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(Last updated
Wed, Nov 27, 2002 11:23 am)

The November Hitlist
30 Albums 10 Songs
IT'S MY FIRST TIME: HOW MUCH WILL IT HURT?:
Ten tips for the marathon virgin from someone who's now done it. Or...How to enjoy an exercise in maoschism.
FEATURED ALBUM:
TOM PETTY/HEARTBREAKERS
The Last DJ
FEATURED WINE:
Cartlidge & Browne California Chardonnay 2000
Featured Mix CD:
Back To Mine by New Order
NEW! From the Jamming! Archives: The Jam
Interviewed in 1979
NEW: The iJamming! Interview: UNDERWORLD
"I got it in my head that I was going to die in a cheesy hotel room covered in cat's piss." NOW WITH LIVE PHOTOS
New! Coming and Going
Chapter 3: The Palace
NEW: The iJamming! Interview
RICHARD BUTLER Part 2
NEW! From the Jamming! Archives: Adam Ant
Interviewed in 1978

REMARKS REMADE :
Available Now!
The introduction to the new edition of my R.E.M. biography is here.

A Decade In Dance
BT & BANCO DE GAIA
10 Years (Apiece)
The October Hitlist
30 Albums 10 Songs
HALF MAN HALF BISCUIT
The whole Bloody 1990s cataloge
Last of The Summer Rosês:
Goats Do Roam, Vin Gris de Cigare and Rose of Virginia.
DID BIN LADEN WIN?
10 Reasons To Fear The Worst
From the Jamming! Archives:
PAUL WELLER
interviewed in 1978
"A number one single would be a bit scary."
LEVI'S STROKES EARS
New York's rock'n'roll rescuers play Lowlife - loudly
LUNA at SOUTHPAW
Local legends and international influence come home to party
THE AUGUST HITLIST:
28 Albums Rocking Our World
THE TWO ARE ALRIGHT:
The Who at Madison Square Garden
AREA 2:
A wash-out
24 HOUR PARTY PEOPLE
The Movie
The Party
THE HOOTENANNY REVUE REVIEW:
Cedell Davis, Tuatara, and The Minus 5 atthe Knitting Factory
WILSON PICKETT:
Still 'A Man And A Half'
THE JULY HITLIST
30 Albums, 5 Songs, 5 books and a handful of movies
TIMOTHY WHITE
An obituary by Chris Charlesworth
The REZILLOS:
Back On The (Flying Saucer) Attack
THE JUNE HITLIST
30 Albums, 10 Songs, 5 books and a handful of movies.
MAY MUSINGS
Eight Days in A Week's Music:
Ed Harcourt, Vines, Candy Butchers, Timo Maas, Ashley Casselle & Adam Freeland, Aerial Love Feed, and enough little club nights to shake several sticks at.
LONDON MUSING
Tony's (lengthy) trip down nostalgia lane from his visit home at the end of April. Stop-offs include Death Disco, old Jamming! Magazines, life-long friendships, road trips to Brighton, Damilola Taylor and political frustration, Morrissey-Marr, Zeitgeist, Oasis, Dexys, Primal Scream, the current British music scene and more.
The iJamming! interview:
CARL COX
"'Acid Trax' by Phuture came out and I was just 'Okay, forget all hip hop and all old school rare groove right here, this is it.'"
GOLDEN SHOT
hostess 'Lee Patrick' recalls her time as Keith Moon's amour
HEDONISM:
An intrigue of early 90s New York nightlife.
NEW CHAPTER now online
From the Jamming! Archives:
U2 interviewed in 1984.
"It's not U2 that's creating this great art. . .There's something that works through us to create in this way."
iJamming! Wino/Muso:
JOHN ACQUAVIVA
"New world wines are just too techno for me."
The iJAMMING! interview:
DAVID SYLVIAN
"I don't think people realize that life can become so exciting and interesting that it can draw you away for long periods of time from creating music - & why not?"
From the Keith Moon archives:
the JEFF BECK interview .
The iJAMMING! chat:
MARK PERRY

