Bass in your Space

Dearest Internet

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.

yours reportage

Barnaby Fudge

Smoke if you got em'

Dearest Internet

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.



yours cozily

Barnaby Fudge

A Short Acknowledement

Dearest Internet

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

Barnaby Fudge

Safe and Sound in a River of Creative Juices

Dearest Internet

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.

yours beardily

Barnaby Fudge

A Storm is Brewing... We Best Hurry

Dearest Internet

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.

yours parentally

Barnaby Fudge