A brief sine tone burst, soaked in reverb, somewhere around E. At first, you’ll think you’ve wondered into a screening of Das Boot, but you’d be wrong. And pleasantly so. Not to say Das Boot was a crap film; it was fantastic. But standing in an open-air concert isn’t the place to appreciate it fully; in the same respect, it is however the best place for music.

Not long ago, NPR were given the green light to webcast a Sigur Rós concert, from Bethesda, Maryland. Some enterprising young chaps took this webcast, cleaned it up, and threw it onto the web for all and sundry to hear in mp3 format. I grabbed it, and listened eagerly.

Back in July, I had the chance to see SR live in London at Somerset House, and the experience blew me away in a manner I’d never expected live music to do. Somerset House holds three thousand people; at the time, I’d gone along with Beccy after spending the day together in London. And as soon as the music had started, 2, 998 other people just seemed to vanish. Somerset House is already a pretty intimate venue as open-air goes, but as soon as they took the stage, it was as if the gig had become a private show for two people. I stood the entire time; somewhere from half seven to just after 11 PM. I was incapable of doing much of anything; the film I’d loaded into my camera sat un-exposed, the lenses tucked into my bag, and my right hand held to Beccy’s left for what seemed an eternity.

Our hearts were in our throats on the walk back to Waterloo after the concert. One of those real “I-can’t-make-out-words” moments.; it was that beautiful. If I’d thought about it properly, I’d have pictures, but all I have are the memories in my head. By about half nine, the sun was well and truly spent, and the sky burned dark orange. It lit up the clock tower, and above the stage awning were seagulls; oddly fitting for the then new track and single, Glósóli. If you’ve seen the video, you’ll know why. The scene looked as if it had been lifted directly from an album cover or video still. Jonsi stood, centre stage with his Gibson and a cello bow, and just sound flooding the courtyard.

Hence this; NPR recorded and broadcast it, and with the band’s permission, it’s available to re-distribute. Right click, save as… Sigur Rós Live at Bethesda, Maryland (105mb) Enjoy.

Not long after the last update, I quit my job. Needless to say, I’ve my reasons for doing so, but top of that list is the fact that I’m young and stupid enough to have some morals and stick to them. I won’t work for racists. I won’t work for homophobes. And I most certainly will not work with someone who thinks they can break the law and expect an employee to lay down and take it. More on this later. Maybe. After I sue someone.

—

Anyway. I’ve been keeping myself busy. I’ve been converting the loft into an office where I can work and not be disturbed. I met with the Usual Suspects at the weekend (Marshall, Sven, Ian, C) and had a grand old time out in the City. And, of course, we got to see the the boxes at the Tate. A lot better than I thought they’d be, apart from the Obvious Norman who, trying to look cultured to the rent-a-date he’d brought along spewed off stuff about High Priests and Churches.

It’s pile of fourteen thousand once-cardboard boxes cast in plaster and acrylic . High Priests? Do me a lemon.

And in leaving, a gratuitous pic of yours truly. In a hat.

Quite possibly, the prettiest cardboard box I’ve ever seen.

Well, it arrived. A few days ago, in fact- I’ve just been waiting for Melissa to post about the 9500. My initial battle with HM Customs ended with me losing, poorly. To the tune of about $145 in Duty and VAT. But it was quite worth it. I have to say, this is the my most beautiful object I’ve ever seen. There’s something just so utterly simple and yet evocative about it; it’s like a giant black cucumber. But without the sexual innuendo. Almost. The sheer size gives an impression of it weighing about half a pound, but the resin it’s cast from is amazingly light. The filler system is so utterly simple to use but has gears and wheels embedded in the body so that when the back of the filler goes up, the plunger goes down. That means screwing it back down, ready to use is the action that fills the vast ink chamber inside. And the resin it’s cast from; it’s not black. It’s blood red. Hold it up to a strong light, and the edge of filler mechanism, the ink chamber and the cap explode with deep Shiraz tones; you could just drink it in. There’s even a an individual serial number laser-etched into the top of the cap clip.

Downsides, the Fine nib is still too wide for the feed, or the feed is too fast. With the standard Mont Blanc ink, the delivery is just a little too fast. Solution, get a narrower, EF (Extra Fine) nib, get a OM (Oblique Medium) nib, (both free under the initial Mont Blanc Nib Exchange Program) or, find thicker, non MB ink, which would kill my warranty.

But above all, it’s forced me to slow down my life; ditching the 9500 means I now write everything when on the move, not type. And that makes me think about what I take down. That’s not something I’ve done of late when typing, it just goes from sound to letters on the screen. When writing, everything has to be processed before my hand can even begin to manipulate the pen on paper. And on a commute in the morning, that’s awesome. Less time on IRC on the train, less GPRS data getting burned, and taking in more of the stuff around me. There’s so much stuff out in the world to be seen, and this helps me take notice.

And finally, some real pictures.

