Dearest Rabble.

This week I arrived in LA. To spend the winter where the sun shines. To continue work with IAMX and its comrades and to catch up on the America that I have had a morbid fascination with for years.  Don’t be surprised to catch me out  jogging in the Hollywood Hills, my European red wine soaked teeth bleached white and a cynical schmoozing list in hand. This post, together with an amateur-weekly-photo-documentary attempt (after my accent elimination class this afternoon I will upload the pictures), mark the celebration of a temporary relocation to the glorious shiny plastic land and City of Angels.

The following unedited collection of thoughts has been sitting on my desktop for months. Staring me out every free pre-show moment I had.

I didn’t post it as I reclaimed my personal life somewhere along the road this year. The urge to refine and make right bugs me but time is short and no longer can I carry their scrambled weight.

Happy holidays my friends (I mean it).



A moment I had on stage. Enlightened manic hedonism or plain old breakdown?

Sill resonating. In a melting pot of hard drink, out-of-proportion audience feedback and the accumulation of years of touring exhaustion. Spitting and swearing and cackling, a moment similar to the ‘nasty crucifix into little Linda Blair’s vagina’ scene in The Exorcist.

I could have died in that moment, la XL petite mort. Found with a gargoylian stretched smile of ecstasy on my face. Ready to go to the non-place of all non-places. Move into the event horizon of our two-dimensional holographic universe. Break apart into a trillion particles and join with the swirling soup of forever. Found content with a gob full of lipstick, smashed-up microphone in one hand and a fan-made hobo crown of feathers in the other. Threatening man-made puerile eternity and hell fire whimpering behind me. Ready for Horatio Caine to inspect my confused but intriguing corpse.

The jittery process was cathartic. It seems these epiphanies appear approximately every five years or so. The metamorphosis of the old fighting ways. Ideologies giving way to compromises. Stress to smiles. Clarity to chaos.

And riding the crest of this odd energy wave, at the risk of finding out too much to bare, I decided to open up and read some of your past comments in the IAMX weblog section.

Breathe. I was overwhelmed by the warm genuine concern, really good writing and depth of analysis.

I decided to trust that your opinions are worth something. I was right.

Your comments  touched me. They were comforting and thoughtful. I felt loved, understood and not alone on this merry-go-round.

Thank you all with the utmost sincerity. Don’t stop.



Humour collapse

On our way to our conscious void we have options. Options to roll around in the reality of now, like pigs in a nonsense swill, or be crippled by fear.

Revere and glorify the absurd!

I read *On the heights of despair* by the philosopher Cioran. Asking for trouble. Edgy gives me the urge to jump over. Open the door of the speeding car. Self inflicted creative provocation.

His vile view of life was, at first, enough to push any normal person in a moment of weakness into the abyss. Suicidal words.

The blackness and oblivion. So much revulsion, so little hope.

I read on through the dark and detected irony. Playfulness. A glimmer of positivity. Ending the book I was laughing and sobbing along with the sadistic author. Stronger than when I went in. Cleanse by going there.

Books difficult to read often lead one to better ways of looking at life. Despair with a knowing wink.


I am half agonized romantic and half hand to mouth pragmatist. My mum and my dad gave me both respectively.

Our family was foreign in a dirty industrial Northern English town still shaking off the stench of racism. My grandad was black. They had to be numb and we kept ourselves to ourselves. My mum lived with neverending physical pain and dad worked like a dog. I adore them for keeping it together over the heavy years.

I learned early how to access great self defensive blankness. Get on with things. Natural curiosity kept me looking for knowledge rather than stone fights with the local kids. I was desperate to be educated.

My discomfort comes from agreeing with Cioran on many points. How life is easier for the closed minded and the mediocre. More dumbly pleasurable for the idiots and bigots. How often people with fizzing intellectual anxiety and education end up suffering in the attempt to change the world and themselves. How humans need to be brought to the limit of experience in order to appreciate being alive.


Only in the absurd can one express and flow and enjoy pointlessness. And immersion in random absurdity can be a perfect remedy to thinking too much. It leads to art and science. It leads to madness and inspiration. It leads to fun.


We want to see others making fools of themselves or standing for something. We want to see them paying the price. Centuries ago the witches, the heretics.. how it must have been to be hung, drawn and quartered for mixing up a few herbs or words, or eyeing up the wrong nun. How the pathetic tiny movements of everyday life were blown up into extraordinarily meaningful compasses of morality.

Should I be thankful to live a life of subtleties and relative physical comfort? Or like the angry philosopher should I face the true agony of existence by experiencing the most mental and physical pain possible?

Even out-of-control humans dont have the stomach for everyday barbarism. Is barbarism better than hamster-wheel-supermarket slavery? Probably not.

Civilisations destroy themselves through boredom but a thousand years of barbaric violence, torture, invasion and oppression is a little more stressful than a few neighbourhood disagreements over grass borders and teenage parties.


Hotel room 4am post TV news war propaganda.

