I definitely didn’t expect to see the vinyl disappear in the first day, and I’ve had people who missed the opening 24 hours contact me, frantic that they missed out on the format of their choice.

As we’ve made clear, this isn’t mainstream marketing, we don’t want anyone to feel cheated. So we are making more vinyl available, literally as many as you desire.

Same with the ‘thanks list special’. You want it? We’ll keep it on sale.

And for the people who snapped up the first 300? Just you wait and see what we’re giving you just for being there first. You will be much happier than you thought you’d be. You have the rarest item of this whole campaign, just look below.

Like I said, no one here gets ripped off.
We want to do this again.

Gx

For the original 300 ‘special thanks liner note package’ pledgers

To commemorate you being the first 300 pledgers towards the ‘special thanks liner note package’ you will now also be receiving a numbered print of the currently unreleased artwork from ‘The Frankenstein Effect’. Painted by renowned artist Terry Pastor (who also did album covers for David Bowie (Hunky Dory, Ziggy Stardust) & Sweet among others), this is perhaps the most valuable item in this pledge! The artwork is below.

Thank you to everyone for your amazing support.

I love music being independent. Always have.

The D.I.Y approach has appealed to me since I watched the original punks gatecrash the charts and infuriate the press. But the thing was, they couldn’t be stopped because the people were behind their militant stance and the mainstream could only stubbornly hope that they’d just go away. But we never went away. Revolution was born.

I remember thinking how cool it was to hear Jimmy Saville, on Radio One, refer to ‘Never Mind The Bollocks’ as, simply, ‘Nevermind’. And when “God Save The Queen” stormed the charts at number one? Well, there just wasn’t a number one that week, the slot was left blank.

But we all knew. To the believers this was victory.

What I want to do is keep that spirit thriving. Music made for the people by the people.

This triple album will be exclusive to the people who pledge to get it made. The general public will have to make do with a single album of around 12 songs, which you Pledgers will choose for me – thanks! – while the 30 song extravaganza will only ever be property of the hardcore. The people who believe.

We will also bring you devoted pledgers studio video reports following every step of the recording process, allowing you into our inner sanctum, bringing you closer than ever before. Hey, you’re paying for this, it’s only appropriate that you get to see how your cash is being used.

And just to clarify, this is a completely different project to Ginger Wildheart Mutation ‘The Frankenstein Effect’.
Very different indeed.

Of the money you pledge we will donate 10% to Save The Children.

The catch? There is no catch. If this works we will continue to bring you great offers like this. Albums, holidays, exclusive performances and so much more. Believe me this is just the beginning.

I pray that your generosity and love of music makes this project possible.

Come on. I know we can do this.

Now, please just prove me right.

Gx

(Ed: See this post for full details on how to help with this fantastic project.)

I’m just coming up to the grand young age of thirty twelve, I’ve been playing drums for most of my life. Have been in bands for most of the time I’ve been playing drums, and have been drinking for most of the time I’ve been in bands playing drums.

So why is it that until the show that we just played in Helsinki, I’d never had a Jägerbomb whilst on stage?

Those of you who’ve never tried one, I suggest you do so at some point over the festive season, or sooner, and those of you who have tried one, will know exactly what I’m on about.

I mean, it’s not that I wasn’t having a great gig already. In fact it started off great and just kept getting better, but then I heard (what I can’t imagine is a very common sound at a gig in Finland) A vaguely familiar sounding Welsh bloke at the front shouting “Ritchie, fancy a Jägerbomb?”

Be rude not to now wouldn’t it.

So there we are, one song later and not one, but two of these cheeky little thirst quenchers turn up.

Egged on by the whole crowed I manage to down both drinks in the space of a few seconds and then it’s head down straight back into the set for a few more Wildheart classics.

Now I’m not sure if the combination of Jägermeister, intense physical exertion and Redbull is all that clever an idea, but I have to say that immediately after consuming said drinks I began to play the best I’ve ever played, the band was the tightest we’d ever been, the songs were the best songs I’d ever heard, the crowed sounded like angels, and the lights………good god the lights……..And at that point I realize that Scotty is pointing a mic in my face and I’m singing The Duck Song.

