UNADULTERATED POSITIVITY - POST 1 of 3

The majority of what I post on this blog involves moaning. That's a fact. Well, to redress the balance I present to you 3 POSTS OF UNADULTERATED POSITIVITY! Starting with...

DRUM AND BASS AND ITS UNPARALLELED ABILITY TO MAKE THE WHOLE FUCKING 'FLOOR JUMP AND SHOUT

I used to be obsessed with Drum & Bass. I was totally immersed in the scene. I wrote my dissertation on D&B and its status as a musical subculture. It was pretty much all I bought and all I listened to for a while. Passion is a great thing.

Back in the day what really did it for me was getting into the nitty gritty of the music, the producers, the labels and the scene, plus attending virtually every D&B night I could. Since then, my taste has re-broadened and my devotion subsided. Variety is a great thing, too!

I have, however, maintained a healthy love for da jungle. These days what really does it for me is the effect that the sudden appearance of drum & bass on the turntables can have on an up for it crowd. I saw a documentary about the Millenium Dome New Years 2000 party, with its multitudionous arenas covering all styles of dance music, in which one of the promoters was interviewed. "I've been in this game since the beginning and seen it all - rave, house, garage, the lot. And let me tell you, there's nothing quite like it when the drum & bass tent kicks off". Amen!

I remember the first gig I went to after moving to Brighton was DJ Craze, the hip hop/D&B scratch god. He played a wonderfully paced set, starting slow and building up the pace and energy with chunky beats and turntable dexsterity. About 45 minutes in, the tempo was creeping up and the huge crowd were oozing with anticipation. People were literally baying for D&B. A ripple of cries for "DRUM & BASS!" started up and spread through the crowd. Craze was ready and soon dropped the first 160bpm+ beat, neatly cut into the half-speed hip hop. There's something about a bar of a chugging hip hop beat followed by a bar of frenetic, rolling drum & bass kicks and snares. When the tune proper finally dropped, the whole crowd lifted 2 foot of the floor and screamed and yelled. Fucking awesome.

Similar scenes have unfolded (minus the baying) at all sorts of festivals, clubs and gigs I've been at over the years. It brings back a nostalgia for me, as well as getting into my bones and making me dance my ass off. And laugh a lot, too. Theres something wonderfully silly about it - the music, the reaction, the energy, the aggression, the passion... it makes me laugh!

The funniest scene i witnessed was at last years post-Pride free party at Black Rock. There were 3 sound systems, only one of which was loud enough for the majority of the wasted and party hungry crowd's attention. As we arrived they'd clearly just fired up, and they were blaring jungle out of the rig. I was chuffed, but some of those around me were beside themselves with joy. "FUCKING YESSSSSSS!!! DRUM AND BASSSSSS!" They cried, faces contorted into screams of energy, joy and OTT eagerness! "ITS ALL ABOUT THE ROLLING BEATS MAAAN!" one guy shouted at our group. Then, spotting that we were clearly enjoying it too, followed it up with the immortal line "HE FUCKING KNOWS IT!"

In relaying that tale in the past I've been asked, "what did he know?! That it was drum & bass?!" Well, yes, but from my days as a scene-obsessed D&B head, I remember well that the presence of other people who get the rhythm and energy of the music - which, lets face it, isn't for everyone - has a certain power of unity and way of reinforcing and strengthening the scene. That's what our OTT reveller meant and that devotion is the backbone of the D&B subculture.

rant rant rant rant rant

Me & Georgie went to Switzerland at the weekend to visit her aunts. It's a gorgeous country and the sunshine, amazing food and wine, mountains, greenery, fresh air and incredible levels of hospitality revitalised me. It also further tickled my already itchy feet, but that was inevitable!

On the plane on the way back (I'll skip the bit about how much I hate airports) I sat there hot and tired, somewhat stressed and slightly nervous (I don't like flying), when I felt my arm being prodded by the school-marmy woman beside me. I looked round to have the phrase "can you not pick your nose!" barked at me. I then realised that I had indeed sent an investigative finger into the opening of my nostril. It wasn't in far, and to call it 'picking' was contentious. See, the drawback of a green, lush country is rampant hayfever. My poor nose had been blocked, itchy, and uncomfortable for days and a brief, relieving scratch/prod seemed necessary.

Granted, nose-picking isn't all that pleasant, but surely you give it more than 10 seconds before complaining to a complete stranger about it? Or, unless you're a busy-body headmistress type who believes her hang ups and views on manners are of the highest priority, you just bloody leave it! It really annoyed me. "Do you want to mind your own business?" I asked her. "No, its disgusting," she barked back. So I just openly laughed in her face, my favourite thing to do to people who are unjustifiably annoyed at me, as it tends to annoy them further and by this point my only salvation was the thought that she was more annoyed at me than I was at her.

With that encounter, it became very apparent I that was going back to England.

