Heather Leigh

Here's a little something to heighten the already swelling excitement for Saturday's show. A quick bio on our musician for the night, Heather Leigh. I am incredibly excited to hear what aural delights will be included in her exclusive set.

The daughter of a coal miner, Heather Leigh is a musician and visual artist born in West Virginia and raised in Texas. These days she's firmly rooted in Scotland, where she’s co-run Volcanic Tongue Record Shop & Mailorder since 2003. Her music has been described as "high metal masses for amplified strings and vocals that blow all notions of form and fidelity to pieces." She’s released numerous solo recordings on labels Not Not Fun, Fag Tapes and her own imprints, Wish Image and Volcanic Tongue playing her main instruments, pedal steel guitar and voice, as well as electric guitar, keyboards, bells, cuatro, psaltery, harmonica, drums and other sounds. She’s toured extensively as a solo artist throughout the US and Europe and has also played/performed/released music with Ash Castles On The Ghost Coast, Taurpis Tula, Charalambides (who she stopped playing with in 2003 after her move to Glasgow), Scorces (a duo with Christina Carter), the Dream/Aktion Unit (a group with Thurston Moore of Sonic Youth, Paul Flaherty, Chris Corsano and Matt Heyner), Jailbreak (a duo with Chris Corsano) and Jandek (playing bass with Jandek on the only tours he’s ever done) in addition to playing with many other collaborators. Her visual art has been included in several UK & US exhibitions and used on many record covers. She’s currently recording a new solo album to be in released in 2011.

Yet another reason to look forward to the collection preview. Far. Too. Excited.

Abigail.

X

SHOW TIME!!

So after months of preparation and sewing the time has finally come to go see the ten30 SS 11 Preview show!

buy tickets here, on me bloggy bloggers. There are only 100 tickets available.

Saturday 12th March, Doors at 7 for the show at 9pm Flying Duck Club

The show is sponsored by Sassoon hair and benefit cosmetics. a special performance from Dance HQ and an unmissable specially created set from Heather leigh Murry and Muaser. PLUS....this ticket gets you into the HOTWIRE after party, giving you the chance to dance through the set of the show til 3 in the mornin!

CAN. NOT. WAIT. MAN!!

Rhodes

The boys, again, do well in this documentation of a well sexy till of mine in Greece. MALAKA!
 

Tragic Greeks Rhodes with bumps and chair beads and sweaty drivers. He blesses himself at each corner. Beeped his horn at the location of death for colleagues and friends and relatives and strangers alike. A ritual of remembrance, Abi thought. The swinging St. Christopher from his rear view mirror silhouetted by the sinking light over the hill. Fourteen euros on a red LED meter from the airport, an icy blast from a fan bests the clammy heat. Curve and wind, a dip and a break, eight euros from destination. Isolated restaurants chew up blonde tourists, their lights fashion scaled fireflies on darkening horizons. Tired sighs ignored by relentless rattle of Greek talk radio. Or Greek music? The driver reaches over the non-smoking sign on the right of his dash to flick ash all over Abi and the gear stick. Without feeling the need to ask she sparks herself and wakens up. Twenty euros on a red LED meter. St. Christopher the protector clutches a light. Not as easy to replace as he swings to and fro on the tightening island roads. Zips of passing vespas bring a main street into view - “Pefkos” unwelcoming signs do read. Careful drivers are a given as roadside flowers prey tell. Fishbowls, pool cues, mopeds, green hand written murals and litters of kitten flash by. A sharp right turn allows the driver’s arm hairs to twinkle beneath a clear nights sky. Away from the main street and hidden down a loosely gravelled lane was Kali’s villa. Twenty-two euros on a red LED meter. A waving welcome party of familiar faces showed various degrees of sincerity. A still tall blonde, like the ones in the restaurants in the hills stood emotionless. As though to be noticed by Abi. Jenny. “Jenny, Abi”. Days on a beach with her could be confusing.

Ouzo and swordfish souvlaki and sleep rolled on as Abi swung her arm as she lay face down on the couch. Her hand caught perfect cold relief as the lowest ebb of each swing from the tiled floors inside. Crushed thoughts of La Jenny burst into a tiring mind. Warm hands seek cold fingers another swipe is turned. City after city boy after boy a beach with a bitch about time. Fingernails on chilled grouting catch. Ouzo disgusts as a slowing hand reaches a rest as knuckles drag in the dreams

Childhood Potions

Childhood Potions.

