Prince: my tribute

My Brother has just Whatsapped me a link to a story confirming Prince’s death from an overdose of painkillers. His commentary was, “What a cliche.” I can’t say I see it that way necessarily. If you’ve ever had to endure persistent pain any kind of relief seems like a blessing. I’m biased though. I thought Prince was amazing and so naturally I’ll always cut the brother a little slack.

I didn’t start out a fan though. The first time I encountered Prince I was in the bedroom of my then girlfriend’s girlfriend who lived over by Lyme Park in a very swanky abode. We four - her boyfriend was there too - had spent a lovely summer afternoon chatting and sipping lemonade. 

At some point we repaired to my girlfriend’s girlfriend’s bedroom to flick through her music collection… It was clear the afternoon was winding to a close - no-one has music taste as good as mine - and so I tuned out. I remember wondering how we were going to make the journey back to Hazel Grove: hoping that my girlfriend’s girlfriend’s Mum, who looked extraordinarily like Dudley Moore, would give us a lift, when there was a scream. A prolonged, piercing note which made me wince. What the-? It was my girlfriend emoting dramatically having unearthed a rare Prince single, namely Gotta Stop (Messin’ About). 

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygodi’lldoanythingi’llkissyourfeetpleeeeeeaaaaaseletmehavethisilovehimilovehimilovehim!” I have had many occasions to look back on my relationship with this unhinged sociopath and experience regret and not a little embarrassment. I would say this is one of the 5 highlights from that particular reel. My girlfriend’s girlfriend looked puzzled and appalled, prised my girlfriend’s clawing fingers from her left ankle and eventually said, “Yes. Sure. Have it,” shooting me a look which seemingly asked the question: “Are you that desperate for regular sex?” I was.

On the long drive home - Our Dud was a particularly cautious driver - I examined the sleeve and was repulsed by the fop in the black, groin length stay-ups, posing pouch and red scarf under his black jacket. He had brown eyes like those of a baby deer and ostentatiously relaxed hair. He looked ridiculous, but for some reason my girlfriend was still shaking with excitement, her chest heaving with emotion.

A few months later we were lying on her bed and a song came on with a truly thrilling guitar solo which threw shards of light about the darkened room. I sat up. “Who’s this?”

“Prince.”

“Are you fucking joking?”

“No. And he’s playing all of the other instruments…”

“Hmmmm…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

A grudging respect for his musicianship was flowering, but I still had a pathological aversion to this weirdo. Perhaps a year or so later and the short-arse was playing Wembley. Fine… I’ll go if you want. Same damned thing. She’s normal. She’s normal. Prince finally appears on stage and she loses her shit. Like completely and utterly. She’s elbowing past other concert goers and security guards to get to the front whilst screaming as if someone is ripping her left ankle through the top of her skull. 

I sigh, gather her abandoned effects from her seat and make my way more politely forward. I can see her form bopping away down the front. Somehow she’s hopped a security barrier and she’s having the time of her life. I look around the venue and everyone else is too. I look at the stage and Prince, in an effortlessly stylish yellow suit with oversized buttons is doing his best James Brown impression as he teases rhythmic chords out of a Hammond organ. Occasionally he’ll pirouette, perform a push-me-pull-you with the mic stand before dropping into the splits as he cues a horn break. Holy fuck!

I look around Wembley Arena. 10,000 people are smiling as they dance to a non-stop, machine-tooled groove. It’s simply the best thing I’ve ever seen. Ever experienced. Transcendental. Magickal. He slows the proceedings just long enough for us to bear witness to him bringing his microphone to a shuddering orgasm. Oh, Lawd… I was officially a fan. I eventually split up with the crazy screamer, but for a while the only thing that kept us together as a couple was a shared affection for Prince.

Unhappy at never receiving a thin penny for either recording or shows and reluctant to tour again under the same fund-free agreement, Jayne County dispensed with my services as drummer - using the N word as the ‘phone was slammed down. I didn’t care. The live reviews confirmed what was glaringly obvious: she was the weakest link in her own band. I wanted to do something else and got together with Peter Turner who was as into KISS as me and we fulfilled our Paul Stanley and Gene Simmons songwriting fantasy. After that I played with a guitarist who was in The Fall for two weeks and then toured Europe with Vicious Rumours. Upon my return I wanted to see if I pull off a Prince and do it all on my own instead of relying on other people whose priorities and values weren't aligned with mine. 

I borrowed a keyboard and a drum machine and wrote a couple of songs which were very Prince-like in nature, drawing from his synth-heavy Minneapolis sound blueprint. One of the songs sounded like a riffed up version of Control by Janet Jackson, whilst the other was essentially a re-writing of Prince’s acclaimed B-Side, Irresistible Bitch. I took some birthday money and booked a day in what is now Courtyard Recording Studio. I played everything except the guitar which I brought in Peter Turner to play. As became de rigeur for Pete, any time he had to leave his bedroom to play his instrument he froze. It took him an unbelievable 2 and a half hours to lay down an 8 bar lead break. In order to finish the session I had to rush a little more than I wanted and cut some corners, but the lack of polish added a vibrance to the tunes which means they still sound pretty good today actually.

I searched around for musicians to bring the songs to life, which was pretty tough in Stockport, but I told everyone we were going to be so good as a live band that there was no way we wouldn’t get signed. They were my Revolution and we rehearsed hard, making sure we had harmonies, gang vocals and on point choreography which set us apart from every other band on the live circuit. We’d go down to London and blow away all these bands that we’d read about in the weekly music mags.

We started getting a lot of press ourselves and I whizzed a copy of the demo over to Dave Roberts at FM Revolver inviting him to a gig at The International. He came up to me afterwards beaming. “I’ve no idea how to describe what you do, but that’s the best gig I’ve seen in years.” He signed me on the spot. I was elated because they were the label that had released The Stone Roses’ Sally Cinnamon. So cool. 

We had a photo shoot for the EP. It was all a tad untidy with everyone dressed differently and disparately. Eventually Dave dismissed the band and instructed me to take my shirt off. That was the cover. The chaps and chapess who included: Gary on drums; my Brother on percussion; Des and Clifford on keys, Greg Curley - who I’d played with in Vicious Rumours - on guitar; Mark Pearson from Jayne County on bass; and a singer named Shairon who set her predatory sights on our ingenue drummer, were disgruntled. What can I say? I was a lithe adonis back then before the steroids (for health reasons) and the piling on of muscle, and my perfect form demanded to be captured for posterity. I didn’t see the irony at the time, but I had just become Prince on the cover of Gotta Stop (Messin’ Around).