"If I was asked why Sniffin' Glue was so important, it was the way we conducted ourselves, the style of it, just the attitude. It had attitude in abundance didn't it?"
Forgotten Classics:
THE CHILLS: Brave Words
From the JAMMING! archives: PAUL WELLER ON POP
Featured wine region 2:
CÔTES DU RHÔNE VILLAGES
TRAVIS.
Fran Healy explains why "you cannot own a song." (And why Liam Gallagher "is going to turn into a really great songwriter.")
Featured Artist Web Site:
LLOYD COLE
From the JAMMING! archives: The Story That Spawned Creation
The iJAMMING! interview:
BOY GEORGE.
"Once you've had your go, what-ever it may be, they want you to piss off, and they can't bear it if you come back, they can't bear it."
The full iJamming! Contents
What's new in iJAMMING!?

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CASUAL FRIDAY NOVEMBER 8:

THE BRIT BEAT ....

A couple of months back, I openly posed the question as to which language I should be using on this web site: the American-English I'm now surrounded by every day or the English-English on which I grew up. My Brit readers were remarkably casual about the issue (so much for anti-Americanism) but still I feel guilty every time I write about some 'guys being on a roll' as opposed to 'some geezers 'aving it large'. Fortunately, the problem is now solved. For my London friends who miss me writing like wot I used to talk, just follow this link click on the "Dialectize" button if you're asked to, and the iJamming! home page will automatically be translated into the language of my youth: Cockney! Where would we be without the wonders of the Internet, eh?

. . .Um, we'd probably all be working a lot harder. Honestly, I do work hard, it's just I have friends who send me entirely irrelevant but hilarious links all day long. And I subscribe to scandalous newsletters like the UK's Popbitch, which yesterday led thousands of its readers to mypole.co.uk, possibly one of the greatest web sites ever to have been, um, erected in the name of art. It's people like mypole's anonymous host who give us Brits our international reputation as wits and satirists (not to mention sadly under-sexed w***ers) of the highest order. Go there. You won't regret it. (I hope.)

Here in the States, in fact, it has to be said that the natives unashamedly and unabashedly look up to the Brits. Especially in New York, they admire our superior contributions to music, fashion, literature, art, cinema, comedy and, especially, the ability to drink large quantities of beer early on a Saturday morning while watching 'live' 'soccer'. It's no wonder American girls line up, I mean queue up, to marry us. (One of the reasons I moved here was because my accent – oi! – actually turned girls' heads towards me. In South London, it couldn't even get me arrested.) However, there is one area in which the Americans, especially the inherently sophisticated New Yorkers, have a real problem taking us seriously. And that's in the world of cuisine. This has become extra apparent in the last few weeks as the New York magazines have embarked on their annual fall – I mean, autumn - 'Best of New York' issues and, by entire coincidence, a coffee table – sorry, tea-table - book has been published about the West Village Brits-in-exile store Tea & Sympathy.

Tea & Sympathy has founded a British empire of its own. Its latest conquest is a recipe book. A recipe book. For old-fashioned British cuisine. Think about it before your order it.
For example, Wednesday's New York Times published a puff (pastry) piece in its Dining Section about Tea & Sympathy and the store's proprietress, Nicola Perry. A native South Londoner - sorry, Sarf Landaner (Oi!) - she fulfilled her life ambition by moving to New York in the 80s (been there, done that), only to find she couldn't get a decent cuppa for love or money. As anyone who's suffered a cup of hot water and a Liptons tea bag on the side in an American diner can testify, she had a point. So she opened Tea & Sympathy. And she met with success. So much so that the store has morphed into an Anglo-Saxon caricature, full of Wedgewood china and AbFab videos, Mars Bars and Bakewell Tarts, Vimto and Irn Bru.

I like the place in theory - I bought an Ali G video there - but I rarely frequent Tea & Sympathy because a) I don't live in the neighborhood, b) it's always busy and they don't let you wait for your friends inside, c) I'm afraid Kate Moss and Naomi Campbell might recognize me from our shared yoof tearing up the streets of Croydon and Streatham and want revenge (in my dreams), and, of course, the important one: d) it serves English food.

On this last, cruical note, I am not alone. Michael Wolff, who writes an excellent media column in New York magazine, recently observed of Tea & Sympathy (while writing about Tina Brown, in case you're wondering) that "it is almost unbearably hideous -- the kind of place that English people, out of a special English masochism, might gravitate to in New York, but that represents many of the reasons they left England in the first place. Ugly service, spectacularly bad food, and a sense of both cultural and actual impoverishment."

