I’m bored. I’m the chairman of the bored/board.

What does one do when boredom strikes? 

How do we combat the cloud of ennui that occasionally descends upon us without a whisper of warning..

Do you too find yourself experiencing deep pangs of anxiety? 

You see, boredom is not a discerning tormentor.  Do not think, for one moment, that it selects its victims like Beelzebub might select a group of criminals for Hell’s inner sanctum.  There is no criteria; there is no particular CV that boredom favours.  It does not exclusively target the couch-potatoes or the benefit cheats; i.e. those people who deserve boredom’s fury in all its horror.  In truth, it has all the fastidiousness of a dung beetle choosing its next meal.

Permit me, if I may, to list the chief symptoms of this dilapidating condition:

Shallow breathing

Perspiring palms

Bouncing Limbs

Claustrophobia

A burgeoning sense of one’s own insanity

Indeed, inactivity can be a form of torture so unbearable that many would prefer a swift death than its perpetuation.

I’m certainly no ologist but I would warrant that boredom is a silent and widely unknown killer.

Let’s not become undone.

If you haven’t got any style then you had better pray for some substance.

It has been a heady month for Kites.

Our stages have been strewn with the sweet sweat of our idols. 

We have supported members of New Order, Pulp, Erasure and the Happy Mondays, to name but a few.

Have these juxtapositions inflated our egos or alerted us to the fact that we might be amateurs masquerading as professional musicians?  Well, perhaps. 

I suspect that the majority of successful creatives never quite recover from the feeling that they have fraudulently hit the big-time. Either that or they succumb to the warm seduction of their own hype, never to return to a little planet called reality. 

Mind you, who was ever interested in reality?  It’s a grim, unimaginative sort of a place.  Personally, I have no desire to ever set up a permanent residence there.*

In any case, despite protestations to the contrary, my head has not grown any larger and my sense of entitlement remains sober.  Kites have a long way to go, that much is true.

Our latest shows have provided a window into a world where alternative music can be popular, where charisma trumps musicality, where tight red vests and Thai-dye jeans are somehow acceptable.  I won’t name and shame anyone in particular, suffice it to say that the 80’s was not a decade that was synonymous with sartorial modesty.  It was the age of the shoulder-pad, the puffball skirt, and the dourly attired Margaret Thatcher. 

Fashion faux pas’ aside, Kites have had a lesson in showmanship and song craft.

I observed each show with the kind of concentration usually reserved for heart transplants.  I’m hoping that some of the magic might eventually sink in.  Do you believe in miracles?

*N.B. Yes, I realise that “I, personally” is a tautology and that I also split the infinitive. There are those who have bad grammar and don’t know any better, and there are others who use bad grammar and don’t give a damn.  I hope to be the latter.

Episode 2 - Pathetic Fallacy

A Very English Kind Of Butchery

Everyone I know has at least one horror story involving a scissor-happy hairdresser and an ill-considered makeover. Before now, I would listen to these tales with mock sympathy until proclaiming, rather bombastically, that there was not a salon in Christendom that could despoil my locks.  As with every tragedy that one hears about, we never, for one nano-second, believe that they will befall us.  We think that we are somehow exempt; that our brightly conditioned hair will escape the wrath of a blind Edward Scissorhands.  

Like every pig-headed dullard, I was proven to be spectacularly wrong.  It mattered not that my stylist was a thoroughly likable chap with a moist Italian charm and an enviable selection of teas and biscuits.  What mattered was that we spoke different languages. 

When I tried to explain, with tedious meticulousness, the haircut of my dreams, my new chum looked on with innocent incomprehension.  I doubt most native English speakers would have understood much of my florid gibberish but, for my unfortunate coiffer, it must have been like hearing Anglo-Saxon for the very first time.

My suspicions of a communication breakdown were first aroused when my hair was shaved with an alacrity that would have alarmed a well-seasoned sheep.  At that moment, I realised that a butchering was very likely.  But when my well-intentioned ‘Delilah’ began muttering about Brad Pitt in ‘Inglourious Basterds’ [sic], I knew that my doom was sealed.  Who, apart from the most misguided wretch, would make a conscious decision to look like a Nazi?

