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AJ Dehany

AJ Dehany Radio

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Had to go to work
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Had to go to work
Album: Pexton Slacks
Released: Feb 25, 2009
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General Info

  • Genre: Melodramatic Popular Song

    Location UK

    Profile Views: 7512

    Last Login: 11/30/2009

    Member Since 3/5/2008

    Website www.coldframe.net/ifaq

    Record Label Unknown Major

    Type of Label Major

  • Bio

    Had to go to work - Drums GC Gordon, Bass DB Barrett, Guitar AJD.. Being Ted Danson - Drums GC Gordon, Guitar DB Barrett, Bass AJD.. Pinch him! - Drums GC Gordon, Guitar AL Steehouder, Synth JC Corcoran, Bass AJD.. Broke my button - with GC Gordon.. May the road rise to meet you - performed by Basil Slam.. To be or not to bop - with Jazzman John Clarke.... AJ Dehany combines spoken word, multi-instrumental prowess, improvisation and classic songwriting into one compelling highwire tapdance. His world is a surreal worldscape populated by gargoyles, zelebrities, lost characters from song and literature and unforgettable monsters from his quirky, dark imagination. .. .. Primarily co-writer and drummer/guitarist with ..Pleasure Bridles... Has performed with the RSC, organised Blakespeare, an event as part of Project Blake, and broadcast a 1hr radio feature on Resonance FM. Co-organised the Bob Dylan Thomas night and the Post Dylan Thomas CD, completed a commission for music for a high camp Shakespeare production, continues to play drums and noodley jazz guitar for Jazzman John Clarke, lead guitar for Hungry Dog Brand, mandolin for anyone who asks, making music and writing generally and variously, and ..infrequently asked questions... Email anything at rainboy.co.uk.. .. ..it reminds me of being back in the Transvaal during those endless summer days at my maternal grandmother’s house; it was just shortly after my father had got back from his 2nd tour of duty at Gibraltar and we were all eagerly looking forward to uncle benoit’s release from the isle of noises where the French government had unjustly imprisoned him after he and st Augustine had taken the fruit salad dicing machine formerly owned by howard Hughes for a spin round the open wintry fields of rural fargo for the benefit of all the old folks in the home who thought they wouldn’t have Christmas this year and were so overjoyed when we threw them the surprise party where we’d had cake and jellies but because of rationing the chocolate in the cake was made from acorns which had been acquired by len the village policeman who had found angostura bitters in the basket of his police bicycle one day after his wife died leaving him with three young children and put them in his coffee which was just before he went on the kilimanjaro expedition to raise money for “Dialysis for Orphans” never forgetting to send us lengthy accounts of his exploits with the dalai lama on kitschy Buddhist postcards which we blu-tacked to the wall of the den and which I used to cherish, reading and rereading them in my treehouse under the lawn, laughing at his hapless attempts to naturalise himself in the amazon basin in a tribal nomadic village inhabited by third rate TV ‘celebrities’ regaling each other with scurrilous tales of how hugh grant once ordered three A4 pages of oysters and got the horn so bad they mentioned him on the shipping forecast, which I used to listen to on the old