http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ivjybzdXVmI

This guy’s great creativity is inspiring!

Το sequel της ταινίας ήταν αρκετά καλό και εξίσου καλό ήταν και το soundtrack της. Ο David Holmes έκανε πάλι το θαύμα του, με τη δοκιμασμένη συνταγή του πρώτου δίσκου. Soul και funk υψηλής ποιότητας, αν και το καλύτερο κομμάτι της ταινίας (Nikkfurrie – The A La Mente) δεν περιλαμβάνεται στο album. 3,5/5.

amazon.com

Θαυμάσια ταινία και ακόμα πιο εκκεντρικό το soundtrack της, δια χειρός David Holmes. Funky και Soulful κομμάτια, ιδανικά για Las Vegas, τσόχα και γερό ποντάρισμα. Στυλάτος ήχος, έτσι όπως μόνο ο Holmes ξέρει, σε έναν δίσκο απολαυστικό από την αρχή μέχρι το τέλος. Bet everything on 11…. 3,5/5!

amazon.com

Els suecs The Soundtrack of our Lives i Devendra Banhart són els noms més destacats de les noves incorporacions al cartell del Pimavera Club d’enguany. Els primers vindran a presentar el seu últim treball, Communion, un disc doble on el grup suec segueix fidel al seu estil ple de psicodèlia, melodies pop i guitarres rock. El segon vindrà a presentar el seu imminent nou disc. Juntament aquest dos noms s’ha confirmat la presència dels americans Woods, que vindran a presentar el seu folk psicodèlic, School of Seven Bells i el seu pop electrónic, a més del britànic cantant minimalista Scout Nibbet.

Pel que fa als noms nacionals, s’ha confirmat l’actuació de Sr. Chinarro, que vindran a fer un repàs dels seus primers àlbums, que tot just acaben de ser reeditats per el segell Mushroom Pillow. Apuntem també la dels barcelonins Tarantula, que defensaran el seu aclamat “Humildad Transcendental”. Altres noms del fesitval seran Hyperpotamus, Cohete, Caballo Trípode, Bigott, Furguson, Me and the Beens, Fred i Son i Smoking Bambino.

A tots aquest noms cal afegir els ja anunciats Port O’Brien, The Black Heart Porcession, The Pastels, David Holmes , Standstill i Jeffrey Lewis and Junkyard, per citer-ne alguns.

Els abonaments per aquesta nova edició del festival Primavera Club, del 9 al 13 de desembre, ja estan a la venda al preu de 40 euros.

La carrera musical de Soulsavers va donar un gir rotund el dia que Mark Lanegan es va creuar en el seu camí. Abans de treballar amb qui havia sigut el cantant dels Screaming Trees i una meitat dels Gutter Twins (recordem el disc que va fer amb Greg Dulli, Saturnalia), aquest duet de productors i músics del nord d’ Anglaterra havien editat únicament un disc, Tough Guys Don’t Dance (2003), seguint les pautes marcades per artistes com Death in Vegas o David Holmes, en un treball que barrejava ambients cinematogràfics, els ritmes downtempo i el soul. La sempre fructífera, creativa i artísticament parlant, unió amb Mark Lanegan, aportant la seva profunda veu, va aconseguir que en el següent treball, It’s Not How far You, It’s the Way You Land (2007), les perspectives del grup s’obrissin de bat a bat cap a terrenys mai imaginats fins el moment, facturant un dels millors treballs d’ aquell any. En el disc hi trobem tot el que havien apuntat en el seu debut però magnificat gràcies a la presència de Lanegan, qui participava com un memebre més del grup en la majoria de temes i firmava, juntament amb ells, temes de la talla de Revival, probablement el millor tema gospel que es firmarà en aquesta dècada, donant a entendre que la participació del músic de Seattle era alguna cosa més que una simple col·laboració.

En aquest nou treball, Broken, Lanegan també firma la majoria del temes juntament amb el duet, i es fan acompanyar per uns col·laboradors d’autèntic luxe: Mike Patton (ex-Faith No More), Jason Pierce (Spiritualized), Richard Hawley, Gibby Haynes (Butthole Surfers) i el cantautor Will Oldham. Malgrat els noms, el resultat final no arriba en cap moment a les cotes emocionals del seu anterior treball, encara que té grans moments, com el primer single, Death Bells, on Lanegan i Gibby Haynes es reparteixen les parts vocals; o les dues versions triades per Lanegan: You Will Miss Me When I Burn, del propi Will Oldham, i Some Misunderstanding de Gene Clark, probablement el millor moment del disc.

