| Thoughts From Out My Skull |
| 24 / 07 / 2007 "Yonder! Calliope?" is now available! Buy It Here At The Ex Libris Site! 26 / 06 / 2007 New stuff on the web-net. Over on the ExLibris page for Yonder! Calliope?, a couple tracks can be sampled that haven't appeared on the MySpace Profile or the Exlibris Jukebox at any point hitherto. The new articles (which can also, I see, be downloaded for nowt) are Ode To Innocence and Song Just For Tonight, the latter featuring also the angelic tones of Ms Rebecca Jones. (Rhymes, that. Ooh, write a song, Sir Smyth might say.) Go Hear And So On. Also, on YouTube, This Thing. Spread it about, is my request. Thanks folks. Fling An Email If You Fancy, or Be My Bestest Friend. 04 / 05 / 2007 Couple days past I sat down front the speakers for to hear in its entirety the final, 100% complete Yonder! Calliope? by Aaron McMullan, an individual who, in a convenient twist, happens to be my good self, the record being the debut Proper Album and what have you following a host of free net-released demo-quality affairs. For the first three spins (12 tracks high, it is, and the guts of an hour wide) I was near split down the face with elation. The musicianship on there, the production and orchestration by Mr Andrew Gardner, to whom I owe a hundred off-shore accounts-worth of gratitude, the feel of the thing, it had me giddy as a ferret in a field full o’ poppers. The record I heard back the eyes when flinging 75mg or 120 Removed or 196 Or So… to the web-net, it was pourin’ o’er the airways right afore me, and me damn near choking on every perfect note (NB: These platitudes and awe-struck hollers I direct to the folks on the record who aren’t me, y’unnerstann, the folks who threaded around those songs the celestial soundscapes now nailed to the wood of Yonder! Calliope?) Around about the fifth listen, however, a most curious occurrence done bled out the pleats of the evening. I began to remember where the songs came from, y’unnerstann. Mean to say, for the last six months myself and Andrew Gardner and all the musicians - not to mention Luke Paige who’s been working himself sick (literally so) behind the scenes at Ex Libris Records – we’ve been fretting and fawning and obsessing and wailing with regards every last note and every last strum and every last wave of feedback lapping at the shores of those songs. Rarely, in all that time, have I paid any much attention to the songs themselves, in so far as where they sprung from and why they sprung from thonner in the first place and how many wounds there are marking every other line. Sat there listening to, I believe, Song Just For Tonight - which now features the beautiful voice of label-mate Rebecca Jones in addition to my own miserable, tuneless bawl - a couple lines all a damn sudden sprung out that sonic tapestry for to kick me upside the teeth with all the force of a bagful o’ wet guts on concrete. “Somethin’ hurt you, somethin’ got you bleedin’” was one. “This night will take me – no, the night will soothe you” was another. There and then, like the fires of old Messina erupting round about me in the room, all of the terror and the torment and the trials done coaxed those lyrics out my face way back when, there they were glowering and screeching from all sides. Not a track passed throughout the resultant twenty-odd listens without me being bent backwards o’er the chair at some point or other, screaming at the memories of those cells and propositions and muses and city streets awash with sapphire rain and men and women with pockets full o’ genocide parading about the periphery of the town with smiles all lashed and ragged and footfalls skewed wi’ ECT. You examine the whys and wherefores of the whole sonic sprawl to such an exhaustive, comprehensive degree that you forget the mornings spent cursing the clouds that spawned the miserable gets o’ things in the first place. It helps that for the most part Yonder! Calliope? doesn’t sound miserable. Quite a jaunty, raucous affair for the most part. But even the jauntiest of those jaunty blerts (Sketches In Broken C, maybe) come loaded, for yours truly, with a thousand and nineteen fiercest recollections. For this reason, in addition to the overwhelming sense of awe and gratitude and joy that the finished record fills me with, there’s also those phantoms all shifting about the sidelines, and it’s those articles that’ve kept me awake the past three nights. In time, hopefully by the time of release (it’s gettin’ there, it’s gettin’ there – just the packaging and what not to worry about now), I’ll have forgotten all those things anew. Here’s hoping. There’s a lot of activity rollin’ in o’er the Antrim skyway, a hell a lot o’ performances of Ode To Innocence comin’ up. Last thing a fella needs is to be rememberin’ why he wrote the fucker in the first place. Thanks folks Fling An Email If You Like or Be My Bestest Friend 8th March 2007 Being lain arse o’er gums on the sick-slick mattress for the past week, owing to a sore dose of the St Francis Gurgles, or the shits / pukes / sweats, or the “flu”, being lain there fit for nowt but to watch a few flicks and read a couple pages of Rabelais, being lain there like that, says I, since waking up of Sunday past with all the gnashing of Hades running rings around my gullet, I’ve been in less than fit state for doing much of anything. However, on account of having arisen from thon sheets half an hour this evening for to go tick a box or two by way of the “voting” and what have you, I figured I may as well, while I was up, scribble some words regarding The Current State Of Affairs Regarding The Record And What Have You. First of all, rehearsals for the upcoming gigs and such have been going on since a fortnight past (albeit with none this week owing to the puking and lamenting and the like). Myself and Ryan H Fleming have gone about arranging tracks for banjo and geetar and cat-litter-trays filled with gravel and tinkling keys and seething basslines, with the hope being that, bar the odd doe-eyed, trembling-fringed ballad, the set will be a raging, stomping, snarling brute of a thing. Venues and such are still wavering giddily about the TBC area, but they’ll be announced fairly soon. Now, over the past couple months myself, Luke Page and Andrew Gardiner have been pulling various species of shrew and pigeon from out our worry-matted hair with regards the cover