This is an extremely cruel comment, but then New York's a tough city and Nicola Perry will brush the criticism off like so much spilled HP sauce. Perusing the current 'Best of New York' magazines though, the British food theme does seem to keep repeating. (Appropriately enough, considering the cuisine!) This is largely because Tea & Sympathy has expanded by opening its own chippy, A Salt and Battery, next door, and because my own neighborhood, Park Slope, now hosts the embarrassingly British (i.e. ten foot Union Jacks on the wall) Chip Shop.

I've eaten at the Chip Shop (cuisine, staff and flag shown at right) only once in the two years since it opened. Not because I had a bad experience – the chips were entirely authentic, I even think I could see the airbrush-enhanced breasts of yesterday's page 3 girl through the vinegar-soaked newspaper wrapping – but because I have to ask: why would I want greasy, stomach-sinking, stodgy chips that remind me how fat I was in my teens when the Chip Shop is, literally, surrounded by some of the finest (and least expensive) international restaurants in New York City?

Also, I associate chips with soaking up the beer after the pubs close. In Britain, this was practical: they kicked us out of the pubs at 11pm, and the chip shops stayed open just long enough to feed us and also kick us out. In Brooklyn, the Chip Shop authentically closes when the British pubs close (i.e. around 11pm), but the Brit-style pub next door , The Gate, stays open serving Old Cockled Hen until 4am. This is why God gave New Yorkers 24-hour delis and all-night pizza stores. But I digress …

Time Out is surprisingly generous in this week's Essential New York issue when it includes the Chip Shop's Deep-Fried Chip Butty as one of 'Six Deep-Fried Foods Worth Getting Yelled at By Your Doctor.' But once it describes the actual meal, you have to wonder if you'd ever make it to the doctor's office in an emergency. Even Time Out adds italics: "A French-fry sandwich that has itself been battered and fried! How did the British ever lose their empire?" I'm assuming it's a rhetorical question. We certainly didn't outrun the Afghans on that diet.

The New York Press is far less enamored with deep-fried deep-fried. In its (erroneously titled) 'Best of Manhattan 2002' issue from late September, it (correctly) pronounces 'English Food' as the 'Best Restaurant Trend To Avoid.' "Why?" the anonymous author asks, incredulously rather than rhetorically, of the sudden enthusiasm for old-fashioned English grub. "We’ve been to London. We've eaten authentic British food in authentic British restaurants, and we'll tell you one thing – all the jokes were justified. Even the British admit as much."

Precisely. Consider me one of them. Us real Brits steer clear of old British food like we do the Bubonic Plague. (Which just happened to resurface this week in New York, but again, I digress.) Ask anybody from the old country – be they British, English or like myself, both – and if they're under 50, they will define proper, real, tasty, native British food as follows: INDIAN. And that's why I was thrilled to come out of the subway on Smith Street in Brooklyn's Cobble Hill the other night and find myself accosted by a shaven-headed, heftily-gutted Brit bloke who looked like a regular from the Dog and Duck - or any other old London pub that still prefers sawdust for carpetting and enjoys a good razor fight as closing time entertainment. "We've just opened a curry house," he enthused in finest Cockney – oi! - handing me a flyer for a place called 'Currysource' and pointing to a hole in the wall on Bergen Street, which immediately reminded me of satisfying late-night vindaloos purchased from British take-aways the size of a cab office.

So I took away the menu and read it cover to cover. The place sounds authentic through and through, right down to its thriftiness. (They leave you to reheat the food. . . Then again, in London they used to charge for delivery. Fortunately, tipping is still considered by most Brits to be a city in China, so these things even out.) Currysource has even gone so far as to typeset its menu in "Johnson Underground… as developed for the London Underground by Edward Johnson." I'd like to say that the Chip Shop can't beat that for proper Brit-ness, but actually it can: its menu is typeset in authentically cut-out newspaper ransom notes a la Jamie Reid's revolutionary Sex Pistols artwork.

