2013..... 
ear to the ground

Ok.. so I'm decidedly late this time around, however, these here are my lists of top albums and tunes that have influenced and altered my state over the past 12 months. 
Music (along with 'the road') is life. It's my constant companion. Surprisingly enough though, I don't own a pair of headphones. Music is everywhere and I want to hear it. The louder the better.
If but one of you finds a skerrick of love for any or all of the below, then I'll be happy in the knowledge that we share a passion. And I urge you to indulge along with me, at will.

In no particular order, these are my favourite recent offerings:

Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds - Push the Sky Away 
Probably the greatest Alt Rock outfit that ever came out of Oz, perhaps even the planet. The overlord of darkness at his poetic finest, lead along merrily by the never ending enthusiasm of Mr.Ellis and the rest of the mad, bad bunch.

Factory Floor - Factory Floor
Smashing debut album that skirts around descriptions; this London trio knock out one of the most compelling, non-stop live shows I've ever had the privilege to witness. Dark, thumping beats & experimental noise that sends one back to the cradle. 

Nadine Shah - Love Your Dum & Mad
Haunting and punchy themes are tackled by this Northern lass, singer/songwriter. Nadines voice alone has the chilling ability to reach inside, indiscriminately, and rip at anything it lays its gravelly tones upon. 

Thee Oh Sees - Floating Coffin
Straight outta San Fran, yet another offering from perhaps the most prolific band in recent history. And they keep getting better. Rock at its psychedelic and punk best. One of the most memorable shows of 2013 without doubt.

La Femme - Psycho Tropical Berlin
Cold wave, synth heavy psychedelica out of France that transports you to warmer climes in order to invoke Hui and trip haphazardly along an endless summer. Live show coming up = happy bhp.

PVT - Homosapien
A superbly thoughtful and at times experimental offering from the Aussie rock trio now calling London home. The new direction works more than favourably from go to whoa, these lads have firmly found their feet.

Major Lazer - Free the Universe
The latest sublimely eclectic body of collaborative work from master Diplo et al. From reggae through ragga to dub step and beyond. Featuring probably my fave track of the year 'Get Free'. 

London Grammar - If You Wait
A sensuous and brooding debut; Mellow and painfully beautiful trip-pop masterpiece that deserves a place in pretty much everyones music library. Good when alone, for driving, crying, and inspiring.

Savages - Silence Yourself
Debut offering from this all female rock quartet. A sometimes dark and disassociative body of work. Intense. Intelligent and pretty much lawless. Patti meets Siouxsie and go tripping together.

Arctic Monkeys - AM
Probably the best album release yet from the Sheffield lads. And that says about all it needs to. Indie rock legend status confirmed.



And now for a top ten track listing.... as usual I'll venture outside the above albums and their myriad of truly killer tracks in an attempt to bring another 10 artists into my loving light.

Again in no particular order:

A Tooth For An Eye  by The Knife 

- trip-tronica at its experimental best. only in Sweden!! 

What's Holding You  by Lorelle Meets the Obsolete 

- chunky, driving, psychedelica outta Mexico! Brilliant.

Chum  by Earl Sweatshirt 

- choicest of cuts off his latest collaborative hip hop album.

My God is the Sun  by Queens of the Stone Age 

- stellar tune from the lads has got to be right up there.

Stimulation  by Disclosure 

- one of the phattest tunes off their debut album. if you like beats. 

Off & On  by Findlay 

- raw but beltingly good garage rock at its less than 3 minute best.

Out of the Black  by Royal Blood 

- powerful and grimey sound out of this Brighton duo. 

Drone Logic  by Daniel Avery 

- it's like underworld shagged trentemoller..

Mozart's House  by Clean Bandit 

- another fresh and quirky stonker from the london fringes.

Way I Feel  by Palace 

- killer tune on high rotation at my gaf; distorted disco to move your bod.

These are the cream of the records that helped shape my year, 2013. Overall, I thought it was an outstanding year for releases. I'll be nodding my head, shuffling my feet, and throwing down shapes to this lot for a long time yet. Enjoy.