crackly transistor radio my late great aunt had got from the Vatican the 2nd time she met the pope; I wish to this day and will wish until the day I die, I had asked her about the incident of the cicadas in bridestown; to set the record straight once and for all, or, at least, firmly crooked, since there are so few of us still remaining who remember the cigarillo days before the banns when we built a bonfire under the motorway bridge and burned away an entire fence while stuffing our faces with tins of cold baked beans that our mam got in job lots of a hundred from the elderly jewish man who worked on the fruit stall at the corner of our road on Sundays until he lost his arm while he was juggling in the swordfish pool to win a bet he’d made with the local Mafiosi who happened to know my uncle kim who had made a fortune importing Californian oranges into Venezuela as a front for the a plot to overthrow the Chilean government that was only foiled at the last minute thanks to the efforts of brad and gina davis the crime fighting twins who had uncovered the whole plot during a holiday to st ives where they’d accidentally stumbled upon the counterfeiting machine through a hole in the floor while exploring the attic of the old jamesons house which it was rumoured was haunted by the ghosts of a couple of Assyrian princesses who had killed themselves for love after their families had thrown them out for tasting the fruit of lesbos and they’d been found by the kindly gardener Sam, who would later pen a memoir of his days serving the Hottentots before the fall of the ottoman empire, I used to read and reread his gripping account of those heady halcyon salad dog days in the Burmese junta while sipping lemonade from a coconut in the back yard before they concreted it over wearing oversize shades in the deep hot English summer in the middle of autumn, occasionally booking last minute flights to the Iberian peninsula where I had a CD-printing and photo processing plant that looked like a cactus but smelled like a rose I’d given to my true love with the most perfectly rounded yellow leaves on those dangling stalks I used to pick every day and stand beneath the window of my one true love to whom I never confessed my adoration of until it was too late and he was hit by a car while on the way back from hospital where he’d been visiting the ancient bard and helping him translate some obscure passages of the dead sea scrolls, which was the reason I originally went to Minneapolis, having discovered that amerigo vespucci after whom America is named (as Colombia after Columbus) was a member of the Tri-Order Atheist Catholic Pentagram and had exchanged the holy foreskin of our saviour jesus Christ our lord and saviour for a document rumoured to be the lost book on comedy by Aristotle which everyone thought had perished in the fire in the hanging library started by some undercover policemen investigating a family of greek orthodox millenarians who used to make life miserable for us by playing their bazouki music at full belt during the long autumn nights in the middle of the day during the winter evenings until the morning I returned from school walking across the golf course to find the house all boarded up and my neighbours gone without a trace, leaving only their keys and a note cryptically scored with some letters and numbers as if they were in some kind of code, which was when I finally decided to quit smoking, and the day after that I met Judy Finnegan, and twentyeight years later, who am I?

