Archive for the ‘giraffe’ Tag

An Appeal   6 comments

Hey guys,

ha, floppy own-brand tortilla chips, peanuts and Lilt and vodka (just a very small medical dash for my damaged tropical child) for breakfast. Happy New Year. Can’t sleep so let my betters rest. A guitar string just pinged on the wall so I must be Accompanied.

I don’t know if you use Discogs but I do and I like it. I’m not one of those psychedelic revolutionaries that acts like a soul-smarm priest who’s pretending he hasn’t got anything in his underpants. I have baby, it’s here. I believe in the meta-fundamentals of the market. I believe in the Big Deal, it is holy to me. If a has it, and b wants it, then so be it and let’s haggle the fucker across. We are good creatures, don’t get me wrong, and people forget it and then get all pious when someone helps a brother out as if it isn’t written into us like hunger, violence and sorrow, but in that sense humans are alright and can’t help but help. Ants help ants, wolves howl for the chase, Biiiig Issue etc. Yeah, but fuck the Old Ways and Record Collector and that. My The Best Of Abba used to say £40 in the Book, but, uh, the internets is grease for human souls and the funny thing about capitalism, cos all human history is irony, is that which is finessed is also almost complete & thus over, man. What I mean is the web is The Final Auction, and that goes for eBay as much as Tahrir square or whatever. OK.

So, if you’re still with me, or ever were, then here is a racing tip for the lowest common denominator written on a peice of internet paper. Our pal Si, you shall know him by his name up there, has got at least one copy of Tripel 004 going at £2. Now I don’t cast aspersions on Simon, because of what I’ve said above, and because he is someone who both likes to live simply and also used to run an online shop, and since the two are incompatible the former will inevitably win out over the latter, thank goodness fror his sake. Tripel 004?, I hear you ask in your unripe foolishness, like dogs questioning the unlikely appearance of the Ace in the great fucking help of the sleight of hand! Well, way back when when there was no history of that to make a mad old man tell it like this now, yer Dave, my fucking Dave, in his Gold-souled wish for something more meaningful than what’s measured in money, stumped up for the Split. A thousand fucking pounds. Mastered by the fucking Faroe Goodiepal on a reel-to-reel (he says) according to his special specifications. Dubplates & Mastering. A picture disc. Designed by Animals On Wheels. Me half-cut in an amusment arcade in Padstow throwing it down like a Maori warrior or some PNG shit. It’s all fucking grist. Two Thousand & Five, Dave on the concrete tip, the audio derive through the raw tripped-out beauty of sound, where even TV cookshows can get souffled into something just-so that the absence of words leaves your dumb face in a squinch whilst your mind races for HELP. You know James Ferraro? Well, it’s not like that music-wise but it isn’t just the chefs. I feel this strongly. There’s a blankness, an overloadedness of symbols, that was in the recipe. Play the records side by side. Mix them together perhaps. And yeah, it’s half a giraffe of probably the best thing I ever did or will. I’m on Discogs, and you can buy the CD-R off me for not-a-penny-less than 5 quid, and it might be the complete thing, but that record is All Gold, solid fucking gold, and the only reason you don’t know it is because nobody told you, but I’m telling you now.

So, what I’m asking you to do, is please buy the record off Simon. I think the market value is more like £4.50, at least, so you’d be getting a good deal. We still live under a capitalist system, but this is a time of renewal, traditionally. Why not make it your first symbolic purchase of 2012? Please.



Giraffe for sale   Leave a comment


This is my Giraffe CD-R I am selling on Discogs, since it’s not widely available elsewhere. Just recieved the following message:

Dear damn_savage,

The release, Giraffe, has been requested to be removed from Discogs.
You are receiving this message because either you are the contributor,
or it is in your collection or wantlist.

Reason for removal:
it makes no sense, is this a joke release?

Posted June 7, 2011 by peteum2013 in Uncategorized

Tagged with , , ,

Cows Are Just Grist.   1 comment

The man cowsarejustfood wrote some stuff about a little package of my chewy work I sent up there. Big up cows for taking the time and for really doing a ruminant’s job on the thing and telling me some stuff I don’t usually put into words in my head about my involuntary culture sector work. Be sure to check the comments section too for what “John” has to say. Call me paranoid (I am) but I’d only just linked that from my Facebook page when that popped up! It’s just grist on the grist though.

I’ll cut&paste the text below but check the link if you can because Cows put up some sound&vision bobbins to contextualise the mastications. At least two of those MP3s sound a bit gnarlier than they usually do this end but fuckit.