                                                                        art by: ears

Shadow puppetry of the penis

...after nipping off to my bedroom to furiously rub one out following  some scintillating conversation with an incredibly gorgeous applicant for the spare room in our house, i couldn't help but notice and then fixate on, the shadow play upon my wall. i wish i could have held the camera still for the money shot, however i'm afraid my control doesn't stretch that far. i guess you had to be there...

a city doesn't always love you

As I navigate the adverse camber of a solitary existence

and traverse the frosty crags of glacial failings and loves lost

a slow perpetual degradation leads me to a familiar, far reaching understanding.. 

There are some things better left unsaid.

Some things the boy in me need never have seen, let alone known. 

Curiosity, as it turns out, has a hefty price tag of its own. 

Experience, it’s been told, keeps a dear school

whose classrooms fill to brim predominantly with fools. 

As surely as springs melt finds its way to shimmering sea

a fleeting glimpse at mirrors bevelled edge reveals 

....the fool in me.

all images taken in the Nederlands by bhp

BH.Plugs....

Pablo Delgado

If you’ve ever spent a lazy afternoon wandering around the east end of London you would have no doubt marvelled at the prevalence of some high quality street art. Yes there is plenty of mindless dross and naff tags, but you don’t have to search far or wide to be rewarded.

You do however, need to look closely and most often down, if you want to spy some of the extraordinary work of Senor Delgado. A prolific paste-up artist brought to London’s grimy streets from the blazing colour and sunshine of Mexico.

If you want to appreciate his craft you need to get low to the ground, because Pablos creations are miniature in stature but epic in substance. Often satirical, symbolic and reflective of mankinds impact in and on the planet, his pieces quite joyously tread on the toes of surrealism, and dabble in the darker recesses. 

In a world where bigger is better, more is de rigueur, where gigabytes are giving way to terabytes, Delgado is seriously bucking the trend and reminding us all of our place in the world, as drops in the ocean, none more valuable than any other, pearls one and all.

When asked why he feels the need to make his creations so small his response was...

“It’s a mix of things. We need to be less. We are too many in the world and that small size is the opposite of the stupid necessities and immense resources that we use. And we need to be discreet”

For me, London is a better place for having this artist within its community. Not only does he reward the curiously observant with some colour and sunshine in an otherwise dreary landscape, but his tiny works promote much grander concepts.. his commentary as relevant to the individual as they are to the entire city.

                               And beyond.

all works by Pablo Delgado

review by bhp

choice butts #10

this is my xmas present..

only the big fella himself knows what i've done to deserve such finery..

only the big guy can answer prayers with this degree of precision..
so thank you in advance Santa, you have most definitely made my year..

now.. all i have to do is get to her.

Foreign Bodies

part 3

Camille liked her wine. She didn’t savour it though. I melted into the armchair as she went about describing the wine, it’s body, palate and finish, as if in some past life she was a sommelier in a Michelin starred bistro. But she devoured it with far too much gusto. Fortunately her bar was well stocked. We spent some hours drinking the fine stuff, hours that rattled by, filled with the most stimulating conversation. We shared many interests. We discussed our travels (hers predominantly), distant cultures, geopolitics, the natural history of my homeland (which she was most interested in), immigration and the outlook for the new E.U entity. I can only imagine her husband would have been as intelligent and engaging in discussion as she. I imagined them sat in this very intimate space, dissecting the days news over a bottle or two of Bordeaux’s finest 89 vintage. Debating fiercely their own views before embracing their differences and retreating to the bedroom for some kind of dirty sex. Perhaps with Camille at the window sill offering up her behind. This is how I pictured her world. And I was intrigued.

Camille turned out a delicate platter of cheese and fruit to accompany the wine, but it didn’t help prevent me from getting quite drunk. A heady, rosy cheeked red wine drunk. Generally a good thing. But on this night instead of relaxing my inhibitions, for some reason it deepened them. Although I had had a skin-full, there was a piqued wariness that, for some reason I just couldn’t shake. Of course it didn’t stop me from enjoying the night, or the magnificent company Camille provided. Nor could it diminish the feeling of sexual tension in the room. Ever since the episode in the bath, Camille knew she had the ability to flick the on switch, and I in turn was well aware that despite my protest, the sexual prowess of this woman had infiltrated my conscious and ignited a carnal instinct. Almost effortlessly. With but a stroke of the hand. This could get messy.

