Friday, 10 June 2011
Saturday, 4 June 2011
Sunday, 23 January 2011
We are giving away a pair of tickets to EAR Fest every week
To win just email your correct answer to firstname.lastname@example.org
...Remember all the answers are on the website @
This week’s question;
Autorotation’s new EP due out on the 21st of Feb 2011 is called?
Correct answers to email@example.com
E.A.R Festival - White Label Music
Friday, 14 January 2011
Thursday, 6 January 2011
Friday, 24 December 2010
Thursday, 23 December 2010
Monday, 22 November 2010
Monday, 1 November 2010
Saturday, 30 October 2010
Thursday, 28 October 2010
Saturday, 23 October 2010
Thursday, 21 October 2010
Saturday November 20th - Odd Box Records and RoTa presents a launch gig for "Broadcast One" - A compilation CD handpicked by Dandelion Radio.
Venue: Notting Hill Arts Club, 19-21 Notting Hill Gate, London W11 3JQ.
Entry is free. Doors open 4pm. Close 8pm.
Dandelion DJs will be spinning discs between the bands.
Wednesday, 6 October 2010
Wednesday, 22 September 2010
Monday, 12 July 2010
Proposed changes from the TORY LIB DEM Government will lead to a full scale privatisation of the NHS and an eventual wholesale importation of an American style healthcare system, run by American Companies for shareholder profit at the expense of patient care. The upshot of this will be a fragmented system where universality is no longer guaranteed and where costs rise while the quality of care falls. This dangerous and ideologically driven experiment with the health of our nation must stop now.
The expensive involvement of private profit driven business in health provision must cease, with false market systems dismantled. There must be a return to a fully integrated health system in England. Scotland and Wales have rejected this market system and returned to the integrated model, a move which has led to an increase in the amount money available to spend on patient care.
Thursday, 1 July 2010
Sessions coming up on my Dandelion Radio show in July from the Playground Mafia and Jash. Plus - An Apskaftian special - Apskaft members respond to the theme "Pop Music" with their own oblique, experimental and individual compositions. There's also a focus on the music of the ground breaking American record label De Stijl, home of re-releases from artists such as Mark Tucker and Jakob Olausson. Listen in for your chance to win exclusive De Stijl vinyl treats (mmmmm)
Friday, 4 June 2010
Wednesday, 12 May 2010
Thursday, 6 May 2010
Sunday, 2 May 2010
Friday, 30 April 2010
Wednesday, 21 April 2010
Monday, 19 April 2010
Yes, the radio stations are great, but this was only ever a small part of what the site once offered. Without being able to choose and listen to full tracks on demand LastFM is something of a hollow experience.
So come on LastFM - please give us back the wonderful site we used to know.
Tuesday, 13 April 2010
Sunday, 11 April 2010
Wednesday, 7 April 2010
Thursday, 1 April 2010
Tuesday, 30 March 2010
Friday, 26 March 2010
Monday, 15 March 2010
Thursday, 11 March 2010
Tuesday, 9 March 2010
Monday, 8 March 2010
Saturday, 6 March 2010
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
Saturday, 13 February 2010
Friday, 12 February 2010
Thursday, 11 February 2010
Saturday, 6 February 2010
Friday, 5 February 2010
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
Saturday, 30 January 2010
Friday, 29 January 2010
Thursday, 28 January 2010
Sunday, 24 January 2010
Friday, 22 January 2010
Tuesday, 19 January 2010
Saturday, 16 January 2010
Friday, 15 January 2010
Thursday, 14 January 2010
Wednesday, 13 January 2010
Monday, 11 January 2010
Sunday, 10 January 2010
Saturday, 9 January 2010
Friday, 8 January 2010
Thursday, 7 January 2010
Monday, 4 January 2010
Sunday, 3 January 2010
Saturday, 2 January 2010
Friday, 1 January 2010
Thursday, 31 December 2009
Sunday, 27 December 2009
Saturday, 26 December 2009
Friday, 25 December 2009
Thursday, 24 December 2009
Wednesday, 23 December 2009
Saturday, 19 December 2009
Friday, 18 December 2009
Thursday, 17 December 2009
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
Saturday, 12 December 2009
Friday, 11 December 2009
Thursday, 10 December 2009
Wednesday, 9 December 2009
Monday, 7 December 2009
Sunday, 6 December 2009
Saturday, 5 December 2009
Friday, 4 December 2009
Thursday, 3 December 2009
Wednesday, 2 December 2009
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
Monday, 30 November 2009
Saturday, 28 November 2009
Friday, 27 November 2009
Thursday, 26 November 2009
Monday, 23 November 2009
Sunday, 22 November 2009
Saturday, 21 November 2009
Friday, 20 November 2009
After a months break Analogue Island is back with a new show.