But back to CurrySource. "Why Anglo-Indian?" the proprietors ask elsewhere on the menu. This question is not rhetorical and deserves an answer. "In India there is no such thing as 'Indian' food," they dutifully explain. "There is, in fact, no such thing as a 'curry.' . . . But don't despair, there is 'Indian' food in Britain. However, it's not usually cooked by Indians, but by Bangladeshis. Is that clear?" Not really, sounds like it was written after a night at the Dog and Duck, but carry on (up the khyber) and make your point. "What we are attempting to offer is Anglo-Indian cooking."

Alright. Nice one (geezer). Food after the (cockles of) my heart. Leaving just enough space to list its actual food, the menu then goes on to explain the origins of curries in London, and even why Indian restaurants have 'red flock' wallpaper. It closes by saying of 'curry' that, "Simply put, its Britain's national cuisine."

Some British blokes (found them at Google) enjoying a good curry and lager. Let's be honest, it looks like these geezers are 'aving it large, dunnit? When do you ever see someone at a chip shop looking quite so satisfied with life?
Indeed it is. Only under-fed models, over-paid actors, the hideous Hilton sisters, Tina Brown and similarly slumming it Park Slopers would opt for a steak and kidney pie with mushy peas and a chip butty when they could be tucking into a vegetable korma and onion bhaji instead. Especially when you consider how well a good lager goes with Indian food, let alone a bottle of Viognier. I'm writing this to the song 'Bhangra Fever,' ("London swings, New York's a grid"), off New Delhi duo's MIDIval PunditZ's brilliant eponymous debut album, it's not even lunchtime and this whole treatise has got me ravenous. Thirsty, too. A nostalgic longing for the days when a Friday lunchtime piss-up was not optional, but obligatory. Mine's a bottle of Tiger. (Geezer.) Alright, make it a Tizer. (Mate.) And pass the chutney on the left hand side…Oi!


THURSDAY NOVEMBER 7:

HEY YOU! GET OFF OF THAT CLOUD

Not everyone Loves It: The Throng hobbles up 1st Avenue, just after passing the Gatorade Station at Mile 18.
Finally coming down off my marathon high and getting back to real life. Had other work that took me away from the site too. But before hanging up my runner's shirt for the time being, I decided to try and figure out the reasons I did so well running the New York City Marathon Sunday. I know I sound immodest, but in all honesty, I thought it would be harder, more painful, and that I'd be unable to walk for a week. That I felt fine throughout and feel good now indicates that I followed a relatively positive training program. So I've checked off a list of ten tips (including those I didn't adhere too), a tutorial of sorts that will hopefully get accessed over coming years through search engines and so on. Still, I didn't want to burden you regulars with it given how much you've suffered my obsession the last few weeks, Monday's memoir especially. My Ten tips for the marathon virgin from someone who's now done it. Or...How to enjoy an exercise in maoschism has therefore been filed away in the Musing section. You can access it here. (There's some other photos from Sunday's run on that page too. Thanks, Pose.)

TUESDAY NOVEMBER 5:

POSTED

New music and wine reviews up. The Last DJ by Tom Petty/Heartbreakers and the Cartlidge & Browne California Chardonnay 2000 are a value-packed marriage made in aural-oral heaven.


MONDAY NOVEMBER 4:

I DID IT!

…In 3 hours, 59 minutes and 11 seconds. Not only did I run my first Marathon without complaint or problem, but I broke the four-hour mark I personally set for myself. The thrill of doing so far offsets any pain or soreness I'm feeling this morning. In fact, the after-effects are almost irrelevant: I put yesterday's Marathon up there as a personal achievement not far behind writing the Keith Moon book or becoming a parent. If you've ever run one, you'll know what I mean. If you haven't, hopefully you've achieved a couple of goals of your own that have given you a similar sense of accomplished.