And the full line is:

It ain’t a plane, it’s a flying bomb
It ain’t a poof, it’s Elton John
It ain’t working, you and me
I can see it why can’t you see?

and it was dropped onto the brokenhearted 2008 tape-gore from a dictaphone tape recorded circa 1997, and to me that’s important, okay?

(pete) um: giraffe / bumskipper / the path of least resistance


yeah. pete um. or just um. um… yeah.


i know little of peter beyond his take on cw mccall’s convoy. consequential to not very much. other than maybe i’d like to hear him do a country album on those crumbling things he makes music with, on, to and over. he could y’know. given his preponderance for entertainment, words, absurdity and musical mulching.

some touchstones: a pocket-money concrète radiophonics (particularly the derbyshire/bermange dreams melange). seriously. kindof. but not. chris morris’ blue jam. the uber-edited mixture of monologue and musical / linguistic non-sequiturs. the woozy scattershot hippop of anticon’s clouddead and why?’s oaklandazulasylum record.

things that share the liminal, dreamy, fractured narrative. so his ouvre, sorta like a scrapbook in a hundred pieces; the song as paragraph or as burroughsian flash fiction. the song as haiku or tanka. or the sedoka, the butcherly translated whirling head poem which seems real fucking apt. or katauta, the poem fragment. not to overfragrance just y’know give you the gist of where i’m coming from… eating too many skittles, too many smarties, watching at the wrong speed, listening half cut.

anyway it’s all veined with cartoon whimsy, english eccentricism, goofy humour. like if oliver postgate worked with the residents rather than vernon elliott. and bassoons, aye. his music’s so many things and none. master of no trades, jack of all.

gotta dig down otherwise all his shit’ll pass you by in a thirty second muttered blur. so swish away the foosty magnetic-tape-reek of open university cardigans, mustaches, dandruff; poke yr thumb through the rotten fruit soft skin to the sweet analogue meat beneath, to the pips and seeds that these digital triffids grow from. pips and seeds both physical and metaphysical. part man, part machine, part aetheric receiver.

so he sends me three discs of varying shapes and sizes, with *bits* inside, physical and metaphysical. recurring themes: clothes, age, doubt, loneliness, apathy, micro-crises, self-referential, self-aware meta-somethingorother, music, performance. oh and booze.


giraffe’s the pop record. like some early/late period anticon release left to rot in the rain and warp in the sun. getting vibes of mutant cap’n beefheart’s sketches and phone jams, where van vliet’s never seen the desert or heard the blooze. instead, weaned on cheap cider, raised on fisher price r&b and shut-in electro he spunks out acoustocrunk for the ghosts in his head. s’all hiccuppy instrumentals, real and (re)imagined and singsong chatter. who are you talking to fella? who?

bumskipper (…) offers something more textured. crunchy and chewy like a toffee crisp. y’know the caramel and ricey bits smothered in sonic chocolate and unfidelity abstraction. these are more nonsongs, washed rinsed and faded till only nebulous radio muck remains, an a.m. transmitted effluence, lapsing into drunken gripes, chipmunk tunes, charity shop vinyl samples and modem noise. hearing the sound recordings from john carpenter’s prince of darkness but it ain’t satan’s return they warn of, it’s delia fucking derbyshire.

the path of least resistance is a messy inbetween (there’s that liminallity again…) at a mere twenty four tracks not quite as nano as giraffe. but does feature the stupid clever slo-mo skronk of river ayler. legible instrumental scrawls, bit of structure, bit of melody and the odd wonky couplet: it ain’t it a plane its a flying bomb, it ain’t a poof it’s elton john.


mumbling like a bargain books will self. where yr not exactly sure what he said, what kind of sense it makes (if chuffing any). hell even if you misheard it, go with it. make yr own fiction: i should ebay my tumbleweed (or) yr talking to me like yr pissing in a phonebox (or) jovian bowel shock… does it mean anything, contextually or otherwise? does it need to? and stumbling through the charming buffoonery you’ll hit something as wearilly succinct as:

it’s just an indication of the tired human spirit when everything sounds like a bad lyric

listening over sixty seven collaged audio midgets s’like he’s trepanning his skull and harvesting the electric-ecto-drip of too fucking many ideas. a production inversely proportionate to track length. none of which is meant in the pejorative. like, i suspect, the man hisself, a rum cove, it’s an occasionally baffling, willfully bewildering unreconstructed shuffle through the noise inside someone else’s head.

myspace / umbusiness

This entry was posted on 11/10/2010 at 9:50 pm and is filed under mp3, music i listen to, video with tags bumskipper, giraffe, music, music review, noise, pete um, the path of least resistance, um. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
2 Responses to “(pete) um: giraffe / bumskipper / the path of least resistance”