Camille continued to quaff her vino and her impeccable English became less so. The pitched down hybrid language that she spoke was certainly no less attractive, just slightly more difficult to pick up. And my powers of concentration were waning. Although I fought the sensation for another topic or two, it was time for bed.

I suggested to Camille that I was terribly exhausted and in dire need of the bed. She agreed, saying that we were perhaps already past this point and overdue. I hadn’t detected the nuance in Camille’s statement or manner. As she devoured the last of her wine I removed the remnants of platter and my own empty glass to the kitchen. Camille told me not to concern myself with any cleaning. I fetched myself a glass of water and with as much panache as I could muster, staggered toward the bedroom. I pointed to the obviously unoccupied side of the room and it’s single bed, asking if that was mine for the night. Camille nodded a oui. I didn’t need any further information than this. I stripped down to my boxers and climbed into the heavenly comfort of a soft pillowed warmth that had escaped me for, what now seemed, a minor age. A blissful security swept through me as I curled into a ball. Instinct dictated that I face out, with my back to the wall so as to survey the scene. I couldn’t see Camille from where I lay, but I heard her make her way down the hall to the bathroom. In her absence the room was, for the first time, deathly quiet. I surveyed the scene with an edge gilded curiosity. There was actually very little that spoke of human habitation here. Nothing on the floor. Nothing on the walls. Against one wall, in the middle of the room was a chest of drawers, beside it, near the foot of my bed a wardrobe. There was nothing on top of the drawers other than a couple of books. No mirror, no make-up, brush, box of tricks, nothing. At the foot of Camille’s bed was a small table with the only light source, a lamp, perched on a lace doily at its centre. There was nothing on the table except what looked like, and after focussing intently was confirmed as, a spent condom. Obviously fresh, full, and undisposed of. A substantial horror penetrated my silent sanctuary and I curled tighter into a ball. As if on cue, Camille returned and latched the front door behind her. I listened to what sounded like the fumbling open of pill bottles in the kitchen and then the tap.

The lights went out, the only remaining light was that which illuminated the rubber full of some strangers army, on which I couldn't help but fixate. My corner of the room was bathed in an unsettling darkness. Camille breezed past me and into view. She stood at the drawers and began to undress. Her backlit form provided me a welcome distraction. She first removed her earrings and then proceeded to unzip her full length skirt, shimmying it over the now obvious curve of her hips. It fell in a pool at her feet and I couldn’t help but admire her bare legs as they kicked out at the cloth, consigning it to a corner by the wardrobe. Camille possessed an air of grace even in inebriation. Her attention then turned to the polka dot blouse and although I felt I shouldn’t, I found it impossible not to stare at her in a throaty anticipation. Her actions, all consuming, had the associated effect on my manhood. It grew rapidly. I remained tucked in my ball, but the tiredness I felt had evaporated. I was now experiencing other drunken sensations, drunk on my own fantasy, reminded of the many times I’d spied on my neighbours, through gauzy lace or cracks in the curtains, personal moments of theirs I’d infiltrated, as they readied for bed or perhaps the shower, occasionally I’d seen acts of self love, and marital fucking. But now, right here, my perversion played out in the very same space that I occupied, and I could scarcely believe my eyes.

Camille peeled away her blouse, revealing the outline of a curvaceous vixen, cupped and clad in a dark matching set of under garments. She moved to the wardrobe and fetched a hanger from inside and hooked the blouse on the wardrobe knob. She then turned to face me and, fearing I’d been busted staring, I half closed my eyes, not wanting the interaction but maintaining a devious blurry fix on Camille as she stripped. My heart was beating loudly in my ears as Camille reached around to unclip her bra. As it fell off her shoulders she revealed an ample chest which although once would have stood proud, now relaxed under the gloriously gentle yet persistent force of gravity, with beautifully natural effect. She possessed the kind of bosom that one could dive into and get lost in. Her nipples peaking splendidly within darkish, highball sized areolae. The kind of breasts that I just wanted to grab.

