Hay Un Agujero Sangriento En Mi Quijada

Yesterday evening, I had a mild toothache. This morning, awakening to a similar sensation to being smacked in the face with a bat, I looked in the mirror and discovered that, during the night, the left side of my jaw had expanded to an alarming degree. The emergency dental factory at the London Hospital beckoned. I say factory because you get yr treatment in an enormous room containing at least 60 half height cubicles and more dentists and dental sudents than you've imagined in yr worst oral health nightmares. Patients all over the place being drilled, filled and pilled by people wielding similar tools to the ones I use working on lifts.
After being x-rayed and having a dental student use my teeth for xylophone practice I was informed I had a periapical abcess. Which according to the trusty medical dictionary...

usually results from an infection of the pulpal tissue causing the pulp to become necrotic (die). This type of infection causes fluids and by-products to build up within the walls of the pulp chamber and root canal(s). The periapical
abscess is formed when these materials escape through the apical foramen of the tooth. An area of pus and fluid accumulation forms in the bone surrounding the
apex of the tooth. As the pressure builds up, a channel may form through the alveolar bone and the soft tissue. This channel is called a sinus tract. When the pus reaches the soft tissue, vestibular or facial swelling can occur. Extensive swelling is called cellulitis. Swelling that is confined to a small area at the site of a sinus tract is called a gumboil.

Yum. I love medical textbooks. I've got records with lyrics like that. Sorry, where was I? Oh yeah, so next I'm handed a "sugary drink" and told to drink it to lessen the risk of fainting during the extraction of my foul tooth. Mmmm, that's reassuring. Then they pump my gums full of anaesthetic and then go at the offending teeth with a special dental crowbar and a pair of pliers. It was like the way you'd remove a lamp post from concrete. I was quite surprised the dentist didn't put one foot on the chair to brace herself when she finally yanked it out. They hoovered the blood up, advised me to take some strong painkillers and told me to bugger off so they could do the next one. All the way back from Whitechapel I'm convinced, as I always am after dental anaesthesia that i'm drooling bloody gob everywhere and that the numb part of my face is three times it's normal size. Looking in the mirror when I return I see a bloody great hole in my gum. Excellent. Now all I need to do is get the digital camera in my mouth and get a photo...

This entry was bought to you by Paramol - numbs yr pain and yr brain

Those Waves Look A Little Large

Where was I? Oh yes, my keyboard has dried out nicely except for the Z key for some reason, which means that this is the only time the word Zzyzx will occur in this entry.
After the Om gig, the only possible thing to do next was to sleep. For a considerable amount of time. Which was nice. I could have done with another 24 hours or so's kip, but it was not to be, for I was going sailing round Mallorca with my folks. I don't mean on a nice big boat with a crew and a bar and all that stuff though. Oh no. I mean sailing as in pulling wet heavy ropes till yr skin falls off, trying to balance on a wet deck at angles the human inner ear is not particularly accustomed to, swallowing gallons of seawater and shouting fuck a lot. In short, proper sailing. Which is, in the words of Miles, Big Fun. Fucking hard work too, especially when it gets rough. Most days it was beautiful, just enough wind to work up a leisurely speed, the sun blazing down and selections from the Chess back catalogue blaring out of the speakers (this fucking boat had waterproof ones on deck - wasn't expecting that), the only interruption being the Balearic shipping forecast, which is always at least two hours late, and the occaisional horn or radio blast from another boat. Blissful.
That is until the moment the sea went black. Several miles out from the coast and not particularly near any anchorages sailing south east from Palma the weather flipped it's lid. The sky went from deep summer blue to looking like a slab of lead, the wind picked up and started to swirl, and it started to bucket down. Oh shit. I've done some sailing in my time, but never in anything like a force 7 wind with a crew of two. Dear Holy Fucking Shit. Getting the mainsail down in that so we could turn the engine on would have to rank as one of the most downright fucking terrifying things I have ever done. The hull of the boat was four foot out of the water at it's highest point. Unfortunately the waves were about fourteen foot. All i could think about was staying upright and getting the bloody sail down. It was only after we got them down and the engine on that I realised just how fucking scared I was up there, and how much of a fucking rush it is doing something like that. No time to think, not even time to be frightened while it's happening, no choice in the matter, just fucking do it. Moments like that don't really happen that often and I'm not really sure I'd want them more frequently, but it was a feeling which will stay with me for a long time to come. As will Palma, a city which kicks serious arse...