John Says:
12/10/2010 at 11:31 am

I can’t help but think that both you, the critiquer, and he, the artist, have taken far too many mind-altering substances to find any kind of musical value in that terrible fucking noise. There may be a social narrative to his lyrics, but frankly I’d rather listen to a tuneful nazi child molester. Possibly the worst thing I have ver heard in my life
marxsbeard Says:
12/10/2010 at 2:15 pm

heh… i have a certain admiration for people who take the time to slate something they’ve no interest in. so thanks for stopping by and commentating. do you have any recommendations from the tuneful nazi child molester micro genre?

in answer to yr query: whilst i can’t speak for pete, i was on the brown ale and ketamine while listening and writing.

cheers fella!

Lone Stromblone review of some Um works (old news)   Leave a comment

Just found this in an old folder. Never even met this chap but I was extremely grateful when he wrote this stuff.

 Review: Um, “The Old Album”, “The New Album”, “Giraffe”.


Feeling a bit mad? Why not push your luck and optimise the state with some “UM” therapy? Treat your self to the black hilarity of this festival of intrepid linguistrobatics and exploratory solitude. One day, you’ll be out on a flimsy limb. After all, in the end, we are all alone.

Best prepare. Let Um take you there.

Strategy 1. “The Old Album”.
Not desperately old at all, (no date supplied in the sleeve notes, but suspected to have been created in 2002) this collection remains, to my ears, ever as fresh as a daisy-fed spring chicken. Comprising twenty-six works and no space fillers, deftly straddling the gulf between high art and low doggerel, “The Old Album” proffers a wealth of compelling and original lyrical content and poetry. Encircling the lost and subtle concerns of a life spent in too much thinking, the vocal element is set to noises which one can only describe as music, while knowing this biscuit-tin terminology to give cruel short shrift to the nature of the sweetmeats therein contained. The works of “Um” will touch the heart, soul and moist, dark, private corners of anybody who has been all the way out there and plans never to return (should they find themselves fortunate enough to have retained a modicum of volition).

Sonically singular, audibly angular, Pete Um and his associates meticulously dismember and reduce the status quo into “Status: Question”, leaving no turn unstoned. Drawing on an apparently endless variety of voices, Um’s choice of subject matter has a limitless span.

“Pathological Abstention” opens with a philosophical monologue in a Dickensian style, whether originally the product of Dickens, Um or of some other source, I cannot say. The skilled, thespian delivery of this Crowleyan imperative relates to the facing of fear, and to the importance of following one’s own path. It reveals a further taught string to Um’s bow, and a further demonstration of the philosophy of the way of Um:

“…..Only a little extra effort is required of you,
And you can travel again, soon,
This time under your own flag,
And all the better to stick your dread animal in the eye,
And to come full circle,
And understand the meaning in the pattern of the footsteps.”

The backing music to these works stands largely at the front, and comprises a rich feast of the unexpected and peculiar. Layer upon layer of interspersed sonic bites of the world, the mechanical, the bestial and the interminable take turns to leap to stage-front, each adorned with eclectic companions, each group elbowing it’s predecessor into the wings. The lyrics cascade, prolific and pregnant, pungent and palpitating. The result, rhythmic yet frantic, bassy yet jangling and fractious, evokes exposure to a storm of bomb-shattered chandeliers while floundering to break to the surface in an ocean of tepid porridge, laced with Tabasco and scotch bonnet peppers. Tasty, exhilarating and very,
very odd.

Generous with treats and of surprises, “The Old Album” leaves one no longer able to acknowledge former concepts of satisfaction. New needs have been born, goalposts have moved. The record and CD purchases of decades find themselves carted to multi-storey car parks and playing fields on Sunday mornings, for humane destruction via car boot sales, their contents no longer pertinent in this brave new world of blissful uncertainty.

Strategy 2. “The New Album”.
With no consideration for conventions of a musical, social or any other variety, Um forges on into further dark corners of the human psyche. Many undiscovered clefts await the disruptive illumination of this Promethean mischief maker, a true Lucifer, a bringer of light into the musical pantheon. Western humanity, should it be blessed to peek behind the veil of Um-ness, may lose all will to continue in the unthinking consumption and acquisition of prestige kitchens, cars and canned convenience comestibles.

I don’t know what the Cambridge Borough Council adds to it’s local water supply, but Pete Um has drunk his fill, and gone back for seconds, to return puddinged out, to “normal life”, wearing multicoloured fly’s eye spectacles, controversial, contraventional, contrapuntal, and deep as fuck.