So, how do you imagine I reacted when this aggressive topiary was underway?  Well, I did what any self-respecting Englishman would have done when faced with such circumstances: I grinned politely throughout the thirty minute ordeal, tipped him generously, and left cursing my own pathetic uselessness. 

When will we English learn that keeping silent is an act of supreme stupidity?

Like Samson, let’s just hope I can regain enough strength for Kites’ show on Saturday at Scala.

The boy who is most definitely playing with fire in this latest polemic

Am I alone in bemoaning the literary condition of London’s public transport community?

As I sit in the carriage of my local tube I can’t help musing that we resemble an army of cloned bibliophiles.  It’s like taking a pew in an English class where each student grasps replica set-texts except that, in this case, the material is far less erudite.  Familiar editions of Stieg Larsson, Dan Brown and  the latest Vampire-inspired trilogy glare at me mockingly from nearly every seat.  I’m ashamed to admit that, when didactic adverts on the windows order me to be more sympathetic to my fellow passengers, I find myself scorning them instead. 

It’s not that I fundamentally bear a grudge against any of the authors who grace our bestsellers lists.  It’s not even that I think they’re particularly bad books.  What I object to is the fact that we all seem to be consuming exactly the same material.  How can we possibly hope to form a truly original thought in this kind of environment?  We’re not living in a Big Brother autocracy.  We have the free will to infuse our imaginations with whatever brain candy we desire.

Here’s a basic list for some light inspiration:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/news/datablog/2011/mar/14/information-beautiful-books-read-100#zoomed-picture

Anyway, my intention was not to vent pet peeves but to publicise Kites’ latest show.  Unfortunately, I fear I have created many enemies during this bigoted outburst.

If you don’t yet hate me please come and watch Kites perform at the Underbelly on Hoxton Square this Saturday. 

Be advised: those who clutch copies of Twilight will be turned away at the door.

This is a joke by the way.  Or is it?

Episode 1 - The Voyage of The James Caird

Kites - Video Blog

Episode 1

'The Voyage of The James Caird'

The Folly of Conceit

A Dedicated Follower Of Death: a tale of mindless stupidity

I write this entry as a witless nincompoop, unworthy of sympathy or misguided admiration. This is a confessional story and all those who lampoon me for the events I shall presently narrate are right to do so.

Last week I boarded a train at Farringdon station in central London. As I fumbled in my inside breast pocket for my entangled headphones, I put so much strain on my overcoat that the top button came free of the lapel. I looked on aghast as my dislodged button first tumbled onto the platform and then dropped onto the tracks.

I fear that the more astute among you will be able to predict what I did next. Crouching down on my belly, I proceeded to flay my arms impotently towards the errant button that had settled between two sleepers and was now far beyond the reach of my T-Rex-like arms. Thankfully, before I could make anymore woefully futile rescue attempts, a tube roared into the station and forced me to admit defeat.

At this juncture, most rational human beings would have gone home, shouted at their lovers, and momentarily wept at their own carelessness. The rest would have scheduled a visit to their local haberdashery. But not Matthew Phillips. I returned home only to formulate a strategy that would rectify this gross personal injustice. Crafting an implement out of a wooden pole and a tea-spoon, I could barely contain my own sense of petty pride as I caressed my new invention.

I know what you all must be thinking. What kind of petulant chump goes to so much trouble for a button? Escapees of Colditz Castle would have viewed my creation as an ingenious shovel that could be easily dismantled into innocent crockery the moment a guard approached. But no, I’m ashamed to say that I clearly had no such cause to justify the existence of my home-made gadget.

