Walking back here for the first time, I think, in years. There are corpses laid out, hands to the sky, asking why? Why would I return? Why did I leave? How did I get here?

Un-imposed silence here connotes noise elsewhere. A separate channel. This is true, however, it’s the noise of a prison. A monotonous, grey buzz which is a waste of time. Penance for no-one, not the victim or the perp. Just a waste. Anyway, coming here breaks that silence, doesn’t it?
Looking over the corpses is either a cry for help or an admission of defeat, or maybe we’re retreating again back to the front that was. Maybe we’re the aggressors? Maybe, we’re the baddies?

Ok, so as not to make this sound like some far right nutter, I want to make it clear that this just a blog. Written by a sad wee guy in his mid-thirties. That’s all it is.
It used to be prescient and insightful, for me anyway.
It helped me understand multiplicity and the nebulousness of being. (It did, read the archives.)
But now, seemingly, it lacks a purpose. It lacks purpose. Always a purpose.

Even the hyperlinks in text are passe.

Anyway, the format and the content are dodgy and irremovable from their author. I’ll batter on for now and see where it takes me.

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In more profligate times this would have featured an interview with the band ‘Do Nothing’ after catching their concert in Sneaky Pete’s, Edinburgh, last week. However, I didn’t get the chance to conduct the interview, as it was a school night.
If I had, I would have asked them, “Why Do Nothing?”
This information may be available online somewhere but I’ll be darned if I’m searching for it. I’d like to think the moniker is derived from Slavoj Zizek and political movements celebrating idleness (Flaneurs and those Italian geezers whose name I can’t remember but I’m sure were top socialists). I hope so, but I didn’t get to ask so there you go. What is implicit in their music is a certain anti-capital, anti-neoliberal ethic, so we can maybe assume so. (“There gonna fire you in the morning!”). This, and other frequent obscure lyrics which describe British cultural life make their album Snake Sideways a top recommendation!

Live, their show was tight. They played well.
“Well played.” I said.
Even they seemed surprised by the dedicated followers singing lyrics back, including me. They also acknowledged their own small-time status as one fan shouted “We’ll see you tomorrow in Glasgow.”
“Will you? Fucking losers.” came the reply from the frontman who I haven’t googled. He particularly had a good game and it was remarked he had the mystic of someone more famous. This was certainly true, though on a bad night he may have come off like a Jarvis Cocker impersonator. Anyway, I liked their show. I like their music. But, do they have the staying power? Will they go all the way? Will they hit the big time?

I think so, maybe, yes.
Their music is derivative of a lot of indie but is identifiable enough to be unique. There is a chance that they will end up an indie band successful enough to tour their own music yet not successful enough to be considered big time, but that is decent and quite admirable. Like friend of MrHummels.com, Lionel. I hope they don’t end up like my one time beloved Dykeenies. Or worse, the Lonely Together. Anyway, I’m a mullet and a mustache short of good opinions and original thought so I’ll go and fuck myself.

As you would, m’lord.

What is becoming clear to me, is that there is something gained by trying. Shock.
There is something to be said for keeping it to yourself and working away like a wee sad act. There is a middle ground which should only be broken by talent or hard work. Big talkers should be banned. I say this as I recently had a self proclaimed artist stay with me and all they could talk about was their art. No one asked. Their main purpose as an artist, having been on a paid-for-by-them course, was to promote their art relentlessly and to gather our every action for their art, unethically. Imagine having Gabriel Garcia Marquez round for coffee and he just sits and asks you questions about your family. Fuck off, prick.

I do wonder why it is that I seem to come to write here again in Autumn. The season of my spawning into this godforsaken serial sing song. Every time there is a whiff of clean blue air. Mud and mushroom spores whip up and I have a notion of glorious self-awareness and I’m back here. Perhaps its’s the material fact that the worsening weather leaves less to do? Or that after summer I need to wind down? Maybe. But I like to believe something more spiritual. For some reason the fibres of my being vibrate best in the Autumn. Maybe I like being surrounded by death.

Anyway, as the first Autumn leaves fall and the last of the sun disappears faster than I can furiously type, I wish ‘Do Nothing’ all the best. Their concert was a chance for me to go out. A chance to pull on the famous old jeans which spawned all this. I’ve missed them terribly, I have to say. My other jeans were wet from being caught in obscene Scottish rain after a meek and mild pub quiz which had terrible drama attached (for another time). So, I was forced to pull these out. They were 22oz selvedge Lee Riders, which means something to someone once. They were once heavy blue and would stain my legs when I wore them. I used to be quite self conscious as they were so blue and everyone else went through a phase of wearing black jeans. I also had long hair and was 25 and all over the shop. Now, they’re light with shades of green and lines which show off my old bad knee. They’re close to a blow out too, much like myself. Every time I get to pull them on I think they’re worth more. They’re a vehicle to the past. They fit better and get closer to a hole. Each time they’re on could be the last and that’s special. There will be other jeans, other bands, new plots and better reviews but each time I slip them on I realise how worthwhile they are. Which is similar to MrHummels. Perhaps there is a purpose. Do Nothing is appropriate and vital, whether they are or they aren’t. The long Autumn of the brain may go on, and reading this back reveals that it is definitely still on-going, but there may yet be a spring. Or a blow out.


P.S
Listen back to Lists ‘Autumn‘. Even though by the logic of the song, it’s too late. The hour of minerva spreads it’s wings only with the falling of dust.

P.P.S
I’d like to acknowledge the Blind Boy Podcast which has finally drawn me in after years on the periphery. A recent episode, can’t remember which one, made so much sense to me that I dropped my cock mid-piss and almost started to cry. This was a danger-piss too, so quite risky behaviour. Anyway, thanks to Blind Boy are long overdue. Few people know that I once made a Mr Hummels mask in tribute to the great man and while this remains unworn, a path ahead of me, thanks are due nonetheless.

P.P.P.S
One advancement which has happened since I listened to an album obsessively is the Spotify lyrics thing. As we know I hate Spotify and am a reluctant user. Alternate lyrics that we come up with ourselves are much better than the real thing and Do Nothing’s are no exception. Mondegreens are the name of the game.