Sexy Beast?

I didn't post the photos from the shoot I did with my chum Mode de la Minx. My bad. Here's one of me:

And one I took of her:

 

She got some amazing shots of me. I say that they're amazing not because I'm in them, but because despite my lack of experience in front of a camera, and inability to personify anything that Tyra Banks has mentioned in America's Top Model, she managed to get some really amazing shots of me. I think she's a pretty dope creative, and she surpassed my own ideas of what I wanted to portray. So I can't wait to get a few retouched images back and pick one to be my EP cover.

Modelling is very hard (duh) especially when you're trying to be yourself/music artist self. No way did I think it was going to be easy, and for some stupid reason I've always thought that I wasn't photogenic. The result of some childhood incident I never recovered from? I dunno. Maybe I've been called ugly a lot. Nope, that's not it. I have a few theories that I'm obviously not going to disclose. The bottom line is that I had to train myself not to predict that my first photo shoot was going to be a disaster. Mantras and shit. I've been doing so since I told myself that photo shoots, interviews and all the non musical activities WILL be part of the trying-to-be-successful-making-music package. 

Anywho, it was a great experience with a great friend who made me feel comfortable the whole time. I learnt that I'm not completely unable to take a good shot. My body language and shapes were fine. 'Twas just my bloody face. Anyone who knows me would probably say that I'm facially expressive. But for some reason I kept giving these dead stares. Even this dude is giving more attitude than I was:

 

I had Tyra's voice in my head saying "SMEYES BITCH, SMEYES!" (Smile + eyes = smeyes = smiling with your eyes.) But I blatantly didn't portray that on film. She told me to pout and I didn't understand why she'd ask me to do such as thing. I figured only people with minute lips had to pout to give the illusion of bigger lips. Man, my lips are anything but small. I can't put on lipstick in two strokes - copious surface area. Ain't no shame in it. She was right though. The aim was to accentuate/frame my jaw, or something like that.  It took just under an hour for me to "warm-up" and smeyes and pout (not like Keira Knightley) effectively. By then we had managed to get a nice shot of me looking away from the camera. Score! Props to her for making the most out of my disability.

Until the next post - xx

Lauryn's On A Hill

I didn't intend on writing about this whole Lauryn Hill malarkey. I had a brief discussion about it with a fellow music snob, and I'm pretty sure I made a few stupid and ignorant comments. Not because I hate Hill - I love her. I always have. But I got so annoyed with the fact that she hasn't been feeding me regularly - musically. The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill was an amazing album, and the realness depicted on MTV Unplugged No. 2.0 was humble. I can still play those songs and be in awe for many reasons, but for so very long I've wanted more material from her, so that I can have a weighty collection of her work.

My notion is that she chose a life with her kids and partner, chasing her idea of happiness rather than a life governed by "the industry" or steered by others' standards. That's great, but she left a whole load of listeners with silence, and a selfish part of me was like "nah man, come back and give me an album or two." Anyway, I found this interview that's bloody 13 years old:

This made me rethink a few things, meditate over my own creative integrity and journey. Her words really resonate with me. What she says about balancing her spirit and her intellectual mind (suppressing the brain)...RAH. I'm gonna get really personal now and admit that sometimes I get overwhelmed and wonder what on earth I'm doing. I make music because there's this need to expel energy with this medium, but my brain likes to absorb environmental influences, and ultimately get all confused and panicky. In this hectic world of excessive information "just being quiet" really is the way forward.

Enough about my woes, back to Lauryn -----> her current legal situation isn't rosy and I doubt she's ecstatic about it. However, what's come from it, her new song, is something special, fresh, genuine, raw etc. The production, lyrics, structure and vocal delivery embellish her artistic niche. She's niche. All niche!

Until the next post - xx

Life is....Dandy...I Mean Randy...No, Dandy

When I left my job, I feared that I'd become bored with the amount of free time I was likely to have. I didn't think that there was going to be enough activities that I'd really want to explore. Of course, I was going to spend a stupid amount of time making music, but even with this passion, I thought I wouldn't be capable of writing and producing a lot of material. Contrary to my insecurities I've been doing so many things that my life is a colourful blur:

• Rekindling my love affair with my sewing machine, altering old clothes and changing shirt buttons (I adore buttons):

• Enjoying films. This is a shot of Samuel L. Jackson in Cleaner. (Not the best film, but I like him and this face!):

• Meeting up with estranged friends and attending birthday shindigs:

• Going to a great (but expensive) hairdressers to get my hair treated and pressed, only to go home and put a zillion rollers in it. Here's the outcome - my ode to Annie:

