August 2003 - Sinister - missprint.org

Sinister: *another oldie de-lurks*
by Ailsa Watson 17 Sep '03

17 Sep '03

Blimey, it's been a while. Mark has inspired me to write for two reasons. One because he's been banging on about great old folks from Sinister history who never post, and DIDN'T MENTION ME, and secondly because he asked if anyone had a spare standing ticket for the Glasgow gig. Which apparently someone did. As do I. Which means I still have one. Does anyone want it? Mail me off list please, and it will be sorted out (or not if lots of people mail me as I only have one). someone said >In small but significant ways this lot has shaped and moved a bit of the >path I walk now... I'm ever so thankful and bitter. >It couldn't have happened to a more impressionable girl >at the hands of an unforgivably right bunch of kids. >Though I'm nearly 30 now... it doesn't feel old in sinister years-it just >makes me feel experienced. Which is almost exactly how I feel about Sinister. It's given me some of my best memories, my best friends, and it'll always have a place in my heart for that. Even if I don't need it so much any more, it's nice to know it's here. And that it still matters to people. Actually the reason Mark maybe never mentioned me is because I have nothing to say. Sorry. Ailsa xx _________________________________________________________________ Hotmail messages direct to your mobile phone http://www.msn.co.uk/mobile +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: O/T britpop/shoegaze shirt auctions on ebay (ends tomorrow)
by leigh madflowr 31 Aug '03

31 Aug '03

i'm selling some band shirts on ebay as a fundraiser for my upcoming move to chicago. some of the band shirts are britpop/indie/shoegaze. anyway, it'd be nice if you'd at least check them out (and tell a friend), since they end tomorrow: <a href="http://cgi6.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewSellersOtherItems&userid=madflowr…">auctions</a>. ps. sorry for posting to sinister. i realize this has nothing to do with b&s, but i'm just trying to spread the word. thanks so much, leigh _________________________________________________________________ Get MSN 8 and enjoy automatic e-mail virus protection. http://join.msn.com/?page=features/virus +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: You're as pretty as pink lemonade
by Dimitra Daisy 31 Aug '03

31 Aug '03

Dear Sinister, Time is a funny thing. It doesn't wash everything away as some people say it does, no - but the amount of things it does wash away never ceases to amaze me. Somedays my life feels like a beach after the tide was been and gone, but in a brilliant way: I picture stretches of brownish, wet, slightly sparkly sand bathing in the sunset light - there's even a wooden pier with something red and and blue on it (I'm better at imagining colours and I am at shapes, with which I am actually rather hopeless) and the sea is far away, a grey shade of blue. It is appropriately windy and as I walk along the sea with my hands in my pockets and the new Pipas' song in my ears and the world at my feet. There was a time when I swore I would never forget my first love. Sure enough, I haven't - but anything sad concerning him has long ago vanished from my life. There was a time when I admitted to myself -crying in bed at five am- that I don't think I'll ever get over The Boy. It took a very long time, but these days I forget about him more than I remember him. There was a day last October, when I arrived to London having stayed up all night and waited in Prague airport for six hours, and I remember everything about like it was yesterday: the green of the grass underneath the London Eye, the blue skies, the way me & David sat next to each other on the platform in Dorking and started talking as if we had last done it the day before. The way he smoked. The biscuits his mum wanted to feed me. The way we made love for the first time as the sky turned grey. And even though in a way it feels like yesterday, in another it's miles away. And the time we first started Friends of the Heroes - remember how new and innocent we were, and how excited? We thought it was the best thing ever. These days I need to remind myself to think this way. Things change so much. I once sat at the steps that lead to the river in Inverness - on a not-all-that-cold winter evening, on a moment so beautiful it changed my world to something better. It was a bit like Heaven. Today, Heaven looks more like a clubnight in my head. But would it be if Mark hadn't had Tigermilking on my birthday? Would it be if Ken hadn't made me dance? There's a beach somewhere in England that sometimes features in my dreams (I once dreamed there was a Sarah Records festival taking place on it); and it is yet another place I would never have known had it not been for Sinister (and for me being a little crazy, too). And that night train - from Paris to Bordeaux, I think it was - do you remember the lights of suburban Paris blurring by while we talked about The List? I do. And I remember the thrill of it all. And that spring, four and a half years ago, when I first took Belle and Sebastian home: how they warmed my heart and made the world a brighter place and life more poetic. And how months went by, even years, and they still seemed the best thing ever: I thought it would never end. Sinister was a close second: do you remember the time you first discovered you're not alone, because there are loads of other people like you out there? I do - and I remember a September two years ago when Sinister was what made my world go round. But things change. Life puts too much stuff between where you were and were you are now. Where you were loses significance to where you are because were you are is always more, just because it's the present. I call this force metaphorical gravity and I find it quite an uplifting thing, really: when everything goes wrong and it seems impossible that things will ever get better you can trust that they will change with time. Listening to The Band on KCRW the other day, I found myself almost getting bored. I mean, sure, they can play, and Scooby Driver is such a brilliant song, and I love it so much when Stuart and Stevie sing together - but that's not the sort of music that will break my heart and change my life anymore. I sat there making a list of all the albums I'm looking forward more that Dear Catastrophe Waitress, and I found there were at least three, maybe four, or maybe even five of them. And I forget to look into my 'Sinister' folder half the time. Whenever I think of Sinister I invariably think of something Ally Cook had said -on the only ILE thread I've ever read; it was along the lines of "I don't seem to have much time for it lately, but it's only because of the other directions it has sent me off in" and it sums my feelings up perfectly. But don't worry. Belle and Sebastian might not be the band that breaks my heart into a million beautiful pieces and then glues it back together in a better way anymore, but there are new bands to do it. They might not be as good but they are just as wonderful. My life might not revolve around Sinister anymore, and it is better this way, too. But a post by Ally Cook or the Pinefox, or Anders for that matter, has never failed to make smile and as the KCRW set was closing to an end and Stuart launched into 'The State I An In' my heart jumped and tears came to my eyes. Some things never age. Life washes away most everything but good things never fade away. Indeed I think they stay with you forever and keep you company through gloomy winters and dark nights. All I'm trying to say is I'm happy and I have you to thank for it, mostly. No, seriously. Shine on, Dimitra Daisy xxx ~~~~~ Getting this happy takes practice - the world would be duller without us http://www.friendsoftheheroes.co.uk/ _________________________________________________________________ Help STOP SPAM with the new MSN 8 and get 2 months FREE* http://join.msn.com/?page=features/junkmail +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: new york catcher
by ajpiano＠aol.com 31 Aug '03

