young knives

this is a tribute to (the) young knives(as pictured above).
listen to deerhoofs "heart failure" from their excellent LP "apple-o" when you read this.

lets start with some facts.

y.k´s consists of:

ollie who plays the drums, has a russian beard, is constantly on the phone and has one of the most contagious laughs i have ever heard.
he is steady as a rock and wears glasses which is a big plus in my book of pluses and minuses!
i also believe he is a total gentlemen, and dresses like one too.-let me hold the door for you, madaaaaaaaaaaaaam!

then we have the brothers.
henry on guitar and vocals, who does the best "dick-eating as your life depended on it"-imitation known to man,
and who in deep contrast sings like an angel.he also sometimes wears a vest!
plus he has a sort of quickness to him, that one would think he was a travelling snake remedy-salesment in an earlier life.

and then there´s tomas or house of lords(which is his cool artistname or pseudonym if you like)
who also sings and plays the bass, tom is like an awesome force of goodness who is swooshing through the room, seemingly in deep thought.
he has a vunerability to his singing, that makes me a bit sentimental and mooshy inside, and he claims that he never wore a pair of jeans.
sometimes onstage it looks like he´s in a trance!all good features!

we´ve played alot of gigs with these guys, and as one would fall in love with a somewhat unforseen colleague at the office over time,
this is what we did, we didnt trip and fall by the watercooler but by the stink and the stank of the "1000" backstages of the U of the K.
we drank their beers, we learned the words to their songs, they bought us presents that they forgot to give us, they showed us so much generosity and good spirit that we were amazed, and alittle affected too. we also tought them some norwegian.-slikk mine baller!

we´ve met them a couple of years ago when we played the low-brow "rock against happy-food"festival in bryne,norway.
thanks to master of grillé and "simply red" look-a-like omund, god bless his farming heart.
little did we know, what we would experience together in the years to come.
all the glamour, the rollercoasters, the stalker, the violence of the bouncers in southend, the anything-goes disco of dundee
and the feasting on the stickiest tables in europe, with some of the worst food england has to offer(that really says alot).

and i must also mention the awesome gigs they played every night, that we got to see from the side of the stage, v.i.p anyone?

we learned the songs, the dancesteps and the attitude.

you guys, we owe all these times to you!

so....smooshy smooshy our hearts out!

also thanks to their wonderful mötley crüe: jimmy(you´ll learn the riff some day),alex( :) you are the man of men ),ed( man! those new pants was nice),martin(don´t burn up kristian, bitch!) and ben(-that xs-tshirt looks good on you sir!(if its for sale he can sell it))

ps.hope to see all of you guys soon, in the meantime...remember the days.

washing machine

There are alot of things you experience for the first time when you´re on tour.
The most obvious that comes to mind are of course the new food, personal people and the locally brewed beers.
But, there are also new experiences facing you when practical issues occur.
Like, when you´re halfway through the tour and you´re dragging along a suitcase full of dirty clothes from city to city,
stinking up your act and keeping you on the i-can-use-this-tshirt-one-more-day path.
Very, hobo on the highway,get your motor bumming.
You need to see lady-laundrette, man!

There´s something esthetically broad-shouldered and nostalgically timeless to a public laundry.
The smell of fabric softener, the dirty vinyl floors(hey! don´t drop your wet clothes when you are moving them over to the dryer)
not to mention the queen of the cleandom, the loveable yet inaccessible lady with the crown of even change.
She has washed it all, seen it all, touched it all and gotten it all spotless and clean.
Her hands are smooth as an alley-cat and her nose is forever corrupted by the smell of the washing powder.
If you ask her she probably have stories about
dirty alligator hats, red soccer-socks mixed with grandpas white mafia-suit, ball-dresses with dazzle and
the thousands nasty sexy jeans that had to be cleaned in no-time.

Now, picture yourself in there:
Stacks of empty baskets waiting to be filled, the wooden benches waiting to be sat on, the hypnotic humming sounds of tumbling clothes wrestling
the empty blabber of mundane daytime radio, with the ticking of the clock emphasizing the waiting, on top of it all.
And then there´s the star of the show, the germ infected gossip-magazines.
Laying voyeurishly in sloppy piles next to the line of the shiny no-bullshit steel-momentums that are industrial washing-machines, they
make everyone into a total gossip-whore in no time!
Hey gang!, its time we got updated on the royale.