Author Archives: korpuskrispi
Good day. Hang on, it’s bloody freezing in here, just turn on the heating. Christ it stinks too, bear with, I’ll open a window. That’s marginally better, I guess.
So. Been a while, I know. I’ve been pre-occupied with other things, not had time to post and for the foreseeable future this will be the case, nothing personal, just the way it is.
The reason for this sudden surge of activity is down to various ventures, long gone are the days of sitting wretchedly in my office chair lazily typing nonsense as business drips slowly into my bank account. That aspect of my work-life has changed, these days I can pretty much do all of that shit twice a week and dedicate the other three days to finer things, such as writing about motor powered bikes.
Admittedly it isn’t proving to be particularly lucrative (yet) but it’s going very well and I’ve some rather splendid stuff in the pipeline. And I guess the company I write for like me enough, they’ve just bought me a 750 quid camera for taking snaps to accompany my wordings.
There has been another fundamental change too; I wouldn’t say ‘I’ve grown-up’ but I’m just not feeling the same degree of deranged manic bitterness toward everything and everyone. This is partially down to IC and my present location in the universe -nothing whatsoever to do with my advancing years, I hasten to add (if anything I’m worse in this respect).
Also responsible for this marginal quickening of the step is the aforementioned writing. I went to the Bike Show in Birmingham a couple of weeks ago, in addition to getting paid expenses and, indeed, paid, I had a press pass which meant I could legitimately talk to whomsoever in an official, professional (for want of a better word) capacity. It occurred to me that instead of lamenting the wasted years of doing a job I’d never applied for or enjoyed (after previously pulling myself up by my bootstraps and getting a Masters Degree following a truly pathetic school education and abuse of natural artistic tendencies etc.) I was starting to move on. And it felt alright.
So, what else? The usual routine of going out, enjoying myself with IC, my bro and friends. Nothing out the ordinary save a trip to Italy but that’s fairly common these days, here, I’ll tell you all about it.
On Saturday IC and I got up at some ungodly hour to get the train to Stanstead. As we trundled East and London gave way to marshland I noticed the first real frost of the season, it was a beautiful sunny morning and the aurulent light picked out the ice crystals in the passing grasses and shrubs, fucking lovely, ‘almost a shame to leave the city,’ I screamed down the carriage.
It being a Saturday am, and the only flight of the day to Milan, I was concerned that we’d not be able to sit together on the plane, something I was very keen to avoid after the flight back from Barcelona. Decided it was best to nip to the bar and have a few wines in case, take the edge off it all. Despite the plane being packed we managed to get a double seat next to some misery-guts. IC generously allowed me the window which was fortuitous because it was so clear I could see land/sea/Alps all the way, another wine prevented any worries about crashing in flames or exploding mid-air. Or suffocating at 30,000 feet.
We landed and met Leonardo and his missus who whisked us off to IC’s place in Brescia where we were greeted by the mum and sister-in-law, just in time for lunch. Following this delicious pork and tomato-based intervention, we went out for a walk round the city which was packed with shoppers preparing for Santa Lucia. To the unenlightened, Italians don’t really do the Santa Claus thing; instead they celebrate the martyrdom of Santa Lucia on the 13th December. Unlike Claus she rings a little bell to announce her presence and flies about on a donkey instead of reindeer, like Claus she leaves children presents following the latter’s fervent letters on the eve of the day. But, unlike Claus, Santa Lucia is blind. My pointing out that she can’t read the children’s letters, then, went down like a lead balloon.
It was nice wandering about the town with IC’s family, my family these days, and I felt very much part of proceedings. The wide-eyed days of yore consigned to history as unfamiliarity is no more. Even the language is starting to permeate the grey matter, er, Ciao!
IC and I stopped off for Apperitivo in a favoured bar and returned home for dinner before going back out for a drink in the bar/restaurant closest to IC’s house where we’re friends with the owners, as it happens. The place was half empty so after all the punters had cleared off G&G closed early and we four played cards, smoked, drank, until 2-ish.