Damn! How the hell did that happen?

Thanx Steve, you bastard!

And this place is called Hell.

Stylish and sparse, and serving up fine food until 4am, this awesome hostelry offers treats ranging from reindeer pizza to snails with garlic and blue cheese (called Gas Lipstick, named after the drummer from Finnish megastars HIM and his obsession with this sublime dish – which is possibly the tastiest thing in the world).

It is here the four members of rock’s unsung super group (the band you hate to love, the over-proof underachievers, the resplendently independent… etc etc…) soak in the familiar air that is a Helsinki welcome, speak about activities in 2010, eat rare steak so tender that one has only the exquisite taste to remind you that there is actually something in your mouth, and recall the last 48 hours.

We hadn’t been in Finland for a full day before we’re being ushered to the One Eye Tattoo studio, where we will receive free ink, courtesy of Taneli and Pete. They will tirelessly tattoo wrists, necks, arms and ribs, gratis, while handing out free beers. The last time this happened to us was… um… that’s right, this has never happened to us before*.

Previous to that we were invited to attend the opening of a Wildhearts exhibition at the Helsinki City library, where a couple of Wildhearts fans had pooled their not inconsiderable collections together, much to the bemusement of the elderly patrons perusing the library section of the gallery, that serves as a humble reminder that the power of music is a transatlantic phenomenon in which no translation is needed.

MTV filming and magazine interviews/photos are conducted and radio interviews & station take-overs are undertaken before being treat to yet more delicious Finnish fare bolstered by copious Langerot (translated as ‘long drink’ it’s a pint of gin & grapefruit soda based heaven that must be tasted to be believed, I’ve yet to meet anyone who doesn’t love this stuff instantly) and Fisu (a chilled vodka fermented with Fisherman’s Friend sweets that delivers a huge, delicious wave to the sinuses and plants a warm glow to the chest, simply outstanding) leaving us merry and satisfied.

It’s been a great couple of days spent with wonderful people. So great, in fact, that we didn’t want to leave this morning (after about 30 seconds worth of sleep**), but I’m glad to report that we are in Tampere right now, getting ready for tonight’s show. The hotel is lovely and the band are loud.

Also the Chutzpah Jnr mini album will be available at all future gigs that The Wildhearts will play, so I trust you will all get a copy. And in the meantime please feel free to pas it around in files. You deserve it. You’re lovely.

See you at Xmas.

Gx

*Actually I have had free tattoos before, in Japan, but it wasn’t a whole band session, and hey, let’s try not to let mundane details get in the way of literary flow. Artistic license is why reading is fun, right? Er… right?

**This is an exaggeration. Once again I’d like to take the time to admit to using a little artistic license with which to effect a blunt punch to what could be considered a humorous insert.

Denmark, that nemesis of a place that very nearly sapped our lust for life during the recording of our last album. A place with so many memories it’s a shame they’re mostly horrible.

You could say that we haven’t enjoyed a great time in Denmark and you’d be right.

Would this time be any different?

Read on, dear reader, read on.

Turns out that the Punk festival that we are booked to play isn’t actually a punk festival at all.

“Just as long as it’s not a glam festival I’ll be happy” snorted Scott.

Ever wish you’d never said something?

On landing in Copenhagen we are met by a guy with half leather, star filled trousers who tells us that we will not be travelling by the traditional vehicular conveyance that would transport six people, as many guitars, a dozen suitcases and various merchandise. Oh no, we will not take a van or any such thing. We will take the train.

Yeah, I’ve seen the Anvil movie and no, I didn’t think we’d ever travel to a gig on a train loaded with our gear. Turns out the promoter, the guy who met us from the plane, is a confirmed pathological fibber and has been suitably economic with the truth.

“I lie to make people happy, and when they realise I’m lying I lie again”, says our promoter and host for the evening.

So we aren’t playing a punk festival, and we don’t actually have transport to the glam gig we are playing.

“It’s just around the corner from the train station”, he tells us, and after dragging our luggage and equipment around Copenhagen for 40 minutes we can see a theme developing.