design for Yonder! Calliope? In the My Pictures bit of the MySpace profile, many’s a design can be found, designs crafted by my good self and featuring the caricature me moping about like an insufferable bastard in various places; the toilets of my old primary school, some steps in Derry Town, the road leads to the house of my ladyfriend, Beautiful Ms Gillian etc etc. Upon seeing these articles, Andrew Gardiner, being the producer of the record and one half of the ExLibris Records Management Lads, he furrowed his brow and did ponder and cluck his tongue. “Balls to this” he says eventually, “These things are very pretty, but they look too much like the net-records. No, something else is needed…” Something else has been arranged, and on Tuesday I am to travel by new-fangled aeroplane device to the land of Newcastle, wherein photos will be taken and poses will be held and also, all being well, some jaunts about the open-mic venues of an evening for a bit of the old “craic” and what not. Other record news; Much behind the scenes business stuff that I know little about has been going on, talks with distributors and so on and so forth and also the organising of barcode numbers and what have you. It turns out that Yonder! Calliope? by Aaron McMullan is to bear upon its well-perked arse the following catalogue number: XLR008YON It feels very, very nice to have a catalogue number. Finally, on the Studio Blog doohickeys at the ExLibris website, Andrew has gone ahead and posted a handful of notes relating to the recording and mixing and EQ-shovelling and so on and so forth. Amongst these notes, one finds a provisional track-listing for the record. On Tuesday, we are to listen to these tracks at great length, and debate the ins and outs of their placing, but for now, the tracks are arranged in this order; Chicks Dig Whinin’ Blue From Black Sinead In Savage Purple Go Fuck Yourself Song Just For Tonight City Country City -Instrumental A – Sketches In Broken C Oh, To Tremble… In A Dream Broke Sun Fixed Ode To Innocence Don’t Think I’ll Sleep Tonight -Instrumental B – More news as and when… In the meantime, know that in addition to the tracks on the MySpace Player Thing, there are a few other album tracks on the ExLibris Website Jukebox Doohickey. Also, some marvellous recordings from the likes of TSUG, Rebecca Jones, My Attorney, Death Of A Salesman, NES Advantage, Grilly and God knows how many others. Wonderful. Thanks folks. Fling An Email If You Fancy 13th February 2007 04:50 in the AM and I’m listening to the latest batch of mixes from the album, which, incidentally, is to be called Yonder! Calliope? Various versions of these tracks have been boiling the pigment out my skin for the past 3 months, and now and then I forget how they ever sounded, those tunes, afore they were properly recorded and all shimmering and cello-bedizened and with the backing vocals and the red-raw guitar lines and the stompin’ percussion (sometimes regular ol’ drummery, albeit of a magnificent stock, other times all manner of rattlin’ and barkin’ and batterin’ and burpin’). A fella gets used to hearing himself naked, pulled out thon reverb- shawl I used to hang about the yap every chance I got. He gets used to the clarity, to the amazing musicianship on display from the incredible individuals who helped stitch these sonic tapestries, and to the astounding production of Mr Andrew Gardiner, all high on John Cale and Joe Meek and who have you. Aye, he gets used to it, and so it takes the odd listen back to the versions appeared on one or the other of the net records for to have the whole affair snappin’ into focus, to have the contrast swell around him like thon beach done swole about Roy Schneider back in the day. “Get out the bastard water, for the love o’ the marinated Christ!” The songs on Yonder! Calliope?, they’ve all appeared on those net records, mostly on the last two, being 75mg and 196 Or So, but by God these versions are a world removed. City Country City now grinds and snarls like if someone maybe left Ghost Town by The Specials on a too-warm radiator for a month until it had warped and bent and melted all o’er the sides. Chicks Dig Whinin’ and Go Fuck Yourself are all pop-punk hollerin’ and machine gun rattle. Song Just For Tonight has the beautiful voice of Ms Rebecca Jones complimenting my own, and a hefty dose o’ the keys, as has Sinead In Savage Purple and Ode To Innocence. In A Dream sounds like Too-Rye-Aye-era Dexy’s Midnight Runners, all piercing strings and sing-along abandon. Don’t Think I’ll Sleep Tonight has layer upon layer of oil-slick guitar and petrol-spill trumpet. And so on and so forth. Sketches In Broken C, Broke Sun Fixed, Blue From Black... a far cry, they all are, from those sparse, hideously recorded originals. First time I heard these things I wept, is the truth of the case. A couple nights ago I flung the design for the cover over to the folks at ExLibris Records. It’s a fairly bleak lookin’ bugger of a thing, which might prove a touch troublesome. Initially, I had planned a carry-on featuring myself, or at least the cartoon cipher stands in for me, sat in a room full o’ records and notebooks and what have you, and then I saw the cover for Jamie T’s Panic Prevention... The rage, the sense of having had my idea stolen afore I got time to think of it, it was all assuaged some by the fact that the record in question is fucking astounding. Only 8 quid in Tescos, too. Calm Down Dearest, indeed. Thanks folks. 