Hello there

Last night we entered the high-pressure world of national radio deejaying. Despite Edd's misguided Zane Lowe impression and my endless repetition of the word 'er', I think we fared pretty well- you can judge for yourselves HERE. After we'd finished, broadcasting titan The Big Dawg came into the studio to tell us how much he enjoyed the show, and we were lucky enough to catch it on camera.



We gave our new single, Skeleton Boy, its exclusive first spin during the takeover. Its a re-recorded version that we did with Paul Epworth with more synths and bounce than the album version. If you hate us for changing it from the album version, we don't really care that much- listen to whichever one you like best. Or both; its not a contest. The single comes out as a 12" and a download on 2nd March, but we will be selling it as an extremely limited and remarkably desirable etched one-sided 7" on the NME Tour. Fill your boots, future eBay millionaires!

Friendly Fires - Skeleton Boy


We made this video for the song just before Christmas. As you can see, it involves us dressing up as nihilist street mimes and playing black instruments in a completely black studio. Millions of polystyrene balls flew around as if propelled by poltergiest, forcing their way into our mouths, ears, sinuses and navels. The little blighters were still emerging from our bodies some weeks after the shoot. Hope this doesn't gross you out too much as you watch it.

Enjoy, possums!

J

We get into a taxi outside Narita airport. All the cab hailers (genuine job) are wearing little cotton surgeon masks. Our driver's wearing white gloves and all the headrests and seats are covered in doilies. It's a strange spectacle that gives me the instant fear that this land is ruled by some 50ft nanzilla who befouls the atmosphere with them old people smells that we're all destined to inherit. Nothing of the sort; it's just one of the nice little extra touches that can be found everywhere, and which go towards making Japan one of the most pleasant places we've done been able to visit; the taxi doors open and close for you, the toilets all have an in-built seat heater and, for the adventurous, a terrifyingly accurate bum spritz option, everyone bows, tipping is frowned upon. It's like if heaven were created by a sheltered being of simple pleasures.

    

Our first few days are spent being interviewed. It becomes clear that if our interpreter hears about 'growing up in St. Albans' one more time she's going to commit hara-kiri. We get to record some radio show plugs, you know the sort - 'Hi, I'm Nicola from Girls Aloud. When I'm not busy looking like Elizabeth I in hot-pants on the same easyjet plane as Friendly Fires, I'm always listening to roly-poly unfunny man Chris Moyles'.  We are plain rubbish at these in English, let alone when we've got to speak in Japanese, in unison, to plug a show called 'loveflaps'. After a hard day's going mad chatting about yourself, we get to sample some tasty food and head back to the hotel for a night's spritzing.

We get to play a gig with Hot Chip at Duo, a venue designed by Jamiroquai. It seems that in a rush to frost that stupid horned hat logo onto all the mirrors, they forgot to put the soundsystem where it wouldn't be blocked by load-bearing pillars. No matter, it's a good gaff and the toilets boast an impressive three different ways of jetting your tush. The gig goes really well. Despite everyone saying that Japanese audiences are reserved, motionless, whatever, it turns out they put the good people of London to shame with all dancing and shouting.

I wake up at 5 in the morning courtesy of jet-lag. Thank god it's Olympics season so I can settle in to watch the women's weightlifting, a bizarre castrating experience. After 4 hours watching athletes at the peak of physical health, I'm vowing to never again be tempted by Colonel Sanders, but to instead dedicate my life to a Rocky IV style exercise regime pulling trees up hills and suchlike. Fortunately the phone rings before the notion is set in stone and we're whisked off for some more press, and so, more time with our translator.  I'm intrigued by the notion of an interpreter. It's a comfort imagining there's this linguistic alchemist turning our confusions into golden proffering on the intangible concept of sound and spiritual notions of art. Alternatively, if your thoughts have to be filtered through someone else's brain, ending up with something altogether different, then there's less of you in the final product. Hmm, a quandary.  Ultimately, our translator was an amazingly clever and articulate lady who I've good mind to get to edit this blog and everything I ever say in the future.

