Well, The Last Year is well and truly underway and here at CC HQ we are in the grip of feverish, white-knuckled excitement and raw enthusiasm for the doomed months ahead.
Our booking-agent/life-coach/sorority-figure Almond The God has started a campaign of full bore harassment and personal abuse aimed at concert promoters Europe-wide and we're expecting that to bear some pretty plump and dripping fruit. So if you are a European concert promoter and you don't mind a bit of "agro", get in touch with her at amande@julietippex.com and make an offer. A fucking big offer, with lots of perks and some subtle hints about chicks and drugs and after-parties in converted bank-vaults filled with water-foul and ottomans and bouncers in gold lame suits. Baby.
Moving right along....
The transitional period over Christmas and the New Year was packed full of so much strange and disturbing action that I hesitate to blog the worst of it. But full disclosure is, after-all, one of my many middle names, so let's revue the catalogue of humiliation.
Shortly before Christmas the well known guitar wrangler and obnoxious misfit Baaron Von Cuddles III was forced to flee England after CCTV footage came to light that clearly showed him burning, looting and fighting his way through east-London, painfully alone and a full month after the end of the summer riots.
Our booking-agent/life-coach/sorority-figure Almond The God has started a campaign of full bore harassment and personal abuse aimed at concert promoters Europe-wide and we're expecting that to bear some pretty plump and dripping fruit. So if you are a European concert promoter and you don't mind a bit of "agro", get in touch with her at amande@julietippex.com and make an offer. A fucking big offer, with lots of perks and some subtle hints about chicks and drugs and after-parties in converted bank-vaults filled with water-foul and ottomans and bouncers in gold lame suits. Baby.
Our ruthless, throat-slitting representative. Drop her a line.
Moving right along....
The transitional period over Christmas and the New Year was packed full of so much strange and disturbing action that I hesitate to blog the worst of it. But full disclosure is, after-all, one of my many middle names, so let's revue the catalogue of humiliation.
Shortly before Christmas the well known guitar wrangler and obnoxious misfit Baaron Von Cuddles III was forced to flee England after CCTV footage came to light that clearly showed him burning, looting and fighting his way through east-London, painfully alone and a full month after the end of the summer riots.
A lone, masked Cuddles strides purposefully through his own carnage.
A hastily formed "Baaron Squad", deployed atDalston junction in response to growing community alarm.
His frenzied efforts to retain legal counsel came to nothing, with even notorious ambulance-chasers refusing to return his panicky, high-pitched phone-calls.
So there was nothing else to do. He scrawled a crazed goodbye note for his fiancé and caught a cab straight to Heathrow airport where he boarded the first available flight to Sydney.
We haven't had alot of contact from him, but last report had him picking strawberries near Perth and playing in a Waylon Jennings covers band on the weekends. He's banging some shrewish, middle-aged real-estate agent and is back on the bong in a serious way, but he seemed upbeat and focused in our last telephone conversation. It'll be nice to have him back when the heat dies off.
Back in Barcelona my own personal life turned into a fireball of rage, humiliation and torment when it became clear that the light of my life, disgraced aristocratic French super-model the Lady Alexandra Cecile Bouche, had been having simultaneous affairs with 16 of the top 20 Spanish tech-house deejays as well as two members of the Catalan parliament and a dentist called Ron.
So I set fire to her fucking couch, laughed while the flames licked the ceiling of her shitty uptown appartment, stole all her underwear and went into weepy, boozy, lights-off seclusion, only emerging briefly on New Years Day to shake my fist at the sky and curse the cruel and pitiless God who had sent my immortal soul down to this wretched Earth to suffer in the body of a bald, confused bass-player.
But just when I'd managed to scrape up enough sleeping pills to get the dirty job done once and for all, I received an urgent email from Germany that demanded immediate action.
It read.....
Dear Fuck-knuckle,
Danny has contracted Type C Pendelsons disease from a rare Adverts 10" sent to him by one of his "pen-friends". He's out of the picture, so get your stupid arse on a plane.
The gig is on thursday 5th and don't even think about trying to weasel out of it.
You owe us bigtime, scumbag.
Bigtime.
Sincerely,
Cevapcici Allin.
Rex Report Deejays.
Ye Godz! Was it true? Danny Rex out of action with one of the least photogenic tropical skin diseases known to science? Little me to fill his size 19 shoes at the first Rex Report party for oh-twelve?? Really??? Fuck off!
It read.....
Dear Fuck-knuckle,
Danny has contracted Type C Pendelsons disease from a rare Adverts 10" sent to him by one of his "pen-friends". He's out of the picture, so get your stupid arse on a plane.
The gig is on thursday 5th and don't even think about trying to weasel out of it.
You owe us bigtime, scumbag.
Bigtime.
Sincerely,
Cevapcici Allin.
Rex Report Deejays.
Ye Godz! Was it true? Danny Rex out of action with one of the least photogenic tropical skin diseases known to science? Little me to fill his size 19 shoes at the first Rex Report party for oh-twelve?? Really??? Fuck off!
Check the playlist...and check the merch on that guy.
Danny and Cevapcici are of course the infamous Rex Report Deejays, possibly the most dangerous and encyclopaedically learned power-pop deejay team in Western Europe. No fucking around.
Cevapcici in more innocent times, riffing for The Go Faster Nuns.
They operate out of a fine hole-in-the-ground called Morph Club in the sickeningly picturesque town of Bamberg (Upper Franconia, Deutschland) and they are known for running a tight ship.