TBC

I've Just Spilt Beer On The Keyboard, So I'll Finish This When It's Dried Out...

As Withnail said, I feel unusual. Not just happy, which lately has been unusual enough in itself, but positive too, which was a shock when I realised it. The last couple of weeks have been fucking wonderful, a serious reminder that sometimes life is good, something i was beginning to wonder about.
First up was the best party I have been to in some time, even though it was in fucking Croydon, of which I shall say little other than dancing like a complete tit to Colosseum was one of my more dignified moments that night. Ruined would be the best way to describe the twenty or so people who then descended on the beer garden of the Dog & Bull as soon as it opened and finished off their stock of the marvellous restorative, healing tonic that is Waggledance.
Suitably refreshed, I poured myself onto the train back to London and thence to Camden for an evening of Metal 'n' Psych 'n' Newcastle Brown at the Underworld, darkest venue in the known universe. We only caught the last couple of riffs of Ramesses, which was a pity cos they sounded fucking immense. The Heads were up next, their Spacemen 3esque light show setting the scene nicely for some of the rawest, balls out hard bastard psych around these days.
The Heads never get their due for some reason, even though they've been consistently laying down some of the most blissfully freaked out fuzz known to man for the last decade or so, and generally doing it with a good deal more originality than say Comets on Fire or High Rise. By the end of the closer, Spliff Riff, a totally relentless motorik rollercoaster with guitar solos that burn so brightly you can see them with yr eyes closed, both of us are almost jumping up and down with glee and I think The Heads have won a few more coverts to the cause.
And then, Om. Fucking Hell. The greatest rhythm section in the history of Doom, back on stage after far too many years. There may be heavier rhythm sections, but no one else in Metal, let alone Doom, groove like Al Cisneros and Chris Hakius. There's a flow, a looseness and a sense of exploration in the way they play that's more akin to jazz than anything else, playing with even their most crawling riffs and rhythms in a way which reminds me of no one more than Ed Blackwell and Charlie Haden on Ornette's early Atlantic lps, that ability to find and articulate the myriad possibilites inherent in the straightest 4/4 rhythm. Mr Cisneros's frankly bonkers lyrics are as ever intoned with great solemnity over the shifting sands of riff in his unique, droning, almost mediaeval sounding drawl. (How can someone from California have a mediaeval sounding voice? Fuck knows. But he does. So there.) His words, like the riffs, changing gradually over the course of each twenty odd minute epic. A word here, a note there, the subtle shifts illuminating the all enveloping fog of bass like stars.
Slow, heavy and peculiarly beautiful, paradoxically, time passes all too quickly in Om's world. An hour isn't enough. As the last growling bass note disappears it feels like yr mind is slowly swimming back to the surface through thick molasses. Everyone at this gig had just seen something special and they knew it. To call Om a Doom or Metal band seems wrong somehow. Excuse me for sounding like a hippy for a moment, but there's a sense of peace, of calm, a warmth in Om's music which could be described as either deeply spiritual or the product of endless chillums, that's utterly unlike anything else in the metal sphere today. Stoners or shamans? I don't care, all I know is that the music of Om makes me feel righteously alive.

Si Usted Encuentra Mi Cerebro En El Piso, Vuélvalo Por favor

I'm too tired and too stoned to write much right now. My brain and my body ache, but's it's all good. I've just had one of the best fucking weeks of my life, and I want to tell you about it, but I can't because of the rather interesting effects of the extrordinarily strong painkillers a Mallorcan chemist sold me last week. I should go and make a cup of tea or something, but the kitchen is far too far away and my leg has gone to sleep... Oh well, the opiate haze should have dissipated by tomorrow and I should be able to think in something approaching a coherent manner. In the meantime I'd like to ask a question: Why, wherever in the world I go, do I always encounter naked Germans?

It's not always the same naked Germans, at least I don't think it is, that would be too weird. I'm going to stop thinking about it now.