The 3 song EP was supposed to serve as a teaser for the rip-roaring album which would feature all of my best songs including the first two songs I’d written and set closer Rock This House which ALWAYS brought the house down. The album was recorded at Twilight Studio in Salford, and sounded incredible. We'd slimmed down to a 4 piece with me handling drums and vocals and my brother playing keyboards and the live bottom end contrasted with the machine operated rhythms we'd had before. Typically, as we delivered the album to the label Dave got poached by Nude and there was no-one else at the label who got what we were doing. The lesson is, of course: never save your best stuff.

After that first Wembley gig I followed Prince and his work studiously. I saw him 15 or so times in concert and have all of his albums. Even the ultra rare Gold Nigga. When Wireless signed to EMI in addition to my pristine Beatles box set, Gordon managed to secure me a promo copy of Emancipation. 

Eventually, disillusioned with the lack of suitors and benefactors the band morphed into Shake Babies who became Damaged Gods and are now The Xtraordinary Gentlemen, but the blueprint has always been that laid down by Prince. The motivation to recreate that feeling I had when I slowly panned around Wembley Arena and then looked at the stage to watch Prince doing stuff I’ve never seen before and never will again. 

I had a quick scan of iTunes when I heard about Prince passing and found that FM Revolver had reissued the EP. Half the globe away he inspired me to believe that I could manifest a world from my own imagination and have musicians help me build a gleaming edifice that others would enjoy. 

The day after Prince’s passing my Bro’ and I (who have always channelled that louche Morris Day/Jerome Benton vibe) played our first TXG gig in ages supporting Professor Elemental and Cosmic Rays featuring Charlie Adlard (The Walking Dead). I didn’t tell anyone, but as we teased smiles from strangers and demanded their enthusiastic participation in creating a thoroughly immersive experience, that was my tribute to Prince: His Royal Badness.

Mark Two: The Pall Bearer's Lament

Sup, y'all? S'been a while...

So, a year ago I began the interview process for the position of Learning and Development Manager at Mark Two Distributors, purveyors of quality Kitchens and Bathrooms. The first interview, with the HR Manager and the Director Of Service Delivery went like a dream, due in no small part to my knowledge and experience; natural charm and easy wit; the use of some outstanding hypnotic language patterns; and how amazing I look in a three piece suit (in addition I've recently taken to wearing a pocket watch with chain. It has been suggested that the next logical step is a monocle. Now, I'm not saying that I'm ruling it out completely, but I'd rather be violated by a chainsaw).

The second interview was conducted once again by the Director Of Service Delivery and, this time, a Team Manager. It went even better than the first. I even managed to drag a Shakespeare quote from my gilded quiver - and it wasn't the one about the painted strumpet's front bottom either. On the way home I popped into ASDA to buy my answer to the question: If you were a drink, what drink would you be? Answer: Grapefruit and Lemonade. Natural, harsh bitterness tempered by a shot of luscious sweetness. I was shouldering my way through the front door as I received the call that I'd got the job.

I was so happy I performed a little jig which was, in essence, a crude facsimile of Michael Flatley's Riverdance. Man, I was pumped! This was an opportunity to shape an organisation's Learning Strategy. Essentially I was being handed a blank canvas which I could adorn with my professional musings on what Learning and Development should look like. Very different from my previous place of employment where I was managed by a failed stand-up comedian who chose to emphasise his comic inadequacy at each and every team gathering: "The dolphin of today's meeting is... No, wait. I mean porpoise. The porpoise of today's meeting is..." I'm not even joking. Neither was he. I mean, he was trying to, but... Whatever.

I strutted into Mark Two on the Monday and immediately regretted not wearing kevlar body armour and a combat helmet. I've compared my first day at Mark Two to the first beach scene in Saving Private Ryan. If I may, gentle reader, I'd like to amend the filmic reference to Tom Cruise's recent Edge Of Tomorrow instead, as the comparable beach landing scene in this movie takes it up a notch - featuring killer aliens who can warp space and time and eviscerate you at will. Sure, it was a blank canvas all right, but it was being held by a Grizzly Bear doing Crystal Meth. On a skateboard. Brandishing a Kalashnikov.

As a family business which had exploded into a multi-million pound turnover almost overnight, there were none of the processes or procedures in place which would ensure consistency. It was a free for all, and not in a George-Clinton-controlled-chaos kind of way, but a Miles-Davis-coked-out-of-his-mind-with-potato-chips-sticking-to-his-face-as-he-wails-away-in-the-key-of-D-minor kind of way. Utterly. Frightening. There was so much to do! My days were long and hard (easy there, Finbar!). I'd often pull twelve hour stints at my desk and when I got home I was  shattered. Drained. I could barely function. I was commissioned to write a screenplay which remains only 13/16ths finished.

I made an immediate impression: 2nd week in I was named Employee Of The Week which came with a VIP parking space (pic above. Astral moisturiser to the extreme left). My first meeting with the MD to relay my initial findings and outline my plan of attack was a little intimidating. He spent the whole of my presentation with his brow furrowed in a manner which was redolent of Mr. Bean trying to forecast the punchline to a joke he had never heard before in a foreign language. Afterwards the Director Of Service Delivery said, "That went really well. He really liked you." I was, like, are you kidding me? 

We moved into lovely new offices on Raikes Lane in January which were situated by the tip and recycling centre. The company's Vision and Values were stylishly graffiti'd by a local artist in black and red on the clean white walls. The concrete struts which jutted out from the walls were painted black and buzzwords such as "Care", "Enjoyment" and "Generous" were graffiti'd on them in white and red. The stench of burning waste was a constant mist seeping slowly into the building, but it was the smell of chips wafting up from the new canteen which truly offended the MD most, and so they were officially removed from the menu - save for a Friday when he wasn't in the office.

The fortunes of Mark Two, seemed to hit an up curve once we moved house. There was the perpetual hum of positivity about the place and the learning interventions, processes and structures I put in place were having a positive effect. I was tasked with bringing some of that gloss, glitter and sparkle to the Managers out in the field and my stock rose even further once I brought the house down at the Summer Conference. A short 6 weeks ago at the Director's Briefing - where the Directors stand before the whole business and give an update on the organisation's progress - I was asked how I thought things were going. I replied that though, ordinarily, I was far too consumed with my own monstrous ego to take an objective view of my surroundings, even I could see that we had come a long way from where we were when I initially joined.