After finally reaching the venue in time for soundcheck we are told that we have to turn the amps down onstage. Then, on reducing the volume to half of our usual output we are told once more to turn them down. This went on for a comedic amount of time until a stagehand is dispatched to the amps to turn them down quieter than I play my stereo when my son is sleeping next to me.

And on the strangest shaped stage in Scandinavia we locate the bottle of Jack Daniels, a gift from from our wonderful hosts in Norway, and begin to drink.

After coming to terms with the fact that the onstage sound tonight will resemble angry wasps in cookie jars we retire to our hotel. Or, to be more specific, hostel, where we are expected to sleep 6 in one room, including our female manager. The promise of single hotel rooms being less than honoured we settle for sharing two rooms leaving a 3rd single room for Virpi. Me, Scott and Dunc will be crammed into a tiny cell with barely enough space to fit our bags, and sleep on beds that have not been changed this century.

We continue to drink

It is agreed that the majestic waves of disappointment sweeping through our party will be best calmed by good food and fine wines.

This, however, will not manifest and will, instead, be traded in for a visit to the Royal Palace or, as Scott re-named it Hitler’s Chinese Buffet, which, it turns out, is run by the rudest, most obnoxious, unhelpful and over opinionated person living in a country of seemingly many rude, obnoxious, unhelpful and over opinionated people.

Virpi, who earlier, when asked where to buy guitar leads/chords was sent first to a record store, then a piano shop and a drum shop before finally being shown a guitar shop, is told that if she orders water with her meal she can not drink any drink of ours, not a sip of someone’s coke, not nothing. If you order coke you drink coke, if you order water you drink water, sharing is strictly forbidden. After enduring the charms of Denmark’s most disagreeable man Virpi loses the patience she has been valiantly clinging on to, and let’s him have a large slice of her mind.

In a bid to restore a peaceful equilibrium within the ranks it is decided that we should find a pub and just stay there until showtime, some four hours later.

Further to meeting up with the lovely Maria Anderberg (the wonderful woman who put me in touch with Maria Mckee) and friends we stagger, by this point, to the venue, in the pissing down rain, where we will wait for showtime while being serenaded by a DJ specialising in the worst music that the 80′s had to offer, namely hair metal.

The show goes off pretty well, a healthy reception and a very good natured audience, and after hanging out in the dressing room for long enough to be driven insane by the abhorrent music we conclude that the Danish don’t know what ‘Private: The Wildhearts Only’ means, and that taxi drivers would rather drive around at 90 mph than actually pick anyone up.

We drag our gear back through the rain and arrive at our digs around 4am to see a very high member of a glam band straightening his hair in the corridor mirror. We opt to drink to the death of a very strange day indeed.

Virpi wakes with a strange male member of staff leering over her bed instructing her to “leave right now”, the promised Wi Fi doesn’t work and everyone is still scratching their heads at the previous days activities.

We retire to an Irish pub where I decide I can’t leave Copenhagen with no fond memories and opt to visit the infamous hippie commune Christiania.

A very different face of Copenhagen welcomes us as we enter and take the main drag past dozens of hash and pot stalls hawking the strongest smelling weed these nostrils have ever imbibed. We almost get stoned by osmosis, such is the potency and open use of the local herbal fare.

Christiania is an incredible experience, a social experiment that began in 1971 where the only rules are no violence and keep the place tidy. The entire community muck in together and the enjoy everything from shows by major artists to public speakers addressing a huge tent on the benefits of sharing. There is a strong Buddhist vibe here and everyone is chatty and smiling, a far cry from the grumbling control freaks we’ve met just a few miles down the road. Even the dogs seem unnaturally laid back. You could get a place to stay here for around 100 quid a month. The police keep a respectful distance and the 1000′s of inhabitants live in a seemingly hassle free utopia.

I leave Copenhagen buoyant and so smitten by this strange community that I can forgive, easily, the rudeness of some of the people outside Christiania. After all, it would simply appear that most of the friendly people left the city to live in the commune. I know I would.

I hope to come back here one day to write and enjoy the spiritual balance that seems the true currency of this magical place.

I’d also like to continue my on going quest to fall in love with this country.

Denmark, you crazy fucking bastard.

