John Walker's Electronic House

And if the loofah reference means nothing to you, read this. (All text, but thanks to Bill O’Reilly’s astonishingly foul language, possibly NSFW). (I’ve previously written about it here).

I still haven’t written about Cloud Cult’s new album, Feel Good Ghosts. For this there is no excuse.

Graham reminded me today by linking me to this excellent Wall Street Journal article about the band, and the live painting during their performances.

Feel Good Ghosts has been looped on my mp3 players, both portable and on the computer, for a ludicrous amount of time. It’s one of very, very few albums I can listen to multiple times without growing tired, and in this case, a ludicrous number of times. Last year’s Meaning of 8 was similarly worn through, and Feel Good Ghosts shows little sign of losing my interest.

A lot of the songs on recent albums are dealing with the death of lead singer and song writer Craig Minowa’s two-year-old son. (His mother was Connie Minowa, one of the band’s resident artists as well as Craig Minowa’s wife). But rather than a cloying query of whether they’ll met up in heaven or whatnot, these are much more involved explorations of the subject, often so obsfucated that you’d never make the connection without the prior knowledge. Instead the swelling, exploratory tunes tend to focus more on celebrating life, and mourning the notion that one could stop celebrating life.

They are defiantly ecologically thoughtful, ensuring their tours are carbon neutral, and all their CDs are entirely recyclable. The WSJ comments,

“The group had to put up about $15,000 to have its most recent CD pressed and packaged, which cost the band 93 cents per CD. That’s more than double the typical rate because Cloud Cult insists on using non-toxic inks and recycled packaging instead of standard plastic jewel cases.”

Most importantly, they are entirely independent, and self-funded. They’ve had offers from record companies, but have turned them all down in favour of maintaining their principles. That behaviour alone deserves support, let-alone when they’re one of the most stunning bands currently producing music. Their music can be bought here.

There’s a couple of new videos to accompany the new album. They’re here:

When Water Comes to Life:

Everybody Here is a Cloud:

And here’s a ludicrously cute video of two kids singing along to Meaning of 8’s Pretty Voice.

My favourite song on the album, Story of the Grandson of Jesus, isn’t available anywhere, so you’ll have to buy the album.

Thunderstorms always make me want to write. Then I think I have to put in as much effort as I did that other time and don’t gather the energy. However, I think that time was a special property of having been woken up at 4am, along with all of Bath.

Tonight’s was pretty spectacular. Pretty, and spectacular. I’ve been so spoilt by Bath, and each time I think, “I’ve never seen lightning this good!” but of course I have. In fact, I don’t think that storm has been beaten since, although this one was pretty good.

It’s easy to mock ancient man for his superstitions (cue a thousand people snorting and making a joke about Jesus), but what on Earth were you supposed to make of a thunderstorm? The sky is filled with these vicious streaks of terrifying purple, and then the entire world furiously roars all around you. I feel like I have a fairly decent understanding of what causes thunder, but it’s still a conscious effort to fight off feelings of it being something more than ionic discharge.

I wish I were capable of more eloquent commentary when watching lightning. Tonight I found myself sounding horribly like Alan Partridge in The Day Today, saying, “Shit! Did you see that?!” But it’s just so overhwhelming when the sky suddenly gets dissected by the madly jagged violet electricity, and I either gasp, or swear in amazement. I feel like I don’t have enough response inside me to adequately reply to the moment.

My overriding thought this evening, however, was how sad I am that I’m the only person I see standing outside, dripping wet, with my face pointed at the sky. I don’t understand why every able person doesn’t immediately walk out their front door to watch it. What better thing are you waiting to see happen? Yeah, you get wet – you’ve been wet before, and your house is just behind you for goodness sakes. I’m really the only one?

1) I feel really sorry for Goths on hot, sunny days, but at the same time admire their dedication to layers and sleeves.

2) I’m really pleased that as an adult, I have no idea what High School Musical might be.

Well what a splendid time.

The day at 826 went very well, with an enormous amount of information given, and a lot of helpful people met. Ideas run apace, and I’m going to go quiet about them in public for a bit as I try to decide the right direction. As for the Pirate Store itself, I have lots of photos and will post about that when I get back.

Saturday was completely mine to do with as I wished. So I wished to do a quick bit of shopping (STILL BUY NOW! EVERYTHING STILL HALF OFF!) and then went to watch the San Francisco Giants play the Cardinals. Again the crazy cheap dollar made this a lot of fun, letting me get a fantastic seat for an amazingly reasonable price. I was sat 11 rows back from 1st base, and surrounded by some great people.

Because baseball fans aren’t barbarians, there’s no division of fans, so Cardinal fans were mixed in with the dominating Giants crowd, and were defiantly loud. In the end they were proved justified in their confidence. Despite going 5-0 up in the bottom of the 6th, the Giants managed to pee the game away through some abysmal pitching, This was doubly a shame, as opening pitcher Cain not only was hitless into the 7th, but also scored his career third home run. It was a doubly-fun underdog game with brand new player, John Bowker, getting a hit in his first Major League at bat, and then scoring a homer the next time he was up. How wonderful to get a standing ovation from such a massive crowd on your first day in the big leagues. It all got ugly as the Cards went 7-5 up, and then the Giants amazingly pulled it back to 7-7 in the bottom of the 9th. Some awful pitching let St. Louis go 8-7 up in the 10th, and the Giants couldn’t pull it back leaving two men stranded.

There – literally no one cares about that, but I told you anyway.

Also nice was chatting with the people around me, especially the superbly sarcastic and embittered Giants fan sat next to me, her mood collapsing along with the bullpen.

Then last night I went into full tourist mode and went to good-old Pier 39, said hello to the sea lions, and ate a proper, traditional American meal of burger and fries. Today, my plan is to visit the SF MOMA, but the reality will probably be sitting in coffee shops, fearful of getting to the airport on time.

Arriving into San Francisco’s beautiful sunny afternoon was an excellent shock to the brain. First of all, it should have been the evening, but it was apparently before 2pm. Secondly, I left an England covered in frost, and I think some snow, and then by the afternoon it was a glorious summer. Splendid.

San Francisco is a peculiarity. It doesn’t fit in California at all, and yet would be completely inappropriate up near Seattle, or over on the East coast. It bears the effects of having the sun shine on it so much of the year, but without this having boiled the place’s brains.

The architecture is the most immediately odd thing. Leaving the airport on the train, and winding north toward the city itself, the houses pour down the hillsides, beginning with luxury mansions, and ending in what look like shanty-towns, if only it weren’t for the property prices. The buildings are strikingly unlike typical suburban America, their flat, open roofs looking like they should more likely appear in a Middle Eastern town. But a Middle Eastern town coloured in by a My Little Pony-enthused eight-year-old with a box of pastel crayons.

It’s hard to tell how much San Francisco is caught up in its own legend of being a cultural capital – how much is calculatedly commercial reinvention of previously poor areas, and how much is the result of opium-addled writers planting themselves and being fruitful. But here you feel like any of the considerable numbers of homeless people lining the streets could break into beat poetry at any moment. Starbucks look like dirty stains in streets filled with independent obscurities, and every street announces an exhibition of some nature is waiting for you.

And there are trams.