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Mowl

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Welcome back, ye sea dogs.

Tis a salty day on the high seas with the Isle within swimming distance.

Fuck the sharks down below, they'll be fin soup one fine day coming soon.

We're back: back in black:

 

Mowl

Member
The best stage dive ever by Aaron North at three minutes.

Rattle your timbers, ye picky pirates: 'tis time for war.

 

Anderson

Restricted
Welcome back, ye sea dogs.

Tis a salty day on the high seas with the Isle within swimming distance.

Fuck the sharks down below, they'll be fin soup one fine day coming soon.

We're back: back in black:


What kind of music are you into Mowl, Indi, Rock, Pop, Dance?

What kind of music does your band play, and can you play any other instruments than the drums?
 
E

Electricity

Guest
I see that Mowl Mowl liked - Fucking in the Bushes by Oasis.

No doubt he had never heard of it until I posted the (2000) Oasis Wembley gig (which I sometimes go back to Pish with - "Hello Manchester!")

I don't blame him, I even thought of him when I posted it. It's a great, drum stomping track, and a great way to start a gig.

Of course, Mowl was very unkind to Liam, about shouting over songs. The opener, is one of my favourite Oasis songs - Go Let It Out.

He is a bit hoarse at the beginning.. But once out of the first verse/chorus he really does find his voice (Mowl is too lazy to listen to the whole thing of course) -



And does Gem (not pronounced jem, hard G, Gem) look cool as fuck or what playing that outro, oh yes he does.

It's funny about Oasis though, everyone knows that they're my favourite band (and the best band of a generation) but I always get parodied as Liam Gallagher. But I'm not Liam, I've always been Noel, the brains behind the operation. I write the songs

 

Mowl

Member
What kind of music are you into Mowl, Indi, Rock, Pop, Dance?

Yes, all of the above plus a whole heap more.


What kind of music does your band play,

I don't have a band. Never had a band as such. Never been in a band as such. I'm a gun for hire, a session player being the common term but effectively what I do is improve things for the people who hire me in. Players often get the stage fright when the mics are live on the studio floor and the red light flicks on. All the preparation they SHOULD have done suddenly leaves them lacking and at a loss to get a decent take down. They seize up and realise that they're not ready to give what's required.

So I arrive in the middle of the night and use their gear, their sound, their set-up to offer a few alternative takes. That way the guy comes back the next day and hears his parts (!) and thinks he's great. I get paid to shut up about it.

I form random groups for various purposes: back when I lived in Ireland I could pick a range of available players and do a variety of circuits playing whatever is required. But it's still not a band as such, it's some professionals getting together to make money abroad when there's no work at home during the quiet seasons. If I'm not on the road, then I'm in the studio.

It may sound a complicated business but it's not when you're in the thick of it.

and can you play any other instruments than the drums?

Yes.

Several.

Can you play like this Mowl?

Yes, so can you.

It's a cliche.

I think Collins is an excellent drummer.

Yes, he's red hot - but, and it's a big but: he's now confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life because he has/had terrible posture when playing. To my eye, he sets the drums too high and his stool too low. This puts all the strain on the sciatica and over time it'll cripple you.

Three years back I had a successful surgery to the upper spine and first two discs in the neck: they were removed and five new titanium discs were inserted to release a trapped nerve. It worked perfectly, and cost me €47.50 for four days in hospital plus room service.

I was back to work within a week, and playing better than I did in some time.

Take this. From Genesis, and Phil's on drums. He has a great ability to work in odd time signatures: sevens, nines, elevens, etc. Few players can master fluidity in odd time signatures, but he can cross them at ease and make them sound natural.



Hear the signature shifting over the verses and into the bridge?

Sweet, eh?

Problem for Phil was live shows: he sits so low, has his concert toms set up high, and then a microphone above his head to sing into. The lower spine takes all the weight and stress. Multiply a two hour show by several hundred and you end up a cripple.

Now he's stinking rich but confined to a chair for the rest of his days.

Is it worth it?

For me, nope.

But he has millions - and I have a perfect neck and spine.

Were it my choice to pick either, I'd still be me.

I see that Mowl Mowl liked - Fucking in the Bushes by Oasis.

No I liked it by Alan White.

It's a loop - that's all.

But a good loop.

No doubt he had never heard of it until I posted the (2000) Oasis Wembley gig (which I sometimes go back to Pish with - "Hello Manchester!")

I stopped listening to Oasis back when they were popular in the 1990's.

You're either very young or very naive.

I don't blame him, I even thought of him when I posted it. It's a great, drum stomping track, and a great way to start a gig.

No - it's a loop.

Of course, Mowl was very unkind to Liam, about shouting over songs. The opener, is one of my favourite Oasis songs - Go Let It Out.

He is a shouter, but that's not the end of the world, now is it?

