we played at FAT festival ('the fattest music festival in all worlds') here in bangkok which is a jaw slackeningly beautiful and turbofun city. our new friends onsiri and note have been showing us round- jesus- emerald buddhas, statues in the sky,... we will return here, to play gigs with darren drumming instead of the MPC, and to eat more of thailand. the festival itself was like nothing i've ever experienced- 100,000 people- it's terrifying playing in front of 1000... darren fell flat on his face off the drum riser, having no right arm to break his fall. everybody loved it.

at a party afterwards i declared myself to be 'MAOSAD!' ('FUCKING DRUNK') to everybody through the microphone, rousing an enthusiastic 'MAOSAD!' from the assembled crowd. (i later found this crowd to be largely made up of the top folks of the thai music business, MTV asia, and so on.) i then attempted to use voodoo to be darren's phantom right arm while he took to the drums to render madonna's 'like a prayer', with pump from apartmentkhunpa on guitar, note on vocals and mr will hall on triple backflips.

having spent the next few days on the indescribably luscious beaches of koh samat we were sitting on the beach after dinner. all that day i'd been considering swimming out to the sunbathing raft tethered offshore- a mildly taxing swim followed by a spell of lying in the sun imagining camus' characters who hang out thinking existentially on rafts. somehow though, i'd procrastinated and the sun had set.

down where the sea lapped the shore in the dark, you could see this strange glowing plankton that ights up kind of blue when you disturb it- a swim seemed a good idea. we were warned that paddling was the best course of action however, as the waters contained not only sharks, but a ripe amount of really nasty jellyfish who come out at night to fuck you up.

in the shallows, there was a notable absence of magic glowing stuff, so joe, me, and darren (with his broken wrist held aloft out of the water) ventured a bit further out, to escape light pollution. i've never swum in the sea at night before, and going out of your depth feels a lot scarier when it coincides with the near-total disappearence of all light around you. no magic here, we concurred.

at this stage the consensus was that this was getting creepy, but for the purposes of experience we should swim out to the oily black outline of what looked like the camus raft. fear, black fear, rose in my spine with every stroke propelling me over the dark unknown beneath. our semi-regular shouts to each other asking if we were all ok began to assume the shrill tenor of choirboys at the end of their careers. our replies to each other had by now veered from 'this is ridiculous' to 'FEAR ON' to 'I'M FUCKING SHITTING MYSELF.'

time distorted and after 3 hours we reached the raft and in abject terror, scrambled onto the bastard, and panted, coughed, and eventually high fived.

after more breathing, joe stood up shakily to take a piss, at which point out of nowhere a bright light nearby began heading across the water towards us, it's beam highlighting joe's golden arc. apparently a curious fisherman was coming to look at joe pissing, which he did, then when the piss ended, he revved his boat engine and left without a word or a gesture.

It’s when we’re loading out of the venue in Nottingham that I realize we don’t have any booze. I mean, we’ve a few bottles of beer, there’s the remnants of a bottle of vodka kicking about in the van.
But we need booze, lots and lots of booze; and quick. It’s a Sunday night and it’s coming on for 11 o clock. My head sinks into my hands.
It’s all over, that’s it. Jesus Fuck! Why didn’t anybody think of the booze!

Luckily that’s what we hire tour managers for. Iain’s on it, a consummate professional, a Mother Theresa for the Rohypnol generation. He’s on his phone and yes, something’s happening... There’s the promoter, and they’re having a chat and here’s some bar staff and, Allah fucking AKBAR! They actually appear to be carrying crate after delicious crate of booze into the back of the van, and spirits too! Iain you are a fucking genius.

We get in, and park around the corner, waiting for the people who’s party it is to turn up and direct us there. The vans already pretty full, Iain’s a bit dubious about carrying this many people as there’s Cops fucking everywhere. The crates of Grolsh are taking up a lot of space aswell, although they double as seats for our extra passengers. Our hosts turn up, cram in & we van to Radford to set up.

