hitmeinthehead - Tumblr blog

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computer themed dividers made by me using phonto, picsart, and online image editor. Free to use as long as you do not claim them as your own :)

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Hair by Alexis Ferrer

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Nicolas Poillot

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Alessio Bolzoni

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A.F. Vandevorst Spring/Summer, 1999 Ready-to-Wear

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New Album Pre-order

Dear all, Eight years have passed since my last album ‘Summoning Suns’ was released. A while back, feeling burnt out and like I wanted to find a bit more stability in my life, I decided to take a break from live performances and at least take my foot off the pedal a little bit with regards to writing and recording. That announcement sounded more dramatic than I intended in retrospect, but here we are in 2023, with nearly a decade of insanity between now and what felt like a comparatively breezy summer back in 2014 when I was making my last record. Life finds a way of getting in the way. Every time I wanted to jump back in and play again, it felt like something would dishearten me. The pandemic and the sudden passing of one of my best friends and closest collaborators - John Hannon, who recorded nearly everything I've ever made – in particular. I never found the stability I craved, bouncing around between bar and kitchen jobs. A couple of them I liked a fair bit. Others were awful. One even resulted in a nervous breakdown/mixed episode that lasted three months. The closest thing I found to the sense of self-worth and achievement I had while I was making music was cooking my own food, in my own food business. It's hard work a lot of the time certainly, but seeing people enjoy something you’ve made from start to finish is such a rewarding experience. I was beginning to take that job even more seriously as a full-time gig when I slipped on some black ice and broke my right shoulder one evening in mid-December last year. Aside from coping with the pain, I found myself unable to move my arm, out of work with little support and at home caring for my dog Dexter, who was diagnosed with terminal liver disease a couple days after my fall and passed away this February. For months I wondered when – and if – I’d be able to play guitar again and I wanted so desperately to throw myself back into music, to communicate something or anything at all about this overwhelming sense of loss I was feeling. I’m happy to say I'm now in good health, both physically and mentally. In fact, at the time of writing, I’m about to play a show in London this coming week. It’ll be my first since I played Oslo in early 2020. I’m also incredibly excited to announce that I’ve just started work on a new instrumental album. There’s no title yet and the cover photo you see here is just a placeholder. I plan to release the album by the end of this year and I’d be incredibly grateful for your help in achieving that. By pre-ordering on Bandcamp, you’ll be helping me enormously with recording costs, repairs, paying other musicians for their time and of course my own time. When I started out, I was fortunate that a lot of these expenses were covered by small advances from the labels I worked with, but sadly I don’t think many labels have that sort of money in such trying times. You’ll receive the full digital album as soon as it’s released, no later than the 31st of December 20203. This album will not be available to stream on Spotify or for purchase digitally anywhere else but here. Please do let me know if you’d be interested in purchasing a CD or LP later down the line. If there’s enough interest and it ends up going to press in the future, I’d like to offer everybody who pre-orders the digital version a discount so they can get their preferred version and not pay twice for both digital and physical. I truly appreciate your support and don't take it for granted. I hope this will be the first of a lot more new music to come. James Blackshaw, 03/06/23 

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Otto Piene: Fire Flower Power, Museum am Ostwall, Dortmund, October 13 – December 3, 1967 [Galerie für Moderne Kunst und Plakatkunst, Köln]

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John Yuyi: Smoke Me (2019)

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Postmodern Moralists

Apropos of writing my first book review in ages (for next month's WIRE), I got nostalgic for the time when I did quite a few for the sadly missed The Word, the magazine. Here's one from 2012.

100

Bill Drummond

Penkiln Burn

I Must Not Think Bad Thoughts: Drive-by Essays on American Dread, American Dreams

Mark Dery

University of Minnesota Press

Subversive thinkers rampage through 21st century life, perturb deeply.

In 1975 the 22-year-old Bill Drummond, then a set-builder in a Liverpool theatre, spent an evening working with Ralph Steadman on set designs and listening eagerly to his Hunter S Thompson anecdotes. One in particular stuck with him – a story of Thompson and Steadman undercover of night painting “FUCK THE POPE” in gigantic letters on a ship, which then sailed down the Hudson river behind the Pope and mayor of New York live on primetime TV. Spectacularly crass, and – it transpires – almost certainly untrue, but the scale of the supposed prank clearly had a powerful and lasting influence on the man who would machine gun the Brit awards and take Tammy Wynette to the top of the charts in an ice cream van.