31 Aug '03

Dear Sinister, What a terrible way to make my first post. I've spent six months now on this list, and despite all the poetics and civil war, I was not inspired. What, then, could compel me to make a post to Sinister after all this time? A baseball statistic. There is no way that Mike Piazza has hit 1690 career home runs. The record for home runs in a career is 755, held by Hank Aaron. If Piazza had hit 1690 home runs, he would have needed to average 141 home runs a season thus far. He has averaged 30. He has hit 358. I can not be so conclusive about his sexuality. --adam +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: Free jazz blender solo
by Sam Walton 31 Aug '03

31 Aug '03

Hello Sinister. Things always go a bit strange on The List around August, doncha think? For me, August always brings back memories of P*ter C*rter or the A*gel Bl*ckw*ell stirring things up, with regard to Sinister at least. Perhaps it's just the heat. Of course, it might not have been August at all - that's just how I remember it. I must say that I'm very much enjoying Robin's previews of the new album. I have also heard a rumour that if you play Travelling Light backwards, you can clearly hear Stuart David saying "I smell of wee... I smell of wee". It's true, too, y'know; the rumour that is, not the statement. But look out for it - it's just after the free jazz blender solo in 17/8 time. In maybe more substantiated album news, I found this, http://bigleaguers.yahoo.com/mlb/players/4928/, which looks suspiciously like the inspiration behind track seven. He's clearly a looker, too: http://sports.yahoo.com/mlb/photo?slug=1061781154.mets_dodgers_lad106&prov=…. However, being the slight sports nerd that I am, I noticed that his batting stats documented 1690 career homers, which sounds pretty impressive for a catcher to me. I mean, I'd be happy with that, for sure. But can anyone who's more au fait with baseball averages help me out? Anyway, lazing on a Sunday afternoon-ah is all very well, but it won't get the dinner cooked now, will it? No, it won't. How did the bank holiday picnic go, anyone? love Asm.x ================================ "He's strictly a pain in the ass, but he certainly has a good vocabulary" - Holden Caulfield _________________________________________________________________ Find a cheaper internet access deal - choose one to suit you. http://www.msn.co.uk/internetaccess +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: We'll Be Thrown Out Of The Boozer
by P F 30 Aug '03