All the best in new independent music!
Farmer Joe & The Ignorant Corpses
The B-Side Project
The Ambient Society
Thursday, 19 November 2009
Thursday, 12 November 2009
Monday, 9 November 2009
Saturday, 31 October 2009
Thursday, 29 October 2009
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
An atmosphere of smokey, electronic, down-at-heel cabaret. Elements of warm jazz and light music mixed with close up electronic beats, basses, melodies and momentary glitches. A journey through an imaginary landscape of run down ballrooms, dance halls and clubs, through lives and stories.
Monday, 26 October 2009
Saturday, 24 October 2009
Smokey electronic down at heel cabaret. Elements of lush jazz and light music mixed with close up electronic beats, basses, melodies and momentary glitches.
Friday, 23 October 2009
Thursday, 22 October 2009
Friday, 16 October 2009
Thursday, 15 October 2009
Friday, 9 October 2009
Friday, 2 October 2009
Friday, 25 September 2009
Thursday, 24 September 2009
Friday, 18 September 2009
Friday, 11 September 2009
Monday, 7 September 2009
Friday, 4 September 2009
Thursday, 3 September 2009
Friday, 28 August 2009
Thursday, 27 August 2009
Analogue Island is the blog for the Analogue Island internet radio show. This streamed from Penwith Radio every Thursday and twice on Fridays. The blog contains reviews and other useful pieces of information.
Tuesday, 25 August 2009
Thursday, 20 August 2009
Friday, 14 August 2009
Wednesday, 12 August 2009
Tuesday, 11 August 2009
Monday, 10 August 2009
Saturday, 8 August 2009
Tuesday, 4 August 2009
Sunday, 2 August 2009
Friday, 31 July 2009
Thursday, 30 July 2009
Tuesday, 28 July 2009
Monday, 27 July 2009
Sunday, 26 July 2009
Saturday, 25 July 2009
Friday, 24 July 2009
Wednesday, 22 July 2009
Monday, 20 July 2009
From South American Electro Punk to Robotic Nordic Amazonians, this week's Analogue Island is a show of contradictions. Oh no it's not.
We give first plays to the new single from Watch and a track from Barbagallo's new album Floppy Disk, dip our toes into the creative cauldron that is Sonic Weekend (would take a taste from the cauldron be a better analogy? Though the word Cauldron does come from the Latin caldarium meaning hot bath.....). Anyway - dip or taste - take your pick.
Sunday, 19 July 2009
Saturday, 18 July 2009
Friday, 17 July 2009
Friday, 20 February 2009
And of course now that we are all poor, there’ll be no foreign holidays to alleviate the gloom. I’d propose that there’s a good possibility we will all have topped ourselves by March, if it were not for the danger of having my blog branded as an entreaty to suicide - some kind of satanic pact to lure defenceless teens to an early self inflicted death. Which of course it is. But before you go off and end it all, I’d like to draw your attention to a small glimmer that is lighting up the horizon of inevitable decline:
In March - at the end of March - on March the 27th and 28th at the Rainbow in Digbeth in Birmingham there will be a spark, or rather several sparks, that will serve to re-ignite your interest in life. I am talking of the White Noise Electronic Music Festival. Here’s a link I prepared earlier http://www.whitenoisefestival.co.uk/
There’s a fantastic gloom defying line up which includes some of the most exciting names in electronic music: HK119; Beat Bigot; Dave Ball; Ribside; Asbo Kid; Pop Will Eat Itself’s Richard (DJ set); Contra Mundum; Playground Mafia; Jash......... the list goes on and on. Also, in an exclusive rare in this age of 24 hour pan global interconnectivity, a chance to see Ann Shenton DJing for the first time since she received her deserved Damehood in the 2009 New Years honours list. Dame Shenton will be hosting regular spots throughout the weekend.