Anyway, let me get back to my tedious anecdote. When I returned to Farringdon the next day, all that stood between me and my button was a piece of metal and 660 volts of electricity. Being the idiot that I have already demonstrated, you will not be surprised to learn that I refused to acknowledge this fact. Once I had waited for a sufficient interval between two approaching trains, I extracted my button with a skill and dexterity that would baffle anyone who knows me. Although surgeons and detectives alike would have delighted in my untapped talent, their offers of employment would have quickly rescinded when they discovered what triviality had sparked my sudden gift.

If I thought, for one naive nano-second, that my act of indiscretion had gone unnoticed, I was wrong. As I hastily made to exit the terminus, I was soundly tapped on the shoulder by an unimpressed tube attendant who’d seen the whole sordid thing on CCTV. I looked up at her like a guilty schoolboy and gulped nervously when she exclaimed:

"You risked life and limb for a button?"

At that very moment, I suddenly grasped the absurdity of my situation. There I was, clutching a button in one hand and a child’s incarnation of Gandalf’s staff in the other. I looked ridiculous and I have the photo evidence to prove it. All I could do was mumble an apology and slump home with a posture reminiscent of the Hunchback of Notre Dame. I felt no enormous sense of well-being after my little triumph. I felt unspeakably foolish. 

Don’t try this at home kids.

PS: Did I mention that the button was plastic?

Taxi! I’m not hailing you; I’m simply asking that you preserve my life for a higher purpose.

I was nearly mown down by an errant taxi this weekend! Before you all rush off to purchase black armbands let me assure you that I am no longer in a critical condition.

Normally, I would hold myself accountable for trespassing recklessly onto a congested street. I cannot begin to count the number of friends to whom I owe my life. These superheroes usually clench me fiercely by the neck just as I am about to launch myself in front of the nearest motorised juggernaut.

However, as I stood on Brick Lane last Saturday, I made no attempt to play Kamikaze. Any reveller ‘worth their salt’ will tell you that Brick Lane itself is ostensibly pedestrianised. The only wheeled vehicles that venture down its cobbled walkways are either taxis or stolen bicycles. Not surprisingly, those cars that do attempt to venture through the milieu of partygoers will be moving no more quickly than the street’s indigenous population of prostrate inebriates. This detail proved to be particularly fortuitous when I felt a tyre make hostile contact with my right leg.

As I stared through the windscreen at the idiot cabbie with a mixture of bafflement, incredulity and an overwhelming sense of my own mortality, I wondered what might have happened if he had been travelling at a normal velocity. The fact that he can’t have been clocking more than 10 miles per-hour when he hit me only added to my hatred of that segment of society bereft of brain-cells. I know I should try to suffer fools more gladly but, for the love of Shreddies, did I really need to be wearing a high visibility jacket and some flashing Christmas lights to ensure my own safety!

After petulantly noting the offending number-plate, I limped along to my party and proceeded to regale attendees with tales of my brush with death.

The shrewd amongst you will realise that, had my injury been remotely terminal, I would have been in A & E, rather than by the spirits cabinet in my friend’s conservatory. My only defence can be that I was the hapless victim of an injustice and that I had been drinking. And, as we all know, drinkers are prone to exaggerate, particularly if they happen to be theatrical ponces.

This time I escaped with a battered calf muscle but next time I may not be so lucky.

Ps: It galls me that I wasn’t even offered a free lift. I mean, the mini-cab driver knew that he had put me in a state of diminished mobility. I ask you, is there no compassion left in this world!? Perhaps he was aiming for me and, if that really was the case, who can blame him.

A Rather Unpleasant Business

Anyone casting a summary glance at my desk will immediately assume that I must be some sort of hypochondriac.  The surface is littered with more placebos than you would expect to find in Howard Hughes' weekly prescription packet.

I survive, partially sedated, on a vitamin diet of Berocca tablets, Echinacea, antioxidant tea and cod liver oil.  If there is a recommended daily dosage displayed on these medicines, I will typically double it. Thankfully, I'm not hunting for a job as an adviser in my local pharmacist, although such an occupation might significantly cut my monthly expenditure on these pointless products.

