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.

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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'