I’ve a confession. I hate typing, I hate my keyboard, and I hate starting at a screen

If I could find a way to turn my backlog of analogue notes (read, lots of Europa No. 4 notepads) into a perfect digital format, I would. Sure, I could rip all the pages out, and scan them, one by one, but then I loose the binding, and that’s not something I’m comfortable with in the slightest. It sounds pretentious, but they mean something to me. These notebooks are the only link I have left to my late adolescence, and I’m scared of letting go.

It’s not that it was a spectacular time of life, but the links are there, and I’d miss them. Pen and paper seem to have a feel to them; digital media does not. Sitting out in the garden, I can easily look over old books and notepads and there’s no other requirement other than to have the notes; flick through at will. The concept of the digital shoe-box is not one that ever appealed.

And so, I have a choice. I’m letting go of some of my tech toys, devices surplus to requirements. I could go one of two ways; I could re-invest in tech toys, such as the palmOne LifeDrive or, something that’s far, far more suited to my new life living in a suit, a pen I have long coveted and wished for my own. Certainly, the pen collectors would pour scorn on me for owning such a bourgeois item, but this is something I’ve wanted for so very long. I don’t think I could pass up the change to own one. Maybe then I can start to take proper notes again. One will be obsolete in 18 months, the other should, if treated properly, outlive me. I just need to make sure I don’t drop the damned thing.

Besides; I have too many things going bleep at me already. Some simplicity would be most welcome…

There’s a lot to be said of the City. You’ve always something to entertain you, and there’s always somewhere to be- how could you possibly ever get bored- the lights, the sounds and the people. Who could ask for more?

And then, you get on The Slow Train, buy a ticket to the end of the line, and sit in contemplation as forty year old rolling stock rumbles along track held together with little more than a welding gun and a prayer. The City begins to fall away, and you notice your fellow passenger begin to change. Suits begin to become more scarce as the train rumbles further away from the blinding mass of light, and the drinks cart goes away, left rear wheel squealing in protest. Trees begin to appear from the sides of the tracks. Where thirty minutes ago you were watching Battersea Power Station, you begin to see new things, bushes, greenery, hedgerow. The further south you travel of the the City, the darker it gets; not because it’s getting later, but because of the lack of street lights and offices flooding your vision with bright white electric sunlight. The sky bruises, but as your eyes adjust, you see a faint trail of colour cross it, milky, almost ethereal. The sound of cars and people jabbering on mobile phones dies out. Soon, all thats left is the sound of the wheels on the track, the odd clunk, and your own breathing.

The carriage is empty. You’re on your own.

But that’s not new, is it? You’ve been on your own before. Stuck in traffic, just you and the air conditioning. Yeah, on your own, you and the other few thousand poor saps on the South Circular, looking for Junction 7. Now you’re really alone. Maybe the guard in the guard’s van, and the driver six coaches ahead of you, but thats it. You’re barely a half hour away from civilization, and you feel like the entire world has packed up and left. Were it not for the fact you were quite patently in Carriage 76895 on the 21,17 to Lord Only Knows Where, on a set of half rotten rails, you wouldn’t have a hard time believing it, either.

And then, enlightenment. You’ve suddenly remembered the last time you were this far away from the city- you were eight, no more. Dad took you to see your aunt, his sister.

The house smelt of lavender, and you remember playing in the garden with your cousins and the water hose on the back wall. Late summer evening, and no cares in the world. Days were long and beautiful, the sun shone and the crickets chirruped in the trees long into the dusk. Day was a fun time, where you’d wake as soon as the sun came up, ready to go play and explore, to find burred treasure in the sand dunes, or secret caves by the sea front in the summer holidays in Dorset.

And you begin to wonder, why are you still living in the city? What happened to that little kid inside of you? Did you really grow up that fast, and loose so much? Questions stream in and out of your head, and you can’t find any answers, for better or for worse. But really, do you want answers? Aren’t they what got you where you are now? Too many questions, too many answers, and too much to think about.

The mobile in your pocket bleeps at you. You’ve lost signal. Not even “Emergency Calls Only” shows up, just a simple “No Network.” The train protests as it tries to stop at the station a few hundred yards down the track, and you’ve reached the end of the line.

“Attention all passengers, this is the last stop. All change please, all change. Enjoy your evening.”

It’s gotten dark out. No street lights, little to no housing, just a light on in the station. You talk to the station master, and find out the time for the last train back to London. 23,17. You’ve got what, about three quarters of an hour to kill. And nothing to do, no where to go. You pull the collar of the jacket up around you, and the cigarette packet finds itself in your hand, and you light up, the cool air around you contrasting with the hot smoke filling your lungs. Why not go back to Dorset, you think? But what about your apparment, your job, your friends, what about them? You’d have to leave them all behind, and how could you cope with that? What would they think when you don’t turn up tomorrow morning for work? More to the point, what will they think when you track light yellow sand into the datacentre later that afternoon when you get back from your little jaunt?

The questions got you into the City in the first place. Time to stop asking questions.