Tuesday, 31 March 2009

I Fly Like Pastry...

Now don't get me wrong I'm as excited for the Spike Jonze directed "Where The Wild Things Are" film as the next man......Where The Wild Things Are

But "In The Night Kitchen"was always my favourite, me and my sister used to fight over which one would get read. She would generally win.

"discarded things"

Monica Canilao. On a completely unrelated venture I stumbled upon this sweetheart and she captured my heart. Her work reminds me of the days when I sat at my sewing machine stitching in to the wee hours, weaving colourful fabrics around wooden structures and throwing globules of paint in to the air – all for the sake of my carefully considered A-level art creations. Visually beautiful, her mixed media pieces are reminiscent of artists’ notebooks with bits and pieces all over the place, ideas and scribbles coming out of every nook and cranny and rainbows and feathers hiding around corners. Not only does she work on paper (her favourite), cardboard, glass, tatty fabrics, all manner of surfaces but she also creates installations which evoke scenes from Alice in Wonderland and old Westerns …only with a lot more wool dotted about the place. Her work reminds me of opening up a dressing-up chest. Playful. Tea-stained.

An illustrator by trade, her inspirations lie in folk tales, antwacky artefacts and other people’s abandoned kitsch junk.

Monday, 30 March 2009

Dum Dum Girls

A librarian in L.A is singing catchy melodies and girl-group harmonies over echoey buzzsaw guitars and fuzzy reverb, capturing the feeling I had when my own summer shifts à la bibliothèque were over - half sullen and moody, half deliriously charged.

Also try www.myspace.com/trailertrashtracys in a similar, more home-grown, vein.

Ladies First

Despite having barely a centime to my name I have just ordered this.....

I cannot wait for it to land in my letterbox. Track 14 promises to be a summer dream and I might have to start bribing DJ's to play Tracks 10 and 12. See you on the dancefloor...

There's A Dream That I See

"You Are Free" is the 6th album from the American muscian Chan Marshall aka Cat Power. Released in 2003 on Matador records it is arguably one of her best works to date. While some like the smooth soulfullness of "The Greatest" with it's blues band instrumentals and Marshall's voice at it's smokey best or the clever innovativeness of "The Covers Records" reworkings it is "You Are Free" that I always find myself returning too. 

I came to "You Are Free" relatively late for a self proclaimed fan of Chan Marshalls work. The soul fan in me had been drawn to the lilting trumpets and rich sound of "The Greatest". However over the summer I was lucky enough to get a job where one of the perks was free CD's. So it was that one grey summer's day I found myself on the way home from work on a sweaty london tube with "You Are Free" in my discman (yeah that's right I still use a discman and I love it).

It caught me instantly right then and there, the breathless, tear stained quality of Marshall's voice over the clinking piano chords and the echoing fuzzy guitar lines. There is pure haunting emotion in every single second of the album whether it's the lonely sparseness of "I Don't Blame You" with it's echoing harmonies. Or the pure resigned heartbreak of "Good Woman" which contains some of the saddest lyrics of all time. Or her soaring vocals on "Maybe Not" or the underlying aggression on "He War" with it's percussive guitar. 

I could go through every song on the album and heap praise upon it but I have a feeling that could get pretty boring so I will end urging you to give it a listen or indeed any Cat Power.
Yes she's unpredictable and emotional and ever so slightly mental but it's all part of the charm. 

From Bangladesh with love

A pocket full of love for the beautiful Bibi Russell please.

From lowly LCF fashion student - to designer - to model – to eco princess; she is undoubtedly one of the most inspiring women of our time. Now staging the fight against unfair trade, she resides in her original homeland working tirelessly to sell the array of colourful woven materials made by her local village people within a fair global fashion market. She works under the slogan ‘Fashion for Development and Positive Bangladesh’.

Sunday, 29 March 2009

Música da Lagoa

Deep in a São Paulo rainforest, Hermeto Pascoal and O Grupa create a dreamy, chirpy melody with nothing but water, a flute and some bottles. This pulpy albino is one of Brasil's most beloved musicians, and once composed a song every day for a year so that everyone would have one for their birthday.

The Eternal Children

“You live in your creation, your life is your artwork”.

The Eternal Children is a documentary by David Kleijwegt featuring sisters CocoRosie, Antony Hegarty, Devendra Banhart and Vashti Bunyan. It hops about on the thinking clogs of those belonging to the so-called ‘freak-folk’ movement as it explores the inner-workings of these equally weird and wonderful artists.

