BONKERS

My Dearest Audience,

The publicists and admen will be circulating a little film of me, Son of Dave, performing a zippy new song by Dizzee Rascal. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. It's quite an amusing tune, though it has too many words for my taste.

Some of you from the Grime scene may stumble in to watch by accident. I hope you aren't affronted. Please don't send hate mail or stab me in the bum. I'm just a musician, and a family man. I'm not the enemy!

If there are any cats from Radio One, watching, it's my distinct pleasure to distract you from your daily Grime. Now play the Son of Dave singles that have been sitting on your desks, and I'll send you some free clean undershirts.

aaaaaachen

Pronounced 'Ahen'. 

Getting from Feurth to Aachen Germany was remarkably dull. After seeing K.C McKanzie perform the night before, I was fairly well rested and organized. She is very sweet and lovely. Doesn't drive one to drink. My head is full of romantic ideas. Good strong farm girl. Hmmm 

I hit the pavement with my 40 kilos of bluesman equipment. A man was walking towards me. He bent down and appeared to pick up something. I came closer and saw he was examining a chunky gold ring.

"Das ich gold" he said. And he spoke more but I didn't understand. 

"You are very lucky" I said. He smiled. His huge hands fumbled with the ring which was clearly too small for him. He appeard quite down on his luck despite the find. He handed the ring to me. 

"Hey buddy, I don't need that. You keep it". But he insisted, saying it was too small for him. Perhaps he had nobody to give it too. He started to appear sad. I held the ring. It feels like a simple but weighty gold band. "Dude you take it." I handed it back. He fiddled with it. Then he shook his head and gave it to me again. He opened his shirt button. 

A huge terrible scar ran down his chest. His eyed looked at me sadly. "Guilder bitte" he said and held out his hand. I instantly handed him my loose change. He looked at it for a second. 

"Papier" he said and rubbed his fingers together and looked at me pathetically. 

The penny dropped, and I laughed mercilessly. I said "good trick" and turned and walked away, holding a worthless bit of costume jewellry. Or, IS IT? 

So far I've shown the ring to four people. They all say it feels like gold. Magnets do not attract it. It is heavy. It has no taste. It is stamped. I will soon find out if I have been a complete bastard to a poor devil who needed money and sympathy, or whether I spent three euros on a bad trick and escaped without spending more. (Post script, the pawnbroker just laughed. 'Romanian gold' he called it. Tired of seeing them.)

 

The trains were all late and missing each other. Football fans drinking cheap Heineken everywhere, shouting and singing. Trains moved to different tracks and cancelled. Useless directions and stiff rude german behaivior. The journey was shit. 

Aachen was ready for me however. The Dumont bar was tiny, the P.A. Was bought and brought in from an auction I can only guess. But the owner of the club was a hardened party machine and assured me it would be a good night. He was right. 

They jammed people inside. The festival boss was there as well. 14 other shows going on, but mine was the hot tip. We ripped it up. No time for talking, just banging out tunes and trying to out-scream the mob. Afterward, the beer and rum appeared endlessly until daylight. 

The owner and I plotted and schemed. He's an old (43, my age) wheeler dealer. Wants me back on a sly one. Today as I fight with trains and an hangover I wonder if I really want to come back to Germany at all. They stare at me everywhere. They point and laugh. Half of 'em are bullish and thick, narrow-minded and rude. I guess its the same everywhere. But we dont't forgive the Germans for it. The smug ones need to be much more humble after many generations of idiocy and murder. But the good people here are as good as they come. I'll play Germany as often as they'll have me. They have a good sense of humour, despite what you think.

S.O.D.

www.myspace.com/thesonofdave

The savages must be taught a lesson even if they never learn.

That evening on my Adman phone, I’d managed to complete a contract with Hugo Boss and Davidoff cigars and I was celebrating, you know? We’re opening a theme park on one of the lesser-known ‘Chanel’ islands. It’s right above the channel tunnel. An elevator shaft is being dug to bring lucky contest winners up from the tunnel and pop out right by the Stooge ‘o Whirl ride! …And upon producing a smoking hot improvised branding iron made from coat-hangers and a Burberry umbrella, the room froze and the heavies shut the door and surrounded me. Maybe I’d taken the gag too far.

