And We Converse....

.....As I find myself back in the office, with an hours worth or My Chemical Romance on what seems like a continuous loop, playing in the background on the television, I begin to take myself back a few hours to the heat and heart of last nights activities.

For last night was the first show I had played with a new project that I have been working on.

Her name is Lucy Rose, she is a singer/songwriter and slays the guitar whilst singing with a voice that one just would not expect to be delivered from the size of the body it is coming from.

I met Lucy through my never ending Hustle/Constant mind frame to push myself further and further into this game, we met up three weeks ago and jammed out something crazy and it just clicked, it was so enlightening to be playing something that wasn't supremely fast or heavy, something that I could just groove to and get into a real trance with.

She literally had the very basics of songs which she would perform everywhere and anywhere but we have now built them up and added pace and depth to them, though this is nothing on what is to come. I cannot wait to really get started on recording the CD.

Anyway, Last night was the Debut performance by Andy Borrows of Razorlight Fame, he has made his own solo project, where he has taken words written by Peter Dixon and put them to music.
He provided a most enjoyable performance with appearances from members of Muse, Guillemots, live poetry from Peter himself and of course a final performance involving, to begin with, himself and Johnny Borrell and eventually leading on to Razorlight in full, playing their hits.

In amongst the pews and wood paneled flooring, stood the dressing room, complete with a rider consisting of nothing much more than a manic flood of carbohydrates and condiments to accompany them. Still, never one to turn down free food, I indulged in my fair share.
As I turned from my raid of the tortilla chips and salsa, I caught the eye of Sainsburys savior and 2003 Super 8 film and a scooter, Jamie Oliver.
Having previously visited the 'Jamies Hotdogs' Stand and been most disheartened to find that there was not a vegetarian in mind anywhere at all, I decided I would would take up my displeasure with the man himself.

He was most apologetic and explained that the entire idea had been thrown together in a matter of hours, not to mention the fact that the previous day had been not only his birthday but also the opening night of another of his 'Fifteen' Restaurants.

He went on to explain that he respects the diet of a vegetarian with utmost sincerity and that near enough 60% of his books are made up of vegetarian dishes.

I accepted his apologies and went on to speak about how eye opening his latest shows have been for the entire population. To hear his first hand opinions on it all seemed a whole lot more fulfilling than just to hear an edited watered down version from a TV appearance or magazine article.

Moving on, I have failed to mention mine and Lucy's performance.

Though being informed that, thanks to a decibel limit in within the vicinity, I was only allowed to play with brushes, I worked out an entirely new way to make her songs still hold a kick and groove without loosing to much wholeness.
From what I could tell, it worked. I definitely saw at least a handful of people nodding their heads or tapping their feet, that was good enough for me.
Lucy utterly killed it, having been unquestionably unnerved, she managed to get up and just explode upon the audience, her rapport was instant, and the moment she began to strum, the sense of 'everything is going to be alright' settled in perfectly.
It was over as quickly as it began, which is usually always the case, but from what I could tell, the people loved it, as did we, and thats really all that matters.

I received a text today asking whether I had heard the shout out Edith Bowman had given us on her show, sadly I didn't, though Edith was so incredibly kind hearted and pleasant to talk to, not to mention inspiring, to be running up and down the stage stairs - with child, to introduce acts and announce raffle winners. Warrior.

The rest of the night was spent riding the last train home, which is always a story within itself.

But that is a story for another moment in time.

Eyes Peeled for all that is to come.

xo

For C.C....

....Perhaps if your chosen route to work today happened to have been the commute from the south west to the capital city you might have experienced similar things as I.

Routine is quite possibly the most dull side of life one could expose themselves to, though it holds a sense of safety and comfort, a little spontaneity perhaps wouldn't go amiss from time to time.

Seven o clock wake up call, nothing particularly strenuous but the journey ahead for the next two hours definitely holds it weight in strain.
Shower, dress, eat and drive.
A seven and a half minute ride to the station, goodbye guardian, hello familiar faces, Grey sky and washed out expressions, over the bridge to platform one, eight thirteen, take your place on the platform, that familiar place to match the familiar faces.
Find a seat, and relax. From here on out one has an hour to sit, to indulge in a book, to listen to the current soundtrack that reflects your position in life or even just just watch the world as it passes by in a underexposed blur.

Pulling in to the final destination, and those desperate people, [the ones you find on any public transport, mainly planes] that stand up and block the aisles before the doors have even opened, in avid anticipation to leave the carriage/shuttle/cabin.
Out of the doors, with the greeting of a damp, heavy, dark and grim scented air, one descends the stairs to the underground and becomes the minnow in the ocean of filth, lost hope and desire.