Pavarotti? Now he could sing.

He is a bit hoarse at the beginning.. But once out of the first verse/chorus he really does find his voice (Mowl is too lazy to listen to the whole thing of course) -

It doesn't take any energy to listen to a song.

Especially not if it's a crappy/samey/rip-off song that does nothing for me.



And does Gem (not pronounced jem, hard G, Gem) look cool as fuck or what playing that outro, oh yes he does.


You're fantasizing about blokes, Jambo: ruffians, dopers, alcoholics.

Why? They're not particularly talented, they do one thing well, and that's copying the Beatles.

It's funny about Oasis though, everyone knows that they're my favourite band (and the best band of a generation) but I always get parodied as Liam Gallagher. But I'm not Liam, I've always been Noel, the brains behind the operation. I write the songs



Yeah but you don't actually.

You sit there staring at the album sleeve imagining what life would be like if you were Liam.

You read the lyrics so you can sing along.

You go to the gigs to meet like-minded scruffs in army surplus gear.

Then you learn to walk like our kid.

That even makes Perry laugh.



Oasis are long since past it, and the new projects aren't even popular. Nobody cares any more because they had their day three decades ago. There's no drama or newspaper headlines vis a vis Blur V Oasis. And in reality, most of the songs both bands wrote are now long since forgotten by everyone bar a few hardcore fans and new kids finding it for the first time. But even the new kids on the block know that Oasis are a derivative band with a limited sonic field.

Great - if you like it I'm happy for you - but you'll never change my mind about them.

There are various ways of delivering three chords and the truth: dozens of bands did that already, five decades ago. Oasis arrived late to the party, nothing left but dregs in the crusty glasses and ugly girls in the kitchenette. They hung around, did a few lines, then fucked off home.

It was THAT interesting to me.

Hint: at the time Oasis were hacking away at being the Beatles, I was running Dublin's first ever drum and bass nights: first in the DA Club on Saturday nights, then at the POD on Friday nights. Goldie was the next big thing. Bjork was global. Hip hop redefined itself and became trip hop. LTJ Bukem was our go-for DJ: we flew him in, we also booked 'A Guy Called Gerald' (look him up), we had Little Tony, Carl Cox, David Holmes, Ronnie Size and Alex Reese, plus loads more. We even had a band line-up working a live PA with a thirty-six channel mixer onstage centre. These things had never been done in Ireland before that. We got kicked around by MCD though, who made it impossible for us to get club nights anywhere because they wanted to run this new style.

But we got there first, they came later.

This is how you build a reputation running clubs that play the freshest shit on the block.

Oasis?

They might have been on the radio in the staff room.
 

Mowl

Member
Stevie Wonder is blind - but he still managed to conquer the world.

This tosser? Not so much.

 

Mowl

Member
I came to country music very late,. never liked it much when I was younger, but I grew up in a house where Dad had his records out every Sunday from morning til night and Glen Campbell was one of his choices. I guess it rubbed off because even though I still find some of the material a bit twee, his guitar playing is absolutely fucking outrageous.

Campbell was one of the original Wrecking Crew, the session band that accompanied hundreds of singers recording their songs. Of the Crew, Campbell stood out at six feet eight inches tall, and being so big, he bought a tenor Stratocaster guitar by Fender because it fit him better. So did the tone.

But this one is a rather timeless version of the original by Jimmy Webb.

Glen always managed to make every song he sang by another artists his own.

This one brings me back to Sunday mornings in Ballyer, my Dad buzzing around the place and cooking his own breakfast while we were at church* for Sunday mass.




*Not me though.
 

Mowl

Member
One of NIN's more complex videos, laden with grim 1984-ish imagery and secret codes scattered all over the video that, once collected and collated, take the viewer on a long ramble from The Book Of Revelation to Leviticus, and on to The Bill Of Rights.

Some people think NIN is nothing more than rage and noise.

Well, they're right - that's exactly what it is.

Dystopia, violent reaction, black uniforms in the dead of night, blood trails and video surveillance.

Most new music over the last fifteen to twenty years has been nothing but bleached out bubblegum pop for the masses, and bands with an actual message are sidelined. Pushed out into the wings. Treated like a disease affecting your tube and your radio set. Which is why I propagate the message.

 
I was just thinking not ten minutes ago 'I'll go and see what that Mowl fellow is up to now' and then led me to thinking that Mowl is one of the most punk people I've encountered in the digital world.

That is a high compliment in a way because the most interesting tribe of influencers in my life are all definitely punk, whether they dress punk or not.

I define people as punk as follows. Fully grown and mature people with a healthy respect for the reviving effect of creative anarchy.

Pure punks are the most creative punks. Musicians, artists, tattoo artists, writers, readers, thinkers. I've only met a few pure punks but they are outstandingly interesting and unconventional in their thinking.