As I shove the fourth paracetamol of the day crudely down my oesophagus - I no longer need water - it occurs to me that I harbour a latent terror of potentially becoming ill.  You see, I never usually get ill at all.  I have never taken a day off work - a smug fact which I never fail to impress on my long suffering colleagues.

I simply refuse to accept the notion that, as a biological specimen, it is part of life's course to feel peculiar every now and again; the idea is anathema to me.  I can't bear to think that I may one day be too incapacitated to perform a Kites show and yet, on Monday, this is nearly exactly what happened.

I spent the Friday prior to our gig at the Social feasting on a platter of oysters, mussels and escargot.  I had just been paid and decided to treat myself to a rare spread of shelled delicacies from the ocean. Those people who might want to punch me in the ear for such culinary pomposity will be pleased to learn that I suffered violent food poisoning as a result.  And, believe me, there is nothing worse than being sick on putrefied seafood.

I eventually arrived on-stage at the Social with Listerine breath and a decidedly green complexion; a pretty sight to behold.  To my amazement, I found reserves of energy that I never knew existed.  I can only thank the wonderful audience and my beautiful bandmates for this unlikely stamina.

On this ocassion, illness had been defeated.  The show must go on!

'The Disappearance of Becky Sharp' by Kites

The Disappearance of Becky Sharp by Kites

Vanity Fair: A Song Without a Hero

Allow me to provide some rudimentary explanation on how Kites’ latest demo – The Disappearance of Becky Sharp – came into being.

I occasionally attract criticism for my love of highfalutin and hyperbole. Such comments are wholeheartedly deserved and I will not attempt to defend myself here. I simply want to put into context the unusual sight of my being struck dumb by the ramblings of another. During the early developments of the aforementioned demo, Rich (Kites’ electronic wonder-kid) sent me an email which I presently reprint in-part for your benefit:

"I’ve made a track using my 1985 vintage Roland JX8P synthesizer and Roland TR707 drum machine. Because of the nature of the synth (the JX8P is monotimbral - it can only play one sound at one time) I had to record each part separately and multi-track it. The result is a spacey italodisco tune. I used the PG800 for quick-and-easy editing of the JX-8p as it allows me to control parameters with an easy-to-use traditional sliders; a must have, since the JX-8p employs a tedious system of editing with only one slider. It's quite funny how design was more important then than functionality [is it!?]. Anyway, let me know your thoughts and if you have a vocal idea."

Do you have any idea what Rich is talking about? Yep, me neither! I will happily award a medal to the first person who can translate the above extract for me. I doubt even the Egyptologists who deciphered the Rosetta Stone would be able to make much sense of this!

Hopefully, however, hearing the actual demo will impart some meaning into Richard’s ludicrous patois.

www.myspace.com/kitesonline

www.soundcloud.com/kites

Acoustic Variation of 'Yellow Letter' by Kites

Matthew Phillips and a drum machine perform an 'ad hoc' rendition of Yellow Letter.  Captured by Matthew's brother on a handheld camera and edited by Merrington.

Drown me in Carrot Juice. It’s time to face the New Year.

A military general would be a fool to announce an invasion in December.

A gardener would not seed their flower beds in July.

A bat would not dream of hibernating in May

So too, would a band be apparently imbecilic to schedule a performance on 5^th January.

 

The conditions are decidedly unfavourable.

Let’s consider the landscape: workers have recently awoken from a festive haze and been dragged kicking and screaming to their respective offices. As the winter lethargy descends upon the nation, people are more likely to be found wrapped in a blanket with a cup’o’soup, rather than down the local club with a Flirtini. I can hardly blame them; my Christmas exile in the countryside had not been the restorative retreat I had imagined. Instead of regular yoga exercises and Gregorian chanting, I had submerged my head in flagons of ale, tumblers of whiskey, and bowls of burnt black coffee.

Kites therefore arrived at the Notting Hill Arts Club feeling somewhat bedraggled and despondent.

