7:44PM: Hotel Bar, Hyde Park Towers, London, England: In the name of all that is good and holy in Britain, the hotel bar as a buy-one/get-one happy hour, and finally being secure enough in my course of action for the days until I can fly back to New Jersey (I feel a need to distinguish between the new and old Jerseys while in the UK), I feel confident enough in my surroundings and position in life to get suitably drunk. I’ve had two 24 oz. Newcastles and am on my second wonderfully and accordingly misproportioned Grolsch. After this the plan is to find some dinner and then head back to the room for a long night of cursing Eyjafjallajökull without actually pronouncing the word and looking forward to the hopefully more eventful day to come tomorrow.

The bar television has been playing various top 20 video lists since I walked in on this or that music channel. A bunch of hypersexualized cartoonishly made-up Disney-contracted teenage girls surrounded by grown-up dancers and otherwise talentless hacks saved only by their knack with handling modern recording techniques. ProTools. AutoTune. I’ve been doing my best to keep to my headphones. And then I saw an Usher video with one of the Black Eyed Peas guys in it, and every word out of Usher‘s mouth had been run through a processor. I mean, come on. I can see running Fergie through AutoTune, but Usher can actually sing. I’m not a fan of his work, but at least I acknowledge that he has talent. It ain’t broke, in other words. He’s just fine without. Ugh. Wasteful. If I had that kind of talent and some producer douchebag tried to run some pitch correction bullshit on my voice I’d stab him in the eye with the male end of a quarter-inch cable and turn it into a YouTube exclusive. Fuck commercial everything.

It’s also the same videos on each list. I’ve seen the Lady Gaga/Beyonce video four times now and I’m still not the slightest bit attracted to the former (Ms. Knowles, not being shaped like a 10-year-old boy, is considerably more attractive). In some ways, it’s reaffirming to know that even at my ever-advancing age I’m still angry at this kind of shit, as much as I’m able to now acknowledge is has no bearing on me one way or the other. I imagine the day I realize this has stopped offending me will be a sad one indeed. But, perhaps by then I’ll be so knee-deep in John Lee Hooker records that it won’t matter in the first place.

I’m shortly to go round the way to the pasta place and order some spaghetti for takeout. Did I learn my lesson after the “Megadough” pizza last night? Clearly not. Second thing I do when I’m back in NJ is get Italian. I haven’t decided what the first thing is yet, but there are a few strong candidates, who, like the runners for British Prime Minister, have debated for the first time ever on television, much to the excitement of absolutely no one. Long live the apathy.

Universally-bearded Allston, Massachusetts outfit Black Thai have posted their first self-released demo for free download through their website. The demo, available as 320kbps MP3s (a band after my own heart – down with digital compression), holds about a 7” worth of material, just two songs, but nonetheless gives a readable impression of the band’s mission at least as it was in their beginnings, before replacing drummer Kyle Rasmussen with Roadsaw’s Jeremy Hemond, who also happens to play in Cortez with Black Thai founding guitarist Scotty Fuse.

Fuse gives a more riffingly metallic bent here than he does with Cortez, but it’s a change you really have to listen to hear. That is, if the six-stringer found himself having to pull double-duty at a show the two bands were playing together, he wouldn’t have to feel awkward because one band was so out of place sonically with the other. Still, with different heads involved in each band — vocalist/guitarist Jim Healey (We’re all Gonna Die) being a central departing factor, but bassist Cory Cocomazzi also having a style all his own — they’re never going to sound exactly the same. Nonetheless, Black Thai play grooving riff-centered stoner metal exclusively (anyone who gets the Emperor reference feel free to pat themselves on the back) and both “The Ladder” and “Satan’s Toolshed” get down to business with some righteous heaviosity, owing some of their crunch to the Massachusetts scene of the ‘90s – let’s namecheck Only Living Witness for good measure – but keeping things in stoner line by nodding at Kyuss’ “Asteroid” from Welcome to Sky Valley with the opening of “Satan’s Toolshed.”

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This is the last of my Roadburn video (I think), but I figured you’d get a kick out of it. As promised in the headline, it’s the first song of Eyehategod‘s set at the Afterburner show on April 18, preceded by some killer stage banter from vocalist Mike Williams. My favorite part is when he says, “I like The Rolling Stones. I must be a dick or something.” Classic.

2:07PM: Hyde Park Towers, London, England: My mind feels like it’s going a million miles an hour and because it’s neither transit food, concert food nor British pizza, the barbecued chicken fried rice I’m eating tastes like the most delicious thing ever. It is a good thing I’m by myself on this trip, because if anyone saw me eating this as ravenously as I am, I’d soon wind up that way anyhow. Not that it’s so delicious, it’s just delicious to scale. The little bit of bok choy at the top was so good I don’t have the words to explain it. I can’t remember the last time I ate a vegetable.