• Paying attention to my health and well-being. No caffeine for me, thanks:

 

• Attending artsy events:

In this beautiful hall - Wilton's Music Hall - I witnessed the captivating Conor O'Brien of Villagers. I kind of entranced by him. His voice filled the room which such control and tenderness; and he can write a bloody good song - so inspiring:

I got to witness this kick-ass dance battle. Sofiabulous and Anna Ninja shattered my understanding of Waacking. I'm a complete amateur, and haven't been trained in any dance style, but I've watched a lot of stuff over the years, and these women are stupidly good. You know when your brain can't process a movement or a sequence? How did they do that? Why is their body making such shapes? How can they whip their hair to the beat without causing whiplash? I asked myself these questions and many more. The last few minutes (from 3:50 onwards) made my night, and the tune is toooo hard:

I'm expecting tomorrow to be an interesting day, as my amazing friend Mode de la Minx will be taking a few test shots of me for my EP cover - EXCITED! All those years of watching America's Next Top Model better pay off. I better remember my angles and smyes (I'm not sure if that's the correct elision of "smile with your eyes".) So, hopefully the next post will detail the day and I might even post a snippet of one of my tracks.


Until the next post - xx

Happily (Almost) Broke, Looking Forward to Being "Comfortable"

I'm FREEEEEEEEEEEEE. I vow to never return to retail-limbo. A bold statement, I know. But I'd rather do a lot of things than return to the-store-that-shall-not-be-named. I look forward to becoming a hustler, on the grind, chasing that paper, getting that cheddar (did I make that one up?). Hey, I'm just ready to express myself, make a bit of noise, get crunk on stage, plus anything else that'll make me feel good. (LOL, every time I type or say "feel good" it reminds me of Halle Berry in Monster's Ball - what a scene...so uncomfortable.)

I just wanted to expel all of that info. So, from hence forth I shall be telling myself this every single day:

Until the next post - xx

Fish 'n' Shit

Reading that title back reminds me of how dirty my mouth can be...oh well.

So, I was on the bus yesterday - a really smelly and foul east London bus - when I received a text. Now, this text was unnecessary, and annoying, and stupid, and I would've liked to punch its sender in the face, but I'm neither violent (much) nor up for hurting someone I really care about. If I didn't care about them, then they wouldn't have my number, so the situation wouldn't occur, and I wouldn't be angry, so I wouldn't want to punch them. But I'm even angry now thinking about it. I'd need a decade or more to discuss the back story, in order for you to understand why the contents had no right to waste ten seconds of my life. I'm not going there.

Anyway, after reading the text I tried to calm down - conscious breathing and all that shizz. As I was doing so, my ears picked up on what the couple sitting behind me were discussing. Fish and chips. They were chatting about how much they love fish and chips. And it made me laugh. I was still fuming, but I had to giggle at what was happening. It's like when you walk into a conversation and catch a random word or phrase out of context. It sounds ridiculous, sexual, random, etc., and ultimately you find it funny. Until this point, I'd never thought of fondling such situations. So next time someone pisses me off, or my brain goes on a negative rampage, I'm gonna breathe and eavesdrop on a conversation to give me some much needed satisfaction. Chances are it could make my state worse, causing me to erupt. Or it could be so humorous that all my cares and worries in the world are completely and utterly forgotten, and simmer, and simmer, until one day thoughts start to bubble inside of me, days into weeks, into months, until I'm diagnosed with a mental condition. But let's be positive people! That may never happen.


The fish 'n' chips couple have inspired me to make a list of the ten best fish and chips shop names:

10)

9)

8)

 7)

6)

5)

 



4)

3)

2)

1)

Mmmmmmm...I'm hungry now.

Until the next post - xx

"Allow Me to Reintroduce Myself..."

Handed in my two weeks' notice. Today. Score!

I'm not gonna get into the many events that have led me to leave my slightly-above-minimum-wage retail job, without another job lined up, a "back up plan" or a few hundred pounds in the bank. Let's just say I endured it for as long as I could, financed a few trips abroad and a teacher training course, met many beautiful people, and learned how to manage a stupid amount of shit (not actual shit - stock, I worked in a stockroom), with limited space; and I'm probably a more organised person. Ultimately, lots of choices have brought me to this point. I'm scared shitless, but it doesn't matter. Not knowing what's going to happen to me in a few weeks, or a few months from now is oddly exhilarating. I have mild "freak out" moments, worrying about everything that could possibly happen to me, but I suppose that is to be expected. I've never done this before. Shit - I've been working practically non-stop since the age of sixteen, alongside studying. I'm tired. I'm tired of a this Groundhog day lifestyle that I've slipped into. The bottom line is......THE FEAR OF STAYING WHERE I AM IS MORE DAUNTING THAN THE FEAR OF LEAPING INTO THE UNKNOWN (paraphrased and stolen from John C. Parkin...I think. Check out his F *ck It books. He's a funny guy.)

