Sunday 11th May 2008 - Kimya Dawson

Kimya Dawson. Ah, I get nostalgic at the mere mention of this folk-songstress' name. Seven years ago, yep, count 'em and weep, seven years ago, Kimya was one half of the stunning nutball odyssey that was The Moldy Peaches. They toured with The Strokes in the summer of 2001, my generation's no-bullshit version of the summer of love. The before time (i.e., before 9/11 - when we weren't scared to get out of bed in case Osama bin Laden was hiding underneath it). I remember watching The Moldy Peaches play Manchester's Academy 3, with just 250 people in a hot, sweaty room with The Strokes on the headlines and The Peaches serving as a wonderful appetiser. I remember those times in idealised terms, some people say. But I remember talking to Adam and Kimya after they'd played (they were flogging Strokes merchandise on the landing outside), and there was such peace, such freedom of mind, such freedom of choice in those halcyon days, that nothing was gonna get in the way of our Mancunian/New York youth and beauty (and stunning musical talent of course!).

And that sweet illusion continued into the Leeds festival of that year. By that time, The Strokes had been moved onto the main stage of that event, because 60,000 people were going to try and get into a sub-main-stage tent with a capacity for only 2,000 fans. The police had told the organisers, either get 'em on the main stage, or they'd pull the safety certificate for the whole festival. And it was great. And me and my buddies were sat drinking a beer, watching The Strokes when Kimya Dawson wandered over to borrow a beer. Being sat on the grass next to a grown woman dressed as a cat, while tripping on LSD and amphetamine really summed up the surreality and sheer fun of my life at that point in time - aged 21, a soon-to-be philosophy graduate; my lot was a happy happy one.

Of course, challenges lay ahead. Watching my friends, one by one, become older, more boring, less involved and more concerned with the housing market than the music scene has certainly been a stress. Going bankrupt didn't help me keep the wrinkles at bay either (but keep them at bay I have - god knows how, 'cos I don't use any of those pathetic face creams that that silly cow Andie McDowell or that inane figure of sub-standard acting, yes, Salma Hayek recommend). I've seen the optimism of those around me turn to dust in these last seven years, replaced by cynicism, fear, close-mindedness, selfishness, cruelty and duplicity. But I held on, sometimes alone in my life, sometimes with just one or two folks willing to hold up with me the idea that hope springs eternal, and being loving is worth feeling pain for.

And it's funny. This year, after clearing some of the crap from my life, the hope has started to return not just to me, but to those around me. Those in my community, those who share my little world. In spite of the fear of it all about to go belly-up, whether it's the economy, the war, the abolition of liberalism writ large. Maybe my little group of happy thinkers are doing our best impression of Nietzsche-described pre-empire-collapse naivéty, but we're feeling hopeful, hell, even happy right now. I got a new job starting later in the year where I'm going to be paid to go to University and get a second degree, an M.A. in Social Theory. I have another great Euro-Road-Trip planned and I have gigs coming out of my asshole at the moment, including Neil Young at the Hop Farm Festival in July. And almost to confirm that the goodness of 2001 can rise again, like a phoenix from the flames in this foul year of our Lord, 2008, back comes Kimya Dawson to a Manchester stage, exactly a month after Adam Green kindly did the same.

The Moldy Peaches have returned, one peach at a time. And the second peach was as tasty as the first. Kimya's gotten older, just like me, but she still attracts gig-goers aged 12 to 112, all there for the sweet, tender, fragile tones of her voice, alongside the gentle strings of her humble acoustic guitar. This Kimya, whilst being a mother now, is still singing from the same songsheet of quiet but rebellious youth. It was wonderful to hear, and reassuring to see.

It was also great to see her bring her daughter Panda on the road with her. It takes gumption to work so hard, bringing a child with you on tour, travelling day and night in undersized cars the length and breadth of the country, and the continent of Europe. So it was fitting that whilst Kimya sang a great song about being a mother on the road, that her daughter, with perfect timing between verses, from the backstage, shouted at the top of her lungs "I WANT MY MOMMY!!! I WANT MY MOMMY! WHERE'S MY MOMMY?!" A truly classic Night & Day moment, when we each realise we're in a room with people, all of whom if we met individually someplace else, we'd find that we really like each other. That's the great thing about an artist like Kimya; she brings together people who like one another instinctually, who are at comfort, not in some 'isn't it nice we've got our own home, three cars and a nanny paid for' kind of way, but more in a 'we've got nothing but our love, optimism and kindness' kind of a way.

Panda, at that point when you needed your mommy, we all needed her too, just like you did. She was kind enough to show up, a little older, a little wiser, heck even a little better, and play the oh-so-appropriate role of young single mom to our young, single, but growing indie-folk community.

Come back soon Kimya, we all miss our musical mommy!

Whiskey, Mystics & Men - A Farewall To Albert Hofmann

April 29th, 2008; Professor Albert Hofmann, the man who discovered LSD, died, at the incredible age of 102. I for one am grateful that he lived a long life. Albert Hofmann changed the perception of life for so many people, including me amongst millions of others, through his experiments in his native Switzerland all the way back in the 1940's. Hofmann, without ever planning to, changed the course of western culture. There's loads I could say about him, his discovery of acid, but I'm sure many others have blogged similar thoughts already.

