Ginger Says – Corporates have had their honeymoon period, where fear was the guy downstairs’ job. And now they are feeling that fear
By Ginger | November 4, 1999
It’s Blair Witch mania time! And I thank the Devil for it.
Has anyone but me been really, stupefyingly, clinically BORED recently? Big budget Hollywood blockbusters and dull computer generated effects… have you noticed the distinct shift in movie ‘entertainment’ values? Until very recently, the art of entertainment had been renegotiated yet again in favour of bland, faceless, big money, sales-related ‘products’. In other words: CRAP.
Movies and music, though having a much different agenda and long term effect, are very closely related from point of fact that in neglectful hands they can both be controlled by multinational corporates. Big companies whose only directive is to make as much money as possible from people like you. Money is made far easier by pandering to demand, and demand has been shown to be controllable.
Take music, for instance. The buyer likes ‘best of’ albums to safely familiarise themselves with the artist. Big time, money-earning artists are the best bet for this kind of audience / music manipulation. So, regardless of the ‘brand loyalty’ of old, the marketing people now know how fickle today’s buyer is. After all, they programmed the market themselves. The ‘best of’ will then feature a new song, unavailable anywhere else. This will reluctantly pull in any ‘older’ fans still left out of the picture, that wouldn’t mind shelling out for the singles neatly packaged and in a different order from the last one. Everybody forgets the last time they were ripped off, subscribes to the cult of the new product, and everyone is happy again.
“Ever felt like you’ve been cheated?”
Movies act in the very same way. Anyone fucking sick of Ewan McGregor’s face? Or Leo DeCaprio? Not that they are particularly unappealing faces, but c’mon, burgers for breakfast, lunch and supper? While the artist must outstay his welcome or be cast aside for another young hopeful, the audience are once again treated like the monkeys that we statistically, as consumers, have voted ourselves to be.
It goes like this…
1) Crap product, nice packaging, big budget, exposure.
2) Audience buys said product due to the bland nature of shopping and the brainwashing of the advertising campaign.
3) Product ceases advertising overkill to make way for new product.
4) See 1.
This works for music too. There is no secret why the biggest bands / artists are the ones you see on TV. And if Leo DeCaprio or Marilyn Manson is pulling in the biggest audiences due to the above mentioned strategy, then who doesn’t want to be a part of the next big thing? The next big thing is sexy. And the next big thing is already sitting on the desk of some fat mega-bucker’s desk. On paper. Designed. Ready to roll. And you are in there as well. And the beauty of marketing is that you didn’t even know how big a part you played in its success. Much like the artist thinking that he or she did actually have something to do with their superstardom. If you own the latest Marilyn Manson album / Titanic video, it has already worked, and you have not been thanked on the Oscars / Grammys for your involvement. THE CORPORATES CONTROL YOUR NEXT FAVOURITE THING.
Or at least they did until The Blair Witch Project.
No one in Hollywood saw that one coming. And they see everything, right? Wrong! Mike Tyson went down. Princess Diana died. The aliens might even fucking land. We are reaching the greatest stage of paranoia in the history of man. Man has convinced himself, and his loyal legion of followers, that they are right! He is that good. No longer of mere mortal form, he has become the Last Word.
And then history decides that enough is enough and chooses to readdress the picture. And we are back to where we came in. Every generation repeats itself. It is a certainty that only the truly ‘full’ can ignore. Fashion, art, music… it’s all in the hands of the consumer. And eventually the consumer rebels against the system and challenges the boss to the chair. Only this time, they use the ammunition gathered up from the boss’s negligence.
Hollywood cannot copy Blair Witch, and copying is what corporates do. Strategies, proven methods, etc. Blair Witch has fulfilled the consumers’ need for ‘The Exorcist of the Nineties’ where Hollywood has been sleeping on the set of the ‘new Scream for the year 2000’.
Hah! Missed it completely, you fat bastards!
Music is going the same way. The taste-makers, movers and shakers are onto the desire for guitar-based music by the consumer. And, like their computer generated counterparts on the celluloid side, are in the design stages for the new Millennial Star. Leather clad and longhaired, he comes from America via Hell and he’s here to shake your foundations. And, hey, it will probably work too! But in the fight for the seat they’ve forgotten the one main ingredient of rock, which is identical to the main ingredient of horror… the reality.
Everything I regretfully concluded about the shallow nature of consumerism is coming true. But I’ve had a plan for the last year and it’s going really well. And, like Blair Witch, it is going to come from the most unexpected of angles: the blind side that no-one has guarded. Time will prove my theory just as Blair Witch has proven theirs. The person most likely to scare the pants off of you is the person who has the pants scared off of them. They are, statistically, you, after all.
Corporates have had their honeymoon period, where fear was the guy downstairs’ job. And now they are feeling that fear. And it feels like the woods. It feels like, if anything is going to get them through this, it’s going to be primal human reserve. And then the old boss will no doubt become the new boss and Blair Witch will be yesterday’s big news… exactly what was the big fuss about? Remember the Prodigy?
This is the time where anything can happen, and you as fans / consumers / the dissatisfied will make the biggest impact of your lives. And then, of course, it will be back to normal. But for now it’s fucking great. And for now Blair Witch is just about the best, most ‘punk-as-fuck’ movie of all time. Sure, it ain’t The Exorcist, but the Prodigy were never the Sex Pistols either. It could never live up to its own hype.
But Blair Witch is your best friend. This won’t feel like this for long. Blow it at your own risk.
Hey, someone’s got to stand aside and buy this shit!
Ginger
Ginger Says – Happiness is obtained by being the sort of person that you would like to get to know
By Ginger | October 14, 1999
I feel happy. Happier than I’ve ever felt. It seems like a pendulous weighted pressure has subsided and I’ve come away from it refreshed and cleansed. “Riding the storm” is a phrase that gets used in dodgy metal tunes with the same frequency as “living on the edge” and things “cutting like a knife” (and it’s very likely that these phrases too mean something deeper than running out of lyrics or not being able to find a rhyme for “life”). But “ride the storm” I most definitely have done.
When your own experience enables you to make an educated guess that you really know what is what (and what isn’t) it’s handy to remember that you really don’t know anything conclusively, otherwise you wouldn’t have been in any of your previous messes in the first place. Mistakes are as common as heartbeats, and making them gives us all a sense of belonging and comradeship. But the real lesson is recognising them. And, of course, trying not to make the same ones again.
How many times have you been reminded, in glorious detail, of how much you fucked up? Even by supposed friends? You can bet that these people are convinced that nothing is their fault. If you recognise that you, yourself, have made a terrible blunder somewhere, somehow, who in the world could make you feel any worse? And who, with a basic grasp of humanity, would want to? When putting this logic into practice it makes complete sense that someone who has wronged you does not need the extra self-loathing that you could try and push on them. It’s the most cruel and selfish form of emotional manipulation, and sounds, on paper, like the act of an enemy.
But are enemies so far removed from friends? Aren’t the people you love only so lovable because you recognise their flaws and insecurities? And isn’t it also true that you only recognise these flaws and insecurities because they’re the same as yours? Otherwise how could you possibly recognise them? Are we really that telepathic?
The human being can be so cruel to all other animals, including other humans. It seems that in an increasingly loveless world, it is the final form of communicating with others on some – any – basic level. Except, of course, all other pack animals act together for the betterment of the pack. We, on the other hand, go for the popular opinion in almost all levels of social behaviour.
