Gig-goers, Please note!- Tuesday night's extravaganza with Gentle Ben & Mister Wolfe now takes place at Casey's and NOT the Cherry Tree. Don't get confused!
Friday we play the Farmhouse for the first time. Be excited!
There is another CSR session in the offing...watch this space...

Despite technical difficulties (either a painfully slow internet connection or The Man fucking with our shit), we are slowly uploading our glossy souvenir special momentos of Lounge on the Farm 2009. Audio comes courtesy of Andrew Venning at CSR FM and the video and pics are by Katya Petrova (aka Special Kate). Commemorative plates are in the pipeline. Many thanks, y'all. Enjoy!

Our tentative busking expedition took place on Sunday. After treking out from the Broad Oak and reaching the treacherous summit of the steps to the mothballed Beaney Institute, we tentatively produced acoustic guitars and a snare drum and subjected the unsuspecting shoppers of Canterbury to our musical wares...

And lo, after an hour and a half our labours had yielded £8.47, five Canadian Cents and a lithium watch battery. Hurrah! We have agreed to return and return soon, so keep 'em peeled, Canterbury...

TWO new songs for your approval! Unfinished, unmixed and unmastered, they are nevertheless, quite groovy. They are Big River and Semiotic Rock and they will be on the next album, whenever it is finished. See what you think...

Digitally re-mastering the soon to be Christmas hit ‘Goodwill to all beings’ was initially thought to be a quick and simple task however after tackling the behemoth of an assignment I now realise we may have underestimated our production powers! Even so the song is now available for your listening pleasure here on Myspace and some photographs of the day will also be available shortly for any other kind of pleasure (by this of course I mean viewing pleasure)

If all goes to plan the track will soon be available on a Christmas compilation under the Manchester based label Filthy Little Angels. http://www.filthylittleangels.com/

As this is indeed my first blog for the Psychotic Reaction I thought it best to keep it a short one thus avoiding it being my last blog for the Psychotic Reaction (I hope)

Until Next time farewell and goodnight,

James.

No, not really, it's all going quite well and is still under budget (only about twenty quid anyway)!!... two more visits to Bigsqueak in the past week have yielded several overdubs and nearly all the vocals, at least in guide form. Battery in My Brain is as a good as done. We've overdubbed some organ to flesh out the bass, although I think it needs to be back in the mix to stop it overpowering things. Semiotic Rock now includes the 'zero-gravity cum-shot' guitar line (no, don't ask), some rottweiler fuzz noises and more organ, but actual bass guitar appears only on the 6/8 middle section, and then it's the Fender Bass VI (our one and only Fender!), which some folk insist isn't really a bass guitar at all (but what do they know?)...On both of these we used the organ's pedals for the bass parts, for the full J.S. Bach effect!!

Force of Nature and Roman Stones, as two of the least rehearsed (even by our standards) songs have one or two, er, 'lumps'. It seems likely we can zap these with Pro-tools (hey, everyone else does!) as I quite like the sound of the recordings, but I also think these are two of the best songs on the album, so it might be worth redoing them. The Wrong Kind of Old likewise may require a rethink, if not abandoning completely, though hopefully it is useable in some form. I can't decide if Big River needs any further tweaking- it sounds a little more genteel than I originally intended...

Barking up the Wrong Tree currently exists in two forms, one of which you can hear here. I think I may need to redo the vocals as they don't quite hit the spot, at least in the first half. We have decided female backing vocals may be the order of the day for this and Estuary Song, which may also require one tiny guitar overdub, but otherwise is complete; Duncan Down needs guitar, though probably nothing, or at least very little else (I'm trying not to overdo the Hammond embellishments!). Invicta was meant to be an instrumental, but everyone insists it must have words (must, I tell you), so I am working on it...Aside from all this we may need one or two extra songs to add or use for an accompanying EP or single, but as ever our ideas are in flux up until the last nanosecond. I have a rough CD mix to take home and ponder final details and arrangements...can you contain your excitement?

