is the music of singer, multi-instrumentalist and producer Nick Talbot, who lives in Bristol. He was the first non-electronical artist that Warp Records signed back in 2004.
I shouldn’t ride a bicycle for the same reason I’m not allowed to drive; it’s rather hazardous to have epileptics on the road.
I was doing this the other night for my girlfriend, but without the candles. I wanted to listen to Mastodon but she felt it was a bit too aggressive for prepping vegetables to. I suggested Elliott Smith, which she felt was too melancholy, so we came to a compromise with the first three R.E.M. albums, «Murmur», «Reckoning», and «Fables Of The Reconstruction».
It was used on an advertisement for Lucozade back in 80’s, featuring the Olympic sprinter Daley Thompson. He could run really fucking fast.
Something very masculine and aggressive.
Not sure. I’ll get back to you on this.
I don’t destroy hotel rooms.
Something with a lot of bass, as bass frequencies travel furthest. My friend Ginz has a project called Empty Set, which is released on his Caravan label. It’s terrifying. Pounding bass. It’s like a rave in an abbattoir or something. I wrote the press release for it, so I can guarantee that it’s a worthwhile purchase. Really good to play to people who always tell you to «chill out». Fuck off. Never tell me to chill out. I’ll tie you to a chair, force-feed you sherry and speed, shine a strobe light into your eyes and play Empty Set at aneurysm-inducing volume while displaying a fast-moving photo-montage of ghastly injuries sustained in road traffic and industrial machinery accidents.
I can’t drive but I have persistent dreams where I am driving a car, aware that I have no driving license, and no understanding of even the most basic principles of controlling a vehicle. Like in Grand Theft Auto, I mow down pedestrians, career into lamp-posts and end up being chased by the police. Upon arrest, they discover several bodies in the boot of my car. This whole series of events is accompanied by «Colony Of Birchmen» by Mastodon, whom I saw live in Bristol recently and they were fantastically good. This actually happened, unlike the car chase, the bodies in the boot, etc.
I can’t fall asleep to music, I think about it too much. I’m forever trying to find things to rip off, I deconstruct chord sequences while they are playing, it’s a distraction and not conducive to sleep.
This should in theory be more disturbing than a haunted hotel. In forests there is the very real danger of muggers and rapists leaping from the trees, so I don’t think I would be wearing headphones. On the other hand, I might be hiding in the trees, ready to leap out on people, in which case I’d psych myself up with a bit of Whitehouse.
It’s got to be The Smiths. And Elliott Smith. And a Smith and Wesson, in my mouth.
Hopefully this will last longer than the duration of the average song. Though I could always put one song on repeat I guess, but I’d prefer at least one whole album. «You Made Me Realise», «Isn’t Anything» and «Loveless» by My Bloody Valentine work for me. Most of the lyrics on those are about fucking. «Slow», «Soft As Snow But Warm Inside», «Cupid Come» etc. He’s a saucy little monkey is Lord Shields.
Some kind of aspirational sports rock, such as «Eye Of The Tiger».
It’s very difficult to hear much above the roar of the engines unless you have some posh noise-cancelling headphones. I just put in earplugs to block out the screaming children, Brits on the piss and constant, pointless announcements about laughably inadequate emergency procedures, windspeed, altitude and charity donations. I hate being trussed up like cattle and conned into buying hideously over-priced ‚food’ so I try to sleep through it all. Drugs help. But naturally, if I had some posh noise-cancelling headphones, Brian Eno’s «Music For Airports» would be appropriate for inducing a state of calm and acceptance of one’s fate, distracting oneself from the fact that you are trapped inside a metal tampon in heavy flow, hurtling through space at 800 miles an hour, wings ripped off, arms flailing spasmodically, metal chips spraying through the frozen air, head on collision with solid rock, etc.
