Payroll = Act Sales/Payroll x 100
21 Hydref 2007, 14:32
- Hammer HQ, Manchorlton
On the lamb since 1972
Another sunny, well-scrubbed Sunday morning in October. How sweet the
browning leaves! And another post-Hammer autopsy to gut and bonesaw our
way through.
Trof is a lovely wee place to play gigs, and Paper
Scissors Glue is a lovely wee place as well. Kindly invited
back we were to put nails in coffins, and In The City trembled so much at
the news that the previous showcase over-ran and pulled the plug on any
soundchecks. Acoustaramalamadingdong, we cursed! But enough of
those dim tidings!
The Fountain have their drummer back and their softly lurching noises
sit even better nestling on his sticks like thorned-up candy floss. The
rustle of art was in the air. The punk was in the post. The
reg
ard was in the highest. And then what? Note to all
but self: The
Generalissimos are always a riotous
punch to the throat, and last night was no exception. There were a couple
of new tunes and we bawled along to "Knight Vision" as always. They are
noisy, battle-hungry helicopters from a roaring, rosy Hell, these boys,
and their cowbell playing has to be smelt to be believed.
Words to describe our performance are difficult to come by. New songs,
Egglessness, a mixing desk that was only half-functioning, playing our
backing tracks through the noise-limiter-ravaged bar PA, lyrical lionism
and skittering brainwaves all played a significant part. Drink for once
did not. I explained to those assembled that tapes of me speaking were
available on eBay, in case anyone loved the sound of my voice as much as I
do. "Topics of England" refused to lie down and be played, despite three
attempts. There were giggles during songs as the disastrous sound
meant the unvarnishable, creosote-free truth of the diseased mind of
CocOen could stain the ears of all assembled. We sort of pulled it off.
One veteran punter and Hammerfan was confused. We'd taken a step
backwards musically, he told us; Egg was a cog we could not wheel without,
the groove was lost. But the words had won the room around, he said;
and that kind of pissed him off. Also sprach der vergessene Osten.
Handsome
Nick had a notebook tucked into his sock, ready for literary
rumble; and once he's made the words flesh incarnate, we will serve them
up to you like so much mince and onions. OK?
Eyes like pigeons' eyes!
Forelocks For Jesus
10 Hydref 2007, 15:16
- Hammer HQ, Manchorlton
History sits in the kitchen, smoking
roll-ups and burning her toast
Once again, John Peel Day comes raging around the mountain tomorrow,
crocodile tearducts wallowing in the muddy infertile river bank of three
years of meaningless radio broadcasts. After the drunken, shrunken,
unthunken band night with which we marked his first anniversary, and the
rumpen, equally drunken disco which flared up last year, we at 
Hammer
Towers are at a loss as to how to celebrate our micro-Daddy in 2007.
Especially as Tony Wilson has also sunk his toes under the grassy carpet
in the last twelvemonth. Drunken shambling around from one bar to the next
and a band practice, not necessarily in that order; that has been crayoned
onto the shopping list for the minute. No red wine however: a tribute too
far that would be and no moustache.
However, there is more news for Hammerfans in the musosphere. Anthony H
Wilson of ManPaduaChester has his grubby, laminated legacy vomiting its
curdled talents all over the October pavement later this month. As last
year, Delicate Hammers will etch their names in the mossy margin, this
time in a Titanium alliance with The
Fountain, who have our back in all manner of disputes, the vast
majority of which have never happened.
This is the first chance for the Chippiest City on Earth, the Non New
York, the World's First Industrial Hellhole to hear our largely-new set
and we expect limbs to be broken in the masterly crush as we elevate
ourselves onto a raised platform at Trof on 20th October. We taught the
snails to dance, the slugs to jive, for the turning of this page in
musical history, and we do not intend to let our determined, loyal troupe
of gastropods down.
In related news, CocOen the Neverliving will be pouring as much alcohol
down his windpipe as he can that night to celebrate the turning of the
sandtimer once again, and zipping up the bodybag of another year that
seemingly passed without major incident, natural disaster or romantic
adventure. Past birthdays suggest that a great deal of new thought will
hatch and dribble from his hairy synapses, new literary movements will
throw tendrils to his infant lumescent sun until moments later it
fizzes and crackles into Alzheimic darkness. Bring wreaths soaked in
tequila and trembling sulphurous matchstalks to condemn another few months
to the Great Backwards.
You know we don't make sense...
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