30 Aug '03

Break a high note on wine pastilles: the first of too many sweets. By the time we reach O�Connell Street they�re nearly all gone. I had forgotten the absurdity of buses that have refused to give change, but don�t refuse to take excess cash. Myles would have had a field day, possibly an anthology. The road through Drumcondra lined with takeaways and pubs, not much like a motorway. On O�Connell Street a top-deck Christian silently reminds me of Belle & Sebastian (Christians seem to begin to do this), then kindly gives me some directions I don�t need. � Thanks, mate, I say, as English as possible. I wonder how and why the ring of land around O�Connell Bridge is preserved as it is: coloured walls, perpetual adverts for Guinness and Bailey�s stretching beyond vision�s limits into past and future, like a couple of native firms have bought the place for ever. The Vicar reckons Paul Morley�s writing is grotesque, unprecedented, bizarre and unfortunate. St Michan�s 1000-year-old watchtower. In the quiet cemetery behind it something makes me think of U2, and what difference they brought to pop�s vision over 20 years ago: how unusual it was, for instance, to be photographed on the Dublin docks. Inside the Ten Commandments hang either side of the altar. These make me think. Some feel unfamiliar; and their wording is strongly rooted in 2000-year-old circumstances. Religion as a community talking to itself; the skyward appeal as a red herring. Collins Barracks. Swords to ploughshares and gunpowder to cappuccinos. Spanish Armada cannon, a Samurai�s armour, Atlantic cables, cream salvers, sugar bowls. Coins circulate, medals move only once. Black and Tan awards for veterans of the War of Independence. Internee camp tokens, coins stamped UVF or IRA a la Tristero. How WBY�s committee specified animals to be on the coins: different artists took up the challenge, one succeeded in all categories though the judges expected various names to win. Salmon, wolfhound, ox, horse. Lady Lavery as Cathleen ni Houlihan, ploughman and horses at sunset. Notes Kavanagh would have tendered in the Bailey. A reflection on acceleration: in modern human history inventions get perfected, then rapidly superseded. Banknotes are relatively recent in Ireland, but already, this exhibition tells us, much money is virtual. Rick�s Burgers are real and fresh � it�s true. A recurring type: the generic middle-aged working man in a shirt and tie, behind a museum desk or standing at an entrance, ready to advise on what to see and how to go places. This one tells me urgently to visit the military exhibit upstairs: the Wild Geese. Touched I ascend Portraits, costumes, an Austrian diaspora. In torchlight dun costumes, sabres glinting. With a goblet of wine he toasts foreign compeers. Even a thesaurus is scant help at this game. The Lord Edward feels like an old English pub, save that the barman says �Lovely� to a simple order and brings a pint over minutes later. Goodness, it�s a long time since I�ve talked about Tales From The Black Freighter. We can hardly remember what it all meant. Allegory�s starting to happen. Green quads and lawns, buildings� obscure and particular names, dripping trees, old and new libraries. But for once the real new thing: plastic floors, the scent of cheap coffee, a milling crowd for a scientific conference on The Tree of Life, a lecture theatre slowly casually starting to fill. It sweetly feels like 10 years ago. Up concrete stairs the edge of the English Department: between breeze-blocks, face to face doors behind which lurk imaginary growls and stale alcoholic smells. Rain falls on scuba-divers, absent cricketers, the natural history department with its turbine models and its great boneframe. How does the poem go? � They�ve taken the skeleton Of the Great Irish Elk Out of the peat, set it up An astounding crate of air. In Nassau Street the Irish Tom Jones sings. It�s groovy, I admit. The rain grows farcical. The heavy, overripe Mars Bar: mystery of its hegemony. Over fried platters on a traffic island selected characters from �Manic Mungo� make a comeback in transient air. Chuck out the rhino. Lemon platt, sugarsticky strawberry books. The Burton is no longer visible, and I doubt that it became the Bailey as they vaguely claim. The first ten years� editions are surprisingly readable and elegant, spaciously printed between the blue covers. �1200. To you, a chara, �1600. Mutely crave to adore. In the pricey mall the way people waste money�s visible. Decorated cows, Irish bulls. George Street South: North to Dame Street, West again up Lord Edward Street, Christchurch, High Street, Thomas Street West: into an old Dublin of cheap shops, butchers, stallholders urging purchases on you, big fellows in footy colours. The Guinness Hopstore has improved beyond measure in a dozen years: discarding information and education and transforming itself to a high-rolling megastore, its vast lettering and bullish