El hàndicap que arrossega aquest Broken és la immensitat musical i emocional de l’excel·lent It’s Not How Far You, It’s The Way You Land, amb l’ arrebatador i brutal Revival que obria el disc.

Aquí teniu Death Bells:

Com cada mes de desembre, des de fa uns anys, es cel·lebra el festival Primavera Club, germà petit del Primavera Sound. Fa uns dies us adelantàvem els primers noms del cartell d’enguany, on destacaven la presència de Port O’Brien i The Black Heart Procession.

Els noms que s’han afegit a un cartell que ja va agafant forma són els següents: The Pastels, llegendes vives del indie pop dels 80 i un referent indiscutible i reconegut per grups actuals com The Pains of Being Pure at Heart; el músic irlandès David Holmes, un dels noms més importants de la música electrònica de la dècada dels 90 i responsable de les bandes sonores de la saga Ocean’s Eleven de Steven Soderbergh entre d’altres; els catalans Standstill, tots uns nens mimats de la crítica especialitzada i que poc a poc s’estan convertint en un grup referencial del panorama musical de casa nostra; el grup d’indie pop de Nova York The Ladybug Transistor; el cantautor elèctric Kurt Vile acompanyat per The Violators; el sorollós shoegaze dels americans A Place To Bury i de Beach House; el jazz extrem de Zz, que contrastarà amb la sensibilitat de les cançons de Tara Jane O’Neil; So Cow i el seu twee punk; l’electro pop de Neon Indian; el dream folk de Marissa Nadler i els imparables Mujeres i el seu so garatge.

La nova edició del Primavera Club ja comença a ser una realitat i promet ser un cop més una gran oportunitat per descobrir autèntiques joies amagades del panorama musical. Les entrades ja estan a la venta, amb l’opció de comprar l’entrada dels dos “Primaveres” per 110 euros.

Η Εβίτα (που δεν έχει blog ακόμα παρ’ ότι έχει σχεδόν πάντα κάτι να πει!) εμπλούτισε τη δισκοθήκη μου με αυτό εδώ το single:

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Αγαπημένη Εβίτα, ο δίσκος είναι σε καλή κατάσταση, ακούγεται θαυμάσια και τα remixes είναι ενδιαφέροντα. Πέτυχες διάνα!

Com cada més de desembre, des de fa uns anys, es cel.lebra el festival Primavera Club, germà petit del Primavera Sound. Fa uns dies uns adelantavem els primers noms del cartell d’enguany, on destacaven la presencia de Port O’Brien i The Black Heart Procesion, i aquest cal afegir els següents artistes: The Pastels, llegendes vives del indi pop dels 80 i referent reconegut per grups actuals com The Pains of Being Pure at Heart; el músic irlandès David Holmes, un dels noms més importants de la música electrònica de la dècada dels 90 i responsable de les bandes sonores de la saga Ocean’s Eleven de Steven Soderbergh entre d’altres; els catalans Standstill, tots uns nens mimats de la crítica especialitzada i que poc a poc s’estan convertint en un grup referencial del panorama musical de casa nostre; el grup de Nova York  The Ladybug Transistor, el cantautor elèctric Kurt Vile acompanyat per The Violators, el sorollós shoegaze dels americans A Place To Bury i del Beach House, el jazz extrem de Zz que contrastarà amb la sensibilitat de les cançons de Tara Jane O’Neil; So Cow i el seu twee punk; l’eltecro pop de Neon Indian; el dream folk de Marissa Nadler i els imparables Mujeres i el seu so garatge.

La nova edició del Primavera Club comença agafar forma i promet un cop més descobrir-nos autentiques joies amagades del panorama musical. Les entrades ja estan a la venta.

