Chaise Longue

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It’s the mark of a clever musician to steal what’s required, a thief that knows its place, a kleptomaniac that doesn’t overstay their welcome in the palace of delightful, musical trinkets, to then convince everyone that what’s been stolen belongs rightfully to them, because otherwise there’s an instant whiff of something off lingering in the air like hotdog and doughnut fat falling through the tray, feeding itself through the ventilators located down some narrow alleyway behind a humongous retail park. You do indeed get a sense of being able to see it right away because you can see when people are wearing the wrong-sized pair of shoes. They look really uncomfortable. There are linguistic similarities there between your lyrical style too that I see in the book. But there’s a distinction to be made there, between the narrative in the book and the subject matters of your tunes I suppose. All of them have this constant montage of surrealistic imagery going on. But this book is about you. Your way of dealing with things and growing up from adolescence into adulthood. Boken i sig ger mig samma känsla som Pulps låt "Mile End", diskhoar fyllda av matrester och mögel, nergångna lägenheter och männsikor utan några andra framtidsplaner eller visioner än att leva dagen ut. Maserati is a man fresh from a fight. Bandanna wrapped around his head, glowing maraca used as some invaluable object, a defensive symbol to worship when raised above his loose-screw head. From familiar opener Leak At The Disco, to classic Slumlord, this undesirable Ziggy at the Ritz, who jerks and jolts to the throb mutant-funk of Almond Milk punked up to the extremes with extra phlegm and ferocity in replacement of Jason Williamson with Sleaford Mods, who serenades a sea of coned, cardboard party hats worn by the night chancers, charged when sharing the same space at the same time, as Porcelain lovingly unleashes itself in ripples of delicate, Gainsbourg-in-the-gutter melodies and infectious James Chance-meets-Jim Morrisson alchemical cool, to charmingly cast spells, to tug on the arrow’s tail and shoot it through the sweeps of euphoric air composed of cigarette smoke and dry ice.

A staple vocal presence that compliments even intensifies the rogue, open spaces skulking throughout each moment belongs to Madeline Hart, but new collaborators have cruised through the doors this time with Eska and JGrrey’s vocal abilities (on Pale White Nissan) also feature on the album. “They were kind of people around the manor really. We did it in Deptford and Deptford is an entirely different experience from where I’m from. It’s the other side of the world”, Baxter remembers. “Some of those characters who had lived there all their lives were just part of the process. It was nice coz it’s got a bit of a different personality to it than the snug, West London pomposity fraternity that I belong to. It adds a bit more realness to it”. Top Albums (Week 23, 2023)" (in French). Syndicat National de l'Édition Phonographique . Retrieved 12 June 2023. and all that was part of my growing up. The anarchy and no-sleep-till-Hammersmith style of the era comes across with sometimes painful accuracy - work on a Monday morning, after three nights/days on the lash, if I turned up, must have been a sight for sore eyes. It’s in the nature of any beat poet to be able to investigate what lurks behind the doors of perception. In the nature of those kinds of writers, Baxter included as our own distinctive class of that, a bizarre beatbox full of cryptograms graffitied to the surfaces of Ladbroke Grove to interrogate the other side. By blurring together the semi-autobiographical vignettes that colour in our existence, with a strange, self-inflicted pseudo-psychological method unheard of on this whirling earth, he accomplishes telling a story about himself and everyone else, things about nothing, things about everything. Baxter with his father Ian Dury on the 1977 New Boots and Panties!! album cover. Photograph: TheCoverVersion/AlamyAlthough this time around, the roles were reversed, the scripts rearranged. A son was involved. Baxter’s son Cosmo.