Then, on the 4th of November, the MD announced that Tesco were pulling out of their agreement with Mark Two. Others may have popped on their rose tinted glasses, but I readied my escape pod. I updated my CV, zapped it off, attended an interview two days later and had the second one last Thursday where I had to give a presentation. I start on Monday.

The business officially folded on the 18th of November - a week before payday. There were two weeks of shifting rumour and swirling blame. Games of hangman abounded as we waited to hear what was happening. I spent my time helping colleagues with their CVs, ringing customers to give them updates on where they stood with the installation of their Kitchen or Bathroom and coaching the Customer Service Reps on what to say to seriously disgruntled customers.

There is no positive spin on close to 200 people being made redundant without pay a month before Christmas. It's horrible and I'm sure someone far better qualified than me will untangle the truth and ascertain that the situation could have been handled differently, but it doesn't change the fact that - apart from working on an adult chatline - this was the best job I've ever had with the nicest bunch of people I've ever worked with. That is what I will be taking with me from my time at Mark Two.

Much love to all of the wonderful people I bumped into and worked with. I shall see you on the beach. It's been immense, my gorgeous little ceramic coasters.

Á bientôt

xBx

Dragging Alan Moore From The Vaults: Watchmen 1998

Just a little curio for your amusement and beguilement. We're going all the way back to 1998 and a young Basil Creese Jr is idly pondering the cinematic future of his favourite graphic novel. I think he got it pretty much spot on. Well played, dear boy...

5 Reasons Why Alan Moore's Watchmen Will NEVER Be Made Into A Movie 

See that picture? That's Alan Moore. He's as eccentric as the photograph - which clearly evokes a less contemplative Rasputin - suggests. Shunning the gleam and shimmer of fame and celebrity he lives in Northampton, England. On his fortieth birthday he announced that he was a chaos magician. He worships the ancient Roman snake god, Glycon, which is actually a glove puppet masquerading as a minor deity. He's also a genius. Among Moore's impressive list of works are From Hell, V for Vendetta, Batman: The Killing Joke (a work which, Tim Burton has intimated, informed his 1989 Batman movie) the partially published pornographic tract, Lost Girls, and his recent novel, Voice of the Fire. Mr Moore is not just one of the finest writers in working in comics, he’s one of the finest writers ever, reinventing the comic book as a cutting-edge literary medium through the complex layering of symbolism, erudition and narrative. He has singlehandedly elevated what was once considered a gutter medium.

Arguably his most significant work is Watchmen, a groundbreaking graphic novel which has defined the genre. Written for adults it's a gritty, bleak work which succeeds in unmasking our superheroes' insecurities and neuroses. Released over a decade ago, it allowed mature and cerebral comics to slide into the focus of the mainstream and was named one of the 100 greatest novels by TIME Magazine.*

It was only to be expected that Hollywood would come sniffing around, but since its release in 1986 "the bible of graphic novels" has remained in Hollywood development hell. Here are the 5 reasons why I think, and hope, it will remain there.

5. It's A Comic Book

I do not mean this pejoratively, Watchmen is one of the most important works of art of the 20th century, but there is no escaping the fact that it is a comic book. It is not a novel. It is not a movie script. It is not a sequential collection of storyboards. It is a comic book. The fundamentals of its construction require us to engage with the story in a very specific manner. The nature of comics offers possibilities that aren't available in film. One can linger on each individual panel absorbing all of the information therein, and refer back to certain pages if the action references earlier events.

In a comic book the story unfolds before us as a living canvas, we bring our own interpretations to each aspect of the narrative. A film can never hope to address all of the subtleties and nuances inherent in this very different artform, instead it would simply drag you through the story at 24 frames per second not allowing you to pause and admire the scenery: its eye too literal and linear to allow the transfer of subtext and metaphor, or to describe the organic arc so beautifully crafted here by Moore.

The present capabilities of film special effects technology, so cruelly found wanting in the Spawn movie, couldn't possibly capture the physical complexities of a blue, shape-shifting, radioactive Dr Manhattan. At one point he teleports himself to Mars for a quiet sulk and constructs a glass palace designed as a clock mechanism. The technology hasn't been developed to portray this convincingly, and realistically won't ever be available. As if the Dr Manhattan dilemma weren't enough, there is also the question of how to recreate the ornate, and intricate, "comic-within-a-comic" Tales Of The Black Freighter inserts. I would contend that it's impossible. It can't be done.

Face it, making Watchmen into a Hollywood movie is as probable as a studio turning the labyrinthine, holistic, social dissertation of From Hell into a by-numbers police procedural starring Johnny Depp!

4. Even Terry Gilliam Says It's Unfilmable

I love Terry Gilliam's films. They're ambitious in scope and as mad as his animation for Monty Python back in the seventies. Gilliam has made some astonishing movies: Brazil, The Adventures Of Baron Munchausen, The Fisher King and 12 Monkeys. We fans of Watchmen were enraptured when it was announced  that Mr Gilliam had been tasked with bringing Alan Moore's vision to the screen. A maverick cineaste as wild and whimsical as Alan Moore, if anyone could make sense of the Watchmen universe and filter it for mainstream acceptance it was him, and probably him alone. His films are a testament to his both his artistic and technical ability in capturing unwieldy fantasy on celluloid. Teaming Gilliam with legendary Producer Joel Silver was almost a superhero match-up in itself.

As work on the project stuttered and sputtered he voiced concerns about translating Watchmen to film, suggesting that the epic story could not be faithfully reproduced as a movie, unless that movie had a running time of about five hours. He expressed concerns about limiting the story to a two or two-and-a-half hour film as it would strip away the essence of what Watchmen is about.

Unable to get a handle on the project Gilliam even considered shooting it as a television mini-series when he met Alan Moore to ask how he would film Watchmen. Alan Moore, being Alan Moore, said he wouldn't bother. The project eventually failed to secure adequate funding and was put back into mothballs. Gilliam said he heaved a sigh of relief as he realised this is definitely a film better left unmade. If the great Terry Gilliam is stumped by source material he deems too complex then there's a good chance it probably is.

