Mr Hands' boundless energy is a wonder to behold, and there's something wholly appropriate about the entire ritual: a more accomplished parody of rock music than the likes of Steve Coogan or Christopher Guest ever quite managed. With extra bong hits.
We have plane hijackings, riots with farmers, and bassists escaping in the n.u.d.e.
Cider with Roadies illustrates that living the life of a rock journalist isn't real life, rather a life lived through others, a life at one remove.
The 7/7 bombings and their failed follow up are presented as the ultimate 'blowback'. They are the price paid for a deeply flawed policy of alliances with Islamic radicals based on values of chivalry and trustworthiness, values that are fundamentally incompatible with the terrorist's way of life.
Now, where's my gimp mask...
Just when did Sub Pop change from being the home of grunge into an American Sarah Records?
I'm sure that Bill Drummond is an awfully nice chap. He obviously does lots of amusing things. But, there again, lots of other people do amusing things as well. Without feeling the need to publicise their actions in a book, dressed up with artistic pretensions.
While fabric and cloth were prized possessions, there were flags and banners in abundance that no-one seemed to want anymore. With a bit of dexterity they could be turned into football kits once you removed the swastikas
After you've worked through yet another list of Scottish towns where the drummer once lived in/visited/heard about once the mind begins to wonder exactly when, um, there's going to be something a bit, well, meaningful?
We are honoured to showcase the writing of legendary Manchester vibe merchant, Cath Aubergine who makes a graceful debut in Incendiary this month; talking about her love for all things vinyl.. Rock on Cath!
When I think of 'punk' I think of Johnny Rotten sneering through 'Pretty Vacant', Elms probably thinks of the brand of shoe and make of jeans that 'real' punks wore. Hmmm... he is not winning me over is he?
This is what makes up the bulk of the film: the British wave of punk bands, the fuss they caused in the UK, the catalyst they were in the US to impressionable young things like Henry Rollins. And this is what makes the film a bit of a disappointment for me.
..things never seem to be quite so simple these days. Pubs have crèches in them, petrol stations try to be mini-supermarkets and so on: everything becomes blurred.
I'm sure every band didn't love him or that the relationship between Peel and the bands he championed wasn't always so respectful.
There are moments where you are drawn to compare Dig with that other great rockumentary, This is Spinal Tap. Except that this is no spoof.
It defies categories. It's a horrible noise. It's cut-ups to the Nth dgree. Part of it is just like Frank Zappa's Lumpy Gravy (the funny bit, thank the Goddess.)
"He vandalised cigarette ads with a giant letter K and in his temple every Saturday night, dressed as a shaman, he performed weird anti-smoking rituals while the crowd chanted ‘Bram! bram! Ugga! ugga! Bram! bram! Ugga! ugga!”"
Ryan's other experiences in the market are less pleasant, however. He suffers sunburn and complains loudly when guitarist Brad Rice plays a cruel trick on him. He wonders aloud, (one must say, rather pensively), about why everyone is staring at him and calling him names. Who would possibly do such a beastly thing?
"I had come to discover that my favourite form of entertainment was just mixing everything and then seeing what happened to my body. " - Nikki Sixx