MASTER EXPLODER

Hostels, like most things in life, in order to be maneuvered in a reasonably effective manner, removed from embarrassment and discomfort have to be gone at with a set sequence of moves and a degree of skill. A personable nature and willingness to get along with people is a necessity, to bond quickly in the small and varied community without hassle and without treading on anyone. Sometimes its hard when, except for a certain few, youre surrounded by total morons. When someone is seemingly over the moon that the person in their room before them had left their shampoo and shower gel in there and that they dont have to buy any now, telling them that the person who left it either pissed in it or gave it a nice sample of cum can cause some upset, but if youre a skull fucked degenerate leech head then its your own fucking problem.

My previous travels around the world have opened up my eyes as to how wonderful, bright and intelligent people can be, how they can get along with little quarrel or anguish. This one has highlighted the exact opposite, maybe Im getting old but the inability to do anything effectively without the assistance of others troubles me more and more. Being typically English and overly polite when it comes to decision making grates my eyeballs, and turning simple decisions into United Nations treaty negotiation sessions has nearly tipped me over the edge. Each reminds me every time why I choose to travel alone, because as a groups size multiplies its intelligence inevitably drops, when it quickly reaches troglodyte levels its time to leave. Run away into the night, find the Belagio on the strip in Vegas, fuck off the numbskulls rely on your own quick wit and skill, let the Armani suit carry you through if necessary, but bring your own decisions on your own head and make sure you dont end up dead, and as youre reading this, hopefully you can deduce that I didnt.

But what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, I cant say any more than I didnt sleep for close to 55 hours, I was lucky not to end up in jail on more than one occasion and that the city raped me, my wallet and my mind. Ill comment further on the terrible sessions some time in the future the memories are still to fresh, open wounds in my mind that are slowly healing and will more than likely leave scars. Four days in Los Angeles recovering was more than enough, the city is a joke in more ways than one, its basically the finest example Ive come across that highlights how quickly civilization is going to fall apart. A city of 20 odd million people and a pathetic mass transit system that must consist of about 4 busses, with 2 cars to every person and no one caring about anything apart from the slightly increased cost of petrol, which is still remarkably cheap anyway, the impending doom of humanity shines with intense colour. Its pure consumerism, the main nerve and as much as I enjoy being a consumer in a liberal democratic capitalist society, LA does make me slightly sick. Not that Im really willing to do anything about it, Im far too lazy for that and saying that the fight and cause is an uphill struggle is an understatement beyond the normal planes of reality. Changing these peoples minds on environmental issues simply will not happen, ever. No one cares a fuck and as depressing as that is to the hippy green peace types it is actually highly worrying to anyone with half a brain, and as big as LA is it is still only one of the worlds major cities. The quite unimaginable proportions of human and chemical waste takes normal increments of measurements and pisses all over them from a very high table.

Enough of this guff though, let us forget about all that for now, concentrate on having fun and getting the job done. Both of which are going reasonably well, I arrived in San Francisco recently and after taking a brief 2 hour walk around a small part of the city I fell quite heavily for the place. Further to that going out on a pub crawl with a group of welsh men that night made sure that the city, in the small time that Ive been here, is now firmly in my top five cities in the world. Bar hopping with 5 welsh men from Newport is an experience anywhere in the world, in San Fran it quickly brings all manner of shenanigans, far from being able to remember exactly what happened that night I can piece together a few things. Namely getting intimate with a brunette called Tori, dancing to Frank Sinatra with a female bar owner and the poor chap that got minced by a fire engine responding to an emergency call. How I managed to pull off talking to the police about the incident after some serious whiskey intake Ill never know, but I got the story, its a terrible shame it fell out of my brain whilst talking to some Lithuanian, the damned hippy Ill have his head on a platter.

