August 1, 2002
A day of emailing and receiving emails.
I hear from Stefano Panunzi from Italian band, The Fjieri Group.
I’ve sung on two tracks for their forthcoming debut album which is getting remixed by Richard Barbieri in the next couple of weeks. Stefano is starting work on a new solo album and asks me if I’d be interested to sing on any of it.
The Fjieri style combines the break beats of early No-Man, the power chords of Porcupine Tree and the harmonies of Rain Tree Crow. Hyper-Romantic, in many ways it’s a very Italian sound.
Jarboe has contacted me regarding whether I’ve got a back up for the track of hers that I sang on (she hasn’t). Unfortunately, I remember sending everything to Craig Peacock (her Japanese manager and friend), so only Stephen Bennett’s Logic Files can save us now.
A strange email from ex Henry Cow man Geoff Leigh and an invitation to Trezza Azzopardi’s boyfriend Steve’s party on Saturday also arrive.
I book my plane ticket for the Bowness/Chilvers show at the Toronto Rivoli (September 10th) and give breakfast instructions to Diane the organiser (muesli or cereal for myself and a golden bucket full of caviar for the profligate Lord Chilvers).
28th July:
Off to the village of Happisburgh on the Norfolk coast with Lord Chilvers.
With some of the village disappearing into the North Sea and a road that suddenly turns into a cliff, several ideal Burning Shed photo opportunities present themselves.
After developing a rather nice 1970’s Ryan O’Neal/Magnum PI hairstyle for the Whitchurch Festival, I come over all cowardly and decide to have it cut.
I later find out that Mr Chilvers (who had been developing a super fine white afro) has done the same. From looking like members of The Eagles we suddenly resemble early A Certain Ratio or a couple of US Marines. Scary!
We watch Wes Anderson’s Rushmore on DVD. Not as sharp or cohesive as his latest (The Royal Tennenbaum’s), the film still has a very mannered and highly original quality that makes it worthwhile viewing.
A confident run through the more discreet moments that we’re intending to inflict on the Festival goers of Whitchurch.
Our fragile faces could be feeling the fists of disgruntled Metallica fans sometime soon.