The house is massive, two floors and a large kitchen/living room that we set up in the corner of. People don’t start arriving until 1am & we relax with a few games on the table football at the top of the stairs. Before long the house is rammed & we decide to start. I get on the kit & start hitting things but the bass breaks for awhile so its just me and James & Steph Klaxons on cowbell & choc block; the crowd gets into it though. Then we’re on, starting with new one, 17 Virgins. The crowd responds appropriately; jumping up and down in unison like a pack of deranged rapists.



People are falling into the drums & amps & we have to fight for space as the crowd keeps surging forward. Joe stands on the bass cab, Joel’s on the bass drum, Jan tries to stop the keyboards from getting crushed, fighting off the crowd with one hand as the sole microphone gets left for a three way vocal collaboration between Joel, Steph & James. Steph Klaxon takes over completely for Disco Blood, delivering a stunning staccato rendition, “Disscccoo Feeeeling in my blooood…” Then straight into I Know Kung Fu & James Ford hops on the synth keyboard playing half & half with Tom from Haunted House (who, against medical advice, has been dragged out on the road with us, yet again). The crowd shift up a gear, if possible, and the entire living room becomes a barely contained mosh pit. I fucking love this shit.




There’s someone to my right fucking about with a guitar, I vaguely remember kicking him off the drum kit at the start of the night but its only when I see him with a cowbell in his hand that it dawns on me that it’s the lead singer from The Rapture. I start laughing manically, this is fucking nuts. Joel starts playing House of Jealous Lovers, I shift into an offbeat & Luke Rapture starts screaming the lyrics into the mic. It doesn’t get much better than this. The end of our set merges into an all out jam, with The Rapture’s bassist picking up the bass & Luke getting on the kit, I bang the cowbell till my hands are sore. Then after playing for a good hour & a half I stagger off for much needed joints.

A half hour later I walked back into the living room to find Luke Rapture still on the kit and a selection of various randoms jamming on the guitars, a girl stood on the bass drum with the mic, not many people dancing, but it was about 5am now. I asked for the sticks back & got the guy on bass to play the riff from Peaches, ‘Fuck The Pain Away’ The room started filling up again & dancing recommenced. The whole thing ended at around 7. As I carried cymbal stands to the van I saw a police car parked outside but they just drove off without saying anything. One fucking amazing night.


!! MORE PHOTOS & VIDEO COMING SOON !!

Also here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YzTKU0ZjYMw

Day 5: my bones ache almost as much as my head now. I've got the onset of a cold looming over me, or is it hypothermia? Parkinsons? AIDS? It wouldn't surpirse me, there's only so long you can drink with Klaxons before you wind up catching the big one. But there are anti-viral drugs you can take these days, and with a good diet... "its not the death sentence it once was" - Or so a heavily tatooed photographer told me the other night in Sheffield.

Which reminds me: Sheffield. It was fun. Joe and Simon Klaxon dragging a projector screen from its moorings down on the heads of anyone stupid enough to be in the way, Simon running with it to the door before being clobbered by five bouncers who took it upon themselves to dish out some mean justice and split his eyebrow open, squash his nose against a pillar and kick his ribs until they hurt. KILL ALL BOUNCERS. As Primal Scream should have said, if they had any sense, which they don't. Then trying to find our soundman, who had climbed onto an airconditioning unit, 20ft from the ground, bringing a dole chair with him, and sitting - just sitting, watching the night pass by, before having to argue with yet more bouncers who wanted him to get down. So he did what any reasonable citizen would do, climbing into the airconditioning system and crawing around the club, attempting some kind or warped James Bond escape routine. But getting caught short on the way round and having to piss on all fours in the very same air conditioning tubes. Good times & wet knees.

Its good to have a soundman whos on our level, rather than one we have to attack with instruments. Saying that, he's already been sacked 14 times so far. He reckons he's going for the big 100 before the end of the tour. I think its entirely possible. Maybe he enjoys it too much. The only way he'll learn is if we dock the cunts wages. Then perhaps he'll be less inclined to blast 2 grams of gak up his beak in a single afternoon & concentrate on getting the levels right.