Holy crap! If I see or hear another fucking *Go beyond borders* slogan I will personally go to America and piss on Demi Moore.



Distraction-destruction. Disintegrating head space. Without this the artist will rot and the art will die. Noise noise noise. Creative murder.

I want to super-glue my eyes shut.  Tired of the no-sleep. The whole world burns.  Post show night bus annoyed..write to check if I am still able to entertain myself.hence still alive. Doing it for you, you public subconscious multiplicity mind virus you.

The more I write, the more I doubt,doubt,doubt,doubt,doubt. But you know that and you know what –  the thousands of greedy eyes are begging me. The appetite must be satisfied.

The point? Art, violence, indiscriminate fucking? Experience, amusement, buying stuff?

The point of knowing the point? We know the point we have no point.

Start somewhere and talk about people that matter.  Mix George Carlin, Picasso and Shakespeare. Mash up the untouchable visual literature of Bergman with the saucy theatre of Greenaway. Comedy, humanity, arrogance. Big balls-hyper-awareness. Attractive mental deformity.  See what the atheist comic does with the nasty old master and then throw them into the cosmos on a ship of Picasso Guernica and into a thick sauce of murky Viking existential grime.



I am so fucking happy right now. But I don’t have perspective. A byproduct of making you *sad* is my world being bearable. I am and you too are pathetic me-creatures, because living is survival.  The eloquence of art reveals all truth without spelling it out. Whatever truth means. Selfish cunt creation from nothing. Quantum fluctuations producing mini universes of experience and consciousness.

I admit to you I am only interested in mutants. I don’t have the lust to hear procreational centric stories of beautiful babies and of fat bank accounts. Nice people doing nice things in a nice glossy world of picket fence niceness.

I am not anti-new-human per se. Like the rest, I am a sucker for a puffy wrinkled baby face, a tiny grabbing hand and begging eyes.


All  tragedies of conservative limit can suck on the cock of mediocrity forever while the 20 percent evolve. Intellect over a million years will prevail.

The next evolutionary step. The mind over THE MUSCLE. The power of proof.

Wallowing in the concept of the holographic. Everything linked, intertwined. A division of the whole and perfectly responsive chunk of random infinity. I twist that quantum particle here and its partner on the other side of the cosmos will pulse in instantaneous sympathy. How deep the concept goes. How calming.

Oh to melt into that eternal space of inanimate matter and stardust. Every quark remembers me.

I can love under these conditions without the threat of rejection. Cosmological rejection.

entropy. energy transformed.. lets have a little humility when it comes to infinity

We fight against the thrust of it. Idiots.

At what point does one commit to happiness? A yes rather than a no





40 GOTO 10

I was big for my age as a 12 year old. Developed early. No one touched me apart from a small gang of the usual thugs that gather around your bike and poke into your life 4 nobodies  that will always choose the violent way. We are built to abuse or use .. bullies attack and it is a basic goto program that will repeat in the backwaters of their underdeveloped synapses.


How civlisations dissolve under lethargy. It killed the Greeks, glutany killed the Romans and unlimited opportunity will kill us. Brains and bellies expanding with input overload like big red giant suns.

Choice frying our skulls.

Google will commit genocide in the end.


Bratislava it’s been too long. I love you. I love my tribe. Let’s do some things to mark our togetherness.

Let’s gather and stroke each other like a Crystal cove commune.



It’s rancid that most music says nothing. Insipid baby babble.

Ignorant, repetitive regurgitations. How poetical and moving popular culture could be. How freeing for the mind. Therapeutic.

I repeat my shame of being a musician.

All trapped in loops of financial chaos and media competition. Self serving 15 minute fame gods.

Trying to be aloof when we should be humble. Communicate and produce quality. How can you give reality and be useful when your priority is fame? It makes me reactionary. It makes me want to be a carpenter.

Why is a musician now just a half arsed semi talented middle class medium passioned media savvy looking for an easy ride. What the fuck is a career? Why are we afraid to get raw. To be uncool and ridiculous. Fragile without whining. Funny without sarcasm.

Where are the emotional risks? Where are the hate figures?

Where are the ugly normal fascinating faces.

Why do girls follow any spotty fucker that picks up a guitar?

Why are pop stars covered in a layer of disgusting ignorance and airbrushing.

All the tricks and the make-overs. All the bloated pimp-my-ride-egos with peanut brains and piccolo dicks.

All the taudry inter-famous incestuous fake collaborations

All the puke worthy  bronzed up power people with their blank eyes and banal lives.

Alas, I say, fuck them all. Let them bubble and boil in the stew of their borders and mediocrity. Of their unpassion. Of their half a bottle of white wine with chicken in the evening and the convenience frozen fish fingers for the kids.

A gut churning picture of demonic blackness. The world of satanic static superficial melodrama.

The turns of phrases that burgeon over silver wedding years to become a hateful cage.

On and on the droning tourbus drones. All is not calm or bright.

Alas, you say, fuck you, grow up and get over yourself Mr Misery.




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