I could not have done it without the famed New York crowd. The Marathon comes down the bottom of my street in Brooklyn, and I've been out cheering every one of the last six years, but I had never experienced that support from the runner's perspective. Especially on such a cold day as yesterday, I would have had a miserable, grueling and brutally unpleasant run without the support of the million-plus spectators en route. (And with the frigid temperatures, that number was down significantly from last year's extremely emotional post 9-11 marathon.) I can't think of any other spectator sport in which so many anonymous people can make such a difference to each individual competitor. If ever you want to know how a rock star must really feel, run a well-supported Marathon with your name on your shirt: I must have heard the word 'Tony' called out more times in four hours yesterday than in the rest of my life combined. The difference that made to my time is impossible to overstate. I felt like every one of those million people had a personal vested interest in my run, and throughout the four hours I couldn't stop thinking how much I love this place for its beautifully outgoing population.

Three moments from the run of my life: Coming up Fourth Avenue in Brooklyn to greet the family; pausing for a power gel and to show off my shirt; and exhilarated but exhausted at the end, with neighbor James Baigrie, who got me over the line under 4 hours. All photos by Posie

As well as the cheering crowds, I've probably never seen and heard so many street bands in New York in any one day (barring, perhaps, the Atlantic Antic). The bands started as soon as we crossed the Verrazano Bridge into Bay Ridge in Brooklyn, they were there in Sunset Park, in Williamsburg, in Queens, on the Upper East Side, in Harlem and in the Bronx. I ran to disco, rock, hip-hop, gospel, wailing heavy metal guitars, an African drummers circle, and in the South Bronx of all places, to a stirring rendition of Jonathan Richman's 'Roadrunner.'

The support is so contagious that it rapidly becomes two-way. I loved physically vibing with the crowd, whether it be high-fiving the kids holding out their hands on the sidewalks, pumping my arms when I heard my name shouted, calling on the Park Slope massive to "support their local runner" or, on parts of First Avenue in Manhattan, where the crowd was ten deep but eerily quiet for a while, urging them to "make some bloody noise." I also had many a fun exchange with other runners, especially the British (who make up almost 10% of the entrants). I talked to a policeman (in his hat) from Bristol who happened to a Palace fan, a pair of Ipswich fans (whose own football club Palace beat while we were running), and a couple on their first wedding anniversary; I thanked any number of Brits for their 'London/UK/Britain Loves NY' emblems, and I called out the name of every 'Achilles' (i.e. physically challenged) competitor I came across. It was a lovefest, baby!

Number one lesson learned? Training is everything. I put in so much time preparing for this race over the last few months, at the expense of many a more attractively hedonistic weekend activity. It paid off. At no point did I cramp up or feel in pain. I didn't encounter a garden fence, let alone the metaphorical 'wall'. On the punishing Queensboro Bridge from Queens to Manhattan, where there's no crowd and most runners drop to a walk or a jog, I just thought of the hills in Prospect Park and urged people to get out of my way! When I needed to up my pace, I found I had it in me. When the crowds thinned, I pushed through. I felt in total control every step of the way. That's not to gloat, just to say that I learned the importance of proper preparation.

My race was not without tension though. All along, I'd planned on running with my neighbor, James Baigrie, who's eight years younger, did the marathon 3 years ago, and was a track and field competitor at his school back in South Africa. On Sunday morning, at the staging area in Staten Island, James bumped into two of his high school friends, both now living in London but visiting New York for the race. He knew one of them was running. The other, who's run 9 Marathons before but done no training since a half-marathon in England four weeks ago, had been sitting in Nevada Smiths in Manhattan Saturday morning, drinking beer while watching the English football, when someone told him they weren't going to be able to run the Marathon and asked if he wanted to take their number. (This is illegal, but quite common among those forced to drop out.) He accepted, and was first to admit that what sounded a good idea over morning beer 24 hours earlier was not looking so sensible once we lined up at the start!

Support in the hood: Campbell (centre) and Emily made up the banners.
The bizarre post-race scene in Central Park: thousands of runners in essential 'heat sheets.'

The four of us set off together. The first mile is ludicrously slow, with so many people in a tight pack, but when by mile 3, I realized we were still doing 10-minute miles, and that at this rate I was looking at a four and a half hour run, I peeled off. I spent much of the next 22 miles calculating what pace I now needed to run to complete the course under four hours. (A rate impeded by various runner bottlenecks, pee stops and refreshment breaks.) I'd just passed mile 25, in Central Park, grimacing at how I only had 10 minutes to do 1.2 more miles, when I felt a tap on my shoulder: it was James, who'd left his high school friends behind at the halfway mark. "Come on, man, let's go," he implored and took off ahead of me. I drew on everything I had left and found I was able to keep up with him. We literally sprinted past the runners around us and as far as I can calculate, ran the last mile in seven and a half minutes, crossing the finishing line arm in arm, with 50 seconds to spare for our 4 hour goal. (This is a net time: with computer chips on our laces, we were timed from the moment we finally crossed the starting line, a full six minutes after the official cannon.) Would I have made it under four hours without James leading me on that last mile sprint? Probably not. James, I salute you.