Jon Hopkins – Insides (2009)

A studio wizard and graduate of the Royal College of  Music, Jon Hopkins earliest work taps into the ambient/chillout movement, creating lush pastoral landscapes with an occasional harder, bassier urban edge.  He has worked with Brian Eno, Herbie Hancock, David Holmes, Massive Attack and most recently Coldplay. The first two solo albums are notable for smooth passages of neo-classical beauty; ambient music at its most lush. This third offering introduces a harsher more percussive edge – jazzy, dissonant breaks colliding with dreamy piano led interludes that recall the minimalism of Eric Satie as much as the cinematic sweep of Ulrich Schnauss.  Most encouraging, despite the lucrative associations with the commercial mainstream, Hopkins continues to push the boundaries of electronica in a way very few artists do once they have hit the motherlode.

So I’ve been hearing a lot about this car for sometime and I really love it so naturally, I’m compelled to talk about it with you. This will be the first time since 1995 that this automaker will be selling their brand in North America. Anyone know who this long standing automaker is? If not, I bet you’re all pretty curious by now. Okay, I’ll give it up, it would be the Italian automaker; Alfa Romeo. These guys have a great reputation for their cars but personally I’ve never been a fan of anything they have made. Luckily, there’s a first time for everything. The 8C is Alfa Romeo’s take on a true exotic sports car and what a take it is.

Before we discuss what’s under it’s hood, why don’t we pretend that the 8C is sitting in our garage because it would be oh so nice to own one of these. So when you walk downstairs and into your garage you see this beauty and inside this beauty sits a powerful 4.7L V8 engine which can satisfy your adrenaline addiction with 450hp, hitting the 100km/h mark in about 4.5 seconds. Anyone who isn’t a fan of convertibles, no need to worry the coupe carries the same statistics. To help the car reach those very nice numbers we just discussed, it is completely outfitted with Carbon Fiber panels. You’re also set with suspension with a front and rear double wishbone design.

Now if you really do want this exotic car in your garage you better get ready to fight for it because, of the 500 being available worldwide, a small 35 will be available to you in the U.S. and make sure your wallet can hold some serious cash because it’ll be running you around $300,000.

My Thoughts: Love it, love it, love it!! I could do with a quicker 0-100km/h time but it’s a beautiful car and I’d be happy to make a place for it in my huge garage which doesn’t exist!

Thumbs up! You’ve seduced me Alfa Romeo!

Here is a clip of the 8C Spider on the beloved show Top Gear. I love the song in this clip!

Oh and if you wanted to know, the song is called 11,12, &13 by David Holmes.

Probably our dozen favourite British albums of the past 12 months:

David Holmes, The Holy Pictures
Bloc Party, Intimacy
Los Campesinos!, We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed
The Invisible, The Invisible
Higamos Hogamos, Higamos Hogamos
Dananananaykroyd, Hey Everyone!
The Horrors, Primary Colours
The Wave Pictures, If You Leave It Alone
Eg, Adventure Man
God Help The Girl, God Help The Girl
Little Boots, Hands
Damian Lazarus, Smoke The Monster Out

Winner to be announced when we get over the mediocrity of the list.

David Holmes – Smoked Oak

Nous avions vu une publicité inspirée d’un clip (BNP Paribas), voici aujourd’hui que le dernier spot pour l’Apple Iphone 3GS s’inspire lui … d’un film !! En effet, ces images ne vous sont pas inconnues, il faut simplement remplacer l’acteur de la pub par … George Clooney ou Brad Pitt ! Vous l’avez deviné, c’est bien de “Ocean’s Eleven” que ce film publicitaire importé des US s’inspire.

Pour la musique, pourquoi aller chercher ailleurs quelque chose qui a été (très bien) réalisé pour la version originale ? C’est donc un des titres de David Holmes composé pour le score d’Ocean’s Eleven qui a été choisi pour la bande sonore du spot.

Annonceur : Apple

Artiste : David Holmes

Titre : 11, 12 & 13 (sur la BO de Ocean’s Thirteen)

ECOUTER SUR ITUNES

Et voici le spot dans sa version anglaise :

I picked up the portable phone which was ringing insistently.  ”Hello,” I said.

“Is that David Holmes?” asked a friendly, efficient-sounding woman; in her 30’s I would guess, and with no discernible accent.  ”Yes. Who’s that?” I replied.  The caller said, “You don’t know me, David, but my name is Susan Parr, and I work for a company called Find Time…”

“Sorry,” I interrupted, “but whatever it is you’re selling, I’m not interested.”  I hesitated, feeling that I’d been a little rude.  ”David, I understand your view, but I’d appreciate it if you could give me a few moments of your time.  I’m not trying to sell you anything,” she continued.  Tolerantly I replied “I’ve heard that one before, but go on, as long as you’re quick.”

