Ah, Comet Gain. Comet Gain are so indie. They are indie's distilled essence. They are formed from a hundred rubbish fanzines mulched down with the spit of a decade of inept indie kisses and tied into shape with the twisted brown innards of ten thousand discarded mixtapes. Watch their video for 'The Fists In The Pocket' - as my internet buddy Extensions Off pointed out, isn't this just the indiest video ever made? It's so Brighton: thirtysomething men in bands throwing stones on the beach during a comedown, thinking about that time their 15-year-old girlfriend kissed her mate Annabel from the youth club, wondering if he can get her to do it again. Ugh. Brighton scares me. Don't get me wrong though - I love Comet Gain. I love their murky, evocative sound. Their last two albums, Realistes (2002) and City Fallen Leaves (2006) form this glorious dyad, infused with all the depression and shite of aging within a culture (indie) and a city (Brighton) which fetishises infantilism, and you should definitely check them out. I know I sound ambivalent about them, but I'm really not. Or maybe I am. See? Ambivalence is exciting, anyway. Plus it's an ambivalence borne of an uncomfortable over-identification with their subject matter. So hurrah for Comet Gain, the indiest band alive!

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I seem to have become Marmalade Magazine's online editor, which is nice. First stop is this newsletter, in which I have included so many exclamation marks that reading it back makes me feel slightly sick. I must have been in a good mood or something when I wrote it...

(Click to enlarge - it's a bit massive)

Anyway, if you feel like sending me any links or stories or whatever to feature in the newsletter, or you want to mention an event you're holding or something, then please do! I've also been writing a bit of content for their Myspace, so you might want to have a look at that, if you're so inclined. And! I have a feature in the new issue of the magazine as well - I met some disgusting sweary sweaty roadies (actually they were quite fit, but whatever) and they told me some ace stories, and now it is in the magazine. Check it out!

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In view of Julie Bindel's admission that she would not go to the police if she was raped, it seems an appropriate time to reprint this meme:

A lot has been said about how to prevent rape. Women should learn self-defense. Women should lock themselves in their houses after dark. Women shouldn't have long hair and women shouldn't wear short skirts. Women shouldn't leave drinks unattended. Hell, they shouldn't dare to get drunk at all. Instead of that bullshit, how about:

If a woman is drunk, don't rape her.
If a woman is walking alone at night, don't rape her.
If a woman is drugged and unconscious, don't rape her.
If a woman is wearing a short skirt, don't rape her.
If a woman is jogging in a park at 5 am, don't rape her.
If a woman looks like your ex-girlfriend you're still hung up on, don't rape her.
If a woman is asleep in her bed, don't rape her.
If a woman is asleep in your bed, don't rape her.
If a woman is doing her laundry, don't rape her.
If a woman is in a coma, don't rape her.
If a woman changes her mind in the middle of or about a particular activity, don't rape her.
If a woman has repeatedly refused a certain activity, don't rape her.
If a woman is not yet a woman, but a child, don't rape her.
If your girlfriend or wife is not in the mood, don't rape her.
If your step-daughter is watching TV, don't rape her.
If you break into a house and find a woman there, don't rape her.
If your friend thinks it's okay to rape someone, tell him it's not, and that he's not your friend.
If your "friend" tells you he raped someone, report him to the police.
If your frat-brother or another guy at the party tells you there's an unconscious woman upstairs and it's your turn, don't rape her, call the police and tell the guy he's a rapist.
Tell your sons, god-sons, nephews, grandsons, sons of friends it's not okay to rape someone.
Don't tell your women friends how to be safe and avoid rape.
Don't imply that she could have avoided it if she'd only done/not done x.
Don't imply that it's in any way her fault.
Don't let silence imply agreement when someone tells you he "got some" with the drunk girl.
Don't perpetuate a culture that tells you that you have no control over or responsibility for your actions. You can, too, help yourself.

If you agree, re-post it. It's that important.

Note: This goes for any gendered rape, male on female or female on male or female on female or FTM on MTF or non gendered to dual gendered and so on and so forth....
-author unknown

Via The F-Word.

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Hm. Well, as my friend Alice so kindly pointed out, there's no use getting all excited about my new RSS feed (check it out! Over there ----->! In the pink bar! At the bottom! That little button!) if there's no decent content on this blog for you to subscribe to. She has a point. Bitch. So. I hereby promise to stop being unfaithful with Myspace, LiveJournal, and any other publishing service I can run my curious little fingertops all over, and return to the mothership, starting from NOW. To kick things off, may I present, from the current issue of Plan B: CSS LIVE!!!!! WHOOO!!!! TAKE IT AWAY AMPYYYYYYY!