3. Comic Book Superheroes Just Don't Work As Movies

The hottest comic book property at the moment is Spawn. He's dark, he's troubled and he's supercool. He's probably my favourite superhero of all time. A government assassin who's killed, sent to hell and does a deal with the Devil so he can come back to Earth and see the love of his life one last time. Utter genius. The animated series is an incredible achievement. It perfectly captures the tone and the brooding atmosphere of the comic books. Did you see the movie that came out last year? Horrible. And yet, as abysmal as it was, it was still better than Steel featuring Shaquille O'Neal as the titular hero. The reason for these cinematic superhero failures, both critically and financially, is that any finesse or subtlety has to be jettisoned to ensure that the popcorn munching hordes flock to the movie theatre.

The law of diminishing returns which results from this short-term view of film making is perfectly described by the Batman franchise. Tim Burton's 1989 Batman is a defining entry in the superhero film genre. The Gotham envisioned here is a delicious gothic treat: Anton Furst’s Oscar winning production design was breathtaking. Fast forward to Batman And Robin, the fourth in the series, and the pressure to earn more money than the last movie results in an embarrassingly lacklustre effort with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. The story and its execution are awful: sound and fury signifying, well, not much really. Arnold Schwarzenegger does his best impression of IKEA flat pack furniture whilst delivering 27 (count 'em!) ice related puns and has ensured that we'll never see another Batman movie.

Marvel have done a deal with New Line to make the movie Blade, starring Wesley Snipes, which is out this summer. I guarantee it will be a flop and that Marvel will never bother us with any of their superheroes again.

2. Very Few People Know Any Of The Superheroes In Watchmen

The Watchmen graphic novel represented the collection of 12 perfectly crafted issues and it has to be said that, whilst highly acclaimed, it hasn't actually reached a mass audience. This means that unlike the Spiderman, Superman, Wolverine, Hulk, Spawn or Batman characters that have permeated popular culture, there are not millions of comic book fans, or even those with a casual interest, who are aware of the exploits of the Watchmen superheroes. Most will not even recognise any of the characters.

Mr Joe and Mrs Josephine Public do not read comic books and certainly wouldn't be able to tell you anything about Rorschach, Nite Owl or Dr Manhattan. However, there is a very good chance that they would be able to recognise Superman, Spiderman, Wonder Woman, Batman et al. You may argue as to whether such a thing should ever exist, but no child has ever owned or played with a Hooded Justice doll or placed a Sally Jupiter poster on their wall. This relative lack of profile and recognition for the Watchmen characters will prove to be a huge barrier to any production of a potential film in a Hollywood which is increasingly dependent upon existing properties - whether the film is a sequel in an ongoing franchise or is based on a television series - to generate funding.

All that being considered it would be pretty awesome if I could have a Rorschach doll where the inkblots on his mask were constantly morphing and I could pull a string and have him intone darkly, "Not even in the face of Armageddon. Never Compromise."

1 . The Threat Of Armageddon Is Over

The way in which Watchmen examines the human condition and deconstructs the superhero archetype makes it an essential work, but its tone is entirely informed by its being set in an alternative 1985 and its political context: a world on the brink of nuclear war. It is very much a work of its time. Back in the eighties the prevailing orthodoxy was that those crazy Russians might kick off and blow us all to kingdom come. This looming, black paranoia frames everything in the graphic novel and throws the raw re-imagining of fragile superheroes with hang-ups, delusions, and erectile dysfunction, into a sharp relief. We watch civilisation teeter on the edge of extinction and gauge the reactions of the tormented characters as they contemplate their own mortality. Rorschach, for example, is enthralling because his coping mechanism is the application of his own binary template to every situation and as a consequence he views everyone, and everything, in a coolly detached black and white.

Back here in the real world things are far more peaceful. The Berlin Wall came down in 1989 and Russia has eagerly embraced capitalism. Here in Britain, following last year's General Election, we've moved to a more tolerant and liberal minded government in New Labour. Our new Prime Minister, Tony Blair, has pledged himself to what he calls an "ethical foreign policy", so we can be safe in the knowledge that he won't be scanning the world and looking for wars to start. The Cold War anguish of Watchmen seems rather quaint now. These are days of peace and so it would be practically impossible for an audience to identify with a cast of characters worried about war and conflict. Such concerns are as alien to us today as the city sized squid that turns up at the end of the story.

*TIME Magazine also voted Adolf Hitler Man Of The Year in 1938, so, y'know, make up your own mind about whether they should be arbiters of anything.

Jackin' for beats... Kim Jong Un: Keeping it (Kim Jong) ILL

                                Foto by Basil Creese Jr/Brother B/Brozilla/

Don’t let the laid back nature fool you. Kim Jong Un is a vicious kid on the mic, son. The North Korean rhyme spitter has been a fixture on the FreshlyChoppedBasil decks of death recently, so you know we had to hook up and talk about the new Armageddon project that he's working on. Kim talks about the recording process, what he learned from Kim Jong "The ILL Poppa" Il during the recording of the project and how he feels about the consumer culture of he West.

He’s nice on the mic and he’s hungry to leave an indelible mark on Hip Hop. Take a few minutes to get to know Kim Jong Un and I’m sure you'll become a fan.

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Yo, yo, yo, yo, yo! Ya know it. Ya got that right. Brother B AKA Brozilla in the hizzouse, and I have the pleasure of speaking to an extraordinary gentleman making headlines and kicking up dust like a crazy tornado around the world right now AS! WE! SPEAK! Kim Jong Un. What’s up, my brother?

Kim Jong Un: Five hunnid, black. What it do, boss? 

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Man, I'm just chillin’.

Kim Jong Un: Likewise, cousin. Likewise.

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Firstly I wanted to say congratulations on winning TIME magazine's 'person of the year'.

Kim Jong Un: Thanks, Man. I appreciate the love, brother. Hitler won it in 1938, so I'm in good company right there. 

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Sho nuff. Sho nuff. I wanted to ask you a couple of questions real quick. I notice that your new project, Impending Armageddon: Apocalypse Soon is gonna be executive produced by your Dad, Kim Jong Il.

Kim Jong Un: Yup. 

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Now, and I suppose this is the main point, he's actually dead, isn't he? 