The first mistake, to pick up the Metro, a free london paper, provided by the kind hearted people of the daily express.
Though one could hardly call it a paper, more so an obituary, a collection of death stories and other unpleasantness that does wonders for enlightening the mind in the pleasant surroundings of the London Underground system...

Its safe to say that despite this daily feed of misery I am yet to deny a morning of reading up on current affairs.

After being informed of how humans continue to rape the earth of just about everything it has ever had to offer and the less-than-excrement beings, that find it acceptable to Murder on primitive instinct and feel no remorse, I leave the over ground train at High street Kensington and make for the stairs, through the barriers and straight in to view of a Giant orange handing out baby oranges, promoting 'Fruity Friday'

Now this was a breath of fresh air for me, The lighthearted comedy factor of an oversized fruit and its small team of minions, shouting at the tops of their lungs first thing on a bleak Friday morning.
I most definitely took full advantage of the offer, helping myself to a very reasonably sized orange, which is currently positioned in front of me, waiting to be devoured for my lunch time dessert.

There is so much more that I wish to write about right now, but I really don't have the drive sadly.

The time will come, I have some plans to make things work.

We are the children of the revolution.

xo

Revolution...

...Sundays have never been the most eventful of days and most likely never will be.
I always seem to find myself slipping in to a moderate depression when it hits four pm and the shops start to close their doors, this process has always seemed to interpret itself as a 'this is the end of the world' saga. Perhaps my interpretation is slightly over dramatised, yet none the less, its how I feel.

Now take that and mix it with an (un) healthy, black bags and bloodshot stinging eyed lack of sleep feeling, from a previous night of sofa 'sleeping' and inebriated 'party girls' who seem to morbidly nocturnal.

And you are nearing the undesirable situation I found myself in post Saturday evening.

Having woken to find that 'yes- I really did end up sleeping here last night', I decided I would drive two others in the same situation, back to their homes.

C first and then B, though en route from C's, we just so happened to spot an almighty car boot sale. Now, never one to turn down the chance of an easy hustle or obsessive impulsive 'good buy', myself and B decided it would be worth our Sunday morning whiles to stop and scour the tables and their offerings.

One pound and forty pence later, I find myself walking away with a new chain complete with a 'peace sign' emblem and a 'might as well be brand new' true romance dvd.

Not to mention a Hounds-tooth jacket that B bought for me, the skate board I bought for him and the dark room equipment I managed to hustle for five pounds for B, in exchange for my email so that she (the seller) could contact me regarding which laptop would be best for her.

Back on the road I get a call from home saying that we will be dining as family that evening, so I drop B home after a short stop at his to eat some peanut butter and jam toast and introduce him to Charlie Brooker.

Back home, I am informed that the family meal is no longer going to be taking place which leaves me thinking - "I will go to this exhibition after all"

Leading finally to the point of this entire story..

The Cans Festival.

I drove to Basingstoke, parked up and got on a train to Waterloo. Thanks to British rail and their incredible efficiency towards running a business, there were extremely limited services and those that were running were ludicrously over crowded.
Alas, I arrived in one piece and stepped out into the warmth of the Sundays setting sun and the eternal buzz of London street life.
After a gruling 3 minute walk to Leake Street, I finally arrived.

The atmosphere was an absolute mecca of stunned appreciation and overwhelming inspiration. I was so excited to see it all that I couldn't care less that I had to stand in a queue for ten minutes before being allowed access. (ten minutes not being particularly horrifying, but queues......)
Finally, I was in, or under might perhaps be slightly more apt.
Instantly the camera was let out of the bag and I began to journey through 'history in the making'.

For those that didn't get to marvel at this spectacle and can't quite grasp the sheer insanity from the photos below, then in words it was as follows:

Picture the grimmest of walls entirely reborn with a wash of solidly bold colours, A tunnel of such vast proportions, it can house over a thousand bodies with ease.
Work your way through burnt out cars and hundreds of flashing cameras as you struggle to take in just how intricate this entire ordeal is.
Its eerily low lit but still holds a satisfying feeling of comfort as every spectator sports a smile indicating one - hundred - percent appreciation for everything they see.

At the far end of it all was an area specifically devoted to anyone and everyone that wished to make a donation to the project, the walls were utterly plastered with a complete mash of colours and logos, top to toe.

The attention to detail was awe inspiring, topped off by the security wearing high vis' jackets with the title 'polite' as a parody on 'police'.

To wrap up the entire event, it was, as I titled, A revolution.

Its projects like this that we need in our ever failing world, to bring an inkling of lighthearted feeling back to our miserable lives.

I am yet to find out what the future holds for this exhibition but I can only hope that whichever Borough council is in charge of the area, see's as much in it as I myself and clearly the majority of visitors did.

And of course, a few photos for you to enjoy: