Ignorance and needing more underwear.

I started writing posts for this blog space with the aim of writing one article a day about things that I’ve been thinking about too much to think about anymore and stuff that I’ve written songs about under the moniker ‘cynics’. Breathe in…!
I figured that if I was going to start writing a blog, it was always going to trail off at some point. So to put in the maximum point on the gauge would be to write once a day.

For the most part, I haven’t carried out this goal. I’m a busy dude who hangs out with everyone worth hanging out.
There’s a self-righteously ignorant excuse fit for me. And Kieran (hi Kieran, reader of this).


This weekend I went to Sheffield to party, puke in a robe ‘n’ pants wearer’s university dorm room and see some bands.
Last night, wannabe punk Sam Russo played in Brighton and stayed round mine with his dudes-of-friends from his town. Kevin Seconds, the dude playing last, was real late to the show so I ended up playing a few songs to fill the gap. I was briefly introduced to a lean, long necked guy called James Bean. He was a bottle load of fun.

We walked the long way home along the shore back to mine and sat down to do our best impressions of a punk rock jukebox on the way.


Calvinball, A,IHN and I in Southampton.

Nearly two months ago a guy who I’d hung out with a few times who shared my love with the first two Saves The Day records (plus ‘Jessie & My Whetstone’ to no end) was involved in a car crash.
His lungs were filled with blood and he broke everything from his waist downwards. He’s been in a coma for most of those two months.

Today was the first I’d heard from him since a few weeks before the accident. He’s making a full recovery and he’s going to be fine. I cannot gauge how happy I am for Liam’s parents, his sister and everyone around him.

In a bit.

The last ever Steal show was

fun.

Trumpets, Mitch Clem and Rockstars

It always bewilders me when people think that just because a band tours, they’re ‘big'. What does that even mean?
I used to play trumpet and be exempt from singing in a ska punk band (we were going to write the next ‘Shoes’, I’m telling you), who, for a band full of late teens with better things to do, played a lot of shows and went on tour a couple of times more than we should have.
Our friends still ask us “how did you get so many shows?” and “how did you get to play a festival in Prague that Mad Caddies headlined at?”.
The answer’s simple: you don’t ask, you don’t get.

I have friends who are in great bands which write songs leagues above anything we ever wrote, but they feel that by asking a promoter/whoever to put them on this or that show, they're ‘selling themselves’. Avoiding the ‘should we sell punk rock music?’ nuclear explosion, I respect that way of looking at the whole deal. It’s just up to why you’re in the band in the first place. And if you don’t know that, then maybe you should find in yourself a reason to be in a band and start a new one.


Strip by Mitch Clem

My constitution about anything music related is this:

- Travel. You don’t need to be good to tour. You don’t need to be good to tour. You don’t need to be good to tour.
Put in the effort and get the hell out of your town. You lose money, but if you weren’t losing it on something you believe in then you’d be losing it at your local JD Wetherspoons (there's a good story about the company for another post) with all your old school mates who you don't even like all that much.

- Don’t play ‘the game’. If you hear that there’s going to be an agent/label/music entrepreneur genius at your show, don’t act or play how you think they’d want you to be like. Not only does it make you have a shit time trying to fit your big ol' square body into a tiny triangular hole, but if anyone’s ever going to come into your band’s life, it’ll come naturally without any try-hard masks.

- Don’t think too far in advance. Cross out your 5 year plan and tear it up. Big things can happen in the smallest amount of time. And that could be your singer going to university. It can go the opposite way aswell. Punk rock isn’t gonna start accommodating a whole load of career prospects, and even those on cool record labels have to work shitty jobs to pay the rent. It took me a while to get it into my head, but some of my favourite bands like Jawbreaker, Kid Dynamite, Lightyear… they never got so much as petrol money and a plate of food throughout their late years.
And when people saw those dudes at their shows, they would say “go on mate, buy us a drink, will ya Mr Rockstar?”.

To totally contradict my pointing out of FT's contradiction in my previous post, the line "there are no such things as rockstars, there are just people that play music" is very true. At least in my world.

It’s a morbid thought that a group of people have jeopardised their working lives to write records that have shaped some of the most financially stable employees in the world.

In a bit.

Green Labour?

This Sunday at midday, this is happening outside the Brighton Centre.

It seems that a lot of the time, the people who are hearing politicians speak know more about what they're hearing than the speaker does.

If you believe this kind of thing and want to learn about what you're living, come down.

In a bit.

Punx, Posi and Menthol Filters

It’s an everlasting irony for me (or anyone that goes to punk rock shows regularly) that the first people to jump up and let everyone know they’re ‘punk’ are those who have tartan trousers, leather jackets and mohawks. Those that take ket before a show so they can live that Sex Pistols fucked-up-dream, mannn.
I mean at least for a couple months before they go into a job in the army.

I find them pretty easy to ignore, but they’re like hungry puppies; you’ll give them a little bit of attention and they’ll keep on coming back for more. Over, over and over again.
Bone. Fucking. Heads.