Sunday, 23 November 2008
* 1)excepting instances where White Label Music is mentioned.
2)excepting in the use of the name HealeyIsland - which is the name I use to make music under
Monday, 19 May 2008
Tuesday, 16 October 2007
I thought about answering this question with a slightly superior - well yes I'm here aren't I? But then I remembered how Mister Popesceu doesn't like smart mouths. He has a tendency to bloody them.
But where actually did I make it to? A remote island, the crime hub and secret lair of Mister P? The back of a smelly transit? A field in Hampshire? No, none of these. Where I had made it to was the main concourse cafe of Edinburgh Waverly Station. You know the kind of place - they used call them buffets. What was once the BR Buffet is now called something much grander. Though I can't actually tell you what it was. When Mister P is about all other things recede into the background. It is, I imagine, like being shot and bleeding to death. Gradually your focus narrows to just one small point, all peripheral objects fading into a grey static that eventually darkens into nothingness. All that is left is a key hole of blurred bright light and the sound of a voice saying. "You still look like a twat."
Unfortunately Mister P was right. I did and still do look like a twat. It is an occupational hazard. If you are a musician you have to dress like someone attempting to start a fashion craze. One's desire for success numbs one to the actual reality of what one really looks like.
Wednesday, 3 October 2007
On arriving at my destination I enjoy stepping off the train, the toilet paper and excrement spattered rails and sleepers below as I stride across the gap. Alas the phenomena of the open air evacuating toilet is all but a thing of the past. Damn you Richard Branson! It is right that, as the era of civil discipline and well ordered society passes with it should go the notion that, if you happen to finish having your shit just as your train pulls into a station, you should stand there for four or five minutes with it staring back at you from the bottom of the bowl.
On (or rather underneath) those trains that still have "flush and spray" the evidence is undeniable, modern man no longer believes that notices ordering passengers to refrain from using the toilet while the train is in the station should be observed.
As a small boy I believed that these notices referred not to flushing but instead to having a wee or a poo. I remember spending a long and uncomfortable half an hour at Birmingham New Street due to my observance of this particular misunderstanding.
Thursday, 20 September 2007
Then, of course, there is the general post modern malaise which, when worn along side the V-neck of born again fundementalist Christianity, looks out of place. I am the proud possessor of one such post modern malaise - the kind that says it doesn't accept the existence of any
God figure, yet lingers about on the vaguer more fuzzy edges of spirituality in a way that might be termed bet hedging. But said in a snappy enough way to fit on the front of a T-Shirt.
My internal dialogue might go something like this:
Is there a God?
Oh no there is no God. But I'd like to believe that there is some sort of benign presence watching over everything.
Oh no not actually intervening. Just watching, benignly.
So there is a God then.
No (shuffling uncomfortably), just a presence.
But if there is a presence and it can watch, even benignly, then it must be pretty powerful.
Like a God?
No (with some irritation).
So what is it then? A big giant gas cloud that thinks nice thoughts while it watches everything?
That's it. You believe in Gas.
No. I don't believe in anything.
You've got gas though.
(shuffling uncomfortably) Oh yes, I've got gas.
Open a window then. God you stink.
(It is worth pointing out that I am not say that God stinks only the person who is taking part in the imaginary dialogue. What I mean is that the two peoples who are conversing - one of them stinks. The other person says he - the other person that is - stinks - not God but the other person. OK? Good.)