Gx

But this time I’ve come prepared. Converse, as good as they are for drumming in, don’t really cut it as an all terrain snowshoe. So this year I’ll mainly be wearing the hide of pre-historic woolly mammoths, along with some very flattering thermal underwear made by that classic top Savile Row designer – Thinsulate. Let’s face it, you’re past caring about your appearance once your lips have fallen off. I dare say I won’t be so agile around the drum kit, but god damn it I’ll be warm.

First things first, go buy the new Devin Townsend album, Addicted. Absolutely the best stuff he’s released since the awe inspiring City by SYL. You will absolutely not regret this purchase.

Oh, Antiproduct are leaving the sunny confines of LA to return to the rainy little winterland we call the U of K to appear as special guests at The Wildhearts’ Xmas shows. Given that The Loyalties are opening up this evening should effortlessly rank alongside any Xmas special we have ever put together.

And, while on the subject of the Xmas gigs the thorny issue of Chutzpah Jnr. The decision to make this available exclusively to people attending the Xmas shows is not a decision that has been made by me or, to my knowledge any member of the band. I’m sure this is a slight error and that the CD will be available at shows after Xmas. All I can personally say on the subject is that I hope the CD will NOT be on sale outside of the concert environment, dictating that you make some online friends and have them buy a copy for you. Who knows, actual friendships may subsequently blossom ensuring you all have international destinations for your future holidays? Having said this, we have management and a record label that make these decisions for us, so for all I know (and let’s face it I’ve been known to be wrong as frequently as any air breathing humanoid) you might soon be able to download it without any further effort or social value whatsoever. Yay.

Speaking of gigs, the birthday show sold out in a rapid and amazing blast of  excitement, at least for me. It’s a pretty proud old(ish) fart who knows that you are so keen to help me celebrate in style. So proud, in fact, that I have invited pretty much everyone to the party. Expect to see a veritable rainbow of familiar faces and musical masterchefs cluttering up the tiny stage at London’s Relentless Garage. I’d also like to take this opportunity to point out that we’d like you to familiarise yourself with this tune:

We hope to present a live version of this song at some point in the evening and your participation in the chorus would be greatly appreciated. We also hope to have a twitter address set up for live twittering during the evening. So whether you’re in the actual venue or a billion miles away on a nearby planet, or even somewhere in between, you can make your presence known.

We will NOT, it must be heavily stated, be streaming the show live or recording the event in any shape or format. Filming will also be strictly dissuaded. This is a private party after all. All I can say, in my meekest defence, is that I hope to have more than one birthday next year, failing that I suggest you get tickets even quicker next time. We may even make tickets for next years show available at some random point mid-next year, to give some of you the chance to arrange travel arrangements and organise a spot of Xmas shopping. For the rest of you dotted around the world, outside of practical range of this event, I can only offer, as some mild condolence, how the rest of us all feel at not being able to spend New Years in New York, Summer in Saigon and Easter in Egypt. Let’s face it, only God can be everywhere (and, between you and me, even She’s confirmed on the bill for the birthday bash).

I’ve been writing a lot lately. Right now I’ve been happy to write for other artists but it’s got my creative sword quite fiercely sharpened on this welcome stone of demand. Expect at least two albums next year to feature my strong involvement. A bold statement? You betcha. And if it doesn’t happen then I assure you that it won’t be through lack of trying. I’m itching to create like the monstrous creative force I intend to be next year, and I suspect this level of energy will be enough to make this happen. That and your positivity.

I am also pitching for my own radio show through which I hope to educate and entertain with a veritable barrage of unfamiliar delights chosen specifically to stroke the imagination and coddle the mind. Pray with me that it comes off and I know we can achieve this. Sharing my vast love of music is part of the vital service I hope to dedicate myself to in 2010.

There are a few other things that might or might not be happening, none of which I will jinx by announcing here at this point. Instead I’ll exercise a little more respect for the health boosting effects of good news and keep you all waiting.

Still, you know me. As soon as it’s safe to announce I’ll be laying it on y’all. As a bringer of good tidings I find much comfort.

Have a brilliant Xmas, and if I don’t speak to you beforehand keep your powder dry and your intentions brilliant.