In 100, Drummond answers 100 questions about his life and work from 25 interlocutors in language so sternly understated it would – if he weren't so reluctant to self-identify as a “Scottish artist” – be tempting to describe it as Presbyterian. He looks back over Quixotic missions and arrogant mischief – from looking deep into the heart of Haiti to trying to hunting Abba – always with a cool eye, puncturing his own pretensions and admitting his inconsistencies. Clearly, though, the love of provocation and blunt urge to tip up tables is still there as powerfully as it was in that impressionable youth or in the KLF years. 

His subject matter is often prosaic, with an underlying rejection of the modern: recurring motifs include woodworking tools, white emulsion, Creedence Clearwater Revival, untrained people singing together. But he uses and clearly understands technology, and his meditations on downloading and copyright, and on how Goebbels would have used the internet, provide as much to get your teeth into as those by any zippy young tech guru. Drummond mistrusts almost everything – language, culture, the art establishment, recorded music, his own ideas – but his desire to tug at each thought or assumption, to test its strength, leads him into the most glorious trouble, and to ask questions that very sorely need asking.

Mark Dery is another outsider thinker, but one with a furiously different approach to Drummond's deadpan, sidelong observations. A punk by inclination, an academic by trade, he runs headlong into every topic, picking fights, firing off linguistic zingers in all directions, creating a vivid vision of 21st century life. In his world, the blogosphere is “this dictatorship of the commentariat... this grotesque hypertrophy of the chattering class”, his own stepfather is “Conan the Vulgarian” and his favourite Queen song (“The Fairy Feller's Master-Stroke” since you ask) features “laser-sharp harmonies by robo-seraphim, heavy-breathing, glam-metal harpsichord that sounds like Scarlatti shtupping Liberace... and to top things off, a gong.” 

Looking at the image of the undead in pop culture, he races from contextualising Marx's vampiric capitalists within the Victorian Gothic to holding a magnifying glass to US survivalists' addiction to the zombie apocalypse trope. He outs HAL9000 in 2001 as gay in a discussion of Alan Turing and artificial intelligence, and punctures Lady Gaga's pretensions to transgression (albeit, in a rare misfire, missing the point of repetition in dance music along the way). 

Behind the firework display of wit and way-outness, though, there is an analytical mind as calmly, insistently enquiring as Drummond's: Dery's topic is always the American psyche, with all its militarism, machismo and pornographic greed, and he illuminates it with equal measures of love and despair. Running through his hallucinatory menagerie of jock politicians, self-help gurus, Star Trek slash fiction, rappers' dentistry, Santa Claus conspiracies, stoner noir, zombies, guns and “buck-hungry retailers of the unspeakable” is a thread of cool-headed analysis and disciplined questioning.

Like Drummond, Dery invokes Hunter S Thompson, but in his case it's not as a prankster, it's as a stylist of language and gimlet-eyed political satirist in a tradition that runs from Swift through Twain and implicitly on to Dery himself. He's not arrogant to place himself in this line, mind - but however outlandish, his observations are unerringly aimed, almost always ring true, and even when they don't they're not easily dismissed. Both he and Drummond, despite their refusal to preach, are moralists in the best sense. They don't look at the modern world in search of the flip headache-cure answers of the Malcom Gladwell school of guru-ism lite, but accept its madness and even revel in it. As the good doctor himself once said, “when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro” - and in this deeply weird, wired world we need more professionals like these two.

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She's in your DMs. I'm listening to 80s power electronics in a dark room. We are not the same.

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Timm Ulrichs: Der Findling (1978) Performance: 10 hours in a closed stone

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Brainbombs - Lipstick On My Dick

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Self-portraits of Lisa Carver from her adolescence:

"Teen prostitute drug dealer emancipated and getting all the money for me. Unpaid preteen prostitute/drug mule getting all the money stolen from me. Self-portrait from that time. Flowers for eyes, I couldn’t see. Scratched-out mouth, I couldn’t speak. Slit throat, I couldn’t breathe”