Sauna? Do you mean a gay sauna? My friend Antoni Maiovvi makes Italo Disco, and at time of writing he has a new album coming out on Caravan. Italo Disco is totally gay. His record deserves to be a smash success and if so it will be pumped out of the speakers in gay saunas the world over, accompanied by the stench of amyl nitrate and shit. An interactive Scratch ‚n’ Sniff feature was mooted for the cover art but deemed too expensive. Anton was booked to play a show in a gay club in Berlin the other week. He went on a reconnaisance mission to check out the stage and P.A. At the door he pressed a bell and was buzzed in, and at the ticket counter greeted by a man in a full-on zip up mock-leather gimp mask. There were several video screens displaying a selection of hard cock action and gay fisting porn. Downstairs was a room called «The Cellar», which his instincts strongly told him to avoid. The gig fell through because of an argument between the promoter and the venue, which was disappointing, as this would have been a chance to premier his new sound to Berlin’s promiscuous homosexual community. So for now he continues to play normal venues, attracting the attention of women, which is for the best, because he isn’t gay. So, in the highly unlikely event of finding myself in a gay sauna, I would be most delighted to hear the euphoric, cascading arpeggiatted synth lines of Antoni Maiovvi’s «Thorns Of Love» while I try to come to terms with having my ass rammed full of man-meat.
I would maximise the experience by listening to Pan Sonic’s «Kesto» on headphones, in the dark, just loud enough for me to hear things move around behind me. If you play sounds at sub-aural levels, below 30 hz, you can induce nausea and hallucinations. While you cannot hear these frequencies the brain seems to sense them in some way, and after a while you start seeing grey shapes in your peripheral vision. This has been posited as an explanation for people seeing ghosts on the London Underground, where there is an abundance of sub-aural frequencies. Given the opportunity to spend a night in a haunted hotel I would want to maximise the experience by purposely scaring the fucking shit out of myself. So a mixture of Pan Sonic, sub-aural frequencies, «Paranormal Activity», «The Blair Witch Project», some absurdly strong, paranoia-inducing weed and a gram of ketamine should do the trick. If nothing happens I want my money back.
I did spend a night in a spooky hotel once. On tour in Belgium we were forced to find an impromptu place to spend the night. We checked into a sleazy dive with carpeted walls and decor straight out of the Overlook Hotel. The night porter looked like he had been assembled and re-animated from assorted body parts. My manager Michelle couldn’t lock her door, and a man from a room down the hallway shuffled out and proceeded to creep slowly back and forth past her room for several hours. The wallpaper above my bed was spattered with what looked like a crimson arc of blood from a slit carotid artery. I loved every minute of it. Michelle didn’t sleep well.
When I stay in bed I am usually trying to sleep, so again, no music.
I haven’t done this for a while. I have been homeless for short periods but was able to rely upon the charity of friends and family, so I never found myself sitting in a subway. I did busk in a subway. I used to play guitar with a violinist, back in Guildford, Surrey. We played Irish folk tunes, jigs and reels etc. Monotonous bollocks but the old ladies liked it, particularly at Christmas.
I think it would be a little inappropriate to put a record on while telling someone you are dumping them. But if I was for some reason taking great relish in it, I would do it to a backdrop of «Unhappy Birthday» by The Smiths.
Waking up is a process that takes several hours to complete. In this time I often listen to BBC Radio 4. If I want to wake up quickly, I listen to Big Black. There’s nothing quite like Steve Albini’s shreaking vocals, mind-flaying guitars and retarded drum machines to make you really aggressive and want to trash charity shop window displays.
If I was feeling maniacally self-absorbed, then the main theme tune to the film «Withnail & I» by David Dundas and Rick Wentworth. Marwood has deservedly moved on to bigger and better things, and Withnail is left standing alone in a London park, drinking a bottle of wine, reciting Hamlet’s most famous soliloquy.
I can’t listen to music with discernable lyrics when I am doing written work as it confuses me, so it would have to be something like «Arbos» or «Tabula Rasa» by Arvo Pärt.