Tonight's the night. My much heralded (at least by me) debut, and quite possibly only attempt, as a DJ at <a href="http://www.staybeautifulclub.co.uk/news.htm">Club Stay Beautiful's Christmas Party</a> as part of a turntable face-off with my former pop partner in Orlando, Mr Tim Chipping. We are all DJs now, darling…

I will, naturally, be wearing make-up, although Stay Beautiful is, like Trash, one place where such activities are encouraged. After all, the club is run by Merry Old King Kohl, Mr Simon Price, who writes about his life as a fellow lifelong MIMU (Man In Make-Up) <a href="http://www.thermaland.fsnet.co.uk/Makeup.jpg">here</a>. Thanks to Mr Thermaland for the link.

Directions to the club are here:
http://www.staybeautifulclub.co.uk/datesmapinfo.htm

Mr C and I will be "on" from 10pm. Depending on how long I take to get ready to go out.

Just a reminder that me and the rest of Fosca are playing a Christmas gig tonight at the Metro in London. We have no idea when the next one will be, so if you're interested in seeing me on a stage, do come.

Details at <a href="http://www.fosca.com">www.fosca.com</a>

I am indebted to John at the <a href="http://www.indiespinzone.com/">Indiepop Spinzone</a> for sending me the attached unsolicited images, wherein he imagines my suggested future career appearing in adverts for crisps:

<img src="http://www.fosca.com/bag1.jpg"></img>

<lj-cut text="Two more here">
<img src="http://www.fosca.com/bag2.jpg"></img>
<br>
<img src="http://www.fosca.com/bag3.jpg"></img>

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After rehearsing, all four of Fosca get a black cab together. In London, one is constantly told of horror stories involving minicab drivers, and that proper black cabs are far safer. I'm not convinced that means the drivers are guaranteed to be any saner. It just means that there's a panel of glass separating you from them.

On this occasion, seeing that we're a band, our driver regales us with tales of seeing the Jam live in their heyday. This would be fair enough, but he then adds:

"I saw that Paul Weller recently on Oxford Street. I asked him for an autograph, but he wouldn't give me one.

"SO I BEAT HIM UP AND KNOCKED HIM TO THE GROUND."

It turns out he's also a Madness fan. I'm reminded that I myself am off to see Madness in concert just before Christmas. I'm a big fan of their songs (I even went to see their 'Our House' musical the other month), but I'm a bit scared of some of their fans. I shall keep the make-up to a minimum and try my best to not look like a Morrissey fan.

A night at The Verge. Riviera play their last gig of their residency at the venue, and invite me onstage to do dance movements. Alex S tells me afterwards that I resemble his idea of Terminator 3, and that I should take this as a compliment. I have to admit that if my parents were to tell me that I was, in fact, an android assassin from the future, my life would instantly make far more sense.

Christmas is coming, and the singles are getting sad. One friend is in a bit of a state, and tells me that they can't bear the fact that the person they are currently in love with has been telling them of their plans to spend the seasonal period with their own other half. That is, Someone Else.

I muse on the realisation that, as low as my life has reached, I am lucky enough never to have been once besmirched by the green-eyed monster. I have never experienced jealousy in my life. The times when I've seen people I've been attracted to in the arms of others have, if they've solicited any response at all, only made me feel, "Well, clearly, they are a better human being than I am."

I gaze into the abyss, and the abyss gazes right back and tells me, "Well, at least your hair is nice."

And so, this is ultimately what I only really know to be true. Born alone, dream alone, die alone. The rest is just staring in the mirror, ensuring that the hair is as perfect as possible. That the make-up is in place. That the suit is looking nice. I take comfort in dead authors and Touche Eclat. They will always remain true. What else is there?

Do you want to know about my fabulous dance technique? When I dance, I imagine that at the end of the song, I will be executed instantly. And so when you see me on the dancefloor in some club, I really am dancing for my life. I'm not there trying to impress anyone else, trying to catch the eye of some comely youth. I imagine myself alone in the universe, dancing to the end of Time, dancing to the end of my life. It keeps my steps from becoming sloppy.