Thursday 7th September, West Princes St:
Before getting inside the front door of my house in the morning a white van crunched up on the kerb. The side door opened and Darren's head poked out, like Gnasher from the Beano with his forehead shaved, peering out of the door and smilingly telling me he had 'treats' and that he 'knew a secret' and he'd tell me it if I got in the van. As I approached and got inside I felt a sharp sting in the upper leg area and then the rest is a blank

I woke up in a Southampton Travelodge and was told that I'd been injected with "whale tranquilizers" and that "the fresh air would do me good". No explanation was given further than that. Shortly after I fell again into a deep drug-induced snooze.

Awoken in the morning with nose salts a ferry was taken to the Isle of Wight. We headed on to Bestival. I'd given up on reasoning with these foamy-mouthed lunatics and decided to capitulate and follow them on their tour.

Arriving at Bestival I was then advised, upon seeing a henna tattoo stall, that I should get WORLD PEACE tattooed on my forehead because it would be "futile". I agreed but there wasn't time to do it before Shitdisco went on so the idea was temporarily dropped, though we did get a reasonable quote of £8 for a whole forehead's worth of profound message, and also that it'd last ten to fourteen days: bargain. My mind was now pregnant with a joke: I had it in mind to travel home with it still on my forehead and try to convince my girlfriend that I'd gotten it done for real whilst I was on pills. "Look, see, it’s not coming off," I'd say, as she scrubbed at my face with the flannel really hard. "I know that it's idiotic, but we'll just have to accept that it's there now, eh?" I'd continue.

I decided that I'd come back later as these possibilities splashed around inside my skull. I proceeded to the Rock & Roll tent to aid setting up and also to watch the gig. Backstage I quaffed ten cans of Red Bull in an hour and I was shaking. The gig was excellent etc. I tried to take a few photos but I was shaking too much so I handed out some glowsticks and went to find some hallucinogens.

Next I began to look for a place I would later be able to sleep. This, in retrospect, should have been sorted out earlier on, alas though there was nothing I could do about it now.
Thankfully Glover, the sound man, informed me that I could stay in the tent that his brother would be bringing, for this I felt grateful, though I would need to help put the bastard up. We set up camp on the hard moon-rock ground, dusty and horrible, above the festival, where the pegs of the tents were almost impossible to smash into the soil. Five minutes in I was tripping my head off; whole encyclopaedic books of absurdist logic slashing through my mind, and it was getting dark, so putting the tent up proved to be a difficult chore. This nice man I didn't know passed me a bottle of poppers and it looked ten feet tall. I thanked him. After an hour of construction we'd managed to get most of the waterproof outer layer erect and we decided that we were just going to leave it like that. It would be adequate.

The next hour or so is a complete blur. I remember an irreversible confusion taking over me, so that I wasn't really grasping reality at all anymore, and later found myself in the big top tent listening to the Klaxons and trying to stay away from this guy who only had one working ear, the other had been chewed off, like the shape of a bite out of a sandwich in a cartoon. Darren suggested that I go get the henna tattoo done, but I couldn't really understand what he was on about. Later, feeling a little ill and tired from having been up for two or three days (I forget), I felt like going to bed.

I made my way up the steep hill to try and get back too camp, quietly wondering whether I'd shat myself, but too polite and modest and confused to bother checking. Where this idea had come from I don't know, but it was there, somehow, and it was not choosing to leave. Had I shat myself? Surely it had not come to this...time would tell. Finding the tent proved to be massively difficult. I wandered around the VIP camp for a while, jabbering wild nonsense and staring glassy-eyed at tents and faces that could possibly lead me to where I needed to go.

Somehow I climbed underneath one of the tents to the inside and was relieved to find that it belonged to us, I was safe at last, so I wrapped myself in the groundsheet that lay uselessly on the floor, put my head on my bag and tried to go to sleep staring into the dilated huge moon above, viewable through the mesh at the top of the tent. My safe feeling was shattered as a silhouette appeared against the side of the tent and began pissing. The jet was powerful and would have gone right on my face if the tent material had not been there to stop its trajectory. About a minute later the man's bladder was empty and he disappeared snorting into the darkness from whence he'd come.