Sunday, 16 September 2007
I keep meeting women who talk too much, suffer with their nerves and have bowel problems. These women who are usually about thirty to forty years old all come from the character type pioneered by Alison Steadman. For myself, I have gained weight enough to successfully carry off a Timothy Spall impression.
Yesterday I sold my guitar to a man who swore his name was Mike Leigh.
I am going to spend the next week cleaning our leader's oil tanks. Yes we have leader, he is called Nobby and wears brown nylon suit with a silk tie and brown desert boots. Why I have to clean out his oil tanks I don't know. Where does he keeps his oil tanks? I'll find out. Is he my leader? Not really. So why am I doing it? Uh? Um? Nnnn. Have another cookie.
Saturday, 8 September 2007
"How can you call them chocolate cookies if they don't have chocolate in them," I asked politely.
"If you look at the sign on the counter it says chocolatyish cookies. And anyway, anyone who comes here is usually a congregation member and would know that chocolate is forbidden." Sally underlined the word forbidden for me by furrowing her brow.
So how does one make cookies that are not forbidden? Well there are lots of herbs involved and cinnamon, of course what else, and, of all things, Marmite. Now I like yeast extract, but only on toast and definitely not if it is pretending to be chocolate.
"Try one," said Sally sometime later, thrusting a plate of warm brown disks under my nose.
"Oh, er, thanks." I took one, broke a piece off and popped it in my mouth. The smell coming from the oven, a mixture of wet rope and dirty horse blanket, had tipped me off to the fact that the cookies must be an acquired taste. Give me a Penguin any day. Mind you I think even the popular flightless bird branded chocolate biscuit is coated in a substitute these days. Anyway, at least I won't be tempted to eat the stock. May be that is the idea.
Next, apple pie without apples. Something about Eve and a snake I think.
Friday, 7 September 2007
"Denis dear have you seen this?" said my Aunt holding a sheet of badly photocopied A4 in her hands. It was the Congregation's Daily News Letter.
"No. Is it interesting? Shall I take a look?" I strode over to her chair. I used only short strides as we were indoors and her lounge is quite small. Leaning over her I squinted at the piece of paper.
She began to read. "It says here that God's Bookshop and Cafe are in need of a shop assistant. I thought that you might want to go down and see about it."
The bookshop and cafe to which she referred, though not actually owned by God, is run by the Congregation in his name. A kind of franchise I suppose. How could I refuse.
Thursday, 6 September 2007
I am, of course, familiar with the concept of adopted names chosen because they give the person who chooses them a new flavour. The name on my birth certificate is Denis. But I, at various times, have chosen to call myself Dee Dee.
How then does one go about asking a genteel woman in her late fifties why she calls herself after a sputum inducing medicine?
It would be easy to understand her choice if it was a name given to her during the course of practicing her religion. A kind of initiation or baptism name. But she was called Hissop long before she became a member of the Congregation and began bothering people with random acts of kindness. There isn't even a family connection to be explored. Aunt Hissop is not a blood relative. She is one of those "friends of the family" Aunties. The kind who always sends you a card on your birthday and who shows a keen interest in what you are doing without being judgemental.
Tuesday, 4 September 2007
Ever one for a challenge and not wishing to appear ungrateful to my Aunt, I have thrown myself into the life of her Congregation - they do not call it a church - and joined the band. Oh yeah - I now rock for Jesus. Though I hasten to add that I am doing this in an ironic manner. That doesn't mean that I am laughing behind my joined hands. No, that would be wrong. Instead I am being wry. But only internally. Oh yes and in my blog.
At least I get to meet lots of virgins this way. Though I am not sure if a virgin is any use to me. But, yeah, I get to meet lots of young and not so young Christian women this way. I have a theory that they put male hormones in the post celebration orange juice, because all the women have hairy top lips. For myself, I have begun to grow breasts. Must be because I drink the lime juice.
