for further information: moth3rh00d@gmail.com

http://www.myspace.com/570044050

Gigs:

26 January: Heroes, Camden 7pm. THE RETURN OF GIGS!

24 November: Launch of Thank You, My Dog EP; George Orwell Tavern (Essex Road) w/No Colour, Frog Morris, and Great Men plus special performances by Paul Haworth and an exotic film screening. Video teaser (expect this and much more, homie(s)): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0sg4jJ0YVow

17 November: Blag Club (Notting Hill Gate) (acoustical)

15 November: Monto Water Rats (Kings Cross) w/Sweet Sweet Lies

13 November: Start the Bus (Bristol, UK) w/Jeff the Brotherhood (video below):
http://blip.tv/yourmusic-productions/13-11-11-at-start-the-bus-motherhood-pt-1-5738117

8 November: The Good Ship (Kilburn)

29 October, The Enterprise (Chalk Farms/Camden)CANCELLED FOR SOME UNKNOWABLE REASON

20 October: St. Paul's

15 September 2011: Book Launch Partnership Friary Road House:

Just to announce that the increasingly legendary South London Publishing House Friary Road House and Motherhood are working together to draw attention to FRH's latest almighty poetry anthology: "noetpy"--doing my best to mimic the cyrillic orthography of the journal with Roman letters.

Among the amazing writers included are Bobby Dowler, Vincent Clay and the incomparable Alexander Nemser

Motherhood is including a free CD complete with artwork/lyrics sheet and a lovingly crafted personal message with copies of "noetpy". If you'd like a copy of the anthology, just email us here and we'll get it out to you. The collection is £6 plus postage.

9 August, 2011, Buffalo Bar (video of "Punk for Life/Punk for Death")

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZR1xr3U5Flo

17 August, 2011, Good Ship (Kilburn) 8pm.ish.

in the meantime, a pseud0-bandifest0 for downpressing grourmandisers who recreate the punk club of their youth in Vegas:

Motherhood Manifestations

The markets reject sleep. The European vortex howls outside. Null and void, full of economic rationalisations, the confrontation of the past, with the bad dream. Horrible, misplaceable freedom is dancing in the cappuccino froth. The sea monster roils beneath, scrapings from the drama are reconfigured and sold back via satellite packages and living room sets. Daily anthracite inhalings, arctic seepage, briefly, heavenly forgotten poisons are inhaled in spas; back in style. Turn every page, hoping that the last newspaper will disintegrate before dawn. Listen to every plane and helicopter as it passes, chopping its way into deeper darknesses. Which will be the day it chops for you? An X-Factor Saturday?

Primordial scouring of the ideologies is producing nothing, writers blocs and idiolecterns for the worst. It’s fun to drag flags through teargas and watch the club descend into hazy double vision. Dog runs are breeding, rats and hocus-pocus are breaking teeth on the gates of Vienna in the dream of an extraordinarily stupid ape. Tune in for the carcass videos, and the fright-faces of the masters and their press secretaries, securities and exchanges are commissioned, call me a fledgling, I’m fledging my allegiance to the only thing I’ve ever loved: hiss and noise and total disobedience.
Nostalgia for air raid sirens, motility of borders, the old fashioned in-and-down-and-out. Common enemies proliferate in the auto-recessional and in the mildew towers. Jubilee year came and went without any jubilation. The securitisation of the cathedral seat also came and petered out. Enter the venerable mosque paranoia, the soul on icicles and icecap retreat. I’m feeling the stoppage of the genre, the inevitable every day slowing of the thermo-haline deregulation. Aristocrats love Aristaeus, written on papyrus, buying copies of Frieze and The Big Takeover, reading until fingers bleed and consciousness manifests itself as something greater than a fashionable malady. Inside the mouth organ, inside the portcullis, David Foster Wallace fell out of race for rattiness, what does the aerial surveillance tell? The coconut and tear ice cream is melting on the sidewalk, suck the spoon until all the goodness goes out. After dinner mincing, supply lines are tight, the fear of a dark future looms on a black planet, that there won’t be enough black blood to keep the tanks and caterpillars humming. Harmony is a kind of conspiracy.

Down at Lourdes, various accidental members of the human race accrue. Dive into the illustrious illusions, accidental interpretations accrue. The kids of yesterday become the eternal kids of today, the calumny of the 1970s is being rerun, nurturing the harrow of the 1980s, homogenising the milk of the 1990s, which is lead, sleepwalking, in a financialised sleeping bag called the 2000s. We’ve counted up to slaughterhouse six now, preparing to unleash our special brand of mistake on everything, Klingons, giraffes, the noble presence gone absent since something like the Edwardian age, the pointless in-between.

Tear gas for tear masks, hobo jamborees erupted from the nothingness in the wake of the RNC Welcoming Committee and the media flare gun pointed at its heart. Credit line lassos evoked Buffalo Bill et al. defunct. The zero radiates and pulls the unhappy constant of the present into one piece. No one has a freedom pass any more for the freedom bus. Neal Cassidy and Ginsberg are rotting beneath the Stealer’s Wheel licensing fees and T-Shirt assassins gathered at the foyer. Welcome to the industry, kid(z).

