Ah, still looking at my lovely Nicky. Awww. She is so pretty.
Anyway...
I was painting the ceiling in my hall today. I had some paint left from when I did my bedroom in this cool deep purple (duh- duh -duhn...). That's the problem, 'cos now I have to do the walls in the hall. I'm thinking a sort of grape/aubergine on one section and a mango/orange on the rest. Then a lime/cool green in the kitchen. What the hell. Now it shows up the carpet so those hard wood floors need to go in. ...
At any rate, I was painting the ceiling, up on my stepladder trying to reach a hard to reach spot, and got white paint all over my hair. No big deal, I guess, but I didn't notice, it dried. I looked in the mirror and looked like Satan. I mean, Santa. Realised my hair has (for me) gotten long and it will be cut tomorrow. Then got fed up with my van dyke (goatee) and shaved that off. To go with tomorrow's haircut.
Nicky is going to be very irritated. She won't recognise me when she sees me.
Age is a predator, since I've had this goatee for years I've developed these smile lines. 'Character' you might say but I call bullshit on that. They make me look closer to my age than I actually normally do.
Vanity.
Well, Claudia Schiffer's new cream with Boswelox(TM) will soon take care of that.
Thumpermonkey remixed one of our songs and it is awesome - instant B-side to Voodoo, although I didn't like it at first.
At rehearsal last night Sally couldn't make it so we jammed. Five new song ideas. Not a bad night's work, all very strong (not counting the ten bad ideas that were diabolical). Grist for the mill.
Auto-Decline. Auto-Decline.Auto-Decline. Auto-Decline.Auto-Decline. Auto-Decline.Auto-Decline. Auto-Decline.Auto-Decline. Auto-Decline.Auto-Decline. Auto-Decline.Auto-Decline. Auto-Decline.Auto-Decline. Auto-Decline.Auto-Decline. Auto-Decline.Auto-Decline. Auto-Decline.Auto-Decline. Auto-Decline.
Sounds like a new name for an album.
But I digest.
Auto-Decline.Auto-Decline.
ADDITION
Nice new review from John Peel's Unpeeled magazine, coming out soon...
Brand Violet - Single Launch @ The Metro - 15th Jan 2004
Some bands shun their audience. Some bands don disguises. Some bands wear particularly interesting shoes. And some bands have a dirty little minx of unimaginable beauty wearing nought but a shiny black PVC cat suit looking you straight in the eye, daring you to keep your cock in check. That's my favourite. Lucky for me then that I was invited to attend the single launch for Brand Violets latest opus "Head", wasn't it?
Before we look at the whole package, allow me to linger a little longer on singer Sally-Anne Marsh and do her the justice she so rudely deserves. I mean, how often can you say, "Oh, I popped out to this gig last night and you'll never guess what? I saw this wicked band whose singer has the sex appeal of a very young Debbie Harry, the stage presence of Patti Smith on heat and a voice of pure liquid gold. Oh yeah, and she dances like Salma Hayek with that snake in Dusk till Dawn...but in a really pervy way. And did I mention the cat suit!" Doesn't happen does it? It does now. This is what real rock stars are supposed to be made of. Sally-Anne not only owns the s tage, she owns every person in the room, male and female. We're all entranced and we'd all fuck her. And that, my friends, is true power.
But none of this would amount to more than a sneaky hand shandy if the band weren't so bloody life-affirmingly good. Like Blondie before them, the rest of Brand Violet are no backing band. The whole package is just as integral as the focal point. And very stylish they are too. Sharp suits, just the right side of gangster chic effortlessly compliment their edgy, Pulp Fiction indie/pop. Sinister Spanish flavoured guitars melt magnificently into the darker, choppier side of rockabilly (think The Cramps) as Sally-Anne whispers like a fallen angel begging for one last fix before the banshees engulf her lungs for that last big fuck off chorus. There are tunes here, real tunes. Tunes you'd quite happily admit to liking. It's pop, but it's not. It's rock without the cock. Whoever isn't signing this band to a major is an arse of the highest order and should be strung up by their silver spoon and slapped around the chops with a wet ballad until good senses prevails.
New single "Head" is easily their most immediate and possibly best song of the night. No great surprise then that (since it's why we're all here) they play it first. It's a bit like starting with the orgasm and then getting down to some serious foreplay...odd, but not entirely unheard of. The gig is a triumph and the mid-sized crowd are quite frankly ecstatic as the last chord sizzles into silence. What more could you want? Sally's number? Join the queue.