The main peninsula plays host to a wide variety of places and activities as you can imagine, but also has a nice hint of culture which is terribly hard to find in many American cities. Although there is a seemingly never ending stream of homeless people, if youve got the gift of the thousand-yard stare they soon retreat into the sewers or whatever pit they came from. I think I will stay on here longer than I originally predicted, Hollywood is a joke that whichever God you believe in has played on the world taking millions of cunts and putting them all in one place. HA, aye fucking very funny. Whilst feeling safe in every part of the city I have yet been through in San Fran I am constantly fearful of the long overdue earthquake hitting with fierce intensity, turning down town into a 100sq mile parking lot and leaving me without anything to do. Someone help me out, get onto the National Guard and have one of those helli-jets on standby, I need maneuverability and speed, no point messing around now is there? Ive also been in touch with the British Embassy for my Alcatraz visit, the CIA seemed too keen to give me a private viewing, especially after Vegas. YeGods! Well just have to see now wont we?

As the money wears thin though the stories of debauchery are going to run low, Im writing now and its going well, the book will be done my Christmas all going to plan, maybe early Feb, well have to see but I will keep you posted.

Take care fiends.

'We're gunna need a bigger boat'

Well, I want to write, I always have, this is my first real attempt at creative writing. I have bad grammar and terrible punctuation, Im working on it and I acknowledge it, however, Ive got little time to work on removing all the small niggles at the moment, I just want to hear if people like it. If you do, comment, thank you.


Who the fuck is alice?

He woke into an immediate panic, twitching thumbs and blacked out thoughts of sin and bad crazies were all he had. Picking himself from the floor with the sort of carefulness normally reserved for the elderly, he walked over to the full length mirror hanging at the side of the door in the eight berth hostel room, on Amsterdam Street in uptown New York.

His refined face was bloated and whiter than usual, his naturally pouted lips were scarlet red giving the impression he was wearing lipstick and his clothes were marked with splashes of whiskey and beer.

He turned around to gather his things noticing the silence of the room, normally crowded and bustling with a wonderful mixture of nationalities it was still and dull. He quickly looked out of the window, facing into a small patio garden the youthful population of the hostel would gather there for sordid tales of the night before, or in most cases, just to smoke and relax. One girl in particular caught his eye, wearing all black on a day that looked so hot. No time for her now though, it was important that he re-hydrate, ease the pressure on his dried up brain, piece together the nights actions, to evaluate and regroup.

“Just these two waters please, actually throw in some chewies, strong ones, I think an tramp died in my mouth last night.”

He reached into his left hand pocket and took out his wallet, the cashier at the convenience store across the road from the hostel looked vacant as usual and accepted his cash. Reaching with his open hand he stuffed his wallet back into his right hand pocket, it was crammed with paper notes, one flew out lightly and softly whisped its way to the floor as he walked outside narrowly avoiding a collision with a push-bike.

It was hot, thick summer heat that close cities bring mixed with awful and potent mixtures of pollution and bad breath surrounded him. He stepped back under the short length of shade the shop brought and squinted for the note. Picking it up he read it eagerly whilst opening up a bottle of water.

‘Adam, I cannot define what I found in you last night, it would only limit that which is limitless, I will see you at 2, where we agreed, your wonderful, Alice’

He tingled all over, the water dropped to the floor hitting the concrete on its bottom side with a quiet thud, the kinetic energy forcing out a petite jet of water against his jeans, rubbing it off wild thoughts came rushing into his still shriveled brain.

Who was Alice? Where had they met and under what extraordinary circumstances has led her to writing such a note? He found it impossible to think, too much bearing down on his sore head and racing heart, the love of his life lost in gray matter, what was he to do?

‘Come on Adam, maintain you fuck, get it together,’ he piped quietly to himself over and over.

The sun was bearing down, pollution was quickly crawling up his nose and catching the back of his throat, it was still in the city even though he was surrounded by movement.

‘Right, fuck this,’ he said out loud, hailing a cab he knew he had two hours to try and retrace his steps, regain some memory of the night, gather himself for his meeting with Alice and still have the energy, if necessary, to impress and charm in his usual sleek manner.