  • Members

  • Influences

    James Joyce, William Shakespeare, William Blake, Shane MacGowan, Bob Dylan, Bjork, Tom Waits, Astrud Steehouder

  • Sounds Like

    Roll up roll up. The last train is leaving. Go from Farringdon to Herne Hill. Get the last boat. You dress up like roast beef and I'll be a yorkshire pudding. Bisto, that is the music. The bisto has been reheated in the microwave. This is the best way to bake a potato but not suitable for most pizzas. If you think of your genes as the pizza base, your education as the tomatoey stuff, your upbringing as the cheese and your experiences as the topping, do you still yearn for chips, garlic bread and a sharesize coke? Of course you do. The pizza is going cold. Please do not reheat it in the microwave. This will not do. It is not like the baked potato. But then I would not be reheating the baked tater neither. All life comes from a spud, and intelligence is the sprouty bits you get when you leave the spuds in the basket for too long. A metaphor is a toad pretending to be a frog. You know this. There's no pulling the socks over your eyes. You've seen the best minds of your generation deciding they'd rather stay in tonight and watch telly for a bit or maybe a dvd, commuting through the crammed arteries of commerce, fatpods suspended in water: milk. The milk of a lilac cow. The cow is not the burger but the burger, is this the cow? If over a hundred years every bolt and board is in turn replaced until there are no originals left, is the artefact nonetheless still original? I'm talking about Madonna. Madonna has been reheated in the microwave. This is the best way to bake a potato, but you must remember to crisp up the skin in a proper oven for a bit after the zapping. This has not been unregarded by madonna. Her skin is firm and crispy and full of nutrients and goodness, taut and leathery as rhino hide, plastic and smooth as cling film. The band will not be reheated; the band is like a pizza. It has a base and a topping; the base is existing culture, the topping is fate. The envelope that flops onto your mat and which when you open it can not be resealed; you can not send the bailiff's letter back; one day you are going to not have all those VHS videos any more, and noone will want them but you will have got rid of them somehow - maybe you took them to a charity shop, maybe the charity shop would have refused them so you will have freecycled some of the better ones - but, alas, you cannot freecycle your happiness; I would that it were this simple. But no one wants the $100 grin, the $1000 glint in the eye, the $10000 graceful mien, no, noone wants these things; who would be beauty's concubine? Alas, all and none, none and all. Laurel and Hardy. Torville and Dean. Christopher Dean, the man who made the ice run on time. Jane Torville, the inventor of the Collapsible Travelsize Jorvik Viking Centre. These are not idles whose fortune fell upon them; nay, they are the icecarvers. The ice is nitrogen. The nitrogen is collective guilt about the holocaust. The thermostatic regulator is the notion of original sin. The door to the refrigeration unit is the unasked question that you were really keen to ask but spent so long not asking that you forgot to ask it. And then, when you were lying there on the top of the pyramid of bodies reaching up towards the rafters of the shed, you will say, not Rosebud, not It's all been rather lovely, not On the Contrary, not Either that wallpaper goes or I do, no, you will splutter Can I eat this? But it will be too late, too late then, as it is too late now. Fine words will not express it, fine sauces will not garnish it, fine table waters will not wash it down, you must admit it, the only thing that comes between the feet and the ground is the sole, and the sole is not a fish, it is however flat, flat like the way the world is not flat, heavy in the way that feathers are not and light in the way that bricks are not, but momentous and as unnecessary as someone gathering a ton of feathers together, stuffing them into the world's least edible baked potato, or a contender for it. Who'd be a record breaker? Shellac may shatter but vinyl will merely snap, and a cassette will unreel its truth through the spools of your tape player, though a CD will merely skip. The truth is, you are the tape, your job is the spool, and your life is a magnetic signal; it is a great drawing force; you have a nice grin; perhaps you would like to share a 50cl bottle of red wine with me some time? And in this way we will go on, and one day you will think back with wonder, and I will remember, and raise a toast to a really inedible microwave-reheated pizza, for this is the cheese on toast, but with basil and tomato and toppings. And the basil is longwindedness; the toppings are reluctance to apprehend meaning; the base is merely bread-substance; detain thyself not with it, for it is merely bread-substance. There is no music, there is however a tiger, a trapeze act, and a net. Is the net for the trapeze artist or the tiger-tamer? This is the bugbear. What is a bugbear? You can buy the chips; they are bourgeois chips, posh chips, an oxymoron, a fancy of the dulwich mother; you too, you are a 'gourmet pork scratching' for example; who would buy a crocodile handbag? Someone has lapsed in taste; however we are still here, because we are handbags, lapses in taste; something you thought you wanted but then got saddled with, saddled in the way that a horse is not saddled but a small dog is, for who could ride a small dog? Only the small man, or the child, or perhaps another dog, or one of those tiny deer. There will be no encore. There will be no CDs for sale in the foyer. There are no Tshirts, no commemorative dishes, there is no accompanying comic book. Smoke without fire, taste without flavour, shade without colour; this potato is not going to be reheated - will you eat this skin, or will you leave it? You might leave the best bit, or you might swallow some of kylie's face - what will you tell your grandchildren then? That you swallowed some of kylie's face? That you left kylie's face on the pyrex? Either way, you're damned, you're damned and you're in herne hill. But congregation are onstage. And the blues is still the blues. You wonder why you have the purples, and if you're in the wrong place, but it's too late; because when you wake up in the mornin, you a purplesman. You a purplesman, so blow that harp. Blow it, because it's the end of the night, and in two hours you are expected. Buff those pegs, shine those biters; this photo will remain in your purse; so smile and don't look directly at the camera. There will be no second take. There will be no overdub. This is the radiator creaking at night as the coldsnap cracks. You are a person. You are non-microwaveable. Please be happy; I cannot help you. I would like to try though. Have a chip. Good morning.

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