The darlings of the Australian Big Day Out Festival after-parties this year were The Flaming Bitch Puffers. They were swarthy veterans, with mean looking roadies, and completely tattooed from head to toe. Everyone wanted a photograph snapped with them. I was pushed into position near them once but there were magazine clippings on my face, and marking pens up my nose and I wasn’t really on top of what was happening.

In the performer’s hotel in Adelade, I think it was, the Puffers dimmed the lights in the super presidential puffer suite and put the heavies on the door. All the Chardonnay was in their control. They locked in all the best young women so the party downstairs was scant. I was just gonna give up on the evening because nobody wanted to talk about my ‘Chanel’ Island, when I found myself bum-steered into the lion’s den.

Now most festivals are dull, dull, dull. The music is only part of the problem. Burlesque and cabaret have returned and actually provide some real entertainment, but that’s still not enough to excuse hundreds of thousands of drunk young genital heads in a field. The Lilyworld stage at the Big Day Out festival in Australia tries to help. The festival runs six shows in three weeks, with many Big Days Off for the rock stars to play with each other. The gang of crazies who run the Lilyworld, were hired seventeen years ago as an “ambience team” to help make the festival a more interesting experience. Very difficult work. I was hired to perform in Lilyworld and help out. I was led into a sea of black t-shirted rock bands, drunken v-chested surfers, Barbie girls on ecstasy, daily temperatures of 30-42 degrees, and we struggled to stay amused.

Now, rock’n’roll is supposed to be a bit unpredictable and on the road dramatic tales occur when things go wrong, but not too wrong, or it’s not funny. I feared someone would now lose an eye. The heavies are advancing. “This is my brand. It’s the Son of Dave branding iron. I won’t use it as a weapon so please don’t be alarmed. But I wanted to offer the chance of a lifetime to some lucky contestant to be the first to have this fantastic brand put onto their skin. I’ve just been on the phone with my manager, and it looks like we’ve just got the new single into a Rack Daniel’s advert, and so I’m celebrating. Anyone want to be branded? It only takes a second, and I have some antiseptic.” I held up the blue bubble bath.

How had I progressed to this dangerously weird gag from relative sanity? Two weeks earlier, DJ Christo hands me a tall cool Trance Juice as the sun goes down in Byron Bay on another day off.

“Last month we started a wave in Goa? Pure trance. We lined up the bassbins at sunset? Pointed them east. The wave is gonna be here in an hour. It’s a sundown mix. Its gonna wash all the dishes for us.” Christo and I laughed late into the night until the Malcolm Ecstasy gag then turned in.
The next morning he hands me trance wear catalogues that he’s mysteriously sourced over night. I am firm with him.
“Christo, my room was full of Japanese business men last night all singing jazz remix versions of every Christmas carol we could remember. We finished the contract. The ad is done. It’s a jazz remix day for sure.”
“What? You can’t do that! I’ve taken an anti-gag-changing pill. Trance will never die!”
“The future’s in ads and brand name remixes of Chardonnay and Pat Metheny, Christo, its gonna be a Blue Mix!”

The others are looking at us in wonder. Duckpond is happy as usual and drawing on his shoes. Larry slaps me on the back and takes me aside;
“Ahhh Buddy, you went far out with Christo last night didn’t you. But we need you on gag duty on the airplane, you know.”
I eat another half a goof cake but don’t tell him about the equestrian pictures I intend to fill the airplane WC with. He’s happy today too. Wearing a nice blue sunrise moo moo, his handsome face not too cracked to charm any stewardess. “Blue Mix”, I mutter, and they put me on the plane.

