Aquarius Festival 8 July 8pm – COUNTRY DIRT & THE HOBOS – ResPeckham
This the dawning of the age of.....
COUNTRY DIRT Live in Hope – 4 June 2011
Patmo, Banjo Frank & I
- Decided that I’d get my cowboy hat & went down the Folly Stage
Patmo - all he needs is a beat ... & a big guitar. Billy Bob Staunch bass-ically just too cool for school
Can't ya see, can't ya see... Patmo, AD, Billy Bob & Me
Hat haired Juliet Lewis, I'm told
Me Patmo & the mighty Tom Colborn on lap steel guitar - beautiful silken layer on to the music. Thanks to the Hope Fest for matchmaking us xxxxxx
Stars & stripes of Folly Stage
Billy Bob, Georgie B & me
The only thing missing from this sweet li’l impromptu sidestage shoot – is footage of Nick Reynolds torching our set w some scorching harp for ‘NICKEL & DIME’. Am I crying I should be. Come on back Nick – let’s play house!!
Stayed to the very last second – endured all kindsa deluge – but was worth it to bump into festie organiser, Maxine, who invited us back next Summer for the MAIN STAGE – one li’l stipulation: We cover WHITE RABBIT. She compared me to Grace Slick. Am I still conscious?
Look Ma, no bingo wings
1st… **KLARKE CAPLIN** then the Hope Fest http://bit.ly/lVIybK
LOOK at a sampling o what this lady did 4 my mug made 4 radio ;-p
******* K L A R K E C A P L I N *******
Klarke Caplin MA Photography, Tel: 07930 433467
Innovative Photographic Solutions
Yeehah! I’m a Penthouse Cowgrrrl!
In my face! KLARKE CAPLIN
Howdee, Ms KLARKE CAPLIN!
Ridin' out on the balcony ... of my Penthouse Rodeo KLARKE CAPLIN
4th June 17.00 COUNTRY DIRT at Hope Weekender 2011
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Welcome to.. HOPE WEEKENDER 2011Friday 3rd – Sunday – 5th JuneYep it’s on for 2011 and is set to be a great year! As well as a great line up in the making, this year will also feature.. HOT SHOWERS! Advance tickets only due to licensing. Ticket numbers are strictly limited and selling fast! Please book early to avoid dissapointment. Tickets will be available from early April and will be available from this website or from ‘The Hob‘ Public House, 7 Devonshire Rd SE23. Immediately opposite Forest Hill stationand ‘Worldly Wicked and Wise‘ 81 Salusbury Road, NW6 6HN (near Queens Park Tube) 0207 372 1110Last date for sending out tickets is Sunday 29th May, after that tickets to collect on door. Address of farm will be e-mailed to you. No paypal after midnight Thurs June 2nd. From this time/date please get tickets from ‘The Hob, and ‘Worldly Wicked and Wise’ (see above) £40 adults in advance only |
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| Wristbands must be worn at all times – Recycling facilities available – Flushing toilets – The ground is hard so we advise you plan for that. Special tent pegs are for sale on site – Tram stop 1 mile away – No dogs please – Camping separate from parking this year, camper vans have area for themselves. There are no hookups for these. Please email us if you require a space – Please respect the boundaries of our event or you will be asked to leave. (You’ll get it when you arrive) – The nearest railway station is 3 miles away and a bus does go past the site – Once you have your ticket and got location you can google TFL for public transport details…. ENJOY! |
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Anyone who feels they are not eligible for special services will be referred to an omega-tude rebriefing officer who will help you to qualify via our inflight naked pyramid scheme ....
Last year’s Hope 2010
Previous Hopes..
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Frying Panhandler
No I'm not the stripogram!
Desperation from one’s parents’ mortality has alot to answer for. Had to ditch another bitch over the phone last night – I blame it on a latent grown up orphan syndrome. Nevertheless I finally self actualised last night: I’m the phantom killer, me….. about time too. Been mo than 2 months since I began a spiralling-from-the-start, long-distance romance from home this last Spring Break , whilst looking after my temp invalid mother. Though I had my reservations it was a shimmering, buzzy, magical affair, and it seemed to make Mommy Dearest so happy. I was attempting to face the music regarding my mother’s homestretch in this earthly sphere, as a dutiful daughter, but it scared the living beejesus out of me. I made a desperate choice – ignored so much of what life has taught me. I began to date someone I’ve known and arguably avoided for the last 20 years…. through Facebook reunion. When will I ever learn? Luckily I’ve had a coupla months and all of the Atlantic between us to figure it out.