The effects of that mad dash were felt immediately afterwards. I'd been warned how at 20 miles, you start losing body temperature, which means that when you stop running after 26 miles, your temperature just plummets. At that point, the heat sheet you're given helps, but only partially. It's 10 minutes or so until you retrieve your bag with your clothes in it, and in yesterday's cold, wearing only shorts on my lower body, I could barely concentrate or walk straight. Once I got into my clothes, I laid down and felt my whole body start to go numb with hypothermia. A Marathon guided instructed me to get up and keep walking. (It wasn't a suggestion.) By then, I had enormous stomach cramps, which meant I could barely contemplate water or Gatorade, let alone any of the recuperative food in my finishing line bag. On the subway home, by which point my lips were apparently white, I finally tucked into a high-energy power bar, and felt my sugar content shoot back up. Ten minutes after that, I had a queasy stomach again, got hot flushes and felt sick. I recognized this as severe dehydration and downed a bottle of water just in time to stop myself from throwing up. (Hey, the Marathon course record holder threw up at the halfway mark yesterday; it wouldn’t have been the worst thing.)

It was a horribly unpleasant post-race hour or two, but after a hot soothing bath, I felt suitably refreshed to go out for dinner at Bonnie's Grill in Park Slope, rewarding myself with comfort food like vegetable chili, a portabello mushroom burger, a triple chocolate brownie (no amount of sugar was going to stop me sleeping), and my first beers in two weeks – Fullers ESB, true nectar of the Gods. I feel thoroughly worn out today, and totally exhilarated. And yes, I would do it again.

But I couldn't have done it for a first time without support. Especially after I injured my knees by excessive training five weeks ago, I had to get (and sometimes pay for) medical and physical advice. Kim, Peter, Kimberley, and Karen were all instrumental in helping me stay fit. Helen Ward, who's run several Marathons and just happens to work at the top runner's store in New York – and also staffed the Asics booth at the Marathon Expo last week – was a Godsend in every aspect of preparation, from clothing (I bought everything but my underpants off her!), to stretching, to pre-Marathon breakfast. Posie, who got me running in the first place (back when I used to do no exercise but play football in the middle of drunken weekends, and wonder why I felt so physically crap for the rest of each week), made up my superb UK-USA shirt; she, Campbell and Jame's wife Karen showed up at three different spots on the course to offer support (and power gels and thirst quenchers). I saw many other people I knew en route, and I'm sure there were many who saw me. And all the e-mails and phone calls I got leading up to and after the race really made me feel that, however insane I was to take this on, people were supporting me in my insanity. I love you all.


Final statistics: I finished as runner 10277, putting me in the top third of a field of over 33,000. I was in the top 45% of 30-39 year old males, the peak age for marathon running. James and I crossed the finish line 4 hours, 5 minutes and 18 seconds after the starting gun; our net time, from when we crossed the start mat, was 3 hours, 59 minutes and 11 seconds. James and I both ran the second half considerably faster than the first. Our average mile rate was 9 minutes, 7 seconds. (All info verified at the NYCMarathon site; just scroll down to our finishing numbers.)

(Normal service at this web site will be resumed asap.)

SUNDAY NOVEMBER 3

AT THE RACES

SATURDAY NOVEMBER 2nd

HAPPY BELATED HALLOWEEN

I'm missing out on several Halloween parties tonight, including one I normally DJ at, for the hopeful sake of a good night's sleep in preparation for the big day tomorrow. Not to say I haven't been in the spirit. The pictures below were all taken Thursday evening at the annual Halloween Parade on Seventh Avenue in Park Slope, Brooklyn, the children's equivalent of the Greenwich Village extravaganza. If you're out tonight all dressed up, have fun. And if you're drinking, have one for me. I'm getting bored going without! (PS: One of the kids below is my own!)