Dublin and Punk are intertwined for me because in the last 70s there were some really creative punks in Dublin and I was lucky enough to know one. Made his own clothes, reader of gothic literature, writer, raconteur extraordinaire and a tutor in everything interesting from Bauhaus to Mervyn Peake, the occult (Golden Bough), basically the best punks are what we used to call druids. Got an entirely new wing to my mental library from him in a matter of weeks.

I've met only two people who were obviously 'drui' and today they would be called punks.

The Mowl reminds me of them with his creative projects and no-nonsense style. The Mowl would upset some people but I'm just glad the 'drui/dressed as punk' are still around and hidden in plain view.

Quite pleased with the Mowly there being the Eye in the icy North. That's one part of the compass we don't have to worry about...
 
I'm recommending to Taoiseach Sidewindered's first Oireachtas that Mowl be appointed Ambassador for the Republic of Ireland to the Republic of Finland.

'His Excellency The Mowl' would look great on invitations and I've a feeling the Finns would love it.
 

Mowl

Member
Well, if punk is dressing up as a sick and vicious priest and hearing confessions online, then count me in. If punk is to buy unique items of clothing and then taking them apart and restitching them like a master tailor to ensure they fit snugly, then count me in: I grew up in a household in Ballyer which had a front parlour (the 'Good' room) festooned with sewing machines, over-lockers, button-holders, cutting tables, and professional shears (not scissors) pins and needles of the industrial kind, and three highly skilled elder ladies in the family taking in orders for everything from resewing hems, taking in and up trousers, shirts, skirts, wedding dresses, bridesmaid dresses, curtains, people's favourite old denim jeans in need of a few patches, hand-me-downs from a plethora of locals pressed for a few pennies, and me getting pocket money for being their mannequin, then I'm aboard for sure.

I learned how to hand-stitch and sew in several hand-tailoring styles - a far better and more practical skill than machining clothes because it has far more options and allows for dodging straight lines but still maintaining the bias. The bias: a crucial element that - if not borne in mind and taken into account, will see your hand-stitched drain-pipe trousers hang off you like a flag twisted in the wind.

Necessity being the mother of invention, I invented a whole new style of my own based on hand me down items and second hand store thrifty bargains. A selection of upholstering needles (the curved sort) are items I always took with me when out on the road. This meant I could pack lightly for the tour and I would then be able buy local clothing in whatever country or culture I was in and then spend the traveling days up front in the truck reading the maps and customizing my new and exotic items to wear that same night for a show.

Fantastic way to accumulate an interesting wardrobe and one that has items you can't buy and even if you could source them, they still wouldn't fit as well as mine, because I altered them to suit what is in all fairness a classic size eight at over six feet tall. People as tall (and as lithe) as I find it very difficult to source clothing that's designed to fit irregular sizes from your regular high street stores. So I don't use them. I use the boutique-style second-hand outlets in cities across the world. Including the army surplus stores for heard-wearing items that can take a battering during the day and look good onstage during the night.

I do this with EVERYTHING I buy bar my smalls. In fact, back in the day when I worked for the international beer brands, Coors had a diamond little offer going on: buy a six-pack and get a free pair of vacuum packed boxer shorts that came in pack as big as a matchbox: pop it with a pin and it inflates and bam: new knickers that you can simply dump rather than launder. Bring along dozens of little matchboxes and they take up no room at all. Sadly they didn't do a line in socks so my digs would occasionally feature an improvised washing line for the socks. But only on the nights I'd be sleeping alone: maybe the ladies didn't appeal in that location so the John Thomas took a night off too.

Packing for a tour is a complicated business: especially if you're doing drums. The gear takes up so much weight ad space so a massive suitcase full of clothes is a drag to haul ass. Instead, dress coolly and sensibly and pack only one full change of clothes and buy the rest as you go along city to city and town to town. This means you bring home clothing that nobody else has, and even if they did - it wouldn't fit like mine.

If punk is giving two fingers to the high street labels and department store trash, then I'm Johnny fucking Rotten. If a good curvature of the spine and a dignified head-up and back straight when walking is a real man, then I'm miles ahead of 'em.

I have only three friends in this world who walk taller then me: Dreadzilla, English, and Mikko. Dread's six-eight, and slim with it. English is a ginger, but a deadly character (he was Mick Hutchence's garden and caretaker on his French Riviera spread) who could conjure up free tickets for anything from flights to concerts, thereby earning the nickname: 'Flange'. At six feet and seven, he was slightly shorter than Dread. Mikko's my Finnish front vocalist and is a professor of theology at Helsinki University. Published several times over, he's traveling the world giving lectures about the origins of the most popular religions on the face of the earth, while being a practicing atheist like myself. He's six feet nine. What I like about these three gentlemen is the way I have to look up at them when we speak. I'm six feet and three - a mere whippersnapper on the height stakes. Those three don't bother to argue or even give scant regard to gravity: they just keep growing further and further away from the earth. It's kind of sweet having to crank my neck upwards when we stride out together.

