Turns out I want to hear (short) podcasts made specifically for that medium rather than regular radio. Turns out I want to hear ‘amateurs’. Odd that. Bit like reading blogs instead of regular media — getting the view from the sideline.

Matt’s offers Ev’s Odeo demo talk from Etech as a download. Did somebody bring their chihuahua? What else could be making that barking sound?

The Odeo screenshots look slick.

So I’m kinda, sorta interested in Evan Williams’s new enterprise: Odeo: Listen, Sync, Create.

“Odeo aims to enable this new distribution channel and medium by creating the best one-source solution for finding, subscribing to, and publishing audio content.”

So it’s like a podcast portal? Whatever, I’m so in. I signed up for an invite. Thereby committing myself to acquiring the dread machine. I’m sad.

Update: Has anyone every *tried* to buy one of these things? There are a handful of Mac shops in Amsterdam. None of them have *anything* in store. Everything has to be ordered and they can’t say how long it’ll take. Brilliant.

I’m intrigued by this as well, but wonder how it will differ from ipodder.org

I suppose I could (or will have to) order one but I’d like to hold it before I buy it. And I don’t get much satisfaction out of buying stuff online.
Caroline (link) – 28 February 2005 – 14:47

Last night, the veteran DJ of the programme using the pictures vented his frustration with the people ON them during his show. Very loosely translated it came down to this: ‘I saw them play live back in the 80s and they were uninspired and pretentious’ ⁽¹⁾, ‘They were drunk when I interviewed them’ ⁽²⁾, ‘Their DJ set sucked, Fleetwood Mac was about the most exciting thing they played.’ ⁽³⁾, ‘You only need to buy one of their albums to know what they’re like.’ ⁽⁴⁾.

This DJ had not prepared his questions very well (‘Did you ever sell your soul to the devil?’), he mispronounced the band’s name and got the name of their record company wrong as well. He fucked up. Consequently the interview was a bit of a trainwreck. He was eaten alive by two charismatic artists having a laugh. On stage, in front of 250 of their fans in Ancienne Belgique. Ouch. Even heavily edited, the interview sounded painful on radio. You know you have a problem when the fans’ questions get a better response from the artists.

I felt sorry for him at the time, though I could not understand why he hadn’t prepared properly. Now I wonder why he took the job in the first place. If you don’t like an artist, why put yourself in that position?

I have asked Studio Brussels to remove my pictures from their site a.s.a.p. as I do not want my work to be associated with this level of frankly unprofessional behaviour.

Footnotes:
1. More pretentious than The Fall, who they were supporting-uh?
2. No, they weren’t. We did, however, get hammered afterwards.
3. I heard Fischerspooner, Joy Division, Brel, T Rex, Mingus…
4. Mr DJ, you fight like a girl.

I still have to write about my weekend in Brussels with those two mad Irish bastards and one London gent. Rest assured I’m working on it, scribbling down my impressions in a notebook on my way to and from work. Cause I’m an ‘amateur’.

It’s been a while, a week, or more, or less. My head’s been killing me and my shoulders ache in sync. I got a signal outside, he says. How are ya? OK, I say and pause. Continue: moody, up and down like usual.

He says I need a break. I know, I say. I’ve got one coming up in August.

What are my plans, he wants to know. I stretch out on the sofa and listen to his footsteps and the wind blowing as he walks the road to Mizen head. Any further out West and he’d be in Americay.

Marseille, ’cause I like harbours, I proclaim, or maybe Nice, the flights are cheaper. I don’t know and I’ve no money either. It’s tough on your own, I confess.

That’s life, baby.

I remember Mizen head and the journey home — how that man and I listened to the radio as they took Diana to Westminster Abbey. That was the end of that, the golden girl and our tryst laid to rest in one sad week.

Take a train, he says, like he’s read my mind. Like he always does. (“Why don’t you move to Amsterdam?”) I might just do that. Take a train. Travel.

There’s no train to Mizen head.