Self-proclaimed outsiders, CocoRosie make their adventures in music and film, dressing up at every opportunity, pencilling on moustaches and telling tales of fairies who snip away at their flowing locks whilst they sleep. Yet naïve they are not. What transpires is that they belong to a collective who all share the same spiritual understanding of life by enjoying it for what it has to offer; love, light and infinite potentialities to create. What initially appear as the sort of ramblings you may expect to hear from heavily stoned students, The Eternal Children is in fact full of insightful little gems which make you want to reach for your jotter and scribble down their words of wisdom. In their world everything sparkles and they possess the ability to live amongst the ordinary in a quite extra-ordinary fashion. A mixture of interviews and live performances, we are offered a brief peep through the keyhole as we journey along the fantastical world they have chosen to create for themselves. An unmissable watch for any true fan, may you listen to their music with fresh ears.

Highlight - a beautiful rendition of ‘Just another Diamond Day’ by Vashti Bunyan who sits and strums in a breezy field of corn.

Saturday, 28 March 2009

Beverly Hillbillies

Once as popular as Palm Springs, the serene waters of the Salton Sea are now fetid and stagnant and are considered one of America's worst ecological disasters. Dotted around the shores are remnants of it's high-rolling heyday, abandoned resort towns where a few hard-core outsiders either hang on to the hope of a revival, or wait to die. The tragicomic documentary, 'Plagues and Pleasures on the Salton Sea', reveals this Californian underworld and it is as warped and compelling as a John Waters film, only for real.
The Imperial Valley is a setting of natural beauty; surrounded by purple mountains and unique rock formations, the sea is so tranquil that it mirrors the smoky desert sunsets flawlessly. But, as the waves calmly lap the shores of the white sandy beaches, they cough up dead fish and birds by the thousands. It was soon discovered that the water was saltier than the ocean and the tycoons abandoned their plans decades ago. Drive down towards Salton City on the west shore and you will be greeted by Donald, a puckered and complacent old nudist. The town itself is a failed (not even faded) 1950s attempt at a resort town, where Riviera chic meets the apocalypse. All that remains are gaunt, unfinished buildings; hollowed art-deco yacht clubs, a sad café, empty swimming pools and a few rusty sun loungers. The current residents are sun-drenched retirees, living amongst the palm trees and ruins in RVs and mobile homes, who spend their days reminiscing about the pleasure days and fishing. Some claim that the fish are poisoned with Botulism (like in Erin Brockovich), while others eat them raw. Most wax lyrical about the town and are adamant that a renaissance is just around the corner. "It's the smell" one woman considers, "it's the smell... that I like, and then the fact that we don't have anything here..."
While those in Salton City continue waiting for their dream, across the sea on the east shore is the dusty little trailer town, Bombay Beach, where people have already found their paradise. In a surreal, scrubby landscape scattered with broken buildings, half-sunken trailers, burnt-out cars and bones, it is the drifters who live here that bring colour to the bleakness. Golf buggies are de rigueur and eccentric OAPS cruise down red dirt roads, ciggy and a Margarita in hand, extolling the high life and pointing out what-used-to-be, the trailers people have committed suicide in and the place where one man died doing a pooh. The town's unofficial mayor, Hunky Daddy, is a hard-drinking Hungarian revolutionary who looks like a bit like an off-duty Elvis impersonator and is a self-proclaimed 'party boy'. Hunky Daddy holds himself up as the living embodiment of the American Dream, but is a jibbering tangle of skewed and lewd American idioms.
The future of the Salton Sea remains uncertain - many bids have been made to save the area, including one from Cher's ex-husband, but most have failed or were not completed and the sea (along with hope) is evaporating. As it dries out, it poses the threat of raising an alkali dust storm which could destroy, perhaps bittersweetly, the nearby areas which have refused to help, including it's old rival Palm Springs.

Jesus, I'm a sinner please come into my heart.

"I love all paint. Old paint, new paint, pretty paint... if I get a pretty colour I like to keep it for the flowers."