I’d been looking forward to Sunday for weeks. Simple plan, avoid church and drive to Sirmione on the shores of Lake Garda (where we had our wedding reception) and enjoy a meal as the guests of the staff who presided over our sickeningly lovely day. This was no empty gesture, the restaurant, next to where we had the time of our lives, is no greasy spoon. It has stars, it’s fucking expensive and the food is astonishingly good, some of the best I’ve ever had the pleasure to eat. It was a splendid afternoon, I didn’t cane the wine as IC was driving -and the last thing she needed on the way home was her English partner rolling round the front seat demanding she pull over in order to relieve his swollen bladder- and the food was better than ever. The roast sucking pig and the tasting dishes (each course is preceded by one) particularly excellent.
Before we returned home the manageress insisted we visit the house she owns with manager husband, bit odd even by Italian standards but a pleasant invitation. The couple are in the process of refurbishment so the place is only half done, nonetheless, it was abundantly clear by the size and contents (to date) these folks have both taste and a lot of money. Professional kitchen, vast living area with vaulted ceiling, glass and chrome staircase, solid marble bathrooms, a sauna room, a fucking pool on the roof… They even invited us over for dinner when we were next in town, and as guests in their restaurant again.
That evening we spent some time with the family before heading back to G&G’s gaff for a drink and, as previously, some cards after-hours. On the Monday we visited the church in which we were wed and popped by the vast mausoleum in which my father-in-law in interred. Pisser I never got to meet him, bit of an Anglophile as it turns out, massive fan of Sherlock Holmes and Alfred Hitchcock which suits me just fine.
After lunch, IC, sis and I went and played cards in a coffee shop and chose a film for the evening. This was tricky, after much prevarication we got ‘Robots’, an animated job that wouldn’t offend mum (strict Catholic, when the Pope’s on TV she calls IC into the room. Also this was the first time we’d been able to sleep together in the house, previously, as unmarried partners, we’d had separate rooms) or send me to sleep. We grabbed some pizza’s from a tried and tested eatery and headed back for the evening, though, of course, we weren’t done until we’d seen G&G before retiring, this time we were joined by Michele, a friend who helped the wedding day go to plan.
Tuesday morning I was awoken by the sound of Santa Lucia’s fucking bell and ushered into the kitchen. I was given a pair of slippers which was splendid as my old shit pair had just split. Following this bit of good fortune we all hopped in the car and headed to the mountains to visit IC’s uncle, auntie and cousin.
To our surprise they’d bought IC and I a hard drive on which they’d copied all the wedding footage, this gesture was warmly received and IC’s Auntie smokes so I didn’t have to suffer the pain of abstinence. Perhaps even better than that, IC’s uncle makes his own Grappa which he insisted I tried. I don’t know what the proof of this stuff was but after one shot glass I could feel its effect coursing through my face. When he asked if I liked it he presented me with a fresh bottle. Happy Santa Lucia!
We had a spot of lunch back home before we were forced to take a bus to the airport, there was just enough time for a wines before boarding and we headed home, tired, sated, chuffed. Marvellous.
Right, that’s it for 2011. I’ll post early New Year unless I feel otherwise. Have a good Christmas break and enjoy New Year. Oh, spare a thought for me on Boxing Day, it’s my 43rd birthday. Forty-three, how the fuck did that happen.