How often have you heard that “so and so is a such and such,” and everyone you know within hearing range not only finds themselves agreeing, but has a specific example of why they think so too (usually followed by a similar anecdote, to establish that they are not making it up just to be a part of the group vibe)? You’ve probably found yourself subscribing to this ugly scenario yourself… I know I have, and have been left with a feeling of letting myself, and the unknowing victim, down badly. Oh, how human we all are.
But a mistake is a mistake, and can only be laboured over for as long as a personal decision to make amends comes about. Your friends, your family and your lovers / partners… they all fall into the bracket of “human.” In other words, THEY CAN’T HELP IT! To insult a friend behind their back is to insult your ability to act as a good judge of character.
So, who is the jerk?
If something traumatic has happened that makes you take stock of yourself, then isn’t that traumatic event worth it? Wouldn’t things be much worse if something hadn’t happened to turn you into this fantastic person?
Gossip is usually the conversation of one who has nothing interesting to say about himself. And it only goes to prove how infinitely more interesting the person taking up valuable conversation time really is.
Happiness is obtained by being the sort of person that you would like to get to know. Happiness pours all over your friends and loved ones, and before they know it, they’re happy too. And aren’t they worth it?
So, do yourself one big favour. Next time someone you know is being slagged off by so-called friends of yours… SHUT UP! Or better still, reprimand these “friends” for being so cruel about someone who is not there to defend themselves. You never know, they may well learn something. BUT AT LEAST YOU’LL FEEL A WHOLE LOT BETTER!
Love and peace…
Ginger
Ginger Says – Rock and roll are definitely in the house. And they’re taking their coat off
By Ginger | September 14, 1999
Welcome again to the site that changes more often than stuff that never stays the same… even for a second.
The newest news on the page is that I’m currently rehearsing the SilverGinger album with Blads (The Yo-Yo’s’ amazing drum guy), and we have Tim Smith of The Cardiacs producing. The music is the stuff from which dreams are made. And I’m not talking about those sweet little nap-type things that go unnoticed until something reminds you of that dream you had that no one really wants to know about anyway (or something). Oh, good God, no. These are sprawling nightmares complete with fiery jaws and dripping eyes… and teeth, did I mention the teeth?
In short, the stuff is sounding so damned hot we’re having to wear asbestos ear muffs just to listen back to the rehearsal tapes. Fact. The melodies are sweet kisses that bite your lip at the last moment; not hard enough to draw blood but enough to leave a little scar that from a distance, whilst it’s healing, looks like a cold-sore… but you know better.
The riffs… oh my heart, nurse, the riffs! Like hungry dogs barking at your door, demanding your attention. And to ignore hungry dogs would be the actions of a fool. Riffs that stutter and splutter like the butter of a nutter. And then some. There will be saxophones. There will be glorious gospel-sized vocals. There will be laughter, tears and the pounding of impatient feet upon the floor. The feet of a million rock-starved fruitcakes, deprived for too long of their daily juice that they call ROCK.
How long has it been since a record made you want to take off all the clothes of your best friend and burn them in a fit of over indulgence? Can you even remember when a song made you shave your armpits and give yourself a girl’s name? And don’t even get me started on you boys.
No, brothers and sisters, the wait is almost over. The time is now. And the disease is spreading. Give in to the power of the crush. All but the most desperate will be soon sailing the boat. The beat boat. The sleaze ship. The chorus catamaran. And the seas are bumpy tonight, boys and girls. So strap your sweet little selves in. The destination? Do I look like a captain to you?
Can you feel it? Can you hear the ground tremble as it awaits the oncoming stampede? No, me neither, because we start recording tomorrow. Next time we meet at this very spot it will be done and the word will be official. And that’s official.
Been spending too much time in the house? Can’t seem to muster up the courage to go and phone the number of that special girl / boy on your mind? Video player not taping the shows you wanted it to? There is hope, brethren. Hope and joy. You will be glad. And I will be happy to gladden you. It is my job, after all, to provide a healthy alternative to entertainment in the 20th century.
And if I say it ROCKS, you best believe it rocks… R O X.
Ginger
Shellfish Bastards: Clam & Clint’s Tour Diary
By Kris | August 6, 1999
Transcribed by Darren Stockford
Monday 19 July – Cheltenham Attic
CLAM:
Today’s show was the first of the tour and, I would imagine, the weirdest. It really was like starting life all over again. The Wildhearts never played these venues before, and the audience were a little freaked out that it was so different. Danny was there with me for moral encouragement (!!!!) and I found out that our audience came to the front of the stage whereas The Yo-Yo’s’ first shows had everyone staying away from the stage. Probably because they were too bloody loud!
But teething problems aside (they are to be expected) it was a great first gig of any tour. This diary will no doubt get stranger as it progresses. I’m still a little worn out from a night with Ritch Wildheart last night. Oh, that boy.
Played Unlucky In Love on XFM this morning. Julie Thompson, from the album, came down and sang for us. She performed like the goddess that she is and sounded like the star she will ultimately become. Just watch her go… stand aside Cerys Matthews.
CLINT:
So, I have finally played my first ever show in England. At last. Dream come true for me. Playing in England reminds me a lot of my home town Chicago (at least based on this show). Of course, I was asked to leave there pretty quick… So at least I have that to look forward to.
On a more serious note, the trouble with Clam persists. If anything, it might be getting worse. Tomorrow I’ll be running those tests on the hose. Will be keeping everyone informed.
Tuesday 20 July – Portsmouth Wedgewood Rooms (read our review!)
CLAM:
The whole show came together today, after just two days on the road. Clint and I sound like we came out of the womb together armed with a bunch of tunes to challenge the perceptions of the world at large. Or just rock people for one night of their lives… either way, a good time is being had by all.
Joining us on this tour so far have been Tyla and Danny Wildheart. Danny has been appearing onstage with Tyla and warming up the audience in preparation for our sonic onslaught. This is the first tour of the UK that Tyla’s done for ten years. There are a lot of happy Dogs D’Amour fans at these shows. And of course there are hundreds of raving Wildhearts nutters proving, once and for all, that they / you are the best, most loyal fans in the world. It feels like you guys already know who we are and that feels mighty grand.
CLINT:
Hey, English people are nice. Very loud, very welcoming, very drunk and they know how to enjoy themselves… and that’s just Clam and Tyla. Good show, technical shit coming together nicely, blah blah blah.
Ah, good. We’re alone again… we must be secretive about our communications. Now, the hose test came back negative, so I have no conclusive proof concerning the blood and excrement samples from behind the doorway of the first hotel. I take this as a good sign or a very bad one… a very, very bad one. Oh shit, must be off, they’re back.
Wednesday 21 July – Southend Chinnerys
CLAM:
Spent the day getting blasted, hammered and fucked up with Tyla (a good drinking buddy). Went to Southend fair where he and I got stuck inside the water chute, Homer Simpson style, and had to scramble our way back on to the raft and finish the ride soaking wet.
The show was the strangest one yet. Arses and tits were signed onstage, Wildhearts fans sang Geordie In Wonderland and various Wildhearts tunes to my accompaniment, and Beautiful Thing You got a stage full of people singing the chorus. This shit is working. It’s still weird playing to tapes and not having a drummer to blame for mistakes, but we’re slowly warming to the idea. You are making this very comfortable… we like you. Very much.
CLINT:
Them was some damn fine globules of love, dirty pillows, golden bozos, knockers, jugs, bouncey-bouncy, titties, utters, boobs, rack, set o’ headlights, front end, hills, love lumps, daddy’s not-so-little helpers. I love things here that aren’t over whar ah come from, ya’ll.