Back to the noise – Summersonic was the main reason we went to Japan. Like Leeds and Reading insomuch as two cities share a weekend's line-up, it's spread between Osaka and Tokyo. In Tokyo, we play in a huge air-hanger style building. It fills up sharpish for the first acts and stays that way for the rest of the day. We're startled by the number of people who recognise 'Paris' and sing it back to us. Jack swears he saw a guy with a broken leg get out of his wheelchair and play airguitar with his cast. Lovely, especially as healing the sick and making the lame walk has always been a musical ambition of ours.

Osaka's a similar affair, but this time our stage is in a ginormous greenhouse. I'm no physicist, but my basic understanding of convection makes me wonder if we'll survive the heat of this one. I sweat in English February, my blood's too thick and my skin's too thin for this kind of temperature. I've already spent the day being trounced at table tennis by some hustling guitar tech. We play and no one expires. Success.

On the very last night we finally won the fight with jet-lag and could stay awake beyond dinner time, so we get ourselves to a karaoke bar. Among the hits murdered that night were:

Faith Evans, 112, Diddy - Tribute to Notorious B.I.G (sake was poured on the floor for the fallen)       

Sepultura – Territory (there are only about 5 videos that play behind the lyrics on karaoke screens – this one had a young lad running around an empty building looking confused – pretty metal)

Blackstreet - No Diggity (tune)

Lionel Ritchie – Hello (sung to a dessert dog, pics will explain)

Napalm Death - Scum (there are only 2 lines of lyrics, the other 20 seconds of his song was spent watching stock footage of a guy on a motorbike)

Def Leppard - Love Bites (nonsensical grilling from Joe Elliott)

On a final note

Don't watch Drillbit Taylor, Son of Rambow or Be Kind, Rewind, they are total rot.

Don't order pudding in a karaoke bar, you will be served a dog made from banana and ice-cream balanced on half a loaf of bread.

Do eat as much Japanese food as you can, it's tasty and the average life expectancy over there is about 261.

Do go and buy our album which is out today, no matter where you are in the world because you can get it off of the internet, can't you?

Do forgive me for the length of this one; I've omitted so much and included so little.

Big love,

edd g. x

Flying from LA to Japan has thrown my already confused body-clock an International Date Line-shaped curve ball. Flying west over the IDL springs you a whole day into the future, meaning you can set off on a 10 hr flight at midday on Monday and arrived at 4pm on Tuesday; it truly is geography's own flux capacitor. Consequently I'm writing this at 5:30am on Wednesday but I can't help feeling its Tuesday tea time, so maybe I'll try downloading some Neighbours or Countdown to make me more at home in this new future-world.

The rest of our time in LA flew by in a whirlwind of sun, swimming pools and saturated fat. I ate at a place called Norm's 4 times before its wildly unhealthy food and self-esteem sapping atmosphere finally finished our short love affair. My final meal there was a 6 dollar monstrosity called 'Norm's Ole Time Gigantic Chocolate Brownie Sundae Puddin' ' or something to that effect. It featured a chocolate brownie the size of a laptop, piled high with ice cream, squirty cream, hot chocolate sauce, and a single cherry for all you five-a-day fans out there. I reached about a third of the way through it before all my self-respect had disappeared, and I vowed never to darken Norm's doors again.



The sheer concentration of famous people in LA is pretty special. The locals are used to it I guess. None of our hotelmates batted a surgically-enhanced eyelid when Dog The Bounty Hunter ambled to his favourite spot by the pool, looking every inch the 'gay lion' that Charlie Brooker described. We starstruck out-of-towners gawped and whispered, trying to persuade each other to go and get a picture with him, until eventually he and his leathery missus wandered off to go and have a quick pray and track down a couple of petty fraudsters. Real opportunity missed there :(

Searching for a slice of real LA, we took a trip down to Venice beach (you might recognise it from a few Cypress Hill videos). Its basically like a massive OTT version of Camden Town on a beach, with added lifeguard huts full of Hoff-a-likes and open-air gyms full of muscley 'roid heads (both steroids and haemmorroids). I did a few chin-ups, which must have burned off a least a dozen of the 4000 calories I took on at Norm's.