And so. somewhat belatedly, here's what we did last summer...:
This is the third year of Canterbury's only outdoor "rock" festival (and I use this term in its loosest sense!), but this year was clearly the best ever as they had finally given us a gig. I hope this doesn't mean we've gone soft, but anyway…

As we gathered our forces for zero hour, Dr. Gav sent me the following message:
"I had such a strange dream the other night. We got another gig at the Brixton Windmill but you had to pull out at the last minute so me and Leo decided to do it without you (him on drums and vocals, me on guitar, and apparently no bass, no Ben and no James!). Also Phil had grown his hair long and dyed it blonde, and also grown a beard and dyed that blonde too so he looked like a surfer/hippie". Hmm. Perhaps influenced by this and that one of the bands we supported when we first played at the Brixton Windmill (in 2005), the Shortwave Set , were to be playing at Lounge, I then had a dream that I was watching the Shortwave Set at Lounge and that they'd not only made the drummer the lead singer but replaced the rest of the band with 10 dancing dwarves dressed as sheep. Fortunately, none of the above came to pass.

The first day involved cycling down to Merton Farm, only to go the wrong way round to the festival, so that I did a full circuit of the farm's perimeter before finding my way in, but I still got there before the other lost bloke I'd met in a Fiesta and was able to jump the queue of dirty hippy wagons, so pedal power wins again!

First night was a mixture of disorientation and aclimatisation. I missed a set from Tom Hingley, so I didn't get to stand at the back and shout for Dragging Me Down, but I did see a mildly compelling Art Brut, but it's always tricky when you don't know a band's songs! Bearing this in mind, I was nonetheless distinctly underwhelmed by Lightspeed Champion, though all the teeny boppers seemed to be delerious in his presence. I suppose given the wrong done to 'black'genres of music by white musicians, some sort of payback was inevitable, so after decades of dreadful 'white' appropriations of blues, soul and reggae etc., we've finally got bad black indie (Tonight, see also the sub-Robert Smith/Mike Scott whine of the frontman of the Black Kids, their poptastic 'I'm Not Going To Teach…' single notwithstanding). Tried to stay sane and sober as Saturday and our slot loomed…

And so the big day…A considerable degree of organisation was required as although they'd given us six complimentary tickets (gratefully received I hasten to add!), they would only give us one parking permit; but had LOTF not neglected to tell us we didn't need to bring a drum kit, we'd have only needed to make one journey anyway. Did our best to make sure we arrived at gig an hour early as requested, only to be moaned at for being too early (this really is a first!). Asked three different people where we could park and unload and got three different replies, all of them locations far from the stage. Decided to ignore the steward/bouncer who told us we had to park at the camp site and carry the gear back; we simply chose to park next to the shed and carry our gear round, although we still had to argue our way through security. It was only after we'd played, when they flatly refused to let us go back through the barrier (having watched us go back and forth about four times!) and I started to lose my rag did someone tell us we could back up to the stage inside the shed. Ill communication or wot?

Still, the paucity of decent venues in these parts is well known and it was nice to be on a big stage and not, for once, to be crammed in a corner, falling over each other and having to move mid-riff to allow people past to the bog! We had a soundman, if nothing as grand as a soundcheck (not that they usually make much difference anyway) and even some big geezers to carry the amps- a most welcome novelty! As so often happens at Big Gigs, the black swans of wayward tuning, suddenly discharging batteries and self-de-soldering cables came to visit us, but we drew a respectable crowd and played pretty well; I even nearly felt like a real singer…the vocals were that rare thing: audible!! The slightly perfunctory roll on- roll off nature of proceedings meant we barely had time to get into our stride or show much of the multi-faceted hydra that is the Psychotic Reaction, but we played a good, if not earth shatteringly great, set. I was able to reassure myself with how much footage I've seen of festivals where 'shit happens' and thought of Hendrix at Woodstock playing at 9am on a Monday morning to a rapidly diminishing audience, or Keith Moon doing a song and a half snareless at Monterey, or the persistently murky sound of Glastonbury et al on tele…(there's tons of this stuff on Youtube!). Festivals are notoriously unpredictable, which is what makes them compelling; it's just frustrating to have to stop when you're just starting to enjoy yourself! By a quirk of scheduling I think nearly every band I knew personally was on around the same time as us on a different stage, so I didn't get to see any of them. Ho-hum.