I called British Airways this morning and told them I’d made it back to London and would like very much please to go home as soon as possible. The first woman I talked to had me all set to go on a flight for Saturday — then my phone got disconnected. One of the few times I’ve actually shouted, “Nooooo!” and meant it. By the time I called back it was a Monday flight, so there you have it. I’m booked on the same exact flight as my original, same times and all, one week later. You can see my suggestion for their new logo above, and to answer your next question, yes, this is the kind of sad yuck-yuck humor that extreme boredom can elicit. I miss my wife, my dog and my memory foam.

A week is a lot of hotel rooms, which is a lot of money I don’t really have at this point. Chris West, drummer for the band Trippy Wicked and the Cosmic Children of the Knight has graciously offered to put me up for a few days, and after talking to The Patient Mrs. and making sure she hadn’t already gotten a loan for another room or anything, I think I’m going to take him up on it. Rumor has it he lives in St. Albans, about a 20-minute train ride, so I’ll probably head that way tomorrow.

But given that I am going to be here longer term, and that I might actually have to interact with people in a more than across-the-counter-while-I-buy-something kind of way, I ventured into the world and picked up some essential provisions: non-Speed Stick deodorant, a real toothbrush, sunglasses. All of this for a paltry sum when compared to its worth in utility or conversion in dollars.

I like London though, at least in the same sense of liking New York. I know I’m not the first person to compare them, but as far as urban centers go, there’s an anonymity provided by these two that a lot of places just can’t offer because they’re not at the same scale. I’d imagine Beijing and Tokyo are the same way, but that’s pure conjecture.

But back to today in London. I have a motherload of work to catch up on — stuff that’s late for school, etc. — so I’m figuring a goodly portion of my afternoon is probably screwed. Beyond that, there’s Resurrection Records and some other stores I’d love to hit, and that whole London sightseeing thing, Big Ben, Parliament, not being able to get left, etc., that I could do were I so inclined. Record shopping sounds more up my alley, so I’ll probably stick to that. I’ve seen that other stuff anyway. Work first though. And now that I’ve finished that rice, stomachache second.

11:45PM: Hyde Park Towers, London, England: The extremely British pizza I had for dinner I’ve since dubbed “Megadough,” since that’s basically what it was. Spoiled in yet another way by the largess of my native land, I cannot imagine life under the bland tyranny of England‘s tomatoes. Fortunately, it’s not a major concern since it’s not like I have no idea how long I’m going to be here or anything like that. I had been hoping to find some tiny killer Indian restaurant around the corner from here that would let me taste the residual fruits of an empire other than my own, but no dice.

I couldn’t decide as I walked out of the St. Pancras train station if the sky was volcano-ashy or if that was just London.

Either way, yes, I made it to London, and managed to sort of defraud an impressive three national governments in the process — the Dutch, the British and the Belgian — though I assume if either my name or that of Ricky (who turned out to be a legit good Samaritan helping someone in need) were on a national security watch list (do they have those here?), I’d have been pulled aside either way. Just a tiny loophole big enough to get me from The Netherlands to the UK today. I’ll take it.

I was in Belgium just long enough to screw up ordering a coffee in French by not realizing when I was asked if I wanted it to go or to stay. “Un petit Brésil, s’il vous plaît… merci,” and then the whole thing went to hell. Guy thought I was a jackass, and I speak just enough French to know that’s what he was saying to the other guy working the register.

Having occasion to order coffee in French has always been a dream of mine, by the way. So there was that.

Shortly thereafter, it was onto the EuroStar train for me. I am in jealous awe of the European high-speed rail system. Obama has said a couple times that he’d like to install something like it in the US, but given the heft of the transportation lobby and the issue of cost, I doubt it’ll ever happen. What a shitter though. Imagine going from New York to Chicago in like three hours without having to deal with airport bullshit. My heart’s a-flutter.

The ride was pleasant enough, and I had The Machine‘s second album to keep me company. They sound even more like Colour Haze on record than they do in person, sometimes painfully so, but I didn’t have any Colour Haze immediately accessible (a definite mistake) and those sweet tones were decent companionship for looking out the window at the sprawling Belgian pastures and small, periodic towns that seemed to be rolling by in fast-forward, so you won’t hear me complain.

One cab ride later and I’m here at the hotel The Patient Mrs. booked for me from back at headquarters in the valley. She has been second to none — not even Walter Roadburn — in the level of accommodation afforded me for this trip, and I hope someday to thank her face to face. Still more or less a mystery as to when that might happen though.

…Well, I’m stoked they’re releasing a CD via The Obelisk‘s new label venture, The Maple Forum, that is. I’m not releasing a CD of myself.

Not yet, anyway.