Kim Jong Un: Hey, Man, it's Easter. 'Tis the season for resurrection, knowwha'msayin'? The Democratic People's Republic of Korea has got bare cutting edge cryogenics. We be reanimating tissue 25-8, baby including the ILL Poppa. 

FreshlyChoppedBasil: A reanimation programme? That's a mad fact you just spat here, bro. Pretty impressive...

Kim Jong Un: Ya better know it! 

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Wow...

Kim Jong Un: Look at your face, man. I'm just messin' witcha. Eh-Heh-Heh-Heh… Ain't no reanimation programme. This ain't Buck Rogers, bro. My Dad lives right here in me, Brozilla. I'm fully reppin' the ILL Poppa.

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Oh, my days! That is a proper wind-up, blood.

Kim Jong Un: That's how it is, ya get me?

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Sweet. So, your Dad's like a spiritual adviser on this album, yeah?

Kim Jong Un: That's right. I just wanna hold it down like the ILL Poppa did for all those years. I feel like he's right there with me when I'm up in the vocal booth spitting on the mic. He gets an executive producer credit because what he's doing for me here and now? It's mad real, blood. People will look at a picture of me and think I'm throwing up a "W". It's not a "W", I'm just reppin' the ILL Poppa. Four fingers up, two twisted in the middle. Keeping it ill. ILL, ya get me? Much love. Much love... 

FreshlyChoppedBasil: That's some genuinely emotionally, touching sh*t right there. Now, you've got a production team, the Military Posse. Tell me about those cats.

Kim Jong Un: Aesthetically, I'm taking it back to Professor Griff and the S-1-Ws from Public Enemy, 'cos the DPPK is truly fighting the power, ya get me? The Americans want to beat us until we see stars and feel the stripes on our backs, but homeboy ain't havin' it. Not today. So we comin' back hard. Bringin' the noise. Bringin' the thunder... And other precipitation. Plus the stuff the Military Posse did back in the day with the ILL Poppa and Chen Pacino is legendary. That's the concrete all us young cats is walking on today. Ya feel me?

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Oh, indeed. I wanted to ask you what their responsibilities are and how you guys mesh together. What exactly do they do? Do they help you select music? Do they help you narrow the tracklist? Talk about that relationship and how that works.

Kim Jong Un: The relationship with me and The Military Posse is like some big bro – little bro type sh*t, ya get me? They just reached out like a cool minute ago, ya feel me? They said they wanted to work with me and I was like, "What? Fa real?" 'cos they were massive in my Dad's day and had a hand in delivering some of his biggest hits. So we started having sessions together, ya feel me?

We didn’t really talk about what they were going to do with the album. But the only thing they said was that they were going to help me pick my songs and kinda manage the whole project. Ya get me? I’m going to do what I do. I could never be my Dad. Them's some big ass shoes, yeah? Eh-Heh-Heh-Heh... I’m just going to be me, and their job is to help me structure it and tell me what ain't working, or what type of songs I need, like big club bangers and all that… That’s the level we on.

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Okay. Now I want to ask you some questions about club bangers so I'll come back to that in a second. You are on the Axis Of Evil record label which has got quite a reputation and oftentimes people romanticise things and imagine it would be great to be on this particular label or work with this artist or that producer... Previously you were a small, independent underground artist putting out little mixtapes, or 'missiles' as we call them. How is it being on a major label like Axis Of Evil? Is it overrated, underrated or is it kind of in between? Talk about a little bit about your experience so far.

Kim Jong Un: It's all about perception. It's just how other people see you, ya get me? My experience being part of the Axis Of Evil… Our bangers, hits and missiles give us the space to do what we do and people either dig it or they don't. I mean, look at what happened to DJ Gaddafi. You need some back up. You can't walk out there alone. I’m on some independent sh*t, just doing me and the rest is all politics. The sh*t is crazy, I know that.

FreshlyChoppedBasil: (laughs)

Kim Jong Un: Stressful, mane. It’ll drive a brother crazy. Drive a brother insane. But it’s like, whatever…I know that once my record starts poppin’ and getting big I know the game will have to come to the table and we'll talk about what needs to happen. The position that I am in right now with the Axis Of Evil is still kinda cool and there's a new playa in the game, Barack. I'm gonna be asking him some tough questions, so I hope he knows what he’s doing.

FreshlyChoppedBasil: We've touched on club bangers and I wanted to ask you about that. Obviously we know the success you had with the Don't Mess With The DPPK song but do you find that the label pressures you to create, not necessarily another Don't Mess With The DPPK, but another song that is going to be that popular? Do you feel that you have to force it? For example, I was listening to the The Time Has Come To Settle Accounts With The U.S. Imperialists In View Of The Prevailing Situation mixtape and the song Droppin' Bombs On Ya is a really good song. It could be huge. But when you think of hits you kind of have to get more accessible. Do you ever struggle with that?

Kim Jong Un: Yeah…I mean if I tried to be a little more accessible then we could go worldwide, but I really don’t feel like I gotta…I just make a song about what I want to talk about off of the real. So the Droppin' Bombs On Ya song is hardcore because I’m from the DPPK and it’s grimy and the song is grimy and as a people we are grimy. Ya feel me? So…I was just doing exactly what I wanted on that mixtape. Making bangers and then putting them out and whatever happens off of the missiles happens. Whatever crosses over is going to crossover.

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Sorry. I've just noticed that the picture of Mickey Mouse on your wall is actually a cross-stitch.

Kim Jong Un: Hell yeah! I love my cross-stitch.

FreshlyChoppedBasil: That's amazing. How did you get into that?

Kim Jong Un: It's crazy, right? That's down to the ILL Poppa. He was big on cross-stitch. Over in the West you guys are all about buying things and "Me, me, me." We like our quiet nights in over here. I never thought I'd get on that particular bus, but I hit a brick wall with my knitting, I was getting bored. I needed more of a challenge so I switched up. I love doing cross-stitch while I'm watching television, just like my Dad used to. Have you seen Bluestone 42? Whoo, Man. Awesome! It's by the team who wrote Miranda, only it's funnier and it's got the added angle of illegal war. Sure, some stupid people will miss the subtlety and won't appreciate the moments of light and shade, but it is what it is… Genius. Hardcore laughs and giggles, ya get me?

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Gotcha. So I know you have the mixtape that came out recently and you are working on the album. So how can people stay in touch with what Kim Jong Un is doing? With shows or just different things that you have going on. So any last words for FreshlyChoppedBasil? Let ‘em know how to stay in touch with Kim Jong Un.

