, Time Steps becomes invigorated and purposeful. The remaining ten or so minutes take us on a journey through our existence, and into the themes of the story – via the classical reference we glance upon a time of high intellectualism tragically anchored in the mire by the unchecked debauchery of base savages. The occasional shoe-horned ticking clock leaves us in no doubt that time is passing, and yet the future and the past are shackled together without any opportunity of escape, destined only to orbit each other, history repeating itself time and time again.

In traditional Kubrick non-confrontational style, a lot of the soundtrack put together by Carlos hardly features in the released film, and Time Steps suffers accordingly. But it needs to be heard in it’s full form so we can take part in the entire journey, and realise the error of Kubrick’s judgment at spurning work that can truly be called great.



Wendy Carlos – Time Steps


You can pick up the soundtrack for Tron for next to nothing from here. Clockwork Orange is normally a bit more expensive, but you should get it all the same from here.

Finally, as an excellent aside, as well as being the greatest composer in the world, Wendy Carlos also likes taking pictures of solar eclipses. So wonder at our place in the vast universe as heavenly bodies entwine around us here.


Tiny Dancer


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I Saw So Much I Broke My Mind

Sometimes, I think I’d like to be a cowboy.

I’d start out doing all the normal cowboy things, like falling in love with swarthy maidens, getting shot, dying, coming back to life again, finding my one true love who would stand by me forever, going out and getting drunk and fighting, and all that good stuff.

But after a while, I’m pretty sure that would get a bit boring. There are only so many saloons you can have a hoe down in, only so many cattle rustlers you can run out of town, only so many rodeos that can be won, only so many heart felt songs that can be sung around the camp fire. And besides, the 70s would be looming over the hill like a stampeding hoard of angry buffalo, and this time, I wouldn’t be running for cover.

First things first though – I wouldn’t be growing my hair long. There are some places a cowboy will never go, and that’s one of them. And I wouldn’t be wearing one of them big dresses that them there hippies would wear. Oh no. I ain’t no sissy.

I probably would dabble in mind altering drugs though. Strictly speaking, the cowboy’s lot is as much fire water as can be drunk before passing out and/or liver failure, and you might have to graduate on to all kinds of filthy uppers and downers and inbetweeners if you should be so lucky as to have a hit single, and have to drag your addled body across all fifty states promoting it so you can earn enough money to send back to your one true love.

So a move onto the mind altering drugs might be frowned upon in Nashville, heck, they might even try and throw you out of the Hall Of Fame. If it came to that though, I’ve got an ace up my sleeve – I’d draw the attention of the elders to that little episode Kenny Rogers and Glen Campbell had back in ’68, when it all went a bit hazy and a bit wavy and a little bit too far out - what’s good for two of the High Priests Of Country is good for me.



Kenny Rogers & The First Edition – I Just Called In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In)


If they still maintained that sitting under a cactus weeping at the beauty of the fire sprites was behaviour unbecoming of a manly man of the West, then I’d straighten myself up, pull myself back together, and remind them of Mr Hazlewood’s fine body of work, before slinking back down into place at the base of my prickly friend, and waiting until the moon said I could go back home again.



Lee Hazlewood & Nancy Sinatra – Some Velvet Morning


But, as my mind started turning into swine feed, my cowgirl would drag me to the water trough, dunk my head in it a few times, and would tell me that unless I stopped taking all that crazy junk and started making something of my life, she’d up sticks and leave me, and at that point, I’d see the light, and I’d turn back onto the straight and narrow.

In fact, I’d make such a big u-turn, I’d go down to the town school, and I’d learn how to read and write. I’d probably find out that after a life of cattle management and then mind expansion, I was actually an electronic genius, what with my practical and imaginative skills, and before long, I’d be going to college, and I’d be learning how to make rudimentary synthetic sound machines that can recreate the noises of entire robotic orchestras.

Once I’d become a leading figure in the field of electronic musical interpretation, I’d go back to my roots and reproduce the classics on the machines that I’ve made, and I’d probably record a couple of albums, just like that Professor Gil Trythall did.



Gil Trythall – Nashville Moog

Gil Trythall – Wichita Lineman


Yep, sometimes, I think I’d like to be a cowboy.

Kenny here. Lee here. Professor Gil here.


Tiny Dancer


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When We Stay In Our Chambers

It is Thursday, and it is February, and ask anyone you like, but that is not often the best place to be. Such are the depths that the dark midwinter continues to drag me to, I’m only leaving the house between the hours of three and four in the morning to buy cupasoups from the 24 hour corner shop. I haven’t seen the sun in weeks, and as a result, I’ve become more or less translucent. People take one look at my pallid demeanour, and run screaming for their mothers. My hair has grown long and unkempt, my eyes are rheumy. My only friends live in the magic picture box. It’s possible I may never again know the loving touch of another human being. I am truly alone.

No – this is not often the best place to be.

But hey – enough of all this gloomy nonsense. I’m a glass half full kind of guy, so let’s look at the bright side. All this confinement to my small, dingy room has allowed ample time to take advantage of the generosity of whatever near neighbour hasn’t locked up their broadband connection, and traverse the information future highweb looking for twinkling musical stars amongst an increasingly underwhelming firmament.

Lord Auch have risen from the grave of the occasionally enjoyable yet rarely grieved Black Wire, but instead of sticking to what they know have descended into a reflectively PiL-ish fear and loathing, and sit somewhere on an empty island surrounded by a sea of doubt where they shout out to the vast expanse about grief, and it echoes back and swirls around and around until they can’t hear themselves screaming, but realise they don’t have anything more to say.



Lord Auch – Great Big Ulcers Of Grief


Very few of the earth people ever really get a proper grasp of what time is all about, it’s the size of their tiny heads you see, just can’t take it all in, try and get away from a linear understanding, and it’s straight off to mentalville. Which is fortunate, because that’s where The Ice Cream Headaches live, spooling the thoughts from their collective twisted time squashing minds into a primitive recording cell, and then letting them loose on day release. There are moments when their thoughts exceed the frequencies that you and I can deal with, but stick with them, and they will stick with us.



The Ice Cream Headaches – Circuits Of Time


Nothing saddens me more than an unloving uncaring world that has turned its back on a fallen hero, forgotten they ever existed, moved on to the next bright young thing, forgotten what they owe them, forgotten that without them, maybe they wouldn’t actually be here in the first place. Iron Pirate is not like that. Iron Pirate remembers the heroes, and will not let us forget. Iron Pirate remembers that the future will be saved by robots, and they will do it to an accompaniment of the lightest metal that only the most skilful of smiths can produce, and it will tell their stories like the minstrel songs of before.



Iron Pirate – Path Of Unicron


I leave you now. It’s minestrone time.


Tiny Dancer


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