What am I trying to tell you? Perhaps I should refer you to a dream I had the other night. I was throwing a "Come As Olivia Newton-John" party. Too many people turned up as Bad Sandy Olivia from "Grease", with the skintight black trousers. They were unhappy, because the walls were crawling with cute unhappy youths who always preferred Good Sandy Olivia in the film, the prim and proper one. And then there were people dressed as Xanadu Olivia, with all the different outfits she had in that film. Some were even on roller skates. But too many people said they'd never seen the movie. And as for the ones who came as Eurovision Olivia, the one in the cake-like dress that got beaten by Abba in 1974… well, they were even more unhappy.

But me? I had the hairdo of "Physical" Video Olivia. Complete with the sweatband. And I was happy.

There's a new interview with Tim Chipping, singer with Orlando, at Designer Magazine <a href="http://designermagazine.tripod.com/OrlandoINT1.html">here</a>.

Orlando was a band I was in some years ago. Tim and I are reforming in a couple of weeks' time, though not as a band. We have been invited as guest DJs at Simon Price's club, Stay Beautiful. It's the club's Christmas Party. Details <a href="http://www.staybeautifulclub.co.uk/news.htm">here</a>.

The idea is that we play one song each alternately, keeping the details secret from the other in advance. We shall be using our own specially made CDR compilations with personal mnemonics as the track listing just in case.

This will be my debut as a DJ. I have DJ-d one song on just one occasion before, though it doesn't really count. It was at Club Automatic years ago, one of the many London indie discos that the now famous Erol Alkan spun records for. Mr Alkan had to go to the toilet and asked me to cover for him, for one song only.

I played The Jam's "Beat Surrender".

It cleared the floor.

I won't be playing that one on Saturday December 14th, I promise.

I've already put together my set, filling up my CDR with plenty of alternatives if I change my mind on the night or if Tim plays something that negates one of mine, perhaps a song by the same artist, or even the same song, as it's not impossible.

Our set is only an hour long, which means a mere half an hour's worth for me, plus alternatives. So I had to devise a system of elimination.

I started out by listing all the many, many songs I'd like to dance to if I went to a club.
Then I took out all the songs that no one else would dance to.
Then I took out all the songs that only Simon Price would dance to, if he wasn't at the bar at the time.
Then I took out all the songs that only my friends would dance to, and only out of guilt. And as Mr Michael says, guilty feet have, it's true, got no rhythm.
Finally, I took out all the songs that didn't have a searingly personal relevance to my life so far, taking a leaf out of Proust.

That just about did it.

I'm looking forward to it immensely. Do come along if you can. We'll be "on" at about 10pm.

Ever intrigued by new forms of comedy, last Friday I attended a recording of a new BBC Radio 2 show, "Lloyd Cole Knew My Father", at the Drill Hall. The ticket price was: free. Which, coincidentally, is my favourite ever ticket price. In a shortlist of one.

The show was written and performed by three ex-NME music journalists who have since gone on to carve successful writing and presenting careers in British radio and TV: David Quantick, Andrew Collins and Stuart Maconie. These names have lurked around the schedules for years, and the latter appeared as a pundit on so many of those sarcastic clipfest nostalgia programmes (I Love The 80s, Top Ten etc), that he was in danger of having on his headstone the words 'That Little Northern Man Off The Telly Who Remembered Things'.

Ricky Gervais even marked his status thus:
<i>"If Stuart Maconie ever gets Alzheimer's, his career's fucked."</i>

Considering Mr Gervais himself, along with Mr Quantick and Mr Collins, also appeared on such programmes, this is a mite unfair. However, Mr Maconie did seem to pop up rather more than anyone else, so it's his own fault.

