You mean there are TWO LONDONS?
Hey All,
Last night I trekked into Islington, because I had opened up my Kerrang and discovered that there was a Front Line Assembly show listed as happening that night at the Carling Academy in Islington. Lately my usually hawkish gaze (when it comes to who is playing in and around London) has been diverted into such silly things as large books and trying to find a new job. So it was entirely feasible that there was a show by a seminal EBM outfit from Canada playing in North London last night.
Get to the venue, they don't know anything about it. Unsurprising, I've found that the staff in a variety of venues in London have no idea what is going on in their own venues one day to the next. I guess it helps them keep their stories straight when the police arrive.
I tried to find the show listed in a Time-out (nothing) and wandered up the High Road trying to find a copy of Kerrang to check what I had read. While wandering, I was reminded how nice Islington can be in a Summer Evening, when the pubs and restaurants are open and people are chilling in the street (I usually see this street on Sunday Mornings, when London is deserted, except for a couple of club folk emerging from their concrete boxes like nuclear war survivors rising from their fallout shelters, dazed, slightly sick and blinking in the sunlight).
While waiting I watched an Acrobat doing insane stunts in front of a crowd that were drinking at a pub on one of the corners. This included balancing on one hand on a beer bottle that in turn was balanced on top of a ten foot map thing.
Eventually I checked into an internet cafe, where some pointed googling told me that there was indeed a Front Line Assembly Show happening in London.
London Ontario. (ie where Clyo lives)
Nice work, Kerrang.
In any case, they are playing the Scala in a month or two, so I'll see them then.
Other news:
On the way to pick up my jeans from the Dry Cleaners, I stopped in at the Heart Foundation shop and perused their bookshelf. I picked up Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte, In the Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco, Something by Terry Pratchett and a copy of The Great Gatsby by F Scott Fitzgerald (one of the books I was supposed to read in school, but I never quite finished).
I also saw a piano for £99 (tempting, but I suspect that a) my flatmates would murder me and b) I'd never get it up the stairs), and an Oscilloscope.
One of the blokes there was impressed that I knew how to pronounce Oscilloscope. A pretty girl who works there called it the Ossossillator. Which, being a pretty girl, is perfectly okay.
Strangely I remember thinking parallel thoughts about the character Daisy as I read The Great Gatsby on a train home last night. Beautiful people aren't necessarily less intelligent than others, but because they are beautful sometimes their thoughts are magnified by virtue of their being beautiful. Given a profundity they don't deserve.
Of course, thinking this way is probably a sure sign of a smug sense of superiority, something Fitzgerald (or even his protagonist Nick) could be accused of.
Another note:
I have discovered that if I google some of the full names of folk I know, sometimes this blog comes up in the first three entries. Sometime in the near future I will go through and edit the blog so that not so many full names appear, and in future I will be a little more circumspect about what I write, and about whom.
Not that I have written anything I am necessarily concerned about (neither libellious nor otherwise worrying), but all the same, I think I'll exercise due caution.
Come to think of it, I'm sure that if any pretty girls are reading this right now, they'll probably be crossing me off their Christmas List as I type.
No matter, over and out.
J
Last night I trekked into Islington, because I had opened up my Kerrang and discovered that there was a Front Line Assembly show listed as happening that night at the Carling Academy in Islington. Lately my usually hawkish gaze (when it comes to who is playing in and around London) has been diverted into such silly things as large books and trying to find a new job. So it was entirely feasible that there was a show by a seminal EBM outfit from Canada playing in North London last night.
Get to the venue, they don't know anything about it. Unsurprising, I've found that the staff in a variety of venues in London have no idea what is going on in their own venues one day to the next. I guess it helps them keep their stories straight when the police arrive.
I tried to find the show listed in a Time-out (nothing) and wandered up the High Road trying to find a copy of Kerrang to check what I had read. While wandering, I was reminded how nice Islington can be in a Summer Evening, when the pubs and restaurants are open and people are chilling in the street (I usually see this street on Sunday Mornings, when London is deserted, except for a couple of club folk emerging from their concrete boxes like nuclear war survivors rising from their fallout shelters, dazed, slightly sick and blinking in the sunlight).
While waiting I watched an Acrobat doing insane stunts in front of a crowd that were drinking at a pub on one of the corners. This included balancing on one hand on a beer bottle that in turn was balanced on top of a ten foot map thing.
Eventually I checked into an internet cafe, where some pointed googling told me that there was indeed a Front Line Assembly Show happening in London.
London Ontario. (ie where Clyo lives)
Nice work, Kerrang.
In any case, they are playing the Scala in a month or two, so I'll see them then.
Other news:
On the way to pick up my jeans from the Dry Cleaners, I stopped in at the Heart Foundation shop and perused their bookshelf. I picked up Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte, In the Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco, Something by Terry Pratchett and a copy of The Great Gatsby by F Scott Fitzgerald (one of the books I was supposed to read in school, but I never quite finished).
I also saw a piano for £99 (tempting, but I suspect that a) my flatmates would murder me and b) I'd never get it up the stairs), and an Oscilloscope.
One of the blokes there was impressed that I knew how to pronounce Oscilloscope. A pretty girl who works there called it the Ossossillator. Which, being a pretty girl, is perfectly okay.
Strangely I remember thinking parallel thoughts about the character Daisy as I read The Great Gatsby on a train home last night. Beautiful people aren't necessarily less intelligent than others, but because they are beautful sometimes their thoughts are magnified by virtue of their being beautiful. Given a profundity they don't deserve.
Of course, thinking this way is probably a sure sign of a smug sense of superiority, something Fitzgerald (or even his protagonist Nick) could be accused of.
Another note:
I have discovered that if I google some of the full names of folk I know, sometimes this blog comes up in the first three entries. Sometime in the near future I will go through and edit the blog so that not so many full names appear, and in future I will be a little more circumspect about what I write, and about whom.
Not that I have written anything I am necessarily concerned about (neither libellious nor otherwise worrying), but all the same, I think I'll exercise due caution.
Come to think of it, I'm sure that if any pretty girls are reading this right now, they'll probably be crossing me off their Christmas List as I type.
No matter, over and out.
J
posted by the.exile at 7:50 pm
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