Last night I dreamed I was in California, or Mars, walking along beautiful clifftops as blood red waves roared and crashed against the copper shore. I looked up into the sky and it opened for me, and I fell into it, tumbling soundlessly, infinitely. Then Kreayshawn showed up and gave me a joint. It was nice hanging out with Kreakshawn. She was very realaxed about tumbling infinitely through space.
It should come as no surprise then, that in so-called real life I was hanging out with Grant Morrison last night. His wife, The Legendary Kristan hit me up last week to let me know they were going to be in London this week, to congratulate me on the release of The Life Equation (which opens with Grant’s voice) and to see if I fancied hooking up while they were in town. So me and my nearly-wife and my messed-up back went down to Foyles, where dude was having a public conversation about his new book, Supergods, with the encouragingly informed, competent and erudite Sam Leith, in front of a packed room of 200 deeply serious humans. It was a great talk, Grant musing amusedly on things like godhood and fiction and the fifth dimension, dealing smartly and merrily with each and every question that Mr Leith, and then half of the assembled audience, had to throw at him.
You can, natrually, read all about it on Bleeding Cool, where Rich Johnston already has a complete blow by blow account of the proceedings online. We ran into him in the lift. I knew I’d see him. I gave him a CD.
Grant came over after he’d finished, and we had a bit of a chat, then he went off to sign seventeen hundred thousand books, and Charlotte and I retired to the Green Room with Kristan, where we discussed the glory and madness of Los Angles and were supplied posh crisps and wines by the nice Foyles people. We were later joined by the aforementioned Mr Leith, and a former UK Vertigo bawse and self confessed “dope addled buffoon” Tim Pilcher (he’s starred in lots of brilliant comics too), both of whom were excellent company, and thus got a CD each. After he’d finished his seventeen hundred thousand books Grant joined us and repeated his assertations that Living In The Future and The Life Equation are both brilliant and amazing, and that I’m his “favourite new band”. It also turns out we have a large shared musical ancestry, and he could hear a Graham Fellows influence in my stuff which NO ONE HAS EVER NOTICED BEFORE. (If you haven’t either, check the Jilted John album, a conceptual work of genius and a brilliant, timeless pop album about Becoming A Man).
I was also cheered that everybody present got the Blake reference in the Life Equation artwork, which, again, not a whole lot of people seem to have.
Anyway. Longtime wanderers of these hallowed halls will have been reading me banging on about Mr Morrison’s works for years, and anyone that’s actually read it will have noticed the profound influence its had on my shit, and my development as a sentient human. Doom Patrol, Animal Man, Seaguy, The Filth, Seven Soliders, all that stuff has been an integral part of my expansion. I read The Invisibles shortly after completing my first album in New York, and it enunciated quite perfectly and beautifully everything I’d been trying to say on that record. That the dude digs my shit is a truly wonderful feeling.
So, today I have been in the dentist, getting the inside of my dead tooth drilled out, no painkiller necessary cos that thing is DEEEEEEEEEEED. I kilt it when I was 13. It was a cold, dark winter’s morning in North Wales, and the netball court had frozen solid, and we took the opportunity to bomb around it with joyful abandon before assembly. The bell went – brrrrrrrrrring! – and in the skidding rush of bodies I found myself flung faceward into the ice, where I landed with a mighty CRACK. I lay for a little while, ice greedily lapping up the crimson gushing from my face, my right-front tooth smashed in half, pondering my lot. My creepy sexist pederast dentist used a brace to pull the remaining half tooth in line with it’s unharmed brother, but it never recovered from the ordeal, and died.
RIP that tooth.
Anyway, over the years that dead tooth has become discoloured, has started looking like one of those fake missing teeth we used to make with little black squares of paper at school, and it suddenly dawned on me last week that I was going to have a stupid gap-toothed-looking Mad Magazine smile in my wedding photo, so I rang my dentist and demanded he fix it immediately. So now I am sat with a hollow front tooth full of bleach and a rubber mould of my top row of teeth pressing a bunch of bleach against the outside of the poor dead shell. So we shall see how we get on over the next few days, and we shall also see how having a rubber grill in my mouth affects the two songs I’m vocalling this afternoon that you will be hearing next week.
YEAH I SAID IT!