Safe from the pale isle, I’ve concluded that West Texas & I do not mix – is that such a painful revelation? I can’t keep doing things to make my mother happy … that’s another … it’s breaking me. Ma wants to marry me off & settle me down in the frying panhandle. I do so want to bring the dream alive - BE that blinkered prairie wife for her. As if in answer to her prayers, life landed me with a gorgeous, great, strapping cowboy & unofficial governor of the dustbowl. At first I was the yellow rose o Texas – the romance was full-on full swing. …. However, I started to get a goony & irritated feeling about the governor, a coupla weeks ago… until …. his wife entered the picture last weekend.
Are all men either gay or married, is it really true. Why can’t guys be alone ever – why? I H8 making hard & fast rules I really do, but here’s one. From now on, a guy has had to have been unequivocally single for at least a year – a whole year – or I move on quickly.
I must thank his wife for hacking into his account and sending me the emails he’s been exchanging with some woman who’s got to be the supidest, most lo-maintenance weirdo upon whom I’ve ever had the pleasure of inadvertently eavesdropping. Of course I don’t really care about their involvement. I’d already tried – once again in my life - to establish from the beginning that long distance might occasionally give leeway to site specific dalliances – “love the one you’re with”. But no, that wouldn’t do – not for the governor. Sister Twister got sucked in & we just had to profess our endless, exclusive love for one another….. As it turns out we both did what I suggested anyway. Last night, when trying to talk us toward that revelation, I got some hard & fast ”don’t ask, don’t tell” machinations – delivered with abs thorough arrogance.
I seem to have this block, I just do not want to believe that anyone WANTS to live by double standards. Just like Anne Frank I believe all people are good….. & can’t grasp the idea that anyone actually benefits from controlling anything, so I’m flummoxed at why anyone ever tries? And why they try so exhaustively?
The scary part was his wife tracking me down at work – due to his incompetence – and then him getting all Clinton-esque with me. Ooooh his big Clinton appointment really resonates. I can just forget all about support or protection, not to mention being soothed . Either I swear blind allegiance to his front or hit the hayride: How dare I have questions, he’s said everything he needs to say to me about love, life, the lord, the universe, his dingleberries & blah blah blah. Somehow I begin to see Wifey’s point.
Or am I missing something in boy world? Did the Gov give me the slip, because he forgot about the thrill of playing the field?
My latest, most unavoidable life laws -
1. Bouts of intimacy require commensurate measures of solititude – which must be seen to be enjoyed
2. West Texas is a hellpit
3. Long distance maintenance is a matter of ettiquette, rather than denial shaped devotion
4. There are more phantoms than there are people on this earth.
Rather fight than blight
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31 May 2011, 19.30 – When “All Hail…” breaks loose – COUNTRY DIRT @ ye Olde Queens Head Islington
Cowgrrrl sings the blues
Look alive, City Slickers & Cotton Pickers!
5 great Country swingers & Western slingers are back in the saddle, hot on the trail & kickin up some COUNTRY DIRT….. 4 Ur listening pleasure … shakin stardust off that ol C&W collection 2 put a spitshine on your boots made 4 dancing. Call it grab-ass bluegrass, you might say it’s Countronica, but U darn tootin well KNOW it’s only Rock-n-Roll from a different branch of the same root: a li’l Gram, some ol Hank & a whole lotta Wanda.
COUNTRY DIRT formed in Nov 2009, & hasn’t stopped giggin since … but All Hail breaks loose – Tuesday next – when the DIRT give the Old Queen’s Head a good kick thru the supple, parting posts … & right n2 the cusp o June ;-P
Frontin up the posse is Texan twirler MARIANNE HYATT (Dragstripper, Temple of Sound,, Anarchistwood).
Singin from the same hymn sheet & playin some Big Guitar 2 boot is the electric PATMO SHEERAN (Big Self, Stone Rangers).
FRANK BROWN (Clitoris Allsorts, The Hangin Ropes) put his soul on layaway to play the Devil’s banjo, but switch hits 2 harp & resonator guitar when the flames get 2 high.
GEORGE BLACKLOCK (Blacklock & Brown) cuts a rug on the mighty mandolin, & also moonlights on vox – front & back, harp & guitar when duty calls.
BILLY BOB STAUNCH (Jegsy Dodd & the Original Sinners) shoots from the root with some lo-down dirty bass Ur mother may have warned you about.
