News

7th September 2004 – Both child and album landed with a resounding ‘thwop’ on the carpet this week. The record was finally completed in a Dyonisian session on Friday; after which I fell asleep in the cab home: the child arrived yesterday morning. He is called Louis, and is the reason that there will be a long silence after ‘Time: gentlemen’ is released. Blessings to those you love. PK.

1st September 2004 – Urgh. Record not finished. Mrs Kane with child. Due to come out so soon that I cannot return to Norway (where I record) in the foreseeable future. I must wait at the bottom of the bed with my baseball glove on. I have begun to shout the word, “PULL” at Mrs. Kane’s vagina, imagining myself a clay pigeon shooter during intercourse, but the stubborn liddle feller remains unmoved; as does Mrs. Kane. When she saw me typing something about her cunt she remarked, "What? You?" (Think about it).

We are hoping the child is to be a human: unlike his siblings, who are, today, hissing pangolins. I do not know what a pangolin is.

I have taken advice on the title of the record. ‘Gothic’ is a loaded word: I will not be using it. My wife suggested ‘Time: gentlemen’. The record has a valedictory feel. It is a good title, and is the one which will appear on the cover.

29th August 2004 – “So there I was in the Arctic circle, clad only in a thin silk blouse.”

Making a record is fuck boring and can be difficult. It is an unhealthy past-time. No matter how many pre-prepared salads you bring you always feel as if you have not eaten properly. Cigarettes are taken too liberally and the laws which ordinarily dictate the first lager of the day are temporarily suspended; leaving one feeling, well, sick as a pike.

There is one more damned day left before the damned thing is complete. I feel like Alexandr Solzhienitskin warmed up, and wonder whether it is at all worth it. The shed in which I record is drafty, (Norfolk is an inhospitable place this time of year, and the cold arctic winds rattle the panes as I sing). I miss my wife and children and am heartily sick of the whole affair.

I am told by my band that the record is not a disaster, but gazing at the red-eyed husk in the cracked shaving mirror, I doubt them. Rob McClymont, the engineer with whom I have shared these last twelve months, is a mean-spirited ogre who drinks can after can of draft Guinness down-in-one before throwing the empty cans over his shoulder; in my direction. I curse him and the foul donkey who suffered his birth.

Record nearly finished. Artist near death.

11th May 2004 - Hullo Kiddies. Once again, I dribble my thoughts at you. The idea for this is actually stolen from Lyndon Morgans, singer and writer with/of Songdog (www.songdog.co.uk if you want to see the original). I shall try and keep things related to music, but there are times when cosy domesticity may creep in. Yes, I are an artist. I are! I really was the king. Really! Really! It’s true! Most of the time, however, I am husband, father, indentured wage slave – I am proudest of these; and this informs the songs that I sing nowadays.

Another difference is that Lyndon tends to go to cultural events: I don’t. So I will only occasionally be able to report on the modes of cultural expression of which I approve on a fairly sporadic basis. I don’t get out much: and am glad for this. I don’t like going out. There are people that I don’t know, and they might talk to me.

There is to be a new album.

It is entitled ‘Gothic Soul’ – cheap I know – and will be available for listening in January. It may seem a long time away; and I have previously laughed at a Dutch friend who said his album took a year to year to produce; but this has now been worked on for getting on for that; and will take longer…still. The reasons for it being protracted are threefold:-

1. As I said – I don’t get out much. This includes the wild environs of Hackney (another world, another life, another me), in which I record.
2. I wanted the next album to have a ‘cinematic sweep’ – as opposed to a ‘Sooty and Sweep’. This can be time consuming.
3. I forgot to write any songs.

It is nearly done though. The title? Well, aside from being inexcusable: it is commercial. (“Bollocks”, I hear you shout).

“It is! It really is!” I reply.

If one were to put a genre on it – [(cod south landahn tracey accent) – “What kinda music d’you do?”] then ‘gothic soul’ is a reasonable summation of my work. My records are a pasty white man’s attempt at soul music: but they are not secure, they wear too much eyeliner and are overly obsessed with themselves.

The cover artwork is done. I look handsome in it, (in a cheesy Boz Scaggs’ style). I have no right to look that handsome in photos: and praise the skies that the Lord your God is not a just God.

The music itself ……it swings/swigs from post to post. A little bit country: ‘lil bit rock’n’roll. There are currently 12 tracks and - fuck it - here are 3 of the titles. (Christ, I am even boring myself).

Paul Bowles’ Last Letter to his Long Dead Wife (There is no easy way to say Goodbye)

Baby, Those Bastard Stars!

Ballad of the Single Father

All tracks are laden to the hilt, with strings, remorse, brass, booze; all that Jazz: and we are at the stage where all that is left are the vocals. Mine own, and that of a low rent Gospel choir who have been duped into believing I am a decent man; and that there is to be no swearing on the record. There is, of course, lots and lots of swearing on the record. 2 fuckings, 1 fuck-all, 2 bastards…… no cunts, mind.