Camille hooked the bra over the same wardrobe knob and moved back to the drawers. Turning to face the lamp she then noticed the used rubber and swiftly leant over to brush it from view. It either landed in a bin out of sight, or on the carpet. 
Regardless, it was too late. 

Foreign Bodies
part 2

Camille ushered me to the bathroom, which was communal to the 3 flats on the level. It was an overly large vacuous space, polished white and black tiles on the floor, multiple chrome heated towel racks, with a large ornate venetian cut glass mirror positioned above two deep porcelain basins. All fittings were polished chrome. In the corner of the room was the bathtub. One of those beautiful, deep, wrought iron claw-foot jobs, the sort that would easily accommodate an amorous couple. In the opposite corner was the loo, with a flush chain that reached up into the ceiling. Last light spilled through exterior shutters and gave the room a regal, golden glow. I could well have been dreaming. Camille ran the bath and told me to take as much time as I wished, she would be down the hall. I studied myself in the mirror and drifted away from any self-conscious thoughts as the water steamed and bubbled behind me. This would feel so good.

I realised I hadn’t a towel and ventured back down the hall asking Camille if she would kindly lend me one, which she did. I closed the bathroom door behind me, searching for a latch of some sort, that didn’t exist. Strange! The bath rose wonderfully and beckoned me in. I removed my clothes and left them in a pool on the cool tiles, vowing to wash them at the earliest opportunity, my wardrobe wasn’t extensive.

There’s few explicitly luxurious feelings that can match that first foray of toes and feet into a hot bath. The sensations, multiplied over the period of time since my last bath, made my skin crawl and itch. The water was hot. The hardest part of getting into a bath for this man, is the dipping of the balls. Allowing them to hit the steaming pond is a trial unto itself. Once in though, they regulate quickly, radiating warmth and a low density euphoria. Inside the bath, I felt the world of my troubles steadily dissipate and, after some minutes vanish completely. In this place, I needn’t be bothered, I needn’t have concern, I was safe. If I wasn’t so enthralled in my situation I might have shed a few tears. Of equal parts elation and despair.

I began to scrub the streets from my body, stripping back to the pale white skin for which I have my mother to thank. And then without warning, Camille walked through the door. She carried with her a chair, and in the other hand an ashtray. I was startled and brought my knees to my chest. Camille spoke in her intoxicating tones, asking me not to mind her presence. She placed the chair at the foot of the bath and returned to close the door. I wasn’t sure what to do. Camille perched herself on the chair and pleaded with me to carry on. She removed an oversized Stuyvesant from its packet and rolled it with expert fingers before placing it between her lips. Not for the first time did I notice that Camille wasn’t an unattractive woman, with very appealing features. I continued with my bathing, albeit a little shyly. I concentrated on lathering my legs and feet. I wasn’t watching, but I could hear Camille drawing deeply on her cigarette, and exhaling with just as much purpose. I felt as if under a spotlight, but it wasn’t unpleasant. I soaped my way up my legs before inevitably landing at their apex. I massaged the suds into my crevices, my balls and cock. I felt Camille’s gaze as it followed my hands. She then queried whether all my fellow countrymen were like me. In what way? Tall, long hair, rugged looking. I told her how diverse my homeland was and gave her a snapshot of society there. She spoke very little other than to affirm her understanding. She smoked and watched my hands, occasionally smiling. At this point I became very comfortable with her presence. I didn’t know what, if anything was happening, but I didn’t object. I soaped my torso and arms, paying special attention to my pits and then my nails. Camille then offered to wash my hair for me. I declined, my locks were not to be wet, let alone shampooed. She protested that I must shampoo my hair but I wouldn’t budge. She stood up and approached the side of the bath. I told her again the hair was not for washing. She offered then to at least wash my back, the parts I couldn’t reach. I was a touch dubious of her intentions but wasn’t prepared to pass up a back scrub. I succumbed. Camille knelt by my side and soaped a sponge. She put one hand on my shoulder and swept warm sudsy water up my back. She didn’t scrub as much as stroke. She spent considerable time on each shoulder, leaning into me to reach my far side. In close I could smell the alcohol on her person, even over the cigarettes. But it wasn’t offensive. On the contrary, I was finding her attentions somewhat arousing and panicked a little when a rush of blood flooded into my cock. I wasn’t expecting it, however Camille was pushing some buttons. I tried to hide the fact. Camille carried on with her sponging and I couldn’t hold back my hard-on. This wasn’t lost on Camille. I could only see her out of the corner of my eye, but I knew she was watching my struggle. She expelled a breathy smile, audibly. You shouldn’t be ashamed she said, meltingly with accent. I was a little, I was hard as and unable to hide it. Camille continued to swab my back and neck, it felt good, deliriously so. Camille then let her hand slip off my shoulder, tracing down over my rib cage and tummy she them wrapped her hand around the head of my dick, squeezing. I startled and pushed her hand away. My cock jolted. You shouldn’t be ashamed she repeated, before returning to her seat, you have a beautiful cock. I wasn’t prepared for any of this. My naivety and inexperience painted me red in the cheeks. I tucked myself into a ball. Camille looked me in the eye. In her pupils I saw an inky black darkness, the bottomless depths of her recent sorrow, complete and confounding, without escape. Through her eyes poured the essence and soul of the confident and accomplished woman who once was, not long ago. But she that sat before me now, looking right through me, was just a shell. I did feel ashamed. If you don’t mind I’d like to get out now. She didn’t mind, she remained silent, motioned to a towel and removed herself and the chair from the room. The ashtray remained precariously balanced on the edge of the bath.