15th January 2007 09:08 the clock says thonner, and me with nary an eye shut in all of the night-time. Red-rings from the rim o’ the white to the crook o’ the knee. Giddy head-farts and brain-wanks and mind-spits coiled around other in the shape o’ seventeen barbarians stood at the shores o’ the fine port Kiptide chasing thon dolphin’s stitched from slumber the blazes back to the Isle Of Man or wherever they done set out from far side o’ last night’s Big Brother’s Big Mouth. No sleep, no, but fine things for to relate. As of a wee while back, a demo mix affair from the forthcoming Proper Record has been up on the MySpace site. It’s called Don’t Think I’ll Sleep Tonight, a track you may well remember from 120 Removed (April Songs), being a net-record from a couple years back (Jesus oh, it IS a couple years back…), but which now sounds very different indeed. All of the tracks on the Proper Record (I still don’t have a title, although for a moment it looked like it would be called With Regards The Whiplash Tongues, a name which both I at the time and the producer / arranger, Andrew Gardiner, considered to be right wicked, but now I’m afraid it causes me a great distress of the taste-chutes, and I doubt that’ll be what’s scrawled across the disc) have appeared in vastly different forms on one or the other of the net-records. I never actually realised how incredibly lo-fi those articles were till such times as I got to hearing the mixes from this forthcoming shindig. Anyway. Now, the record’s about 87% complete, I would go so far as to say. Obviously there’ll be much ado about the eventual release when I know exactly when such a thing might occur. There’ll be gigs and jaunts about the place and promo carry-ons and all you’d expect from the like. In addition to the record, a digitally-released single is due sometime in February. This’ll be available through iTunes and all that sorta thing, wherever it is folks buy the like from nowadays. Copies’ll be flung to the radio stations about the place, also, which’ll be somethin’ of a novelty. Early bantering twixt myself and those involved suggested the single in question would be Sinead In Savage Purple, which originally appeared on the net-record 75mg. The new version made me weep, so shocking was it to hear the whole soundscape as originally longed for shimmering there in the black o’ the speakers. There’ll be more on these matters when I’ve a clear head and so on. In the meantime, why not go visit the MySpace and give Don’t Think I’ll Sleep Tonight – ROUGH MIX a spin or seventy-four? Thanks folks 26th September 2006 Holy Moses oh, says I, what a bollock-load o’ activity for to announce and to relate and to forget about far side of the Publish button. First of all, before I forget, there is now a Video Section on the site. What this has at the moment (and most likely ALL it will have for the foreseeable future) is my entire set from the 2006 ExFest shindig took place at Colerabbey Studios in August, and also a couple rehearsal type affairs took place in Ryan H Fleming’s garage back in the spring. There’s also a truly abominable run-through of Ode To Innocence. Sonically, it’s probably decent enough. The visuals, alas, are unspeakably poncey. Now, in addition to that, what I can go ahead and announce is that I’ve finished recording my vocals and geeeetar and what have you for the very first Proper Fucking Record. I’ve mentioned not very much at all on this matter here, and it’s high time I did. What it all relates to is the following; As you may or may not know, myself and Ryan H Fleming (of TSUG and NES Advantage and any number of glorious musical projects) went ahead some time ago, alongside my dear friend Aaron Fleming (who is currently wandering the byways of Giddy London, and thus sleeping for a time insofar as his involvement with this whole thing is concerned), went ahead, says I, and decided to set up a record label by the name of 1:33, that we might distribute our own stuff and also the stuff being crafted left and right by our fine friends and associates. Now, it so happens that whilst all this was going on, Andrew Gardiner and Luke Page were busy making very, very legitimate their own Ex Libris Records. Next thing anyone knows, I’m getting called by Andrew, a good friend (and indeed band-mate) of Ryan H Fleming, for to come perform at a New Years shindig over at Colerabbey, being the Ex Libris studio. Following this, an announcement along the lines of the following; “McMullan, I dare say I’ll cut the fuck out your knackers if’n you don’t stand front this microphone and holler a time that I might record it, for surely to Jesus I’ve seldom heard such wonders.” (paraphrase) Knowing that 1:33 was in development, and knowing also that myself and Mr Fleming are woefully under-funded, the folks at Ex Libris said “Listen now, since we’re, y’know, REALLY putting out records (the first release, Silver Bullet by My Attorney, has just returned from the pressing plant, as a matter of fact), what say we put out that marvellous TSUG record in conjunction with yourselves and also, an Aaron McMullan album?” If you were to visit the Ex Libris website doohickey, you’d be made very aware all a damn sudden that they are a professional, serious outfit. You’ll realise that the music they’ve produced thus far, available to hear on site via the jukebox thing at the bottom of the page, is fucking stunning, and a far cry from the hissy, crackling, recorded-from-up-a-nuns-arse quality of my own net records. So aye. I said yes. Next thing I know I’m stood in the studio, with Andrew Gardiner producing and adding any amount of musical accompaniment alongside Ryan H Fleming, with all of this to hand and me recording a proper fucking record in a proper fucking studio with proper fucking sound. Over the course of the recording period, I put down 19 tracks, all of which have been heard in one version or another on the Net Records, but which are now, y’know, Proper Songs. The have piano, keyboard, drums, bass, mad guitars, demented screeches of an electronic nature, any amount of embellishments and tinkerings. In the studio, much was said with regards “Compression” and so on, and I knew what none of it meant, but what was altogether very, very obvious was that the thing sounded fucking beautiful, regardless of whether or not the songs are any good. The feel of the thing, the feel of a record like what you could reasonably expect to hear on one o’ your radio type devices, the feel of a Proper Record, dear God it near broke my back, that feel. At the minute, Andrew Gardiner has taken the thing over to the Ex Libris offices in Newcastle, still adding this or that burst of white noise or digital splutzah. What I can tell you is that I’m very, very excited. I’m about to start crafting the artwork, and all the while the Ex Libris fellas are having talks with distributors and with retail outlets and God alone knows who else. Aye. A Proper Record. Imagine that. Also, in case you missed it, I was the featured artist in A.L Harper's Band Of The Week series over at Blogcritics a couple weeks back. Thus, you can read This Interview and This Review concerning myself, and also hear Ms Harper discuss such on This Instalment Of Blogcritics Radio. It also has me introducing some songs and what have you. So there you go. Busy times, is what. Thanks folks. 