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….adding aural shooting stars and neon fire to the roadhouse vibe – GAVIN MARTIN
Countrified bluegrass, banjos, sunshine…. with great titles, titles like Pussy Whip …. Country Dirt are fun, they have their tongues stuck firmly in cheek as they bring a collective smile to the face of the venue. They have some seriously good bluegrass country rock there. -THE ORGAN
Sounding somewhere between cult favourites Gram Parsons, Emmylou Harris and Cowboy in Sweden-era Lee Hazelwood lays another outfit from London’s Deep South. Country Dirt is an alt. Country band of the highest order – HACKNEY HIVE
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7.30pm GMT
Thee Olde Queen’s Head, Islington
44 Essex Road, Islington N1 8LN
London, United Kingdom
020 7354 9993
theoldqueenshead.com
Filed under general | Comment (0)The Windmill presents: SUNDAY BARNDANCE & BBQ feat COUNTRY DIRT – 17.00 22nd May 2011 –
Cheyne Pride + Suzette & The Neon Angels (USA) + The Jolenes + Jenny Cash & The Sons Of Sue + Country Dirt + Kathleen Haskard
Sunday 22 May @ The Windmill, London
COUNTRY DIRT – “Think Flying Burrito Brothers with their dirty sister.”
London’s hottest new country music band. Country Dirt features Marianne Hyatt (Dragstripper) on vocals, Patmo Sheeran (Big Self, Stone Rangers) on BIG guitar and vocals, Bob Staunch on boogie-woogie-bass, George Blacklock on acoustic guitar and mandolin and Frank Brown on the 5 string banjo and harmonica.
Suzette & The Neon Angels (USA)
From London to Lubbock, from Berlin to Austin, Suzette and the Neon Angels are continually building upon their rabid underground following, with their blistering versions of rockabilly and Bakersfield standards, along with Suzette’s sock-it-to-’em originals.
Cheyne Pride
Born in Florida and raised in New England, Cheyne Pride has done a lot of things from having a #2 hit in the USA with the dance single Mr telephone to touring the world as a backing vocalist for The Pogues.
More recently she’s been fronting her own super hot country band, featuring on guitar Martin belmont hwo has played with Johnny Cash and all the country greats!
The Jolenes
London’s favourite all-girl bluegrass band. With harmonies & hairdos evoking a bygone era of vintage glamour and forbidden foundation garments, the Jolenes rustle up a down-home blend of spicy bluegrass and sweet old-time country, with a dash of red hot rockabilly thrown in for good measure.
Jenny Cash & The Sons Of Sue
A railroad song with a stompin beat or a slow song kinda smooth and sweet or something that’ll knock you offa your feet
Kathleen Haskard
A 4th generation native Californian who divides her time between the rooftops of Southeast London and a MoHo in a canyon on the Pacific coast in the Santa Monica Mountains above Ventura County Line………. SINGER, SONGWRITER, political activist and all round task force, Kathleen`s is a sussed and culturally aware musician who passionately believes in the HEALING power of music, people power and that the PERSONAL is most definitely political.
Filed under general | Comment (0)INFIDELPHIA – Ode to Ayaan Hirsi Ali
Safe from hellfire, free to follow desire
Don’t wanna live my mama’s life
Bade my goodbye to her stiff back
Beat my wings 2 the sky
Scratched out my own education
In a ready-made home on a rubbish heap
Today’s my new birthday
I’m ‘onna fly away free
Words forbidden to express
Sprouted wings & flew from her holy mouth
Into the new wilderness,
“I draw a line in the sand
Set apart from this clan
Here I stand
I am Hirsi Ali Ayaan”
Two lips speak with one tongue
Beggared by invasion
All stitched up
Forever young
But up comes her new form
Barkin right back at the screen
Reminds her how far she’s come
And where she’s been
Words forbidden to express
Sprouted wings & flew from her holy mouth
Into the new wilderness,
“I draw a line in the sand
I am not of this clan
Here I stand
I am Hirsi Ali Ayaan
O Father… is it sacriledge
In my daydreams I borrow from privilege
If you love me, don’t you want me there
With the sun on my skin, the wind in my hair?
Swear I’ll be careful
Gonna unwrap my fear
Walk tall as the stars
To songs of the spheres
Theres a price for the promise
I made in my youth
But as Allah’s my witness:
I will not back down from the truth
Blind faith in her inferiority
Go on I dare ya, open the gate
See how the caged bird retreats
Rattle my cage with the turn of the page
With all the sex & drugs on the street
Nothin to talk about but the will of the soul
And my sisters’ free speech
Secularised or apostate
Well what’s it take to stop the gendercide,”
Say’s Ms Infidel incarnate
“I draw a line in the sand
Step up & over this clan
Here I stand
I am Hirsi Ali Ayaan”
"Why do we excuse a spirituality that mandates abuse?"