It's been said that one of the problems with the current music press is that writers treat the various publications (NME, Mixmag, Smash Hits etc) as mere stepping-stones to a more high-profile media career elsewhere, and the likes of Kate Thornton and Emma Jones would certainly seem to bear this accusation out. "Lloyd Cole…", however, goes some way to remind you that Messrs Quantick, Collins & Maconie wrote about music because <i>they were actually interested in music</i>, and palpably still are. The show is made up of skits, anecdotes and gags based on their experiences. And it's an engrossing, deeply entertaining show. They were assisted by a fourth performer, the comedy actress Amelia Bullmore, and even had a special guest musical interlude, with Roddy Frame, Edwyn Collins or Ian McNabb chipping in with acoustic renditions of their hits. The spirit of Elaine Paige on 'The Two Ronnies' lives on!

One routine about the baffling promotional items sent out by record companies produced my favourite gag of the night: "Beth Orton jump-leads".

Another skit compared the wags who write in to the NME letters page as sitting around the Alquonquin Round Table: "Dear Sir. If the members of Atomic Kitten were laid end to end… I wouldn't be at all surprised." This latter got such a big laugh from the audience, that I wasn't sure if they were laughing at the Dorothy Parker reference, or at the 80-year-old Parker joke itself. It <i>is</i> a great joke, after all.

Watching a radio show being recorded, one does have to put up with re-takes of fluffed lines and so on, though this often produces welcome little bits of improvised entertainment from the performers. If they're any good. What came as a revelation to me was that, while not giving Paul Merton anything to lose sleep over, the three old rock writers displayed perfectly acceptable comedy performance talents of their own. Mr Collins (Andrew, not Edwyn) can even do a great Bruce Forsyth impression. It was additionally amusing to watch them having to do their own sound effects, going over to a little table of props to ring door bells, bang gavels, and so on. And I did wonder why Mr Maconie had to <i>grab</i> his free-standing microphone while everyone else was happy to hold their scripts and speak into the thing hands-free, like you're meant to. Maybe that's one for the psychiatrists.

Afterwards, I loafed around the Drill Hall bar, taking advantage of the drinks kindly bought for me by friendly types I'd met off the <a href="http://www.notbbc.co.uk/">NOTBBC web forums</a>. And then I took advantage of the discounted bar prices kindly offered to me by one of the bar staff that I just happened to know (thanks, Farzana). Several glasses down, I naturally then rudely collared anyone that couldn't get away, including the cast, the singer and BBC London presenter Jackie Clune (whom I've always wanted to meet), the author Jenny Colgan, and the journalist Andrew Mueller (whom I've annoyed at London gatherings for the last seven years, the poor man). So apologies to them. For being a bit tipsy, that is.

I can report that Mr Quantick, as well as being a deadpan Somerset Philip Larkin impersonator (complete with lugubrious tones), is Very Tall Indeed, a trait that occurs an awful lot in the world of comedy writing. If you find yourself born into the dimensions of a giant, and are no good at basketball, writing comedy seems to be the only possible option to take. Mr Collins in particular is extremely amiable and friendly, and not at all sarcastic and deadpan like one would expect a media type to be. So it is possible.

Some minutes later, I found myself arriving far too late at <lj user=andypop>'s RRR club in Chalk Farm, where <lj user=cleanskies> took my photo (did it come out, Ms Dennis?). I spent the rest of the club's duration continuing to drink, dance, and annoy all and sundry. Someone took my details with a view for me modelling or appearing in something (I think). One was encouraged to contribute a haiku to the club's Haiku Wall, so I quoted my favourite all-time haiku, by Mr John Cooper Clarke:

<i>"TO-CON-VEY ONE'S MOOD
IN SEV-EN-TEEN SYLL-ABLE-S
IS VE-RY DIF-FIC"</i>

And then I went home.

Within hours of posting that entry about the NME, <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/talkread.bml?journal=dickon_edwards&itemid=17220&thread=84804#t84804">I got a comment from "an insider"</a>.

Something I've learned from this, and from that gentleman from Q Magazine responding to my Moz tickets piece is this: clearly it's easier to get a reaction from the UK music press by writing a vaguely infamous online diary than it is to make an album and send it to them for reviewing.

