OHM Press Release (2003)

 I don't remember this band but I found this press release from 2003 on Spank Press. So clearly we were working with them at the time. Equally clearly, I'd been at the empathy sweets around this time, such is the overwritten nature of the prose. But I like it. 

Ω

Unabashed and unafraid of songwriting with soul; where music means love and hate and longing and loathing and life and liberty; where White Rabbits keep watch, scurrying back and forth in a haze of immaculate Independence and searching only for the portal through which to communicate with honesty; thus eviscerating those fraudulent manipulators who would have you believe that pop is a crime.

Ω = Resistance

Resistance to the frumious despicable gurn of manufactured, masturbatory flappers and slappers driven through TV to cackle and dull naked musical synapses. An insidious real-life worm in the blackened hearts of those who are convinced that the way to truly heal the world is by smothering creativity in a blanket of homogeny.

Ω = Mark. Max. Randall. Phillip. Adam.

A five piece falcon; a blossom of beloved tunesmithery; pristine performers; perfect programmers; prophets of passion over passivity; the grit in the oyster that becomes a pearl? The crown of quality their only concession to the subservient Industry that would presume to punish people who dare to delight in song; a kick against the pricks who seek to demote intelligence to scrabbling for scraps within the mulch of the murdered and broken-backed multitude.

With tours of Germany and the UK allied to a conviction that music and life are conjoined; with an Internet portal where enmity evaporates in the relentless redemption of the sharing of ideas, ideals; giving context to content; where the fluidity of visceral vision is the only law; with dignity the gateway to an ever-changing truth. Saviours of pop? Haven’t you got it yet?

Free ideas - no refunds

 Short story ideas

From December 2013

    1. A man buys a very cheap 56 inch TV from his mate. It works perfectly, until one day idly surfing he notices that channel 56 is locked. However, gradually this non-access to that channel does his head in. He goes online and looks for any help – there is none. He eventually manages to do a factory re-set. Channel 56 is revealed. It is his own conscience.

    2. “At the end, he spurted out seemingly unconnected phrases which I recorded in a last desperate grasp to try and understand him. Only now am I realizing, in fits and starts, in different languages, metaphors and nibbles, in spurts and tangents, that it is his life story….”

    3. I am the keeper of the bridge. Britannia is ruined and Menai Bridge is destroyed. 100,000 people live in high rise hell, a Hong Kong-esque post-nuclear-like hinterland. A new, Krokodil-type drug is eating the inhabitants from within. Walls surround Bangor; there is a no-fly zone over Anglesey due to a terrible nuclear accident. Half the island is under water. Bangor is cut off and quarantined. Actually this is a bit like The Book of Dave isn’t it. Balls.

    4. A commune which people think is a weirdo/hippy hotel. A girl is sent there by desperate skint parents (single dad?). There is a high street, with shops but everything is free. People start trying to get in through two sets of doors. There are panthers amongst the cats.

    5. The Bangor smugglers’ tunnels under Waterloo and Paddy’s.

    6. A man finds out his friends are dying. He can save them if he swaps them with already-dying elderly Africans.  So he does.  But then his friends’ friends and families catch the same disease. Still the elderly can cover. But then they start to run out. He has to use other countries’ weak and ill. Then whole countries; then the UK elderly, ill, other religions. Then adults; then kids; then all who are left are him and women he has to impregnate. Ones who are prepared to let him. But that doesn’t work either; he tells them to kill him and use his seed to clone him back to life. Kill him again and again til the world is replenished. He says he is prepared to die for their sins.

    7. There is one copy of a 3D reality computer game (sort of like Doom) which changes players into solid avatars. It is passed around at random and is immune to copying. The game requires only participants and a venue. A man gets hold of the game but is mugged. He has to track down the game party to a deserted warehouse. He tries to hack into the game but is not successful. Eventually he manages to force a shut down. On the walk home he thinks he sees a giant TV screen with one flickering corner that seems to be showing part of the game, which has spread onto the network due to his trying to hack it. The virus will turn the whole world into a giant game. But did he see it?

    8. Everyone fancies that girl but it’s a boy and it is the narrator.

    9. The world is paused. A team goes back in time to Bangor as it was. Different shops etc. Really fascinating. Tiny bugs – nanobots but a size that you can see – sort something out to snap reality back into place. The traffic jams come back and the airport reopens.

Working Class Tory

 Listen by clicking here (demo)

They live in their mansions and pay for their school

They’re told that their destiny is that they're born to rule

That the poor all deserve it cause the poor are fools

They tell you that sharing is good when you’re small

But when you grow up they will grasp for it all

Til you’re so disillusioned you’ve killed off your soul

A working class Tory is poison to me

Once in a while one will fluke a success

And reach for the heights to look down on the rest

Then pull up the ladder and laugh at the plebs

They say ‘we’re full up, we can’t take any more’

Call people ‘illegal’ and ‘rapists’ and more

These comforting lies are just par for the course

They bleat when they’re pulled up for their hateful words

Claim free speech is dead and that 'woke' is a slur

Without understanding how consequence works

They say poor old Boris is doing his best

That rich men deserve their financial success

That one politician’s the same as the rest

A working class Tory is poison to me

Elections are lost cause of a photograph

Of a badly-chewed bacon sandwich in the caff

And a mock-up of a good man that looks Stalinesque

Sunk cost is a killer, psychosis writ large

“We’ve always been Tories and that’s who we are”

But do you suck off the scrotes who are stealing your car?

This isn’t inevitable: it’s a crock

We’re told we’ve no power, but we’ve got the lot

We can make it better. We can stop the rot.

No man is an island, no man’s a lost cause.

The world is unique; there’s room for us all

We can work together – if that’s what we want.

If you vote for a Tory then how do you sleep

If you vote for a Tory then how do you sleep

A working class Tory is sickening me



A working class Tory's a traitor, you see

Celeriac Mahatma

Did you hear of the man with the bad attitude

and the power of a trash compactor

he was prowling the world searching far for the girl

who had left him alone for an actor

Well he ain’t one to fight, but he ain’t gonna fly,

if you push him he’ll get real fractious

he won’t start anything, cause he knows he will win

you’re the field, boy, and he is the tractor

Celeriac Mahatma

Watch out!

The first thing you learn, he got wisdom to burn,

and his flames are as hot as a black star

and if you take him on he will grimace and grin

your mistake was to try and step up there

He’s a vegan, and more, and he’s bone to the core

his breath stinks like a velociraptor

he’s a merciless rat, he’s a back alley cat,

he’s a rapacious, primal scream scratcher

Celeriac Mahatma

Oh boy.