But: their clothes hang off them like wet flags in the rain.

Mikko has his suits made in Hong Kong: the tailor he selected has his exact frame measured for posterity. He buys his silk suits by the dozen - they're remarkably cheap but they don't age too well with dry cleaning. But they look good onstage when he's doing his front-man thingy. Oh, also: he drives a little buggy called a Ka? Heard of those? Tiny little things? He looks so ridiculous in it but it never fails to make to smile. We even managed on a few occasions to fit my gigging kit and hardware into it with his guitar gear and the two of us upfront - me with a bass drum on my lap.

I imagine people look at us whizzing by on the highways thinking they must be on Candid Camera.

Punk isn't just a dress style, no: it's a way of life. It's giving the middle finger to conventionality. It's living life in your own unique way. It's putting yourself first and taking what life has to offer by the bollocks and spitting in her eye to blind her. It's coming out of the Irish ghettos and the salt of the earth people who dwell in its bosom and flying up beyond the clouds on a sudden and unexpected trajectory that leaves you landing gob only knows where when gravity finally cops you - but landing fully prepared and hitting the street running. It's also never forgetting where you come from and therefore having a vaguely clear idea of where you're going, the sad part being that you must leave behind what you can't carry. Hence the empty suitcase approach to travel and touring.

It strikes me as harmoniously wonderful and inspiring that the Vice-Admiral can spot this with his genial cyclops eye for the astute: here's man who can tell the wheat from the Weetabix. Here's a man who knows the value of a pair of boots that have walked every major city on the planet and yet are still ready for action. Like these: bought in Stockholm back in the 1990's, they're my one pair of boots that never get left behind. They have memories sewn into the patches. They have patches that fit a couple of grams of weed each. Patches that engage the eye of the customs man but that also confound his skills by blinding him with the patently obvious in a way that distracts him from his function and leaves him grinning at me and mouthing the words how and why. I stand by with a big grin on my face and wait for him to hand them back shaking his confused head. Punk. In your face.






As a child, visits to my uncle over in London were always an adventure. His next door neighbour was this spotty and sickly little kid named John Lydon. A London Irish plastic family, John wore a uniform to school. I used to laugh at him and he'd glare back and call me a Paddy/Mick/Taig. But he looked close to death, like the kid in my own class back home: Spacer McCormack - the kid we were ordered to beat up every day at the top of the class: your good hand in your pocket and no kicking allowed. But Spacer could do as he liked, which he did. Otherwise he was going to get badly hurt. That wasn't punk though - that was the antitheses of punk. Being a broken soul, crushed on the wheel like a colourful butterfly for the entertainment of a lay teacher in a predominantly Christian brothers school in Ballyfermot, Ireland's first and most renowned ghetto. Punk was making sure he got his on last day before summer break: tyres slashed and exhaust pipe rammed full of raw potatoes. Mud smeard on every window. Superglue in the keyholes. Dog shit on the bonnet (Sullivan drove a light blue coloured VW Beetle - I still remember his reg: VNI 566) and black ink on his registration. When I finally left junior school, I spotted his car down in the next village of Inchicore, where he lived above the local barber's salon. Next time we passed, I took a can of oil paint for garden gates along and after taking the lid off and covering it with a piece of carbon paper, laid it upside down on his roof, then slid the card out. So from this cherubic little angel in his loving Mam's arms - Mowl was born and unleashed upon the planet.






Punk: in your car.

In your school.

Up your streets.

Across the world.

Ballyer style.

Mowl style.

Fuck 'em all, Con - it's every man for himself these days.

When this ship finally goes down - I'm taking the fucking plank, not walking it.

Yarrrrr..

 

Mowl

Member
Where punk meets jazz, there'll be blood on your duds after fucking with time and melody and making them both bow to your will and passion. First time I heard this piece it left me mentally and emotionally exhausted. I knew there was work to be done to catch up with it and so began Mowl's adventures with progressive jazz played by the original masters of the form.

Even Miles was blown away by McLaughlin.

Born to an Irish family in the UK, he took on music, religion, spirituality, and even god himself and still came out with angel's wings and way of flying that defied gravity. Seven minutes of musical bliss that pushed each player to their limits and beyond. Get some.

John McLaughlin: 'One Melody'

 
Mowl, the second day I was living in Camden I walked around a corner and came across an old lad with a walking stick toddling along.

He was in full punk rigout, and it wasn't a costume with him. It was the clothes. Brilliant meeting punks in their 60s and 70s.

Never met a stupid punk yet. I've seen imitators who think it is about wearing a uniform but the real punks are in the mindset.

They are invariably creative above all else.
 

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