Kim Jong Un: Follow me on Twitter and Instagram, Facebook or YouTube or whatever. Everything is everything. It's all love, ya get me?

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Yeah, sweet. I appreciate you sharing your time, my brother. We gotta hook up again when Armageddon gets closer. 

Kim Jong Un: Good lookin’ for having me, big fella.

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Stay cool. Peace.

Kim Jong Un: I hope so, son. I really hope so...

Bloodshed, Banter and Bluestone 42

Gadzooks and Odds-bodkins! Excuse my rather fruity language, but rather than issuing a screed of "F" and "C" words I thought I'd go back a few centuries and use minced oaths instead. You see, I've been severely provoked, boys and girls. BBC3 has dumped a fair amount of egesta doubling as comedy on our television screens over the years - I'm thinking specifically about the execrable White Van Man, the horrific Two Pints Of Lager… and the tragic Horne and Corden - it would appear that now they're reloading their Haddron Collider-sized slingshot with diseased horse faecal matter.  

Unless you're a sea-dwelling invertebrate you'll be aware that YouGov recently published the results of a poll reflecting the British public's attitude to the Iraq war 10 years on. It revealed that a significant majority felt the war was wrong and half of those polled believe Tony Blair deliberately set out to mislead the British public about the threat posed by alleged weapons of mass destruction. A quarter thought that Mr Blair should be tried as a war criminal, what with the war being just a little bit illegal and everything.

The other war with a slight tinge of illegality is, of course, the ongoing campaign being waged in Afghanistan. There are those far cleverer than me who argue that the invasion of Afghanistan was not legitimate self-defence under article 51 of the UN Charter. Anyway, 12 years later and British, American and Afghan officials admit that the country is unstable and the civilians continue to pay an inordinately high price. 

It is against this backdrop that we are presented with the latest "comedic" offering from BBC3, namely Bluestone 42. The series was written by the chaps who brought us Miranda (who knew that slapstick and buffoonery actually needed writing?), whilst the production team has also helmed the aforementioned Two Pints Of Lager… and Mrs Brown's Boys: hallmarks of the singularly unfunny if ever there were such a thing. The distinguished cast includes actors who have featured in programmes I really like: Oliver Chris (The Office, Green Wing, Nathan Barley), Kelly Adams (Hustle) and Tony Gardner (Lead Balloon, The Thick Of It).

The blurb on the BBC3 website says that the series "is packed with the lively workmate banter and relationship minefields.": an ironic choice of words given that the series follows a British bomb disposal detachment in Afghanistan. Essentially the programme is constructed as a workplace sitcom with the "sit" being an illegal war overseas. All the archetypes are in place for a by-the-numbers half-hour of pleasant entertainment: the try-hard everyman, the attractive, but unattainable object of affection, the detached, entirely task-oriented boss and a motley collection of comfortable stereotypes with familiar ticks and quirks masquerading as additional characters. 

As there is no contextual exposition Afghanistan and Afghans are reduced to mere background noise as we exclusively explore the tedium and futility of war through the eyes of the British Crusader. The only pain is that experienced by our brave soldiers delivering democracy to the unwashed via the end of a bazooka whilst having to endure what they perceive to be substandard catering.

An example of the shockingly callous lack of empathy that permeates this work can be seen early in episode one. There's a running gag which features a CIA operative's tiresomely bragging about his exploits in Fallujah. The place name is pronounced here "FA - LOOOOO - JER" for maximum comic effect. Did the writers not know that this was the site of a US military siege which bombed a city flat, subsequently mired in allegations of massacre, the specific targeting of civilians, the use of chemical weapons and a nuclear fallout from Depleted Uranium munitions worse than that of Hiroshima? I would contend that they knew, but didn't care. After all, the fetishisation of our military means that the benign intentions of the West's foreign policy remain presupposed and there is no suggestion that the unquestioning soldiers are merely serving the strategic, economic and regional interests of the British Government. As David Cameron summed up so eloquently when slapping down the top brass who dared to complain about their workload: "You do the fighting and I’ll do the talking".

The reviews of the show thus far have concentrated on the quality of this gentle comedy and trite observations about ribaldry, squaddie banter and camaraderie in difficult circumstances. None of the critics have questioned whether a programme making light of an illegal war should exist in the first place, but then that's the mainstream media playing to type. Perhaps next BBC3 should do a comedy about school shootings. We could follow the perpetrator as he downloads kiddie porn and shouts at passersby in his local Aldi whilst purchasing condoms. We could empathise with his daily struggles prior to watching him stroll into a primary school and delivering acerbic one-liners to camera before shooting smiling children in the face. He could mow down a new school every week.

There is a poignant irony to be found in the utterances of the British and American governments who claim to be exporting democracy, whilst pointedly ignoring public opinion in their own countries. The real military comedy set in Afghanistan has so far cost the UK taxpayer over £17 billion. Instead of turning out this jaw-droppingly offensive toss, the BBC could have spent our money making a series of programmes about how such a catastrophic waste of lives and resources was allowed to happen, why it is still going on and holding to account those responsible.

In the end, if I can bastardise a quote from Thomas Jefferson, we get the military comedy we deserve, not the one we need. My sense of outrage won't allow me to watch another episode, not without gnawing off my own left kneecap first. I predict that this series will precisely follow the template set by the war in Afghanistan: everyone thinks it's a bad idea from the outset, the endeavour flounders as people realise it's worse than a crime, it's a colossal blunder. It soon becomes apparent that the core resources aren't fit for purpose leading to massive public disaffection and a quiet withdrawal from theatre without having achieved the main objective.

The only criticism thus far has been from the Conservative MP Patrick Mercer, who said: "I wonder if a comedy based in Afghanistan, considering the war is ongoing, is in the best of taste." If a Tory, by definition an entity incapable of any feeling, thinks it's a bit dubious then you can bet it's both vile and loathsome. Only it's worse. It's an affront to the decency the West claims as its own preserve. If war is hell then Bluestone 42 is Satan's heated, unwashed, crusty sphincter. Zounds!