In light of this liberating event (pretentious much?), I shall be caressing, and nurturing, and exposing myself on this blog. No, not like that. Mentally, spiritually? Regularly! I might as well. And I'll start to incorporate my love of music - DUH. Do you often wonder how one can be so foolish? I make music, I talk about music with my peers -  a lot, and I've never used this blog to discuss that. Silly Mingo. Anyway, enough backtracking. Sooooooo...be prepared to read about my escapades, and music, and things that make me laugh, and anything really. YAY!

I'm off to eat some melon...

Until the next post - xx

Ye' Old Folk

I was supposed to post something this week, and last week, and maybe the week before...who knows? But, hopefully someone out there cares. Anyway, "today Matthew, I'm going to be" talking about aging. (LOL, I almost typed "angina".) I've never been extremely concerned about aging. I always got annoyed when people suggested that it's rude to ask a woman's age. I'm TWENTY FIVE! So what? An age isn't something to be afraid of, disgusted by *HUFF*. It all probably comes from society, and advertising, and Hollywood, and blah blah blah. So, I've felt like this for as long as I can remember, but in the last week there have been two events that have made me shriek: "FUCK! I'm aging. How hilariously serious."

Firstly, last week, my ten year old sister scurried into my bedroom, interested in - as usual - what music I was blasting out of my speakers. On this occasion it was a Brandy tune off her debut album - possibly "Baby". My sister liked the song, asked me how old she was when she sang it etc etc. At first, I responded with single words - 'cause kids annoy me sometimes - why so many questions? After five minutes, I became a talking 90s R 'n' B Encyclopedia, jumping from Youtube video to Youtube video, solo artist to groups, and back again. My ramble lasted a good hour: "That's Blackstreet - they sang "No Diggity" - you know that tune, right?", "that's Teddy Riley - he's a producer", "that's Mase - he's a pastor now - he was tight with P. Diddy when he was Puff Daddy", "that's Mya - she's a trained dancer", and on and on. I went in deep, not just giving her common crap, but talking about record labels, where the singers grew up, release dates and what they contributed to the genre. I even showed her the dance moves to each video, whilst singing along, and kept adding "when I was your age." Man, if that isn't the behaviour of an "elder", then I don't know what is.

Secondly....WISDOM TEETH. Now, I could tell you almost anything about Ancient Egypt or Greece, recite every lyric to every Missy Elliott song, and quote a gazillion lines from Simpsons' episodes - name the episode and I'll know a funny line. But until a few days ago I had no idea what wisdom teeth were! I've heard people complain about their wisdom teeth, and I figured they were, indeed, teeth, but my teacher only spoke of incisors, molars and canines, not these teeth of wisdom.
I asked a colleague and he gave me the low down. Then I asked one of my best mates, and she told me horror stories about how much her's have hurt, become infected, how the NHS charge up to £400 to take them out because they're thieves, and that her mum has only just had her's taken out after - hmmm - 30 YEARS! Fuck me! Fuck me, majorly. I didn't want that - none of that. But I had a nasty feeling that a wisdom tooth was popping itself out of my gums, I could feel it slightly clawing at the side of my mouth. Fuck me (again), I thought. I should go to the dentist. The dentist that I haven't seen since '05, the dentist that's discarded my records because I haven't seen him since '05. Predicting  how the world/God/the universe works, I thought I'd probably have to have a procedure that would make me bankrupt, cause me a lot of pain, get me addicted to painkillers, and teach me to not place my oral check-ups as an almost non-existent-priority, under bleaching my bum hole. (Gosh, I have no interest in doing that, and I'm not even sure if it's necessary. Hold up - do brown people even do that? Would mine turn a lighter shade of brown? 50 shades of brown? Resemble white chocolate? I'm gonna Google that shit.) To much surprise, my dentist praised me on my brushing technique and announced that I have THREE wisdom teeth. The one that's being a bitch has almost finished forming and there's no need to get any taken out, any time soon. Aren't I lucky? And wise, perhaps?

That's Some Scary Shit!

