Transvestism

After Hours

by Enormous on January 12, 2007

I’m going to keep y’all informed on the progress of the Nelson Galaxy acoustic album that we’ve been recording.

Provisionally titled After Hours, it is mostly a collection of ‘unplugged’ bare-bones tracks with Nelson and me playing acoustic guitar and singing, with Graham (Boffey) – the drummer from Enormous – shaking his famous tambourine as accompaniment whenever he was able to take time out from his busy schedule and grace us with his mercurial percussive presence.

The songs are partly new Nelson compositions, partly old favourites.
We also recorded a stripped-down version of the notorious Slaughterhouse 5 classic Family Business.
The album won’t be available to buy for a few weeks but in the meantime, I’ll post a couple of links here to some extracts of the work in progress.

Here’s the track listing as it stands at present:

Tumble And Fall
You Call This Love?
Breathe
The Stupid Ones
Between Us
In The Sea
This Stupid World
Breakdown
Family Business
Two Minutes

All stunning, all drenched in Champagne, and all completely Nelson.

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So Long At The Fair

by Enormous on January 11, 2007

Nelson and I have been hard at work recording the Nelson Galaxy acoustic album over the holiday period.
We’ve been locked in the studio growing increasingly pale and wan whilst sweating over a hot mixing-desk.

We had plenty of dry sherry and mince-pies at Christmas but were too busy to open any presents or to wrap up warm and venture out carol-singing.
(There is a legend over the control-room door in the studio here which reads: ‘Thankyou for not discussing the outside world with our engineers.’)

We did, however, take time out to catch the fireworks on New Years Eve.
More on this later.

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How To Cure A Hangover

by Enormous on December 15, 2006

I was awoken at 6:30 this morning by someone banging stridently on the front door.

While Audrey barked hysterically, I opened the bedroom window to see the unmistakable outline of Nelson Galaxy down there in the gloom of the rainy dawn. Illuminated by the streetlights’ sodium glare, he was hopping around impatiently on what looked like a new pair of red, 9-inch patent leather high heels.

‘Come on, let me in, you idiot!’ he was shouting up at me. ‘I’ve got the new single by the Editors. You’re gonna love it, you prize asshole.’
It was obvious he’d been working hard on his delivery on the way over here.

To say that I didn’t feel too great as I opened the door for him would have been to indulge in riotous understatement. I was decidedly over-hung.
(Last night I’d opened two bottles of Shiraz on my return from the studio and had unhurriedly and attentively set about drinking myself into Bolivia.)

Nelson made himself at home. He managed to find a bottle of Zinfandel at the back of the refrigerator and poured us out two big glasses.
‘That will cure you’re hangover,’ he said.
I drank some. It didn’t.
‘New Editors single, Napoleon – you’ll love this!’
I didn’t. It sounded like bad Joy Division.

‘Where have you been, Nelson?’ I asked him when the song had finished.
‘One of my little clubs, dear boy, you wouldn’t have liked it.’
He was right. I wouldn’t have.

His enthusiasm was unequivocal but I could tell he was beginning to flag. His heavy make-up did little to disguise the fact that he’d obviously had an especially lively and adventurous evening without me.

‘Look, Nelson, I don’t feel too good,’ I told him. ‘I’m gonna go back to bed.’
‘Aw, you,’ he moaned.

It was at that point that the post arrived. And inside an unimpressive, pale buff envelope was an unexpected surprise: a cheque for £1000!
I’d won some stupid competition I’d forgotten all about.

I poured myself a second glass of rosé and smiled at my friend.
‘Hangover’s gone, Nel.’ I said.

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