The cab took him to the first haunt of the previous night. A gothic looking bar in the downtown area, its doors were just swinging open as he jumped out of the cab, almost throwing the fare at the cabby and yelling in clichéd bliss to keep the change.

‘The Hauntishoon’ in gothic lettering named the bar, some play on words he had no time to figure out. Red and black paint everywhere, long dark purple velvet curtains blacked out the main drinking area and, even thought it was just after mid-day, fake electric candles lit the stalls that ran along the side of the bar, helping a great chandelier in the middle. He noticed he was the first and only person in there and quickly rushed up to the barman polishing glasses.

‘I’m sorry, I desperately need some help, I’ve had quite a terrible night, too much Gin, you know the drill, I was wondering if you remembered me?’

The barman stood up, he was young with a chiseled face but tired eyes, too many long nights had obviously caught up with him, it was clear his nerves were still a little fried from the night before.

‘Shiiiitttt, Adam dude, I almost didn’t recognize you, fuck man, what a night, didn’t expect to see you this early, if at all, what did you say? What the fuck are you doing here?’

Adam drew a sigh of relief, recognition was the first step, the small talk would have to be skipped, Alice was all important and he could catch up with this young rapscallion later.

‘Seriously man, I’ve got very little memory of being in here last night… Ohh fuck, Mikey, I remember now, you knocked off early and we had a few long island ice teas, then some more and some vodka and gin, lots of gin, Jesus, that was early as well, what the hell happened though dude? Seriously, I’m missing quite a few pieces’

Mikey was giggling, ‘Arh man, I can’t believe you don’t remember that girl, you convinced her your father was the Micronesian ambassador to the US and that you had diplomatic immunity, I’d never even heard of fucking Micronesia before…’

Adam interrupted quickly, ‘…Fuck, what was she called? I vaguely remember, she didn’t seem at all impressed when I demanded she got naked…’ He was thinking quickly, too quickly for his state of mind, tripping over his own thoughts he had no idea how he could have been such a swine to someone and have been left with such a note. ‘The note!’ he thought.

‘Mikey, settle down, you need to help me seriously, as a matter of the uppermost importance, I found this note in my pocket this morning with some other stuff, it’s what I’m here for, can you tell me anything about it?’

Mikey grabbed the note, it took him a few seconds to read, then a few more to piece a sentence together, ‘I have no fucking idea what the fuck this note is about maaaaan.’ He said as he burst into hysterics.

‘So this girl, the one who I told I was an Ambassador, she wasn’t called Alice?’

‘No man, I cant even remember her name, she didn’t stick around for very long, in fact after she left, you decided it was time to move on as well, how did you get on, or can’t you remember that either?’

‘I’ve got no idea on either question,’ Adam answered with a sigh, the momentary high of being recognized and the chance of help had been quashed, he was dead at the first hurdle, downtrodden dreams even before he could attempt to get up and over.

‘Hey, don’t be so glum chum, have you checked the rest of the stuff in your pocket? You know what those old Columbo movies taught me? Always check for fucking packets of matches, you can trace anyone with them, didn’t they find JKF’s killer with that method, or was that….’ he drifted off into a mumble.

Adam reached into his pocket and pulled out the pile of notes, napkins and crushed cigarettes, sifting through it without any thought for luck or chance he was certain nothing was going to come of it. But there it was, burnt and withered the lettering was still distinguishable.

Adam leapt onto the bar, thrusting his pelvis into the dank air, ‘Oh fuck me, seriously, fuck me, the fucking Motorcade, that’s where she’s got to be, I remember her from there, I’m sure I do. Mikey, my wonderful fellow, I shall kiss you now for I have to fuck off, into the thick of it, to find Alice.’

He jumped down and did as he said, planted a big kiss on Mikeys forehead. The bemused barman laughed, waved him goodbye and carried on cleaning his glasses as if nothing had happened.