For the all the comendable efforts of LOTF to ensure the event is 'family friendly', I'm really not convinced that this kind of festival is a healthy place for small children. It is slightly alarming just how many drug and/or alcohol damaged individuals I saw or,worse, recognised (as half of them have washed up in Whitstable at various points down the years), staggering about the place. There seemed to be a sizable minority for whom the festival was simply a means to continue their usual programme of self-obliteration with a novel musical backdrop, for whom the primary concern seemed to be not which bands they wanted to see but how to get drink and or drugs past the bouncers; for some I think the music was an inconvenient obstruction, or at best a tempo to trigger whatever chemical cocktail was bubbling in their veins. I wondered, amongst other things how the fuck they afford it when I know half the bastards don't work. Fortunately, my beard made a good disguse, so no-one recognised me, although otherwise my indie-rock Taleban visage was rapidly losing its appeal! Anyway, I tried not to get too depressed and to ignore the prepondance of kidults, gnarled old hippies, trustafarians, chav-hippies (a peculiary Kentish phenomenon?), poseurs (the pillock poncing around in full Hunter S. Thompson get-up complete with replica revolver. Well, I assume it was a replica, but I wouldn't have minded armed police popping a cap in his arse just to make sure), vacuous bleach-blonde slappers and, last but not least, wealthy teeny boppers for whom the whole thing was no doubt 'like' really amazing and revelled in my hard-won bitter old-fart/fish out of water status; anyhow, I knew some of the best music of the weekend was still to come. I don't wholly understand folk who say they're 'just here for the festival' rather than specifically for the music, but that said there is plenty to keep even the most flea-like attention span occupied at LOTF; a veritable shanty town of sideshows. My misanthropic musings were further dispelled by my locating some fantastic food- best of all was the venison burgers on offer from one stall and the rabbit pies on another (I am a rampant carnivore, if you don't know by now); the beer was okay too and not overly over priced compared to other similar captive-audience events. As I wandered around I did manage to find some people who really were there for the music and I kept bumping into people I actually knew and by whom I actually wanted to be recognised, which was nice. Weather pretty good, though a bit chilly by night. I was thankful I was only a bike ride away from sleeping in my own bed and pooing in my own bog; thankful too, for the labours of Mr. Thermos, if that's his real name, and the wonder of having warm tea at my disposal all day long.

Festival serendipity part 1: I caught a band in the main shed called Those Dancing Days: Scandanavian, all-female, impeccably turned out with floral prints and a brace of Fender Mustangs; I only witnessed their last few songs, but was mightily impressed. Their sound, perhaps resembling a female fronted Smiths or Talking Heads was not earth-shatteringly original but amidst all the studied poseurs and Kooks/Peaches Geldof-type wannabes that seem to embody contemporary "indie" (and what a misnomer that has long been!!), their breezy lack of pretention and slight air of school-assembly awkwardness were delightful. I should stress the band was note-perfect, I refer more to a pleasing lack of showbiz exhibitionism. They had a well-earned encore, too.

Ultra psyched-up to see the NY Dolls, or what's left of them. Their set was a crazed, tongue-in-cheek dash through their career- plenty from their "seminal" debut and newer material from their most recent post-2005 reformation and also one or two surprises, best of which was an almost painfully pertinent rendition of the late Johnny Thunder's solo song "You Can't Put Your Arms Around A Memory". David Johansen is a superb, droll front man; equal parts Mick Jagger and George Burns, while his 'Ronnie' (assuming Johnny Thunders was 'Keef'!) and fellow sole-remaining original Doll, Sylvain Sylvain, acted as cheerleader and general Joe Pesci-like disseminator or genial vibes. If the impression was of a particularly well-drilled bar band than that was what the Dolls always were: if punk in this country came out of the pub rock movement likewise the NY variety that influenced it came out of bands playing seedy Bowery bars and trying, in Johansen's words, to 'put some of that Little Richard flash back into it' ('it' being that beleaguered beast, rock 'n' roll!), lying in the gutter but looking at the stars and all that. The band finished with a full-tilt hare through Personality Crisis and I realised I'd completed my NY punk trinity (I've seen Patti Smith and the Ramones too, don't yer know); I felt a weird geeky satisfaction, even though there's only two original members left! I also had a sneaking suspicion that a lot of people in the shed that night had never actually heard them before, but had been willingly converted.