The sounds and substance in these pieces have been drawn from sources often left wisely undisturbed, for fear of the legs, wings and mandibles threatening to lash out, to ensnare, usurp and corrupt reason itself. These recordings manage to appear, at times deceptively sweet and homely, suddenly flipping into the utterly, gigglingly, insane or paranoid, threatening the very foundations of reason, logic and stability. I rather doubt that Cliff Richard would approve, let alone Anne Widdecombe (together they’d surely make a lovely couple, some very scary noises, and a fearsome offspring).

This second CD contains twenty-five pieces, all equally ground breaking as those of its predecessor. The breadth of subject matter has expanded yet further, and the range of approaches to delivering Um’s infernal anti-doctrine has broadened in proportion. Everything else is deliciously out of proportion. If you have yet to expand your mind, I am confident that Um can assist you considerably in this quest. In the words of some other committed space explorer “When a man goes to the moon and back and can say that it didn’t affect his life, well…..he must have been looking the other way”. Stand by to repel all boredom. Fuzzy redheads will never appear the same to you again.


Strategy 3. “Giraffe”.
Pete Um’s latest offering was eagerly awaited, and once received, reached all the parts missed or scorned by the other two albums. This time we are treated to no less than thirty-two phyla of this rare genus. Many Giraffe-related etymological and biological questions, toward which my limited private library failed even to lean, have been answered for me by the sleeve notes. We could all learn a lot from the Giraffe.

Each track is enigmatically subtitled, with the sleeve notes offering some interpretation. Many mysteries remain, teasing the brain with modes of possible meaning. Tense and frantic, Um spins out lyrics in a quasi-familiar language, twisted and morphed via a hall of wavy, fractured mirrors, “I sit in a furnace, abusing my buggins, scaring myself, with the power of the biro”, from “Too Old For Sports (ginners)”, and from “A Last Blast (snarp)”, the linguistic impishness continues with “Let’s quit Sodom……(or perhaps “Lets quit, sod ’em”?)..we’ll go tomorrah”. This linguistic fecundity, coupled with Pete’s dry, straight-faced delivery, yields gems like “You may take your time like the cow you are, but you make sweet milk with your guitar.” from “Ghost (mutter)”.

May those who consider themselves sane be compelled to look long and hard into the abyss of their sham comforts and curios. May they gasp in horror as they glimpse the insubstantial nature of their worldly props. All that went before is now unworthy of it’s having gone-ness (excluding “The New” and “The Old” albums, naturally).

“Giraffe”, predictable only in it’s family resemblance to the unmistakable style of the previous collections, supports my opinion that Pete can write a highly entertaining lyric about anything, and can hang anything he produces, securely, onto a sonic backdrop which supports, lifts and separates, and crosses the heart and mind of the listener in all directions.

His unparalleled and ruthless play-tech style continues to hound the wibbly-wobbly world of the Blair establishment, confounds the inherited wisdom of musical production and not only pushes the envelope of sonic and literary creativity, but seals it, pops a stamp on it, and recklessly entrusts it to the rigours of our ever-dubious postal services, all the way to the primary portals of our squishy brains and our flimsy domiciles.


Strategy 4. “The Unholy Trinity?”.
For reasons too convoluted to be expanded upon, I have experimented with playing both “Giraffe” and “The Old Album” simultaneously, with results which impressively augmented the affects of entertainment and pleasure herein aforementioned. Both albums were left to cycle for several hours, thus varying their points of overlap for each cycle. I honestly could not detect the join, and the two productions did not interfere with each other in any way, merely mating with unnatural vigour, to produce a new, improved Child Of Hades, more potent than even the aforementioned spawn of the abysmal “Richard & Widdecombe” combo.

I wonder if Pete Um can be tempted to release an “Unholy Trinity” comprised of all three albums re-mastered in “overlap” mode, for the more discerning, or terminally unbalanced among us?

In spite of Pete’s plethora of sleeve notes, appended to each release, I cannot claim to understand entirely where Um is coming from. I have a strange intuition that I must have spent some time there, and may be going again one day. Those who are bold enough to make a purchase on the strength of this review, and find themselves baffled upon receipt of the goods, will be well on the way to a revelation, and must buy more for true clarity. Those who make a purchase and find themselves irreparably disappointed can just lament the fact that they are sorely missing out on something very special. Nothing and no-one is immune to Um’s slash and burn treatment, and may we give thanks for the last remaining vestiges of liberty enjoyed by Britains creative community. Pull up a flagstone outside your home and plant something there.