By the time the cab reached Adam’s second destination he was an hour down and shrieking at the cab driver to take the money and fuck off. Although his trip to The Hauntishoon was kept to a minimum the Motorcade was on the other side of the city. The long cab ride had given him time to clear his head slightly, to reappraise the situation in a misty but not entirely blacked out fashion. Vivid colours, shapes and sounds but nothing totally distinguishable squeeze there way back, like the seconds leading up to a horrific car crash or savage beating, all the detail was lost, leaving the large soft round edges to be scraped at for improved features.

He noticed in the corner of his eye a bar woman ducking behind the bar and trying to crawl away as he entered. It was immediately clear the air conditioning had broke, maybe she was searching for the cool air in the bottom quarter of the bar’s moist and sickly atmosphere? He rushed up and, putting his elbows down on the top, let the momentum carry him slightly over the top to get a glance at the girl.

‘Please get up, what the fuck did I do last night? You’re not calling the police are you? All I want is to know who the fuck Alice is?’

She got up hesitantly and spoke whilst leaning her left cheek into her shoulder and fluttering her eyelids.

‘I’m not calling the police I’m just a little embarrassed about my friend, actually a lot embarrassed, but it sounds like you don’t remember so I’m going to quit whilst I’m ahead’

‘No don’t!’ He answered. ‘Seriously you have to help me out, who was your friend what happened? Oh god, she wasn’t the half Mexican half Native American girl was she? What happened? Is she Alice? I need to know, it’s urgent’

‘Oh no, she’s not called Alice, she’s called Sarah. You’re right about her mixed race though, it’s what gives her that amazing glow, although you didn’t seem to appreciate it too much last night…’

It suddenly came back, like a focusing lens, the colours and objects around him blended and took form, memories of the night were coming back with horror. She did have a glow, Sarah, a wonderful complexion, fine pine wood painted a rusty red, bright green beaming eyes, she was brilliant, but he recoiled, her large hands had given him the gitters. An evolutionary leaf on the line of an otherwise perfectly smooth running track. But that wasn’t all, what was it that caused him to leave this place in the hurry? Maybe the bar lady could fill in the gaps.

He waited for her to return after serving a large biker type and quizzed her, ‘I’m sorry, I remember your friend up to a point but I don’t remember leaving, don’t think I’m such an awful bastard please, I’m normally a perfectly nice guy.’

‘Ohh I’m sure you are, no it wasn’t entirely your fault anyway, she kept asking you for drinks and as a gentleman you kept buying them, at least she thought you were a gent, I thought you were a slimeball with a dirty agenda, but she’s old enough to look after herself so I said fuck it and let her get on,’ she flicked her black hair revealing a selection of stars tattooed on her neck and, biting down on a chunk of lime she carried on. ‘Anyway, for a skinny guy you can sure take your booze, you looked half gone when you came and after another five long islands with gin shooters I thought you were about ready to collapse, seems that Sarah had been trying to keep up though. From what I got out of her this morning she said she leant over, told you she loved you and dribbled on your knee until she noticed you were facing someone else and quickly sat back up, shame the guy you were talking to pointed out what had happened. At least that’s what she told me, it seems to fit pretty well with what I saw next’

Adam leant over thinking it might be something good but knowing it was going to be horrible, ‘What was it, please tell?’

‘Well, you slowly patted her face, wiped the remaining spit off the side of her mouth with a napkin, raised your arms above your head and ran out screaming like fuck, that was the last I saw of you.’

‘Oh fuck these tales, seriously, is that what happened? What about the rest of the night, how the fuck did I go on to meet Alice?! She wrote me this note do you know anything about it?’
‘Erm, nope, by the time you left here though it was at least four, pretty late, I’m fucked off because I’ve had to get up to do this shift, you’re lucky you caught me.’

Lucky indeed he thought, this tattooed harlot had ruined his dreams. Even if he had jumped straight into a cab after fleeing the bar in terror, got straight out and gone straight to the hostel room to collapse on the floor and scare off all his Japanese room mates, it was impossible for him to have got back to the hostel before five in the morning, leaving little or no time for talks with Alice.