I confuse and irritate the young looking Arctic Monkey chap sitting next to me.
He’s trying to read Catcher In The Rye and relax. Seems very shy. Says he likes the Stool Pigeon though, so he’s highly intelligent. Ting Tings on the Radio. Pendulous, Bullet for my Firestarter, and a hundred other weary rock stars stare, mildly amused as Heavy Gee steals the cheese platter and wine from business class and hands them around. Endurance, gags, and idiot-speak at full volume. The suggestion of strange drugs and mystical knowledge is complete. They can tell that we have the best party.
Some of the rock stars will make it to the Lilyworld stage by the end in Perth. But most won’t. They’ll wonder why they had such a boring tour. Rock’n’roll’s a bit safe and predictable. Another tattoo won’t make things more interesting. There’s no room beside the celtic knot and flaming pinup girl. It’s all paved over.

Sidney show. What a crowd! Pilled and boozed up loogans everywhere. Vchested arsonists. The heat wave doesn’t let up and the hyperactive music just fans the flames. An assembly line of black t-shirts, rack and beer behind the main-stage. A heavy presence of sniffer dogs keep the herb smoking grownups away. The BDO is struggling to stay cool. More concrete and fire on the horizon.
In the oasis of Lilyworld, the barbies in cheap sunnies crowd around to have bunnies drawn on their boobs by Duckpond, who has headphones made of airplane buns, black marking pen eyebrows, and a gin in his hand in the blazing afternoon sun. We hose them down for their own safety and they squeal and rub their chests against each other. Australia is filthy. Brits on a permanent holiday. Larry Chronic Junior shouts at them to line up for the sheep dip, they shout filth back, then jump in. It’s spectacularly vulgar.

Everybody dances for hours to the pimpy beats and lunacy of Gee and Christo and Miles Cleret. Resenga the professional African Bushman is charming the mic and scaring the photographer with his elephant trunk. We will electrocute ourselves unless Benjy, the stage manager, separates the watering cans from the power cables. Long live these freaks who keep this stage going in the hopes that at least one of the young men will learn how to enjoy good music, Bill and Ben costumes, and go-go girls without throwing up on himself.

So there I was, weeks of weird gags and crazy trips, holding up a homemade Burberry branding iron at the hotel party, flicking a zippo and thinking it’s funny. But predictably, no one grabbed the opportunity to have the thing thrust onto his already completely tattooed calf. I became very depressed. I took a swig of blue juice and blew a bubble. The guitarist told me to leave, while rewarding all the girls with Champaign. Larry talked me down and smoothed things as usual. Thanks big brother. I sloshed back to my room to do some handwashing, accustomed to this sort of anti-climax.

A last lunch in Perth with Duckpond. For 17 years he’s been an unlikely leader of the only comic relief from main-stooge noise, not ever telling anyone what to do, exactly, just having a happy irresponsible time with some very stupid ideas that just might work. “Son of Dave, we’ve been talking about you. You’ve been on 24 hour Adman gag duty and been a fun part of the team. It would be great if you come back for Stoogefest 2010.”

Christo puts down his coffee, lights an action-man cigarette and suggests, “We can recycle some jazz gags, and make a fucked-ankle ad? Done before, but it always works.”
Hmmm. I ask, “Is it worth it? The v-chests are winning. They’re starting fires.
The girls are terribly confused and getting dumber. Will it always be so difficult to have fun?”
“Probably, buddy, but you seem to enjoy the challenge. And we enjoyed watching you stooge.”
“Ok. Duckpond, I’m in. The savages must be taught a lesson, even if they never learn.”
“Ahhh, buddyyyy!”

Son of Dave
www.myspace.com/thesonofdave

Bad Party, Financial Fools day, Bank, London, England.

The officer in charge of policing the G20 demonstration, Commander Bob Broadhurst, said the "overall mood" of yesterday's demonstrations was good. But he added: "Unfortunately small groups of protesters intent on violence mixed with the crowds of lawful demonstrators.” (Source: The Independent 2 April)

I know now that this above situation required that we lawful demonstrators be kicked, bullied, shoved, corralled, shocked and awed into complete submission by flanks of nervous, uninformed and occasionally brutal police in Robo-Cop costumes. Why was I kicked whilst cowering peacefully in the daffodils in front of the bank of England? Why searched and spoken to like a criminal after waiting for 6 hours to leave? It all made sense in the end. Finally, this pathetic protester was arrested for a 2 inch keychain pocket-knife which is not in fact illegal, put in cuffs and driven to a police station. I was released without charge, but thankfully closer to my final destination, Soho, where the drink never tasted so good, and the simple explanation dawned on me.



