Let me tell you what it feels like.
It's like pulling on a favourite pair of shoes, of the snug, comfortable feel that putting your feet into that well worn leather sends through your nervous system.
It's like wearing that leather jacket that you've had for so long that when you put it on it feels like a second skin - warm, familiar and like, well, coming home.
So what is it that feel this way for me? What fills me with such a deep sense of peace, of contentment, that I can't help but take a satisfyingly deep breath and smile?
Rock music. That's what does it for me. Good old fashioned loud guitars, catchy hooks, driving rhythms and sing-a-long lyrics.
Yes, I love lots of other kinds of music. I adore electronica, being a life long fan of Gary Numan, Alphaville, and other classic bands like the Human League and Fad Gadget. I love what you might term easy listening, or folk, or country, or whatever you want to call it, bands like Counting Crows, artists like Newton Faulkener, Aimee Mann, and Tori Amos. I even dig certain rap artists, like Public Enemy, Cypress Hill, and Ice T (and yes, the true 'gangstas' among you may consider this rap-lite but fuck you, I like what I like).
And I love, love, love Nine Inch Nails, but my adoration of Trent Reznor's work borders on the religious so we'll deal with this another day.
None of these bands or genres really fires my soul up like rock music does, though.
As I write this I'm listening to a band called Junkyard who play hard rockin' blues, and I'm nodding my head and my fingers are itching to run into the conservatory and pick up my bass and just jam until my fingers bleed.
And you know what, I couldn't be happier. There's something about loud guitars that just pushes all the right buttons and I wouldn't change it for the world. Not even for a million dollars (or given the current exchange rate, English pounds).
People speculate on what heaven might be like. Heaven for me would be an eternal Friday night at Nottingham's Rock City circa 1989 (but with maybe better beer).
On that note, I'm going to go and turn it up just a little bit louder, at the risk of annoying the neighbours, and for the rest of the evening bask in my own piece of heaven.
Wednesday 23 April 2008
Monday 21 April 2008
Time Theft Auto
A couple of days ago I was reading about an upcoming Xbox 360 game in a magazine and I realised that for the first time in years I am actually genuinely excited about a software release.
I know there was a frenzy surrounding the release of Halo 3 last year, but being as I hadn't played the first two and was barely aware of who the Master Chief even was, I didn't get caught up in all of this, though I did experience it second hand through my good friend Tav who was just about bursting at the seams at thought of getting his hands on the Master Chief again, so to speak.
This year's big event, however, has me in almost the same state of anticipation, and fearing for my social life which I'm sure will be sucked away for several weeks following the 29th April.
I am, of course, talking about the imminent release of Grand Theft Auto IV, the lastest instalment in Rockstar Games' ongoing series in which you play a bad guy (previously either mob related, or a gang-banger from the 'hood) who basically wanders around a huge virtual city being, well, bad in order to climb to the top of his particular shady food chain.
What makes the GTA series so much fun, for me and many others, is that it is just so immersive. Yes there are the missions that you have to complete in order to finish the game, but the larger appeal of the game is that just like in an major city, you can pretty much live your own life.
Want to raise cash by ferrying punters around in a cab? Fine, do it. Want to get a tattoo, or a hair cut, perhaps a wardrobe full of new clothes? No problem, Sir. Want to steal a car and drive around making insane jumps from conveniently placed ramps and mowing down scores of innocent pedestrians? Well that's all possible too!
Of course, the gaming community is well prepared for the Daily Mail, or Anne Diamond to declare that GTA is the worst thing since, well, anything else ever, and that a nation of children (who shouldn't be playing it anyway due to it having an 18 rating) will brainwashed into stealing cars, planes, trains, and ambulances and shooting, beating, and kicking people to death left, right and centre.
All pure bollocks, of course, but when did that ever stop our beloved moral guardians from trying to spoil all our fun?
All I know is that I'm going to have to make a supreme effort to ration my visits to Liberty City, otherwise it could be verrry quiet around these parts for a few weeks.......
I know there was a frenzy surrounding the release of Halo 3 last year, but being as I hadn't played the first two and was barely aware of who the Master Chief even was, I didn't get caught up in all of this, though I did experience it second hand through my good friend Tav who was just about bursting at the seams at thought of getting his hands on the Master Chief again, so to speak.
This year's big event, however, has me in almost the same state of anticipation, and fearing for my social life which I'm sure will be sucked away for several weeks following the 29th April.
I am, of course, talking about the imminent release of Grand Theft Auto IV, the lastest instalment in Rockstar Games' ongoing series in which you play a bad guy (previously either mob related, or a gang-banger from the 'hood) who basically wanders around a huge virtual city being, well, bad in order to climb to the top of his particular shady food chain.
What makes the GTA series so much fun, for me and many others, is that it is just so immersive. Yes there are the missions that you have to complete in order to finish the game, but the larger appeal of the game is that just like in an major city, you can pretty much live your own life.