He must have made her up, or even worse one of the Japanese with good English had realized he was reading Oscar Wilde, thought of some romantic epigram style note and left it in his trousers. He thought how they would be laughing at him right now, sat on their cool plane, munching on pretzels and sipping saki or what ever the fuck it was the Japanese drank.

He was tortured soul that had spent the last two hours running manically around New York in the summer heat. They were laughing alright and he was disheveled, having lost all hope paranoia crawled in with dark eyes, he began to shake slightly and as the adrenaline wore off he looked at his watch, it had just gone two.

Romantic thoughts remained of a beautiful girl sitting down to meet him, to talk and to fall in love with him, to be free together in this great bustling metropolis. To soak up art and theater, to get lazy in the afternoon and nap, then, into the shower for a powerful soapy romp and hit the city at night. He contemplated ordering a large gin, the bar lady had long turned away from him and his gut kicked, he couldn’t drink if he wanted to, the only choice was to get back to the hostel, to crawl under his thin sheets and sleep for as long as he could.

He arrived back in double-quick-time thanks to a fast driving but slow talking cab driver; he tipped him with foreign coins and walked heavy steps into the hostel. Leaning over to pick up his key from reception he took the time to sign-in, never usually one to follow protocol he thought it wise to have some record of him being in the building if a fire started, given how heavily he was going to sleep. Suddenly he was paralyzed, three names up on the sheet he noticed the name ‘Alice’.

The handwriting matched almost exactly that on the note, just over two hours ago she had signed in, but where was she? Why had she turned up so early? He looked again at the note and realized its single rip had removed the numeral 1 before the 2, it was 12 they were meant to meet. His heart was racing again, dilated pupils brought on by a massive adrenaline rush, he needed the toilet but realized it would have to wait. She could be leaving any second, where would she be? Would they cross? Would he recognize her? What did he look like? His beer soaked Levi’s were hardly impressive though he decided not to care, just find her an explain everything.

He began to rush through the main corridor, looking on his right through the bay windows that lead out onto the garden, it was quiet apart from the girl in black he had noticed before he had left, sat there reading a book. He recoiled, it couldn’t be, he knew when he looked down at her from his window on the fifth floor two and a half hours ago she was something different.

He could see her with much more clarity now, legs crossed neatly, she wore a black knee length skirt, a tight black top that showed off a wonderful figure. Her face was masked by large black sunglasses and her facial profile was hard to view because of her bob-cut hair, but he knew she was beautiful. He began to walk up to her and as he realized she was reading George Orwell he almost fainted, she seemed perfect in everyway.

An agnostic since he could remember he suddenly became a believer in the Gods, he prayed during his slow walk, he cried out in his mind to Fate to bring them together, he wept in front of the devil as he sold his soul to be with her and chased after Karma as its tricky dance maneuvered around him. As he stepped up to her he took a deep breath and spoke.

‘Hello Alice’

‘Hello Adam,’ she replied with a smile and pouting red lips. ‘I’ve been waiting for you for some time now, though I’m glad you’ve made it, sit down now, I want to know everything about you.’

The End

We are the ones that must sport the position.

Jesus jumped up Christ its about fucking time, plans are finally coming together with the speed and accuracy I have become accustomed to, Acapulco is on the horizon with the heat haze of Hollywood in the background.

Ive planned for six weeks but who knows how long I may spend out there, money is always the clincher and with about three grand saved up for the entire trip its just about doable. Im not however, completely closed to the idea of finding some back alley work out there and staying as long as I can, we shall see what happens, as always fate has decided, there is little I can do to change that.