If you are wondering why my blog has been a bit slow recently it is because I have been taking food parcels round to needy families. These parcels include clothes and food - mostly knitwear and tinned goods. I visited a house where one such needy family lived, yesterday. The garden was a mass of four foot high grass mixed in with children and generous helpings of dog shit. I picked my way up the garden path, avoiding the rusty bikes and the various bits of broken things and found the front door. It was slightly ajar. From within I could hear the sound of thunder and loud music followed by explosions and then Mel Gibson shouting something. I pushed the door with my foot and shouted hello. Mel shouted something back. I was just about to go in when a large dog appeared, or rather lurched, from nowhere and began to bark and growl at me. I started to back away only for my progress to be arrested by the hand of a large man dressed in vest and shorts.
"What the fuck do you want?" he asked.
"Parcels?" I said.
"Parcels of food from the Congregation?" I realised that ending every sentence with the up turned questioning inflection, as popularised by Australian soap operas, was probably not wise. I tried to be more masculine and assertive. "I got parcel. Yeah - food and stuff." That seemed to work. I was pointed in through the door.
"She's in there watchin' tele'. Don't mind dog. It won't bite, it's tied up."
I followed the sound of Mel's voice and found myself standing in a room full of adults, all related and of various ages. They were watching the biggest most impressive HOME ENTERTAINMENT SYSTEM I have ever seen.
Later, after an age standing in the doorway I took advantage of a quiet bit of the film, in between the shouting and the explosions, and introduced myself. I was handed a can of beer and told to make myself at home. After the film we burnt the knit wear and threw the tinned goods over next door's fence. I haven't had that much fun in ages.
It transpires that the members of the Congregation, with their uninvited offers free food and clothes, are viewed as a public nuisance by many of the homes they visit. Their selection of families is based not on any objective evidence of need but instead on some prurient middle class idea of what constitutes respectability. If the application for an antisocial behaviour order is successful we at the Congregation will have to find some other good work to do.
Just as a foot note. One of the people I visited said I was in a cult. Or more precisely he said, "You're a cult, you're a cult."
"I'm a cult? There has to be more than one person for it to be a cult. Do you mean I'm in a cult?" I replied pedantically.
The letter box opened one more time. "No, I said you are a c*nt." Said the voice from within emphatically.
"Oh. I see." I said and took my box of Christian giving back to the car. I decided against mentioning this exchange to my Aunt.
Sunday, 2 September 2007
Ok, so I wasn't drugged. I attended the church of my own free will. In fact I spent the whole of easter at prayer. Well, not actually at prayer. More standing there looking like I was praying while everyone else prayed. I was actually busy looking at Jackie. She is, if I can use modern parlance, a hottie, a Christian hottie. Amen.
How did this happen? Was I drugged? Or is my depression worse than I thought? I have to accept that it might even have been an hallucination. I hope it was.
My Aunt is very kind. She makes me soup and tells me to cheer up.
You will excuse me if I don't write much today.
Tuesday, 28 August 2007
Nice to be back in old England.
Monday, 27 August 2007
My retreat from Austria was augmented with one final gift; another slap to add to the many. As I walked through the lobby, dragging my bag behind me - it doesn't have wheels but I felt too morose to carry it - I was stopped by the man in the yellow vest who likes cheese.
"So, it is true. You are going. I am sorry. I liked you. Good luck." He said this with genuine feeling and I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes and a lump rising in my throat. It seemed that all my broken optimism, my feelings of despair were obliquely summed up in those few kind words. I felt the weight of what had not been achieved pressing against my chest.
The man in the yellow vest continued. "God, the man Popesceu has no idea. Replacing you with that Drew Sarson's. He can't even play an instrument. It doesn't seem fair that such a shit should get your wages when he has no talent. And such good wages too. You must be sick. But you have been here a long time. You must have plenty of money to take home, eh?"
