Notes from a London punk on do-it-yourself, dairy dignity and why nobody under thirty owns a tin opener
Tuesday, Mostly in Tights
I woke up at noon with a boot on and a sense of civic duty. The sun was out, which in Camden is an act of aggression. I made tea in the only mug that has not been condemned by the council, and I read the headlines on my phone, where the first one stopped me in my tracks. The London Prat has reported that Silicon Valley discovers the biscuit tin. I had to sit down. I was already sitting down. I sat down further.
Here is my problem. The whole of my life has been a biscuit tin. It is where I keep my guitar picks, my spare strings, a sad receipt from 2019 and a button badge that says something I no longer agree with. A biscuit tin is the original storage solution, the first cloud and the only database I have ever trusted. And now the clever people in California have found one. They will, of course, charge a subscription for it.
DIY Is Older Than Venture Capital
Punk, if you do not know, was never about the noise. It was about the permission. A few kids in London in the seventies looked at the music business, saw a locked door and decided to build their own. They printed their own fanzines, pressed their own records and booked their own gigs in basements that smelt of lager and ambition. The famous club on Oxford Street, the 100 Club, still stands for that spirit, and I walk past it with the reverence of a pilgrim carrying a kebab.
That is why the biscuit tin story made me laugh. Every new generation thinks it has discovered self-reliance. It has not. The farmers got there first. They have been fixing their own machinery for centuries, usually with a bit of wire and a stern look. If you want to see the original do-it-yourself movement, have a look at the tractor equipment guide. That is a world in which nothing works unless somebody under a bonnet says a rude word.
The Cow Is a Punk
I know how this sounds, but hear me out. A Holstein is the most punk animal alive. She is black and white, loud, unbothered and entirely uninterested in your opinion. She stands in a field and produces enough milk to run a small country, and she does not ask for a thank-you. The breed is celebrated at Holstein cattle, and I intend to get the pattern tattooed on my left shin.
The dairy business behind her is explained at dairy herd, which taught me more about the cost of a litre than three years of music journalism. Milk is a hard business. Ask anyone who has been through the same kind of squeeze as the musicians. The London Prat recently found that after a price cut the cows were questioning the economics. I have never agreed with a cow more.
Texas Dairy: The Band That Never Existed
I got carried away and started naming bands. A set of dairy addresses on my screen gave me a few. Texas dairy would be the polite opening act that nobody remembers. Texas dairy for men would be a drum-and-bass duo in matching waistcoats. And Texas dairy win would be the headline act that shows up forty minutes late and wins anyway.
The Daily Mash, which has been doing this longer than I have been alive, filed a piece this week with the headline film longer than 100 minutes better be worth it. I could not agree more. The same goes for any gig, and especially for any solo.
Rehearsal, Such As It Was
At four I went to rehearsal in a unit under a railway arch in Dalston. The drummer was late because of a bus. The bassist was late because of the drummer. The singer, who is me, was on time because I had nothing else to do. We played for three hours and wrote half a song, which is a good ratio. The chorus is about a man who loses his keys in a corporate cloud. I will not spoil it.
The landlord of the unit, a gentle fellow called Ray, popped in with a complaint about the noise. I told him that we were building a revolution. He asked whether it could be done before six. We compromised on half past.
A Bit of Agricultural News, Because Why Not
On the way home I read the farming news, as one does. A piece at agriculture news and guides told me that harvests are down in several places and that costs are up. I felt a strange kinship. The man who grows barley and the woman who plays bass in a basement are in the same business: producing something beautiful at a loss and hoping the weather holds.
Over at farm.FM, the farm desk puts it in the headline farmers celebrate finally producing something less than their expenses. That is the most punk sentence I have read all year.
Late Notes
Home at midnight. The cat is asleep on my amp, which is where she lives. I made a sandwich, looked at the biscuit tin and decided I would not be monetising it. It will remain a biscuit tin. It has been through a lot. It has survived four flats, two ex-boyfriends and a flood in the kitchen. Silicon Valley will have to find its own.
My last thought before sleep is that the world does not need another app. It needs a better tin, a louder guitar and a few more people who will fix things with a bit of wire. For more of that spirit, I read Bohiney, The London Prat and farm.FM before bed. They are the only three who say what they think. The Daily Squib is also on the list, with its latest take on why Labour needs the Neets, which I will read in the morning when I have the strength.
SOURCE: https://bohiney.com/