31st August 2006 Hi Folks So aye, as of the evening past there, the new net record, 196 Or So done made its way online Right Here by way of individual mp3 files or a zip file doohickey for the sake o’ convenience or what have you. It’s the first o’ 2006, which is altogether shocking considering last year there were four o’ the buggers spawned, but nonetheless, there it is. What I can tell you is that I attempted for to keep things at least reasonably interesting with regards the musicological ins and outs, meaning there’s not so much moaning / solo acoustic to contend with, but also some moaning / backwards guitar, moaning / bass, moaning / vocal loops, moaning / keyboard and such like. I very much hope you dig it, but even if you don’t, let me know, sure, via the Electronical Email. You Can Grab 196 Or So Here. Tell your friends. Now, Saturday past I found myself playing in Colerabbey Studios, Portrush as part of the beautifully eclectic Ex Fest 2006, a festival type shindig put together by the marvellous individuals at Ex Libris records (see the website HERE, it’s altogether gorgeous). This proved to be a fantastic outing, no end o’ marvellous, not only on account of my own set goin’ surprisingly half-decent for once, but also, I got a chance to see fantastic sets by My Attorney and Ryan H Fleming / TSUG, both (or all three) of whom I love dearly, but also, I found myself perched ‘front some other folks I'd yet to lay an eye or an ear on. Death Of A Salesman were brilliant, Grilly, a fella played a solo set somewheres atween Billy Bragg and System Of A Down, was both insane and altogether transcendent, and a stunning set from Steve: From Fragment done coaxed ramshackle gorgeousity out a deranged cover o’ Folsom Prison Blues, amongst other, self-penned, wonders. Also, The Toys Of The Fishermen were all the fun in the world. Now, this particular event marked also the official launching of Ex Libris records. This is altogether highly exciting, not only because it means a buncha local and less-so acts of wonderfully eccentric genius are getting recorded and pressed-up somethin’ fierce, but also, on account of a deal being struck twixt Ex Libris and 1:33 Records, being the in-gestation label conjured by myself, Ryan H Fleming and Aaron Fleming, on account of this, I say, the glorious TSUG record looks set for getting proper pressing and what not, and also, I’m currently recording a “professional” type record at the Ex Libris studios. This has me flailing in the throes o’ a sore vast anticipatory frenzy. At the minute, five songs or thereabouts have been recorded, and both will emerge in “raw, stripped back” versions as we’ve grown accustomed to (except without the hiss and general lo-fi abandon of my own recordings) and also as a series of remix type affairs engineered by Andrew Gardiner (the head of Ex Libris, also) and Ryan H Fleming, both of whom have crafted a series of works of sublime awe-inspiring wonder under the name NES Advantage. So aye. Exciting times. And if I get a second to think about it, I dare say I’ll be out my brains wi’ the fear and the terror. Thanks folks Go Grab 196 Or So… For The Price O’ FREE! 24th June 2006 Hey folks What I can tell you as of this point in time is that the 1:33 Records website is in the process of being developed and the like, and from there you'll be able to purchase some proper CD type affairs from myself and fine individuals like Ryan H Fleming, The John Matrix Blues Quintet, Hammer Brothers, Assfunk Ltd. TSUG, any amount o' glorious noise and filthy tunes about sexing and loving and losing and lamenting. It makes sense, you'll be aware, since the means of production and distribution are here gnawing at the spines, best go ahead and make use of the buggers. All the free-stuff on here won't be going no place, though. And, as a matter of fact, the new record is in the process of being recorded and arranged and what have you. In the meantime, what I would suggest is that you maybe go to my slab on the NME Unsigned page and fling a wee vote my direction. I'd be awful grateful. Myself and the other 1:33 folks are looking into getting a loada gigs on the go in the coming weeks and months, so if you're in the ol' Northern Ireland area, keep an eye out here and on the MySpace page. Thanks folks Aaron 4th March 2006 Hey folks Couple swell developments to relate, aye, an a wee mp3 for to distribute. First off, if’n you’re in the area, you might wanna visit the Retro Bar in Portrush, County Londonderry, here in the guts a the Northern Ireland round about 8.00pm on 24th March. What’ll be takin place is one a the later heats in this year’s Battle Of The Bands, featuring my good self on that particular eve. Since it’s Battle Of The BANDS and not Battle Of Whining Bastards Stood Hidin’ Hind Acoustics, what’s happened is I’ve enlisted the help a some marvellously talented folks for to assist throughout said soiree. Mr Ryan H Fleming of tsug, amongst sundry other glorious musical outfits, he’ll be batterin the drums an tootlin a harp or two. Aaron Fleming, or Sir Fleming as he’s known round these parts, of Generic Mugwump an such splendidly demented musicological behemoths as The John Matrix Blues Quintet will be hammerin a second set o’ frets. An, of course, Dave McElfatric, genius behind one half of Assfunk LTD. So aye, if’n you’re around, why not say hello? Those folks mentioned above, you’ll be aware, are in cahoots wi myself in so far as 1:33 Records might be concerned. At this second, it’s still in the Plenty Banter stage, but we’re lookin at getting some stuff distributed an flung left an right to folks might dig the vibes therein. Mentionin vibes, over at #1 Hit Song, you can find a splendid review of my last net-record, 75mg. Go see an say all about “I agree” or “I disagree” or “What’s a song?” in the comments bit. An the follow-up to 75mg is in the ol’ writin / recordin stages. What I can reveal is that there’s a demo of a song entitled The Ballad Of Him An Her An Me on the MySpace thing, an you can hear it online or download it or whatever tickles your fancy-glands. The tune in question ain’t about a three-way filth-fest, I’m afraid, but rather it’s a cheery ode to soldiers off shootin an chemical-doused affairs goin on back home. Thanks folks. January 1st 2006 Hells fire, sayin, there it is, clear as day. A big ol’ 6 slapped right