Wednesday, December 31, 2008
I apologise for interrupting your festive period with further correspondence. Many promises and half truths were cast around during the lengthy legal process your seemed so keen on embarking on but you can rest assured it will take more than a few rulings from pile of wrinkled skin in a wig to deter Barnaby Fudge's intentions. So it is with a heavy heart that I tell you another rumour has made its wicked way into my waxy noise vents along the canals of your watery loins.
As you are no doubt aware, your courting of other gentlemen has been widely reported in the gutter press and lengthily addressed in my previous letters. Too many hastily drilled glory holes have born witness to a lady of grace slowly transforming into a soiled, digital pin cushion. I have made my position clear on the subject. Many times. Still you persist with your filth. It would appear nothing can satisfy your gargantuan libido. How much junk can you cram into your tiny frame? So now I come to understand one of your more eager suitors has begun casting dispersions concerning the New Year; the celebrated drain day where one annum reluctantly passes its mucus coated baton to the sweaty hand of the next. Apparently every time he leaves the house he expects some kind of fun. Every day is a potential party. What surprises will await him on the other side of his, no doubt, hefty front door? Thus, New Year being no exception, get ready for some serious fun ladies and gents. People who dislike the event should be ashamed of themselves. We should all stop complaining and get on with it.
Well, Mr. Argos, I beg to differ. Having followed his naive and hasty advice over the past few days I have been only met with disgust and shame. I descended on New Year and the days which followed with a demonic fervor. A whirlwind of urine, alcohol and spittle tearing through the alleys and shopping centres of this quiet back water. Groping every behind that presented itself, inserting myself into every available crevice. Housewives covered their infant's eyes and ears, shielding their fragile skin from the maelstrom of bodily fluids and fortified wine struggling to free itself from the back garden washing line, their grandmother's underwear discarded amongst the rhododendrons. The result was a wake of police complaints and unreported assaults not seen since the Lesley glory days. I continued in this manner until the evening just past when both my funds and body collapsed under the intense stress invoked by this booze ridden, sexual haze only to be severely beaten by the mob which had by now collected on my vomit soaked doorstep.
New Year cynicism is there for an essential reason, to deter enjoyment, to discourage the most debauched among us from attending events where children and alcohol are freely available. Give the moderates a chance to shine. They know their limits and the public are only too happy to forgive and forget a few misguided advances and ill advised remarks to the office superior. We, on the other hand, cannot be permitted to behave unchecked, our desires and true natures must not be shown even a glimmer of light. Who knows how far we would go if every day was met with a justifiable appetite for drug fueled predation. Keep the cynicism alive! New Year is not for us. Unbridled enthusiasm is something that must be buried at all costs.
yours with a suspended sentence
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Well, they're back. Safe and relatively sound; each one back in their reasonably priced room, nursing frost bitten wounds and brooding over ill gotten memories. The past two weeks have seen the Brut in a whirlwind of snow, bar violence and ill advised facial hair whisking them from second album stalwarts to third album wannabes. The tracks are done, mixed and ready for inspection. Barnaby has a copy. The omens are good. With tracks such as Twist and Shout, Alcoholics Unanimous, Positively 5th Street, plus a song about how rubbish U2 sound, who could you go wrong? I can also assure, that seven and a half minutes of Mysterious Bruises is a musical odyssey to be chewed over like the sweetest of soot covered flesh twigs.
Their return was, however, a close run thing. It would appear the taxi services of Salem, OR. love their town in such a way, the thought of a single, unfortunate soul venturing outside the city limits during the winter is almost too much for them to bear. When the Brut awoke to a light covering of snow on the morning of Friday last they were surprised to learn, from the kind lady at Salem's limo service, that there was, in fact, no point in attempting the run to Portland's international airport as the flight would be canceled anyway. Thanks lady. I was not aware that your cab office was in fact a conduit through which all weather related travel information must travel. However, it was not a point she would willingly argue and no taxis of any kind were forthcoming. Thus, our gentlemen and ladies were kindly shuttled to the plane depot by intrepid engineer to the stars, Jason Carter. Surprisingly, instead of the arctic disaster zone described by Michelle Von No Taxi not one hour previously, our heroes were greeted by a highly functioning, cosmopolitan jet shack. It only goes to show, never underestimate the local half wit's fear of the snow and / or planes.