Still no further progress on Clam’s problems. Tell no one, but I saw him sleeping underneath the most enormous pile… damn, they’re back. Will contact later.
Thursday 22 July – Leicester Princess Charlotte
CLAM:
Tonight felt like we’ve been on tour for years. Tight and confident. The crowd were brilliant and the laughs were elongated. Radio interviews are a very silly thing that should not be encouraged. Having said that, I love doing them. You’re given a microphone, and an audience of thousands. And the best thing is that you can say what the goshdarn you want. And I do. Frequently… until they stop me doing ’em, that is. Then I’ll shut up. And get old. And die… (Hope your job is still OK, Chaz.)
Tyla acted as a decoy for me today. Someone thought he was me and followed him up the road, leaving me to enter the venue without a hitch. Dunno which of us should be offended.
There are some crazy girls in this town… crazy in that cuddly little bunny holding a razor blade against your mother’s neck kinda way. You know the thing.
The lovely Yvonne sang with us again tonight, which made us look like the superstars we are surely to become. The craziest of all crazies arrived today, and will no doubt appear every day – a chap who goes under the name Ginger Wildheart. Well he goes under it because it is indeed his name. Deed Poll and everything. Some people are just nuttier than squirrel shit.
The gig tonight was so good that I’m going to have to amputate my genitals. You just see if I don’t. That’ll teach you. Eh? Eh?
CLINT:
Tyla and Clam have been at it again with the whole impersonation thing. I wish one of them would realise how offended they should actually be. I love here more than there, and why here has taken so long is anyone’s guess. Sometimes I feel like a pony.
Will have conclusive info on “the condition” (although we have lost our taste for insects at last) as of tomorrow. But tonight, we will first and foremost rock. Be free with your love.
We’ve introduced further yodelling into the set. Our plan of global subversion through the ancient punk art of the yodel seems to be working. Good thing we’re bringing yodelling back to the people before someone else does…
The anti-American sentiment I soooo desperately feared is becoming more and more evident. There have been some threats made, but so far the severed pigs head is the only real sordonificatory sign. Welcome to the most subtle descent into hell, but we go willingly in the name of all that is rock.
The bus is beginning to smell really bad… perhaps more is afoot than I had ever expected.
Friday 23 July – Leeds Duchess Of York
CLAM:
Well, the genitals are still there. Guess I’m full of shit. Leeds Duchess… has been the grounds of many a happening in the past. Happenings of the bizarre variety. Strange, weird things that you’d do better not knowing. In fact I shouldn’t have mentioned it AT ALL. OK? GOOD.
I love Leeds… but I much prefer rhythm, so what does that say? Absolutely nothing I’ll wager. Which is precisely where I came in. Did I mention that the show was great? Oh! Well, it was. And we had the first stagedivers of the tour. Stagediving to Clam Abuse is very difficult. One has to guess where the heavy bit would be if we had one. Some imagination these people.
Did my first in-store signing today – something I vowed I’d never, ever do. What a fool I’ve been. There’s free CDs and everything. I love free shit. Even more than spending money. The beautiful people at Crash Music are worthy of religious devotion, but since I’m not in any way religious let’s just say that they are sexy motherfuckers with just the right amount of panache to overturn the monarchy. Or something.
CLINT:
No sign of The Who live or otherwise. Disappointed as only an American can be. Still no sign of an elevator, but I have faith. Bunch of people jumped on stage and began disrobing while yodelling. The primal ferocity of this sight is both exciting and intimidating. We all found ourselves running through the streets of Leeds yodelling and naked, singing “we are a herd,” and we were!
The “problem” has returned vis-a-vis the Clam thingy. The behaviour on the bus is becoming more and more surreal. My God, man, the sights my eyes have seen in the last few days I wouldn’t wish on my mother’s new husband. Ta Ta.
Saturday 24 July – Edinburgh Venue
CLAM:
If there is a prettier place than Edinburgh then they haven’t been open for long. (And no one I know has been). Yes, this sure is one pretty place. And they don’t like the fake accents we do. Come to think of it, people are getting the wrong end of the stick and beating about the bush with it as far as the accents go. Anyone who has not attended any shows yet will be mightily confused right now.
So, with no accents and too much lubrication we eagerly set out to the stage. I think they liked us… but I think EVERYONE likes us anyway (apart from the guy who reviewed us for NME). Anyway, I’m bored with talking about how great we are every night. I wanna tell you fine people what we did with our day. Edinburgh is built on top of an underground city that used to house the poor and diseased. So me, Alex and Tyla decided to visit. After missing the start of the trip – three times – we eventually made our own way underground, and scared the shit out of the guy who was playing a ghost, supposedly to scare the shit out of us. One visit to Calton Studios Nightclub (a very cool place with three different different rooms playing the entire musical spectrum) and then it was off to bed to the sight of naked strippers running through the corridors of our hotel. It’s a tough life.
CLINT:
Glas… I mean Edinburgh. How much fun can you have and still not get arrested? Well, now I know, thanks to these lunatic fucks. Beautiful scenery and all, nice greenery, etc. But as an American, as we roll over this beautiful, spacious, historical, fertile, magnificent countryside, it makes me take a big pause… a big pause because you’re wasting all this space when you could be building parking lots and mini-malls and cineplexes and worshipping the devil and eating unholy pestilent…. Oh sorry, got a bit carried away there.
Why has it taken me so long to get here?I love this more than a bunch of stuff I love that I can’t write about here because of the laws of the British Isles. By the way, some people on the bus have started to fancy one another. See ya tomorrow, must meet beer quota. (This fancy lark has fack all to do with me, love…later, Tyla.)
Sunday 25 July – Edinburgh Bar Java
CLAM:
The hotel we were staying at (the Bar Java) was so wonderful it was actually twoderful. So we decided to stay and spend our day off playing the hotel, in return for a free night’s stay. The day was spent drinking copious amounts of fluids and the show in the evening was just about the weirdest experience of my or anyone in the history of the world’s life. What started off as a typical run through of the songs slowly degenerated into psycho jamming. Which, to the uninitiated, is the most self-indulgent public display of sonic masturbation possible. I’m not proud of myself, and I don’t wish to talk about it any more. It never happened, right? Oh, and the gig was free….so WHERE WERE YOU?
CLINT:
Went to a rock club with one of the new couples on the bus. Gigs (tour manager) reminds me (or “us” as you “lot” “chinwag”) that I visited a castle by “meself” at “half four in the morn aye”, drunk a lot of the liquid courage, blah fuckin’ blah-de-blah, hung out with my friends, saw some beeaauuuteefuul scaineree, and was seduced by the siren’s call of the word “Fooking Gleet”. It’s reeeeelee fookin gleet gleet gleet. Then I guess we did a gig in someone’s hotel room and got heckled by the drunken ghost of Janis Joplin and Andre the Giant. Tyla reminds “us” that he went over gleet. The “lads” have “warned” “melot” “about” “yobs” and the “Glashgo Kissh” and that all the people there were actually almost as stupid as Americans – if that were even a possibility – and then they made me cry, and started poking me with sticks, and now I feel really bad.
Monday 26 July – Glasgow G2
CLAM:
Glasgow, Glasgow, Glasgow… how many times can you say Glasgow in an intro? Always mental, always fun. Deep fried Mars Bars and Americans believing that haggis is a small rodent with one leg shorter than the other. Sheesh. Sort of dreamlike gig which culminated in myself throwing my guitar at someone in the crowd and hitting the wrong person. OOPS… sorry. I don’t know. I just get so bored. It’s not my fault. It was my parents’. They used to lock me in a darkened room and feed me spiders until I could recite the alphabet backwards. At the age of four I had ran away from home 12 times. Unfortunately we lived on a desert island. It wasn’t very large and finding me was not difficult. Not that they bothered of course. They would put me up for adoption and let the new parents find me. Etc, etc, etc.