“Thank you, David.  David, I would ask you for the moment not to ask any questions, but please could you go through to the kitchen and look at the card on the pin-board?”  I found this rather puzzling – how did she know where the kitchen was or whether or not there was a pin-board?

However, I did as I was asked, and saw that the only item on the board was a piece of A4 card.  At the top of it were printed the words FIND TIME, underneath which was a photograph of me with a woman, who I had never seen before.  ”David, could I ask you to read out the name of the person pictured with you on the card?”  asked my caller.  I looked at the name printed below the photo.  ”Susan Parr,”  I said.  ”OK, I think you are going to have to explain to me what is going on, right now!” I insisted, my voice shaking slightly.

“David, my company specializes in providing patient-specific support for a variety of frontal lobe trauma-related issues,” said Susan.  I took a moment to consider this, before responding “Are you telling me that I have brain damage?”

“We don’t like to use that term, David, but what I can tell you is that on the 2nd of February, you suffered trauma in a car accident which caused you to have difficulties with your short-term memory.  Since that time you only remember a day at a time.  Every night when you sleep, your short-term memory is erased, and when you wake up you have no knowledge of the day before.”

“This is getting ridiculous,” I said.  ”What proof do I have that this is not a scam?”

“David, I quite understand your suspicion, which is why we have procedures in place.  I’ve been visiting you since you left hospital on the first of March.  Please could you turn the card over and tell me what is on there?”  I reached up and unpinned the card, and scanned the back quickly.  ”It has a list of dates from the first of March until the 23rd of June, and next to each there’s my signature, and the signature of Susan Parr,” I said.

“David, do you know what the date is today?”  I looked at my watch.  ”The 24th,”  I said, and began to feel quite weak.  ”I think you’d better come over.  My address is…”

“Thank you, David, I’m standing outside,” she said, and the door bell rang.

Blinking amber lights splintered across the wet lanes.  The dots on the electronic sign by the hard shoulder read ACCIDENT AHEAD. DIVERT VIA LICHFIELD NEXT JUNCTION.  ”It’s OK,” I said to Liz, “I know that road, it’ll be quicker.”  We stop-started through the evening traffic, relieved to find the blue sign for the exit, and I thanked the technology which had given us the warning.

As we navigated the roundabout at the end of the slip road, I realized that there was a lorry with a foreign plate in the wrong lane for our exit onto the A road.  It was too late to get behind the lorry so I pulled up on its inside at the lights.  ”No problem,” I said, “this mighty beast will overtake that piece of junk.”  The lights turned to red and amber and my foot stamped the accelerator.  But instead of the cab of the lorry disappearing from my vision on the right, it stayed level with us.  Damn, it must have unloaded, it’s empty, I thought, but kept quiet.  Our engine whined as I tried in vain to outpace the lorry and I cursed the lack of power.  I saw that the dual carriageway narrowed to a single lane ahead and I began to slow down.  The cab of the lorry slipped on by, but its body was inching closer to us.  He’s pulling in, we must be in his blind spot. I jumped on the brake to avoid a collision, but the back end of the lorry caught us as it moved over, sliding us into the curb as if the wheels were skates.

I tried to straighten us up but must have turned the wheel the wrong way in panic.  The nodding dog which we had as a lucky charm leaped from the parcel shelf and between our shoulders to hit the dashboard.  Outside was a blur, a life-and-death fairground ride as the world spun around us, how many times I couldn’t tell.  Everything was concentrated into this tiny space, memories and thoughts rushing through my head simultaneously. Don’t die, Liz.  Our first kiss.  Fatherless children, friends weeping.  Don’t let us turn over.  Forgive me.  Liz was saying “Shit! Shit!” as she was rocked from side to side in her seat, and I was grateful for the seatbelts.  We slammed into something solid and the spinning stopped.