 I was ranting to my colleague/fellow soundtrack-enthusiast/friend about something - I can't remember what. Actually, I think it was about how another colleague, who I really don't know, tried to make a stupid joke at my expense, whilst I was tired, overworked and fucking hungry. NOTE TO EVERYONE: Don't approach me when I'm hungry, unless you're presenting me with food, because I will ignore your stupid banter, and I will roar at you. KMT. Anyway, in the heat of the rant I must've gotten all bog-eyed, which prompted her to gawk at me saying, "if I didn't know you, you'd scare me." I'm not gonna lie, I was offended. I don't think I'm scary. I mean - I don't think I look scary. Plus side, the comment got me thinking about what scares me. Here's my top - and to my knowledge, only - 5:


5) OSTRICHES

They're not the most ferocious, but rah, they can run. Years ago I watched When Animals Attack, with my big bro - his idea of course - and there was a clip of an ostrich running after a jeep and pecking at the passengers. From that moment, I knew I hated them, hated them a lot. And when Kevin Hart did  a skit about them, I didn't feel like such a weirdo. Someone else feels the same *EXHALE* I just can't get over their proportions: teeny-weeny heads on long-arse skinny necks springing from big, round, feathery bodies, sitting on dangly legs - URGH. For those of you who don't know about their Bolt-like skills, check this out:

"Run, Forest. Run!"

4) MUSCLES

Ay! This ain't sexy. It really isn't sexy. Whenever a dude is hench, anything he holds in his hands looks super small. Imagine him holding a backpack, a can of Coke, a pocket diary, or even a lollipop. Their proportions start to look fucked up as well (am I obsessed with proportions?). Especially their arms. They end up looking really short, ending at their hips. Nah, I can't handle it...all those veins...a massive neck! This dude is clearly a bodybuilder, so it's his profession. But I'd rather have a scrawny baker for husband than this dude.


 3) CAPYBARAS

THE BIGGEST RODENTS IN THE WORLD. I found it very disturbing searching for a picture of this...this...thing. I actually might go and throw up in a second. You lot might not think it's anything to be scared about, but...ummm, you obviously haven't seen recorded footage of it. It's not right! It's not right! Rats shouldn't be that big. I'm preparing myself for when I visit Brazil. I have a feeling I'll accidently come across one. I don't wanna write about it anymore.


 2) PRISON

I don't EVER want to end up in prison. I've watched too many prison films. I've cried watching too many prison films. Shawshank Redemption, The Green Mile, Sleepers, and has anyone seen the Korean flick Sympathy for Lady Vengeance? Some nasty business happens in the prison scene. Even Life with Eddie Murphy and Martin Lawrence had sad undertones. 

I don't think I've ever done anything illegal, and I don't intend to, so I should be okay as...long as no one stitches me up (that would take the piss). My fear grew worse when I watched a certain episode of The Boondocks:

I don't fear anal rape, per se, I just fear anything that could happen to me in prison. I have a small frame, no upper body strength, and I don't like physical violence. BUT WAIT! I can run. If I have to, I can run really really fast. Although, that probably won't help me in prison. I figure there wouldn't be many places to run to *SIGHS*

 DRUM ROLL PLEASE.....

 1) HUMAN-TESTING-RESULTING-IN-ZOMBIE-APOCALYPSE

Think 28 Days Later and (somewhat) Resident Evil. My theory is: YOU FUCK WITH NATURE, AND NATURE WILL FUCK WITH YOU. Stop all of this I AM GOD business, trying to engineer "new" life. I hope people don't become zombies, but I think it's very likely. And I really hope I'm not around to see it happen. I won't have patience for people who'd act all stupid and selfish during an apocalypse. Imagine it! They'd be some fool who'd try to save themselves by throwing a baby in front of a zombie parade or something. Cold-blooded! I've watched too many zombie films to not know how to survive, and avoid idiot people. Cha!

Ja'maican Me Laugh

I'M BACK...AGAIN...AGAIN. There are a few reasons why I've been absent. You know, life is like a box of chocolates, and sometimes you get a great assortment you're familiar with, like a Quality Street box, or a shitty one that you've never heard of that was given to you by a family member, that contains Turkish Delight, and you've hated every variety of Turkish Delight that you've ever tried, and you pick up a sweet without knowing it's Turkish Delight, and you shove it into your gob, and almost throw up when you realise it's Turkish Delight. Does that make sense? Well, my life has been like that. I know it sounds a bit grim, but it's not - most of the time.

Anyway, on my way home from work today I had a grand ol' chuckle. Why? Because a chatty Jamaican man tried to chat me up. I'll set the scene. The dude looked like a cross between:

Vybz Kartel

Elephant Man



?