Here are some photos of Art Brut getting stuck in with Jesus' better looking cousin. Enjoy.
Eddie 'post-infernal' Argos.
Ian 'taking one for the team' Catskilkin.
Mikey 'you should of seen the other guy' Breyer.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Over recent days I have heard some troubling mutterings. Through this vast network of tunnels and caves, the familiar odour of distopia has wormed its merry way up Barnaby's botanical stink vents. It would appear the natural order of things has been disturbed. The delicate balance you landys happily defecate upon has been upset and a chain reaction begun. The start of this cataclysmic domino run? Our very own Salem, OR. As previously reported the Brut, somewhat foolishly in retrospect, decided to undertake a musical soiree in Salem's The Space the Saturday last. Much fun was had by all and by accounts our jaunty ensemble went down like a juicy meat treat. However, such was the power of this melodic maelstrom, that it was heard by unintended ears. You see, my interlove, deep below the hustle and bustle of Salem's downtown district something slumbers other than sausage gravy and Eddie Argos' cold hard regret. For thousands of years, a frozen hulk has slept soundly under America's Pacific Northwest. Last seen approximately 130000 years ago, this icy behemoth was sealed under Marion County, OR by unknown powers in order to thaw the perpetual permafrost that was strangling the planet. Now, he's back. See below for a rendering of Frostius, god of ice.
Bow before Frostius!!!!
A direct result of Art Brut meddling in affairs of which they have no understanding. Nature can be a fickle mistress...
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Sadly, on occasions, when I am elbow deep in my own cyber juice, I find myself lucklessly directed to various word holes scattered around your generous loins. These are, of course, alternative to the one you are now so ambitiously perusing. The bitter resignation that floods the soul whilst sucking in these lexiconical cess pools is enough to drive a gentlemen to the streets of Ipswich. As you are no doubt aware, I am crippled with despair.
Mr. Argos is, no doubt, a captivating and engaging individual and I am sure you all revel in his unhinged, unwieldy food related narratives. However, between repeated attempts to gouge out my own eyes, I chanced upon his parabolic tale of baths brimming with a newly acquired sausage gravy addiction. Well, gentleman Argos, as much as it pains me to do so, I have a slice of information that you may wish to cram into you proverbial couplet cave. As a subterranean citizen myself, I am privy to a plentiful selection of facts pertaining to under foot undertakings, and Salem, OR., strangely, is lounging astride of a doozy. You see, long before the European penetration of Salem's ample rump, the land was roamed by the people of the Kalapuya tribe. From grandad Kalapuyan to grandson Kalapuyan, a strange smelling legend was ahanded down. A legend now lost to the Zeitgeist. A legend, although cleansed from human memory, has left an echo in the mantle rocks, an echo only Barnaby's little ears can swallow. A legend of a river. A river that flows beneath the plains. A Brobdingnagian, globulous mass slowly weaving its sticky way under the Kalapuyan's millennia aged hunting grounds. It was said, this lumpy liquid pit was fueled by the bucket loads of hate and discourtesy that, over the centuries, had plagued Kalapuyan society; a porridgey, contempt filled cable. But it seems that this is legend no more. Judging by Argos's ravings, it would appear the river has once again been tapped. A stinky geyser has erupted beneath the very bed box in which the Brut lay their melody riven brain bags. You see, my cyber sweetie, the very 'sausage gravy' with which Mr. Argos has filled his hotel room bath is none other than the concentrated liquid hate the Kalapuyans chronicled those many centuries ago. Each morning, whilst settling down to gobble his"morning hit" he is unknowingly filling his guts with fifteen centuries worth of ill feeling. Sausage gravy is, in fact, part of a huge psychomagnotheric slime flow that's been collecting under the city of Salem.
Don't get me started about the painting in the lobby.
yours with all new cheap moves
Thursday, December 11, 2008
I wish to report on worrying events recently conveyed to me from the newest Brut outpost buried in Salem, OR. Two nights ago in the p.m. the people of this lovely capital bore witness to a feet of popular entertainment never before seen this side of the Warsaw Pact. Three members of our traveling band descended on Salem's Space open mic night for a quiet drink and a hob nob with the local movers and shakers.