It took a few moments for my brain to recognize that we were pointing in the wrong direction, and we were sliding backwards along the crash barrier on the central reservation.  The inside of the car was flooded by the headlights of another lorry approaching us.  I couldn’t see the driver from this angle, only a windscreen high above us with the word Stobart above it in thick green letters, as if that was the name of some alien life-force, too huge and powerful to be under the control of a human being.  I touched the brake and the car lurched to the right, the wheels on the left side losing traction on the muddy verge.  I knew that if we turned too far the lorry would plough straight through the front of the car.  ”Pull your feet back under you!” I shouted to Liz.  The lorry showed no sign of noticing us, it seemed to be moving towards us in slow motion yet with unstoppable momentum, and I kept stabbing at the brake and turning the wheel this way and that way to keep us level.  If I could just keep us straight until the lorry went past.  The lorry’s engine became increasingly loud, but I could hear metal scraping from the side of the car as we were rammed back against the barrier.  We had nowhere to go to our right so I put my foot firmly on the brake and we slowed gradually, sparks lighting the darkness.  I feared that we would be ripped apart but the lorry roared off, like a lion which had savaged an antelope for sport, and we jerked to a stop.

I held tight to the wheel, and could see that a car was pulling over in front of us, hazards flashing, and the driver got out warily, pausing with his hand on the top of his open door.  The cars behind streamed past, their occupants looking in at us with puzzled expressions.  Liz reached into the glove compartment for the cigarettes which we had recently given up.  I leaned over to pick up the nodding dog, hooked his head back on to his body and placed him on the dashboard, where he continued to nod for some time.

Mark reached out his left hand to change channels on the car radio, and suddenly everything became clear to him.  His other hand tightened on the wheel.  How can I have been so fucking stupid?  he thought.  He snapped the indicator down and veered across two lanes of indignant traffic to the exit, gunning the engine up the slip road.  He pulled out without looking, fish-tailed the roundabout and shot down the opposite slip road, angling the car out into the flow, only straightening to avoid the central reservation.

Steve.  His best friend.  That explained why Emma and Steve had changed the subject rapidly as Mark had returned from the pub toilet last night, why recently she would leave the room when taking  phone calls, why she’d close the browser hurriedly when he approached the screen.  Why she’d persuaded Mark to pick up his Dad this morning for a fishing trip 100 miles from home.  Mark had always felt that something was not quite right, that Emma and Steve were that little bit too cosy together.  He’d noticed the way their eyes lingered on each other’s faces when they talked, and their goodbye hug had more than necessary body contact in it.  Why had it taken him so long to fit the puzzle together, when now it seemed so obvious?  He balled his fist and slammed it into the padded plastic of the door.  They’d grown up together, for fuck’s sake.  Been to the same schools, lost their virginity to the same girl – Steve first of course.

No matter how hard he pressed the accelerator as he slalomed in between the cars, there was an image which Mark could not get out of his mind: Steve and Emma writhing on Mark and Emma’s bed.  Steve was stabbing into her again and again, endlessly, and Emma was mouthing words from no language, eyes rolling up in her head.  They wouldn’t even realize when Mark came into the room – his own bedroom.  It would need action, not words for them to take notice.

Mark thought about the fishing knife in the boot of the car.  The blade was seven inches long, one edge sharp, the other serrated, curved in sections which rose to a point.  It was designed for gutting and filleting.  It had heft and balance, it could sever a tendon just as easily as it could cut fishing line, and it could slice an artery into a red fountain in a moment.  He saw himself stabbing Steve repeatedly in the back – an eye for an eye, a stab in the back for the ultimate stab in the back.  He saw himself pulling Steve off Emma, twisting the knife inside Steve’s guts, ripping and tearing them out onto his chest in a quivering, yellowy mass and pushing them into Emma’s mouth to muffle her screams.  He would cut off Steve’s shrivelling cock and make him choke on it.

He parked around the corner from his block and went to the boot to retrieve the knife.  He saw with grim satisfaction that Steve’s car was in Mark’s parking space outside the block, and on second thoughts returned to his car to pick up a coil of fishing line.  Opening the front door softly, he tiptoed across the hall to the entrance to his flat.  He laid his ear against the door, and could make out low voices.  He nodded to himself.  He turned the key gently in the lock and slipped inside the door, leaving it ajar.  The sounds weren’t coming from the bedroom, so he moved stealthily along the hall to the living room, taking the knife out of his pocket and sliding it from its sheath, checking the sharpness of the blade against his thumb.