10 Years After...

I'm not too well at the moment - my left foot is now the size of a mid-budget B&Q kitchen with fake mahogany wine rack - and so I have trouble sleeping. Last night I watched the recently restored cut of Heaven's Gate, and the unexpurgated version of John Woo's Red Cliff. My pretentious 7 hour movie marathon was inspired, in part, by my physical affliction, but the main motivation was to catch the early editions of our nation's newspapers and assess how they marked the 10th anniversary of Tony Blair's impassioned House Of Commons speech which greenlit the invasion Iraq. 

You won't be surprised that he isn't mentioned much at all. There's just an awful lot of guff about poor planning and benign intentions, both of which are lies. In order to siphon off resources the country needed to be broken. 

The Independent had a piece on the politics of pubic hair (I tease mine into a defiantly militant afro), whilst The Sun was all about Rio and his fitness programme. The Guardian, has an article on dozens having been killed injured as Sunni extremists targeted Shia civilians in a series of blasts across Baghdad, a violent consequence of the West's plan to divide and rule in this part of the world. 

The Mirror, however, had a retrospective of their war coverage, whilst Richard Sanders in The Maily Telegraph dismantled the myth of shock and awe.

A couple of weeks ago Nick Cohen wrote an article in The Guardian with the headline "Ten years on, the case for invading Iraq is still valid". It wasn't even the mindlessly callous headline which raised my hackles. It was the smug, self-satisfied expression of Nick Cohen in his postage stamp sized photograph accompanying the piece: his body oddly twisted toward the camera as if he has been caught mid-defecation. He suggests that ridding the world of the very evil Saddam Hussein was worth the bloodshed and infers that those who oppose the invasion are apologists for totalitarianism and terrorism. 

However, his selective cherry picking of historic events and their frames of reference means he doesn't address the fact that Saddam, like most of the despots across the middle east, was installed and supported by the CIA and MI6: his murderous offensives against the Kurds were supported by British and American governments, who also supplied the chemical and biological weapons.

Nick Cohen makes no mention of the 1.2 million dead. What do they matter, right? Presumably any display of empathy comes as the exclusive result of being a closeted Islamofascist.

"…spilling blood and spending treasure in other people's conflicts," was begun as a concerted effort to stabilise global energy resources by taking them out of the hands of an individual who used to be "our bastard" in the middle east.

So we've established that Mr Cohen is a dead-hearted vampire, but what did the papers have to say 10 years ago?

In January of 2003 Iraq's envoy to the UN protested that his country had no weapons of mass destruction.

"We remain ready to actively cooperate, as we have done in the past, to respond to any doubts," Mr Douri added. "We open all doors to Mr Blix and his team. If there is something, he will find it. We have no hidden reports. Iraq is clear of weapons of mass destruction."

In Baghdad, Iraq's foreign minister, Naji Sabri called the Bush administration "warmongers".

"This evil administration and its ally, Mr Blair in Britain, have continued in their threats and aggression against Iraq," he said. "Their aim is not the weapons of mass destruction. These two governments know very well there are no weapons of mass destruction or related activities in Iraq. By controlling this region, they are dreaming of dominating the whole world."

But Our Tone had already made up his mind, cheered on by the mainstream media and Rupert Murdoch who Rupert Murdoch gave the proposed war his full backing to war, saying George Bush was acting "morally" and "correctly" and describing Tony Blair as "full of guts" for going out on a limb in his support for an attack on Iraq;

Daily Mirror Editorial, March 19, 2003
"Even though the Mirror disagrees strongly with Tony Blair over his determination to wage war on Iraq, we do not question his belief in the rightness of what he is doing. It is one thing to have principles others disagree with, another altogether to have no principles.

The Times, March 19, 2003
"This was a dogged attempt to change the minds of dissenting backbenchers, an attempt made against the headwind of the popular mood. It was a speech to admire for its willpower and its moral conviction rather than the elegance of its prose…"

Daily Telegraph Editorial, March 19, 2003
"In the Commons, as in every debating chamber, the side that wins the argument all too often loses the vote ... But any fair-minded person who listened to [Tuesday's] debate, having been genuinely unable to make up his mind about military action against Saddam Hussein, must surely have concluded that Mr Blair was right, and his opponents were wrong.

Independent Editorial, March 19, 2003
"[Tuesday's speech] was the most persuasive case yet made by the man who has emerged as the most formidable persuader for war on either side of the Atlantic.

"The case against President Saddam's 12-year history of obstructing the UN attempts at disarmament has never been better made ... Mr Blair made a coherent case ... that while disarmament and not regime change is the legal basis for the war, the prospect of the latter makes it possible to pursue the former with a 'clear conscience and a strong heart' 

The Sun Editorial, March 19, 2003
"With passion in his voice and fire in his belly, Tony Blair won his place in history alongside Winston Churchill and Margaret Thatcher. In the most momentous speech of his political life he set out the pressing reasons why there must now be war on President Saddam.

"The ringing tones were from Churchill, the cold logic that of Lady Thatcher ... It was a stirring call to arms that was backed with precise, detailed and persuasive arguments ... [that] kept a possible Labour revolt in check [and] will have convinced the nation that war is just ...

It may well be that I'm a little tetchy at the moment, but it truly angers me that no-one has been taken to task for the destruction of a country and the theft of its resources. No-one. Indeed Tony Blair has been rewarded for his actions by being made Middle East Peace Envoy (!) and Dick Cheney’s Halliburton stock value doubled over the eight years he was Vice President, from approximately $5 million to over $10 million. Which means is about $5 per Iraqi death. Who says they didn't value the lives of the Iraqi citizens? The whole episode beautifully reveals both the West's foreign policy and the workings of our mainstream media: if you have resources they belong to us and our journalists will amplify the prevailing orthodoxy.

10 years on and what has been learned? 

1. The Irish are a righteous people, more engaged social commentators, and hold public officials to a higher standard than our own "free" press. They hurled shoes and eggs at Tony Blair at the first public signing for his memoirs in Dublin back in 2010. They also shouted: "Hey, hey Tony, hey! How many kids have you killed today?" Our Tone had to cancel the rest of his book-signing tour.

2. International courts work at the behest of Western Powers, thus the best way to get away with horrific crimes against humanity is to be a western politician.

