Dial: Revenge

Have just received my free copy of Tonic magazine. Designed to promote Scwheppes, it was publicised in last saturday's Guardian and there was an excerpt in the next day's Observer. I can't tell whether it's a one-off magazine or whether it will be available in the futire. Anthony Bourdain graces the cover. His article can be read here. He discussed his favourite places to go in Manhattan for food and drink. It's hilarious as you might expect:

I'm a New Yorker, so it should come as no surprise that I think my city is the greatest in the world. I like living in the city where so many of my favourite films take place, where nearly every street corner reminds me of some piece of lurid personal or criminal history. 'Crazy Joe Gallo was shot here... Big Paul Castellano whacked there... Used to score there... That place used to be a speakeasy... My old methadone clinic... That used to be an after-hours club...' It may not be the most beautiful city. It's certainly not the nicest city (though it is, sadly, getting nicer). And it's certainly not the easiest city to live in. One minute you're on top of the world, the next - when you wish to light up a smoke at the bar and can't, for instance - you're wallowing in abject misery and self-pity, unable to decide between murder and suicide. But it is exactly those famously manic highs and low lows that make New York like nowhere else. I mean, you can talk London, or Paris, or Barcelona all you like but we're open all night. I can pick up the phone around midnight and get just about anything I want - Chinese food, Lebanese, sushi, pizza, a video, a bag of seedless hydro or a human head - delivered to my apartment in about 25 minutes. Didn't I say we were the greatest?

Sneer at hot dogs all you want but a well-made wiener is a thing of beauty. Actually, even a crap hot dog can be a beautiful thing if you're eating it at Yankee Stadium washed down with warm, watery beer (and if the Yanks are winning). I'll go so far as to say that you will never understand New York, or New Yorkers, until you've eaten too many bad hot dogs and drunk too much piss beer at a night game at the stadium. Similarly, Rudy's Bar and Grill on 9th Avenue serves crap hot dogs too. Free ones. But ambiance counts for a lot and, after a lot of mid-afternoon drinks (never go at night) listening to the magnificent jukebox, watching the daytime drinkers slump over onto the bar, those light-bulb-warmed weenies suddenly seem like a good idea. If you actually want a quality dog, the best is at Papaya King on East 86th Street. Be sure to enjoy it with a frothy delicious papaya drink - and if you put ketchup on your dog I will fucking kill you.

Unbelievably, the magazine features Mechu and Apres in its guide to the best bars in Britain. Equally unbelievable is that both of the above subjects were mentioned recently in this post. Ok, maybe it's not that unbelievable...

Take a look at the Million Dollar Homepage. This guy, a student from Wiltshire, has created a site where you can pay for pixels to advertise your site/product or whatever. There are a million pixels and obviously, if he sells them all, he will be a millionaire. He came up with the idea in order to make some money to fund his studies. Looks like he'll do more than that. His blog is great; the surprise at the success of his idea is really funny and he's getting a little overwhelmed by it all. What an idea...

Listening to:

Bob Dylan: Desire

Mogwai: Rock Action

Rock Action incorporates bristling distortion, propulsive drums, and electronic textures similar to Tortoise's Standards -- particularly on the opening track "Sine Wave" -- but the album's most remarkable moments revisit and reinvent more traditional sounds. Buoyed by lush string arrangements and Fridmann's detailed, warm production, the brooding ballads "Take Me Somewhere Nice" and "Dial: Revenge" couldn't be further from "rock action," but they display the album's refreshing restraint and immediacy. In particular, "Dial: Revenge" -- so named because "dial" is the Welsh word for "revenge" -- benefits from Rhys' emotive yet cryptic vocals in his mother tongue, but the general emphasis on vocals adds to the album's organic, emotive feel. Nowhere is this more evident than the nine-minute epic "2 Rights Make One Wrong": With its lush layers of brass, strings, banjo, guitars, and vocals, it sounds like the rock-oriented cousin of Jim O'Rourke's pocket symphonies.

Mogwai: Happy Songs For Happy People

Indeed, more than any other Mogwai work, sheer bliss appears to be this album's singular aim: even the amp-busting crescendo of "Ratts of the Capital" matches its dark metal pomp with chiming orchestra bells and starburst lead-guitar lines. No sudden banjo interludes or no guest vocals jar with the album's slow passage towards its conclusion

Frank Sinatra and the Count Basie Orchestra: Live at the Sands

Peaches: Fatherfucker

By continuing along her own path she shows the world she is not just a novelty act; and with an album that's as energetic, uncompromising and as galvanising as its predecessor, anyone thinking she was going to clean up her act to appease detractors needs to think again. The album unfolds in punchy bursts of home-cooked computer beats (from hip-hop to electro to dancehall), raw power chords and sneering attitude, with Iggy Pop and Taylor Savvy on board to help out. It's the candour and energy that Peaches invests in her music that moves it clear away from cliché