Want to raise cash by ferrying punters around in a cab? Fine, do it. Want to get a tattoo, or a hair cut, perhaps a wardrobe full of new clothes? No problem, Sir. Want to steal a car and drive around making insane jumps from conveniently placed ramps and mowing down scores of innocent pedestrians? Well that's all possible too!
Of course, the gaming community is well prepared for the Daily Mail, or Anne Diamond to declare that GTA is the worst thing since, well, anything else ever, and that a nation of children (who shouldn't be playing it anyway due to it having an 18 rating) will brainwashed into stealing cars, planes, trains, and ambulances and shooting, beating, and kicking people to death left, right and centre.
All pure bollocks, of course, but when did that ever stop our beloved moral guardians from trying to spoil all our fun?
All I know is that I'm going to have to make a supreme effort to ration my visits to Liberty City, otherwise it could be verrry quiet around these parts for a few weeks.......
Tuesday 15 April 2008
Ace Alive!
Thirty two years ago in a basement in Canada I first heard the band that was to unwittingly change my whole perception of music, and ultimately be responsible for wearing criminally tight trousers with zebra patterns all over them.
But that's a story for another day, and indeed book.
Last Friday I had the pleasure of seeing one of my guitar heroes live on stage for the fourth time, which in itself was fantastic, but given that the last three times he was plastered in makeup and a member of KISS, the band from the basement all those years ago, and this time he was headlining his own show, I was over the moon.
Ace Frehley has never been one of the world's greatest guitarists - he's certainly no Eddie Van Halen, or Steve Vai, or Jimmy page for that matter, but he's got that rare quality in that he knows his limitations, both in terms of guitar playing and singing, and plays magnificently to his strengths.
Backed by three young bucks dressed subtly, but effectively, in identical black jumpsuits, Frehley tore the London Astoria apart for ninety minutes, kicking off with Rip It Out, the opening cut from his 1978 solo album, and ending with a rousing version of Cold Gin.
Though KISS has long been dominated by the songwriting talents of Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley, whenever Ace threw one into the mix it was invariably a great one, and we got plenty of his KISS offerings as proof.
Parasite, Rocket Ride, Shock Me (complete with smoking, literally, guitar solo) and Hard Times had us old KISS fans in rapture, while Snowblind, New York Groove and a blistering Rock Soldiers did Ace's solo canon proud.
Dedicating Breakout to late KISS drummer (and co-writer) Eric Carr, and thanking Paul Stanley for writing Love Gun, which was given a supercharged workout during the encore, Ace proved himself the perfect host for an evening of rock and roll, even rescuing a dwarf from the audience and letting him watch the rest of show from stage left, telling him "We got to look after one another."
Given Ace's yo-yo relationship with alocholoism and rehab, I have to admit I wasn't quite sure what kind of evening we'd be in for, but Ace was back in full force ('cause he told us so!) and delivered a gig that blew our minds and exceeded our wildest expectations in terms of the set list.
Loud, energetic, funny, and above all entertaining, Ace is back!
But that's a story for another day, and indeed book.
Last Friday I had the pleasure of seeing one of my guitar heroes live on stage for the fourth time, which in itself was fantastic, but given that the last three times he was plastered in makeup and a member of KISS, the band from the basement all those years ago, and this time he was headlining his own show, I was over the moon.
Ace Frehley has never been one of the world's greatest guitarists - he's certainly no Eddie Van Halen, or Steve Vai, or Jimmy page for that matter, but he's got that rare quality in that he knows his limitations, both in terms of guitar playing and singing, and plays magnificently to his strengths.
Backed by three young bucks dressed subtly, but effectively, in identical black jumpsuits, Frehley tore the London Astoria apart for ninety minutes, kicking off with Rip It Out, the opening cut from his 1978 solo album, and ending with a rousing version of Cold Gin.
Though KISS has long been dominated by the songwriting talents of Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley, whenever Ace threw one into the mix it was invariably a great one, and we got plenty of his KISS offerings as proof.
Parasite, Rocket Ride, Shock Me (complete with smoking, literally, guitar solo) and Hard Times had us old KISS fans in rapture, while Snowblind, New York Groove and a blistering Rock Soldiers did Ace's solo canon proud.
Dedicating Breakout to late KISS drummer (and co-writer) Eric Carr, and thanking Paul Stanley for writing Love Gun, which was given a supercharged workout during the encore, Ace proved himself the perfect host for an evening of rock and roll, even rescuing a dwarf from the audience and letting him watch the rest of show from stage left, telling him "We got to look after one another."
Given Ace's yo-yo relationship with alocholoism and rehab, I have to admit I wasn't quite sure what kind of evening we'd be in for, but Ace was back in full force ('cause he told us so!) and delivered a gig that blew our minds and exceeded our wildest expectations in terms of the set list.
