here we are in göteborg, otherwise known as gothenberg, otherwise known as sweden's second biggest city--and, yes, in many ways it does remind me of birmingham, in that (a) there are a lot of metal bands, e.g. in flames, a huge influence on our work and vision, and (b) we are about 100 feet away from a flyover, several burnt out cars, and a dubious looking canal--all of which, i should add, are wonderfully invigorating.

it's actually really beautiful--we just happen to be in the middle of an industrial estate. birmingham, on the other hand--well, as a wise man once wrote, birmingham made itself.

we're also about ten minutes walk away from scandinavia's biggest amusement park, though we have yet to go, being sedentary types.



that is supposed to represent how sedentary we are. although, ironically, jimmy is probably the least sedentary of us all.

the night we arrived we went to way out west festival, arriving belatedly in the rain. i djed to myself with misgiving, the music morphing within minutes--no, seconds--from sweet downtempo disco into raging schizophrenic bullshit, and then we left for the afterparty, which we thought was under a bridge on the banks of the river (it looked like brooklyn on the shore of the east river probably did in about 1870), and indeed was under a bridge on the banks of the river, only... on the other side--a sad fact which we didn't realise for an hour, wandering back and forth through a deserted marina happily hysterical, having blown all of our money on taxis, and unable to get in touch with yannis, who was either at the party somewhere or in little hairy pieces having been chopped up by the members of opeth with whom he'd scored in more ways than one... all the while dragging on ice-cream smokes and fantasting about dickens downstairs with the foot-long oysters and...



cracking up. we did eventually find the party, but we failed to talk to anyone who wasn't us, and the djs were obviously all on opiates, and deerhunter weren't playing, so we didn't stay for very long.

and since then we've had, shall we say, a pretty mediocre time, socially speaking. does anyone nice want to hang out with us? show us where the good parties are? show us, specifically, where the hot and happening scando-balearic house nights are? get in touch.



the studio itself is... easily the best studio we've ever seen let alone been shown into. it has everything, twice. rooms and rooms and corridors and cupboards of gear, and space, and promise, all decked out in in pleasing tones of light and dark and natural woods and potted plants. everything is in reverb. most of the pianos are in tune, and there's more than one vibraphone.



sweltering.

we're even sleeping in the studio, in submarine bunks with minimal natural light. occasionally the roof leaks and pools of water gather on the floor, adding to the nautical vibe. i'm considering getting an anchor tattoo, one of those crucifix hybrids, as if to say: sure, i used to believe, but then i got lost at sea.

sitting here, drowning in jack's latest hydrogenated vegetable fat-flavour snacks, we've watched most of a beatles documentary, and we've all agreed that george was the best, although john was very handsome and funny when he was younger, and we've done a lot of cooking (look forward to jimmy's upcoming food diary), and we've spent krunkloads of kronas on terrible weak beer, and walter's drunk it, and... i've slept an awful lot, as i feel a bit like i'm in remission from something or other.

we've even done our own washing.



jokes.

but the real the question is: what have we really done? and the answer is: about one and a half songs. but they sound good--like great (would i say anything else?)--sort of like an inside-out chicken in glorious technicolour, but a bit more vegetarian and a bit less funk. our producer--"the hand", or, to give him another bland pseudonym, luke smith--has been saying things like "super cool" and "i think it's wicked" a lot, which either means that things are going well or that things are going really, really badly. only time and the steady decline of our critical faculties will tell.

some footage of walter's bass takes.

...

stuff we're digging:
- the xx album. which i guess everyone is digging, but why be different, huh?
- shit loads of old house music courtesy of beatelectric.
- the new dorian concept single. next level. check it out.
- the video for fuck button's new rekkid. it makes me go "chriiiist!". like woah.
- this article about sound and about what's been won and what's been lost.
- toothpaste, generally.

stuff we're not digging:
- sweden's weird-ass puritanical alcohol regulations.
- that feeling on a ship after months at sea when you figure you may as well start having sex with each other.

yeah.

xx edwin.

so me and jack are ill as a cat and a dog.

predictions for what the world has in store for us.

hey everyone

Dave Ma ( who has now invited himself round and moved in with us ) and Jimmy bashed out this rhythm on a tom which we recorded through some headphones in the basement. It is meant to be walked to: Dankrhythm..

Here is some old footage:







jack is ill. get well soon jack!
we have nothing to say.
other than have a good weekend
--------
xx

BRAINDROOL:

A NEW MYSTICISM, A FOREGOING OF PROOF,
RELINQUISH CONTROL, HELP YRSELF
HELP THE REST !!
AND IN THE TOW OF A DIRTY WAVE
HALO YOLK
MYRIAD COLOUR, MILLION HUED,
HYACINTHINE AND INFINITE
OUR HEADS UNITE
UNDER THE TREES, OVER THE EARTH,UNDER THE SUN AND INTO THE SEA.
ENDLESS SURF.