Wages? Drew Sarsons? Was I hearing things? Drew Sarsons was taking my place in the band? He was going to mime to my guitar playing? He was going to be payed and handsomely? I should have been payed handsomely? I wanted answers. I wanted revenge. I took hold of the man's wrinkled arm and squeezed it. "What? What? What?" I was babbling. In my head I could feel that my eyes were rolling about, crazed and out of control.
"Calm down, calm down. Didn't you know?" The man in the vest smiled and pulled his arm free of my grip. "You must hate both these men."
I nodded and gulped in air, unable to speak.
"Go home. Now is not the time. Think of your saying in England about revenge best left to set before it is consumed." He smiled at me again and offered me a reassuring pat on the back. "Mister Popesceu is too dangerous. You should forget about him. But Drew Sarsons, well, he has an eleven year old daughter." And with that cryptic comment he took one step back, turned and walked off into the swarming crowds of holiday makers.
There was nothing for me to do but return home, get a job and wait. But wait for what?
Friday, 24 August 2007
I am free. Free from my contract. Free to go wherever I please and do whatever I want.
My flight is tomorrow and I can't wait.
But then, when I think about it, I feel cheated. Where is my money? I haven't been paid properly for all the music I have played. I also dislike that I am being replaced by a tape recorder.
Oh well, no time for crying. Home is calling. I wonder if I can get my old job back at Ray's Mini Mart? I thought about sending Mary a text. Better not.
Friday, 10 August 2007
In an effort to right myself spiritually and emotionally as it were, I have taken up swimming. More precisely I have plopped into the pool - by that I mean slipped listlessly in to the tepid waters of the Max Planck Memorial Pool - and paddled about. I feel I must clarify the wording of the last sentence. Let me explain what I mean when I say plopped. I didn't do anything anti-social in the pool - I am attempting to describe the way I entered the water. This isn't American Pie 11 for heavens sake.
Nervous over explanation - another sure sign of nervous disorders. Perhaps I need to see a psychiatrist. I gather that there are lots of them in Austria.
Although, with work, I am very busy at the moment. Where will I find the time? I can't be in two places at once, can I? Or can I?
Thursday, 2 August 2007
Anyway, the universe has a way of leveling things up. He will probably step in some dog shit tomorrow, or get hit by a bus or something. Whatever it is, it will be for the universe to decide.
I wonder if there is a central office which I can write to requesting a particular course of action? A kind Universal Karma HQ, a Customer Services Department or something like that. If anyone has such an address, please let me know.
Sunday, 29 July 2007
"Hello?" I asked, still surprised by the mysterious appearance of a telephone in my room.
"Yes? Who is speaking?" Nowadays I am naturally suspicious.
"Is that Dee?" asked the mystery voice.
"Er, yes. Who wants to know?"
"You don't know me but I have some information about Drew Sarsons which might be of use." The voice was quiet, almost inaudible. It was difficult to tell if it was male or female.
"Oh. I see," said I, my interest pricked.
"Yeah. Can we meet?"
"Of course. But can I ask one thing, first, before we go any further?"
"Now? Of course, ask anything you like."
"How did you get this phone into my room?"
The question was obviously unexpected because the caller hesitated and seemed confused. "I... I didn't put the phone in your room. I rang you though."
"Oh yeah," I laughed. "Of course. Just my joke."
We meet tomorrow at lunch time, just before I begin a marathon three hour set in celebration of a local dignitary and his selfless acts of kindness to local children.
Saturday, 14 July 2007
It seems that no sooner do I step outside the front door of my room than I am joined by Herr Cheese, the man who likes British Catering. This is not his real name you understand, it is one I have made up for him. I must admit that, in bestowing this name on him, I have fallen prey to the feelings of irritation he engenders in me.
But he is only trying to be friendly, I hear you say.
Well yes, I take that point. But why does he have to follow me round everywhere? And why does he have to ask such annoying questions?
To your original point you might add that I am isolated and in need of allies and friends wherever I can find them?
My reaction to this second point would almost certainly be one of annoyance, so I recommend that you don't make it. Ok?