When five knives of differing lengths are tossed into a till. When the groan of the despondent greets the grin of the innane. When buckets of badges are thrown from a train in a wind so high that the trees get maimed. When the monkey is grinder and the organ is ground. When Eddie Cochran's donkey is mated with John Denver's ass. Sounds like when a fridge full of Heineken is thrown down a mine, when a lorry loaded with lightbulbs collides with a cat or a crockery laden table falls through the floor. When God coughs, or Steven Segal retches, when Susan Hayward sighs, when Johnny-Come-Lately squeals in surprise. When bears roar and bees hum, when books shut or lonely perverts come. When tyres scream and towers shiver, when castles creak, ducks quack, streets quake and mountains moan, when ice cracks and girders groan, when money riffles and sneakers shuffle, when sheets stretch and scouts shout, sounds like a million dogs in a box barking, four swans in a tin tapping, two girls in a lift laughing, one guy with a quiff grunting, the boot marching, the lecher lurching, the pole-dancer punching, the pipe-fitter fetching, the baby-sitter crying, the fish singing, the police ringing, a thousand trousers tearing, the voice of Moses airing, the drums of hell sounding, the pub opening, the shops closing, the clouds moving, the wind changing.
Pre-order Justin's album on 180-gram vinyl at Elusive Disc
Justin Currie was born in a van near Paisley in 1964 in a hailstorm so vicious that it took a team of panel beaters a month to separate his forehead from the roof. Later on, perhaps in the nineteen eighties he started to sing in a strange breathless way, cramming too many words into odd amounts of bars and found himself, with his group of twee schoolboy punks, Del Amitri, getting firmly up the collective nose of the Glasgow white-soul cognoscenti. Much more loathed than loved, and revelling in their outsider status, Del Amitri attracted a dense little coterie of followers in the United States of America who duly set up a nationwide tour funded by busking, badge selling and the refrigerators of those fans' generous parents. Driven half-mental by their experiences the group came home, ditched their indie twiddling and embarked upon a course of songwriting so sickeningly mainstream and Americanised that it led to a long career being spoilt stupid by the radio and recording industries of the English speaking world. Limos to the pub, ponds full of chips, week-long parties in Bognor, that sort of thing.
By 2002 the thing had run it's cliched course; the group's fortunes were dwindling and, dropped by a record firm grown weary of their whining, the two chief writers put the band into cryogenic suspension and set about writing two LPs; a Justin Currie Alone affair and an entirely co-written electronic pop masterpiece. Justin's solo record is called "What Is Love For?" and features eleven thunderously dreary dirges many of which he is currently airing live to pained looking crowds of people in dingy Glasgow basements. When forced by penury, politeness or acute fear he can sometimes also be heard to trawl out tired versions of his withered hits.
Justin is unmarried and lives a quiet life of standing up and sitting down in Scotland with his two pet television sets.
Hey grumpy old man, smile at the sun! You could be stuck in a flat like me with a next-door-neighbour fanatical with techno, keen to spread the beat... ><
This Sunday.... THE FIVE ACES ROCKIN’ DANCE PARTY. A night of rockin’ soul, rock n’ roll and rhythm & blues featuring live music from The Five Aces, The Bottleneckers and The Privates Hammond Orchestra. Mikey Collins will be DJing which makes this an unofficial pre club to the last night of the glasgow mod weekender. Tickets £5. The Venue @ Oran Mor, Byres Rd. Doors at 7pm, 1st band onstage at 7.45pm sharp Last band offstage by 10pm latest.
Well..some luvely strange yet for some reason deja vu comments below...i thought i'd just wish Scotland a Hot music filled summer and may the Grass be greener than green,..Marmite sandwich anyone? Supeeer songs by the by...Love it...Finding crumbs of doubt and sweeping them from sight...SCOTLAND FOREVER!
Difficult to say because your attention is ambushed by the Hockney swimming pool and the urbane but somewhat overshadowed Cadell in the adjacent corner. Outside in the passage however, hung beneath a small skylight an orange-pink Rothko suffuses the walls with the rosy glow of a late September dawn.