Gx

Take the food, for example. The mysterious, multi textured, multi-shaped, multi-coloured smörgåsbord that is a Bento Box can repel and delight in equal measure, depending on who is savouring its hidden treasures. A table/box full of assorted tastes and visual treats is my idea of heaven. The thought of putting something unknown into my mouth on the recommendation of Japanese hosts fills me with a joy that Xmas used to, about 30 years ago. And it is always, without exception, a culinary masterpiece jam packed with exotic flavour.

And the drinks? Last night I was drinking sho-chu (a strong wine made of wheat) mixed with vinegar and plum, and was made to feel like I’d just discovered alcohol again. Scott has got himself an addiction to sho-chu and oolong tea. And who could blame him? Without the bloated feeling of beer or the potentially hair trigger drunk that liquor can spring this stuff takes a while to get you there and is thoroughly delicious every step of the way. And all without the tiredness that drinking red wine can sometimes have on an evening out with friends.

Then there are the streets. A smoker’s dream. Nowhere else in the world are there so many people puffing on cigarettes. Indoors, outdoors. Young and old. Everyone is smoking tabs. And not to look hard.

People are also dressed in amazing clothing. Some merely stylish to the max and others kitted out in the kind of get up that American movies tell us people will wear 100 years in the future. And why the Hell not? Every store in Tokyo, no matter what they’re selling, from shoes to garden equipment, sells it with cute cartoons the likes of which are only seen by Western eyes on kids telly.

Society is structured on traditional values steeped in Buddhism therefore everyone takes pride in making the whole work effectively by governing themselves in a proper and respectful manner. Crime, while existing, is an organised and honourable vocation that the criminally minded can aspire to. There’s never been an ASBO written for a young thug here, the perks are just too great.

And then, of course, there are the fans. Loyal, respectful and diligent, they follow with patient tenacity, biding their time, determined to get a photo or autograph or presenting gifts laced with imagination and origami packaging.

And when collected in a venue, the cleanliness of which is completely alien to someone whose apprenticeship was served treading the beer and puke sodden boards of shit pits that make up most of the UK touring circuit, the noise they make is an ode to joy itself. Shrill and completely testosterone free the Japanese crowd makes a whistling squeal that sounds like a thousand kettles collectively and positively thrilled to make tea. Orgasmic and life affirming. This sound is one of the many reasons why The Wildhearts have stayed together for so long.

After a kick ass show at the Tokyo Liquid Rooms I’m startled to hear music business types charting out a three year plan of how the style of music will follow the current recession, based on previous recessions and the resulting shifts in style. The Japanese, it’s fair to say, aren’t a race of moaners.

Our hosts, the lovely Kaoru and the wonderful Coach, of Vinyl Junkie, follow us everywhere to make sure that we are looked after and the shows go off without a single hitch. Not many managing directors of record labels have this much of a relationship with the musicians they work with, maybe that’s part of the reason why the music industry over here is in such great shape?

In summary, I love this place. Fucking love it.

And it would appear, after 15 years of being invited back, that the feeling is entirely mutual.

Argita Gozai Mas, Banzai, Yopporai, let’s get high.

Gx

Ah! How cute I think to myself as I correct her telling her it’s gingerbread man. “No Daddy, it’s gingerbread person”

I scan the counter of all things yummy and there, wedged between the cheese straws and yum yums are a few familiar looking fellows advertised as ‘gingerbread persons’

Now I’ve been giving this some thought, and the only reason I can think of why anyone could possibly be offended by a gingerbread man being called a gingerbread man is that it may seem presumptuous of someone to name a gingerbread man a man when it could have actually been created as a woman.

But then surely the baker who’s selling the gingerbread men is well aware of the sex of his ginger biscuits. His train of thought must go something like – “right then, now I’ve finished the muffins, I better get on with making the gingerbread men.”

So there’s absolutely no question about it, they’re definitely male. So why call them persons?

Anyway, the fact that it was eaten before I’d even paid for it leads me to believe that, all names aside, they’re still as tasty as ever.

Speaking of which, did anyone notice how tasty our London show was? I thought we were rather excellent.

Tokyo, bring it on!