Glass jam jars now clean hold pounded petals. Crushed in water they swim and swirl a clouded mixture in clear spring Kentish gardens. As a fawn of Knole Park she stumbles dance further into woods to further seek flowers. Petals ripped as palms, torn by thorns, sweat and sting. But as children know, and young deer grow, different colours bring complex scents. Young Abigail’s back garden perfume founded in the blooms and shrubs over looked by father’s workshop. Far from a Stag. Forgotten mobiles and toys gather dust behind him as he stands at the battered wooden doorway watching his only daughter procure her childhood potions. He peers through the steam as he sips his tea. Young fumbling fawn Abigail clambers deliberately to the climbing flora on the sandstone workshop walls. Earlier rainfall keeps them wet as the pinks of flowers blush in growing midday heat. Sweetness and pollen endure, a sweet rush smell. He helps her up lending her a knee to stand on, a matter of fatherly support. Absent antlers, made up for in his timid gestures of a nurturing nature. Her father helps her down with one hand. Infant handfuls of petals, of all Abigail’s favourite colours, are dropped into the vessel placed on the mossy concrete slab. The glass bottom grates and dusts on the stone floor, as the yellows and reds and pinks and oranges of springtime float individually in the half full jar. Screw the lid back on – shake up the perfume – open, and inhale. Senses strongest memory; the smells of warm mock lemon escape from the top of the watery jam jar. Tattered battered rose petals lick Abigail’s nose, a beginning of ripening femininity. A floral illusion in memory, Abigail makes perfume in her garden.

Wow! I think this is my fave story so far!! I abso looove flowers spesh roses!! I think the ten30 boys have really got what I was talking about, making "potions" when I was a child, reading this brought back so many memories, times with my father at home. It made me really miss home and really miss my father's workshop, even now the smell of wood shavings, that "father" smell and of course my make shift perfume.

The First Story

Not been on this for a while, but now im back! And this is the first of the ten30 short stories based on moi. This one is about my time in Barcelona, the times i had there are some of the best and i met some amazing people and seen some amazing things. Telling the boys about my stories, they instantly got me, I couldnt have written this better myself, i nearly cried man!! Anyway, enough from me, read the story and let me know what you think....

Barsa Ballet.

It wasn’t a forced cuteness. Something in the ramble down Las Ramblas brought back her dance classes. Unlike the girls who skip mechanically when they know they’re being watched, Abbi could have been anywhere with anyone. Instead she was in Barcelona with Jacky. Six AM sun streamed past the statue silhouette at the bottom of the pedestrianised parade. A calm walk followed a brutish night. Abbi and Jacky were walking to the beach following Columbus’ direction. She rolled and released into the sun a remembered routine. Eyes closed she could feel the sun that painted the inside of her orange eyelids, and hear the voice of Madame De Marco in ballet class, “…three, four” she whispered. Jack followed a few steps behind, watching her teasing tumble towards the shore. “One, two…” The waft of the early morning shellfish delivery from St Joseph’s market wasn’t enough to distract them. Passers by heading in the opposite direction and upwards toward Plaza de Espana were ghoulishly gawping at blissful ballet. Tired white faces. Jack thrived on their stares because he was the lucky fella escorting her for a post bender smoke on the beach. Arabesque then a roll her floating skirt kicked in the air above her, the growing yellow sunlight filtered through it onto the flyer-strewn concrete. She dipped and curled as they crossed towards the harbour. Slovenly sand sweeps high and cleanly in strips of golden dance steps. They sat with their feet in the water at the edge of the city away from the clubs and the PR’s and the hostel and the other boys and girls and they sighed and smoked together. “Thank you Jacky, aren’t you a lovely boy.” She said, as though he was even somehow responsible for the most beautiful morning the east of Spain had ever seen. “I owe for La Paz remember?” He squeaked, passing the joint. They both lay back on comforting concrete watching single cloud by single cloud go by and by as the clunks and revs of the city grew behind them. 

I Reach Glasgow

So this is my first post, how exciting, no?

 My name is Abigail. I am half Ukrainian trident, half English rose. Most who know me, know my  L'Amour de la vie, my love for beauty, for being, for loving. I have lived my life. I have partied with you and travelled with who you wanted to, I have seen the sun set for the last time in the north, rise for the first in the east and felt it on me in the south. I have partied Underground in Eastern Europe, on rooftops in London, secret gardens in Paris, Ive out-drank Australian's and lived with Italians, but now, after years away from here, my isle, I am back in Britain.

I haven't been back in so long. I've felt no reason to go home, not yet anyway, he will have to wait. Instead I thought I would head North, far North. Ive met plenty of Jocks on my travels and never been disappointed... friendly, caring, rugged and comforting. And they are all so patriotic, much like myself. For the past few months I've been living in Glasgow, everyone has told me to go further North and see the country for real, but for the moment in having too much fun in this city.

 

I started this blog because I want to share my experiences and stories with people. I love hearing about tales of cities, parties and people, I guess it's the romantic in me.

 

Prosh-chavay for now,

 

Abbi.xx