But there are also loads people who are status quo – they’re there for a good time and if that means a load of beers, high-fiving and stagediving, then that’s what they’ll do. I guarantee those people are the kind that'll be first to apologise if they accidentally body-check you or spill a drink.

I’ve been trying to think what it is that punk rock means to me. Other than stringing words together like 'friends', 'high-fives' and 'doing things in your own front room with your own resources', I’ve having a pretty hard time with it.
So I’ve made it easier for myself and picked out one period of time which epitomises the whole deal for me.

It was earlier this summer when I played a show last minute in Streatham, South London, with a bunch of my favourite bands in the UK right now: Bangers, Our Time Down Here and The Arteries.
The show was an all-dayer and 5 non-band people were there when I played at 2pm. That was the head count until about 10pm.

After the show I got the train back to my friend Steve’s house in Kingston.
The next morning, speculation of The Arteries and Bangers playing in Steve’s bedroom in a family friendly (and I mean friendly… there was a posh lift and flowerpots everywhere) block of flats solidified.
When The Arteries’ van turned up, a human conveyer-belt was made up to Steve’s room on the 4th floor before the TV, sofa and his entire record collection was moved aside to make room for the borrowed PA and a backline.

The room-show lasted about 20 minutes with both bands playing only a couple of songs each, but in that twenty times 60 seconds I had one the funnest times ever. Everyone attending or participating put a hand in to help out with gear, including Banquet Records with the PA. Nobody slacked, nobody complained. Every second was a blast.







Right now, at this present moment, that’s what I think of when Frank Turner sings “punk rock didn’t live up to what I thought it could be” (ironic, huh) and when bonehead ‘punx’ ruin my night.
Right now, that’s what punk rock means to me.
Just right now.



Fuck you, T-Mobile Fair Use Policy. I need Mock The Week.

In a bit.

Salvation will come and Nothing (ggggg).

Kieran just reminded me how much of a good time that tour with Tim Vantol was. I know "a good time" is pretty ambiguous and doesn't really explain anything at all, but it's now 3am and I've been around bars since 6pm this evening. I am shattered.

This video, however, does explain borrowed guitars and (my) out of tune voice.



Check out my CWP-esque nodding along. I'm the one in the hat.

Also, who knew Poundland sold pistachio nuts?
The shells are littering this place.

In a bit.

"It's Saturday morning with my friends and I'm fucking thrashing."

Today I was thinking about skateboarding, and the most satisfying trick I've landed.
None of which are on the internet (I don't think...) apart from this one: the rail at Chesham skatepark.

This was about four years ago, when I thought pointing my fingers and hollaring "ohhhh" after I landed a trick was cool:

chesham pow pow


In a bit.

Start a band, write a fanzine, have a conversation and Simple Is Better.

Today, I found out that The Steal are breaking up after their show with Paint It Black this Friday in Kingston.

Now, this sucks on two accounts: they will never write nor release another record again; I’ll never get to have loads of fun seeing them live again, let alone seeing them AND Dillinger Four in the same night on the dates that were planned for later this year.

My friend Sean rang me earlier and we spoke about it for a while. They’re his favourite band too. We agreed that hoping for The Steal to continue on with what they’ve done from the start is like hoping for a old, diseased dog to not die.
You don’t need to tell me that that’s probably inaccurate, but maybe you’re not lucky enough to feel that way about one band.

The Steal taught me that taking on the duty of being in a band, no matter how incredibly rad you are, does not mean taking on the seemingly obligatory responsibility to spend every minute of your day on the internet or on the phone trying to push said band further and further.

It’s well known to anyone that knows anything remotely about the band that introduced me to a majority of bands I listen to now that they have no struggle in that small corner of their lives.
People give them stick for that. I admire it. Despite my frustration.



I saw The Steal six times before making the effort of checking their self-titled record – one of them supporting Lifetime the time I mentioned in my first post.
Simply because I didn’t enjoy them.
That quickly changed, bigtime.

The old bus journey I used to endure to get to sixth-form at Chesham High School, the 353, used to take the exact same time that ‘The Steal’ used to: 20.9 minutes, start to finish.
That was a good start to the day.



Anyway, earlier this year I wrote a song called ‘Simple’. I think I stole the idea from The Steal. It’s about however much the wallpaper around you changes, your feet will always stay in the same place. Orwell would slap me. That righteous dude definitely does not like them metaphors.
I was round my friend’s house in Watford when he hit record on his laptop and I played it. You can download that here - http://rapidshare.com/files/274753519/Grow_Up.aif.html

In a bit.

“I want to reclaim all the reasons I once fell in love with a SOUND, NOT a fashion statement.”

"I'd rather be bankrupt than have you in my pub" and why there are no clinics in North Dakota.

It’s true. This is it. People have been whispering it behind their wishful-thinking swigging of gin & tonic cans in the park, and through their idle sunglasses worried expressions have been made: summer is over.

Summer is over.

At one point this summer, I played a show in Peterborough at which Tim Vantol was headlining. After the show, I went back to the promoter's house where Tim and a bunch of dudes I didn’t know too well (other than Kieran, the most enthusiastic guy about punk rock I know) were staying the night.