Over to Gerry…
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Jane’s Addiction Irresistable Force 21 12 1
29 Friendly Fires Blue Cassette 28 2 28
28 Twin Atlantic Free NE 1 28
27 The Wombats 1996 19 8 13
26 Young Guns Learn My Lesson NE 1 26
25 Chase & Status Flashing Lights NE 1 25
24 2:54 Scarlet 20 4 19
23 Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds If I Had A Gun NE 1 23
22 Hurts Blood Tears And Gold 16 7 12
21 Snow Patrol This Isn’t Everything You Are 24 4 21
20 Blue October The Feel Again (Stay) 26 2 20
19 Mastodon Curl Of The Burl 13 13 1
18 The Subways It’s A Party 23 3 18
17 Cerebral Ballzy On The Run 14 9 4
16 Bush The Sound Of Winter 11 8 7
15 Adele Rumour Has It 18 3 15
14 The Maccabees Pelican 22 2 14
13 The Kills Baby Says 15 4 13
12 Pulled Apart By Horses VENOM 12 4 12
11 Kaiser Chiefs Kinda Girl You Are 8 6 4
10 Zola Jesus Vessel 9 3 9
9 Band Of Skulls The Devil takes care of his own 5 6 3
8 The Vaccines Wetsuit 10 5 8
7 Kasabian Re-Wired 4 8 2
6 King Blues The Future’s Not What It Used To Be 6 5 6
5 You Me At Six ft Oli Sykes Bite My Tongue 7 5 5
4 Korn Narcissistic Cannibal 17 2 4
3 The Black Keys Lonely Boy 3 5 3
2 The Joy Formidable Cradle 2 5 2
1 Rammstein Mein Land 1 5 1
I’m having another busy week, too busy for this nonsense.
Just enough time for Gerry’s chart, choon, and to inform whomsoever that I fell off my bicycle yesterday evening cycling to (note ‘to’) the pub, right in front of my brother.
I was attempting to mount the pavement when, instead of simply popping the front wheel over the kerb –something I’ve successfully managed thousands of times since I was five- I managed to jam said whorl into the side of the kerb resulting in me upending, rolling a foot or so with my face gurning at the concrete before gravity prevailed and I went crashing down.
My bro looked at me as if it was the most normal thing in the world and said ‘evening dude.’
I’ve a graze on my knee, it feels oddly familiar.
Its IC’s birthday this weekend so I’ll be posting a little more pedantically next week, probably.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Snow Patrol This Isn’t Everything You Are NE 1 30
29 Airship Algebra 18 7 12
28 The Kooks Junk Of The Heart 27 2 27
27 The Duke Spirit Surrender 16 8 4
26 Deaf Havana I’m A Bore Mostly NE 1 26
25 Modestep To The Stars 28 2 25
24 Arctic Monkeys Suck It And See 17 6 15
23 Cage The Elephant Aberdeen 20 4 20
22 Band Of Skulls The Devil takes care of his own NE 1 22
21 Willy Moon I Wanna Be Your Man 26 2 21
20 Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds AKA What A Life 13 8 7
19 The Wombats 1996 24 3 19
18 Manic Street Preachers This Is The Day 14 5 14
17 Enter Shikari Sssnakepit 10 7 8
16 Red Hot Chili Peppers Monarchy Of Roses 15 3 15
15 Hurts Blood Tears And Gold 22 2 15
14 The Howling Bells Into The Sky 8 8 2
13 I Am Giant And We’ll Defy 9 5 9
12 Bush The Sound Of Winter 19 2 12
11 Birdy People Help The People 11 5 11
10 Nightwish Storytime 12 3 10
9 Delilah Go 21 3 9
8 White Lies The Power And The Glory 6 6 6
7 All The Young Quiet Night In 5 7 4
6 Kaiser Chiefs Kinda Girl You Are NE 1 6
5 Battles ft Gary Numan My Machines 3 7 2
4 Cerebral Ballzy On The Run 4 4 4
3 Kasabian Re-Wired 7 3 3
2 Jane’s Addiction Irresistable Force 1 7 1
1 Mastodon Curl Of The Burl 2 8 1
Sorry this is late…
I’m up to my clock weights in it hence the short posting. Just time for Gerry’s chart and a tune within, and an urge that you all get Breaking Bad by any means necessary. One of the best TV shows ever.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Cherri Bomb Spin 19 8 8
29 Kate Bush Wild Man 25 3 25
28 Modestep To The Stars NE 1 28
27 The Kooks Junk Of The Heart NE 1 27
26 Willy Moon I Wanna Be Your Man NE 1 26
25 Bombay Bicycle Club Shuffle 17 11 1
24 The Wombats 1996 28 2 24
23 The Horrors I Can See Through You 14 9 3
22 Hurts Blood Tears And Gold NE 1 22