Mark stepped into the doorway to see that Steve was standing on a stepladder pushing home the second drawing-pin into a banner which read “Happy 30th Birthday!!!”.  The ceiling was obscured by a cloud of both red and white balloons.  Steve swayed on the ladder as he saw Mark, and had to push his palm out against the wall to steady himself.  ”Jesus fuck, you could have killed me,” said Steve, shaking his head but smiling.  He climbed down from the ladder and turned off the radio.  Mark said  ”Sorry, mate.  I forgot my knife, can’t go fishing without a knife,”  and slid it back into its sheath.  Steve grabbed Mark by both biceps and shook him in mock-annoyance, before hugging him. “You’d better get out of here before Emma gets back from the offy, “he said.  ”She’s been planning this for weeks.  And when you get back, act as surprised as you did just now.”

Mark drove off again, cursing his stupidity and lack of trust, and was at Junction 6 before he remembered that Emma’s car had been parked in its usual spot outside the block, and that as Steve stepped down from the ladder, his fly was open.

“I think she keeps them in here,” said Alec, opening the bureau to reveal an overflowing assortment of letters, cards and pens.  Several pieces of paper fell out, joining the mess on the floor.  I moved closer and could make out what appeared to be a sock and a rotting apple core, at least one of which was presumably contributing to the musty smell in the room.  He started pulling papers out and I glanced at my watch – five minutes until kick-off.  ”Don’t worry,” I said, “we’ll come to the pub and watch it with you.”  I moved to the far corner of the room and started investigating the computer desk, which was covered in free newspapers and flyers for “World’s Best” takeaways of various cuisines, their national flags vying for our attention.  ”They’re in red leatherette folders like an Oyster Card holder,” said Alec.  ”Yes, I normally borrow Helen’s,” I replied, glancing over in his direction for a glimpse of red.

Alec’s face brightened.  ”Tell you what, I’ll call Susan!” he said.  Finally, I thought.  ”You can’t do that, she just had the baby this morning,” interjected Stephanie, “let’s all just go to the pub.”  Alec picked up his phone and moved out to the hall.  ”Sorry, sorry… I know that, Darling, but I promised them…” was all I could discern as Stephanie and I exchanged guilty looks.   I heard a series of ascending thumps followed by rapidly descending steps.  Alec burst back into the room, a triumphant grin on his face.  He brandished two red card holders in his raised hand.  ”You’re a genius!”  I said, and fumbled in my wallet.  ”Don’t worry about that,” he said, “they’re on me.”  I pushed a bundle of notes into his hand, saying “For the baby, then,” and he smiled, closing his fingers over the notes.  ”We’d better get going, but thanks so much!” I said.  ”Give our love to Susan, and congratulations to you both, we’ll visit soon, can’t wait to see little Ella!” called Stephanie as we hurried out of the front door, leaving Alec to lock up.

“Three minutes to go, why does he always leave things until the last moment?  Doesn’t he realize how important this game is?” I slung at Stephanie over my shoulder.  ”He has been in the hospital for the last two days, and he’s just become a father.  We’re only going because they can’t,” Stephanie said.  ”Even so,”  I said, and glanced at her heels. “You’d better run like you’ve never run before,” I said, trying to remember the last time we had run at all.  We set off along the first stretch which curved downhill to the main road.  ”Which way now?” asked Stephanie as we reached it.  ”I’m not sure, I’ll just consult Google Maps shall I?”  I snapped, and headed right.  We gulped in lungfuls as we waited to cross further down, and then continued towards the hazy glow in the darkening sky.  I could hear distant cheers as we ran through the eerily quiet streets with their prosperous Victorian terraces.  Our feet slapped the pavements, the sound rebounding off the walls on either side.   Slowing for Stephanie, I found time to side-foot a few empty cans between gateposts, and to drop a shoulder to change direction, leaving trees for dead as we headed towards the ground.

We turned the corner to behold the enormous, illuminated construction, and the sight of it made my chest tighten.   It looked as though an alien mother ship, with steam still rising from its vents, and the shape of a glass and metal soufflé, had landed in North London.  The noise was suddenly much clearer; I could hear individual voices and hand-claps; encouragement and insults.  Reaching the corner of the ground I pulled out the tickets, my chest heaving, my back running with sweat despite the cold.  ”Entrance T.  Damn, I forgot that their seats are at the other end from where I normally sit.”  We moved off again, reluctant feet scuffing the ground, and ticked off the letters of the alphabet as we passed each gate.

