Kieron Gillen's workblog




Back from Reading. I'll write more on it later - over at, where I've promised a Diary-type thing for the site. Short version: Fucking ace. The Polyhonic Spree appear to have had a communal lombotomy to remove the section of their brain that allows them to feel the emotion of sadness. And now I feel as if someone went and took a shit in my bowels.

What I'm going to hammer a few short words on what happened when I returned to Peter's house on Saturday night. The fucker only went and dragged out the sole-remaining videotape of my first ever band, Fixation's, first gig.


Now, I'll stand by Agents A.D., my second band. There's a tale to be told about the schizophrenic nightmare of proto-electroid rock that comprised the Agents idiom, and the playful situationalism that lead to such classics as STANDING BEHIND THE CAMERA WITH A FOAMING COCK, WE DON'T JUST DO PARTY ANTHEMS and TWOCKING IN THE NORTH OF ENGLAND. Hip-Hop meets Post-rock tinged with Chris-Morrisian performance hate and taut, icy funk. I'm proud of the Agents. We wore suits. We made the right moods. Our singers had breakdowns where they were institutionalised because they believed they were the Anti-Christ. Even if the expression was wrong, the ideas were right.

Now Fixation, well - er...

Put it like this. Fixation was a shortened version of the original name, Our Nutritious Fixation. Which was a sperm gag.

What's all the more shocking is that how deathly seriously we took it. Even when being deliberately funny, we weren't laughing. Our best song - whose name escapes me - sounded like the fucking Wonder-Stuff. It gets worse - I actually looked like the Wonderstuff. Imagine Miles Hunt given a Make-over by Richey Edwards and you had the result: Tartan trousers, converse trainers, shoulder length curly hair and a bright yellow Pulp-esque shirt - but the shirt was torn open with safety pins and sprayed with slogans along the lines of CHEAP WHITE TRASH and - down my back - USELESS. The USE had the letters spray-painted and the less had the background stencilled around, making it look like two words. See what I did there. Clever, yes?

I'm not going to mention the lyrics of the songs I wrote - Peter's were worse, but mine were so studiedly cynical and bilious Manics-era Holy Bible off-cut to make me attempt to swallow my fist. I pulled my bass-lead out four or so times. I posed like a ninnie. And when I split-kicked... well, when I split kicked I looked over at Jane and thought she was about to vent her colon through her mouth in laughter.

But fuck it. I was young and stupid and I'll defend the right of the young and stupid to be young and stupid because - Christ - someone has to. Bollocks: I sold my soul to Britpop for two scant years, got laid lots, dressed like a man whose name is a rhyming slang for cunt and have had my foolishness immortalised forever on VHS.

Hail the young me. Thank God he's not around anymore.




Kieron Gillen's Workblog, foo'.