Thatcher’s techniques live on. From decades of practice with coal miners’ strikes and race riots, they learnt how to surround and squeeze. Bob turns up the heat in order to distill the protest into pure violence. Then they have the arrest numbers to justify the process, and the demonstration deemed as unlawful by the larger public.

Silly me. Being a foreigner, I didn’t know how the English way. I thought that if I went to a legally organized demonstration, that I’d be allowed to leave without being kicked and searched and arrested. Wrong. Bad Party. And that’s exactly what they want me to remember so I won’t go back.

People, we need to have the procedure spelt out clearly. The English way is not to lay the rules out clearly, and to pretend that it couldn’t be clearer. To the vast majority of peaceful people who attended, the young and old, straight and gay, naïve and educated, the surprise at being held against our will with a minority of angry young over-protesters was a shock. But it shouldn’t be. The rules need to be clearly set.

This method for demonstration, which I witnessed and don’t exaggerate, needs to be posted clearly as follows:

1. Protesters are to be greeted and a strong but minimal police force is to be seen providing reassurance, with the larger thugs being questioned, but nonetheless let in. Thousands of riot police, hundreds of vans, and teams of dogs are to be kept out of sight as much as possible.
2. At the first sign of spray-paint and rowdiness, the area is to be sealed off and natural flow of protesters stopped. Nobody in or out. (Although some people may still be let in if there is room, not knowing that they won’t be let out.) The elderly, likely to die, BBC camera crews and extremely posh will be allowed to leave at any time. Injured people may leave but are to be searched and intimidated.
3. The area is to be incrementally shrunk by five meters by sudden screaming walls of shielded pushing and kicking police centurions. People may be given a two second warning, at the officer’s discretion, to run away before pushing and kicking and bludgeoning them. Usual practice is to scream “Move back!” “Move!” “Get out of the way”, and so on. Sometimes they say please. The people don’t know where to go because at the other end is another line of advancing police saying the same thing.
4. Once all the protesters are truly rattled, hungry, cold and tired, set up a narrow corridor against a long wall for them to be escorted down, one by one, ten snarling dogs within one meter of them. Then, when they are in a small terrifying encampment, coldly and accusingly question and search them. Anything at all which can be considered a weapon; a bicycle wrench, tools of any sort, gaffer tape, 2 inch keychain pocket knives, forks, is grounds for arrest. Charges need not be pressed. Arrest as many as possible for the slightest thing, regardless of their appearance, age, gender or manner.
5. The police will try to make the demonstration as unpleasant as possible without killing anyone.

This is how things work. The system could even be improved if this knowledge were publicized. Peaceful protests that turn violent could then be avoided. We would then have peaceful ones and violent ones clearly separated. And in fact, violent protests would likely become more popular, and the arrest numbers can go up, which works for both the police and the rowdies. Like with wars, the extremists or revolutionaries are more easily targeted, or martyred.

I see police and state in a different light now. Well done chaps and un-ladies, mission accomplished. Well done England, you like a good riot. Here’s to the boys who break windows. You got guts. But remember, the police, politicians and big business depend on you to keep things confused and desperate. All day I saw them watching and laughing from the windows above. Actually laughing. Some saw them waving tenners. That’s funny. The truth is funny.

Link to watch a good example of peaceful protesters being searched kicked shoved wrestled and intimidated.

It’s time to pick the weakest gate and smash through it

“Look ready to face the day,” you fascist swine worshipper. Get out of bed and put on your gimp suit, the Nivea ad says. Look forward to the profits. If you spray this slick shit on your face, no one will smell the hungry stray you slept with last night while you were all coked up. If you wear this urban camouflage, no one will recognise you from the disco the night before. You can go about your booming business of buying and selling other people’s hard work at great profit without any fear of being held responsible for their impoverished lives. Then you can come home with another faceless fashion whore and play her the songs you learned to play at college.“What men want.” Indeed.

