Jon and Libby

"...very expensive to those who can't." The art of learning, according to the highly influential book Management of Training Programs (published in 1960 and still referenced today), consists of four basic stages: unconscious incompetence ("Yeah, I'm musical - I've got loads of CDs. How difficult can playing the piano be?"), conscious incompetence ("It turns out that playing the piano is really hard!"), conscious competence ("Right, I can play Chopsticks , but I have to concentrate..."), and unconscious competence ("Yeah, I can play Chopsticks as fast as you like. Watch this!") Anyway, it as come to my attention (mainly listening to my early stuff on SoundCloud) that I could do with learning to mix properly, thereby progressing from what is clearly the lowest form of unconscious incompetence. To this end, a couple of months ago, I set about the task by abandoning everything I thought I knew and starting again from first pri...

...but this town never drags me down.  Yes, last Thursday the relentless monthly carousel of EMOM nights landed once again on BLEEP in Manchester, accompanied by the kind of rain that seems at first to be far too light to be of any consequence but is actually deeply penetrating, and quickly soaks you to the bone. But dodging puddles on Newton Street, I didn't care. The performance space below the Peer Hat is warm and welcoming.  My train was late into God's own city, and by the time I arrived and grabbed a pint, the space was already filling with familiar faces ...and an enigmatic lady in sunglasses, clad in black, and sitting still and alone, staring at the stage.  The night wasn't as well-attended as usual, but I can safely say that before my 9pm home time called for a 6:30am Friday start, we would all be in for many diverse treats.  First up was Neural Maker, a very interesting and creative DJ. Now, normally, I can take or leave DJs, but this guy is something else...

An unexpectedly cold night, but snuggled up at home with a glass of slutty Merlot to keep me company and the promise of a live stream from the Sonicstate Bath EMOM #4, I was planning on staying put. The format for the evening was pre-recorded interviews with each act chatting about their influences and sound, followed by their live performance. This is an excellent technique that I hope that other livestreamed EMOM organisers follow it because it allows the viewer to understand where the performers are coming from before they play. However, the first act needed no such introduction as it was the one and only Martin Christie. The man we really should call the Creator, Originator, or Founder. Without Martin, it's likely that EMOM would still refer to a form of tortuous interval training. He began the movement as a reaction to having to perform at "normal" open mic nights, surrounded by dreary acoustic guitars and depressing sets of moribund noodling. His brand of poésie con...

Lying in a big hotel bed in Derby at 7:45am on Friday 16th February 2024, if someone had told me a year ago that last night I'd have been playing live electronic music, my electronic music, very loudly to a roomful of people who clapped and cheered at the end, I'd have told them they were crazy. That I'd even have anything I'd be less than terrified to let people hear seems crazy. And yet, here we are: Libby and all the gear is packed neatly in the rucksack ready to go, I'm promising myself I'll only have one sausage at the Premier Inn breakfast I'm about to devour downstairs. EMOM Gig #3 is done and dusted.  Derby is a lovely place if you like being stuck in traffic. I last drove here two decades ago, and even then it was frustrating. The Romans had no such issues. Since establishing the garrison town of Derventio, it has enjoyed a long and storied history, and has some fine architecture to show for it. The cathedral, lit at night, is a magnificent testamen...

They say the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, and I really need to get my daily count up. Insulating myself against the good advice of staying home, I instead braved the storm that was battering the UK, and strode out once more up the hill to the train station, bound for God's own city and BLEEP #14. On the way, I pondered: is it really a whole month since we played BLEEP #13? It feels like a fortnight at most, and yet the calendar claims otherwise. To misquote Douglas Adams: time is an illusion, January doubly so. My usual chums had other plans this month, so I made my way to The Peer Hat alone. Not that Bleep ever means alone. Since I first set foot through the door last April, I've never felt like I was on my own down there. The atmosphere, fuelled by familiar faces, is always warm, welcoming and up for pretty much anything.  A pint of Squawk in hand (£4, dry, hoppy, and a hell of a hangover if you drink one too many), I descended the stairs. The Manc...

My tummy went all funny when I saw the poster the Collective had made for us. I don't know about Libby, but I've been super excited ever since hearing that we'd been picked to play Bleep #13. Excited, as in waking up in the night and grinning like a cartoon. Excited, as in washing my hands at work and grinning at my stupid reflection in the mirror. Excited, as in sitting in traffic, and suddenly shouting at Radio 4, "Oh my GOD! We're playing BLEEP!" Bleep was the first EMOM-style night I attended when, back in April, I stood alone in the audience downstairs at Manchester's famous Peer Hat, and my inner idiot said, "I bet you could do that...". Mental cogs began to grind away in the background, and "I bet..." morphed quickly into "I demand..." I say Bleep is "EMOM-style", because there's a subtle distinction between what the Manchester Electronic Collective do and the nights mounted by most other organisers. At a...

And so to Hanley, a town described by Wikipedia as having a name derived from either "haer lea", meaning high meadow, or "heah lea" meaning rock meadow. Given that green spaces are sparse and rocks of " monkey dust " are plentiful, it seems rude to accept the former over the latter. Before I left for the Potteries, I weighed the gig bag. 19lbs. No wonder my hips and back hurt the day after I lug it about. If anyone mugs me, they'll never be able to run off with Libby.  Marjorie, my ever-faithful satnav, had expertly guided me through the maze of bypasses and roundabouts despite the traffic to The Electric Tentacle at The Captain's Bar. Trudging from John Street car park (closing time 23:30), I glanced at the time. 6:06pm. A bit early, but for some reason I hadn't felt like eating my tea before I left. The Captain's Bar is about 200 yards away from Victoria Hall, where back in 1983 I saw Gary Numan play. It was my first ever gig and it was...