Imagine then our surprise when, as we alighted onstage, the dance-floor began to overflow with heaving, sweaty bodies. The band roared through a pacy set with Taio spending a good deal of time playing his guitar from within the audience!  Without doubt, it was one of the most energetic live performances that Kites have had the privilege to partake in.

I’m not known to be superstitious but, if I were, this surely signals a good omen for Kites in 2011.

I, for one, am moist with anticipation.

Thank you to all those who came.

How Soon Is Now?

There is nothing more clichéd than announcing the year’s end with some idle reflection.

Please forgive what might seem like a decidedly hubristic outburst.

This time last year I had not stepped foot on a stage.

I had not even gone into a rehearsal studio.

Kites’ maiden performance would not be for another four months.

With foolish impunity we dived headlong into a creative venture that has been snowballing beyond the limits of our imagination. From purchasing a child’s keyboard on ebay, to handing a demo tape to Richard; from jamming with Taio in a garden shed, to recruiting young Jack; from the empty basements, to the throbbing clubs; Kites has been evolving at a tempo that would make Darwin’s blood curdle.

Needless to say, the road has been fraught with difficulties and impending failure. It still is.

If performing was simply a matter of donning an iridescent tail-coat and getting your teeth whitened, I would think that Kites would have completed their apprenticeship some time ago. Perhaps we would now be Christmas number 1. Alas, this is not reality television and we have been ruthlessly developing our repertoire.

To quote Morrissey, I don’t know how soon now is, but it feels pretty close.

Behind the scenes at the making of 'Take The Reins'

Posing for the video of Take the Reins

Hypothermia Beckons Part. 2

It will distress you to learn that the thief is still at large.

My jacket has not been returned and there has been no letter of apology or monetary compensation. Somewhere among us lurks a sinister but warm (and trendy, if I may say so!) vagabond.

Londoners will be aware that 10 millimetres of snowfall has brought the city’s entire public transport network to an abrupt halt. It has also brought my blood temperature to below freezing.

I feel like Joseph without his Technicolour Dreamcoat! Yep, an obnoxious, bellowing brat but with pneumonia instead of an Egyptian suntan.

One way to warm yourself up this weekend is to attend Kites’ headline show at CARGO on Saturday. Stage-time: 10pm.

It promises to be a sweaty, sordid affair.

You are all invited to the ceremony!

Hypothermia Beckons!

This is a personal appeal to the common thief whose light fingers chanced upon my overcoat:

Return my jacket or suffer a death so cruel that Eli Roth will be begging to direct a film about it.

Thanks to you I am likely to experience frostbite in every region of my body! Everyone knows that it is impossible to rely on the NHS and I will therefore be forced to undertake a grotesque form of amputation with a backstreet quack. How will a limbless Matthew Phillips hope to play guitar after such an operation? I might still manage a little singing but my energetic live performances will be replaced by a lifeless husk, weeping into a microphone.

The most irritating detail about this tragic (YES, tragic!) episode is that I very much doubt that the hapless criminal intended to steal my property at all. It is my belief that the inebriated half-wit picked up my jacket thinking it was their own. The intelligent reader will stare with incredulity at this assertion – ‘Only a mole would be capable of mistaking someone’s property as their own!?’ – I hear you all exclaim. Well, let me assure you, it is not just blind Talpidae mammals who can’t distinguish Topman from Armani, it’s drunken idiots.

The miserable truth is that I simply cannot afford a new overcoat. Cry for me Argentina! I am undone!

The greasy yuppie who wakes this morning to an Alka Seltzer and an alien garment, will not care one-jot that an innocent soul has been permanently deprived of their winter insulation. They will not think of shivering Matthew rubbing sticks together on the Central Line in a desperate bid to warm his creaking bones.

Ok, so I’m being characteristically indulgent but, for once, I feel I’m being entirely justified.

Let me make a final and belated attempt to woo my persecutor... Please please please give me back my jacket. Kites’ future depends on it.

Kites rehearse new track 'You Are (Dead To Me)' at Bullet Bar