As a creation of a different version of events, the confirmation of the characters that dramatise them, and then the eradication of any evidence that those events took place, the new album from Baxter Dury dips in and out of typically bizarre scenes from an indie sitcom written by an English bohemian whilst also tilting at least half his director’s cap to the contemporary princes of hip hop to deepen its rich, dark, psychedelic trip into a tapestry of madness. Yeah, exactly and you’re in some ways freer in songwriting because you don’t have technique and you can kind of forge that away and not be held accountable to some extent. Each sentence had to be justified. It’s interesting, you can do what you want if you want to in that over-optimistic way. It’s all doable. You could maybe do another one if you wanted to or whatever. It’s all achievable, that’s the point. It’s lyrical.It’s a nice little party both Baxter Dury and Cooper Clarke have wound up attending together. Bumping into each other as they daringly venture into the unknown. The kind of unknown that calls upon them, compelling their Hyde to smile, pulling on their heartstrings as though it plays them like serenading the warm night with cocaine-man confidence on a vintage acoustic guitar, their id invited to sample the supplies of the buzzing night, the blinding lights, a banquet of delicious entrapments. Maserati is a gas. A laugh. A voice. Of lunacy and reason. When Dury made the album, which explores life as an adolescent with a celebrity father, few were aware of the phrase ‘nepo baby’. Now, it has become a major cultural talking point, and as we are all likely aware, it’s used to label the children of nepotism, most frequently in the arts. But we’re not here to talk about Dad, says Baxter, a successful musician in his own right. It’s 21 years since his father died, and 19 since Baxter recorded his debut album, the fabulously titled Len Parrot’s Memorial Lift. Don’t get me wrong, he says, he loved the old man, but he’s got Ian Dury fatigue. He’s tired of the comparisons – their music, voice, looks and lifestyle. It makes one wonder if Baxter, always the wordsmith, never short on a lyric even when, off-duty but on-record, finds it difficult to decide what works, to remove himself after one line is a line too many and a mess has been made of the flow of it all once the mark has been overstepped. “I don’t prioritise me at all. I’m an afterthought” he reveals about the nature of his presence, and impact when a song is hot. “I get the vibe of the song right first, and I think that, to me, is the flow of it. The melody of it and how it sounds. I just need to weave in and out of it naturally”.

In October 2017 Dury previewed the releases of his first album for Heavenly Recordings with the release of the single "Miami" alongside a video produced by Roger Sargent. [5] Contrary to his violent persona, Strangler enjoyed being domestic, and we would go shopping every Saturday morning. First stop, Safeway Supermarket. Gravy granules, potatoes, frozen peas, various meat pies and shampoo. He would growl at the other shoppers who gawped for too long. Sometimes we would go to meet Graham, who was an amphetamine manufacturer with a big house at the bottom end of Hampstead Heath. Graham was quiet, unassuming and enormously polite. Nothing about him suggested he made or sold drugs. I guess that I was taken as a way of lessening suspicion if we were pulled over by the police. I was told strictly to never mention these visits to Dad or anyone else.I’m always aware that I might be on the outskirts of making the right choice. I’ve never naturally…never is the answer. I quite like that. I’m not naturally fashionable in any way, shape, or form. An accident. I Thought I Was Better Than You could almost be a concept album, Baxter scratching closer to the surface of himself than ever before, using voice, music and instruments as way of expression, freeing himself of complication through play and creativity, and making a record that sounds good. Baxter Dury, your instinct is always right, don’t change a thing and question everything. Some spellbinding showman takes his place. Draped from head to toe in combat clothing, stalking the stage like a snake, slides through the desert. A ringleader with no top hat, but a military helmet in its place. Scars concealed by camouflage. Big beige boots British army body armour. A man held up by some invisible puppet strings and with each twist and turn and fitful twitch, managing to captivate the crowd as soon as new single, DOA, from newly announced best of, Mr. Maserati: Best Of album from 2001-2021, shakes the room in a blaze of grime-inspired, razor-sharp street-smart lyrical agility to slice open the twilight with the grills on show, and the jewellery dangling heavy. When writing the book, Baxter carried out more research into Strangler’s life, but didn’t like what he found so didn’t include it. “There was some really dark shit there. I decided not to go further because that contaminates my childish version of what I knew of him.” Eventually Dad bought Strangler a tiny white Nissan Micra but with his enormous arms breaching either side of the vehicle it was almost impossible to sit next to him. Strangler placed a kamikaze flag across the front panel as a warning. Strangler was told to take my friends and me out clubbing. Six of us managed to fit in the Nissan. He gave us some Tennent’s Super to share