The show was great.. Or GREEEEET as they say in America.
CLINT:
I’m home. The best show so far. I don’t remember it. But it felt good. Clam had a tantrum and proved once and for all that his aim sucks. Then there was something about sex and then some more stuff about everyone masturbating together. A lot of love in the room. Meet some of the gleetest people ever and “canno” wait to come back. Beeeaautiifuuuul women with huge “fookin’ gleet” torpedoes. Had a yelling match with the second biggest “fleek” I “eeeeeva” “meeeet.” I’m having so much fun I could “sheeet gleet logs.” Beginning to recognise a bunch of “puntaas aaiyye” from past gigs. Fookin’ Fleeks!
On a sombre note, and in an entirely different vein, the “problems” of which I’ve been writing to you… there are serious signs of mental erosion and even a potential cannibalism on the tour bus. This morning, with the break of dawn hanging over the murky swamp, a swamp which held no love for no one, I found some of us licking some other of our elbows, except they were holding a knife in one hand, a fork in the other, and in the other was a SALT SHAKER. DEAR GOD. It’s happening, really is happening to us. Oh dear, sweet, tasty scrumptious God, protect us from our taste buds.
CLAM:
Sigh. Another North East venue goes to the dust. R.I.P. Riverside. So this new gaff… any cop? Seems fine, actually. Full of Geordies, in fact. Mad the lot of ’em. Angry young men and sexually motivated young ladies. And that’s just us lot.
There is nowhere like Newcastle, and if I didn’t come from there I’d be very jealous. Even my folks came down. Japanese people flew over for the gig, grown men wept and stars fell from the sky. Played an in-store in the smallest shop in the world, Changes One in South Shields. Very odd, very cool. Saw all my mates and had a monumental drinking session that seems the only way to drink in the North East. Tired, emotional and hungover – the less said about tonight the better. Except to say that even with my clouded and prejudiced judgment, Newcastle is the best place to play in the world. The girls are the prettiest and the men are the most mental bunch of reprobates in the western world. And they’ve closed down “VAUX” breweries, which means you can’t buy Lorrimer’s best scotch any more. I don’t know how upsetting this is for you, but I’m inconsolable. Gutted. Bastards. Penguins. Ambulances… or should be that Ambuli? I don’t know nor care. For that matter, does anyone care any more? I think maybe they do. And I’m always right on matters such as these. Oh yes.
CLINT:
Oh dear, where to start apologising. I, as an American, and as an individual, I do so very much apologise for just about everything ever, and even things that haven’t happened, ‘cos we’re bigger than you and can take it. But, uh, holy “sheeet”, man. I’ve seen things. I’ve seen some things and then I’ve seen some other things that were different, and this was most of that without the parts you end up regretting but were secretly glad you did ‘cos it would have been worse not to do it.
Well, we broke the loudest yodel record in the presence of an actual judge from Guinness Book of World Records, so you’ll be seeing us in that as well as some other magazines that do appreciate us for the genuine musical and overall top of the marquee, Vegas-sized, huge, megaquantum, monumental, pivotal, godlike, queen-bitch, bring me my water boy or you shall perish at merest whim-type guys that we accuse ourselves vehemently of being. And I’m standing firm on this. There is nothing wrong with Newcastle, and you owe it to yourself to go there and meet as many of the people that I did as soon as you can. Nuff said. Rock out with your cock out.
Did an in-store today as well. Met more greeeet people but I wouldn’t go camping with ’em if ya knows whhaaaaat ahs mean y’all. And again, when it comes to being sorry I’m the vesivialiast ever. Really.
Wednesday 28 July – Sheffield Boardwalk
CLAM:
Everything is turning into a stream of stuff… sprawling and desperate. I am struggling, as we converse, to make sense of the basic primaries of life. They have taken my soul and replaced it with the spirit of Mal Manson and his hordes of demonmongers. I HAVE NO REASON, THEREFORE I AM REASON. Clam lives. Clint is dead. Long live The Beatles. Or, for that matter, Beadle. It is because that is the way it is.
The gig was OK too.
CLINT:
More familiar faces. I think we’re being stalked. It’s time to call the cops. They (them, you know, those that are not us) know our every move, can sing our every chorus, bounce with our every bounce, make out with each other just ‘cos we asked ’em. A little skeptical about the yodelling at first, but yeee know whaaeeet theeeeeeeeeeey seeeeeeaaay – once you yodelled once, you’ll always yodel once again. Time to try fellatio on myself again. Yippee, what’s goin’ on here? What lies ahead in the creamy shadows of dawn’s most precious breakings?
Thursday 29 July – Manchester Band On The Wall
CLAM:
Another day on tour, and to tell you the truth, I’m getting a bit bored. This kinda thing happens on tour. There are only so many days you can do the same thing. Maybe you’re different, and don’t have such a low boredom threshold. Sometimes I don’t really enjoy touring. Sometimes it’s the most exciting thing, while other times it’s a case of “oh, this again.” Gig was great, really tight… blah, blah, blah.
CLINT:
Hey, how you doin’? I’m doin’ fine. Thanks for asking. Well, another show, more chaos, more fun, and more questions left unanswered. Deep, dark terrible secrets abound. The gigs serve as a backdrop for the impending hysteria and arson and cannibalism that we call the Clam Abuse tour. How does one express elation and madness at the same time? Go on tour and then learn to play geeeeetaaar, babies.
I’ve started to be able to make some grotesque generalisations about you guys over here on the other side of the pond:
1. You all smoke a whole fuckin’ lot.
2. You can drink more than an ocean of fish.
3. You know how to “party” like the day the world was born.
4. Your “chicks” all look different from each other, and their breasts are real and really greeeet.
5. Finally, you don’t realise that you’re playing soccer, you ride on “elevators”, and hygiene would be much easier if you had one spout for the hot and cold water with separate knobs to direct the proportion of both extremes of temperatures, therefore allowing for scald-free cleanliness.
6. You think that Americans are all opinionated know-it-alls making unfair assumptions about a culture rife with tradition and beer.
Saturday 31 July – York Fibbers
CLAM:
I’m getting that feeling that something bad is gonna happen. York: beautiful scenery. So why do I hate this place? Played an in-store performance to a bunch of people who didn’t seem into it very much. This is a very humbling experience and one I’m not very keen to repeat. Went out for a curry and sampled the delights of York after dark. Found out there is no York after dark, and ended the night wishing I was anywhere in the world but here.
The gig was horrible, the place had no dressing room and Clint kicked a hole in the wall, probably out of sheer tedium. The rip-off bastards at the venue advertised it as Ginger, presumably to sell a few more tickets to people who would leave very disappointed indeed… which they did. Don’t bother playing or visiting this venue. The ice machine only makes two ice cubes at a time. And there’s a big hole in the wall.
The party was the maddest thing about today. I met Chris McCormack’s lovely new girlfriend, “Ginger”. And a friend had a marble statue land on his foot and split it up pretty bad, putting him in hospital with two broken toes and 27 stitches.
CLINT:
Gleeeet in store. Lots o’ folks, familiar faces (stalkers?), and much fun. Received several offers of sex with myself, but as I’m a nun and priest, it’s not in the Bible that I can, although I relish the opportunity.
In spite of the all the love in the air, I’m filled with a sense of forboding and trepidation. The madness and mayhem of the flesh-eating bus adventures seem like a pleasant memory of fluffy kittens and butterflies. A darkness is on the horizon. Maybe it’s just the beer, pot, hallucinogenics, lack of sleep, and being born with only half a brain, but something’s gonna happen.
(Later)… Well, I’m glad we’re only here for tonight, because the bad thing has happened. While onstage, a very good, fun, sweaty and exciting show, Satan took over my body and made me destroy some things. I tried explaining this to the club owner, adding that he should send the bill to Hell. As I’m such a well behaved guy, it could only be Beelzebub’s fault, and I’m sure that he’d be more than happy to pay. He didn’t believe me either. At least we’re leaving tomorrow.
Sunday 1 August – Liverpool Lomax – cancelled
CLAM:
Another day in the dullest place on this planet. Woke up feeling just about ready to leave this shit hole, when up pops a fascist bastard with too much flab AND A HISTORY OF BEING PICKED ON AT SCHOOL. Yes, a policeman. After getting a bit shirty, I told him he was a fucking Nazi and was promptly arrested, thrown into jail and generally treated like a piece of shit by our wonderful police force – a bunch of bullying, ignorant pricks. I hate the police. I hate York. If I had a home I would want to go there.
CLINT:
Just got back from the party we had for Panda in the emergency room after he tried to save a five hundred ton marble boulder from crashing to the floor in a very fancy-schmancy hotel bathroom with what’s left of his bad right foot. Yes, we were kicked out of both the hotel and hospital for having too much fun. I didn’t even know it was illegal. Thank God we’re leaving in a few short hours.
(Later)… So we’re leaving York, packing the van. Everyone is in the van and we’re about to leave (all completely stoned, mind you – after all, it was already 9:30 am), when this little fat asshole non-sexed cock sucker nobody of a nothing, decided Clam was a problem. Enter an arrest. What fuckin’ bullshit. It was just like being in LA again.
Monday 2 August – Still in York…
CLAM:
FUCKING BASTARD YORK AGAIN. GROUNDHOG DAY.
The filth dropped the charges after realising that they were not only wrong, but were wasting the tax payers’ money pissing around airing their insecurities. The lawyer’s bill came to £200 and we lost a lot of money having to cancel Liverpool yesterday while I sat in a prison cell for no apparent reason. Sorry, Liverpool.
Later in the day I went to rehearse with The Wildhearts for our Japanese gig. It was wonderful. To go from playing with a drum machine to Ritch Battersby is a bit of a shock to the senses. WOW, we sure sound good together. I realised how much I miss the boys. And I thought I already knew.
CLINT:
Lancastettettchersterster… In lieu of being arrested and wanted by the law, or even having nothing to do (sorry Liverpool, I can”t say how much I wanted to see your city, ‘cos it might be illegal to), we, Tyla and me, valiantly decided to blow Clam and his problems off, and come here and do a gig. I remember it like this: driving and laughing, going inside and laughing, and bathing, and laughing, and eating, and smiling, and not knowing any of the songs in Tyla’s set and playing with him for a couple of hours, and clapping, and everyone singing, and more laughing, and this annoying endless drone of people chanting someone’s name for about 45 minutes after he left the stage, and singing tunes really loud for another half hour, and I saw people respect a guy who doesn’t even know he’s a hero, and more laughing, and Tyla falling asleep in the park, and laughing, and then another drive with laughing, and then seeing Clam again, and then the laughter stopped.
No, I’m kidding. Clam was out and they ended up backing down, and we were all together again now, and in the sleepy little village of Clam Abusingingsingingingtonirington, there was not only laughing, but rejoicing to be heard as well.
Tuesday 3 August – Bristol Fleece & Firkin
CLAM:
My mate Bear Hackenbush of Bugs and Drugs fame turned up tonight, and a jolly good beer was had by all. Show was a bit of a blur, so that means it must have been good. Bristol is a very great land. Like it lots.
CLINT:
I don’t remember and my head hurts.
Wednesday 4 August – Dudley JBs
CLAM:
Sack Trick turned up tonight to play their peculiar brand of Primus meets Kiss sonic madness. Steve the Gardner (as heard on the Clam Abuse album, the guy with the ukelele) also played and the show was great. Weird. Hot.
The tour finishes tomorrow. It will be very boring living a normal life again.
CLINT:
Whoa, this place is big. Sack Trick played with us. When I saw them they had a giant mouse playing note perfect Ace Frehley solos to reggae songs and a rainbow flavoured koala bear with a human head who exploded while playing. They were lead by a fighter pilot and a cartoon character. Seriously, go see these guys.
Audience hated us but we were really trying to be good, I swear. He made me do it. It wasn’t my fault. Whhaaaaaaaaaaa! Man and Van (the old school snippets in between tracks that sound like a guy with a ukele playing from the record) blew us off the stage, and they weren’t even wearing any make-up. And to think, we taught them everything they know. We brought these two (Steve and Gary) into this crazy business we love to call “rock.” Also, everyone left.
Thursday 5 August – London Dingwalls
CLINT:
It was a clear day that last August night. It seemed as though the storm had settled and the cannibalism and salacious and copious amounts of what they euphemistically and in hushed tones – the tones of people,nay men, who had been survivors of a destiny only too familiar, and yet, still, shamefully looming nearer then farther and then a little bit nearer and then kinda to the left and then a step to the right – called “rock.” That’s right, “rock.” Oh baby, I swear I mean the “rock.” As in ‘Buckcherry lovin’ baby let me felch your lovin offa yer yeeeahhh haaaa hairy-backed oven-o-shovin” “rock.”
I mean:
You want it
You got it
C’mon people lemme me hear ya shout it
We like “rock.”
THE END?
P.S. I wanna thank a few people for this award. Receiving this signifies a lifetime of pursuit, good times and bad times, hard work. And mostly a belief that if you really want anything bad enough, no matter how impossible it might seem, how out of reach, if ya just keep rockin’ fer the common good, baby, alla yer dreams can come true. Really! It’s weird. Check it out sometime.
You’re all really, really weird over here. You’re actually a bunch of lunatic freaks, to be honest. So, after I live most of my life in different cities in the United States of America, I come over here for ten days, and end up spending half the year here, with all of you nuts walking around. And, to top it off, I start feeling right at home, like I belong. But it can’t be! How could it possibly be? Perhaps I’m a weirdo, too, like you.
Actor: So, thanks for the great time. I hope you had one too. There’s always someone more fucked up than you.
(Cue music in background with long, slow pullback shot.)
Actor: I’m working on an album for you now called AntiProduct. That’ll be here soon.
(Start dimming the lights and camera still dramatically pulls back.)
Actor: About the web site, I’m sorry. I’m a fuck up, but I’m working on it now. Soon, it too will be.
(Raise music to drown out raving actor and dim lights completely, leaving Actor in the Dark (Dio / Schenker) and the camera travellin’ mightily into the ceiling crashing into A Beam In The Night (Tate / Dianno).)
Actor (now screaming hysterically): I say thanks, to everyone everywhere, who made all this possible. If it wasn’t for the little people, there’d be no one to step on. If it wasn’t for tall people, there’d be no one to climb over. And if it wasn’t for all of us, there’d be no one to exploit. And then…
(Actor’s head explodes among the flame and carnage of the burning studio. Roll credits.)
Thanks. See you soon.