Gone commando, the night before I enlisted, I decided to drink that beer and enlist the jizz goggles and all that entails. I peered into the future for long enough to realise that all the world is a stage and all in it are soundmen/soundwomen waiting for Gyges and the Lychees to take the stage, to emerge from the cave and give us a round of ring-around-the-warhead before departing on the private hell-jet to nowhere, to play a gig for Ilham Aliev and companies—Spoek Mathambo on percussion. Before they left, I stole the set list which contained Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s recipe for rock’n’roll rebellion: push a button and nothing drips out. As soon as an idea bubbles over it is frozen by the coolness of the advertising avant-garde. Sob if you will, ideally on to a plate of bone china porcelain with intellectual property rights, to be projected on the Jumbotron. Farewell, moon.
Flowers and allergies, and rhapsody can be imported. Punching a hole in the romantic outlaw is a fine way to pass through time. Camelot was a lie before it became a legend, now there’s only the Barbary pirates’ radio station brought to you by supermarkets and monks retreating down the demand curve, obsessed with giving something back to the no ones and antibodies. As soon as you feel it, you can buy it because someone felt you while you were feeling it.

All manifestations are the reification of irrelevance. How can the present be different from the past when the past is sitting there drunk and passed out on the couch with a dick drawn on its cheek and “Obama 2012” written on its shin-bone? A loop, as they say, is a loop, is a loop is a wolf is a woolf is an allegiance to a particular place and time and estimate of bohemian credibility. You feel strangely attached to it, but still want to see it ruptured and its guts spilling on the ground.
Sooner or later someone asks you to stand outside yourself and make a long list of plausible things to reject:

Bullet Point/Going Ballistics
--Art is a strawberry jar effect followed by a strawberry fields effect.
--Art is a long haired dude effect (black T-shirt with oozy writing optional).
--Art is a cleansing of the synaptic cleft.
--Art is a Tom Petty and the Heartbroken effect.
--Art is a sustained love for that which can and does destroy you effect.
--Art is a modality of crapulence effect.
--Art is an I didn’t do it and he throws up his hands; I was only robbin’ the register, I hope ya understand effect.
--Art is a subsidiary of the cigar effect.
--Art is a worst left to the professionals effect.

This is the day of the fetishising of the lunatic. Donks have touched everything. One sunny afternoon, irony vomited misogyny into its present form; no amount of hate is too volatile to be commodified. Rock’n’roll was born as a paisley camera, and a floating signifier after a shipwreck, as a cartoon starring Savonarola, micro-fish mircosoflty melting in an endless desert of the unreal, annealing in the endless descant that is glass, from the friction of its own masturbation.

Today donuts are rock’n’roll. Rock’n’roll is as much of a ritual as the sex it parodies. But rock’n’roll is a mistake worth repeating. Rock’n’roll is the bellhop for hip-hop. Rock’n’roll is a designer balaclava. Rock’n’roll is an allusion to the Battle of Sevastopol made on Rue Sebastopol. Rock’n’roll is sodomy with a cigar. Rock’n’roll is the plosive and the fricative in history. Rock’n’roll is a pig destined for Serrano ham.

Q: What makes a band start pyres?
A: Paranoia about 19-year-olds not going broke to feed the bonobo dairy farm in your backyard.

Self indulgence leads to cultural gout—were you too gently raised to feast upon yourself, Bajazeth? Rock’n’roll is the machine without the ghost. It runs all night and only scares itself. Rock’n’roll needs a good schism.

Type powerlessness into search engines: there’s an image of a bar-back in a band. Turn the lights out once a generation and watch everyone eating their young in the narcolepsy of cheap holidays: express the same hopeless, powerless, shamelessness in a different city with a language barrier and, fatally, the barrier persists when you wake up, unaware how you got home, as you thread the passersby in the streets. Caring becomes a subculture, compassion a mode of assassination of the political discourse as permitted and mitigated. Leaving water in the desert of the real is understood by the barbarians who created it to be the act of greatest infamy. Criminalising humanity will be the final test and expression of professional credibility.
Long shadows of power stretch back into the dark ages and create strange topologies. The Creature from the Black Lagoon was a communist, same as aliens and virons of various stripes are stand-ins for Orientalist spiders in the present. We end up, sooner or later, on one side of the glass partition, where the past and the future stand staring each other in the face in blind terror as plastic reinforcement lends greater flexibility and licensing the blind thrashing continue without fear of splinters.

Nothing so beautiful as glass breaking, nothing so beautiful as the silence of sarcophagi, nothing so beautiful as the mound built of love sloping and exhaling beside you, nothing so beautiful as money exposed to daylight. All children will be trained in business suits and graduate into permanent retirement. The fortunate sonneteers who learn the corporate bleat fluently-fruitlessly will man the pilotless reconnaissance reapers, telling us what we think of ourselves and providing the subject matter for photorealist meditations on the distance between post-democracy and desire.
In the next life (more or less), we will write poetry that is easy to understand and be invited to the White House Press Dinner so that we can shake hands with our own hubris and timidity. Gideon hisself will read the Bible to the taxidermist who immortalised Rocky Raccoon. The discussion will centre on the pleasures of watching yourself evanesce without disturbing the galaxy or, more referentially, the universe, and the pleasures of dealing yourself out of the fun and games and into the chain gang.

Sooner or later, the permanent disorder pays off. The heavy hands blunder in to a Fashoda Incident by for and of the cameras, expect any faces you see to be dispersed like cherry blossoms as soon as they appear, in transit to the cherry moon. Come on, you wilderness enthusiasts, come on, you wolf children with wolf shoulders who name your bands after wolves. Come on, you up-and-comers. Come on, you down-and-goers. Come on, you fuckwads and fucksticks, and fuckwits. Lets meet in the utterly ruined roses, the pansy-dotted flunky city farms. Come on, last bad ideas! Let’s meet in the fragment of the frangipani future bequeathed to us. Let’s have our table talk, our autumnal folk flutter, our embrace before the wings close over us. If one person can change, lots of people can transmogrify. Don’t you dream of a bike basement made out of rosewood and lover-fuckdom? Of a woodland compound and the song of deliquescing nymphs in the shower? Of punks falling into your reflection in the black water of home? No?

excess = success = excressence.

Rock on, dog.