Just outside of Slab City, a dried-up and disused army camp in southern California (where a bunch of geriatric gypsies loyally flock every winter), is Salvation Mountain. Rising from the scorched and stark desert like some divine, technicolor mirage is Leonard Knight's eccentric folk-art monument to Jesus Christ. Knight, a sunny old born-again Christian, has dedicated the past twenty years to doddering up and down his Gaudi-esque mountain structure, building it up out of 'real juicy' adobe and decorating it with the paint that people donate to him. He is a classic lone dreamer intent on promoting his vision, yet is self-effacing and reluctant to call himself an artist. Possibly better than his mountain, however, is the truck at the foot of it which someone donated to him and he painted with flowers and birds and verses and converted into his house. Knight has recently had a boat donated to him and is currently working on a Noah's Ark scene.

Leonard and The Mountain - a short documentary (listen out for his little hobo blues song at the end).

Thursday, 26 March 2009

"I paint myself because I am often alone"

Frida Kahlo is the queen of technicolour adornment, and her unflinching gaze tells stories where the line blurs between myth and reality. Feast your eyes on these this Thursday evening.

Tuesday, 24 March 2009

Weave Me A Word Web

Words. Words. Words.

Even in day to day life I take pleasure in rhyming couplets and alliteration and the power of three. They are what make language and conversation exciting and intricate. They are what captivate your brain with a novelist's turn of phrase, what keep you engrossed in an article on a subject you would have never found fascinating when reading the Sunday Paper, what make "that" song stick in your head for days on end to your delight and your friend's dispair.

Most people don't even notice the effects of the words that constantly surround us and our day to day lives. The imperative, definitive edge of the "No Smoking" signs that signal the stubbing of a cigarette. The sometimes incomprehensible advertising that litters our papers, magazines and websites. The giggles that a favourite journalists words can provoke with a choice morsel even if you're on the bus surrounded by strangers. The comfort of the familiar first lines of a favourite book, it's pages covered in sand and hot chocolate and other such traces of love. The penultimate lines of a song played on loop signaling the end and the need to hear "that" line just one more time. 

When words are well written they are a never ending source of pleasure and even when they're bad they can be a never ending source of amusement. There is a relish to be gained from using a rarely spoken word in a conversation about pure frippery to best friends that can't be gained by just bluntly and dully stating the obvious. There is pleasure to had in wrestling with an idea in your head for days and finally finding the words that express it all on a page. There is delight to be had when rolling a favourite word around your mouth and slowly pronouncing it hearing every syllable like a crisp clap of the hands.

It can be safely said that I am a fan of words and their many shapes and forms. Recently this has been manifesting itself in a love of poetry. I have always found poetry fascinating, the challenge of manipulating our own words so they fit to or fight a lyrical rhythm or rhyme is such an enjoyable tug and tangle with vocabulary that I don't know what I'd do with out it. I can remember being obsessed with Michael Rosen's poems as a little girl particularly one called "Chocolate Cake" which is too long to post on here but still fantastic. And all Roald Dahls weird and wonderful songs. I love that poetry can be such a concise form of expression without losing, and some could even argue gaining, any of it's emotional punch or meaning and then equally be nonesical and purely for the pleasure of hearing certain words together. It can express any emotion in any form, from the rigid iambic pentameter and strict rules of haiku to the freeness of Benjamin Zephaniah's poems that sound like they were written to a reggae beat. 

Poet's are like any other artists, as my gran says "One man's meat is another man's poison" so though I will include a few favourites of mine please don't by any means take this as gospel. 

It's just that for me all these have a hypnotic quality as they weave their words around me while I read them over and over again that leaves me feeling all goldenly hazy like I've spent too long in the sun or have had amaretto in the early afternoon and to be honest I couldn't ask for anything more.

Carol Ann Duffy - If I Was Dead

If I was dead,
and my bones adrift
like dropped oars
in the deep, turning earth;

or drowned,
and my skull
a listening shell
on the dark ocean bed;

if I was dead,
and my heart
soft mulch
for a red, red rose;

or burned,
and my body
a fistful of grit, thrown
in the face of the wind;

if I was dead,
and my eyes,
blind at the roots of flowers,
wept into nothing,

I swear you love,
would raise me
out of my grave,
in my flesh and blood,

like Lazarus;
hungry for this,
and this, and this,
your living kiss.

My favourite extract being:

Searching for my double, looking for
Complete evaporation to the core
though I tried and failed at finding any door
I must have thought there was nothing more
Absurd than that love is just a four-letter word.

And an Emily Dickinson poem sent to me by Poppy

I felt a clearing in my mind
As if my brain had split
I tried to watch -seam by seam-
But could not make it fit.

Al Mar

After many months harbouring an avid but all too distant curiosity for what lies up and down the Catalan coast, I recently went from half-hearted to full-hearted and put my best foot forward. Perhaps that much needed push in the right (or, just any) direction came from the gathering pace of flocks (of people) to the seashores, propelled along by the rising springtime temperatures.

It was either disorganisation, or a stab at small-scale adventure, but last Saturday I didn’t have any one destination in mind, only the names of lots of towns ending in ‘del mar’ swimming provocatively around in my mind. In the end, the train took me to Arenys Del`Mar. It was (as always) the journey that really got me. In spite of the cool indifference of fellow passengers, I was literally dazzled by the rolling strip of sea that filled the windows on the right side of the carriage, a sort of half sun-filled submarine effect. On the left side, sea-front towns paraded on past, brief rows of sun bleached colonial style buildings and fish restaurants.

The beach at Arenys Del Mar was enormous, and hazy from rising dust and falling sunlight, stretching far away from the harbour, which had an industrial 1950s feel to it. We sat on a white wall drinking cans of beer and emptying sand from our shoes, and then went and ate calamares and whitebait.

The following week, the compass pointed south, to a place called Garraf, which I get the impression is often overlooked in pursuit of Sitges. The path from the platform led directly down some steps and onto the beach, cutting straight to the point. It was a small cove of trapped sun, with rocky and englisb-looking cliffs clawing at the edges. From one end to the other was a toy-town avenue of beach huts complete with it’s own street sign. All green and white, but mismatched in width and height, verandas and balconies. In a solitary white square building at the end of the beach, with “HOTEL” painted on it in pink, we sat in red plastic Estrella Damm chairs with coke and crisps, and marvelled at the hearty March swimmers.

Sunday, 22 March 2009

Suburban Samurai

Happy Mother's Day

Friday, 20 March 2009

Oven Time

By the by while you're waiting for your beauties to bake, watch this. It is one of the best documentaries ever made and I say that as a big fan of the BBC's Natural World. Honestly though, it's got it all pathos, politics, fashion, competition, girls/guys, icons, idols, quotes galore and some seriously killer moves.....

The quality isn't great a fact for which I apologise

Tuesday, 17 March 2009

Bake me a Beauty

I am not ashamed to say I love baking. I always have, when I was 3 I even had my own apron (a multi-coloured mickey mouse wipe-friendly number that doubled up as painters overalls too, I really wish it still fitted me). I honestly can't think of many more ways I'd rather spend an afternoon, or morning, or evening or night. The only thing that tops baking is eating your creations afterwards hot out the oven, well that and licking the bowl. 

I bake a lot, at one point this year it was bordering on an addiction as bad as crack but a lot more expensive. In fact I cook a lot in general partly because I love to eat and partly because I love to watch other people eat, but baking tops it all. I think it's because baking is the only bit of cooking that actually still feels as magical as when you were little, and who doesn't want that? It's why I drink hot chocolate with a big spoon but that's another story. Plus you can't buy pink glittery heart shaped Barbie sprinkle for risotto. On that note I'll leave you with two recipes that are foolproof and failsafe. One is for a chocolate sponge but if you leave out the cocoa and add vanilla you get victoria sponge. Two recipes in one and they could not be easier. 

Preheat an oven at 180C. In a bowl mix 200g butter and 200g of caster sugar till fluffy then add 4 eggs one by one mixing as you go along. Then weigh 200g of  plain flour and before adding it substitue 4 tablespoons of it with 4 tablespoons of cocoa (at this point if you want it to be plain vanilla leave it at 200g of flour and add vanilla essence). Mix the flour into the eggs, sugar and butter with half a teaspoon of baking powder and half a teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda. If you don't have either of those just use self-raising flour and you should be fine. Shove the mixture in a greased cake tin any shape you want and bake till a knife comes out clean and the top is springy. It should take 30/40 minutes. Cut in half and fill with cream and fruit, or top the top with buttercream and sprinkles or just eat plain hot out the oven with a good cuppa. The possibilities are endless.

Layer 'em, stack 'em, smother them in icing but just make sure you get to eat at least a quarter. Chef's treat.