Ginger’s Arrest: The Comic
By Kris | August 3, 1999
by Giorgio Venturati
The time: 12.15 pm. The date: Sunday 1 August 1999. The place: a hotel in York.
A van arrived to take Clam Abuse and their entourage to Liverpool for that night’s gig. It parked up outside the hotel in Longfield Terrace, a narrow street, which meant that the vehicle was blocking the road for a few minutes while the band’s bags, etc, were loaded in.
While loading, a car drove up behind the van. Its driver leant out of the window, telling the band and crew to “move that van, I’ve got to get through.” Not satisfied with the reply he got (a polite “we’ll only be a couple of minutes, we’re just loading”), the motorist got out of his car, walked over to Ginger and said, “Look, I’ve told you to move the van, now move it or I’ll get someone to move it for you.” Ginger said that the driver was at the back of the van, and that they would just be a minute.
Everyone assumed that the guy was just an irate motorist, but he soon revealed himself to be a plain clothes policeman who claimed to be on “official business.” He demanded that the van was moved there and then. It was pointed out to him that if his business was that urgent, he might want to reverse 50 yards and take an alternative route. The policeman threatened to arrest everyone for blocking the road. Ginger told the policeman that he was abusing his privilege with threats of arrest, and ended up calling him a “fucking Nazi.”
The policeman’s response was to arrest him, in the process using abusive language himself. Tour manager Gigs couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
“He then threatened to arrest the rest of the party,” said an incredulous Gigs the next day, “including Tyla – who was sitting, reading, in the back of the van – for throwing litter around, which was not true anyway. The rest of the party were completely bemused by the situation, as we couldn’t understand why, if he had been on important police business, he had taken 15 minutes out to generate a situation that would not have occurred otherwise, and not simply reversed up.”
Gigs got the policeman’s name and number, though his partner, who Gigs describes as “embarrassed and bemused” refused to hand over his details.
Two marked police cars and a lock-up van eventually arrived, and Ginger was put into the back and taken to Fulford Road police station, the headquarters for the North Yorkshire Police.
Rather than simply charging and releasing him, though, the police wanted to keep Ginger locked up overnight because he couldn’t give them an address where he lived. He explained that, being a travelling musician, he didn’t have one, so he gave his mother’s address in South Shields. This apparently wasn’t good enough.
Gigs: “When speaking on the phone to the the custody officer, I asked if I could speak to or see Ginger, or if a solicitor had been called for him, or if Ginger could call me. The reply was that I could neither see nor speak to him, as they were too busy in the station at the time, and that a solicitor had not been called. I asked the officer to pass on a message to Ginger to call one, as at this point there still seemed a chance that we might get to Liverpool in time. He said that he would pass the message on about the solicitor – he didn’t – and it would be about five hours before Ginger could phone me, as they were too busy.
“Five hours later, with the show having been cancelled – at the cost of approximately £1000 on Ginger’s behalf, and £400 on Tyla’s, Ginger was allowed to call me and I returned to the station. At this point, a local solicitor phoned me to say that he had been appointed to act on his behalf, and all that was required to get him out was a local address, rather than a home address in the country. As we had been just about to leave York at the time this would have been difficult, except that two of us had been staying at a friend’s house during our stay there. After a couple of phone calls, this was established as true and Ginger was released on bail overnight, to appear at the Magistrates’ Court at 11.30am the following morning.
“The charge sheet indicated that he was being charged with ‘Using obscene or foul language which was likely to cause offence to those who could hear it.'”
The charges against Ginger were dropped the next day. The rest of the tour went ahead as planned.
Seafood Of The Gods
By Kris | July 20, 1999
Clam Abuse Live at the Wedgewood Rooms, Portsmouth · 20th July 1999 · Review by Darren Stockford
“So, Ginger, when are The Wildhearts getting back together?”
Running Ginger’s web site, acting as a go between for the fans and the artist formerly known as Mr Wildheart, me and Tara get to read an awful lot of letters that feature this question. Sometimes it’s the whole point, other times it’s a sneaky PS. It’s understandable, I suppose. The Wildhearts changed people’s lives. They were more than a rock ‘n’ roll band, they were a way of life; a year zero for people fed up with being force fed mediocrity. But… aw, come on, folks, the band split up a year and a half ago, it’s time to move on. There’s no mileage to be gained in sitting on your backside waiting for the past to overtake you. Don’t you wanna be, y’know, surprised?
I think it’s safe to say that the Clam Abuse album came as a bit of a surprise, even to its makers. Apparently, the condom split while Ginger and ex-Life, Sex And Death guitarist Alex Kane were having a quick knee trembler in preparation for the fully blown shagfest that is to be the Silver Ginger album. The resultant offspring was christened Stop Thinking, for obvious reasons.
Taking their cue from the inspired lunacy of mid-to-late period Beatles albums, Ginger and Alex knocked up some amazing songs in a broad range of styles (including country and western, Europop, opera, and, of course, ‘Beatlesque’), and spent just one month recording and mixing the record. A mere two months later, it was in the shops – three months from start to finish; an amazing achievement in the 1990s, though something that Ginger has wanted to do for quite some time (he was talking about releasing two or three albums a year as far back as The Wildhearts’ debut).
And now… this. The tour. 15 dates around the UK, with the one-man Tyla show in support – an excellent bill for both band and fans. Tyla, on his first lengthy UK jaunt for many a year, not only pulls in a few extra punters (and, of course, gets some decent exposure in front of a Clam Abuse audience), but also provides the ideal drinking buddy for Ginger. Everyone’s a winner, baby.
Naturally, impatient little scamps that we are, me and Tara decide we can’t wait ’til the final London date, and make our way down to Portsmouth to catch the second night of the tour. When we arrive, around 6 pm, we poke our heads around the door to Tyla’s dressing room, where we find Tyla, Ginger and – the first surprise of the night – Danny McCormack, sitting around having a quiet booze.
Danny is his usual chirpy self, anecdotes tumbling from his lips at the rate of one a minute as he puffs on a slim cigar. It’s impossible to be in Danny’s company and not feel completely at ease. The guy is on a constant high. He’s here tonight mainly to lend Ginger some moral support, though he also gets involved in the evening’s entertainment, playing acoustic guitar on the first and last songs in Tyla’s set (Billy Two Rivers and Only Girl I Ever Loved). His presence gives everyone, both on- and offstage, a massive lift.
Ginger spends about 20 minutes soundchecking, playing mostly off-the-cuff blues licks. For some strange reason, he’s wrapped a scarf around his mouth, outlaw-style. As I move in to take some pictures, he starts posing.
“That’s the one!” I say, referring to his ‘devil sign’ rock star pose. “That’s the cover of the next album!”
“Yeah!” he shoots back. “I dunno whose next album…”
Alex arrives a short while later, and the pair run through a few songs with the backing tapes. It’s weird at first, hearing a full band but seeing just two guitarists. It doesn’t take more than a few minutes to get used to it, though. Once the wall of sound hits you and the tunes start to fry your brain, you quickly forget that half of what you’re hearing is on tape. In less talented hands, this could be a complete nightmare. Instead, it’s… a very pleasant dream. The half dozen of us who are standing around watching the soundcheck are singing along like it’s a proper gig. I shoot Danny a huge grin across the room. He catches and returns it. Let the madness begin.
And madness this surely is. With their faces whited up in a ‘scary clown’ stylee, Ginger and Alex become Clam Savage and Clint Abuse, the two ringmasters in a circus that prides itself on providing the best entertainment seven quid (plus bar bill) can buy.
The thing I find most disconcerting – at first anyway – is the fact that Clam and Clint really are characters. This isn’t Ginger and Alex, it’s performance – almost theatre. For part of the set, Clam has an American accent when talking, and there’s plenty of vocal sparring between the two musicians. I’m not sure how much of it’s rehearsed and how much is spontaneous. Some of it’s indecipherable (to my ears, anyway), though it’s easy to pick up on the spirit of what’s being said. Clam seems to slip back into Geordie for a while, before picking up the American accent again – most noticeable when urging a woman in the crowd to “touch my guitar, baby…You can touch my guitar, baby… Oh, oh, OH MY GOD!”
Most of the album is played (no Barney Sings The Blues, natch), along with a newie (the Alex-penned Let’s Get It On), a cover (Blue Oyster Cult’s Godzilla), and three Wildhearts B-sides (Give The Girl A Gun, Skychaser High and Beautiful Thing You). And if you’re wondering how they pull off Unlucky In Love, with its female perspective lyric, wonder no more. Clam sings it, substituting all the “I”s with “she”s. Simple but effective.
The percussion on the Wildhearts songs sounds a bit clanky and basic, having been rerecorded for this tour, but the backing tapes for the Clam Abuse tracks sound great. They aren’t straight steals from the album either. For instance, set opener She’s So Taboo goes off into an extended ‘jam’ at the end. This gives the gig more of a ‘live’ feel than simply playing along with the standard, released version of the track would. A lot of work’s obviously gone into making the show as close to the spirit of a totally live gig as possible.
Bearing in mind that this is only the second time Clam Abuse have played live in front of an audience, tonight’s show works better than it has any right to. The crowd are amazingly receptive to the new stuff (‘amazingly’ because the album was only released the day before), and interact with the band as if they’ve been following them for years (one excited chappy grabbing the microphone and shouting “rock ‘n’ fuckin’ roll!” repeatedly as the ‘Buse bring Beautiful Thing You to an end). OK, so there’s not much dancing down the front (save for the people who come crashing through from the back whenever a Wildhearts song gets an airing – jeez, have some fuggin’ respect for your fellow gig goer, people!), but that’ll come.
For me, this feels like a major homecoming. It may sound like hippy-dippy bullshit to you, but as the closing strains of There’s Always Someone More Fucked Up Than You echo around the building, I swear get an almost overwhelming feeling of love, warmth and happiness.
Me and Tara head backstage to grab our bag, popping in to say goodbye to everyone before we head back to our hotel. It’s been a long day, and I’m drunker than I’ve been in a good while. We find Ginger sitting flaked out on the sofa in Tyla’s dressing room. I ask him how it was for him. The gist of his answer is “great, but weird.” I don’t think he’s quite taken it all in yet. This is just the start of brand new adventure.
Before I get a chance to tell Ginger what I thought of it all, Danny comes in, reaches for an unopened family pack of salted peanuts, unzips himself and dips his trouser snake into the bag, making a joke about nuts which inspires more groans than giggles.
“Don’t tell Tyla,” says Danny, laughing. “He’ll probably come in and eat ’em!”
I can’t help wondering about the two egg mayo sandwiches I’d pinched from the very same rider earlier in the evening… nah. I mean, he wouldn’t… would he? Aw, stop thinking.
Clam Abuse, I think I love you.
Pictures: Darren Stockford
Ginger Says – There are some very, very special people living in Japan and I’m a very lucky guy. Puffy rule
By Ginger | June 18, 1999
Travelling. Seeing things for the first time. Feeding your head with new stuff whilst simultaneously emptying it of some of that old stale crap. Making new friends, meeting old ones, and sticking brand new stamps on your passport. Anywhere in the world you go to, you bring something home with you… and I’m not talking about the clap.
The thing about travelling is that you can get by without it. If you abstain for long enough you will convince yourself that holidays are overrated. Y’know, you saw it on telly – what the hell do you want to go there for?
The first thing that always hits me in a foreign country, apart from the heat, is the music. Every country is playing music (most are playing steady rotation rock) and it ain’t what you’re getting on British radio or TV. I recently went to Japan (an experience that you have to do before you give up on having fun) with my partner Mr Clinton Abuse, who had never visited this fine, fine country before. But, you know, he “knew” all about it from magazines, TV and Cheap Trick live albums: ‘that place where anyone can be big’. Arf arf. Just clocking his expression on landing was something I will never forget. And as every stereotypical idea of Japan was discarded, I saw the guy fall slowly in love. Not some bullshit boy meets girl love either. Oh no, my brothers and sisters. The guy fell in love with himself.
You see, in a foreign country you are no one. You have no school chums to stand by you. If you’re a dick you are a fucking dick (and the Japanese are far too cool to tell you), and if you’re OK the benefits start to pile up in unprecedented proportions. Getting out of your environment introduces you to yourself, and if you can look in the mirror and say, “yeah, you’re OK”, you will need an extra suitcase to carry home your expanded heart.
I’m in love with music, strong people and, most importantly, myself. Ask yourself how much you spend on cigarettes or booze. Or clothes to wear out to the same old pubs and clubs. That’s a plane ticket. A trip to Youville. And it’s leaving whenever you want to. And when you get there (wherever), do yourself a favour and break with your old routine. No one knows you’re the rockinest rollinest monkeyfunk in the western hemisphere, so go visit a Buddhist temple with your new friends. Soak in the culture like a junkie. And when you get home, people will think you’re on drugs.
Feeling down? Finding it hard sometimes to figure out a reason to stay around? Or just plain bored? Listen… you are worth it. Every penny of it. Recharge those batteries this summer and git gawn. Don’t think about it or you will figure out a reason not to go. You’ll bring back a new found love for music, a new respect for yourself, maybe a cool tan. And if you’re that way inclined, the clap. We all deserve a little spoiling every now and then, so take a tip from a moodswingin’ Geordie bastard and hop on a plane. Anywhere. Just do it. Go on. Book it… now.
And send me a postcard.
Matane…
Ginger
Ginger Says – The future’s bright, the future’s… whatever colour clams are
By Ginger | May 22, 1999
Dear all at home on the waves,
Oops, another potential number one… Unlucky In Love, a song about a lady with a very unlucky vagina that kills her lovers before consummation. Not a very popular subject for hits, I’m sure you will agree, but funny things happen when you’re having fun.
Anyway, I’ve put off writing this new welcome message until I had something to say. What started out as a joke has fortunately (or unfortunately, as some of you may think when you hear it) turned into a thing of great beauty. It’s corny and classy, funny and disturbing… and it has no electric guitars on it. It features a song about Geri Halliwell that some of you may not appreciate.
The thing that hit me when I came back from America is how serious everyone seems to be. Next to Hollywood that’s not surprising, as most people over there don’t know what they’re smiling about half the time. But I’d always seen British people as having the best sense of humour in the world. So while the solo album is being planned, Clam Abuse is being done quick and cheap, if only to show that millions of pounds aren’t needed to make amazing records. Anyone with a love for tunes will fall in love with this. It features a guy called Alex Kane who goes under the disguise of Clint Abuse, and I get to be called Clam Savage. And providing beats and noise toys is Keiron, or Poop Uma Harnie. And it’s good fun.
The solo album is going to rock so hard. Super Shit 666 and Clam Abuse are going to put people into complete confusion as to what to expect. And it will be mental. I get so fucking bored doing the same thing. So from now on expect the unexpected. Music is getting so safe. Where’s the buzz? Top of the Pops seems to be a programme where rock bands get to play their ballads. I’d love to turn on the TV and say “Wow, look at that! Rewind it!”
