No such thing as a free launch?

OK, OK. I know the Brighton Display launch was on Saturday and it's now the following Tuesday and I've only just rolled into work, my sleeves covered in blood and vomit, but you can guess why, no?

That's right. I was glueing fragmented socks to the specific inner sections of middle-aged men's sandals so that the members of that group might finally have the weekend comfort of a hot sock with the aeration of the modern sandal.

I don't waste my time.

So thanks, then, to those who came down. There was a little stress in the days running up to the show. We'd had the London launch, as you perhaps know, and it went really well, but this, lest we get complacent, is another gig, and you never know what each gig will bring. Will anyone turn up? Will we stride out in a blaze of woohoo and slink off stage fifty minutes later in a fug of underboot downtreadery? Will we play to the beer pumps? Will my shoes feel too close, not enough...circulation? But then what of the leather-upper comfort?

You never know what the next gig will bring.

Luckily, you're all bloody lovely people, and you turned up and cheered your little lungy-bums off. That was real nice. It makes me feel nauseous with happiness that you all came and made it a big hot and sweaty one to remember. TVM.

So that was it, then. We had the months of lead up to the release where we fretted and non-stop-internetted and wondered how regretted we'd get if the whole thing failed and we were asked to fuck off into a horrid late-twenties obscurity. Then we had the London launch where it all came to a head and the post-gig shenanigans were no more than falling asleep against a van window as the honey-like lights glooped across our faces, and then after the Brighton show...

...that all went away. We had a little-wittle bit of 'freedom' to play with.

So today I'm still rubbing my legs after a four-hour 'walk' home on Sunday morning along Brighton seafront. Nothing pleases me more than watching Seryn struggle to handle the mixed pleasures of bodily poison, sunrise, and a rooftop jacuzzi.

Little more cliché, nothing more fun.

Thanks, all. We'll be busy this week, performing a few experiments in some London recording shed or other. Then we're gonna look forward to the tour. More on that as and when.

Tuesday can be pleasurable, but the sun is out, so if you're anything like me you'll be wisely staying inside, smearing peanut butter on your skin to form a full paste of opacity.

Don't choose chunky – it makes you look weird.

Be fun.

Tim

Like Hesse without the beads.

The five young men were hurled from the city gates, their flimsy shoes skipping against hard dust..

'We'll resist you!' said the gatekeeper, as he threw the smallest one to the ground.
'We'll resist you!' said the tallest one, lamely.
'That doesn't make any sense.'
'You don't make any sense.'
'Hem. Hem Hem.'

And with that, the large wooden gate of the walled city was closed; the twin living thickets booming against one another like a warning shot.

The five looked at one another.
'What are we doing here?' asked Jeb
'Tim's being clever.' said Ed, 'he can't find it in himself to outright describe how the band is going at the moment, so he's writing a kind of story to explain what's going on. He's being silly and slowly disappearing, rather than just doing something that he won't enjoy and just boring everyone.'
'Yeah.' said Seryn.

The five stumbled to their feet.
'Thanks for noticing.' said Tim, 'I hate when I have to explain everything.'
'I hate you.' said Jeb.

Ed approached the walls of the city, probing the crooked stone with his fingers.
'What does this represent, then?' he asked.

'That's me!' beamed Seryn, 'Tim's saying that I'm a massive wall. Right, Tim?'
'I'm afraid not,' Tim replied, 'the wall is a barrier. Inside that wall is worldwide success, stardom, and all the Shreddies you can eat.'
'Coco Shreddies?'
'All the Shreddies of the rainbow.'
Trewin choked on the dusty atmosphere.
'But we're out here?'
'Yes, I know - that's the point. We're out here. It's tricky right now, trying to sort Europe dates and stuff, trying to get UK dates - not being able to actually gig at the moment doesn't help when you're trying to book shows. We're trying to get new stuff recorded, we're trying to sort out our merch, and we keep coming up against obstacles! It's not anyone's fault, but we can't pretend we enjoy being thrown out of metaphorical doors by big burly geezers, can we?'
The five nodded, solemnly.
'He looked like Justin Beiber.' said Jeb.

The five took time to look about them - to see that without the walls of success surrounding them they were still free to venture wherever they wished. They stayed put, mainly. Sat around, jamming. There was no life outside the city walls. It was filled with office jobs and standing on street corners holding signs advertising hot dogs this way.

'I need a glass of water.' said Trewin.

'Seek Merlot.' said a great thundering voice from above. The five retook their balance, staring at the sky; shocked.
'Pardon?' screamed Ed.
'I have booked you an appointment with the great Merlot this Wednesday. You should go - he'll sort it right out. Then you can get on with your lives and hopefully get in the walled city of success through the gates you were just kicked out of, which is what put you into the situation you're now in, if you weren't aware.'

'Yeah.' said Seryn, 'Basic causality!' before becoming the same character he was at the start of the story.

And so, under keen instruction, our intrepid idiots set off in search of the great Merlot.

...and who knows where the road will take them? 

To the Doctor's. It'll take them to some specialist Doctor or other. And to a band meeting today, where we're gonna get everything planned and sorted and get this show back on the hot-damn road for real. One subject to be discussed: timetabling of new EP.



Next week: A biography of Prince written by describing a BBC period drama reflected off a midwife's eyeball.

Phoria: A thanks/apology.

Dear Great Fans,

We are very sorry for cancelling our recent gigs. We like to play gigs - spending all day hanging around in a bar; fighting off hoards of screaming fans; setting up the live feed to the secret govt. base on Titan (whoops!) - and love meeting people who enjoy our music, so cancelling any gig is always seen as a big bum of pain splitting the canvas seat on the director's chair of joy. It was Trewin's throat, you see. He takes care of himself, but there's been yet another round of G.I. Influenza (or some other little viral spiral) worming its way into each member of the band through orifices unkempt. He's almost fully recovered now, I think. His voice has returned, anyway. Oh good.

So we've been doing...stuff. All kinds of stuff. New stuff. Interviews! Promotional mixes! Scrawling 'Phuria ar gr8' on toilet walls! Setting up a giant mirrored 'P' on the pebbles of Brighton beach, hoping to catch enough moonlight to beam it against darkened clouds in the hope that such a sight might spark some youngster's innate curiosity to type 'P' into any given Internet Googling Field and thence discover the 'P' that rests at the start of our band name (Phoria). The 'P' is all we could afford once Seryn took most of our mirror budget. He must take a long, hard look at himself.

We are sorry for cancelling our gigs this week and will come back to play gigs and play them better than if we hadn't cancelled the gigs.

Bloodworks. Don't forget your pre-orders via iTunes, even if you've listened to the whole stream online. You want to own it, right? Right.

Thanks for all your support on that front, by the way. We really appreciate it. The Red remixes are still coming in, and the track has reached 100,000 listens in less than a month. That's some good fanning, Great Fans.

As always, there's loads more in my pipeline, but it's all bunged up, so that's your lot for now.

Soon: more.

Regards,

Timothy Frederick D-lo.