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Among other adventures, I spent seven years (1995 - 2001) promoting live music in London. To this day, strong men shudder at the memory of Nemesis Promotions, purveyors of fine rackets to the cool and discerning (or anyone I could drag through the door). I had a lot of fun, I lost spectacular amounts of money, and it was rather a relief to stop, in the end. But live performance is still my favourite way of absorbing music. Then I squeeze it all out again in the virtual pages of my webzine: Nemesis To Go.

A few old favourites: Magazine. Shriekback. Pere Ubu. Wire. Public Image Limited (circa 'Metal Box'). Cabaret Voltaire (before they went all happy house on us). David Bowie (before he started wearing double-glazing salesman suits). Old-Skool Killing Joke. Dub Syndicate. Bauhaus. Blackbeard. Banshees. Throbbing Gristle. Tiger Lillies. Yello. Big Stick. Pixies. Mark Stewart And The Maffia (On-U Sound: your guarantee of quality noise). Sonic Youth (especially circa 'Evol'). As I type this, I'm listening to 'Gluehead' by Yello (on the remastered version of Solid Pleasure, in case you're taking notes).

I like a well-turned pop ditty, I like horrible fractious rackets. I like visceral darkness, I like tunes you can whistle. I like stripped-down art-punk, I like tarted-up glam rock. I like a rousing chorus, I like unashamed gleeful noise. I like minimalische elektronik beat workouts. I like weird ambience, I like snotty garage rackets. I like no-frills bands in black T-shirts and sneakers (my wardrobe exactly). I like buttons and bows and frills and frocks (not by any means my wardrobe, but I appreciate those who can carry it off). I like harsh reality in music. I like theatre.

I like both types of music: rock and roll.

A few new favourites: An Experiment On A Bird In The Air Pump. KASMs. Selfish Cunt. Maria And The Mirrors. Mab (who I'm assured will rise again). Client. Psydoll. Maleficent. Vertical Smile. Marsheaux. Colt. Wild Billy Childish & The Musicians Of The British Empire. Queen Adreena's little sister, The Dogbones (and Queen Adreena, too). Emilie Autumn, who surprised me; Fangs On Fur who kicked that night in Germany up the arse. Cristine, who I wish would do more gigs. Factory Floor, single-handedly rebuilding the British manufacturing base in blocks of sound. Ulterior, despite the bandanna. And, of course, more...

For updates on the stuff that's currently floating my boat or sinking my ship, look at Nemesis To Go. That's what it's there for...

I've been intending to set up a Last FM profile for a while now, to add some noise to the words and pictures. I haven't had time to do much with it yet, but I'm Uncle_Nemesis if you're a Last FM user and you want to keep an eye on my minimalist presence.

The Nature Of Our Looking (Gilbert & George, 1970) Curiously, given that Gilbert & George are hardly obscure artists, this film seems to have been almost wiped out of their biography. I saw it at Tate Modern, which, as you can see, only gave it a passing mention on their website.

Mon Oncle (Jaques Tati, 1958) I think, as I get older, I am turning into Monsieur Hulot. I identify completely with him in this film.

The Life And Death Of Colonel Blimp (Michael Powell & Emeric Pressburger, 1943) A treatise on aging: one man's journey through the broad sweep of European history - and his own psyche. Who knew a biopic of a fictitious old soldier could be so moving?

The Ladykillers (Alexander Mackendrick, 1955) Not the remake, which was pointless and forgettable. The original - creepy, whimsical, and very, very English - is unquestionably best.

Ghost World (Terry Zwigoff, 2001) Did I say I identified with Monsieur Hulot? I also identify with Enid in this film. Should I be worried about this, doctor?

Goodbye Lenin (Wolfgang Becker, 2003) The capitalist world comes knocking at the door of a small flat in East Germany. Funny and moving, but this is modern history, too.

Our musical tastes are different (although they probably coincide somewhere around XTC) and I've never been in a nearly-made-it band (or, indeed, any band). But this is a witty insight into what it was like to grow up in an English provincal town in the late 1970s and early 1980s, obsessed with music, inspired by punk and the possibilities it opened up. It's the story of Giles Smith's attempts to wangle an invite to the rock 'n' roll party, all the while uncomfortably aware of the yawning chasm between the glorious fantasy of the rock 'n' roll lifestyle and the prosaic reality of everyday suburban life. This is what it was like to feel that way, in that time, with that soundtrack. This, in many ways, was me.

It's a gloriously funny book, and at times incisively, uncomfortably true. The likes of John Peel, Captain Sensible, Lou Reed and and Nik Kershaw make guest appearances, but this isn't about the stars and the bars and the bad behaviour. It's about one man's attempt to turn rock 'n' roll fantasy into reality - or, at least, buy exactly the right kind of speaker stands.

And here's a book which demonstrates that humans haven't changed much, and nor has the environment they create for themselves: Hubbub by Emily Cockayne. Walk through central London late on Saturday night, and tell me it doesn't feel like one of Hogarth's more extravagant etchings come to life. Anarchy and chaos: we've had plenty of practice at it.

Hmmm, two non-fiction books - I'll have to add a novel or two soon, or you'll think I never read stories. That's one for the next update, then.