on end the 200. Another digit closer to the four etched ‘pon the bark a some oak-tree marks the eternal restin place a yours truly some time in the here or there. May as well sit the fuck down an smoke the lungs out my chest, sayin, sure as fuck I’m all but dead. Aye, a fella can get all the morbid in the world when he realises he’s half a dozen shits shy a bein a useless old bastard. “God almighty”, friends chime, “You’re only 23, sayin, the balls only dropped four hours ago, looks a things.” And yet how old was Conor Oberst when he made Letting Off The Happiness? How old was Shane MacGowan when he was spittin Gabriel into the faces a fuck-fried scenesters boiled in the grot a Camden's pavings? How old are those Arctic Monkey cats all concerned about the trendy lyin bastards wi the San Fran accent picked out a tramp’s back-arse in Slough? How old was Sid Vicious when he shat his smack-grilled last cross the concrete? Younger than me, that’s how old. Aye, Father, curious melancholy round about the mood space. “Is there ever anythin else, y’insufferable fuck?” An a sigh. Most probably, assumin, you’re all sortsa right there. Oh but why, now, since look here, 2005, as embarrassin an embarrassment a developments ever done slapped a fella’s chops red wi shame. To wit; A fella weeps himself awake for much a January an February, blinks the wank out the face throughout March, falls in love sometime around then wi a lass too far away for to realise the immensity of said emotion, thank fuck. Hark! The summer spent clingin to the notion that she might smile at something I said an that I might see her do it. An 72 Hours spent ragged an demented in Dublin goin out my mind wi lust an love an the abundance a emo fringes every which way. Returnin from said city a different sorta fucker altogether, wi the kinda outlook reeks a Do Stuff Now, For Look Here, Barely Fit To Piss Thout Collapsin A Old Age. An realisin, somewhere around October, hells fire, what shoulda been a cleansin a the whole “My God, I done fell in love” thing, turned out, on the contrary, it only stirred the fucker up till a man can’t cough thout tastin the idea of her hand in his for a second or nine or one-hundred-an-twenty. An then, see, the bridge tween October an November, dandered cross in the company o a lovely lass saw fit to sketch Belfast for me, saw fit to add translucent chimes to the monotonous grind all charcoal an phlegm I’d gone ahead an perceived. An endin the year in the company of good friends an fine strangers, singin songs bout the in’s and out’s of all a this tomfoolery, 2005 addressed by way a the self-obsessed off-key slurrin o’er battered G an festive hum. An no time for to worry bout how I ain’t made filth to a damn thing other than my fist for the duration of said year, no, on account of singin Sinéad In Savage Purple to folks can’t tell I ain’t got nothin in the eyes but the savage purple aura of a lass 120 removed, aye. An ponderin some hours later; What a fella needs is to say thank you, aye, for a multitude a things. Things like how a fella woke up sober on January 1st 2006 same as he fell asleep sober on January 1st 2005. Things like how experience is the only currency I can keep a hold of for any length a time, an the notes, y’unnerstann, ain’t got the queen or Darwin peerin off, got the smiles a exes an obsessions an ladies what break my heart on account a the unutterable beauty they let rise off a their tongues every time they speak, aye, an so a man needs to offer sincere thanks to those people, those beautiful special individuals colour every song worth writin an every tale worth tellin. An bound back a paragraph or two, the ol’ “singin songs” tomfoolery. What happened on New Years Eve of yon 2005 was that some sorta house-party festive-get-together done got all arranged, an intimate shindig takin place ‘tween the many walls a the wtss records mansion situated someplace on the North Coast, someplace near the beach in Portrush, fine a place as I’ve ever been arrested in. Few weeks back Mr Ryan H of the marvellous tsug was flingin propositions at a fella’s jowls, say here now, fucker, what say you string a half-hour acoustic set together an entertain these fine folks for a period durin said soiree? An talkin it over with Sir Fleming; “The hell kinda madness is this, I can’t sit fronta buncha strangers high on revelry an sing song after song bout I’m goin out my mind wi lust an melancholy an all that wonderful pale-blue jazz.” “Why the fuck not? I’ll cut your gums out if you don’t, how about that?” And so it was settled. Arriving at the place in the company of the aforementioned Sir Fleming an Mr Ryan H, staggered by the talk a demented soundscapes set to erupt throughout the other sets of the evening, an me wi my odes to Sinéad an the magical misery / elation stew she done gone brewed up someplace in the mentals a yours truly. The set-list in the pocket, hastily edited an carved asunder an stitched-up anew following the beautiful electronic noise symphonies provided by NES Advantage, being Mr Ryan H on the ol’ six-string an Mr Andrew Gardiner, host of the whole damn affair, on the keys an the chaos pad an the throat-noise. “I can’t for a second expect these people to endure four minutes of First Flight Grounded”, sayin to Sir Fleming, “Watch me now, watch me toss this fucker half-way cross the road, far from this set-list as the wrists permit.” Followin a couple songs offered by a fella called Luke, following this, I say, I’m headin t’wards the microphones an the borrowed acoustic, headin there wi reams a lyrics typed out an scribbled over in the midst of a self-conscious frenzy. Noticin, see, that what seems crucial to a tune when all there is is the recordin light flashin on the monitor, realisin that in front a folks fried on mulled wine an miscellaneous, realisin that last thing they need is every syllable a Don’t Give No Fuck No More, last thing they need is five minutes a self-absorbed minutiae that could just as pleasantly a been three minutes a jaunty spite. They get neither, turns out, Don’t Give No Fuck No More bein another casualty a the Stalinist hordes slayin tunes left an right out the guts a the list. Folks hollerin, ‘mon now, hell’s keeping you? An hell it is, aye, first verse a I Do Believe You Are The Devil fallin out my face, ain’t got nowhere to go but Verse 2, face burnin like a fresh-fucked wound, an