See the common features here? Drowsy eyes! Except for the last guy. I just added him because he's wearing a silly string vest, a silly weed emblem, and a silly gesture. KMT. I couldn't take him seriously, such as silly cliche. Now, I don't want to cuss anyone, but all I'll say is, my eyes can't comfortably absorb Mr. Vybz's and Sir Elephant's appearance.

Back to this guy and his wooing strategy. "Excuse me Miss Natural. Can I ask you a question?" WTF! Miss Natural? You don't know how "natural" I am. I was wearing an oversized woolen coat. I could have fake boobs under it, a pig's heart, or a prosthetic leg. Of course he was referring to how I wear my hair *SIGH* Every now and again, some fool tries to use it as part of his pick-up line. Apparently, it means that I'm down to earth, comfortable with what God has given me, a "real woman", and it even signifies that I am a woman of "virtue". But this guy took it one step further. Following me, he announced, "Can I talk to you for a second? I just wanted to compliment you on your natural hair. It's so rare to see women wearing their hair like you do. It is only when a woman wears her hair in its natural state that a man and woman can really be open with each other, and know each other." Seriously? Dude must think that he's Buddha, trying to step to me like that. It didn't flatter me at all. Flamboyant, preachy and an unnecessary thing to come out of a stranger's mouth. He obviously wanted to make an impression.

He caught up with me and when I faced him, my teeth clenched my bottom lip. I wanted to laugh. Out loud. In his face. Not because of his face (well, a little bit), but because he had this smug expression, and I knew he was about to annoy the shit out of me. He bombarded me with compliments: "You look after yourself well", "You're a good person inside", "You look like a smart and confident woman", "I know you work hard, don't let anyone distract you from what you need to do", and so forth. I didn't hear many of them because I was still trying to stop myself from laughing in his face. I know I could've walked away, but I was intrigued at how MUCH he liked to talk *HUFF* Now...I'm fully aware that I talk an awful lot, but if a guy is trying to date me/court me/attract me/whatever, and talks more than me, then I'm not interested. Nope. 

So this guy showered me with grand guru affirmations, and I waited for him to spit out the wretch'ed question, "Can I have your number, please? I want to get to know you better." 

   "FUCK OFF - NO WAY!" Is what I could've said to him, but I didn't, 'cause I can be polite sometimes. "No. Because I'm not going to call you, so there's no point." I didn't want to give him false hope.

    He responded, "I'll give you my number then."

     I wasn't going to back down, so I repeated, "I'm not going to call you." He was warned, but continued to insist. I typed his number into my phone and deleted it when I got home.

He said a lot of other crap about his four kids by different women, about the fact that he's 40 frigging years old, about how wise he's grown over the last few years, about he's eldest son being five years younger than me, BLAH BLAH BLAH. Did I mention that he tried to chat me up in my local Tesco Express around two years ago? Must be fate...

Not Quite Oprah

Strolling home I saw the local crackhead, well, one of them, loitering outside the local drug dealer's house (one of many, unfortunately). I watched him, watching me, sniggering at him, as he paced around all edgy, like crackheads do. As I passed him I thought, "crackheads really piss me off!" Now...I'm not ashamed to admit that I, like most people in the Western world, am privy to a bit of prejudice. People with mono-brows make me anxious, I avoid boarding buses rammed with OAPs, as they often smell a "certain way"; when someone has food particles on their clothes, I think they're a bit dirty, like rats, kind of...OTT?

So, I kind of went on a mental tangent about why I hate crackheads, and everything they stand for (drugs and...getting money for more drugs). Then it dawned on me...I'M TURNING INTO JEREMY KYLE!

I don't know of anyone else who screams at the low lives of the nation with such unwavering passion. He really gets into it, right? Maybe it arouses him. Maybe I'll go on his show and ask him. Maybe I'll scream in his face, make him do a lie detector test, bully him into having "after care sessions" with that Graham dude. At the brink of bursting a brain vessel he yells at his guests' to get anger management help. Ahhh Jeremy, tut tut. I wonder where your efforts come from. A calm and honest place? Do you yearn for moral cleansing? A Great Britain populated by nuclear families, hard-working men, and obedient teens? Possibly. But I don't warm to you. I don't believe your passion. You're not quite Oprah enough.

I don't want to become like Jeremy Kyle. So, to avoid such a fate, I will learn to be more of a listener, than a talker; I will consider the wider context, and not merely regard a crackhead as just a crackhead; I will board a bus full of old people, and not assume that I will die from the stench. I WILL strive to be anything but...Jeremy Kyle.

His guests have such broad vocabularies: