28 June 2005

Dr John

It's amazing what people will put up with in the name of entertainment. The triumph of human dignity over the most apallingly adverse circumstances. I've seen sights this weekend that modern man should not have to witness. I am of course referring to Glastonbury. Heinrich Himmler would have been extremely interested in what went on. Perhaps if Coldplay had headlined Aushwitz, the course of history would be very different. Michael Eavis is of course hailed as a saint, while poor old Heinrich is somewhat less revered...just for want of a bouncy castle and a fish'n'chip van.
No need to expand on what went on - it's well documented elsewhere. On a personal front, I may never walk again, so compacted is my spine from carrying daughter on shoulders, and wheelbarrow - which in true festival fashion, jettisoned a wheel at the first opportunity.
Spent rather a lot of time in the John Wayne Gacey Field ( Kidz Field ).
Still, Art Brut were wonderful, as was Brian Wilson. Madness and eventual sunshine combined to save the weekend.
Happily, I was able to bring the car right to the tent when it was time to leave. Against all rules, but wearing a miraculously clean white suit and placing a large first aid box on the dashboard seemed to do the trick. Just call me Dr John.
Anyway, it's over, completed and survived. A small amount of enjoyment was had and after all, the ticket was free.

22 June 2005

John Moore To Headline Pyramid Stage.

Tomorrow, I will be loading my family, our newly purchased 'family tent', collapsible wheelbarrow, and several thousand tims of lager, into the motor, and heading west. The fields of Avalon are our destination. Well, the backstage hospitality camping area to be exact.
I have made an almost binding promise, to refrain from heavy drug use, excessive alcohol imbibement, and all other forms of enjoyment, usually required to animate these old bones. Instead, I have made the Kidz field my personal Altamont. Face painting, Circus performers and innoccent pursuits will be the order of the day. Ave the Rave will I hope, have the time of her life. She's already exited. She demanded to sleep in her new sleeping bag last night, and said 'It's brilliant'...in a non-ironic manner.
Hopefully, this weekend will prove to be a wonderful, enlightening and enriching experience for all of us. Of course, it has the potential for absolute disaster, but then again, all the best things do.
Having no desire to see Coldplay, The White Stripes and co, We will not have to suffer the big crowds. Art Brut, Babyshambles are our headliners...from a very safe distance.
Apparently, the police and AA have complained bitterly about Basement Jaxx closing the festival, fearing the biggest mass exodus in history.
Sadly, I have not been approached by the Eavis's to provide musical entertainment. However, if the Peatbog Fairies drop out, I am available. Perhaps you could petition on my behalf.
I have taken posession of a flash new phone, with more gadgets than your average space station. my fee for participating in a photographic exhibition at the Proud Gallery. My task was to select ten of my favourite gigs, which would then be exhibitted in photographic form. So, Black Box recorder, John Moore and The Expressway, The Jesus and Mary Chain, and my solo gigs, will fill an inordinate amount of wall space.
I will be leaving shortly. On arrival at hom,e, I have to practice putting up the tent. Forty pegs apparently. I think I might have inadvertantly purchased a Big Top. I hope so.
If there is an opportunity to blog in situ, I shall. If not, pip pip.
Watch out for me on the box. I'll be the one wearing a hat.

21 June 2005

A Weekend in Essex Among the Idle and The Crass.