on we go, ain’t got a backing vocal to my name, hollerin bout “I got behind that trickster devil!” an so on an so forth. Cause what a man realises is that it’s easy to get all sortsa chuffed wi stuff wrapped neatly round an MP3, but dig this, sayin, here an now, ain’t got no Take 2 to rely on, ain’t anyone in here but Sir Fleming an Ryan H who’ve heard this stuff, the hell do they know whether or not it’s ok, that the one on the net record I never knew existed is much better? But they dig it, they cheer an stuff, an so a half-measure a confidence slipped to a fella by the smilin lass front my eyes, lass all hooked up wi a lad happens to be a hella nice fella, too, so best forget about it all, best get on wi Go Fuck Yourself, an a couple laughs here an there, couple cheers regardin the “Peel session by The Fall”, an it’s ok, s’alright, even though immediately after I make reference to a “Mike E Smith”, bein out my mind wi anxiety. “Mike E Smith? Is that a brother a Mark?” Thank fuck someone jests regardin it all, an so a fella can mock his own inanity also. The absurdity of it all – Thinkin to myself, I’ll play a new one, when all a this is new, far as these folks are concerned. And so Ode To Innocence wi a still fairly shitty ending, to be rectified ‘fore it appears on the next net-record. Chicks Dig Whining passes fore I realise I fucked up the end of Go Fuck Yourself couple tunes back, an then an attempt at In The Mornin I’ll Be Gone that doesn’t make it past the first two words. An one more, I’m sayin, I’ll try one more an that’s me. An all a man can think about is Sinéad In Savage Purple, an so that's it, that’s what gets played, even though I ain’t got the lyrics in front a me, turned out I didn’t need them, even though I fucked it up an had to start again, turned out it was ok. Afterwards, folks askin if I got any sorta record of any kind they can hear, an directin them here, aye, so hello if’n you made it. Free a the terror, I get to enjoy sets from My Attorney an tsug, cept it’s Ryan H on his own, an awe-inspiring free-wheelin improvised musical comedy affair lasts well over an hour an has a fella cursin Mr H, on account of I look stupid as fuck when I’m laughin, an yet there I am, laughin like a busted arse throughout. An 2005 dead an buried fore the taxi arrives. So it’s back to the net-records, back to the recordin an the remixing, on account of I’m working on a jazzed-up affair comprising a buncha tunes off 120 Removed and 75mg, touch a flair added, y’unnerstann. The live tomfoolery was recorded, an far as I know I’m getting a copy, so aye, why not fling it on here when it arrives? Why the hell not? An talkin to Ryan H last night, sayin why don’t we go play some gigs now? An why the hell not? (You can read Sir Fleming’s glorious account of the night in question at This Slab of his Generic Mugwump blog) Thanks folks. November 14th 2005 The new net-record, 75mg, is now here, all online an such, as you probably noted from the banter up yonder. So go ahead and Grab It and tell your friends about "ooh, I heard this new net-record by some fella out Northern Ireland, bit shit to be honest, where's my mascara, incidentally?" etc. Thanks folks. Aaron October 9th 2005 Just a wee note along the lines of here’s a couple things you might wanna investigate. The first is a new Review Section, containing a trio of fine articles alive wi words waxed with regards Yours Truly. The second is a kinda taster of Broke Sun Fixed, and arrives in the form of The Aaron McMullan MySpace Page Thing. There’s a track on there by the name of Blue From Black, which is gonna be the first track on said Net Record. It’s performed by myself and Darren Worth, who provides all sortsa percussional wonderment. Go See, Or Hear, Even. Thanks folks. Aaron October 8th 2005 Couple nights ago, listening over what’s been recorded for the upcoming new Net Record thingy, I’m thinking all about how I wonder when the hell it’s gonna be done, anyroad? It seems so close, I’m musing. Look here, this one’s done. This song’s finished. Aye, this too. And this. Before a man knows what the hell’s goin on, holy shit, turns out the record is 98% complete. What I can tell you is that it’s got eleven tracks at the minute, four of which are performed by myself and Darren Worth, who also provided all sortsa musical tapestries on the Stuff I Did compilation thingy I put up a wee while back. There might be six of these sortsa things, actually, on account of the 2% not finished yet refers to a couple songs we’re mulling over, whether to go with the acoustic / voice versions, or go ahead and give them full-band renditions. But there are four for definite, and the rest is the usual me and an outta tune acoustic. What I can say also is that it’s fairly diverse, some of it’s kinda sleazy bar-room blues stuff, there’s a damn piano ballad of all things (although I’m outta key as a fresh-fucked beagle with regards the vocals, so it ain’t that big a shift), there’s an epic apocalyptic number, all sortsa shit for to be getting on with. And plenty talk of “ooh, I dig her a lot, she don’t dig me none much, wah wah wah”, course, on account of holy shit, how could there not be? I think anyone who liked 120 Removed won’t have any problem with any of it. Who knows? Tell your friends is what I would ask, if you dig things thus far. Say oh, by the way, turns out there’s a new net record from that fucker you never heard off due in the next week. He says it’s good. Who can trust him? Hardly anyone, is the answer. Thanks folks. Aaron September 14th 2005 Well, looky here, A New Net-Record. Kinda. What it is, is the best fifteen tracks from the first four EP's, which are no longer on the site on account of, well, I don't like them very much. If you do already have those four for some reason, you might still wanna grab Stuff I Did 2003-2005 anyway, on account of some of the tracks are remixed and rejigged, and three of them are "Full Band" versions, assisted no end by the musical genius of Darren Worth. Work on the next proper net work is ongoing. Thanks folks Aaron September 2nd 2005 What happened the last week or so is that recording for Net Record 7 took a delightful turn for the wonderful, on account of it now seems a fella by the name of Darren Worth is gonna be playing on it, all manner of drums and bass (but not drum & bass) addin to the usual whining an off-key laments an