Above: Joe and soundman Glover

Sometime later Glover came back and was mortified at the way we'd erected our living conditions, for most of the rest of the night, and through morning, he rocked back and forth in the corner of the tent in the foetal position whispering 'I feel like an insect' over and over again softly to seemingly no one but himself. As the wind picked up through the early morning it was difficult to open your mouth or eyes without having them filled with thick orange dust.

In the morning we got on the ferry again and travelled on to London. On the way there I received a call from my flatmate on West Princes St. He informed me that Mr. Khan had come around and begun ranting about the caravan again: "I dismantle if it is not moved, I smash." This made Darren's face crease a tad with worry. We discussed how this threat would be squirmed out of since the sentimentality gambit was straining, the ruse whereby Khan thought I’d gotten it through inheritance from a deceased loved one. We decided that camouflage would be the only answer. That, or burn it.

- TOLSON

I got home from this weekend by mega-bus on tuesday morning; separated from my band, cold, wet and covered in my own blood. I tried to hide my blackened fingernails from the real-people who worked in shops and cafes as I tended my scarred & battered hands, pulling out the occasional splinter of metal or wood while I slurped at some hot tea. That was what I call a fucking weekend. Jesus Mother of God. I want to go back. But maybe first a shower and a wee lie down.

We started off in Leeds on Friday, early. On stage at 12.45pm, which means beer 'o clock is about 10am. I'm not going to pretend its the first time, but I'd rather it wasn't a Carling. Ug. We weren't expecting much at that time in the afternoon, but the dance tent was packed. We started with a new one, '3D Sex Show' and it went off its tits. There was almost immediate crowd surfing and a rather interesting mosh-pit that at one point had people sprinting around its diameter as fast as they could. An innovative new way to enjoy music. We were overwhelmed by the crowd reaction, it was on-par with any gig we've ever played, (minus some of the house parties) And I enjoyed every fucking second. We staggered off back stage and laughed our heads off. Fucking amazing.

We continued to drink the Carling, but it didn't get us pissed. It just gave us indigestion. However our 7ft roadie and good friend Larry had brought some Buckfast, which proved to be the medicine required, although he did start feeling ill after the third bottle. I tried to convince him to go and vomit on The Kooks, who were getting photographed nearby, but he couldn't muster the strength. To say I was disappointed would be a fucking understatement.

After that I saw Vitalic, who was class, but I couldn't dance with a belly full of warm beer and our attempts to find pills were fruitless, (that was until a nice man gave us a bag of 100 to share between ourselves. Thanks nice man!) Then we found 2 Many DJs and Soulwax's dressing room, resplendent with its own cocktail bar, and after two cocktails I was pissed - at last. We danced at the side of the stage to Soulwax, who blew me away; seriously, fucking amazing. Then joined the party on stage for 2 Many DJs who brought the cocktail bar along with them. That has to be the high point of the night. After that I spent the early morning wandering around the campsite talking to mad bastards, catching a few hours of sleep before we had to leave for Reading the next day.

I can't remember that much about Reading on Saturday. I bumped into Farris Horrors, who was emaciated with booze. Saw the Arctic Monkeys who were actually terrible, stole a mega-phone from a steward and had a campfire by the van till the early hours. The come-down was palpable, but we had a pleasant evening at any rate.

The next day I woke to screams and people shouting for an ambulance, something to do with a fire. I'd rather not know. We drove to the dance stage and drank our breakfast. They were running late so our line-check was rushed, meaning that Joel's bass didn't go through the PA for nearly the entire gig until half way through disco blood. That alone meant it wasn't as good a gig as it should have been, but those who where close enough to hear the bass coming through the stacks were dancing & seemed to enjoy it anyway. I met up with some friends from London and we battered cocktails of K & 2Ci, while the rest of the band prepared to go back to Glasgow. I couldn't face the van and decided to stay. Im glad I did. I saw Klaxons & Larrikin Love before running back to catch Soulwax again. Their drummer deserves a medal. Then raved it up on stage with 2 Many Djs, out of my tiny little mind.