On the subject of fate, the primary objective of the trip is to begin penning a novel Ive had milling around in my head for a few years now. Expect circular time theory, particle accelerators, tequila, directors, romps and Im thinking some sort of ethereal plane. Its a giant cluster-fuck of ideas at the moment but rest assured I will bring them together in a fantastic manner.

m aquiver with excitement regarding Acapulco, with its cheap beer and trendy cliques; blazing heat and luscious bays its not only going to be brilliantly hedonistic but a great source of inspiration. With any upscale travel though theres always trepidation, reports of police officers being decapitated by drug traffickers is always a worry, finding the British embassy is a must upon arrival, home territory, solid terra-firma where people can see clearly that decapitation just isnt proper.

Now, I have my cobra snake skin wallet and boots, ultra lightweight laptop, quad-band XDA, vintage Gieves & Hawkes bowtie and all manner of other vital travel accessories. The time if fast approaching, after months of lacklustre movement and waiting, now all its going to take is a brief montage of work and exercise before Im 32,000 feet above sea level travelling at close to 500 miles an hour to the great Mexican city of Acapulco.

Its been a tough few months for a man who without a plan is almost utterly lost. Deciding I needed to quell my alcohol dependency was a hard decision as well, for the first time since my adult life I spent a month completely sober, not many of my close friends believed I reached this auspicious goal, but I did, its that simple. Now I have my drinking under control, in light of the circumstances that lead to this happening my belief in fate is as strong as ever. I did however have help off a special someone, she knows who she is.

I will say adieu now, I have technology to prepare, I will be posting regular blogs from Acapulco when I arrive in late July, keep an eye out. Your friend,

Arh, hello there, I trust you’re well?

It’s been an outstanding eight or nine months, a cannon fired sledge ride though walls of dark whiskey, indecent prose and in places, twitching passion. Now breadontoast is back, my own shining corner of the internet to help me carry on this fateful adventure.

I’m talking dramatically of course, alongside the excellent experiences I’ve had there has been the boring times too. Whilst the retail industry proves to be much more a pleasant experience than the catering one, it can be a little placid at times. Better that than burnt hands, late nights, cuts and crawling under hot cookers though. .

Anyway, enough of this, I’m in no mood to give anyone an any more detailed account of my life over recent times than that it’s been fucking excellent, I had a down spell that lasted approximately 72 hours, things are moving a head with speed and accuracy as always and a dramatic change will be happening soon.

Leave a message if you’re so kind or add me on myspace, www.myspace.com/fervour

Adieu maestro, until next time.

YOURE GOING TO PAY...and I mean seriously motherfucker

Everything is progressing at an extreme rate of knots, it’s been about 6 months since I left uni and in that time I’ve become a regular and praised contributor on a national music magazine, Zero Magazine and a regular with another fashionista (yuk) type mag Disorder Magazine as well as setting up my own local fanzine Under Magazine to the love and admiration of our local scene.

Journalism seriously fucking rocks I can’t tell you, and this is good fucking stuff. It's starting to take on a real form, a feverous take on new music, absolute dedication, driven with passion. There’s no fucking around here, no time for it, no time at all, it’s filled with grit and spice and will hopefully give you an insight to the band I’m covering.

I’ve attached a recent article I’m particularly proud of, perhaps if you like it you can leave a comment or something.

Anyway, a quick pic of the mag and I will say adieu maestro, until next time.

If you want a copy of the mag request on the website, i do send abroad.

www.undermagazine.co.uk



Innocence Dies -

As the 21st century squeezes the last drops of innocence out of the body of youth it seems fitting that youth itself should be playing the backing track. Meet Kill The Young.

Tom, Olly and Dylan Gorman, three brothers in their early twenties who kick out a music that corresponds exactly with the disorientation and panic felt by so many young people in today’s stylised, fast paced, ultra exclusive and class divided as ever British culture. Not strictly a concept band, their thoughts on the loss of innocence and the corruption of youth comes from, as guitarist and lyricist Tom says, “The ability to take a step back.”

"It is more of having a strong point to put across rather than a political agenda” he continues. “It’s not as if we have had or, do have a specific idea saying, ‘this is what we stand for and this is what we are going to do’, because you can get stuck in a rut doing that sort of thing and we’ve always wanted to explore different avenues of music. The name was and still is to catch peoples’ attention, we do believe in it and what it stands for”.