21 Delilah Go 26 2 21
20 Cage The Elephant Aberdeen 22 3 20
19 Bush The Sound Of Winter NE 1 19
18 Airship Algebra 12 6 12
17 Arctic Monkeys Suck It And See 15 5 15
16 The Duke Spirit Surrender 10 7 4
15 Red Hot Chili Peppers Monarchy Of Roses 21 2 15
14 Manic Street Preachers This Is The Day 18 4 14
13 Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds AKA What A Life 9 7 7
12 Nightwish Storybook 16 2 12
11 Birdy People Help The People 13 4 11
10 Enter Shikari Sssnakepit 8 6 8
9 I Am Giant And We’ll Defy 11 4 9
8 The Howling Bells Into The Sky 5 7 2
7 Kasabian Re-Wired 20 2 7
6 White Lies The Power And The Glory 6 5 6
5 All The Young Quiet Night In 4 6 4
4 Cerebral Ballzy On The Run 7 3 4
3 Battles ft Gary Numan My Machines 2 6 2
2 Mastodon Curl Of The Burl 3 7 2
1 Jane’s Addiction Irresistable Force 1 6 1
The Bloody Victoria Line! I cried, sat on the bus to Brixton from Liverpool Street with IC on Saturday night. The Line was closed due to some engineering nonsense so we were forced onto a double decker, creeping slowly over hill and dale, round the houses -all of them, in order to deliver us into the ever-loving arms of SW9.
Finally we alighted and made our way to a pub crammed full of thirty-forty, even fifty something’s, dressed for the most part in black, essentially barring us from any sort of civilised comfort which wasn’t going down well with the Memsaab. I have to say I wasn’t best pleased either, the people were okay and everything but we had to keep moving out of peoples way and… Christ, a seat! There! A FUCKING SEAT!
Instantly the word became an enchanted place again. It wasn’t just one seat we’d bagged but a table for four, two minutes later Gerry appeared with Justin. It was so perfect I could’ve shit gold, instead I ordered another pint.
Gerry had bought us tickets for Fields of The Nephilim and The Mission as a wedding present, which was jolly nice of him. But he knew as well as we that his gift could either be marvellous or just okay. Lately we’ve been disappointed by seeing old bands that’ve come together and made a fist of their history by trying too hard to modernise proceedings leaving the audience bewildered and largely pissed off.
We were all philosophical about this and treated the evening as a chance to catch up with a gig factored in, like. We left the pub with plenty of time to spare for the bands, at least we thought we did, and took the short walk to the Academy which quite literally had a queue going all the way round the block, right back to the entrance. Annoyingly this setback cost us the first song of TFotN, we could hear it as we passed the emergency exit five minutes before making it inside.
We rushed in via the bar and took a half decent spot by the mixing desk. The sound wasn’t great but the band were, in fact they were as good as when I last saw them in 2007. The final song, Last Exit for the Lost was as good, if not better, than when I’d seen them four years ago.
We grabbed a fag and some awful wine in the interval and got back to our spot for The Mission. I have to say, I was more dubious about this than anything, the last time Gerry and I saw them they were a bit, well, shit. Wrong again, admittedly they looked completely different, almost as if they’d accepted mortality, but rattled through the very best of their tunes accompanied by yours truly screeching his fucking head off. I enjoyed every second of it; they even played one of my favourite songs of all time, Wake. Marvellous. Brilliant night, fantastic present, missus and I were as pleased as punch.
I’ve no idea what time arrived home or went to bed but I did know I wanted to be up at 8am for the MotoGP. I woke in time but discovered that the zinging in my neck the previous day was, as I had suspected, the pre-amble to a bloody cold and thought it best rest up for a while. For the first time ever, I decided to watch the whole race later on the i-player.