Sunday, 15 March 2009

Hippie Acid Freak Drag Queens

Picture a cross between a young Brad Pitt and Jesus Christ, wearing lipstick and a crotchless frock, sat in a tree, swinging his legs and singing '30s show-tunes. Now drop acid and you will be close to visualizing Hibiscus, the etherial, messianic founder of notorious drag-and-drugs troupe The Cockettes.

At a time when the hippie San Francisco of the '60s was paving way for the gay San Francisco of the '70s, The Cockettes documentary captures the precise moment when hallucinogenics, gay liberation, hippie communism and transgressive art collided. The Cockette House was just one of the three hundred communes in the city during the late '60s, but whilst most other communes were working together to mutually sustain their utopian vision of life outside the economy, The Cockettes were living at the end of their chemically enhanced imaginations on ATD (Aid to the Totally Disabled) payouts and food stamps. Though most of their money (and time) was largely spent on acid and rummaging through third hand shops, they also used it productively to stage free 'theatre' for the hedonistic Haights-Ashbury community, even though most of them were tone deaf and/or couldn't dance.

Their 'Let's-Put-On-A-Show' attitude lead to freewheeling, improvised performances of LSD fueled fairy tales and '30s style musicals, which were an instant success - as tales of their rascality spread they attracted fans as illustrious as Diana Vreeland, John Lennon and Alan Ginsberg. Though nudity was definitely encouraged, their aesthetic was decadent, slightly spooky thrift-shop couture; a heady combination of satin, velvet or silk robes worn over layers upon layers of lace and chiffon dresses. During the documentary, one of the members explains that they expressed themselves and communicated through their clothes as "they were often so high they were non-verbal". Ribbons, flowers and tinsel were weaved into hair and sequins, beads and pearls were draped everywhere else. Huge elaborate headdresses were made out of cardboard; psychedelic, glitter make-up was applied more than generously and though eyebrows were shaved, beards were always left in tact. But drag wasn't just for the queens, The Cockettes were a motley bunch of both men and women, homosexual and heterosexual, and included a married couple and even an oblivious baby. To watch all of this moving wildly in profusion, can-canning to show-tunes and Mick Jagger, leaves me that deep lament that I have missed out on an enormous party.

There is a dissertation on gender in there somewhere but I shall save that for another day, for this is but a humble blog. I thought the review on the DVD box was being evasive with "Too Good For Words" but I see it is difficult to convey the energy and euphoria of The Cockettes, so here is a link to a one of to one of those montages that obsessive fans make for Youtube.

Wednesday, 11 March 2009

Perfect little distraction whilst your waiting for your tea to brew.....

Ch che check the link to youtube:  Muto

also their website: www.blublu.org

lovely for a little afternoon procrastination. 


Sunday, 8 March 2009

The Shaggs

Download The Shaggs - Philosophy Of The World

Kazim may have to save the world from The Shaggs. Perhaps it's my instant endearment to any failed attempt at seriousness, perhaps it's my recurring support for an underdog but there is something about The Shaggs which I find oddly appealing (though I'm still not entirely sure it's their music). In terms of '60s girl groups, The Shaggs would be the autistic, tortured soul of a sister to The Shangri-Las. Whilst Mary Weiss was out smoking dope, smuggling guns and breaking hearts, Helen, Betty and Dot Wiggin were being home-schooled and performing in their local nursing home. Their grandmother, a fortune telling psychic, told their young father during a palm reading that his future daughters would play in a band. When several other of her predictions came true over the following years, their father withdrew the girls from school, assigned them roles and issued instruments before plunging his life savings into funding his mother's omen. The sisters had no musical aspirations whatsoever but practiced diligently under the reign of their manic father-cum-drill instructor (their regime including an hour of jumping jacks and leg lifts before bed). Their talent is undeniably rudimentary, their songs (about lost cats, Jesus and transistor radios) so offbeat in every sense of the word that they seem unaware of any standard musical or lyrical convention. In fact they were unaware, as Papi Shagg isolated his daughters from outside influences and demanded they practice constantly.

