So I’ve decided to challenge myself to write in this gosh darned blog every single day for the whole entire month of April. That is (thirty days hath September, April June and November…) thirty whole days. I think I need to do this because it was about nine months since my last post (and that was on Kanye West and it’s not even like he’s been quiet lately; like at all) and I used to call myself a ‘writer’ (at least I did in my Twitter bio, until I decided to stop lying to myself. It now says ‘tooth fairy’. I guess that’s more honest).
A quick google image search of Chet Faker will tell you everything you need to know about him, superficially I mean. Not that he’d fit right in Brixton village, but that he is essentially, unequivocally, my type. I guess it goes without saying, but I’m gonna say it: Australian? check. Bearded? Check. That’s all. That’s all my criteria. Mr. Faker first massaged his way through my ear canals and into my heart when he burst on the scene with a slick, dulcet cover of No Diggity by Blackstreet. Now, he’s not the first guy to cover this song, but he smashed it.
This weekend, I went to a festival in Sheffield called Tramlines for my friend James’ 21st. Or at least, that was the plan. But James doesn’t seem to understand that when you invite people down for your birthday, you actually have to spend time with them instead of gallivanting in the woods with your bike. Not that I’m bitter or anything. Anyway, the first band we saw was old school Hip Hop group, Public Enemy. When we got there, the stewards were gassed and said that the venue that PE were playing at was “at capacity”, and that we should all fuck off and go see someone else. If only we had.