That stance, portrayed by their name and their first single, The Origin of Illness, is full of the passion and gusto that the 21st century is kicking out of the young. Bassist Dylan elaborates on their perceptions, “It’s something we do feel strongly about but, it’s never something we’ve had to deal with personally because we’ve had such cool parents. We’ve looked at how all these kids are growing up so fast, so young. You see these people that are forced by way of financial situations or pressure off their parents, or whatever, into doing something they don’t want to do whether it is university or jobs. Kill The Young is that essence of youth being lost, because people aren’t able to do the things they want to do or enjoying youth”.

Let us not forget about the music, it’s rampant and eager, with twinges of everything from Echo and the Bunny Men to Smashing Pumpkins and Sonic Youth. Any band that has played together for over seven years and performed in excess of 300 gigs will have a bond, but add to that mix the fact these guys are brothers and there’s the definite possibility of something special being produced. “Dylan and Olly come up with more actual tunes and riffs than I do” starts Tom when explaining the writing process of this literal band of brothers.

“Once those are sorted though I’ll sit down and think and think. I’ll take a long time to write down what will articulate perfectly the idea I’m wanting to say. No one track is half hearted or rushed and they’re usually quite personal to me. We’re not specifically a concept band with a theme that we write the music around, I mean we have a point behind the name and such but I don’t think we set out to change minds. If someone takes something from the music then great, I think different people will put different interpretations on what we play.”

Dylan continues “None of the songs on the album are about love or anything like that, it’s all about Tom and how he feel’s, it is some very personal stuff which is often quite dark. The music isn’t so overly personal that people will be like ‘what the hell is he singing about though.’”

As we sit around a cold table in Manchester train station on a dark and typically wet night it might be easy to see why they’re perhaps the polar opposite to a band like the Beach Boys. There’s no sparkling 1960’s America here, just, as Dylan says, “People rushing to get pissed, who can drink the fastest and how much, you know, we do a bit of that ourselves, but that’s just the way life is in these small towns like the one we grew up in”. A bleak backdrop that has provided them with the fodder to create their raw and emotive music.

Finding this sound was not an easy feat, seven years of gigging and constant development though has landed them with a package they have the uppermost of confidence in. “Other people being in the band helped us grow as musicians and become stronger in the end, because we realised that it’s either going to be us three or it was not going to happen. We couldn’t have it any other way, it’s the key really, it’s probably why we’ve written so many songs” explains drummer Olly.

It has been more than just a brotherly connection and ability to pick up on each other’s smallest peculiarities that has brought them to this ignition ready point, their path brought them to legendary producer Dimitri Tikovoi. After being signed to Discograph records the company decided to bring in the producer, famous for his works with everyone from Placebo to Goldfrapp, to have a listen. “They flew him over from France to our tiny little practice room” begins Olly. “We played a few songs for him, chatted a bit and started on about the album, our ideas and how to bring them to reality. See, something that always evaded us with studio recordings was this great live sound we have, Dimitiri was really able to bring this out by getting us to play live but, in the studio so to speak. We had people brought in to play in front of, he got us playing all together to really bring out that energy and passion rather than us playing separately and then layering it. We loved it and really think it worked.” Dylan continues the description seamlessly, “…And although it maintains this raw edge and special feel about it, after we had done all the over dubs and polished up the guitars and things like that it does sound totally professional, it’s not too raw that it just sounds amateur”.

Now it seems they’re set, they have the money and people behind them to bring their impressive sound and keen attitude to an ever hungry public. Not a band to gorge on, no doubt they will be drip fed, whatever it takes just as long as they don’t fall off into nothingness, that would be a travesty.

---Kill The Young

Northwich is a peculiar place. As just another northern town that makes up the borough of Vale Royal you would be forgiven for overlooking it when searching for youthful music full of gusto and fervour.