We wandered round and bumped into Zoltar from the film Big, who was hanging out in his box. He told us he was the great Zoltar, laughed and shiftily rolled his eyes, before falling into a deep trance. Oh well, they always say you should never meet your heroes.



Anyway, our hefty promo schedule begins tomorrow so I should get some sleep. The hotel room has a balcony with an enormous sheer drop, that I'm worried about sleep walking off. Although should I avoid that, it could be a great venue for a Suge Knight-style dangling, so watch out all potential double-crossers. Night night.

Jack x

Taking a cue from student's delight 'Memento', our US blog will flit through time like the good lord never done invented it. Cut to us meeting in the middle of soho at 6 in the morning to film a few last minute shots for the 'jump in the pool' video. It feat.'s us lip-synching underwater to a chorus that's longer than our lung capacity. With our pained, oxygenless expressions in the can we wipe off our make-up and head for Heathrow. There's no place for transvestites on a long-haul flight to Philadelphia.

Having not enjoyed Owen Wilson's latest unfunny comedy offering and a luke-warm fish pie, I'm tempted to turn the tiny plastic cutlery on myself. At passport control I get every part of my body scanned to check I'm not pen-pals with Bin Laden. I get talking to Sheridan, the man behind the desk, about the amazing gigs he's seen in the 70's. Before I leave he asks if I drink, and ducks down behind the counter with my passport. He pops up to explain he's slipped us 20 bucks to have a drink on him, totally reaffirming my faith in humanity. In today's climate of terror, I'm pretty sure he risked gunfire just to give us a chunk of his hard earned crust.

Get out of the airport to be greeted by insane humidity and prehistoric dragonflies. We listen to a golden oldies medley from some 50's FM station all the way to the hotel. Leg it over to the night's venue – a concrete block with enough disco balls to make Giorgio Moroder blush. Hit a diner for some amazing saturated fat and sugar at low, low prices. I have a new-found respect for anyone who can live here without becoming morbidly obese.





We finally get to play at 5 am, GMT, and it feels fucking great. Even the security, 7 man mountains, actually the biggest people I've ever seen seem to dig it. Get back to hotel feeling all warm inside for some sleep 18 hours too late.

until next time,
edd g.

Everyone knows there's nothing more Californian than a good ol' earthquake, and that's precisely what the Golden State greeted us with when we arrived. That's right, even the San Andreas Fault could barely contain its excitement at the arrival of Friendly Fires. After our gear had been mislaid by American Airlines (wastemen), we were in LAX airport waiting around and standing in line for some truly shocking Chinese food - easily 99% MSG, and the orange chicken tasted like it had been marinated in Tesco hi-juice. Then, kind of like that scene in Jurassic Park, I noticed some small ripples forming in a vat of deep red sweet and sour sauce. This being an airport, I assumed it was just a plane taking off, but it continued and intensified until all the fake Palm trees and light fittings were shaking. 'Aha, this is an earthquake' I thought, as everyone stopped and wondered what to do. Having never been in a quake before, I didn't know if the correct etiquette was to dive under the nearest table, or enter a blind panic while clawing children and the elderly out of your path to the exit. It turned out to be none of these. People just calmly waited for it to end, breathed a quiet sigh of relief when it did, before they continued going about their business.

After eating our gruesome lunch we rejoined the rest of our party, who were flipping between the news channels. Every one of them was showing eyewitness reports of the quake, guest experts speculating on the possible after-effects, statements being issued from city hall, helicopter footage of slightly damaged roofing; it seemed our little earthquake had become big news. They were saying it was a relatively minor 5.6, but that it could be a precursor to the fabled 'big one' that is apparently coming very soon. If/when it does, LA seems well prepared to deal with it.