I don’t know when at which point the converse between me and Tim Vantol/Jugs (Jugs was driving Tim around the country and being the ‘leader’ body) happened, but they ended up inviting me a seat in the back of Jugs’ Vauxhall to do the rest of the 8 dates on the tour.

I was apprehensive at first. Going on tour with a bunch of dudes I didn’t know too well seemed a bit daunting. Did they do acid every night? Did I trust them? Would I even get along with them?
After pro-ing and con-ing, I remembered the line “let’s go ‘cause we’re not getting any younger, time doesn’t wait for me”.

I rang home and stated that I would be back in about a week’s time.



You can read James Hull’s highly entertaining, more detailed, non-ADHD written account of that week here, but in true tweeting character, I’ll say this: Tim Vantol and Jugs don’t do acid every night. I trust both of them. And I get along with them better than a lot of other people I know.

I ended up getting onto the bill for each one of the dates along with James, who writes love songs about everything I love doing, playing in a bunch of towns (plus up a wind turbine) and having a blast of a week.
Every night there was a mass-borage of drinking, a floor to sleep on and interesting people to talk to. I now make life-changing decisions based on the What Would Jugs Do philosophy. I hope to God I’m not around a tattoo gun anytime soon.

Talk to me/e-mail me if you’re interested in hearing any funny stories – gilesbidder [at] hotmail [dot] com. I think we have a winner, spammers.

Here are some more of my favourite photos from that week.













That last one was when Tim, James and Bill Boa played a song each up on a wind turbine's observation deck. This was one time when I broke my 'Say no to pay-to-play' rule.

Right now I’m listening to an ONSIND/Ghost Mice split 7” that I bought from a show in an anarchist book shop cafe-go-music club in Bradford (Bratfud) from that tour. Both second tracks on each side are my two favourite of those two bands.

The ONSIND one says everything that’s needed to be said about gender inequality in a patriarchal society, and The Ghost Mice one is about putting your foot down to everything I’m scared of other than dying – conforming to what all my teachers and school colleagues’ see as and compete for in a path of ‘growing up’. I read a sticker on a bmx the other day that read ‘this bike can take me more places than school ever could’. It made me think of that.

Anyway, if you get the chance, ask one of the ONSIND dudes what their name (One Night Stand In North Dakota) refers to. It’s what made me check out their records in the first place.

I’ve just finished my sixth mug of black tea since I got home at 6 this evening, but I’ve got a feeling that won’t be the last one of tonight.

A print-out of Orwell’s ‘Politics And The English Language’ is sitting on my bed waiting to be read, so in a bit.

“All you gotta do is start.”

Bloginning and Lifetime

Yesterday, I properly moved to my new home in Brighton; a bedsit in a house about 400 metres away from the seafront, parallel to the burnt-out pier. When I say I ‘properly’ moved in, I mean that I brought down my record player, skateboard and laptop: the three things that define ‘home’ for me.

Though I moved most of my stuff down a couple weeks ago, a number of things got in the way before I could ‘settle in’ – friends being back home where I grew up before going back to wherever (travelling, university, college) and going to shows around the south of England.



Don’t get me wrong – I chose to hang out with my old friends while I could. I chose to go to those shows and have rad, unit-filled nights of getting kicked out of clubs for having too much fun and talking out of my vulva*. But I guess it would have been to my benefit to really get used to living alone asap instead of procrastinating.

Last night I played a show in Dorking with PJ and Gaby and their ‘band’, which involves both of the skinny, hella-fashionable dudes from Apologies, I Have None. That was cool, because after a train journey surrounded by dicks getting tanked up so that later that night they could insert themselves into some ferret in a beer-stenched grease club without remembering it the next morning, it’s nice to be immediately surrounded by dudes that make you feel like you’re having fun 24/7. Even despite all the lame puns that are excreted from aforementioned dudes’ sigmoid colons.

I play shows under the moniker ‘cynics’. The reason being that my one underlying urge to write songs is in attack of those people that tell you can’t do what you want to do, and that say you’ll fail if you ever try.

I’ve been surrounded by those kind of people, and so have you.



One time I saw Bane, I heard a speech from the stage that I never thought I’d hear from that band. It made me feel as if all I ever wanted to do after the show was turn around, run out of the club and do something I wanted to do the best that I could. I still get that feeling.
Anyway, however pretentious creating a fictional name when it’s just me singing and playing my guitar, it’s one thing that rings the clocktower bell in my head. And that’s all I need to get out my front door, head to the train station, hop on a carriage to another city and just do it.

I play punk rock songs on my guitar. It sounds like it would if I listened to Billy Bragg, Gordon Gano’s Army and The Steal on repeat. Maybe ‘cause I do.

Right now I’m listening to the Lifetime self-titled LP I bought earlier from Punker Bunker, a bunker of a punk record shop in Brighton. I ALWAYS forget how good this record is.
I once saw Lifetime at the Mean Fiddler in London before the place closed down. I didn’t know them at the time.

I’ll leave you with that face-reddening thought. In a bit.

*I don’t have a vulva. I wish I did.