Brass And

Over the summer and beginnings of the autumn there has been trumping afoot. Adam has been augmenting the songs with his cornet. There have also been some wild amending and inking of the spreadsheet. Ye gads!

Forty Two Percent Recurring

More recordings today with Richy Rich takes us to the heady statistic of the album being officially 42.222222222% complete.

Broken Richard v Intact Alex

Rich came round to the stude this very morning. He brought with him, in no particular order, his increasingly pointy beard, his guitar, and his improving-yet-hanging-by-a-screaming-tendon left wrist (which he sprained not as we were originally led to believe when snowboarding, but, he informed us as he departed, at a niche interests festival in Munich).

I just don't know any more if I use commas correctly.

He bravely laid down his guitar parts on a number of tracks interspersed with howls of agony and massaging motions.

Alex joined us in the afternoon but was reluctant to be photographed, citing irreconcilable differences with his hair, but i took a picture anyway. Despite this upset he scorched through a couple of tracks before kindly gifting me his Nord which he took a sudden and odd dislike to, inviting me to sell it on ebay or keep it.

Attack! Attack!

After a couple of months or so of PURE study, there is now time again to record... here is the chart after a couple of days of concentrated toil:

Mooooree

Thoodayee

Giant Haystacks came round today, weighed in, and belted out three tracks of keys.

AH yeah :)

Dribs n Drabs

Been doing some guitar, ukulele and harp... orange denotes done but needs re-doing or tinkering with. tis all.

Whittling Away!!!!

Today, on the second day of the year 2012, myself and Adam got a ton of bass down on the new album. I pressed the record button, drunk tea, and took pictures, while Adam worked his fingers to the bone, and Louise cooked in the kitchen. I had a nice time. Along with the pictures you will see a lovely album progress chart, which is super super cool.

Keeeeeys

Work resumes after many moons on the second Stick In A Pot album.... here's Alex studiously beavering away on the ivories. 2 songs down... an amount left to do...

Ketchup! Bass!

Recently, on Brighton's Gay Pride weekend no less, Adam launched a brazen and ferocious attack on the knee of an Irish citizen, using ketchup as his weapon. He did it in broad daylight, and, incredibly, even attempted to disguise himself by wearing my jumper. Here he is - RED HANDED....

In other more pertinent news, Adam layed down some bass-lines for the new album this weekend, and was closely supervised when within the proximity of all condiments.....

Album Number Two Commenceth

Emilio from Illness, and engineer Chris Blake spent a day in a practice room tracking the drums for Stick In A Pot's next album. I made food, and looked on, and in between takes me and Emilio had a brutal and cut-throat game of chess

New Stick In A Pot song @ Album Launch

Dan Amos

A New Song Recorded On Videotape

Navel Lint download single out on February 7th

The first song to be taken off the forthcoming album 'A Number More Than Nothing At All'.

And a lovely video for t'song made by Ela Mc C....

Navel Lint - Stick In A Pot from ela mc c on Vimeo.

Photos

My shutterbug brother Dom Blewett took some shots out in the melting snow of Horsham's Denne Hill when he was over visiting at Christmas. They can be found here:

http://www.dblewett.com/gallerysecond/#/content/start/

and they are nice indeed

Recent-ish Stick In A Pot activity

Balcony TV!!!

Diary Entry Six

Sunday the eleventh day of the month of October in the year of our Lord two thousand and nine