The arena closed and we went out into the campsite. There was loads of people battering out drum beats on upturned oil-drums and it was too tempting to resist. I got myself some snapped pieces of metal as sticks and banged along with several groups until I found my own oil-drum and started hitting the living fuck out of it. Something somehwere between the beat of I Know Kung Fu mixed with drum and bass, samba & gabba. People were dancing all around me and some joined in, hitting metal poles with metal poles, it was an impromptu dance-up in a wet muddy field. I got pretty into it, I have to say. It was only after about an hour, that my friends pulled me away and I realised my white t-shirt was covered in blood. I looked at my hands and they actually dripping with the stuff. I learnt something that day; Metal - it cuts your hands.

I'd sent my tent back to glasgow in the van cos I couldn't be arsed carrying it, but soon regretted it as the rain battered down and all we had for comfort was a capfire burning wood chippings. We huddled as close as we could, with only the K to keep us happy. I had to be saved from falling asleep face first into the fire about 5 times, and I burnt my trousers by holding my legs too close. I stayed up all night, all be it in a drowsy half-consciousness that left me feeling worse than having no sleep at all. We got the train back to London, I had a shower at a friends house then got some booze and went to the Nottinghill Carnival. Its the first time I've been and it was fucking mint. I had to leave it at about 11 tho so I could get my mega-bus back. But like I say, what a fucking weekend.

WE WANT TO PLAY YOUR HOUSE PARTY. ALL YOU NEED IS ELECTRICITY, WE'LL BRING THE REST. ALL COMPLETELY FREE. NOBODY PAYS NOTHING.

GET IN TOUCH IF YOU LIVE IN ANY OF THESE TOWNS AND FANCY HAVING A PARTY ON THE NIGHT WE'RE THERE.

GLASGOW - ANYTIME
LONDON - 9TH SEPT/13TH OCT
BERLIN - 20TH SEPT
NORWICH - 27TH SEPT
STOKE - 28TH SEPT
LIVERPOOL - 29TH SEPT
SHEFFIELD - 30TH SEPT
MIDDELSBOROUGH - 2ND OCT
MANCHESTER - 3RD OCT
ABERDEEN - 4TH OCT
LEEDS - 7TH OCT
NOTTINGHAM - 8TH/9TH OCT
BIRMINGHAM - 9TH/10TH OCT
NORTHAMPTON - 11TH/12TH OCT
BRIGHTON - 14TH OCT
OXFORD - 16TH OCT
PORTSMOUTH - 17TH OCT

THIS OFFER REMAINS OPEN INDEFINITLEY.

Also at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XHd8IGXrKf8

DARK TIMES descended upon us this weekend. when the RED mist drifts down upon an individual, a palpable sense of F.E.A.R can be felt by those around. our man on a mission to pervert the lives of soundmen around the country joel “you motherfucker” stone was the victim of a vicious on-stage attack. FUCKINGHOLYHELL what fresh hell is this? we wondered. here is an account of what happened.

- - - - - -

RE-E-WIND. same day, early afternoon saturday 15th july in east Laaahndan. it is HOT. i feel like Lawrence of fucking Arabia. SHITDISCO arrive. despite being together we arrive separately at half hour intervals for our soundcheck for the first of two gigs that night, first one at the l-o-v e l y Hackney Empire. after waiting several hours for anything to happen i walked around front of house in the old municipal theatre wondering why the fuck they have invited us into this den of iniquity. maybe they meant the other shitdisco, or maybe they meant 50Cent and it was just a type o. after a while of not being asked to fuckoff i decided i was supposed to be there. my mind then drifted to whether we could rob anything of discernable value, or just ashtrays. no. i wondered if there had ever been a band play there with a swearword in their name. no.
thinking to myself (dangerous), i wondered if anyone had ever fallen from the top balcony to the seats below. and if they had, did they survive. and if they survived, were the people below pissed off at this most horrific intrusion?
i had a lot of time on my hands. i wondered if there had been any sort of violence in here at all, casual or otherwise (i am reading Trainspotting at the moment and it is influencing my thoughts a lot – not my actions however). i know little about cinema’s but i presumed that this one was Victorian at least, and i knew they used to watch people hang in public, which I suppose is violence of a sort.