This is a message to all germ operatives from the person once known as Moore. I have thrown off the shackles of commercialism, exorcized the satan money god, and embraced anarchist gardening.
Well almost. Had a splendid weekend at the Idler retreat, at The Crass Commune. I think it is about the most beautiful place I've ever been to. It's paradise. Mystery gardens, painstakingly landscaped, reclaimed and nurtured for forty years. Forget Alan Titchmarch, the Crass gardens are England's green and pleasant land. Secret spaces, hammocks, all manner of places to sit and ponder the meaning of life - or it's lack there of.
Penny Rimbaud and Gee Vaucher - our hosts - although they would flay me for conforming to capitalist notions of hierarchy, were fantastic. Buggers. They've got it just right...and all so close to London. For anybody associating Crass with crusties, dogs on chains and glue sniffing cider punks with super glued dreadlocks, you couldn't be more wrong. Penny is about the most urbane person I've ever met. Looking like a cross between Peter O'Toole, Richard Harris and Ian McKellan, he was constantly fascinating, and incredibly funny. One of Britain's real treasures...and still a thorn in it's arse.
I will be going back there at the first oportunity, and if I do start expounding the virtues of the Compost lavatory and Guerilla gardening, it's because I've actually learnt something. I fully intend to plant a disused bath tub in my back garden and turn it in to a pond. This is not one of Penny's tips by the way, but from an organization called Permaculture, who nipped over for a glass of wine.
Anyway, look Crass up on the net and refamiliarize yourself. Buy Gee Vauchers art books. She is the one responsible for the Crass artwork. Have a look, then think about Brit Art.
So, enough of the rant. The weekend's Idling was more informative than I thought it would be. As one of life's natural loafers, I just went for the ride, but I actually did glean a few things. Mainly, that what I'd taken to be a lifelong sloth and disgust at activity is in fact a brave new philosophy, which makes me a harbinger for the new revolution. I always knew I was special.
I slept in a tent, and was woken on Saturday morning, by something alive, moving beneath the tent. It kept prodding me, but I was 'Half Awake' so ignored it as best I could. Now I know how many women feel in the mornings. Anyway, eventually, I saw a serpantine shape slithering away. A bloody snake. Later on we found the skin that it had just shed. A quite large grass snake. I was delighted.
The people on the course were very inspiring. People who had given up jobs, and took Idling very seriously. For me, it was never a choice, but these people had something to lose and were brave enough to go for it. I expect they were very enlightened by my musical performance, which in a perfect world, would have been worth the price of admission alone, and certainly worth giving up the day job for. I played in a specially constructed nook, adourned with fairy lights...Having thrilled them with a selection of my wry observationally confections, I attempted some...rock'n'roll...and a bit of wiggling once the sherry kicked in.
Honourable mention must be made for Tom Hodgkinson, who attempted a few songs himself. Well, perhaps not honourable, but it needs to be mentioned to somebody.
The Saturday was attended by The Times and a photographer, so expect an article on silly middle class types lazing in hammocks and being Idle because they can afford to be. Still I must admit, I looked not too bad in the hammock, dressed in white suit, straw stetson, shades, and a Black Triangle - the symbol, worn by idlers in Nazi Germany. My complexion has rarely looked so good. My secret? Waking up in a baking hot tent, sweating like a pig until every impurity had washed away. Better than a sauna, because you can have it in bed.
The Crass place is fairly close to an airfield, which was having some kind of a show. Every now and then, our reveries were interrupted by Spitfires and Bi-plances flying in formation. It felt like being in a film, set just before the war. Tea on the lawn, cricket on the green and war in the air. Our light summer clothing soon to be replaced by military uniforms and shrouds.
Anyway, I'm off now to buy a bigger tent. There are family Glastonbury manoevres in the air, and my tiny little sweat box won't do at all. I'll need a collapsible wheelbarrow as well.
Pip pip.

17 June 2005

Explosions in the Home

It's been an expensive week. I've had to engage the services of a tradesman to repair the damage inflicted to our home's electricity supply, by a small person swinging on a bathroom cord light switch, bringing it off the ceiling, and consequently exploding the main fuse box.
The exhaust also fell off my wonderful new car...still, I'm not complaining. I shall shortly be downing tools, and heading to the Essex Countryside for the Idler Retreat.
I am intending to camp. This will be a good rehearsal for my spine for next week's Glastonbury assault course. Beer...I shall drink some beer as well. And smoke fags. All in all, it promises to be a good weekend.
Father's day on Sunday as well, so I am hoping to receive something nice...like an electrician's bill.

16 June 2005

The John Moore 68 Comeback Special

Just got back from playing a gig. No I haven't been out all night. I hit the stage at 11.30am sharp, and exitted at midday. A guerilla gig of sorts - at my daughter's Nursery School.
I have to say that playing for three and four year olds is virtually the same as playing for drunken adults. I was upstaged by children getting their knickers out, interrupted by my daughter, and bombarded with requests to play the theme from Bob the Builder.
I managed not to swear, get drunk or say anything particularly contentious. The set list consisted of 'Puff the Magic Dragon' -the non-heroin smoking version, 'The Runaway Train', 'Ba ba Black Sheep', Old Macdonald, 'I Know an Old lady Who swallowed a Fly' and YMCA.
Imagine the Elvis 68 comeback Special, then you'll get some idea of the stage set up. I elected not to wear a black leather jumpsuit, or pass my phone number to ladies in the audience. The whole thing was a great success, and I think I have another booking there later in the season.
I have an engagement of a different sort this weekend. I am booked to play at The Idler weekend retreat, at the Crass Commune in Essex. People have paid a fortune to spend a weekend here, learning how to be lazy. I imagine the whole thing will be a grand fiasco and am looking forward to it immensely. In fact, I might even do the same set. I don't imagine I'll be upstaged by people's knickers, because as far as I know, people in communes don't wear any.

14 June 2005

The Haunted Cuckoo Clock

A very strange thing happened to me today - I woke up early. Not only woke up, but got up. Unprompted, un-aided, and of my own free will. Seven O'clock in the morning to be precise, although I awake several times before that. Of course I feel like death now, and will resist if it happens again. However, as somebody with definite bi-polar tendencies, I fear this could be the start of a 'productive ' phase. I get them every now and then. As an expample of this, I fixed the long decrepit kitchen cabinets, and I spent two evenings repairing the Cuckoo clock. In my life, the cuckoo clock has huge symbolism. The fact that I spent hours adjusting the cogs, oiling the mechanism, rethreading the chains, balancing the weights and pendulum, could spell grave consequences. The last time this was done, a child was born nine months later. At the delivery room, I thoroughly expected a cuckoo to fly out on a spring, cuckoo several times then disappear back inside. As I say, this is an odd development. I'll keep you informed.
Perhaps my new burst of manic energy will lead to me writing 'The Tiny Town Chronicles' - a book for children I have been planning for a while now, guaranteed to bring wealth and fame. Songs perhaps? Yes, it's in my mind to record another record as well.
On to other musical matters, I am doing a gig on Thursday. Unfortunately, you can't come - unless you're less than five years old. I've accepted an engagement at Ava's nursery school, to frighten the children with my rockin' renditions of old favourites, and some compositions of my own.
Spent a lovely weekend in the countryside, watching Kites ( birds of prey) swooping for raw meat. Interestingly enough, I didn't see very many magpies when they were around. Bring them to London is what I say.