The result is so unusual it is difficult to fully capture in words - some say 'ground-breaking', most would say 'shit'. Yet despite the deadpan vocals, discordant, cheap sounding instruments and the way Helen drums on seemingly unconscious of the music going on around her, there is something unforgettable about their music. Giving them a hasty first listen would probably conjure up a vision of an inept/retarded trio, but upon knowing the family dynamics and background behind the band (the movie rights to which have been already been bought) is what, for me, turns their innocent, hopeful lyrics into something both charming and slightly sinister. Kurt Cobain, amongst others, later advocated The Shaggs as heroines of outsider music but they were clearly uninvolved and uninterested in attaining this label (they disbanded, rather tellingly, as soon as their father died in the '70s). I say listen out of morbid curiosity and consider it the intriguing fruits of borderline child abuse. Having said their music is difficult to aptly capture in words, I think the whole Shaggs saga can be summed up succinctly by Dot herself, who explains 'We did our best'...


morning campers...

here is a little big of love for you:


the new mix is up. it is dope. very dope.



Saturday, 7 March 2009

Hammin' It Up

Let's start with a video to warm up. Follow the moves wherever possible...

Excuse Me, Can I Have Your Number Please?

'Hola', 'Bounjour', 'Hey' (Canadian, not American) and 'Alright Chuck' x2.

I think that covers all of our dialects, except for mine of course; Salaam Wa'alaikum.

I am a Muslim. I am Hedonic.

I believe all dj's should be hung, well hung. Hanif Kureisha once saved my education, and Zadie Smith my relationship with my father.

I notice that this introduction has taken the tone of 'our 5 favourite things'. I think this is a cliche.

I will contribute never-the-less.

1)Josie + Lucy (but not thogether, together they are too much)

2)Football. I played alot of football as a child but gave it up to endevour on a journey of self discovery fuelled by drugs, music and hedonism. I have recently taken football back up. I am still The man. On the pitch that is.

3)Music. A cliche if there ever was one, however i do sincerely believe music is what feelings sound like.

4)Women. Im a just a sucker, a sucker for a pretty face.

5)Sai Baba. A Man who conned a large section of the India nation to believe he was the Saint Sai Bab reincarnate. This was facilitated because much of India do believe in reincarnation howveer, one cannot take anything away from the level of charisma this entails. He is seriously charismatic, has thousands of followers and has pending charges of fraud and corruption. A Legend never the less.

so there it is. my introduction, i hope you are satisfied.

KKK - Saving The World From Bad Music

Wednesday, 4 March 2009

Does anybody have any lipbalm I could borrow?

Lucy : An original Paradise Peninsula resident.

Circa 1998 I collected rubbers and miniature models of owls. I have since moved forward.

Current Top 5:

-Stitch n’ Bitch
-Foyle’s Philavery
-Dreamy exposure
-Glittery cupcakes
-Devendra Banhart’s Carmencita

Tuesday, 3 March 2009

"May I introduce you please to a lump of cheddar cheese"

I'm Jo. I currently reside in Leeds where I got to music college and make cappuccinos for pocket money. My most recent purchases have been Shola Ama, it was a bit of a renaissance of the 90s and I was feeling nostalgic, some cheese (it's my favourite food) and a knitted tea cosy (tea is my favourite beverage).  

My guiltiest pleasure at the moment is MTV's America's best dance crew with Randy Jackson and slater of saved by the bell fame.  Its just brilliant.  I also recently discovered that eating chocolate and Thai sweet chilli crisps TOGETHER is a taste sensation. Literally. 

Brown paper packages tied up with string.

Poppy, honorary home, Barcelona.

I don't live on a diet of paella and sangria, but I do wish I was in an Irma Thomas tribute act with Josie.

My (much less succinct than the other two's) top 5 are :

-Traveling (fantasizing about)
-Frida Kahlo's dress sense (and all things Mexicana folk/kitsch)
-Lists and letters
-Spanish skaters

Ice breaker.

John, Montréal.

It seems inappropriate to give a comprehensive account of my personality but I am also finding it difficult to summarise myself so I shall settle for following the preceding example.

Current Top 5:

- Constant. Vigilance.
- Religious Kitsch.
- Kiehls (Since 1851).
- Two-bit Melodrama.
- Liv Ullman.

Monday, 2 March 2009

These are a few of my favourite things..

I'm Josie. I currently live in France on a diet of tea, ratatouille and red wine. I wish I was in an Irma Thomas tribute act.

Current Top 5:
-Murder Mysteries
-Boys Clothing

Greetings from a ramshackle rabble.

Band of Gypsies : A little bit of everything, be it recipes, records, rants, reviews or a little bit of a ramble, from all over the place.   

We hope you enjoy reading it half as much as we'll enjoy writing it..