Deathline summer sale!

• Share on Tumblr
• Tweet

---

comments powered by Disqus

---

Deathline @The Legion tomorrow

A reminder that Deathline play this Sunday 19th (tomorrow) at The Legion, Old Street. It's a really great line up, including headliners Nephu Huzzband, Thought Forms and our death surf friends Suicide Party from Southampton who are on first and who you must make it in time to see. They are ace. Plus cool DJs spinning rocking tunes before in between and afterwards, including our old friend Stu Plimsoles from Artrocker.

If you come to one this Summer, this one is it so help up pack it out.

It's also the last one before we take a break to write and record a new EP for release later this year. Catch one or two of the new ones in our set on Sunday.

A reminder also that we have the Deathline summer sale on right now. Get CDs and T-Shirts cheap: http://is.gd/1BX3H

Here's more details for Sunday from the promoter:

CHAMBER in association with www.GODISINTHETVZINE.co.uk present...

Nephu Huzzband + Deathline + Thought Forms + Suicide Party
+ DJs Stu Plimsols + King Chinchilla

The Legion
348 Old Street, London EC1V 9NQ (map)
Old Street tube

Ttel: 020 7729 4441

Sunday 19th July 2009 | 7pm until Midnight | £5 Entry

» This event on Facebook
» This event on last.fm

Nephu Huzzband: Nottingham

http://www.myspace.com/nephuhuzzband

Explosive and abstract punk that rattles along like a rag taggle combination of the Ramones, Trail of the Dead and Mclusky. New single 'No Not Ever' Out Now.

"Nephu Huzzband are pushing the boundaries of punk" Artrocker

"Robert Smith vocals welded grainily to the fuselage of a soaring, nu-gaze, Q & Not U-esque 'does-this-fit-here?' mentality" The Fly

No Not Ever Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3bhfKQRsB8s
Nurse! Nurse Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mjc0d-S_PBc

Deathline: London

http://www.myspace.com/thedeathline

Brooding rock noir with sultry vocals and Velvet Underground woozy melodies. Debut album 'SixtyNine' out now.

"Distinctive fuzz-tone guitars, dead-pan noir vocal deliver a garage-punk pop with shades of Jesus and MaryChain, Ravonettes and Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Abrasive energy and tunes, a winning combination" Artrocker

"Sonic Youth buzzing artschlock" London Particular

'C'mon C'mon' Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3x2OEFrY0Ao

Thought Forms: South West England

http://www.myspace.com/thoughtforms

Beguiling instrumental post rock with intense shoe-gaze fuzz and epic guitar squeals. Debut album 'Thought Forms' out soon.

"They're raw - almost grungey - but they've got that shoegazing thing going on too. And if they're looking at their shoes it means they're not looking in the mirror, know what I mean?" Geoff Barrow (Portishead)

"This is soaring, epic stuff, the sound of effect pedals being tortured and sacrificed to the Gods of thunder. Phaser set to stun, and delays and fuzz too. KKKK" Kerrang

"the UK's THOUGHT FORMS have harnessed the hazy gleam of My Bloody Valentine and used it to their own inspired ends on their self titled Invada Records Debut 7/10" Metal Hammer

Live: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3tE-LrnjWHc

Suicide Party: Southampton

http://www.myspace.com/suicidepartyuk

Dirty garage rock with goth and psychobilly undertones. Malignant bass lines bounce off of creaking vocals and darting guitar lines.

"Suicide Party are hammering through the kind of loud, fuzzy and abrasive rock and roll that makes you wonder why bands would ever want to play anything other than this music" SouthScene.net

Live: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VZ-VOiyIZno

Photos from Germany / Denmark tour

We've uncovered a cache of rather nice photos from our European tour last Autumn, including some super spooky ones form our Halloween gig in Berlin.

Check out the whole set on flickr.

• Share on Tumblr
• Tweet

---

comments powered by Disqus

---

Freshwater

It was the summer that the shark, some said it was a Great White, others Porbeagle or Bull shark, kept coming up the river. No one could work out why it did, or how it could even survive in the fresh water, but they said the shark seemed to like it more the further upstream it got. The story took on the tenor of a fairy tale. Only a couple of people had seen it, but they said that it was a big one - you might be able to fit a grown man between the dorsal fin and the tip of its tail fin. A few pets went missing that summer. No one took the threat seriously, though. Like I said, the story felt more like a folk tale or a dream in those balmy dog days, and people would still take out their boats, and us kids would continue to play in the Creek.