These are exciting times. Capitalism is facing some heavy scrutiny, but it’s by no means weakened despite the economy drunkenly riding a unicycle on a high wire. It’s fun to try and figure out who’s gonna profit from an economic collapse. Someone always profits from someone else’s loss. When huge amounts of dough seem to disappear, interesting things happen. But, like energy, money isn’t created or lost. It just moves and changes and big explosions go off. Where is the lady, where’s the lady?

These times are not without hope. With so much scrutiny, and with so many people re-assessing what it is to make money, we can see the poker face of capitalism and we can see that some of the huge profits earned through institutionalised gambling were from marked decks. Hopefully some of the money will be put back on the table and the cheaters will be marked. Then we can start the dirty game all over again.

The man in this Nivea ad (not the poor witless model, but the character) is not a teacher. He isn’t a fisherman or bartender or dentist or doctor. He is a young businessman. Possibly an estate agent. He earns a percentage. He wins when others lose. He looks like Mark Ronson. I’m sure it wasn’t intentional.

The guitar in the background represents his youth. The woman in the bed is nice to have had, but most importantly, with his suit, the smug little bastard is telling us to prioritise the professional life. We can have our childish rock’n’roll and our bimbos, but the money is where it’s at. (Notice ties are getting thinner again! Fat businessmen are out of style. The look should be slimmer now. Shows that you know how to budget. A more vertical line. Trim. Times are tight. Profit comes only to those who are quick on their feet and ruthless as fuck.)

For two decades, businessmen have been seeing themselves as rock stars up in first class; the travelling, the shades, the jewellery, the gadgets and loose women. The big problem is that some confused people in the music business try to compete with these pinheads. The men and women who own music retail chains, record companies, video channels, guitar manufacturers, publishing companies, radio stations, MySpace share-holders, and established shiny music magazines, all probably have one thing in common: they enjoy music, and are clever enough to make a living working with what they love. But if a line were to be drawn in the sand, which side would they stand on? Music over here, finance over there. It’s a tricky business selling art, advertising love, or capitalising on youthful spirit. It’s become impossible to tell the city man and the A&R man apart. Terrifying.

These times are volatile. Money doesn’t accurately reflect work done, or energy expended. It’s not a fair measure of real worth. But it’s the only measure some people understand, and they measure you by your wealth. Money is practical. I can’t exchange a box of CDs for a train ticket. In fact, I can’t exchange a box of CDs for anything these days. So when huge amounts of money get hijacked, the surface worth of everything changes and that makes for some very upset and defensive people. They can go off like rockets. But true worth is not flammable. Some of us don’t have to worry. A good bluesman doesn’t have to worry.

Nivea moisturiser isn’t anything more than rubbing paraffin on an ugly face. My doctor prescribes me the good stuff, with quite simple ingredients in it. The popular brands are designed to make you smell pretty, feel nice and moist for a while, but then they wear off so you need to buy more. That beautiful young male model in the ad may find himself scratching and wheezing in a few years as the allergies and asthma set in. Then the Nivea won’t be worth a fart. It takes axle grease to keep the skin from falling off all over your date’s dinner when your immune system fights your own hide. I could recommend some powerful steroids to help him with this.

I’d like to be the poster boy for steroid creams. In the bed beside me there’d be a big strong Danish gal rolling a joint, some old 45s and a little turntable. I’d still be in elegant pyjamas I inherited from my grandfather. The slogan would be: “If only everyday were like this.” The campaign would be called “Life’s more worth living with the help of Western medicine.” This won’t make sense to most people. But it needs to be said in case somebody understands it. He or she won’t feel so alone in their madness.

I passed this damned Nivea ad and became obsessed with it while on the way to Paris to perform on French telly. Then, on the train, I fell asleep and dreamed this dream:

I was eating lunch in Terminus Nord. The phone rang. It was my agent. They wanted me in a Levi’s ad wearing the new blue jeans that I’d designed. Tonight. “How much?” I asked. “10,000,” he said. “No way, not for under a 100 grand.”