Amongst the gaggle of local talent emerged a performance of grandiose pomp and ceremony. With baton down 'rock the mic' Mike on vox pops and Ian 'Hands on Solo' Catskilkin on git box they embarked on a musical journey to the centre of the earth. Throwing the toys out of Weezer's back catalogue, the audience swooned as Catskilkin placed his newly moustachioed lips to the guitar mic in order to vocalise the complex Cuomo guitar solos and Mike crooning and manipulatng the stand like a pole vaulting Axl Rose. Then as quickly as they appeared, the duo faded into the night to cries of "Go on Flight of the Concords!" and several grunts of confusion.
And so, the Oregon oddyssey continues. Each day and night sees the Brut further ingratiate themselves with the local community; throwing down the tracks and building towards Saturday's monumental show in the very same Space. Be there, do that.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
As you are no doubt aware this temperature at depth has become a matter of urgency; my face is, as we speak, a hefty cheese, an arctic porcupine, my whiskers protruding like icy toothpicks crowned with chunks of frozen fruit. We have no warmth. We crowd around a single match, thrusting our toes into the solitary flame; scorching the pads of our leg-ends to at least keep the memory of heat alive. We are cold to the point madness.
Thus, my digital love, I have taken it upon myself to begin a hearth. After many weeks of rummaging in the ashen dirt, I have accumulated enough kindling to keep a flame alive. We have never known such luxury. Indeed, many of the older generation ran in fear at the ignition; their memory of fire having long ago been wiped by this constant, moist blanket of darkness in which we huddle together like a fleshy pile of soiled socks.
Thus, my sweet, we have fire, and where there is fire, there is smoke; a thin, misty stick, ramming its vapourous way into the unwilling rump of the surface world. I have discovered that one may communicate with this greyish thread by placing a blanket over the fiery mound and then removing it sending Morse like signals into the rumoured blue sky above. Using this ingenious technique, I have made contact with our Oregon counterparts and their dot dash tidings have been nothing but the sweetest of news. Our Brutish companions are to play a show! This Saturday, in Salem's own Space, our conquering combo will take the stage to debut new material and drunkeness. I myself have begun to burrow my way through the continental shelf, simply in to catch a glimse of this unique and ground breaking event.
Further to this, I have included an addition to the Talking 'Tache section charting the lip brow cultivation of one infamous guitar plucker. Plus, a selection of visual treats from across the pond. See below for details. Thank you for your time.
A trail of Mike.
Head first in 50's diner.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
I would like to publish a short acknowledgment of Mr. Argos' apology posted recently on his blog apparent. The gentleman has my sincerest respect and I would not wish to provoke any ill feeling between us. However, darling Internet, although I understand your appetite is anything but meager I cannot forgive such an indiscretion. I consider myself truly cuckolded, my net based flower. My honour must be recaptured, my passion reflamed. Thus, I suggest a redoubling of the coordinated assault on your affections through this, my brand new text pit. The irony is not lost on me, my world wide pepper pot, that it was Argos himself whom thrust me onto this heady techno stage, my dear, it is not lost.
yours with fighting spirit
I am delighted to inform that I have received correspondence to confirm the arrival of Johnny Brut and lady in the cool surroundings of Salem, Oregon. They were greeted with open arms by Charles himself and have settled into their designated Comfort box without mishap. As if this was not enough to crank up your digi-loins then here comes the really good bit... recording has begun in earnest with seven winding rivers of pop sensibility already committed to the record machine.
Accompanying this merry news was a single photograph. I am reliably informed it belongs to a series which will follow over the coming days. See below.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
I am delighted to inform the birth was without complication. Cigars for all. Gather round the incubator and admire the pink, wrinkled sack of guts; the latest, special edition welcomed into the Fudge fold. Congratulations! It's a blog. That's right. I have been granted yet another inter-platform from which to love unto you from a great height.
But why? Did I miss a meeting? Are you not satisfied with my amount of love, dearest Internet? Who is clammering for further Fudge? Well, no one. As far as I am aware my correspondence thus far have been largely ignored. Dearest Internet, I have yet to receive a single pen stroke in reply. However, I have been handed word from our benevolent masters above that a blog must be written to coincide with their latest musical outing. I will relay their Oregon trials and tribulations through my new, gaping portal.
So here it is. The beginning of the end. Art brut vs. Satan has begun and I will walk you, hand in digital hand, boldly towards its bloody conclusion. Accept no substitute.