Crawley. I spent the majority of my school life in Crawley. Sometimes I still wake at night screaming, the sheets clinging to me with terrified sweat, my jaw feverishly working on imaginary cud, my fingers tensed into sinewy claws, my eyes bulging and darting in all directions. Then gradually my snorting, gulping breaths subside, the echoes of hacked out threats and coughed curses recede in my mind and trembling slightly I sink back with relief, sleep stretching out it's woolly fingers again to beckon me in. Oh thank God. Then suddenly I lurch upright again screaming and screaming and screaming, drool flapping out of my contorted face as I realise that although the dream was just a dream, the bed I sunk back into is in Horsham. The screaming fades to a wail, and then a soft monotonous moaning, and as dawn drags it's cold face above the wall of night I am to be found mumbling and inert, curled into a foetal comma, eyes raw and puffy in possession of a very full bladder.
So it was with these demons, I took myself to the White Knight in Pound Hill for the resumption of the so called 'When the Monsters Arrive' tour. I had a lovely plate of salmon before the evenings entertainment began, it was but five pounds, but I have to say it tasted like ten. Really wonderful and unexpected, as usually if you handed over a fiver for something 'fresh cooked' in a pub you would be resigned to something microwaved and barely edible. Not so in the White Knight. Delicious!
First on the bill was Ollie Barron and his Imaginary Band, Leah was up next, and then onto The Glass Room. Ollie was quite smitten by their drum box thing, I think if the hole in the back of it for the microphone had been a bit smaller he might well have made love to it there and then.
Then we played. For some reason, maybe an interaction between the joyous salmon and my stouty tipple, betwixt each song I proffered forth a ceaseless torrent of mindless drivel, which ultimately proved to be quite debilitating. Cause for concern. The audience however seemed to enjoy my very public mental disintegration, which only spurred me on into ever increasing tirades of crapulous nonsense. I think our music was well received, but looking back it feels like our songs were momentary tuneful blips in a wilderness of inane orating.
Gregk played last , and it was a pleasure to play with all of the acts, a nice varied bill so it was.
And thence we returned home, in the carriage we compared the character attributes of members of various wacky fringe religions and I lapsed into a catatonic post Crawley ennui. After a night of disturbingly odd dreams I awoke to an offal-tastic breakfast of kidneys on toast. Yum.

Diary Entry Five

Friday the second day of the month of October in the year of our Lord two thousand and nine.

I whiled away the day in Glasgow sitting in the cheap environment of a Wetherspoons alehouse, availing myself of staggeringly cheap ales of high quality and food of good value but poor quality. This combination succesfully built up a wonderful feeling of nausea, so I left for the venue moaning gently to myself and eyeing dark alleyways in which to hastily and noisily vomit. Thankfully the walk restored my vim and vigour and upon arriving at The Drawing Room, I settled into a couch feeling relaxed and entertained myself with The Daily Record, a large glass of red and a few unsatisfactory games of Snake on my mobile device. The gig was good fun, the promoter and his friends were very nice people and the other guy who played was good, his friends (who were quite merry) were heckling him with wonderfully tuneful backing vocals. I then went to get a bed for the night and the guys from the gig dropped me off at a hostel. I was met outside by the proprietor who appeared half cut with his trousers falling down. He led me in and offered me something to drink, which i accepted, half thinking that he might be offering me it with motives impure. After chatting for a bit he fetched a young Czech lad from his room and began plying him with wine instead of me. Our host began to offer long monologues on "cocks", "men loving their own dicks" and dicks "being everything", while women apparently "don't want to bang dicks, they want to bang wallets", also touched upon was what "bitches women are". Our young Czech friend managed to agree with him on a few points, in particular the without exception lack of altruism among female millionaires, compared to generosity of their male counterparts. I however found flaw in a couple of his arguments and after filling their two glasses to the brim he told me it was time to go to bed and led me to my room. I hope the young Czech guy didn't experience any wandering hands. This morning I awoke to workmen hammering and drilling directly beside my head. This morning I had a bowl of chilli.

Diary Entry Four

Thursday the first day of the month of October in the year of our Lord two thousand and nine

So the gig was cancelled last night in Stockport, as the owner of the Blue Cat Cafe in Stockport succesfully completed his transition from friendly, reasonable, rational venue owner in July; to gibbering, posturing, self contradicting bonehead in September. My heartfelt congratulations and indeed a measure of sympathy to the fellow for what must have been a difficult and confusing time. Unfortunate though this was, it did enable me to pay a visit to a friend in the borders of bonny Scotland. And it is here that i find myself scribing my journal. In perhaps a half of an hour I will be setting of to Glasgow for the final gig of this, the first leg of the UK tour. Having only ever encountered Glasgow in the novels of Irvine Welsh and the moving picture, Trainspotting, I am expecting to be confronted by an orgy of headbutting, savage violence and sordid drug activity. Thankfully my sore throat seems to have cleared up so I should be able to indulge in all of these. A bowl of fruity all bran was my fast breaker this morning, along with a handful of grapes which gets me one fifth of my way apparently towards my five a day.