It reminded me of another airoplane (note inclusing of an 'o', yanks ;-) encounter, this time with an Israeli couple. I didn't know they were Isreali at first, they were just a couple who were virtually having sex in the seats next to me. The guy was horrible, all posey and buffed, and the earnestness and solemnity with which they tounged eachother was disconcerting - it was almost self-congratulatory, like they had something to proove. Still, I let them get on with it figuring it wasn't actually hurting me. Since I was in Asia, it was fucking hot and I had a 12 hour flight ahead of me, I took my sandles off, crossed my legs and settled down to read my book.

Seconds later, I felt myself being prodded. I turned around and an Isreali accent, dripping with contemptuous disgust and emenating from a face of abject horror, spat "your foot".
"what?" says I.
"your foot! Will you move it!"
My bare foot was facing him at an oblique angle. I don't know much about Israeli culture but I figured that maybe they held a foot taboo, like certain other cultures I'd encountered. Despite this, I wasn't going to dutifully drop my foot and apologise just because his ridiculous belief caused him to get upset by my utterly harmless posture. If he'd asked me nicely, maybe. But I'm not going to be ordered to pander to taboos I think ludicrous.
"Oh, OK, but why, out of interest?" I ask, perfectly reasonably.
Man shares dumbfounded glance with woman. "your FOOT!" he says again.

Of course, I shifted it because I'm a reasonable person. But the irony and hypocrisy on so many levels left me livid! I guarantee he was in a minority in that plane with his daft foot-fear. However, I bet the majority would have seen it as intrusive and/or offensive to see him abjectly molesting his girlfriend in public. Also, if you have a gripe about manners, employ some yourself when you inflict your beliefs on others and ask them to alter their behaviour for your benefit. Same goes for nose-picking school-marm bitch.

It's your problem, people! Live and let live, eh? Or in this case: live and let drop that which has no tangible, adverse effect on any level other than that which you conciously decide upon.

The Artist Formerly Known As Dave House...

...will now be known as

The Reverse Engineer

No longer will there be confusion about me and the other Dave House.

If you do the Last.fm thing, check out my profile: click here. And make sure you listen to me loads and tag me and post comments and so on, so my rating goes up and ting.

Also, be my friend on MySpace* (profile will be pimped soon and loaded with audio goodies). click here.

I have new tunes to download on my music website, too: www.dhouse.co.uk.

Any thoughts on the new name are welcome too!

* My Big Fun MySpace Pun Log:

Mice Pace (credited to the amusingly named bumpoowilly
Funk on My Space (credited to Karen)

Back by overwhelming public demand

(overwhelming public demand = 1 request. It's more overwhelming than 0, so shut up).

Today, being Thursday, was network breakfast meeting day. So today, like most of my Thursdays, unfolded thusly:

06:45: alarm goes off. "fucking cunting shitting stupid motherfucker" I say internally, and press snooze.
06:51: alarm goes off again after it's bizarre 9 minute snooze cycle. I reluctantly arise, grimacing as if with a shard of glass up my arse.
06:52 - 07:20: bumble around dressing, drinking strong coffee, doing my toilet, packing bag, then leave the house.
07:21: return to house having inevitably forgotten something, calling myself a "fucking retard" or similar. Scowl/grimace has now developed into full neanderthal scowl, with associated indistinguishable mutterings and gruntings.
07:22 - 07:40: cycle to Preston Park. It's been suggested that this is a 4 mile cycle. Get in, how hard am I? 4 miles, much of it uphill, at 7 in the bloody morning. My thought processes while cycling are worthy of another post so I'll leave that for now.
07:41 - 09:20ish: networking! In a nutshell (again this is worthy of its own post) networking breakfasts involve everyone (6-12 people usually) bigging up their line of work, forging connections and exchanging leads for work. Mine, thankfully, is a nice group with some great people. It also involves a fry up and coffee. I recently had to cut down my caffeine intake to 3 mugs (q.v) and while I miss the jittery wiredness, I doubt it's hindered my social skills!
09:25 - 09:45: cycle home. 4 miles remember. That's 8 in total. I'm GI JOE, motherfucker.
09:50: desperately avoid the temptation of going back to bed. Its hard, oh so hard.
10:00ish onwards: work. It's amazing how much I get done on a Thursday, actually!

Now, like I said, I had to cut down my coffee intake. I was necking a big, strongun before the meeting, then 3 or 4 at the meeting. This resulted in the aforementioned jittery wiredness, which I'll be honest - I 'dig'. Caffeine is a cool drug. However, come 11 or 12 o'clock, when the protein hit of the brekkie had worn off and some blood had returned to my caffeine system, I had a system crash.

This varied in form but was always unpleasant. Sometimes it was nausea. Sometimes it was a gut wrenching desperation to 'lay cable' (which once resulted in me invading The Mad Hatter cafe and cursing in agony as I waited 10 minutes outside the toilet for some fucking ponse to be done - I say ponse cos he came out looking all groomed and I assume he was doing shit to his face in there). It would invariably involve a lack of energy, which I usually rectified with chocolate, setting myself up for a sugar crash shortly thereafter. Then, on getting home, I'd often have a nap. Resulting in:

12:00ish: waking up with an overwhelming desire to die

So I cut out the coffee, the chocolate and the nap.

I learnt from my experiences, kids, and that's the message I'd like to leave you with.

Think on. Be safe. Stay off the crystal meth.