Loud, energetic, funny, and above all entertaining, Ace is back!
Monday 14 April 2008
Nobody's Fireproof
It's a universal truth that if you play with fire, then you might just get burned.
It's also a universal truth that some people have the misguided belief that they're fireproof, and so not so much tiptoe as tango through the raging infernos of chance, oblivious to the fact that they're so very often just seconds from catching fire, moments from the inevitable crash and burn.
The subject of today's lesson most likely had this misguided belief that he and his beautiful fiance, the woman of his dreams, without whom nothing else mattered, as he so tragically and accurately proclaimed, could dance through the flames like asbestos ballerinas.
But he was wrong.
She got burned, metaphorically and physically, and shuffled off her young, mortal coil in a scalding bath, while he slept off his narcotic dalliances in the bedroom.
They played with fire, she got burned, he got branded with the guilt of having taken her hand and leading her onto this particular burning dance floor.
Without her nothing else mattered, he had said, and in the end he was right.
Thirteen weeks of guilt rest awfully heavy on a man's shoulders, and in the end he fulfilled his prophecy. End of the line.
Nobody's fireproof. Nobody.
It's also a universal truth that some people have the misguided belief that they're fireproof, and so not so much tiptoe as tango through the raging infernos of chance, oblivious to the fact that they're so very often just seconds from catching fire, moments from the inevitable crash and burn.
The subject of today's lesson most likely had this misguided belief that he and his beautiful fiance, the woman of his dreams, without whom nothing else mattered, as he so tragically and accurately proclaimed, could dance through the flames like asbestos ballerinas.
But he was wrong.
She got burned, metaphorically and physically, and shuffled off her young, mortal coil in a scalding bath, while he slept off his narcotic dalliances in the bedroom.
They played with fire, she got burned, he got branded with the guilt of having taken her hand and leading her onto this particular burning dance floor.
Without her nothing else mattered, he had said, and in the end he was right.
Thirteen weeks of guilt rest awfully heavy on a man's shoulders, and in the end he fulfilled his prophecy. End of the line.
Nobody's fireproof. Nobody.
Tuesday 8 April 2008
Something About Nothing
A friend raised the question the other week as to whether modern man can survive without the internet. My initial reaction was yes, of course he can, but he probably wouldn't want to as we've all become somewhat addicted to our daily fix of email, myspace, MSN or any of a hundred million other distractions on the world wide web.
However, having just spent five days in the company of those nearest and dearest to me, mostly hanging out of the south coast, taking in the sea air and generally doing a whole bunch of not much at all, aside from ten minutes on the net yesterday to check my email, this is the first time I've been online for almost a week.
I can't say I've missed it. When it's part of my day to day routine it seems as natural as breathing, and almost as habitual. I log on, I check my mail, I check my Live Journal pages, I check the BBC news page, and on and on and on. I must admit I don't tend to surf aimlessly, just as I don't channel surf my television aimlessly (and in fact aside from when it's being used by my DVD player or Xbox 360 it's rarely on), so generally my online activity is over in fifteen minutes or so.
However, the lack of online action for the best part of the last week proved to me that I have no craving for the internet whatsoever. I can take it, which I frequently do, or leave it, but I know that the choice is mine. There's no niggling voice at the back of my head that resorts to panic if I can't get online.
The one thing I have missed is writing - I enjoy penning this little blog for whoever you are out there reading this, and also for my own satisfaction. It's cathartic, and although you may think that all this is just mindless drivel and inconsequence, it's my equivalent of detox from the world.
So, there you have it - another note from this asylum that I call my brain. Thanks for reading, and have a good day.
However, having just spent five days in the company of those nearest and dearest to me, mostly hanging out of the south coast, taking in the sea air and generally doing a whole bunch of not much at all, aside from ten minutes on the net yesterday to check my email, this is the first time I've been online for almost a week.
I can't say I've missed it. When it's part of my day to day routine it seems as natural as breathing, and almost as habitual. I log on, I check my mail, I check my Live Journal pages, I check the BBC news page, and on and on and on. I must admit I don't tend to surf aimlessly, just as I don't channel surf my television aimlessly (and in fact aside from when it's being used by my DVD player or Xbox 360 it's rarely on), so generally my online activity is over in fifteen minutes or so.
However, the lack of online action for the best part of the last week proved to me that I have no craving for the internet whatsoever. I can take it, which I frequently do, or leave it, but I know that the choice is mine. There's no niggling voice at the back of my head that resorts to panic if I can't get online.
The one thing I have missed is writing - I enjoy penning this little blog for whoever you are out there reading this, and also for my own satisfaction. It's cathartic, and although you may think that all this is just mindless drivel and inconsequence, it's my equivalent of detox from the world.
So, there you have it - another note from this asylum that I call my brain. Thanks for reading, and have a good day.
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