In discovering LSD, Hofmann allowed us all to discover LSD. I did, at 17 years old and it changed my life for the better. It's the old cliche, but it's a true one - LSD opened my doors of perception and roughly 90 trips on, I've never felt healthier in the head. I was listening to The Doors at the time (as I am right now funnily enough), and LSD was the ultimate nutaral complimentary substance to have by my side. I discovered an incredibly peaceful side of my nature that hadn't been aparant to me before I did LSD. That peace is something I carry with me now, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

LSD taught me what a Crystal Ship is, where the Octapus' Garden lies, why it was possible to have Too Much To Dream Last Night and why 7 & 7 Is.

I think as we move further away from the first golden psychadelic age, we'll be more able to look back objectively and judge just what a huge impact Albert Hofmann had on millions of people's way of life. I'm British, and therefore am pretty well exposed to Hofmann's influence, but it nonetheless pales into insignificance when I examine Hofmann's influence on American counter-culture. Albert's accidental discovery made planet Earth a more pleasant rock for a lot of us to live on, and to think on, and to create on. Leary 'turned up, tuned in and dropped out' rather infamously. I think LSD's true lesson is for people to 'turn up, try it, and tune in.' LSD taught me to be an influence in the world, not a passive observer.

Goodbye Albert Hofmann. I hope one day your discovery will be freely available to us all again. Because while it was, there was a brief optimistic moment before that great tragic wave of the illegisation of your 'medicine for the soul,' crashed onto the Pacific shoreline, when the truest revolution of all, the revolution of the human soul, seemed imminent. It was, and still is, your problem child, but LSD will grow up into a beautiful rebellious adult soon enough.

Albert Hofmann - January 11th 1906 - April 29th 2008

Bitter Observations And Instructions For A Post-Gonzonian World

Try it. Go ahead, try it. Try for a moment the simple exercise of re-enacting what Hunter S. Thompson wrote about in The Rum Diary or Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas. Try it here in Britain and I guarantee you, you will not succeed. Not because it's technically illegal, but because on this island (and large swathes of California, Nevada and New York too), because it isn't currently fashionable to the masses, you will not be allowed. You wanna take the trip, do a pile of ether, LSD, cocaine and alcohol, washed down with 40 Marlboro Reds, but everywhere you turn, there is a health official, or worse still, a member of the idiot public, not only telling you their perception of the folly of your's and Hunter's liberational ways, but actively involving the local community support officer (aka bubble-wrapped copper), preventing you from having the slightest slip of fun on the grounds that it is either a) not family friendly, b) not child friendly, c) not lung-friendly or d) in their opinion, just plain not friendly.

Why does everything in this life now have to correspond to the wishes of that wretch of a woman who takes her one incredibly spoiled brat of a daughter to her 'educational' factory of a local academy school in her 4x4 Chelsea Tractor? What has gone wrong here people and when did the balance shift from 'do as you wish as long as you don't actively harm others' to 'do as we say, because the state and the mother knows best?' To those who know me, I warned you all of these days to come, and you all laughed. You said 'Oh c'mon Daniel, they won't stop me having a ciggie with my beer at a concert.' They did it. You said 'Oh c'mon Daniel, they won't fine me half my wage for leaving my bin 1 inch open on bin-emptying days.' They did it. You can now be fined for polluting the earth by farting once too often the day after a good curry. I warned everyone sane enough to listen, but to no avail. This society is the living enactment of the tail that wags the dog. Next on the NHS/Nanny State/Nazi Mother hitlist is alcohol.

You know how you like to nip into your local town centre of a Saturday night, and have a quick 7 or 8 beers between the hours of 8pm and 4:00am? Trust me, that's coming to an end soon enough. Even if you never do any harm to anyone else except your own good self, it won't be a good enough defence for this society. This society is so hell-bent on saving NHS pennies to give to families as yet another 'tax credit' that working single bloke, who hands over a larger proportion of his income in tax than the average millionaire, is going to be fleeced still further. Congratulations, because if you think a 3 quid pint is bad, just wait till they cut your intake from it's natural 8 pints to 4. They won't settle for leaving the pint at 3 quid. They'll double it to keep the tax flowing, so from going from paying 3 quid x 8 to get pissed, you're going to be dropped to a state-enforced 4 pints at 6 quid a go. Think I'm nuts? Cool, no problem. I'll just sit and wait patiently while the silent majority of fun-loving INDIVIDUALS sleep-walk into a pathetically dull, sober existence.

Live the dream. You've read the books and seen the movie. You've gazed into the tantalising dream of living in a world where you're free to explore the corners of your mind through the imbibing of substances known to knacker the body with prolonged exposure. If you want to hold onto that tantalising possibility, than fight for your rights. Drink to excess, take the pills offered to you by 'the bad man' in the corner of the club you're going to this weekend, sleep with the girl (or boy) straight away who you'd like to jump on top of, but are too concerned about your rep to risk it, and for goodness sake, break, bend and shit all over the no-smoking regulations at every opportunity, ok? I fear it's all too late, but I have to scream out at the absence of freedom, especially when I live in a country where the local authorities use anti-terrorist legislation to follow dogs and their owners to see which patch of green Rover the Mutt has just shit on.

Listen to your Samoan lawyer - he's like the cool version of your conscience, and trust him, no matter what that sober wanker who's just taken over your pub with his ugly wife and three screaming brat-kids says. Listen to the sober wanker and you'll be dancing the goose-step, shooting the meek and weak in no time at all. And then you'll wake up sometime later, in the middle of the night, with beads of perspiration dripping down your neck, with the guilt of being an active member of the generation that destroyed personal liberty.

You know what I mean.