I Dream Of Tuesday by Elvis Herod
Elvis Herod / 8-Bit Night Shift
When Elvis Herod isn't making music and drinking to excess, he sometimes does proper jobs. From April (18th) until May (14th), he worked night shifts at a power station in Scotland, as part of a rope rescue team (that's when you rescue rope, of course).
Mr Herod offers you over an hour and a half of electronic computer pop music that he put together during his stay at Mouswald caravan park. Stitched lovingly together with the sewing needles of passion, throughout a stint of stone cold sobriety.
The track titles of this retro-spacktive opus mainly consist of events, characters, places, ideas and objects encountered during Herod's time in Lockerbie, Mouswald, Lochmaben and Dumfries. Herod's musical production activity during this time, has been running parallel with a wretched head cold and some incredibly painful toothache (the latter, worriedly inspiring the title to track 16). This pain, however, has been successfully suppressed by the positive morale of the eight-man (or 8-bit) workforce, who have, due to shifting sleeping patterns and moments of unbalanced mentality, helped Herod enjoy his time in Sconny Botland!
Throughout his stay in Mouswald, Herod has trolled through his own archive of sound recordings, predominately consisting of himself and some of his ludicrous cronies in inebriated states, at parties and gatherings (and such). These chopped up recordings have been boiled gently into some parts of the fabric of this epic creation, as a contradictory melting pot of both, teetotal composition and bibulous sound-bites -arranged within, as a sort of boozy-glue.
Seeing as Herod has swapped the drink for creating music (in the guise of an owl in a high-visibility vest), the hypothetical 'liver of his mind' has been intoxicated with other substances. Instead, he has been imbibing Scotland. The people and places, seen and visited have served as Herod's temporary brain-beverage. There have been many manic periods of bovine abstraction and arduous conversations with an army of drunken Czechoslovakian welders. Moments of impalpable, conceptualized pheasant lifestyle imaginings and the unfortunate death of a bunny rabbit (which Herod was not at all responsible for).
Of course, when anyone is living in close proximity to Herod, there will always be complaints of his monstrous snoring (subsequently assigning track 18's title, as well as inspiring track 6), which was aptly described by one of his colleagues as “Snoring that you feel, rather than hear...”. The aforementioned individual fleetingly returned home before the end of the job, which Herod still claims to be, not entirely responsible for.
As well as all of that, there are re-workings of two previous Herod tracks, a song about a supermarket bag, tunes about about both gas and poo, one about sugar consumption, and one about the end of a friendship due to three times the penetrative sex organ during intercourse. There are tracks channelling Herod's hatred for celebrity fashion and mobile phones, and a song about his love for the night sky.
There's also a song called Danny Glover, so that's nice isn't it?
WARNING: There are some very naughty words featured on this album, so try not to listen to it if you're not into that sort of thing.
Front Cover Artwork by Douglas Pledger.
You can check out more of his amazing work at:
Elvis Herod hopes that you enjoy this album and would like to especially thank:
Ben, Fisher, other Ben, Bob, Jordan, Waz and Lee.
Thank you to the drunken people who have unknowingly contributed to this album:
Barrold, Oblivian, Marie, Rob, Ptom, Matt, Chris, Moon and Danny.
Thanks also, to family, friends and acquaintances:
Carrie, Chris, Patrick, Mick, John, Sarah, Dave, Kate, Ric, Lynsey, Matty, Nicky, Vicky, Che, Sean, Em, Shelley, Clare, Nico, Beef, The Artist Formally Known as E. Phizmiz and Jock the Fighting Pheasant, for your inspiration, friendliness and because I think you are all rather special... like, really, proper special!
No thanks whatsoever to: 'Scottish Ian', who is an awful, moaning, spiteful turd of human being. Go and deep-fry a Mars Bar you gurning bollock.
Dedicated the memory of that poor rabbit who was pulped into road-meat-jam. R.I.P. Nameless creature, who, for continuity, I shall name... Sharon Wetshave.