My hard-on deflated slowly as I dried myself, returning to the mirror to ask myself what the fuck was going on. I had no answer. This is where despair had delivered me, into the hands of despair.

I cleaned out the bath and tentatively returned to Camille's apartment. She was in the kitchen. Would you like a drink. As if nothing had happened. Yes please. Beer, wine, whiskey. Wine would be nice. I retreated to the bedroom and fished through my pack for clean clothes. I felt suitably refreshed, although a tad unnerved.

choice butts #9...

It’s as if you never left 

muscle memory brings me back 

recollection guides me in 

the taste and scent far reaching

reunion of flesh
 a buckling of will

pretty thing by the window sill

high rotation...

Settle
by
Disclosure
More delicious summer sounds from the SE corner of the UK. These brothers sometimes border on the cheesey side of house music (only sometimes), but their deeper and funkier shit has been carving up the dancefloors and debasing the festival crowds for the last couple of months. This album is a superb party starter if you wanna move the masses. As for me, well it hasn't left my car stereo since June.
They know where it's at. Lap it up!

Foreign Bodies

part 1

Things don’t always pan out the way you want them to. This much I have learnt over the years. Sometimes life throws a few lemons in your direction. It’s during moments like these, that knowing how to make tarts comes in handy.

From time to time I wonder how I got to where I am, and, from what on earth some of my perversions were born out of. Having no formulaic method to guide me, I became an explorer. Travel and adventure was bred into me and encouraged by very open minded parents, all four of them, and their rather left field groups of acquaintances. By the age of 13, I’d visited multiple countries in 3 continents other than my own. I guess I got lucky with my parents 2^nd marriages, they chose wonderful folks from other lands, for this I’m eternally grateful.

I left home at a young age and worked. Like a dog. Ethic has never been an issue with my bloodline, it’s what we do.

At the relatively tender age of 21, I’d saved a substantial amount of money working 100+ hour weeks, whilst indulging for the remaining hours. Sleep was something you did when you were dead. Somehow I made it out of that chapter alive, some of my friends didn’t, fearing a similar fate I had the presence of mind to gather my life and cram it into a backpack with a 57litre capacity. I bought a one way ticket to Amsterdam and kissed my mother goodbye. It was the single most influential decision of my life. The ripple effect still resonates to this very day, years later.