Crazy Heart-ache
Hope said to have some MHT, so I settled down to some Ryan Bingham, Jeff Bridges & that G-gal (showing just how Secretarial bush could also do Rio wipe.) cRRRAZY hEART. Did Jeff Bridges – fine specimen of a 50+ – really need to lose weight as suggested in that way only post-Hays Hollywood can do – enter Dr Marx selling personal revolution. I was particularly insulted by Bingham’s fine performance being upstaged by sorry, badly miscast Bridges barfin .. but the real blow came from the useless empty chemistry perhaps? BOND b/w older git & gelt. What a desperate, blatant eunuch the gelt here – doesn’t she get the central message of this mush – money brings pussy. Hard to care bout his big change since it seems his connection to her merely lights up his halcyon memories of younger groupie girls. Don’t really believe they’ve carved out a vocabulary of intimacy either. It’s just: She’s helpin him obsess on himself for a good interview, she looks really good in lingerie, she’s got a boy that reminds him of one o the kiddies he’s left behind. I feel completely left out of the circle of self-determination here.
What is this bizarre reduction of Feminine which is supposed to drive his regeneration – or is it just guilt for losing her boy in a city bar. Yes, it slightly asserts that she’s got big problems too – esp when she so easily accepts his “Bad” behaviour into her life with son. No, I don’t drink, no he doesn’t really reek of booze when he’s playing with my baby, yes I’ll leave him alone with my son, b4 babysitter’s barely healed from a drunken crash – still kinda limping – on our big holiday, where I hauled my child on a plane to see this worthless bastard. No, he doesn’t really have a blue beard.
In the story of ‘Bluebeard’, the Bad Man of the house gets hacked to bits & fed to the carrion – but would we eat it? Well yes, we did. Wanna thank the Academy 4 Bluebeard & his Crazy Heart-ache.
Filed under general | Comment (0)PESTIVAL part1
tHANKS FOR WAKIN ME UP, mAN!
Another shit-4-breath depressive ate my cuntentines day 4 lunch. Left me in the lurch w a buncha Reclaim Love warts. There was only one place to go – Piccadilly Circus Clusterfucks – U know the one … the one without a john. Tonight it was either fuck or fight & I knew which ring I was in.
I neck chained 3 venti lattes – triple shots all around – and let the coffers fill. Soon, as the acid besieged my windpipe, I waddled over to the counter and asked in my best LL Beannie voice where I might find a toilet for customers. Stupid fuckin eunuch was lovin it – shoulda been working at McDonalds. Wavin her hooks at some fantasy mall, broadcasting my roadmap to hell, I interrupted her to ask if that was the facility she used normally. Would she care to escort me there so I didn’t get lost – since I’d been drinkin a bottomless cuppa crap just as soon as I got to their ass emporium and even paid 4 the privilege.
There was a pause I could almost taste it. AT UR CERVIX MA’AM,
“I’ll just get my manager”.Perfect. Divide & conquer.
I found another circus slave. “Say, just so I got my facts straight, Is it an American franchise this cafe?”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow”
“Is this place American or English?”
“What’s the diff?”
“Put it this way, Limey, back at home we got certain standards: 3 strikes U’re out, don’t mess with Texas AND most importantly U put a pissoir on the premises if U’re hawkin diuretics. Comprende? Now where’s Urs, ASSHOLE?!”
“When in Rome, Yankee” – and he hands me a cup.
“Good ol toilet humour. Knew I could count on U, Cous”
“Excuse me, I couldn’t help overhearing Ur exchange and wanted to make it known that it is a British standard for any premises who serve food and drink to have toilet facilities, or agreed access to” says someone on my side
“Yes I’m with the tourist”, says another beside.
“No we don’t really like that kind of thing here, Madame. It could be alot worse”, from someone else
“You’re not as stupid as you look” I volunteered when the manager arrived.
We had a long, fortifyin discussion about standards of health, hygiene, waste disposal and etiquette during which we weighed my filthy mouth vs Clusterfuck’s filthy gesture – extra pointage for initiative and creative use of cup. Clearly I was the winner – he asked me to leave – so I decided to take my cup home, but not before executing a manoeuvre which would demonstrate a winner’s grace.
I parked my bike just outside the entrance, bursting with delight to share the wealth. Squatting right behind a potted plant before the neighbouring restaurant and filtered their coffee for them once again, with my own special solipsistic blend. Then set down my concoction, gingerly, whilst making myself presentable to my adoring public. I opened their door with one hand and facing them, ceremoniously lifted the golden cup before me, demonstrating Olympian aesthetic and a winner’s devotion. I brought it down in an arc from behind, and bowled my steaming, gleaming trophy into the clenching mass of city suckers, wage worn serfs and Bilderberg bastards clamorin for cover – “STeeeerrrRIKE!”, I howled.
There was nowhere for them to run, hide, mask or stifle their collective gag at my triumphant streak of pisschrist. Hallmark doesn’t have a card for this kind of feeling.
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