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Letters to the Editor

The Stool Pigeon, PO Box 52129, London, E2 7XY
editor at thestoolpigeon dot co dot uk

Sir, a dirty conscience propels me to come clean regarding the incident of August 16 2008 whence I stirred you, the editor, with a desperate-sounding phone call around 4am, pleading for a place to stay for the remainder of the night. I was not "lost alone in London" as I had claimed; this was merely a ruse to find a nearby indoor place in which to screw a cute, though slightly batty, young woman I had accidentally picked up following a very drunken stag night in Bloomsbury. She lived two hours away, I couldn't work out how to get to the house where my weekend accoutrements were (Stoke Newington) and your place was the closest on which I thought I might get away with calling in on.

I remain genuinely sorry for both disturbing and misleading you, but primal urges had been roused during a good hour's staggering around central London's business districts looking for landmarks I recognised, whilst the fleshy strumpet dragged me into doorways every hundred yards or so to jump up and kiss me, wrapping her legs around my waist. It was not until I found myself practically dry-humping her from behind (against a bus shelter near Liverpool Street, in view of a police van crawling by) that I realised it was going to have to be your grubby downstairs futon or a jail cell following an indecent exposure charge; and so I lied to you and hailed the next passing cab with instruction to Shoreditch before my common sense returned or erection subsided, whichever was sooner.

I did actually get her into your house, too - you just didn't see her when I woke you a second time to toss down your door keys from your bedroom way up on the third floor. I snuck her into the lounge as quietly as possible and told her to wait while I used the upstairs bathroom but when I returned from my 'gentleman's wash', she'd vanished without trace. I feared that she'd possibly robbed you at first, but nothing was missing so I suspect she'd suddenly become spooked, though I'm not entirely sure why after having seemed so keen on the street. Perhaps she was a strictly 'outdoors' type. Still, should the girl happen to chance across this paper and this letter, I'd just like her to rest assured that the two bananas I'd bought from the all-night corner shop were only to eat. Honest.

With sincere apologies,
Name and address withheld

Sir, great issue, as always. However, forgive my bulging red eyes and frothing mouth... Page 67.

Surely it's a criminal offence to call Dexy's Midnight Runners 'one hit wonders'. 'Geno' was a number one too, and they released one of the best debut albums ever: Searching For The Young Soul Rebels.

Sorry, I was compelled to write as that was, and still is, one of my favourite LPs.

Cheers with a smile,
Sean Hitchins

Sir, your interview with Ethan of Crystal Castles was refreshing; definitely a different take on their dynamic than I've read elsewhere.

To be honest, I think Ethan is just trying to take care of Alice. He has said in other interviews that he thinks of her as his little sister and I don't doubt that. They met supposedly when she was 15.

Tao,
Copenhagen
Denmark

Sir, as the editor of a respectable music paper, I was hoping you could tell me what the creeping Christ is going on with Pendulum. It wasn't long ago that they were the most exciting thing to happen to drum'n'bass in years; it seems like only yesterday that I was watching them DJ in the back room of the Brixton Telegraph, so squashed on MDMA that I confused my girlfriend for someone else while we were having sex in the toilet. Why am I now hearing them piped through the in-store stereo of Maplin's, or sandwiched between Girls Aloud and Gabriella Cilmi on prime time radio? Why are they recording Coldplay covers on the Radio 1 Live Lounge and selling Pendulum-branded wristbands, baseball caps and hoodies on their website?

God knows they were never without fault; we overlooked their heavy metal background and goatees so enormous that the only advantage would be an ability to take the whole thing in hand and rip it off, chin skin included; we forgave them their Australian heritage and Rob's no-doubt-related insistence on singing preposterous lyrics ("Hold your colours against the wall / When they take everything away"), his voice the retarded spoils of a gay union between Fred Durst and the whiney one from Linkin Park. We forgave them because of their moments of genius; tracks like 'Vault', 'Another Planet' and 'Back To You', which would atomise dancefloors to this day if DJs hadn't ritually burned their copies in shame.

Such vehemence is understandable; shunned by both leftfield and mainstream alike, dnb enthusiasts have spent the last decade forming a coalition of the willing, a 'for us, by us' mentality and a love for the kind of bowel-bothering basslines that would create brain bubbles in the uninitiated. No one's thinking about what will look good on car adverts, or fill the dancefloors at school discos; no one, it seems, except Pendulum.

Now we have the pleasure of that cross-dressing cold sore Zane Lowe rabbiting on about how they're the best thing since self-lighting barbeque coals, and all manner of morbidly-confused, Clearasil-drinking Skins extras mobbing their 'secret' MySpace shows and banging on about how much they love dnb, when in fact they've been listening to Dance Music For People Who Can't Be Arsed To Get Into Dance Music: a genre championed by the likes of Fatboy Slim and The Chemical Brothers (both of whom, it should be said, have the credibility of Burial compared to these cunts). Forcing every member of Pendulum goatee-first into the business end of a wood-chipper might just make a noise that real dnb aficionados could dance to; Rob's ridiculous sawn-off synth guitar, sadly, will not.

Until that day it's the humble drum heads, huddled in tearful clusters around their bass bins, who are left feeling the most violated. Pendulum have taken an enormous corporate cock in the arse, and by dint of association, we're made to feel like we have too.

Sincerely,
Harry Ash Scud

Dead Kids at Pigeon night

Some lovely person put loads of footage from the Dead Kids show at the Pigeon Concrete and Glass night up on YouTube. Here are two good ones.

Special prize for spotting Pigeon columnist Son of Dave in the pit. Clue: hat, nice hat.

Concrete and Glass

Who's going to the Concrete and Glass festival in East London tomorrow and Friday?

Come swing by The Stool Pigeon nights at Catch, 22 Kingsland Road. We’ve got all the best bands and DJs.

Not got a ticket but just happen to be in the area riding a fixed-wheel bike in tight jeans? Come and join us for a German sausage. That's right, we're throwing a FREE German Sausage Party, Friday October 3, 5pm-7pm, on the Arnold Circus bandstand, which is here. Everyone welcome.

Issue 018 out

Mental last few weeks here at Pigeon HQ, but there's a new issue out and about all over the UK. We're just back from delivering - 3,000 freakin' miles in two vans over the last 10 days. Road hogs.

The issue will be online in its entirety within a week, so hold tight good readers of Uzbekistan.

Needs to get a job (5, 3)

Pic by Siobhain Ma

Our very brilliant crossword creator, Ed Mugford, told us about the existence of this cute pic of the Noah and The Whale boys attempting the Pigeon puzzle. Underneath there was a comment from 'Silly Moo': "Oh my god, I have totally done those, they annoy the fuck out of me, it took me over an hour to try and finish it in Fopp and then I gave up."

Not for everyone it seems, The Stool Pigeon crossword.

Free Dave Cloud download

Oh how we care, so here's a resplendent version of 'Drunken Sailor' by Dave Cloud and The Sea Shanty Choir, kindly supplied by Fire Records.

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Dave Cloud and The Sea Shanty Choir - Drunken Sailor

Factoids: Dave Cloud, from Nashville, is the fella in the white Stetson in those beer ads doing the TV and print media rounds at the moment. He's great, so we did a big feature on him recently. He tells cheap jokes. What does Snoop Doggy Dogg get his clothes clean with? Bllllleeeeeeaaaaach.