promotion of the brand is enough to persuade even a sceptic like me to try the stuff. One missing ingredient is in the air all around you: Arthur Guinness. It�s thrue what that man�s afther sayin. High air at Dublin bar: tourists sprawl across the crowded floor round the central ring which knocks out pint after pint from next door. All around through glass environs: from the Phoenix Park to the Pigeon House and the mountains, via Collins Barracks, the Spire, Customs House and Four Courts, distant blocks of flats, the real Barrytown. I don�t know why it moves me so. Grand Canal Dock the local Canary Wharf. Why always a dock or a wharf? Dun Laoghaire a dominion unto itself: the serenity of the sea, the motion of the roads. How Ireland never had� Indie. The Malaysians remind me of minimalist pop artists. Bells, drums, dancers; their final collective vocalisation is overwhelming. At the interval, a view of the changing dark blues of the evening over the sea, over Howth to which, to where, I did not yet make it. The Royal Marine Hotel swings at the heart of a labyrinth unsignalled on the blithely encouraging map. Inside a very merely average folk band plays. The best thing I can hear about them is the snare beat regularly laid by the drummer who looks like he hails from Roy Keane�s Cork estate or demesne. People should use that beat more, I think. Where have I heard it before? Oh: �Queen of the New Year�. Better fun though are the tough geezers of the audience. A fat fellow we imagine to be a Morris dancer groupie, his Umbro top seeming to proclaim Englishness, does the worst, perhaps the least energetic, dancing I have ever seen. � Duelling banjos! he cries. � Duelling banjos! A shudder of promise as he brushes insouciantly past a tough biker. The showdown shudderingly promised does not quite arrive. The Dublin Spire�s only feature is its great height. If hired for big bucks or exuberant euros to defend its virtues I�d struggle. At the world party Dublin Gurus loudly sing. I think of GLC festivals of twenty years ago. Immigrant children have captioned their pictures. � Brown is my favourite colour because I am brown. The best is a rockist 11-year-old: � My picture speaks. There are no words. It�s all about the music. The music is different wherever you go. Some busker plays simple variations on a D that catch me. Somehow we eschew the cr�pes of the French stalls. On the East Pier look south to Sandycove: a fellow in shades joins the debate about whether we�re looking at Dalkey. A familiar figure approaches. He doesn�t just dress like �Spider-Man� � he moves like �Spider-Man�. It can�t be � but� he *is* �Spider-Man�! He bids me strike a webcasting pose. � Thanks, �Spider-Man�! � No problem. The sea is blue: white yachts, a stationary tanker, the quickly turning sea-cat. How does the novella go? � A large quadruped had arisen and was now standing in the midst of the rocks, spewing showers of putrid stench around it. At first I thought that an exceedingly bulky seal stood before me but later the four feet denied this. Then, the dull sheen in the sky increased slightly and I saw that a great strong hairy object was in my company that night, grey-haired and with prickly red eyes, staring at me angrily. I think that was a different sea-cat. Like one-off performers from Robin of Sherwood, Morris dancers arrive from the Welsh border, masked in blackface, ribboned red and yellow, a different animal rampant on each one�s back. Rabbit, tiger, Nick Park�s sheep. The ringleader reminds me obscurely of Hopkins: perhaps I am imagining him drinking real ale in a pub over the eastern sea. A great black bull walks around the edge of the crowd, near-silent, lending enigmatic weight to the rest. The Vicar calls him �friendly / threatening�, covering most bases. In Pearse�s airy hall of orange brick and green metal the pink-numbered hen girls wait to move. The chime of the 6 o�clock city tolls down Dame Street, glimmering in the sun like a great avenue of Glasgow. Amid the central hotel�s books the birthday women wear boas. An English builder calls from his Chinese table to assure us that Cherie Blair�s Beatles performance was no figment of the media�s imagination. A bone of contention: Morrissey and Siouxsie�s �Interlude�. Like the incredulous Vicar, I think it a record so poor that I cannot even remember how it goes: but I give it a listen back home. I think the surprising problem is that after 10 or 15 years in pop to neither of them seems to come the great idea of � harmony. The Brazen Head reputed oldest pub in town beckons youth to its doors. Beyond the warm courtyard a girl looking like Britney Spears offers her friends� favours to reluctant Brits. I don�t fathom the reluctance. Under Robert Emmet one t only and other memorabilia we remember how the Mission�s �Butterfly on a Wheel� announced the tomorrow�s whirl of the 1990s. Time for the Dublin Guru. Birdland were big in Japan: Power of Dreams were more like the House of Love than I ever knew: Kylie Minogue has only had two good songs. I don�t know about that: I don�t even like all of �CGYOOMH�, after the first few instrumental bars are through. The mystery of the geezer: like Scotland Ireland lacks them, or will not divulge its own word for the phenomenon. I am reminded that most of the time I say Geezer I mean Geezthete, in the Nipper�s strict sense. In the Clarence multicoloured lights flash like the Edge is in town, or the original Dirty Vicar is jockeying for discs. In the Jervis Centre an inspiring pop record bids my blood take the plunge and buy a bag of pick & mix sweets. Fizzy cola bottles, sweet teeth, red lips, white mice. Yesterday�s goals sound unbelievable. Big Country get their first run-out in long years I�ll wager. This Sporting Life has the atmosphere and iconography, but its motivations are obscure; clouds across the moon. The tour guides drum into us the answer to Wilde�s favourite topics: �art and aesthetics�. I am surprised: I�d have expected some slack comic mileage in the cheap answer �himself�. White waves lap water�s edges; towns pass and I wonder if one is Skerries. The countryside beats England�s hands down, all fear and no favour. Dundalk: the text says avoid it, a Wild West town, dead when not deadly. The border nears, a strange buzz: this momentous little country of many names; going abroad, yet also coming back to my own� Kingdom. I will spare you excessive details of the public toilets of the station: their striking modernity and elegant blue tiles. How does the guidebook go? � To look at, it is a wholly English creation of the Victorian period � a parody, almost, of the great industrial cities of the English Midlands and North, and once their great rival. I marvel at that sentence: its compression, ambivalence, suggestiveness. The cashpoint feeds me Northern notes which silly London will not take. The mountains, like Sheffield�s, are visible beyond the streets. Victoria looking Northwest, the Titanic memorial. Grandeur, heavy stone building; local cult of strength. Further North a pub called the Hercules. No Antaeus. Provincial street furniture, Aberdeen to Bath: bus stops and bins, amid the old stone. Another genial generic mid-aged man gives interminable advice about the best way into the West. The religious d�cor reminds me again of Belle & Sebastian and their fascination with characters from the Bible. The Cornmarket shows no signs of the youth cults the guide predicts. Bandstand, telephone boxes, life going round. The Crown is maybe the most spectacular pub I have ever seen: gold, silver, many colours shining in and out. Into a booked snug drift the television�s football voices. The south is almost like Cambridge: brick buildings, leafy squares and roads, an anarchy symbol painted on the pillar outside Queens� granite outpost. The Botanic Gardens are worthy of a sinister picnic: in fact they put me in mind of Kelvingrove. The Ulster Museum weirdly bolts concrete on to granite: for a few yards it convinces. 30 minutes to see its impossible cornucopia: Belfast painters, Irish cretaceous dinosaurs. Outside a computer programmer reads me �The Song of Wandering Aengus�. Sandy Row�s kerbstones run red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red white blue white red, bunting flaps diagonals all down the street, union flags fly from pubs and in crude paint adorn the lids of bins. London�s Jubilees have nothing on, and little to do with, this. An old familiar irony: these colours mean so much more to them than to us. The road�s hyperbole bespeaks my nation, but leaves me an outsider. So much talk of union flags � from Townshend to Morrissey, Weller to Gallagher and even (I see on the Pops when I return) the feeble-sounding Libertines � has focused on London, on �Englishness�, on �racism�. To break open those debates, walk this pavement: the colours mean something different, and London is a long way away. We distant listeners never really understand what�s meant about these roads: how they relate, how a road itself can have such significance. As I near the Falls I feel the intensity of a geographical encounter finally about to happen. It�s traversed by the shared taxis but not the army patrols promised by the dated Guide; the tricolour flies from roofs, every other gable is painted with elaborate faces. I fear reprisals for no offence. At least if a republican pins me to a wall I can reel off the names of his people�s heroes: less conviction to offer the loyalists. Children play in green Irish footy shirts, throw stones at a young woman walking home from dull work. Around these few square miles so much energy and worry has been spent. Strange isolation of the place, a town to itself. On the walls IRA has been updated to CIRA. So much for taking the nationalist community with you. But then, for whom does the street art speak? There must be many who grow among it resenting and resisting. Above Milltown Cemetery the mountains brood. At the hill�s foot in a sporting cage women practice� football. Irish football. Through a window Cary Grant in Bringing Up Baby plays on someone�s TV. British TV. Sky TV. Outside the takeaways boys wear red and white striped shirts. I can�t believe they�re all Sunderland fans. Outside a pub a crowd I can�t bypass. A crouching male waves something at me, crying: � Pot noodles! Pot noodles! The rest of the gang jeers and sneers as I pass. I am not even wearing my Arthur Griffith T-shirt. Returning to Connolly, west along streets that suddenly feel comically safe, seeing the silly Spire down the road, feels like a sort of homecoming. I pass Joyce, go up and touch him on the arm, like he�s after all a truer symbol of this place than many have reckoned or dared sentimentally admit. Camden Street: the Palace Ballroom. No, no, notorious. Synge Street: I see (where) Shaw�s framed letters, albeit uncleared by my office, have been after making a wall hilarious. � You have a right to public support, but not to steal another man�s job by offering to do it for nothing. If you do not realize this you are a fool, if you do and persist then you are a blackguard. Underused word blackguard is. The garden with its jakes puts me in mind of Eccles Street. Out the top floor window: the world, the tape says, that Shaw would take by storm. The Irish Jewish Museum�s garrulous staff, maybe annoyed that I�m not seeking my roots, chat in the hall, argue with a traffic warden. Howth�s harbour a picture: stunning sea, fishing fleet, smell of fresh herring, Ireland�s Eye offshore, the standard-issue Martello Tower up on the cliffs. >From Beshoff�s Italian girls buy chips for one cent less than advertised price, take them up the hill, marvelling at blue sea and white breakers. Inland, the hill seems to rise forever, like something from a fantasy game book. The rough guide is apt again: - a sleepy, suburban place full of steep streets and sudden views. Back at the harbour Blue Sea ice cream like the cream sea that is blue in the harbour. The radio flicks on �Take It Easy�. It sounds more inspiring than it did in that Glasgow steakhouse on a rainy day. � It�s a girl! � my lord: with a flat-black Ford. I can�t believe how good it sounds; I can�t walk out of this place till the easily taken guitar solo�s through. Belle & Sebastian, yes, one more time. The B&S song challenge is fuelled by a dangerous few bottles. I don�t really buy the Vicar�s enthusiasm for �Jonathan David�, but it does have some kind of� growing urgency. �Middle Distance Runner�: their best song, says the Vicar, class of 99, even *this* version. I think the lead acoustic is mixed too prominently. But he has a point somewhere. I have never been quite sure what else is wrong with this version. �Modern Rock Song�: the folly continues. This was mediocre as a radio session, mediocre as a 45, is still mediocre a surprising five years on. �I�m Waking Up To Us� is probably their most underrated record: a record that shows that late B&S can be� good. The title track has such structure, drama, diversity, style, quality of arrangement, pacing; �Marx and Engels�� genius we already know. Its overlapping vocals do as much for me as almost anything else on any B&S record I can think of. Sun pours on a string quartet below Bewley�s. Grafton Street has such a range of busking quality: the real thing, like this, sounding so good I�d thought it was a record; but then also, sentries in alcoves up and down the road, the unbearable freckle-faced mugs of keening whining boys, an army of drownable chancers that replenishes itself year on year. In the Chester Beatty Library ponder again the history of world religion. Papyrus scraps of the Bible, tiny comic meditating figures from the Far East. In the curator�s prose all Buddhisms come to the same thing. � Through meditation, self-discipline and thoughtfulness for others, it is possible to reach Enlightenment. In a basement your man funds half my steak sandwich, an astoundingly substantial lunch. Debbie Gibson�s �Electric Youth� sounds so good I first think it must be a calculated retroaction. Your man recounts lengthily a weird plan to write an appreciative essay on Robbie Williams� desire to be a serious songwriter. � Son, I want to say kindly: don�t bother! Taxi past green fields rougher than Heathrow or Stansted�s modernized plains: within seconds of take-off the country recedes breathtakingly. The Pigeon House, the DART line past mud flats through Sutton: Howth an astounding model village, its fishy harbour and tower newly framed. Within 15 minutes the brown rocks of the coast of England. But England � who cares about England? __________________________________ Do you Yahoo!? Yahoo! SiteBuilder - Free, easy-to-use web site design software http://sitebuilder.yahoo.com +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: Astrid has left the building
by a.s.t.r.i.d＠nme.com 30 Aug '03

30 Aug '03

Hi y'all, this will be ny last post because i simply do not have access to a computer that actually functions that often, since are school computers are fucked, i don't have internet at home anymore and the library is a scary place (i am in serious debt to them so i don't enjoy spending time there anymore) and the posts are coming in with such speed that i simply do not have the time to read them all my darlings. I'm sorry. Sinister has been a lovely place to be, and i was swept off my feet when i first joined, when i was fifteen. Now, I'm seventeen, and i am not young and foolish anymore. (...) But I still do love you all for being so lovely and nice and funny all the time, especially during the times when i'm not. So, er, thank you all. You are great. Even all those lurkers who never post. And please, if there's anyone who'd like to keep up the e-mailing or something please e-mail me off list, I love the list but you lot write so much that my inbox gets filled so very quickly all the time. But please. There are tons of people that i'd love to keep writing to... so... anyone interested? And one last thing: I'm going to Miami for ten days in April and I was wondering if anyone lives there and knows if there are any cool places to go (like record shops or some vintage clothes shop or something. no bars though because we really are underage and our parents are coming so it's not exactly the best circumstances for trying to get in someplace) PLEASE e-mail me offlist. And finally. I will miss you. Sinister is the best, especially for people who most of the times are as confused as I am. And one more thing: Sorry for being such a spoilt little drama queen sometimes. I know I have been so no polite "Oh but really Astrid, you are lying!" because I am good at being melodramatic, but I'm working on it. So goodbye all the people out there. Have nice lives. Fall in love a lot. Listen to lots of music, like Damien Rice. Be happy. Don't worry too much. Things will get better. Lots of sentimental and emotional kisses and hugs Astrid xxxxxx P.S. Fuck. I've become so dramatic and sentimental it is silly. Maybe I'm finally twee. --------------------------------------------------- Who would you rather be - Ted Danson or Kevin Costner? Fab: Who the fuck is Ted Dancer? Ted Danson. Fab: Oh, Danson. Nick: I think Ted Danson wears a toupee. ______________________________________________________________ For up-to-the-minute music news, reviews and specials visit http://www.nme.com Get free e-mail (anyname(a)nme.com) now at http://www.nmemail.com The sender of this e-mail is NOT an employee or associate of NME, nme.com or any other IPC magazine. +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: The Unprecedented Second Post This Year. Hold onto your DICKSAW.
by pugmunch＠juno.com 30 Aug '03

30 Aug '03

Dear Castastrophe Sinisterines, So, Fey is the New Twee, is it? Rather in the same frame that Quiet was Once the New Loud. I like it. I also like subtly kinky headings; "tit for tat" is as alluring a cliche as one could hope for in that distinction. Dear Kevin! And, while I'm grateful that someone will be testing the soil content at the Great Mid-Atlantic Pic-a-nic, I *was* rather hoping for some basic topographical data (i.e. mica? feldspar?), as well as a general idea of where the isobars are, and how close together they could possibly come. The only thing more titillating (ha) than that would a thorough report be the level of barometric pressure. But, God, could I handle it? There's nothing sexier than barometric pressure! In other news, in reaching new levels of boredom and post-show anti-climax yesterday, I googled our beloved band and actually came up with a story covering the LA show on MSNBC. Holy Cow! You can imagine my shock. It was buried on the fourth page, and if you're interested, go here: http://www.msnbc.com/news/957261.asp?cp1=1 Bouncy fun, eh? I'm getting a clear and vivid image of legions of pasty-faced devotees jumping on beds and trampolines to Mayfly. Maybe some cavalier soul grabs some shakers or castanets and throws down a hearty "Wandering Alone!" I would pay to see that! And that's about all. I was simply inspired by Mr. Hyde. Sini-LOVE, Shannon. +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: titular for tatular + twee can be free
by Kevin Hyde 30 Aug '03

30 Aug '03

Hi sinisterines and -ettes, Even though I suffer from subheading anxiety, I'm going to dip my big toe in the informative caps-lock marquee pool and give it a whirl, since it seems to help with coherence in post. COVER ART AND WHAT TO CALL IT Amazon versus, um...the other one (oh, MTV, right). Well, I wanted to say this pretty much right away, but the cover pictured on Amazon displays the Catastrophe Waitress (I'm guessing that girl is the title chick) in such a nice and alluring way. If forced to admit it, I'd say the CW is probably the most attractive B&S filtered-light cover lady. Ever. I mean, heck, what guy doesn't love the hell out of the Tigermilk girl (what's her name- Ciara or something?), but c'mon. Messed-up dark hair? Drawstring pants? The CW is hot-a-tot-tot. The cover on Amazon is just all sorts of orange-y good. So. What were the choices for the Sinisterization of the title? DICKWIPE vs. DICKWANK? Something like that, I think. Well, OK. I'm not sure I like either of those (at least not as much as I liked TWATTYBUS and FISHYCLAP) enough to say them all the time, and since the only rules I can extrapolate from those examples are that you indiscriminately insert letters into the abbreviation of the actual title (sort of willy-nilly, like vowels in hieroglyphics), I think I'll start calling "Dear Catastrophe Waitress" DICKSAW. A useful tool, this DICKSAW. All the rage for aspiring eunuchs and disgruntled wives. And it's just good old-fashioned pop music, people. Pure pop. Like you couldn't get it this untainted if you were to mainline granulated Britney Spears CDs. OH MAN ANOTHER *$%#ING THING ABOUT THE MIDDLE OF THE ATLANTIC PICNIC, WHEN WILL THE TERROR OF THIS EVENT STOP, IT'S AS IF THESE KIDS NEVER HAD BEEN OUTSIDE IN THEIR LIVES AND ARE NOW JUST DISCOVERING HOW TO MANIPULATE OBJECTS WITH THEIR ROUGH MOTOR SKILLS AND CRUDE THOUGHT PATTERNS. I'm looking forward to it pretty hard, I have to say. Work has been wearing me down, and I just completed a lengthy move from one end of town to the other (which I'm going to say right now that moving within a town is maybe more stressful than moving a long distance. Just think- with the long distance, you can feel justified in getting a big truck from U-Haul or Ryder or whatever and just pitching stuff into the hold in the back. But with the short move, it's all do-it-yourself. And that sucks.) and am right now enjoying possibly the best glass of iced tea in my life. But yeah, D.C. picnic'll be hella tight. And oh, I think we're all 7 or 9 of us planning to report back about it in extreme detail. I believe Kim's responsible for gathering the meteorological data for the picnic day, and I'll be drilling cores to get the pH of the soil and constructing a hydrological chart of the groundwater, within a 12 mile radius. I wouldn't want anyone to think we do our picnics half-assed here. Oh no, baby. I ALMOST WENT ON AN ILL-ADVISED RANT ABOUT 'TWEE' AND THE ROLE OF LABELS IN LINGUISTICS AND LANGUAGE, BUT THEN REMEMBERED THAT PEOPLE WOULD PROBABLY RATHER HAVE INTERCOURSE WITH A RUSTY RAKE THAN READ THAT. Twee. The only thing I've ever posted about it was confusion over the phrase 'twee as fuck', which I overheard in a record store once, and then waxed idiotically about on Sinister, only to have someone kindly point out that Hello Kitty vibrators do in fact exist. Which is the story of my life. But good discussion all around, I thought. Um, until the very end there where it got a little intense. Twee isn't used so much over here (in the U.S.) as much as 'fey' is, and even that isn't that often. Not that I want to start a fey debate. BELLE AND SEBASTIAN IS TOTALLY FEY, OMG!! IF YOU DON'T SEE THAT THEN YOU OBVIOUSLY LACK EITHER TYMPANIC MEMBRANES OR ARE JUST SUFFERING FROM A BRAIN PARASITE, RIBENA FOREVER!! etc. Not sure where I'm going with this. Hmm. Girl on the cover of DCW sure is hot though, wow. ONCE WHILE DRIVING BACK HOME, I STOPPED AT A LIGHT ALONGSIDE A CAR THAT WAS DRIVEN BY A MAN IN A CLOWN SUIT. DID I MENTION THIS WAS AT NIGHT? AND I WAS ALONE? Anyway. Just wanted to agree with G.Jay about the weirdness and horrible design flaws in exit ramps that also serve as on-ramps. Do they want people to die, as some sort of population control? I fail to understand how the advantages for having these would overcome the sheer volume of death that must be created each year. Also, I fit a twin-size mattress in my car yesterday, and I would like everyone to know that doing so is probably the exact same experience as mud-wrestling with a lethargic hippopotamus. Which is to say, awesome. These were a recipe for disaster, Take care, Kevin +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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Sinister: Stuart Playing Football in S.F. This Sunday?
by Ian Rivamonte 29 Aug '03

29 Aug '03

I read at the B&S website that Stuart wants to play football with the kids at Golden Gate Park in S.F. this Sunday before he leaves the U.S. I e-mailed Banchory offering my services so if I do get chosen as the coordinator, everyone in the Bay Area Sinister circle must play football! Of course, I will forward any info to this list. Alternatively, if you were chosen as the football coordinator, can you fill us in on where and when? Cheers, Ian +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister(a)missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo(a)missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+

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