I used to think that, if you've got something to say to the world, putting it in song was the best way of reaching the world. Pop music is populist, after all. Now I'm not so sure. One can toil over the creation of a song, its arrangement, its performance, the recording, the mixing, the mastering, and the artwork, only to find that you can't get the thing reviewed in most of the mainstream UK press, even if you ask them very nicely and promise to take back what you said about their mother. Your album is released with virtually no reviews, and the resulting implication that you are less important, less interesting, less <i>worthwhile</i> than Tarquin Scrump from Coldplay hits home. And it hits hard.

But write an online diary, and despite the fact that your diary is one of millions as opposed to one album against mere dozens of new releases that month, people WILL find it. They will come to you. And they <i>react</i>. And the turnover of reaction is faster, often within minutes. They come offering unconditional love, or demands of your immediate suicide, but they DO come. So we now know that when Mr Forster wrote "only connect", he was predicting the coming of Freeserve Anytime.

I only became an online diarist by accident. I started the diary in 1997, years before 'weblogs', 'blogs' and Livejournals became a way of life for so many. I did so in an attempt to Mark Time Before Time Marked Me. Then Select Magazine made the diary Website Of The Month, and continued to quote from it in later issues. They eventually offered me a proper monthly column in the magazine, though the publication folded before my debut effort was published (I still got paid, however).

I'll be the first to admit that my strengths, if I have any, lie in writing words and looking distinctive rather than musical talent. In the band Orlando I took my cue from my namesake out of the Manics (I was born Richard Edwards), happy to write the lyrics and look beautiful while badly strumming an inaudible guitar and leaving the actual musicianship to others. I'm sure many wish I'd followed Richey Manic's example to its logical conclusion, and vanished off the face of the earth.

In Fosca, I'm doing the bulk of the musical work and singing as well. Or rather, as well as I can with my silly rasping voice. It is a sad day for a young man when he realises he will never be Diana Ross. And there's also the problem that the music isn't to everyone's taste.

But in this diary I am truly myself, unfettered, liberated and instantly available to the world. The smell of the greasepaint, the roar of the virtual crowd. So if I must be known as a diarist who makes music rather than a musican that writes a diary, let it be so.

In a bookshop, I spy the Kurt Cobain diaries and take a quick look. The book falls open at a late entry that refers to Calvin Johnson of the band Beat Happening and legendary indie label K Records:

<i>"Last year I made five million dollars. And I'm not given a red cent of it to that elitist fuck Calvin Johnson."</i>

Later on he talks about how selling out feels good. I'm paraphrasing from memory here (feel free to correct me if you have the diaries to hand):

<i>"I exploited Riot Grrl. But then, the girl who invented it is exploiting the fact that she fucked me, so she's exploiting me too. Everything is exploitation of a kind."</i>

I presume he means her out of Bikini Kill, now in Le Tigre.

This week's NME bumps Jarvis Cocker from the front cover in favour of The Strokes. I know this because the Pulp info mailing list said "look out for Jarvis on the cover of NME this week." <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/talkread.bml?journal=dickon_edwards&itemid=17220&thread=84804#t84804">[Since writing this entry, it transpires the mailing list made a mistake, and Pulp were never planned for the cover. See these comments.]</a>

As Pulp are releasing their Hits album and calling it a day (for now), you'd have thought that would warrant some attention. But instead the Cocker interview is tucked away inside, at a page and a half, most of which is taken up by a photo. The piece isn't even referred to on the cover at ALL.

The Strokes cover story, meanwhile, is a three page "news" article by Steve Sutherland. The news? The Strokes play a gig in LA and go down quite well. They haven't even got a new record out.

Sample text: "[A bunch of Strokes fans]… look so like a band, if you were in A&R you'd sign them on the spot and worry about songs and record sales and shit like that later."

And:
" 'Dr Julian says get fucked up!' Sounds cool. Let's get to it!"

And:
"Join us at the Whiskey later, and provided you're down with a chick on the guestlist…"

Without a hint of irony anywhere. The piece is deeply embarrassing to read.

Just how old is Steve Sutherland?

I recall he was once a champion of Orange Juice in the 80s, that famously anti-rockist band. A band who, like Jarvis Cocker, had a little bit more to say than how great it is to get fucked up and rilly rilly out of it, maaaan.

NME is now officially Darwin's Waiting Room.