FOR OCTOBER 26-NOV 1 MUSINGS CLICK HERE (includes live reviews of The Streets, Mooney Suzuki, Sahara Hotnights, Flaming Sideburns, Stellastarr*; Jam Master Jay; Halloween) FOR OCTOBER 19-25 MUSINGS CLICK HERE (includes Underworld live, Atlantic Avenue antics, Girls and Boys night)
FOR OCTOBER 12-18 MUSINGS CLICK HERE (includes Bali Bombing and stupid editorials, the Electro-Clash festival, VHS Or Beta, Ballboy, Mindless Self Indulgence, 2 Many DJs, Tom Petty, The Streets, pointless stop-the-war e-mails)
FOR OCTOBER 5-11 MUSINGS CLICK HERE (includes Steve Earle and John Walker's Blues, Dreaming Of Britney, Girls Against Boys and Radio 4)
FOR SEPTEMBER 28-OCT 4 MUSINGS CLICK HERE (includes White Stripes live, Morel live, My Generation re-issue)
FOR SEPTEMBER 21-27 MUSINGS CLICK HERE (includes The Creation live, Village Voice, Wine not Whine and more)
FOR SEPTEMBER 14-20 MUSINGS CLICK HERE (includes Firefighter Andre Fletcher, Untamed, Uncut, and more September 11 Musings)
FOR SEPTEMBER 7-13 MUSINGS CLICK HERE (includes Sep 11 memorials, Did Bin Laden Win?, Scissor Sisters and Electro-clash)
FOR AUGUST 31-SEPTEMBER 6 MUSINGS CLICK HERE (includes The Strokes live, The Rising, Saint Etienne, Team USA, a.i., Tahiti 80, Dot Allison)
FOR AUGUST 17-30 DAILY MUSINGS CLICK HERE (includes holiday musings, wine reviews, Luna at Southpaw, and more)
FOR AUGUST 10-16 DAILY MUSINGS CLICK HERE (includes lengthy Who live review)
FOR JULY 27-AUG 9 DAILY MUSINGS CLICK HERE (includes Area 2, 24 Hour Party People Party, Hootenanny Tour, 2 Many DJs and more.
FOR JULY 20-26 DAILY MUSINGS CLICK HERE (includes Wilson Pickett, John Entwistle, rebuilding downtown NYC)
FOR JULY 13-19 DAILY MUSINGS CLICK HERE (includes Love Parade, Teany, RenewNYC, Femi Kuti, NRA, Londonisation of New York, Britishification of Global Rock)
FOR JULY 6-12 DAILY MUSINGS CLICK HERE (includes Mike Meyers as Keith Moon, the RAVE Act, John Entwistle, Michael Jackson, Southpaw, Moby Online, Layo & Bushwacka!,
(accidentally deleted)
FOR JUNE 29-JULY 5 DAILY MUSINGS CLICK HERE (includes World Cup Final, John Entwistle's legacy, The Who's decision to carry on, the meaning of July 4)
FOR JUNE 22-28 DAILY MUSINGS CLICK HERE (includes World Cup diary, Dr. John, Doves, Mermaid Parade, John Entwistle's death, Timothy White's death, Clinic Firewater and Radio 4 live, The Who's decision to carry on)
FOR JUNE 15-21 DAILY MUSINGS CLICK HERE (includes World Cup diary, Liars live, GiantFingers, the Big Takeover)
FOR JUNE 8 -14 DAILY MUSINGS CLICK HERE (includes World Cup diary, StellaStarr*, Jose Padilla, Dee Dee Ramone, suicide bombings)
FOR JUNE 1-7 DAILY MUSINGS, CLICK HERE (includes World Cup diary, Southpaw, Six Foot Under, Andrew Sullivan)
FOR LATE MAY DAILY MUSINGS, CLICK HERE
FOR MAY'S EIGHT DAYS IN A WEEK'S MUSINGS, CLICK HERE
FOR LATE APRIL LONDON MUSINGS, CLICK HERE
FOR EARLY APRIL MUSINGS, CLICK HERE
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