badly-tuned strums. I think it might be called Broke Sun Fixed, but I dunno. I know it looks nice when I scrawl it cross the notebook. Oh, also, the four net-records pre-Songs From The Back Room, i.e, the most embarrassing ones, are gonna be torn off a the site sometime soon, so if for some reason you would want them, you best grab em now. I can’t bear to listen to them, although some of the songs are rather nice, I suppose. What I might do is grab the best tracks off a them (all two an a half) an put them together in one net-record that can be grabbed or not as one chooses. Probably I think the whole affair started heading someplace exciting around the time of Songs From The Back Room, the rest of the stuff has nothing in common with what I been tryin to do since I learned how to drown myself in reverb an get all excessively introspective an foul mouthed. So yeah, that’s what’s been goin on. And lots a song writin, most of which are fuckin awful, but there’s a couple that might be worth a whistle. Thanks folks. July 19th 2005 The last buncha hours have proved to be all the wonderful in the world, with regards the hollerin, whining, banging out the G etc. On Sunday I decided to go investigate an open-mic session being held at the wonderful Montague Arms in Portstewart, on account of I'm intending to get back into the live-performance swing of things as of right the fuck now, and this seemed like as good an opportunity as any for to get a couple songs hollered in public. What happened was that, in the company of Sir Fleming and The Vigilante, I stood for a time listening to the terrifyingly good performances being flung to the air left and right, and realised something along the lines of holy shit, how in God’s name can I expect to inspire anything other than some sort of cannibalistic frenzy in these drunken revellers, now that the bar has been raised so incredibly high. Sat round a table, a buncha lads who seemed to be orchestrating the event. In between blasts of song-singery from folks scattered around the place, these folks would plough through terrific renditions of any number of pleasant folk / blues / rock ditties. The Weight, Gin & Juice, Stand By Me. An array of gloriously uplifting tunes, and the sweat bounding from off a my skull with every note. Nonetheless, the time arrived for to nudge the ringleader an say something along the lines of “Can I play something?” A couple facts for to note – I was shaking. Physically shaking, the legs wobblin’ like all fuck, on account of the last time I did this I was plastered, an since it's been over two years since the last drink, I’ve had plenty time for to realise how shockingly awful I can be. In addition, there were plenty older folks in attendance, and owing to the foul-mouthed nature of plenty songs penned by my good self, I realised I had to think carefully about what should be aired. Go Fuck Yourself was right out the window, as was Don’t Give No Fuck No More, Goth Girls Turn Me On (two shits, one fuck, one cunt) and plenty others. Hilariously, though, the only words I could remember in such a state of panic were those pertaining to Ballad Of The Three, which I assumed would be safe enough, until I hit the second line and realised a “fuck” had just bounded out my face. The only folks who heard this, though, were the folks sitting round the table, who listened intently as I mumbled my way through the song all about “oooh, I love her, I think, an also, “fuck it and fuck this” and trains”. There were no mics, and so most of the folks heard only a couple battered chords. However, holy shit. When I was done, I didn’t get the uncomfortable silence and the “give me back the fuckin guitar, mate”, but rather, applause, and a proposal along the lines of “wanna do another one?”. The ringleader fella could see the nerves boundin cross a fella’s yap, and to his eternal credit saw that probably some sort of calming banter might be required. Sufficiently bantered, I did Chicks Dig Whinin. Talk of “I really enjoyed that” and “great lyrics” and “good vocals” helped a fella feel all shades of worthwhile for a time. Most likely everyone else forgot all about it two seconds after I got up again, but the significance of it all is staggering. I the hell E, it led in no small part to my decision along the lines of “yes, I must do this again.” In other words, plenty venues will be contacted this week. But even more baffling than this is the fact that Warren Ellis, Comic Hero Extraordinaire, has chosen I Do Believe You Are The Devil as the first track on his just uploaded Superburst Mixtape 21. I can’t thank Greg Smyth enough for pointing a fella in the direction of said compilation, so best you Head On Over To Swing Batter Batter and tell him yeah, that McMullan fucker said thanks. Then, Go Check Out Superburst Mixtape 21. Finally, Net Record 7 is rolling along much more smoothly all of a sudden. I realised I had more reasonable stuff than I thought, an so hopefully said opus will appear sometime soon. Oh, and 120 Removed is now available as a one-time-download Zip File. RIGHT CLICK HERE AND SAVE AS… Thanks folks. Aaron July 12th 2005 So what’s occurring, you’ll be delighted to know, is that the recording of net record 7 is grinding along in a most depressing manner, with one good verse for every thirty-nine songs recorded. However, I do have at least five numbers set for to go on it, one of which I rather like, even, being a punky number by the name of Go Fuck Yourself. Also, there’s a number of Sinéadist works, as is only right. And look here, would you ever, a bunch more places wherein my yap resides. There’s The Music Edge, and also MP3 Unsigned, and even a corner of The Northern Ireland Music Commission. Those first two have some sort of voting thing goin on, so feel free to vote an say yeah, I dig the sweet molten fuck out every digital inch. Also, I hear The Montague Bar in Portstewart, I think, has an open- mic thing every Sunday, so all being well I intend to take my whining toss to the disinterested ears of drunken revellers yonder in the near future time. I must give hearty thanks to both Sir Fleming and Greg Smyth, for convincing a fella that fuck it, why the hell not? And Sinéad, who continues to wring all manner of melodies and swears out a man’s blood-pump via the off-key holler-glands. Net Record 7, whilst we’re on the subject, seems to be heading in much the same