A quasi-operatic sound arose from the stadium – “We are the champ-ions…”.  ”Ad break,” I said, “they’ll be starting in about one minute.”  Our pace slowed as we rounded the building, energy dissipated, but finally we reached our entrance.  ”You go first.  Put the card in the slot and when the light turns green, push the turnstile,”  I gasped, and shoved in behind Stephanie.  We slammed through the nearest door, up the stairs, turned the corner, more stairs, more turns, up and up.  At the top we rushed across the concourse, ignoring the catering staff who were standing behind the bar with arms folded, to block 126.  We could see the floodlights on the roof opposite as we turned into the tunnel and climbed a couple of steps to where a steward faced us.  Over his shoulder I saw two ranks of eleven standing battle-ready on the pitch, which shone in an hallucinogenic green in the artificial light.  The steward pointed us to the back row, and as we took our seats those around us rose up to cheer at the long whistle blast, arms raised, their faces a mixture of hope and fear.  We joined in the huge roar which flowed over the stadium and spilled out into the night.

This is music inspired by the joys and fears of flying, air, birds, airplanes, and anything related. Support your friends and spread the love!

m4a
mp3

TRACKLISTING

The smell of pear drops from the other sofa wrinkled my nose.  How could we have thought of them as sweets, I wondered.  They certainly didn’t taste like pears, it must just have been the sugar that we liked.  I looked over and saw that she was on her second nail.  She dipped the brush in to the pot and wiped some of the viscous pink liquid off on the rim, before smoothing it on to the nail with careful strokes.  Each time she finished one she would hold all the completed fingers in the air, comparing each with the other, pausing only to glance at the early evening game show.  ”That stuff stinks,” I said.

She raised her elbow, held her hand downwards with fingers splayed, and shook the hand vigorously for a few seconds while rotating the wrist.  Then she blew softly on to the nails, and turned her hand this way and that beneath the table-lamp.  The light caught on some gold specks among the pink.  ”Don’t you think that’s a bit mutton?”  I asked.  She shot me a look but returned to her inspection.  Satisfied, she moved on to the other hand.  ”The right hand’s much more difficult to do,” she said, not raising her eyes from her task.  I got a beer from the fridge and started watching the news.

I remembered how the sugar on the outside would take the roof of your mouth off like coarse sandpaper, but you had to carry on until the sweet was smooth.  You could play with it with your tongue, rolling it around your mouth and wearing it down, the flavour almost repulsive yet addictive.  It was only a matter of time before you had to snap the brittle remainder between your teeth.

Music blared, signalling the end of the news, and she said “Be a love, turn it over for Eastenders, will you?” lifting her hands to show me her work.  ”Can’t you operate the remote with your toes?”  I asked.  ”I’m concentrating,” she said, frowning.  ”I thought women could multi-task,” I said, and went to the kitchen for another beer.  ”Anyway, the game’s on now.”

You could spend the whole afternoon on a bag of them, I thought.  It was always a struggle to finish and by the end you kind of hated them, but you couldn’t leave even one.  Your mouth was raw and your jaw ached but it was an achievement of sorts.

From the drawer next to her she retrieved an object like a section from a giant’s comb, made from flesh-toned foam, and wedged her toes into the slots.  ”You need specialist equipment for this?” I asked.  Her face flushed and she muttered “Just watch the bloody football, will you.”  She hooked an ankle over the opposite knee and leaned forward, the tip of her tongue protruding from the corner of her mouth as she repeated the procedure on her toenails.   “Maybe you should do your nails in yoga class,” I suggested.  A pink bullet streaked towards me – I had time to notice its flat trajectory, but not enough to evade it.  I felt a sharp punch to my ribs and looked down to find that my Arsenal shirt seemed to have a new badge on it.  The colours clash, I thought, and watched the pot as it rolled across the wooden floor, leaving a glittering trail.  She was still holding the chrome top in her hand, its brush pointing up.  ”Not a bad throw with your left hand,” I said, and went to fetch a cloth from under the sink.