Many months were spent riding a bicycle, and after that was stolen, hitching around Europe taking in the sites from Rotterdam to Istanbul, and most in between. Strange things happened. I was party to many amazing events. Some mind-bending, others mind-boggling. Over the course of these many months, I became a man. A wide-eyed, experimental, solitary man. Never quite comfortable in his own skin, there was far too much that I didn’t and would never understand to make that sort of judgement call. I ploughed on. Working wherever I could, doing whatever was asked whenever the opportunity arose, for whoever was kind enough to recognise in me the immediacy of my need to live and learn. These folk became willing accomplices in the formation of the person that stands naked before you now. Many nameless faces whom I reflect on occasionally, not just for posterity, with gratitude.

One such face burns brightly in my memory for a variety of reasons. Not least of all because she followed up on my teenage fascinations and reinforced in me the sublime pleasures of the infinitely seductive world of the voyeur/exhibitionist. This story is about her. Her name was Camille.

I’d been sleeping rough, in a seaside town on the coast of France. I had no money and spent my days in and around the ferry terminal waiting for my friend to arrive with our car so that we could head east. He left me waiting for 3 weeks. In retrospect, those 3 weeks further carved out my creative side, but I wasn’t about to thank him, still haven’t. Once all the vehicles had left the last daily ferry, I would retreat to the train station where I’d been told by the police to spend my nights. I’d previously slept in the park, however they deemed that too dangerous, they would take me to the train station with all the other lost souls and wayward minds, deposit me there tell me not to head back to the park, or I'd risk arrest. So I sat on the same station bench each evening and wrote. Whatever was in my head, I put on paper. Much of what I wrote was tainted with rage, directed mainly toward my friend, if not him, it ventured inward. I also wrote what I observed and of my experiences passed. I managed to write over the course of one night, a children’s book, which I’ll one day publish after it’s been adequately illustrated. It was an interesting time to say the least.

One afternoon as I sat on my bench scribbling, I was approached by a woman, in her late forties I guessed, who spoke to me in French. I apologised for the fact that I couldn’t understand and she immediately altered her speak so that I could. She asked me if I would join her for a coffee. Without hesitation I accepted the offer. She was well dressed, reasonably fit and had a lovely smile. The only oddity with regards her appearance was the fact that she wore dark sunglasses, inside the station. I couldn’t see her eyes, but that didn’t bother me. She beckoned me to follow her and we sat at a leafy table in the station cafe. Very civilised. She asked what I would like, a flat white, and proceeded to order coffee and cake. (If there’s a more delicious sounding language than French then please send me to that country, I’ll leave tomorrow).

She introduced herself. We spoke for some time. She asked if I was a writer, she’d seen me for a few days on end now, furiously penning my notebook. I told her I wasn’t, just a recorder of things. She was a print journalist it turned out, and an extremely interesting conversationalist. She told me how her husband of 20 years had recently died in a tragic accident, and how she was struggling to overcome his sudden departure. She told me how she had turned to alcohol to suppress the extreme hurt and longing that puddled and bubbled inside her. We discussed that openly. She admitted to having been in variously continuous states of drunkenness for some months now. And I empathised. She told me I seemed beyond my years, an old soul, and yet I found her way with words beguiling. It was the best cake I had ever eaten.

After a second coffee the shadows in the station drew long, like something out of a Drysdale landscape. Camille, having learned of my predicament, asked if I would like to come to her house, offering a bath, warm food and a bed. It wasn’t something I was in any place to refuse, so I gladly accepted her invitation, and we left the station to the nightly freakshow.

Camille paid for a taxi to her apartment. It seemed a well to do area and a lovely building. I could pinpoint it on a map to this day. We ascended a couple of flights to the third floor and she guided me into a small but perfectly ordered, if a little sparse, one bedroom flat. I noted immediately the double sliding doors that separated the bedroom from the living room, and was relieved to see two single beds either side of the bedroom. There was little in the way of furnishings throughout the apartment. A small dining table with two chairs tucked in the corner, two large leather armchairs dominated the space. There was no television, only a sound system. The adjoining kitchen was immaculately clean but well stocked. The fridge laden with wine, beer and cheese. I was suitably impressed. For an alcoholic, I thought, this woman still had lashings of pride to keep her house in such a state.
But things aren’t always as they seem.