direction as 120 Removed, being the last one which you can grab HERE. I do, however, have plans to assemble some sort of ragged buncha miscreants sometime in the here or there and wrap these words around the kinda punk soaked sleaze a man could get arrested for in certain quarters, and indeed sexed for in others. All that’s in the future-time, mind, and not a damn thing for to do with right the hell now. And since I might as well, since what does it matter in the long run, here’s a recording of the aforementioned Go Fuck Yourself, which I’ll do again before net record 7 on account of the vocals bein a bit low in the mire and also the guitar being somewhere to the north-east of reasonably tuned. Right-Click and Save As… or Left-Click to here on the web net. Aaron McMullan – Go Fuck Yourself (Demo).mp3 Thanks folks Aaron June 10th 2005 What occurred today was that I started recording net record number 7. I’d imagine it won’t sound much different to the last couple, although I think a couple of songs will end up with some sort of mad percussion of some kind, somethin’ battered out on a couple cardboard boxes and a hardback novel bout fisting. Here’s what I’ve decided – 120 Removed needs to be sent off to a few folks, this much is certain. But then I hear folks who ain’t ever been signed, and I think something along the lines of what the fuck, man? How can I hope to grab a glimmer of attention from off of these cats if even these wonderful people weren’t fit for to get the foot in the door? On the one hand, it seems like a good time, right now. There’s a whole wave of fuckin singer-songwriter types getting noticed, but on the other hand, there’s a bunch of people getting very, very tired of “I’m so sensitive, gosh” type bullshit. Which I hope I ain't got goin’ on, but sometimes I’m not so sure. . . This much is certain, I’d love to put a buncha these songs down in a studio with a band of some kind, but right now there just ain’t no such thing set to happen, so it’s me and myself and the acoustic. Truth be told, I’m not sure that I don’t prefer it that way. But regardless, this here is a track from today’s tomfoolery which will appear on #7, but not in this form, on account of some of the lyrics are terrible, and I fucked up the ending. But maybe hearing this disastrous version will make the eventual Definitive Version shine all the brighter, on account of “Wow, he didn’t even fuck up the ending that time!” It’s called I’ll Know It When I Hear It. I don’t think I’m gonna put any more MP3’s on here till the things finished, which’ll probably be sometime in the next month or thereabouts. Today, out of all the shit I recorded, there’s only one that’s set to go on it. And obviously this version of this track ain’t it. Fling Me An Email and let me know what you make of it. Just left- click to hear online or right-click to save someplace humid. I’ll Know It When I Hear It (First Attempt).mp3 Thanks folks. Aaron May 15th 2005 A few folks, believe it or not, asked for some kind of lyric sheet for 120 Removed, i.e, the brandest newest net-record. Well, turns out they went and got themselves on a net-page, so if you want the 120 Removed lyrics, then CLICK HERE. Todays offering of shite that wasn't fit for even the shitiest of the net-records is a track by the name of; Aaron McMullan - Angel, Where Are You Taking Me? Just right-click and "Save As...", or left click to hear online. Some of the lyrics were later used in "You, Yeah You" from off of Songs From The Back Room. Please note, the MP3's in this bit are stuff I'm flinging out just for the sake of it. It's probably below-par, truth be told. And, in yet more news, another review of 120 Removed appeared on Wally Bangs' fantastic Soulfish Stew. Go check it out, and see that yeah, he knows the score, that Wally Bangs. It was posted on May 10th, so you'll need to scroll down a wee bit. And finally, turns out I'm gonna be in Dublin at the start of July for a couple days worth of wandering, lookin' round, selling my hole for cigarette money, so if maybe you wanna grab a coffee and smoke a couple smokes and yell a tune or two or discuss Miike, Let Me Know. Thanks folks. Aaron May 9th 2005 I've decided it's high time a fella went out and hollered, whined etc in public again. Anyone around the Northern Ireland area, or further afield who has also a floor of some sort for to kip on, who might want a bit of the "support act" shindigs, Let Me Know. i.e., I'd dig it if you asked yours truly for to holler for you. I think what I might do now, is instigate a habit I intend to keep, which will probably do me more harm than good in the long run. Like sniffin' monkey-wank for to get high. Fucks your head up, folks. Medical types probably agree. Also, they dig my tunes, although most of them say stuff along the lines of "Stop advertising your lame-ass songs", as I was recently chastised for doing. Sorry various doctors. But anyway, I figured I'd throw the odd song on here that I didn't put on any of the net-records on account of a couple reasons, like maybe they didn't fit, or, just as likely, they were fucking terrible. "Lame-ass" folks would say. But I asked a good friend for advice regarding the following number, and she threatened physical and mental violence if I didn't put it on here, so here it is. I think it's a bit dull. Whine whine whine. Fuckin' hell, go have a wank, you whining bastard. So this is what happens when you don't wank enough. You whine in G. Aaron McMullan - A Smile Can Cut Me Deep.mp3 Anyways, hope you like it. Certainly Sinéad seemed to. And in case you don't know, Sinéad is right about everything, except for the time she advised me for to walk straight ahead through a crowd without stepping to the side for to let folks past. Scornful looks, is what I got flung at my teeth. "Fuck off with your lame-ass songs", they said. In other news, a track from 120 Removed made the shortlist for "Music Worth Recommending" on the highly wonderful Hits In The Car. Go see, why don't you? And also, until such times as I get a links thing or whatever sorted, why not go see these two reviews of the last net record, Songs From The Back Room, on Blogcritics. This One was part of Jon Sobel's Weekly Indie Round-Up, and This One was a stand-alone review by the brilliant, insightful and also strangely attractive Greg Smyth. Thanks folks. Fling Me An Email If You Want. Why Not? Aaron. |