It's a crush it's a scrum it's, oh, it's rammed and it's exciting. It's Beatlemania in reverse. It's a forest of hands - manhands - stretching towards the stage like baby birds squealing for a scrap of food from mamabird. It's testosterone miasma floating in a cloud above our heads, rising to the ceiling like sweat, like mist. They're begging. They're pleading. They're grabbing. It's kind of rapey. I guess it's what rock and roll is all about.

Lovefoxx doesn't mind though. Lovefoxx is eating it up with a spoon. Lovefoxx is, mmmpf, I don't think I even need to tell you how hott and cute and sexxus and lovely she is, with her Shibuya-style babyface, and her long shiny flapping black hair, and her little outfit of black tights under a stripy black shorts-leotard thing layered under several black vests which she yanks on and off throughout the gig - UP over her head, BACK over her shoulders, now it's on her face and she's singing through it - it's hott, it's innocent, it's kind of naughty and she doesn't even realise. She's like a Samurai convict cartoon jazzdancer, and I don't even know what one of them looks like.

Anyway. Start at the beginning. C - S - S - SUXXXXX!!!!!! they are chanting. They are clapping. There's none of this slow build stuff you get at some band's gigs. They are chanting and clapping and I am hit from the back by a phalanx of menfolk. Gosh do the boys ever love this stuff. The girls onstage are the cliff wall and the men behind me are a fucking tidal wave. I am a piece of seaweed tossed too and fro inbetween. I swear a man - not the man I came here with - is grinding his boner against the small of my back. I haven't felt this testosterone surge since early Peaches gigs.

I am tidalwaving towards the front of the stage, pulled inexorably towards the guitarist, Luisa. Her tattoos are the seaweed now, glued to her shoulders, scraped across her wrists. The neck of her guitar extends towards me, past the shoulder of the photographer who ducks his camera away, barrelling towards my eyes till I dodge downwards, flexing my knees like I'm about to dive. She. Is. Immaculate. Her hair snakes in a lazy mullet and her body is knifelike and titless and she keeps half-closing her eyes and scrunching up her mouth into a shape that inscribes just how fucking cool she feels at that precise moment, and that's more than allowed, because she's making these riffs and thumps and noises on the guitar and the electropop of the album is bigger and more swaggery, than it's ever been on my speakers, mutating into bastard dog rock, and she's dangling a cigarette out her mouth and squinting her eyes up and yeah maybe it's a pose, but wouldn't you?

It's undeniable that a faint whiff of disposability hangs over the CSS album. Is that a problem? Spank Rock smell the same, so what? Disposability is the essence of a good party. Who would want a party that lasted forever? Who can handle more than three days without sleep? Could you actually function adequately as a human if the initial rumpetty-pumpetty in love sexmeup high so eloquently expressed by CSS in 'Let's Make Love and Listen to Death From Above' - 'wine then bed then more then again / wine then bed then more then again' - actually lasted forever and ever? You'd be a wreck; sacked; homeless; spent. Forget it. This is about a flurry, a tsunami, a smack in the face: spinning till you're dizzy, running till you're choking, dancing till you're broken; then you stop. And so we wave our arms left-to-right to 'Alcohol', just like we're urged to, and we laugh and smile as the men's thrusting grabbing manhands lift the crowdsurfing Lovefoxx high into the sky, and we wander home, drenched in sweat, the riff of Alala and the twist of the guitarist's mouth embedded in our heads for the following three days, and then we smile, and then forget. Perfect.

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"writing is like being an arielist"

Joan Didion

Joan Didion on writing 'The Year of Magical Thinking'.

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21st October @ SOAS:

"Feminist Fightback is a one day activist conference, initiated by Education Not for Sale Women, for anyone interested in the struggle for women's liberation. Speakers include Abby Lee, author of the "Girl with a one track mind" blog on feminism and sexual expression; sacked Gate Gourmet workers; NUS Women's Officer Kat Stark; International Union of Sexworkers; Organisation of Women's Freedom in Iraq; Scottish Socialist women on sexism on the left; health workers on low pay and abortion rights; and many more..."

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"I'm an emo kid, non-conforming as can be! You'd be non-conforming too if you looked just like me!" Cute video taking the piss out of emo kids (because nothing gets a laugh like hitting an easy target.) I like how it goes all homo at the end.

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in-the-bathroom AMPNET is edited by AMP, a freelance writer from London. The site developed from a print fanzine called AMP MINIZINE. To find out more, please see our press section, or contact us.



Keytars and Violins
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