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Showing posts from May, 2016

TOO OLD FOR THIS SHIT - FALLING OUT AND BACK IN LOVE WITH RAP MUSIC IN 2016

Yeah, I'm 44 and I'm going to be writing about hip hop. Film it, it'll last longer. Yes it's like an embarrassing uncle dancing at a wedding. And like him, I CAN'T BE STOPPED. The perma-fear of any critic is being out of touch, behind the times, lagging behind, especially in the internet age where such lollygagging can be earmarked, exposed and bitched about instantaneously. As you get older this fear becomes stronger - you no longer have that 'fuck it, I'M into it so this IS what's going on' bravado, and your general slowing-down of stimulus and response (coupled with the fact you have less and less time every day to do the shit you really like doing) means you're more likely to focus on just a few things, frequently old things, to sustain you musically. If I was just a music listener this wouldn't necessarily be a problem - every now and then I might lash myself for my stuck-in-the-mud reversion to the same old personal-classics but in th…

Money's Too Tight To Mention

If you've enjoyed any of my writing of late, please please please donate at my paypal which is moonbear69@live.co.uk


Not a joke, genuine panic about how my family can be fed, how I'm going to keep the lights on tonight. Utter fear that's paralysing and yes I'm at work today. Any donation, no matter how small would be gratefully received. Thankyou x

EASTERN SPRING CHAPTER 5: WORMS IN A FIG

Sure, keep building and burning, we’re here all night.

 A decade ago, another Thursday night, two days after the twin towers fall I’m walking home from band practice, blissfully sated, crossing a junction, aware of some pointing and jostling of elbows in the boy-racer to my left. Engine revs as I cross, laughter. Older fears than the lads in the car rise up inside. Make it to the kerb, ambler gamblers off down the ave., a half-second of relieved silent self- mocking, then some real loud mocking out the wound-down window. The word shouted from shotgun is loud and greeted by much back-seat guffawing. The word is “bomber”.




Now where should the camera go, whose story warrants chasing? The doddery old twat on the side of the kerb thinking ‘what?’ Nahh, course not, follow the hate, follow the haters, the ‘questions’ they ask. Always deal with the ‘issue’, the ‘problem’ of us being here, the gift of your tolerance our only redemption. Those lads probably forgot about that high-larious mome…