Ronnie O'Keef
Anyway...
I was painting the ceiling in my hall today. I had some paint left from when I did my bedroom in this cool deep purple (duh- duh -duhn...). That's the problem, 'cos now I have to do the walls in the hall. I'm thinking a sort of grape/aubergine on one section and a mango/orange on the rest. Then a lime/cool green in the kitchen. What the hell. Now it shows up the carpet so those hard wood floors need to go in. ...
At any rate, I was painting the ceiling, up on my stepladder trying to reach a hard to reach spot, and got white paint all over my hair. No big deal, I guess, but I didn't notice, it dried. I looked in the mirror and looked like Satan. I mean, Santa. Realised my hair has (for me) gotten long and it will be cut tomorrow. Then got fed up with my van dyke (goatee) and shaved that off. To go with tomorrow's haircut.
Nicky is going to be very irritated. She won't recognise me when she sees me.
Age is a predator, since I've had this goatee for years I've developed these smile lines. 'Character' you might say but I call bullshit on that. They make me look closer to my age than I actually normally do.
Vanity.
Well, Claudia Schiffer's new cream with Boswelox(TM) will soon take care of that.
Thumpermonkey remixed one of our songs and it is awesome - instant B-side to Voodoo, although I didn't like it at first.
At rehearsal last night Sally couldn't make it so we jammed. Five new song ideas. Not a bad night's work, all very strong (not counting the ten bad ideas that were diabolical). Grist for the mill.
Auto-Decline. Auto-Decline.Auto-Decline. Auto-Decline.Auto-Decline. Auto-Decline.Auto-Decline. Auto-Decline.Auto-Decline. Auto-Decline.Auto-Decline. Auto-Decline.Auto-Decline. Auto-Decline.Auto-Decline. Auto-Decline.Auto-Decline. Auto-Decline.Auto-Decline. Auto-Decline.Auto-Decline. Auto-Decline.
Sounds like a new name for an album.
But I digest.
Auto-Decline.Auto-Decline.
ADDITION
Nice new review from John Peel's Unpeeled magazine, coming out soon...
Brand Violet - Single Launch @ The Metro - 15th Jan 2004
Some bands shun their audience. Some bands don disguises. Some bands wear particularly interesting shoes. And some bands have a dirty little minx of unimaginable beauty wearing nought but a shiny black PVC cat suit looking you straight in the eye, daring you to keep your cock in check. That's my favourite. Lucky for me then that I was invited to attend the single launch for Brand Violets latest opus "Head", wasn't it?
Before we look at the whole package, allow me to linger a little longer on singer Sally-Anne Marsh and do her the justice she so rudely deserves. I mean, how often can you say, "Oh, I popped out to this gig last night and you'll never guess what? I saw this wicked band whose singer has the sex appeal of a very young Debbie Harry, the stage presence of Patti Smith on heat and a voice of pure liquid gold. Oh yeah, and she dances like Salma Hayek with that snake in Dusk till Dawn...but in a really pervy way. And did I mention the cat suit!" Doesn't happen does it? It does now. This is what real rock stars are supposed to be made of. Sally-Anne not only owns the s tage, she owns every person in the room, male and female. We're all entranced and we'd all fuck her. And that, my friends, is true power.
But none of this would amount to more than a sneaky hand shandy if the band weren't so bloody life-affirmingly good. Like Blondie before them, the rest of Brand Violet are no backing band. The whole package is just as integral as the focal point. And very stylish they are too. Sharp suits, just the right side of gangster chic effortlessly compliment their edgy, Pulp Fiction indie/pop. Sinister Spanish flavoured guitars melt magnificently into the darker, choppier side of rockabilly (think The Cramps) as Sally-Anne whispers like a fallen angel begging for one last fix before the banshees engulf her lungs for that last big fuck off chorus. There are tunes here, real tunes. Tunes you'd quite happily admit to liking. It's pop, but it's not. It's rock without the cock. Whoever isn't signing this band to a major is an arse of the highest order and should be strung up by their silver spoon and slapped around the chops with a wet ballad until good senses prevails.
New single "Head" is easily their most immediate and possibly best song of the night. No great surprise then that (since it's why we're all here) they play it first. It's a bit like starting with the orgasm and then getting down to some serious foreplay...odd, but not entirely unheard of. The gig is a triumph and the mid-sized crowd are quite frankly ecstatic as the last chord sizzles into silence. What more could you want? Sally's number? Join the queue.
Ronnie O'Keef
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
why the dislike of the site?