Money for Old Dope

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In 2000, Jon Gilbert Leavitt (1, 2) recorded a song called "Pride". It was a kind of "We Didn't Start the Fire" for 20th century gay history.

In 2001 I did a cover version of it, and around 12 months later, a much improved version. I wasn't working with the most advanced software in the world, and wasn't practiced at using it, but they weren't bad for early work.

Now it seems they're still around. And get this, you can even buy my noodlings for 79 cents, from Richard Branson! It came as a complete surprise to me, but nevermind.

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Speaking vaguely of which, I'm taking a "back to basics" approach to my recording studio. I've got six sequencers and 12 CDs full of 1000+ plugins from all over the net - with the result that I'm vaguely aquainted with 3 sequencers and 100 plugins, whereas to be proficient I need to know 1 sequencer and 10 plugins in detail.

So, I'm setting it up with 1 sequencer, 1 or 2 carefully chosen workhorse synths, 7 or 8 specialist synths for featured use, a basic range of effects (reverb, echo, flange, EQ, compression), 1 drum step sequencer and a small range of 10 or 15 drums.

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Assuming there's any time to use them, of course. Today the jobcentre put me on another pointless three-month course to keep the unemployment figures down.

The result of the introductory half hour interview was the sentence "[Kapitano] feels that the main problem in finding a job is the lack of available jobs."

In the coming weeks we will be exploring the issue in greater depth. Though there is the option to put me on a course for basic IT skills.

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I was watching the local news, and getting annoyed at the vapid blond presenter cheerily informing me of local nonevents, when an idea stuck me for a murder mystery:

A minor celebrity - a local TV newsreader - finds her career is going nowhere. Inspired by the murder of Jill Dando, in which a televisual nonentity was posthumously elevated to fame and adoration by the media, she hatches a plan.

With the help of her manager, she fakes her own assassination and gets her 'corpse' stolen, ensuring weeks of media attention and praise. With her profile and career prospects duely raised, she returns from the dead, claiming amnesia.

She gets to appear on chatshows, and soon her manager - his star also rising - is getting her contracts for her own programmes.

Then she really is killed.

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