And so to Sunday. Mildly jaded, as you will have seen, but finally able to relax though slightly tense due to starting a new job on Monday (everything's happening at once!). I was slightly late emerging from my Broad Oak lair and missed the beginning of Robert Rotifer's set, in the main shed with full band. Unfairly sparsely attended, it was the first time I'd seen Robert with his full band and it is sharp, tuneful Kinks-like stuff, all the more impressive, as everyone points out, for Robert's writing lyrics in his second language: he really is one of the best lyricists I know (yes, as good as me even, and I know him personally!!). It occurred to me he would benefit from backing vocals, to do the songs full justice, as would I come to think of it. Bumped into Mike and Paul from Hexicon (Rotifer's roadies for the day!), who were plagued by insects. Compared earplugs with Rotifer Jr. Realised I was caked in dessicated cow pat.

Saw Terry Hall Djing, which was nice; surely playing the fattest, dirtiest, bassiest dub to ever grace a tent on a farm in East Kent, but the excessive bass was literally painful after my My Bloody Valentine exposure earlier in the month, so I had to maintain a respectful distance. He looked virtually unchanged on his Specials-era self, stockier, perhaps and accompanied by a doppleganger (his younger brother or his son? We couldn't decide), puffing at an illegal ciggy (he was indoors!) while mulling over the decks with the same expression of wasp-chewing bemusement he used as a singer (a key part of his visual appeal, if you ask me). The weirdly familiar, suprisingly short geezer in a slightly dodgy Huggy Bear-esque cap turned out to be Kevin Rowland, also here for a DJ set. Both are clearly gentlemen of impeccable musical taste, but it seemed to say something about the strange musical times in which we live that two of the finest frontmen of their generation are apparently earning a living standing in a corner and playing records. It all seems slightly peverse to me, like hiring Yehudi Menuin as a Morris Dancer. Or something. Third local legend of the festival (after me & Rotifer!) was Luke Smith. I'd not seen him for ages and he and his band were in fine and dexterous fettle, with the thankfully revitalised straight-man Dave The Drummer, the wayward sax-skills of James Ross and the reputedly 'baby-faced bass man' Mark Thorn. The audience non-participation was a masterstroke: "don't join in! I want to hear total silence!" entreated Luke and lo, the crowd got the joke.

Caught the Shortwave Set back on the main stage; since we last saw them they've enjoyed some critical acclaim and had an album produced by Danger Mouse (him out of Gnarls Barkley). Let loose in a BIG venue, they unleashed some rather sadisitc bass frequences on the lunchtime crowd with a sound that has developed into an appealing mutant strain, mixing up psychedelia, dub, folk and sophisitcated Serge Gainsbourg-ish lounge pop. Wondered vaguely if all the parping Moog-erama was having a favourable effect on milk yields with the herd of cows quietly penned-in next door: maybe the farmer knows something we don't in turning Merton Farm over to a load of filthy musos for a weekend. Two more big acts to follow; the Coral and the Bees. The former have a couple of really good songs and drew one of the biggest crowds of the weekend, but their stlyised sound seems terribly samey over a full set. It is not 1965. Likewise the Bees, who were pleasant enough but the rapturous reception they received seem wholly disproportionate to their rather tiresome retro sound. Repeat after me: It is not 1972. Stop smoking dope, get some fresh air and exercise, eat some red meat then come back and try again!

Wondered around some more. Found more entertaining culinary distractions and blasts-from the past. Fatigue was beginning to set in and my thoughts started to turn to my departure. However, I didn't want to give up too easily and went to investigate more acts. Caught the tedious Dylan-a-gram revivalism of Pete Molinari, who seems to be getting some inexplicable press attention lately. Felt more charitable towards Holly Golightly who has more personality, but it still felt like some rather precious early music recital, or the madrigal evening in Lucky Jim. I kept thinking, er, is that it? Repeat after me: It is not 1935.

Festival Serendipity Part 2: Purely by chance I caught a band completely unknown to me called the Bookhouse Boys. They were actually seven men and one woman, but they made a stupendous noise reminiscent of the Bad Seeds at their Baddest and Seediest, sort of percussion-heavy, rockabilly Tex-Mex sea shanties, only better. Added them to my 'to investigate' list. They too had a well-deserved encore. Finally ventured up to the 'Furthur' Tent, which was located out on a limb and eerily reminiscent of something from the Whicker Man. I don't know who was on stage but they wanted to be John Coltrane so badly it hurt.

As the sun melted into the Western horizon, darkness began to pour over us and the air grew ever chillier I decided it was time to mount my trusty, rusty green Raleigh; leave LOTF 2008 behind, head for home and finally shave this damned beard off!! It was fun, all in all. Until next year…