Anyhoozer, Seattle‘s Roareth are getting ready to hit the studio to record Acts I-VI next week with Pacific Northwest madman of doom Tad Doyle, and as the dude helping to release the album, I couldn’t be more psyched for the outcome. If the demo tracks I heard were any indication, we’re all in for a treat around these parts. Roareth guitarist Aaron D.C. Edge thinks so too. Here’s what he had to say about it:

“We are so excited to be working The Maple Forum for our first recording. Our band loves the idea of small, limited pressings and JJ (from the label) is so supportive and knowledgeable of heavy music… it’s a perfect fit for our band, our union. Of course, before getting signed, we were already scheduled to document Acts I-VI with the legendary Tad. He is a kind and extremely talented human, we get along so well with him and are pleased to have him turning knobs on our release. It will be a crushing set of songs for sure!”

Good news all around. And in case you didn’t know, Aaron also handled the album’s art and does killer design work. You can check out his graphic-type wares at his beardly-tentacled website. Acts I-VI is due out next month, and rest assured, I’ll have more news about it before then. Maybe even some audio if the band lets me get my grubby mitts on it…

2:44PM: Train en route to Brussels: I went to Schiphol this morning to see if I could find someone from British Airways, and found when I arrived that there was no one to talk to. No counters open, nobody around, no helpful fake smiles. That, like Icelandic volcanoes, wasn’t exactly my worst case scenario, but it was certainly bummer enough.

I stood on line for the hi-speed rail and got into a conversation with a middle-aged husband and wife who were trying to get to I don’t remember where, when a young man said through an overmodulating boombox loudspeaker that all the international trains were booked through Wednesday. I no longer had it in my head to get to Paris since I was told by The Patient Mrs. that British Airways doesn’t fly out of there yet, not till May 3, apparently, but I decided to head for London instead, where at least I wouldn’t have to feel like a dick for not speaking the language (purely an internal thing; no one of Dutch descent has ever given me crap for being ignorant).

A young man tapped me on the shoulder while I was chatting and asked me if I wanted to go to London. Coincidentally, in the book I’m reading now, a late-20s African freedom fighter has just made illegal passage into the UK, so the whole thing smacked on a level that Ricky – at least that’s what he said his name was – couldn’t understand. He offered me a train ticket that he couldn’t use for 50 Euros, and with literally nothing to lose beyond the money, which I’d have gladly spent even more poorly if given the chance, I took it. So here I am.

The ticket is a computer printout. He said he lived in The Netherlands but worked in London and made this trip all the time, had booked his spot well in advance, but that work had told him not to bother coming back for the time being. He even gave me a pen with his company’s name on it: S.T.W. BV Duiven. I didn’t ask what he did – nice pen, though – and I’m still not sure how his story made sense, but it was potential passage and he was only charging face value, so I took the ticket. I don’t know if it’s a real ticket or a fake one, but it’s all I’ve got and I figure if they ever come around to check it and find it’s a fake or it’s no good for whatever reason, I get off at the next stop, pay whatever fine I need to pay and, short the embarrassment, am ultimately no better or worse off than I was when I boarded: Still stuck. Fortunately I’m used to making an ass of myself, so that’s not really a problem.

So off I go, unless curtailed, to Brussels and then change trains for London. If it works, if it doesn’t work, I don’t care. Provided I don’t get pulled out of line at customs because my name doesn’t match the name on the train boarding pass, I should be fine. But yeah, that’s weighing on me a bit.

To be perfectly honest, I’ve been putting off reviewing the self-titled MeteorCity debut from Buenos Aires desert-style rockers Humo del Cairo for about a week now because I’ve wanted to try and glean some better sense of the album’s structure, form and methodology. I don’t know if I got all that for having taken the extra time, but with a record like this, which alternates between longer and shorter cuts and puts to use a ranging sonic approach, repeat listens can’t hurt.

Humo del Cairo does go back and forth between extended cuts and shorter pieces, at least for the first four of the total six tracks – the last two, “Errantes” and “Cauce” being about eight and seven minutes, respectively – opening with the 11-minute rocker “A Tiempo,” on which the trio waste no time earning a Los Natas comparison with driving rock rhythms. But soon the song opens up into a jam and the reasoning behind the longer track times is revealed. To the credit of the players — guitarist Juan Manuel Diaz, drummer Javier Murillo Gorchs and bassist Gustavo Bianchi – it doesn’t get boring, but the divisions between tracks become almost arbitrary by the end of this first 11 minutes, which is going to drastically change how you experience the album.

The upshot? That Humo del Cairo are best kept to full sessions rather than track-by-track listening. If you’re going to dig into the record, be aware that what you’re getting is a total-album flow. Each song has its grooves, but slower-tempo second track “Nimbo” is undoubtedly best experienced coming out of “A Tiempo,” and ditto for “Panorama,” which shows off Diaz’s nimble hand in another extended stoner jam. Among the usual suspects of ‘70s influences (your Floyds of Pink, Cheers of Blue and Crimson Kings), the band especially cites Pappo’s Blues as a point of particularly Argentine inspiration, and if that’s heard anywhere on Humo del Cairo, it’s heard on “Fuego de San Antonio,” which instead of opening into the by-now expected jam, keeps things straightforward and rocking for its shorter duration and ends as raucously as it begins before giving a kind of drone tone to lead into “Errantes.”

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