TOTAL LIFE FOREVER.

LET THE OIL BURN BLACK GOLD
INTO THE RAVING MAW
THE HEARTLESS HUSK
LET IT HEAL, ANNEAL
LET THE END
COME NOW.

here are some free things:

a version of CASSIUS.. taken from a two-day session with Kieran Hebden manning the controls. He basically conducted us, it was a bit like some Suffi meditation session, an inner silent prayer, following the path of the heart etc etc etc. It was one of the most liberating experiences of the last few years and i am becoming a hippie. It sounds nothing like the single. Bon appetit.

two tracks from a Daytrotter session recorded sometime i can't remember last year in Rock Island, Illinois. It was all done to tape and the place had a Real Good Vibe. they're just meandering jams. two of us had flu:

HUMANATE.. & FIG.3..

and a more recent b-side from Olympic Airways which wasn't quite completed to the standard we'd have liked but was headed somewhere. its called UNTHINK THIS..

anyway i decided to stop smoking pot for a bit and now feel alot like this :



so in an attempt to relax i decided to crank out one of my old favourite records "World of Echo" by Arthur Russell. It's so beautiful and reserved and private. I recommend it to any/every/one who wants to have an uplifting sunday evening. Sunday evenings are kind of awful aren't they? i think i've learnt to enjoy them more recently but there is still that slight metallic, nauseous feeling of 'the-night-before- school-and-i-haven't-done-any-work and-i-am-so-fucking-anxious-i-have-no-nails-left-to-eat". yeah chillin'.

Also in other news i've been reading up about sky-burials. A traditional Tibetan practice where yr body is cut into hundreds of tiny pieces and left out on the mountains for the condors and eagles to feed on. Apparently it evolved as a way round the problems of dealing with the dead. The layer of permafrost just 2 inches under the soil layer means that the digging of graves was a massive pain in the ass. And the scarcity of trees meant cremation was an equally flawed option. Anyway it's pretty amazing and probably massively illegal over here.

Hope yr all well
the writing of the record is coming along nicely
peace + love
yannis

a while ago it snowed in england like it hasn't since about 1991. back then when foot-long icicles dropped from windows and snowmen were built, melted, and built again in the time it took to say "what's for dinner?", we were all very small, and we didn't know each other, and quite frankly we were all a lot happier than we are now. but that's beside the point. what is not beside the point is snow. manifestly. it gets fucking everywhere.

for example.  



pretty much white, huh. yep. me and jack got up early this one morning to trample around in it.



and so this is me. jack insisted on me posting this photo. it's part of his long-term strategy of making me look ridiculous while he looks... well, like nothing, at least publicly, though in private he currently looks like a weird ginger man-child with a chunk of hair missing from his head.

anyway. i look like captain fucking scott. about three minutes before he died. probably. for those readers of this blog who are unfamiliar with captain scott. he is one of that distinct and mostly extinct breed of rich white english men who are famous and indeed eulogised for not quite being the first to accomplish something, dying in the process of not quite accomplishing it, and as a result of a good solid public school education that instilled the three sacred Rs of reading, writing, and royal bloody arrogance, getting everyone else killed at the same time.

i didn't make it to the south pole first either, but at least i didn't wipe out myself and the rest of the band in the process of not getting there.

some trees.



in other news.

our house of supine athletics

is pretty grizzly. imagine the inside of a tour bus. imagine a tour bus after weeks of solid and sweaty touring with several disgusting young men. then imagine that tour bus veering off the road and crashing into a row of terraced houses on an otherwise clean and cheerful oxford street. then imagine no-one doing anything about it and letting nature take its course. that's what our house is like. a sort of midway point between crime, carnival, and catastrophe.

our mascot/matron/mistress mimsy:



yannis' thirty-third eye:



oxford commas:



and our rose garden, in its holy heavenly benevolent glory:



we've been playing risk together. jack is terrible at risk. i am obviously the best at risk--but, with some sweet sardonic irony, the worst person to play risk with. i'm just a dick, pretty much. an over-zealous, deathly serious arsehole.

this has nothing to do with risk. and yet... everything to do with it.



tinhead came round and did some painting.



before you admire (a) his studious studio countenance or (b) his artwork consider that before this he spray painted an enormous green cock on another wall. it just goes to show.

a few friends of ours have been coming and painting/stencilling/muralising various walls in our basement. more photos soon, hopefully.

what else.

well, we've been writing some songs. sometimes. mostly just kind of hanging out jamming. jamming lose. kicking out the jams. and so on.

a bit like this, i'd say.

sort of like that.

yep.

xx edwin.