anyway, after an arduous wait we were greeted by a call to soundcheck, and subsequently greeted by a prick in a vest who claimed to be the BOSS. he informed us they, no, we were running late and we only had time to do one song. we moaned as one is liable to do when you are in the moral-high ground but, it was to no avail. it was becoming evident we were dealing with a class-A fucko here. so, soundcheck over we hurtled towards gig no.2 for second soundcheck.

- - - - - -

F-AST - FORWARD. later, it is evening and we am back in the Hackney Empire. it is busy, but also a bit weird. there is a large stage that i remember thinking is probably about as big as my street, and we will be on it in less than an hour. shit.
the credits of an excellent short film entitled ‘Lift’ rolled and the Footlong Heroes begin to play. we begin to prepare to play. this preparation involves running upstairs and getting another beer so you can down it before getting the next one that will accompany you onstage, and not writing a setlist. i start thinking again about violence, and whether the cameraman who filmed Lift ever felt the urge unleash a holyhorrorshow of violence after being inside a two-man elevator for days.
we are onstage. the curtain begins to rise as we are introduced and Darren beats out the opening of Kung-Fu. there is violence in the air.
the gig is almost a blur as we jerk through each song, becoming more irritated by the lack of co-operation from the soundman. the chorus of each song morphs into “turn the fucking monitor up”, or something like that. i look at darren and he is pissed off. i turn to joel and see he is tense. i look at jan and he is pissed off, and i think i would actually fancy my chances at jumping off that top balcony. anything rather than this fresh HELL we are in right now. but then it got WORSE. or better if depending which way you look at violence. i am not a fighter.

we begin Reactor Party, our final song. darren stands up & throws his sticks to the floor like when ivan drago hits the deck in Rocky IV. fucked off at the lack of co-operation with the useless motherfuckers in charge of the sound, joel decides to unleash the first, second, and third DOOMsday books of an insult to those concerned. something along the lines of uselessmotherfuckingwanker, and then a bit more for luck. righteous.

within less than a minute – enough time for a few more verses of the tirade – mr.Fucko, we will call him, was onstage and flexing his neck in the direction of lovely joel. then he squared up to him. and thence forth came the head of fucko and the head of fucko did connect with the head of lovely joel. BOOM! within a few seconds, the lingering malevolence has found a host and been personified by the new public enemy. with the headbutt came a vague gasp from the crowd. then darren. well-versed in playing the “weapons”, or drums as other people call them, darren leapt over his kit, with cymbal stand (& cymbal) in hand bopped fucko in the head. then came tom. tom is our tour manager and all-round stand-up guy. he had been watching events unfold and as joel began the tidal wave of words words and words, noticed mr.Fucko stride down the (how very appropriately) far-right side of the cinema. tom followed suit by running down the opposite aisle, and with the timing of Apollo Creed when he knocks out Rocky, punches fucko in his beady little eye. then joel. as he reels from what was most likely the cymbal rather than tom’s fist, joel swings what was previously Francis Rossi (really) of Status Quo’s synth guitar at fucko. meanwhile i remained calm, albeit useless. i decided to continue playing Reactor Party, initially thinking this would be over in a minute and we could get on with it. no. the curtain began to fall and as if to add comic effect to the whole proceedings, seemed to pause for a minute as various individuals were pinned to the floor and restrained. i remember little else of what happened but i think i mentioned how fun the evening had been and the audience had been l-o-v-e l y.
then the bouncers arrived onstage and it was over.
DARK
TIMES.

If you've got a PC with Windows you can download the Schmap guide to Glasgow which includes several photos of the last party at 61 if you click on West Princes Street. Pretty ridiculous. Get it here: http://www.schmap.com/guides/glasgow