For me, TOTP was always full of nutcases, and that’s not just “I remember the time” bullshit. Sweet, Wizzard, Slade, Bowie, T Rex, Mott the Hoople, Roxy Music (you gotta admit, even if you haven’t heard any of this lot, just the names sound great), and then punk. Nostalgia shmostalgia music these days is bland. Not bad… bad would be much more entertaining. Parents are more in touch with music these days, so grandparents are probably getting off on some of today’s ‘cutting edge’ stuff. If anyone is in a band out there, do you sound mental? If not, why? All you have to do is make the radio and TV sound like they’re alive again. That’s not much to ask for a life of luxury and mayhem.
Sounds like a good deal. How about it? Tell you what, I’ll start.
See you soon.
Love
Ginger
Ginger Says – I never wanted to be a part of something. I want it to be a part of me
By Ginger | April 18, 1999
Welcome to our little over one month old Silver Ginger web site. This thing is updated regularly, so keep hitting that button. We’ve been getting over 1,000 visitors a week, and to be brutally honest with you lot, I’m honoured, chuffed and just plain old proud that you still give a shit. I know I’ve said that you are the best, but it looks like you ain’t going to let me forget it either.
If you look at the news page you’ll see that things are getting under way for the recording of the Silver Ginger album, so I won’t repeat myself. I’ll just tell you that this is gonna be the album that blows the cobwebs off the stagnant scene that woefully calls itself entertainment. This album is going to make the dead dance and the mute sing. And with more hooks per square inch than a pirate’s convention, there won’t be a dry tongue in the house.
Yeah, I know the last band was a catchy little combo, but I’m streamlining the beast, removing the excess metal. And I’ve ended up with something that gleams like a platinum-coated mirrorball on fireworks night. You thought you’d heard catchy before? You thought you’d danced before? Forget what you’ve been used to for the last year or two. Rock ‘n’ roll is coming home, and it’s bringing the party with it.
Since I’ve been here in the US, I’ve discovered two things. One, music has turned into grunge again. Fucking grunge, I tell you! OK, so the lank hair has been replaced by neat styling; actors and musicians have started sharing the same hairdressers again, and the clothes have gotten more colourful and cleaner. But this is due to the latest skate designers, not musicians mixing, matching and trying to look like rock stars. I mean c’mon, snowboarding, skateboarding – the only thing that’s changed in the last ten years is the surface. This is not rock ‘n’ roll.
And secondly, America is the same as everywhere else in the world – it’s the same in Japan, Britain, Europe and even the darkest reaches of Africa… everyone’s bored shitless. Where’s the entertainment? The only people putting on a show are metal guys like Manson and Zombie, and although this is very healthy and good, where are the tunes??? Where’s the action?????
Everywhere I go, all I hear is the same old complaint. ‘Whatever happened to bands that made songs for the soundtrack to my life?’ ‘When was the last time I got a girl / boy from being at a gig?’ Metal is music for boys. Girls don’t go to metal concerts and if they do it’s to humour their boyfriend, or because their friends have crap taste and they can’t dance. They certainly don’t go to pull guys! Everyone’s bored and nobody’s fucking. And someone needs to do something about it.
So here is my promise… Silver Ginger music will get you laid, or your money back. I know that’s a tall order but I’m confident. As soon as the world starts singing and dancing and smiling again, the walls will come down, the clothes will come off and rock n’ roll will live.
Trust me on this one.
Love And Rockets…
Ginger
Return Of The Geordi
By Kris | March 1, 1999
The Wit And Wisdom Of Ginger · Compiled by Darren Stockford
“Mmmmm… help you I will!” Looking back at past press interviews, and particularly the hand-written sleeve notes for the Japanese double Best Of The Wildhearts CD, we’ve noticed how often Ginger sounds like a wise old sage, advising and philosophising on the nature of life, love and rock ‘n’ roll. Collected here, then, for your enlightenment and entertainment, is the best of his teachings. “So, you want to be a Geordi..? Way-aye, mon!” (With apologies to Geordies everywhere… oh, and George Lucas!)
“To really know the dark and the light is to be more complete. It is said that happiness is for people who don’t know what to worry about. Enjoy the good and the bad as they both exist as brother and sister.” (Japanese Best Of… sleeve notes)
“Loneliness is an interesting place to visit, just don’t take any friends.” (Fishing For Luckies sleeve notes)
“Love? More danger than guns and drugs, just look at history!” (Japanese Best Of… sleeve notes)
“It’s only the true unselfish in this world that can be truly good, as there are no rewards apart from to those around you.” (Japanese Best Of… sleeve notes)
“Boredom breeds motivation, but only if acted upon immediately.” (Fishing For Luckies sleeve notes)
“The brain is the master in the art of confusion. In psychological warfare we were born with the greatest weapon, except no one gives us the instruction manual!” (Japanese Best Of… sleeve notes)
“Sometimes ‘no’ is the hardest word to say, even harder than screwing someone’s head up with half promises and elaborate lies.” (Japanese Best Of… sleeve notes)
“If there’s a sound you play that doesn’t fit today, why not just play the bastard anyway?” (Schizophonic)
“For some, drugs are a brief, often much needed break from reality, but beware those to whom the drug is the reality.” (Japanese Best Of… sleeve notes)
“To accept madness is to embrace and love oneself.” (Fishing For Luckies sleeve notes)
“Pity, now, that even nature has become illegal in such cases as magic mushrooms and – more importantly – cannabis. If we cannot trust nature completely, then how can we trust her at all?” (Japanese Best Of… sleeve notes)
“Look around, see that lonely guy who looks like he missed out on something? He used to do the same thing. Do it. You could only be wrong.” (Japanese Best Of… sleeve notes)
“No matter what people tell you – how to behave, how to run your life, what is cool and what is not – the only answer is yours. You have the final word. It’s your life… Do anything!” (Japanese Best Of… sleeve notes)
“Love has knowledge. Love has patience. Love will forgive you for being wrong because then you must forgive it for being wrong! Love exists but it’s nothing like in the movies.” (Japanese Best Of… sleeve notes)
“Self-expression is a lot like sex. The less you do it, the more you find that you don’t want to.” (Fishing For Luckies sleeve notes)
“Sometimes you will look around you and say to yourself, ‘I don’t fit in, I’m different to everyone.’ To know this is to learn one of the greatest lessons in life: human beings all do exactly the same things completely different from each other. All of these millions of souls, all in different stages of evolution… how could we ever be the same? We just go to the same school!” (Japanese Best Of… sleeve notes)
“It is worth a hundred bad friendships to find one good one. You have to go through the shit to find a diamond. Otherwise how would you appreciate the diamond?” (Japanese Best Of… sleeve notes)
“Stupid people make deadly enemies. Unless you remove some of your brain cells, how can you possibly argue on their level?” (Japanese Best Of… sleeve notes)
“It doesn’t matter what sort of shit life throws at you, only how you feel when dealing with it. Sometimes the death of a loved one can make you stronger but you fall to pieces if you burn the toast! Same day, different shit.” (Japanese Best Of… sleeve notes)
“God loves sinners, it makes his job more interesting. A sin a day will stop you going grey.” (Japanese Best Of… sleeve notes)
“The only person that gets turned on by brand new clothes and a half gallon of aftershave is the person wearing them. In the struggle for sexual dominance, man has forgotten that the greatest turn on is the brain.” (Japanese Best Of… sleeve notes)
“When in doubt, get DRUNK!!!” (Japanese Best Of… sleeve notes)