So there we were, Jimmy and Tubbs and Tom and a couple of other kids and me, and we were throwing the football around in the grassy strip of flat bank by the creek that we liked to play in. As usual, the play got kinda rough, and Jimmy, being the tallest (and heaviest) was coming out on top. I saw him crash into little Tom Skeetes and send him flying into the dust by the old dead tree. Poor kid. He looked like he wanted to cry, but he got up, spitting dirt and carried on. Then I saw Eddie Vanorder fade back and throw a high, looping pass in my direction. I squinted up at the sun as the ball arced across the blue and cloudless sky and started backpedalling.

"I got it! I got it!" I shouted; but of course, I didn't got it. Eddie threw it so far that even though I was stood some way away from the others ready to receive, I'd never have caught it. The ball bounced about twenty feet behind me. I turned, blinking away the sudden tears from the glare of the sun. I saw the ball bounce twice and splash down into the creek.

"Fuck, Eddie!" I heard Jimmy yell, "n'tcha look where you're throwin'!"

"I got it!" I shouted again, and stumbled after the football. I saw the slow current drifting it off behind a high clump of reeds. I kicked off my sneakers and socks and waded in. Momentarily, I lost sight of the others. The sun was glinting off of the water, which felt warm and delicious on my hot, bare legs. Out of earshot of the others, the afternoon had taken on a magical aspect and I felt suddenly tranquil in the slow ripple of the warm creek in the shelter of the reed bed.

I looked up at the ball, bobbing ten feet from me, and was about to push out to get it when I noticed the disturbance in the water.

There seemed to be a sudden, eddying dip in the water, just as though something large was pushing through quite quickly a few feet below the surface. The football disappeared, and then came up again a few feet away.

Without warning, a blunt, grey and white head broke the surface near me. I remember noting clearly that the monster's mouth had more than one row of tortilla chip sized teeth receding back into its red depths. That seemed kinda unfair. At the instant that one of the marbly black eyes focused on me, I couldn't move. I couldn't break eye contact. I could only stand there, waiting to be taken. Absurdly, I'd only seen the movie Jaws for the first time the week before. Me and Jimmy had laughed and farted and stilled the DVD, at how rubbery and lame the shark was. Just as absurdly, the shark in front of me, into whose gaping mouth my head would comfortably have fitted, slid back into the still water just like that shark had done in the movie, just before the others arrived.

I didn't feel like a Police Captain though. As the others jostled me in the shallow water shouting why I'd not got the ball, I felt a warm stream of pee make its way down my leg.

"Let's throw him in!" I heard Jimmy shout. "C'mon sissy! You too chickenshit to go get the ball?" I felt several pairs of hands raise me in the air and at that point I started to scream and twist.

"Si-ssy! Si-ssy!" they were chanting as I begged them to stop, snot streaming down my face as I was carried further out towards the deep centre of the creek where the ball still bobbed.

Then, like the ball before me, I was flying in an arc through the warm air.

I hit the water with a jarring splash. Blinking the creek out of my eyes, I grabbed the ball and used it as a float. Jimmy had waded some way out and was pointing and laughing, the others huddled behind him.

I knew I'd have to swim back.

Where was that shark?

Then Jimmy Flynn disappeared.

One moment he was laughing at me, the next moment, he'd vanished, scarcely leaving a ripple.

Then his head resurfaced. Just for a moment. Two feet in front of my face. His mouth in a wide 'O' of shock matching his eyes. The moment stretched out in my perception and I could see his expression change, about to scream. I shut my eyes.

When I reopened them, Jimmy was gone. I felt a vast darkness rub by my right leg. A searing pain exploded across the back of my calf. Then I was alone in the water, teeth suddenly chattering despite the late summer warmth. My friends lined the shore, looking at me with wide eyes and white faces.

Ever since then, I've been terrified of the water. Which made it doubly ironic that I found myself living where I was living now. I'm not sure why the memory of that summer came back to me just now. Reflexively, I checked that my gun was beneath my pillow and turned off the light. Far below me, I could hear the waves breaking around the sea fort's concrete legs. Soon I was fast asleep. If I had any dreams, I didn't remember them.

"Freshwater"

Originally written in October 2005 on draGnet 4.0. It was intended to be the start of a longer piece, but then I stopped writing it as I realised it was just the right length and didn't need any more opening up.

