GLASTONBURYOFTHEMIND

DYLAN AND JACKSON AT THE GATES OF EDEN(DALE) THED EDENDALE IN LOS FELIZ VICINITY - this gaff is the place to be if you want real chat, old Hollywood history and the whole Tom Mix ( a first time on screen cowboy) story. Its there in the black and white on the wall mounted photo display. Silver and mercury embossed originals with autographs and dedications – written by Tom himself – to his horse. You feel the years fall away you are back in the The Tune is The Raconteurs – Steady as She Goes. This was the space in the desert where they first gathered to make the first silents back early 20th century . The heat the light the moving celluloid flickering in front of us. Back when it all meant some and Stroheim and Welles and Ford and Bunuel were incoming. SOUND CLIP Ween doing the Americana Bonzo Dog band thang with Fancy Pants from the album Quebec. Out on da patio Julien Davies of Vinformation Vinsanity (the guy Paul Giammetti plays in Sideways) was giving it the large one on the slightly corked front – whites AND reds - and I was breaking my non drinking duck as Jon Patterson, movie critique supreme, of the Cardy Ann and others, told the tale of the on off Youtubeclip featuring David O Russell shouting Lily Tomlin out on the set of I Heart Huckabees with Dustin Hoffman sloping off sheepishly in the background. Julie with petrol green streaks in her hair was our waitress for the evening. Proving they do still do the service thing with élan, the Yanks. Sound Clip The Kinks Village Green Preservation Society. Andy nearly did himself a mischief break dancing waiting for the taxi but, truss restabilised, hip locked back into place, he dusted himself off with the ease of a man whose better days are still to come. Even though ones behind him have been especially greatawready. What a body of great men were assembled. The Great Alan Jackson, the only British journalist who has interviewed Bob Dylan – TWICE! – in the last 10 years. Its so good to know that Bob dun Alan twice, Bobbores might have been aghast. (Why not me, me , me Bob? They could be heard crying). An attitude that reminds me of a chap corralled recently on a Djing night. This chap had a more than a moment in the annals of Britpop and one of dem there gathered infront of his console was asking for his email address, to exchange playlists with him or some such shit, some such UNASKED for shit. ANNNOUNCEMENT – if this blog falls into that category for you just send back the posting detail with a NO /UNSUBSCRIBE/ FUCK YOURSELF SIDEWAYS reply. Anyway the Djing expopstar chap said he didn’t have an email address which the fan was aghast to hear. Being a polite retiring type the ex popstar didn’t answer to the question “why not?” “because I don’t want emails from people like you”. So it is with Bob, anyone who knows his music will know that its defined by a curiosity for the wider world. Not a curiosity for the navel fluff examining BObbore massive that gather round the fundament of his art like barnacles to a rock. That’s why Bob and Alan liking each other makes complete moral and logical sense. They are linked by a common decency and genuineness many other in their respective trades lack. Tunes weren’t on the the agenda but JD’s grapey greatness proved to be matched with a nose for the arcane actualite and certain subtleties and refinements in the ouevre of Johnny Moped (“stick it in her lug hole/Stick it In her other parts). Stick that in your stickering campaign Mister and Mrs Gore. Todays tune, todays blow it out your ass and stick on yer blog tune is Everyday I Have To Cry Some by Arthur Alexander from the 1993 Lonely Just Like Me album. Keep it country as Alison and Keiran might say…… And the philosophical tract is Bill Hicks Australia from LoveLaughterAndTruth. “I’m Jack The Ripper, no I’m Jack The Ripper, we’re all Jackthefuckingripper”

AL GORE BONO ETC - now with added playlist Went to Vermont for the first time. Not the place - the restaurant in Los Angles opposite a Los Feliz Taco Stand. It had been an exhausting 24 hours and it wasn’t over yet. Shining diamond solace was found in the very DIAMOND sparkling eyes of the one bred from the one that broke the heart strings, coming in strong, in the nineteen seven tee frees and seven tee fives. Mister Lowell George’s daughter Inara - musically abundant at the mo with 3 or 4 excellent projects including her solo hook. Inara’s avidness talking of the animal kingdom was sure a pleasing respite from the unmitigated self-preening that goes on hereabouts. Grinning Rick Rubin bred moonies holding court like some Emperors of Spoilt Brat “Art”. What is Rubin, this emperor of everything, going to do to with Bono’s ego when he gets a hold of it? Set it in aspic and make us quiver to our liver at the frightful gaucheness of Ballymun Blarney? I would expect its more n possible. Bono will use the relationship to polish off some lines of not worthiness in the light of the Johnny Cash saviour arrival at U2 command control central. And amen to that. All stand. Or kneel/Neil (McCormick) and prey. On the corpses of a culture ripe for the plucking will the unworthy feast. Elvis, Cash, MlK, BB King. Oops this one’s still warm… The tune is Clarence Carter Soul Deep We await the U2 Rubin goobin with trepidation… meanwhile the fashionistas are creeping us out at the upper Sunset Marquis cottage poolside. It’s a hot day in March and retinue of crotch exposing flat chested chickenstock, with the inevitable beer bellied stroking ugly older men in tow, are catching the rays. Spreading the legs and ordering chicken patties. Talking on the phone. Wiggling the buns “She’s got a great bawdy,” he says stroking the ass of some uber myth nymph. All around the pounding of drills, the cutting of concrete tiles, the blades a-whizzing, the sun beating down. It’s a building site backdrop to a sort of creeping sleaze fest. The Tune Here Is West of Hollywood by Steely Dan The Amazing Alex Osman - beatific and rising above it all -returning with the best sort of interview, the most interesting perspective, a singularly sharp star in the city of impending gloomy night and no nothingness. Link have delivered the goods. Alex is upgraded. In actuality and in the collective consciousness. The tune is Van Morrison Sense Of Wonder So it was nice to talk of the humanness of Chimps, the mystery of frogs, the trouble with skunks and raccoons with the daughter of the man that wrote The tune her is Long Distance, Love. And her easy natural grace and flair of her hand on Alex, something to see. Then the English PR posed a question of preference. Deadly serious he was asking for a preference between penetration by a curly pig penis and the oral relief administering to a horse cock so large it would be hard to insert the appendage into a mouth, even one that was wide open. Such is the sign of a supturating culture of a hopelessly vacuous whats it all for effluentathon. Such is the cuntree that produces the team we watch in a Santa Monica English pub being roundly humiliated by Israel. WE sit beneath a pic of Noel Gallagehr and give the money collector (a Scot) 20 dollars for 50 minutes of tedium inducing English footer. Back at the poolside the Sunset Marquis is like a building site the long delayed pool refurb like the scene of the murder covered in white plasticated tarpaulin. The delay seems to be because of some Design/Organization/Ability and Desire to complete problem. Meanwhile the hotel is robbed of its focus and you are left to ogle and gape at the extraordinary cavalcade of freaks and reptiles that move through the lobby. Ross Halfin, whose photos are all over the lobby, gives the shocking news of a crash involving Others of our number whisked here from Londiminium jet lagged and onto the street, crossing the road and bang. Lights out blood. Cedar Sina Hospital. Jet lag is a reality dude. One things for sure - burning the airmiles in the quest for copy as easily engendered on the phone will, if Al Gore, or his ilk, ever gets in, result in the much less easy passage of journos and Prs (pronounced P arse) cross the continental divide ending. BY which time it may not be the world that Al is trying to save… but time itself. I want to tell you a Gorey…. The Tune is James Brown Public Enemy NUmber 1