Imagine, if you will, the London Astoria if it was designed in the ersatz style of the Aztec Zone of the Crystal Maze. That's what the Mayan Theatre in central LA resembles, and is where we were to play our gig in support of Bloc Party. The crowd gave us plenty of love, before being treated to Bloc Party's new dancehall/crunk direction, alongside all the old classics. Still feeling the effects of Time Zone change, we retired to a Mexican food shack across the road to indulge in surely some of the worlds finest burritos, chimichangas and quesadillas. My god, this American food is fast becoming my lifestyle. Every meal is a delicious combination of meat, maple syrup, ice cream, cheese, bread, and hot fudge. Pudding at 2am is my current culinary vice... The grave edges ever closer.



that's all for now. I'll catch you on the flipside.

Jack x

***STOP PRESS***

Everyone's favourite leather-laughed T4 presenter Dame June Sarpong is staying in the room next door to us! I may have to go and ask for a cup of sugar... More on this later.

Having spent the last day there, I can't really recommend Melt festival enough. It all takes place around a disused mine in the German countryside, with all the rusting machinery surrounding the stages (take note fans of Steampunk aesthetics and Isambard Kingdom Brunel; this is truly the festival for you). At night they project stuff onto the machinery because it looks EPIC and trips out the k-heads. Here are some other reasons that this festival is possibly the greatest in the world:

- There's a childrens' climbing frame next to the dance stage. Every time I walked passed the climbing frame was packed, like a really immature VIP enclosure; sunglassed, elegantly wasted Berliners coming down the slide, teetering on top of the balance beam, swinging from the monkey bars. The whole thing was a compound fracture waiting to happen, albeit a uniquely glorious one.  Understated techno classics got rinsed; Basic Channel's Phylyps II/II and Carl Craig's 'The Climax' got the biggest cheers from the adventure playground faithful.

- If you're lucky enough to play you might be invited to have an interview in a helicopter. Ed Mac and I went up in a chopper sponsored by some disgusting energy/booze drink. Maybe that's what the heli runs on, as I really can't see any other use for the substance. Anyway, we took turns chatting inaudible rubbish into a camera while the slightly pervy pilot swooped and banked and offered the camera lady one-on-one flying lessons. The German forest looked beautiful from above, and we also got to see a cool airfield with some pimp planes.






- It has the most utterly batshit weather system on the planet. Ten minutes before we went on it was dry, warm and idylic. Halfway through Photobooth the stage manager pulled us off saying that there was a danger the tent could blow over. Lo and behold, a flash hurricane had arrived at the site; torrential sideways rain, trees bending horizontal, people looting the herbal highs stalls (not really). We stood around for a bit, waiting for for it to calm down and sharing beer with the patient audience. After about 15 minutes hurricane subsided and we returned to play a slightly shortened set, to a wet crowd probably relieved to still be alive.

- There are some bands on. I only saw a few songs of Franz Ferdinand, but it seemed pretty rockin.

Go to Melt.

In other news, Zane Lowe's been playing Jump In The Pool quite a bit. I'm told he was moved to give it a rewind on Wednesday, which makes all of us at FFHQ swell with pride. Listen out for it in the coming weeks....

till next time

Jack x

Hi all, what's up? Are you wondering what's been going on with Friendly Fires? Does it keep you awake at night? Well here's a brief official lowdown on what's been happening.
We took a trip to Mayrhofen for the Snowbombing festival. Although the fear of compound fractures and concussion stopped us from doing any skiing. We did manage to go up in the vertiginous cable car to have a wander around in the snow and meet a few snowmen.

and finally...

Edd has been listening to:

Fleet Foxes - Sun Giant
Kate Bush - Running Up That Hill (Ashley Beedle edit)
Hatchback- White Diamond
Death Proof soundtrack, esp.  The Coasters - Down in Mexico
Chic - I Want Your Love (Tangoterje edit)

Ed has been listening to: Babytalk - Chance
Move D - Drone Omarion -Icebox 

Jack has been listening to:

Cool Kids - The Bake Sale
Minimal Man - Make A Move pts. 1 and 2
Weezer - Pork and Beans
Health - Health
Maurizio - M4.5