• CD BABY (NORTH AMERICA)
• B-MOVIES SHOP (UK/EUROPE)
• ITUNES, AMIE STREET (DOWNLOAD)

 LAUNCH PLAYER 

B-movies was recorded in an abandoned building which formerly housed a local youth hangout. One time late at night, some guys came knocking on the door thinking the place was still open, and promptly proceeded to alternating smoking their spliff with pummelling the drum kit in an irreverent bout of percussive arrhythmia. Paul D and I didn't much mind, as it proved a welcome diversion after a long session. Plus, one of them delivered for a local pizza place, and he promised us a discount.

A few weeks before starting recordings, I bought an aging but well-maintained analogue tape recorder from a very kind man who happened to live in my home town, and who didn't see much use for the machine anymore after having used it to tape countless local blues rock and cover bands. Apparently, current professional and family obligations left him too little time to drag the machine out to each gig or rehearsal, and he seemed as sad to part with it as he was delighted to pass on the flame to a new generation. Frankly, it was all quite moving.

In the knowledge that little amenities would be available to us aside from electricity and running water, Paul D and I invested in a wagonload of packets of instant noodles from a nearby Chinese deli. None were actually consumed while we were there (we opted for the discount pizza instead). One of these noodle packets still remains in my pantry: the kimchi-flavoured one, which part of me wants not to eat out of fear of what it will taste like, and part of me kind of wants to keep around as a sick sort of trophy.

Most of the songs on B-movies were written while I was living in an inner-city area of The Hague slated for demolition (and subsequently, of course, gentrification). This would be an obvious place to make grandiose statements about its symbolism for the fleeting nature of things – and just by saying that I admit I slyly made one – but rather I would like to say I felt very comfortable there, both as a human and as a songwriter.

So then there's the reverent, frustrated lamentation for a neighborhood that will never be again (The Redemption of Transvaal), the self-admonishment-by-proxy for a persisting parasitic subject (Get Out of My Songs), the desolate examination of la dolce far niente (A Sincere Ballroom Song), and a cautious “note to self: seize the day” (Safe & Still Sorry).

I find it hard to say how all of this came out the way it did, or how you and I figure into it exactly - but here you are, and I thank you for it. • • •