10 June 2005

Slings and Sparrows

I've taken against magpies - I've become suspicious of them. There are too many of them and I fear they are driving out the other birdlife - sparrows, thrush, bluetits - to name a few. I shall not be whispering '~Good Morning mr magpie' or indeed any other part of the day from now on. Bring on the bad luck then, see if i care. No other species is steeped in superstition that requires a greeting in order to ward off evil...except policemen, schoolteachers and dole inspectors. Well anyway, as far as I'm concerned, I'm boycotting the bastards. They can sod off. If this sounds like bigotted birdism, so be it. I want to see more tits, especially in the mornings.
I have come to the conclusion that this Crazy Frog record is a wonderful thing. Never mind it's musical content. It has singlehandedly kept the loathsome Coldplay and the execrable U2 off the number one spot. Pure punk genius. I might even advocate it's purchase...It's no worse than The Wombles, The Smurfs or any of the other novelty records that siphoned our pocket money once upon a time.
I have a question to ask, and I would appreciate any comments please. Some very close friends are about to have a child. All well and good. We have many things to give them which they will find useful. Baby clothes ,toys, general devices for the easy living infant. However ,there are a few items i feel a sentimental attachment to, which I would really like to keep for ever.
One of these is Ava's sling. Being born without the benefit of breasts, and an inability to lactate on demand, carrying Ava round in a sling was the closest to maternal contact that I got. Perhaps women don't understand this, having got on with the practical side of things. I specifically asked Mrs Moore not to give away the sling and rather embarrassedly explained my reasons for wanting to keep it. All to no avail. With an utter lack of sympathy, sensitivity and cavalier indifference, she informed me that she had parted with it. This leaves me in the embarrassing situation of going and getting it back. Fortunately, no situation is too embarrassing for me, so i will do this.
My question is - Am I being unreasonable? Personally I don't believe I am, but I must admit to a slight lack of objectivity in past judgements, where rage has mellowed with the fullness of time. Are all women so pragmatic and unsentimental, with hearts of ice, or do I find accord with some of you ladeez out there in babeland. Should I pull myself together and mow the lawn, or should I take measures?
Anyway, I have already begun a revenge of sorts. I've purchased a Seersucker suit on line from America. I will resemble an Old gentleman of the Deep South. I might take to chewing tobacco, spitting and slugging bourbon from a hipflask. Actually, I already do that one. Have a happy weekend Germs.

08 June 2005

The Killer's Got Swollen Glands

I've worked my little fingers to the bone all day, and now my toil is at an end. Even though two hours late this morning, I have applied myself to labour in a way I thought myself incapable of.
I woke this morning with swollen glands...in my throat, a head full of gunge, and perhaps even the tiniest trace of a hangover.
Anyway, I have tomorrow to do as I please, and doing nothing will please me most of all. I do have to drive the old car to the scrap yard before the mot expires, but there's a few day's grace. Perhpaps I should do like the pope, and auction it on ebay. Is it possible that somebody would pay for it's John Mooreness? Sadly not I'm afraid.
Gorgeous weather, nothing groteqsue on the horizon amd but a few quick minutes to endure before I burst into the sunlight.
A pleasant evening spent with my dear friend Haines, baiting him with my theories on the nature of 'support' and threats of producing celebrity guests. He maintained that 'support' means going on early, playing to no people, and being paid a pittance. Well, that's just his mean old outlook, and to tell you the truth, I expected nothing less. I will be Jerry Lee Lewis, to his Chuck Berry, and having set the place alight, shall pass him in the wings, adopt an insane southern drawl and shout 'Follow that nxggxr' which is supposed to have been what the Killer did on their 1957 tour. The fact that Chuck Berry did indeed follow that, should in no way detract from the sentiment.
Anyway, I have to speak to somebody on the telephone now, so I'm off.

07 June 2005


Back in the metropolis, refreshed, revitalized, rejuvenated and reasonably reliable. A lovely time had by all etc..I even rode a horse...well sat on one.
Anyway, you don't want to hear about my holidays.
So it appears I am to play gigs with Luke in July, culminating in a night at my usual - The ICA. This is a tour to launch 'Luke Haines Is Dead' his boxset retrospective wotsits. Anyway, he's kindly invited me to share the stage - although not the billing. Of course the way i see it, he's supporting me, but going on afterwards to clear the place before my aftershow party. The word 'support', as I have explained to him means something giving strength and stability to a wonky old structure that would fall down by itself. Well I'm glad to help my old pal out...especially at such a delicate time as this.
The Vichy Government are also underpinning this wobbling colussus, so expect trouble from the start.

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