• Share on Tumblr
• Tweet

---

comments powered by Disqus

---

In vain...

I've been reading Jessica Who's new, well-written and often amusing weblog (which I found when she followed Deathline on Twitter, link fans) and was struck by her thoughtful piece on why trannies take and post photos.

I've kind of been thinking about this of late because, as those who follow my flickr stream will no doubt have noticed, I've been going through something of a massive spasm of dressing and selfportraiture. This is after almost completely stopping crossdressing in any form and (or so I thought) lapsing into a comfortably numb androgynous middle age.

I guess my gender anxiety just got the better of me. I've also lost a bit of weight. Maybe that has something to do with it. Who knows how the old brain is wired these days?

Self-imaging = self-stalking?

I have (in common, I think, with a lot of transgender people) a complex relationship with my self image. The way I've insistently and obsessively photographed myself since the mid-nineties is, let's face it a bit weird.

Course, there's more than a cursory element of creative exploration about the process, but I sometimes wonder if beyond that is a kernel of something a bit stranger and, dare I say, sicker?

Sometimes, looking back over the galleries of photos of myself that I appear to have accumulated, there is an part of me that is reminded of those classic movie and TV scenes of the revelation of the stalker's room, plastered with voyeuristic shots of their intended target.

Friends ask me amusedly why I do what I do - not the dressing up, I think most enlightened people realise that there's no point in trying to explain the transvestic impulse (there certainly isn't enough time in the day) - but why the photos? And why so many?

And why shouldn't they ask - most would consider such humongous levels of vanity humorous, with more than a nod in the direction of the deranged box. And it is vanity of a monstrous kind. But why is it that I (and many other trannies) am so bloody vain?

Maybe I am deranged?

Insecure

It's probably too late to change really. And of course, flickr is paradise for the deranged obsessive, obviously. We encounter them daily and the tools pander to the obsessive's need to classify and categorise, with the sets, collections, geotagging, archival tools like the EXIF/dating system.

Our collecting of our images helps us validate our desired self images. It helps up define the conceptual space in which our self image can operate. Comments we receive help build on those wobbly foundations of validation.

Perhaps it's a sort of hothouse, accelerated replacement for the one thing we don't have, can't have, never will have: the privilege of growing up female, the years and years that girls have with a genuinely female self image.

So the photography takes the place of that. Forms a construct that allows us to believe in some sort of feminine self. Maybe all these self-portraits are a picture of that Lost Girl, the other me of whom I wrote about in the past.

Trannies are insecure individuals, prone to self doubt and long, dark nights of soul searching, purging and worse.

The doubt comes from the fundamental mismatch we feel between our self and our image. The images help us heal those mismatches in our heads.

I'm not a hand-wringing, tortured, insecure, guilt-ridden tranny - I'm pretty happy in my skin, pretty happy to stand on stage and belt out noise in from of hostile audiences - but even I can see that the avalanche of photos is a barrier against self-doubt. A wall built of yearning to keep the midnight fear at bay.

No wonder the wall around my wallow gets bigger all the time. That Lost Girl picture collection - it's almost like that picture that Dorian Gray used to keep in his attic. But in reverse. As I decay, the pictures remain pristine, colourful, shiny and mysterious, the way I want to perceive myself.

Now what was The Picture of Dorian Grey a parable about?

Oh yeah. Vanity :)

Next steps

Actually, though I do think up to half of my self-images on flickr are repetitive and, well, just plain bad quality photos, so I'm going to start a process of weeding those out. So you will see some disappearing, especially some of the older blonde ones. So save em now if you want to keep tham!

Parts of this piece were originally written in September 2007 on draGnet 4.0.

• Share on Tumblr
• Tweet

---

comments powered by Disqus

---

«	July 2009							»
	Su	Mo	Tu	We	Th	Fr	Sa
				1	2	3	4
	5	6	7	8	9	10	11
	12	13	14	15	16	17	18
	19	20	21	22	23	24	25
	26	27	28	29	30	31

---

I'm a Musician, writer, photographer, designer, transgendered z-list celebrity. Insomniac's boyfriend. Tragic glamour and sleepless nights are my fellow travellers. Skinny jeans and pointy shoes are my mode-us operandi. I like cats. Especially the ones who talk. Oh, and David Lynch.

---