Don’t be too keen to miss us out though, here in my home town I’ve begun to scratch the surface of something special, a local scene that is rife with more than just teen angst and a lack of things to do. There are bands, dozens of them, talented youngsters that have always been here since I was a kid. Now with my new magazine, Under, I’m hoping to give them the chances large city bands get every day as they’re featured in fanzines and on dozens of websites for people everywhere to read about.

It’s that something more than a 30 word filler in the local paper. We wanted total coverage with reviews, interviews and features, a professionally designed and printed publication, produced with the same passion that the music has. Two issues down and the hard work is paying off, with a budget for 1100 copies the full colour 40 page magazine is now out, local businesses are beginning to take us seriously and the scene is loving it.

It’s no mean feat, content is spilling out from all corners of this borough with three local bands getting signed in as many weeks, but money is what counts and the ever pounding question of where to get it from. Luckily sweet talking people is, unlike playing music, an area I have always seemed to excel at, but who needs it? We’ve got an amazing product, add that to a keen attitude and absolute professionalism and the advertisers are almost chasing us.

When I say ‘we’ I mean the small group of young and intense writers that the magazine is also working for. Acting as a platform for these young adults to get their portfolio started was another key aim of the magazine and now, with a team of 10 and growing, that grand notion of total coverage is beginning to become a reality.

We will eventually see come January if the advertisers still have that fire in their bellies and the eagerness to carry on feeding us with money. There’s so much more to do and luckily I have a few more ideas hidden away yet. It feels like I’m hooked up to a generator, the 18 hour days are frying my nerves but it’s exciting and fast paced and everything else a job should be at a young age. I’ve got my own magazine, it’s a quality product, I know because I would read it. If you can break off the edge yourself and find something just as cool give it a go, it’s an outstanding feeling.

Your friend, Jack

If you would like a copy of Under Magazine request one at the website:

www.undermagazine.co.uk

Anyway, here is the pilot.

RIP HST, The death of a warrior

I’ve carried my copy of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas with me everywhere I’ve been for the last four years, over three continents and tens of thousands of miles. I watched the film on the recommendation of a friend, I read the book after some research on the internet and my life changed.

I was overcome with a passion and fervour for extreme life, the type Hunter lived. I raced through Fear and Loathing for the first time when I was on holiday with my friends in Malta. The country was going through a scorching heat wave at the time, that would send the day temperatures soaring well over 100 Fahrenheit. We’d sleep until just before the sun set, and then, as the evening temperature began to mellow in the twilight hours, we would go down to the pool and sit in the shade. Hydrating from the previous night’s debauchery and getting ready to do it again. It was fantastic, the perfect time to read the anarchy of Hunter. We’d binge drink the night away, convincing former East Bloc country folk that we were magicians with a penchant for skateboarding and late night dips in the Mediterranean Sea. Not a care in the world “I’m Michael Hopperfield buddy! You better believe it! The half brother of David Copperfield, I taught that man everything he knows!” and they’d believe us. As the numbers dwindled and the sun began to rise we’d grab our wheels and speed down the melted smooth tarmac roads, the cool sea air freshening our party-torn bodies.

I turned 18 there, the loss of innocence whilst reading HST. We brawled with amphetamine addled swine in the main square of the town. An old man with a large tattoo of a shark on his torso and sun drenched skin told us he was a pirate and kissed me on my forehead. Amazing times, total freedom and absolute optimism before September 11, and this was only four years ago, incredible to think really. I came back and knew I had a mission, a path of domination was set out for me and it’s been absolutely necessary to maintain ever since. The chance to pause and reflect has been just out of my grasp from that point until now, Hunters death has made me take the time to do so. My paper trail leads directly back to those still vivid nights in Malta, now I’m here about to finish my degree in journalism four years on and just as ferocious as ever.
Balls to the wall, aiming straight and dominating all, my mind is set and I will succeed. And remember, as Hunter said “The crazy never die!”