The jeans I had designed were high-wasted, dark blue denim, or black, with small belt-loops for a skinny belt, or buttons for braces. The concealed change pocket is right up above the belt in the lining. They have two pleats and are baggy as zoots with a turn-up at the bottom. The dangling lucky dice wallet chain is sold separately. Together with a simple old thin-strap undershirt and paperboy cap, the return to the 1940’s American ghetto is put in tune with the youth of today. The return to classics brings back long lost American pride. Tattoos and diamond necklaces keep the look glamorous and dangerous. The ‘homey-chip’ in the Levi’s tag lets our friends know where we are... or we can set it to private for when we’re crime-ing.

“They want you to model them. It’s perfect timing for the album release. The publicity will be huge, and worth millions in album sales. You should probably just take the 10 grand they’re offering.”

“But Levi’s is loaded! And what about their sweatshops in Canada? Everybody knows they treat the natives like slaves and just pay them with booze and cigarettes.”

“Listen, it isn’t your job to set the work standard for the company - just design the jeans and wear ’em for the camera.”

“Okay, I’ll let you call this one, Harvey, but I’m not gonna let them tell me how to accessorise, and you can warn them ahead of time about that. I’ll be on the toilet and not taking any calls until 6pm. Ciao.”

Then the French waiter purposely pours scalding soupe à l’oignon all over my crotch and I knew the jeans were ruined... I woke up screaming. My pecker was burning from the Oil of Olay.

This moment in time is crucial. There is confusion in their camp. We need to pick the least fortified gate and crash it. Then we find the guns and melt them. Then we find the gold and put it back in the ground. Then we make the bastards play music for us while we relax for a bit. Softer. No, not like that, I’m trying to make love to your wife... Yes, that’s a sexy chord change. Now sing something about the old days before advertising made liars of us all.


Son of Dave
www.myspace.com/thesonofdave

Ratcomb Morriconi BBC2

It was a good radio session.

"Goddamn" was sabotaged by a harmonica reed going wonky. But otherwise it was all cool. I must say, its never any fun talking about Crash Test Dummies. Sort of like saying I used to be a Goth, or a lesbian. It doesn't make sense that Son of Dave was in that band.

Dancing naked with the Medieval Baebes is a stretch of the imagination also Seasick Steve would never be caught doing that. He's a Genuine Bluesman. Isn't "King" a great UB40 tune? Also makes no sense that Son of Dave played that instead of Howlin Wolf. I don't like Howlin Wolf.

The excuse of being a Musical Genius still doesn't cut it with the public. They want a Genuine Bluesman. Someone who's ridden freight trains and slept in Salvation Army hostels, and eaten tinned beans down by the river. I've done all those things, but I've also read Dostoyevski and scuba dived in the Red Sea and eaten Fois Gras. Seasick Steve would never admit he likes Fois Gras. Can't blame him.

Managed to insult Bono. Well that's a bridge burnt. They were probably considering taking Son of Dave on tour with them up until I said I can't stand his voice. Never say anything negative about another superstar unless its gonna make headlines. Then be as vicious as possible without getting sued. I think that's how it works.

Note to self: upon being signed to major label, be sure to hire Image Consultant and only answer questions about bluesman related subjects. No journalist will be allowed to ask about my days stuffing Geese, Russian lesbian literature, or the private Blues Hobo School education.

Son of Dave

http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio2/shows/radcliffemaconie/

March 3rd - Son of Dave LIVE on BBC Radio 2

With thanks to all those that voted, Son of Dave is to perform live on BBC Radio 2 tonight.

Hosted by Maconie and Radcliffe at the BBC Manchester studios, the show will feature some trademark howlin' and i'm sure we can expect a rendition of his latest single 'Ain't Going to Nike Town' soon to be available on digital download.

You can check out the marvellous video by scrolling down this blog or clicking here.

Spread the word via email/facebook/myspace etc....we've made it easy for you so share using the below link.

Kartel