3. The wealthy still send the sons and daughters of the poor to steal the wealth of people in foreign lands and then we make a limp half-hour BBC3 comedy about it. Written by the team who wrote Miranda. FACT.*

*See next blog

Concerning P-Funk and Satan

I'm kinda beginning to dig Twitter. As I was finishing my previous blog someone posted a link to a song via YouTube. I needed a break so I pressed play and was transported back to a Sunday afternoon when I was younger and music was genuinely magical, rather than this aural pigswill we're forced to endure. The song, by The Charlie Daniels Band entitled The Devil Went Down To Georgia, reached out to me through the transistor radio.

The story the song tells is of Satan is weaving his way through Georgia looking to harvest souls when he encounters a young chap named Johnny and engages him in a musical face-off. Satan offers to give Johnny a golden fiddle if he plays better than he does; otherwise, Satan takes Johnny's eternal soul. Satan goes first and employs a legion of demonic minions to conjure a deliciously discordant riff which would do Megadeth proud whilst he fiddle-shreds wildly like Vinnie Vincent on a raw caffeine bender. When the Devil's performance ends, Johnny compliments him and responds by playing excerpts of four traditional American southern folk songs. The Devil, suitably impressed, concedes the contest and lays a golden fiddle at Johnny's feet.

The tweeter had signed off by saying "And I still say the Devil won." It's hard to disagree with this assertion. Having been transported back to the very first time I'd listened to this song I cast around to find a tune which would have a similar effect. I alighted upon "All That Future" by Lori Carlson and keyboard wizard Bernie Worrell and dove back into a warm pool of reverie.

It was 2001 and I was in the shower listening to Material's (Bill Laswell's avant garde noise ensemble) alternative Hip Hop album Intonarumori. As the rivulets of warm water cascaded down my naked torso, I slowly moved the bar of Imperial Leather soap across my chest and then up and down my chiselled abdomen. I was standing with my back to the spray to avoid washing off the rich lather when the insistent, dissonant clank halted and track 9 came on. Out of nowhere a languidly erotic, delicious shimmer of keyboards and a hauntingly delicate, breathy female voice weaved its way toward me through the steam. It was beautiful, like a glittering rainbow slicing your skull in two. A 5 minutes and 35 second interlude of exquisite enchantment. The rest of the album went back to the wilfully odd and angular Hip Hop of the first 8 songs. That's typical of Bill Laswell: always pulling a sharp left turn when you least expect it.

My first proper encounter with Mr Laswell was via Bootsy Collins' Jungle Bass EP. Bootsy was one of the original JBs - James Brown's backing band - and it is he who plays bass on Get Up (I Feel Like Being a) Sex Machine, Super Bad, Soul Power and Talkin' Loud and Sayin' Nothing. The EP had all the familiar elements of a P-Funk release (popping bass, chicken grease guitar, the assured slap of an authoritative snare sound and sleazy horns), but it sounded just a little off-centre. Tweaked. The 70s transplanted to some unspecified point in the future. It was superb.

Being a P-Funk completist I have precisely 103 Parliament/Funkadelic, or P-Funk, albums in my music library - I've just counted - and none of them are in that awful MP3 format. Unlike Hip Hop, P-Funk was/is genuinely uplifting. It casts Black people as Gods who are waiting for the Mothership to descend from the skies to return us to our proper realm and release us from this earthly bondage. This was symbolic of a spiritual awakening and an acknowledgement of our history and lineage. In the meantime, whilst we wait, our role is to re-educate the rigid materialists and reveal to them the true rhythms of Mother Earth through the Funk. Deep, huh? And more life-affirming than Niggas In Paris, for fuck's sake....

I kept coming across Mr Laswell as I expanded the P-Funk section of my immense music collection. He produced Bootsy Collins' What's Bootsy Doing? album. Bootsy played with Bill Laswell, Bernie Worrell, guitarist Buckethead and drummer Brain (the latter two went on to play with Axl Rose in his new version of Guns N' Roses, replacing Slash and Matt Sorum respectively) on the album Transmutation (Mutatis Mutandis) by Praxis in 1992. He produced the only non-official P-Funk album (it only features 3 songs written by the Godfather of Funk, George Clinton, and he only sings background vocals on 1 song) that is considered an official P-Funk album (1995's Funkcronimicon).

Most importantly, for my collection anyway, Bill Laswell set up the Black Arc label as a home for "Black Rock, Cyberfunk and Future Blues". During what many consider to be the peak years of Hip Hop George Clinton and P-Funk were sampled mercilessly. The Black Arc label was a means to highlight the craft and the magic of the musicians who had created hits for De La Soul, Cypress Hill, Ice Cube, Snoop Dogg, LL Cool J, 2 Pac, Dr Dre, MC Hammer, Run DMC, Adina Howard and Beastie Boys amongst countless others.

Mr Laswell assembled an impressive cast of P-Funk alumni and across 9 albums of righteous indignation - featuring an abstract, yet inclusive beatscape melding disparate and differing textures: gothic rock, Hip Hop, ambient, jazz, hardcore, techno and tribal African beats - the sweeping arc of black experience is declared as a musical memoir. A reminder that our musical culture is richer than that which Hip Hop has chosen to represent.

Only 9 albums were released:


  O.G. Funk - Out of the Dark
  Zillatron - Lord of the Harvest
  Slave Master - Under the Six
  Hardware - Third Eye Open
  Buddy Miles Express - Hell and Back
  Abiodun Oyewole - 25 Years
  The Last Poets - Holy Terror
  Bernie Worrell - Free Agent: A Spaced Odyssey
  Aftershock - 2005

I started writing this just before the Brit Awards 2013 kicked off. After the first couple of paragraphs I turned on the television and accidentally caught sight of the utterly pointless Paloma Faith stumbling through a justification for her vacuity. I threw up in my mouth.

The Black Arc catalogue is the perfect palate cleanser. None of these albums are formulaic. The Bootsy albums (Lord of the Harvest and Third Eye Open) are genuinely fascinating in that one gets to hear the low-slung funk of his legendary space bass grinding against ambient and rock gears.

The Lost Poets are a collective of poets and musicians who came out of the 1960s American civil rights movement and laid the foundation for Hip Hop. Their album gives you a glimpse of a time before corporate rap, when what was lovingly placed over beats was carefully constructed polemical poetry.

Bernie Worrell's disc is rather ethereal, atmospheric and awesome to chill to. The rest are patchy at best, but there are moments on each that will make you catch your breath, the perfect antidote to the empty vessels who have sold their souls. Proving, perhaps, that the Devil doesn't always win.

*The foto features selected highlights from my P-Funk collection.