A few text messages beeped, before I’d a chance to read them I got up and padded into the lounge where IC was doing some such and such on her PC. She asked me how I was before suddenly interrupting herself with a certain sort of ‘oh no’ and looking me directly in the eyes. I instantly figured that something awful had happened in the GP, then I recalled the text messages early Sunday morning. I asked her, and she reluctantly told me. ‘Marco Simoncelli has been killed,’ and I lost it for a good 15 minutes.
Now this may seem like an overreaction, I didn’t know him personally, but that doesn’t matter. I’ve always loved motorcycles (been riding since I was 7) and by default, motorcycle racing. If I had my way I could happily spend the entire weekend sat on my arse watching blokes racing bikes before getting on mine and riding until my bum fell off, but this isn’t the best way to act in a relationship. As a sort of compromise I focus my attentions on the MotoGP, to such an extent I get paid to write about it, not much but a fucks site more than what I get for doing this…
Thing is this. If you grow up loving bike racing you’re inevitably going to have heroes, Barry Sheene is/was mine. This sort of adulation doesn’t go away. For the past few years I’ve been a big fan of Valentino Rossi for his flair, his genius, and more recently MS for the same reason; though he was at the beginning of his career, Rossi is coming to the end of his. Indeed, MS reminded me of Rossi back in the day (they were very close mates –he was involved in the accident that killed him and by his side when he died) he rode old school, aggressive, determined and had a charismatic personality to match. I liked him instantly and he became my out and out favourite. And yes, it felt as if I knew him in an abstracted sort of way, this may have something to do with watching someone on the brink of mortality week in, week out. It’s complicated.
I wanted to see the accident before I watched the live coverage; I didn’t want to sit waiting for it to happen and it was sufficiently awful to cause me to shake uncontrollably for a good hour. This wasn’t just shock but an emotive, empathic reaction, track or not, riding a motorcycle comes with universal risks, mixed up with the tragedy of watching a decent bloke being killed.
Needless to say it didn’t make for nice Sunday and I’m still feeling the repercussions as I write this. Ciao Marco.
A thank you Gerry chart and tune. Thanks Gerry, Therry.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 The Kooks Is It Me? 18 9 10
29 The Big Pink Stay Gold 26 4 26
28 The Wombats 1996 NE 1 28
27 Alice Cooper I’ll Bite Your Face Off 21 3 21
26 Delilah Go NE 1 26
25 Kate Bush Wild Man 30 2 25
24 Brett Anderson Brittle Heart 19 5 19
23 The Subways We Don’t Need Money 16 10 2
22 Cage The Elephant Aberdeen 28 2 22
21 Red Hot Chili Peppers Monarchy Of Roses NE 1 21
20 Kasabian Re-Wired NE 1 20
19 Cherri Bomb Spin 13 7 8
18 Manic Street Preachers This Is The Day 24 3 18
17 Bombay Bicycle Club Shuffle 11 10 1
16 Nightwish Storybook NE 1 16
15 Arctic Monkeys Suck It And See 15 4 15
14 The Horrors I Can See Through You 9 8 3
13 Birdy People Help The People 17 3 13
12 Airship Algebra 12 5 12
11 I Am Giant And We’ll Defy 14 3 11
10 The Duke Spirit Surrender 4 6 4
9 Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds AKA What A Life 7 6 7
8 Enter Shikari Sssnakepit 10 5 8
7 Cerebral Ballzy On The Run 20 2 7
6 White Lies The Power And The Glory 8 4 6
5 The Howling Bells Into The Sky 3 6 2
4 All The Young Quiet Night In 6 4 5
3 Mastodon Curl Of The Burl 5 6 3
2 Battles ft Gary Numan My Machines 2 5 2
1 Jane’s Addiction Irresistable Force 1 5 1
We arrived at Barcelona (or ‘Barcelona’ as Freddie Mercury would’ve said, actually, he’d have loved Sitges the big girls blouse, no offence) at four-ish. We located our hotel near the old part of town, dumped our bags and took the metro to the Sagrada Familia, which was a bit of an anticlimax to be perfectly honest. The Gaudi part was more than acceptable, it’s the new part that’s so awful, it somehow resembles the aesthetic modernity of Milton Keynes made out of piss yellow sand.
Disappointed, we made our way to Las Ramblas (crowded, tourists, corporate) via Gaudi’s famed houses, more of a question box-ticking I’m afraid -don’t get me wrong, I like them but they didn’t have that ‘FUCK!’ factor I was expecting- and arrived in the old part of the city and a bar therein.
This was more like it, up until this point I was feeling a bit disappointed with the Barcelona, especially after having heard so much about it with regard to Madrid, a place I’m both familiar with and fond of. Getting lost in the cool alleyways that snaked and twisted endlessly through the tall, close buildings was just the ticket, at last I found myself being charmed by the city, then beguiled… Oh look! Another bar! Cava please, I mean por favour. And one of those meat things, Stavros.
We had dinner in a tiny seafood restaurant that featured a scaled down version of Picasso’s Guernica on the wall, the staff were very friendly and the food excellent, though I couldn’t help thinking we’d caught them off guard. We were the only two diners in there for the duration of the meal but lots of little blokes kept coming and going, I’m sure there was something going on but we couldn’t have cared less.
After a final snifter in a beautiful little gaff we went back to hotel. IC had managed to get a deal (£50 a night for a four star job close to the centre) but the room, albeit very acceptable, was a bit small with no view to speak of. Still the bathroom was good and the bed comfortable so we were happy.
The following day the weather was particularly hot so we dived back in the alleyways where it was cool and relaxed. We had a few hours to kill before setting off for the airport at four so we allowed ourselves time to eat tapas and have a few farewell glasses of cava which was most agreeable. I decided that I’d only just scratched the surface of Barcelona’s true potential, and that the people in this corner of the world were very nice, I certainly didn’t feel ready to leave.
We made it to the airport with plenty of time to spare, so I was rather alarmed that our flight was called just as I’d ordered some wine from the bar. I popped over to the gate and noticed people were already boarding, yet we still had more than an hour before we were due to depart. IC was very laid back about the whole thing but I wasn’t, the thought of flying stuffed in between a couple of wankers was far from ideal. I insisted we drain our glasses and join the queue which was diminishing from the front and increasing on the end as other passengers started to arrive, reluctantly she agreed, probably sensing the rising panic in my face.
When we finally boarded the plane I was half cut, just as well really because the flight was packed solid, there wasn’t a double seat available so we were forced to separate and sit where we could. In front of me a plump woman in a floral dress suddenly burst into tears.
‘I want to sit with my husband!’ she cried. Behind her in shorts and sawn-off Slayer tee-shirt was yours truly, I decided to comfort her.
‘S’alright love, I wanna sit with my missus but we can’t have everything, sit there…’ I gesticulated generally to a space between a pair of middle-aged real-ale types.
‘You’re not helping!’ She bleated, as if I’d knocked her buritto out her fist, at which point a stewardess approached and very calmly asked me if ‘that was my partner.’
‘Piss off!’ I said, rather loudly I’m afraid (it just came out) which had the duel effect of instantly making the woman sit in the nearest seat, I can only assume I’d offended her into submission, and giving the stewardess a fit of the giggles, to the extent she had to rush down to the end of the plane to contain herself.
As it happens the flight wasn’t too bad, but that was only after taxing about on the runway for half a sodding hour. I could see IC a couple of rows ahead of me which was of enormous comfort and I was nicely arseholed to boot, I even bought another glass of wine for good measure. Fuck Easy Jet, by the way, I’d actually rather Ryan Air, and that’s saying something.
Speaking of Slayer tee shirts, I’ve just taken delivery of my first ever pair of reading glasses, apparently my regular pair are no longer able to cope with my dwindling eyesight when it comes to close-up views. For practical reasons I’ve had to attach my reading glasses onto spectacle keepers, a length of cord that enables you to dangle them off your neck when not in use, the sort of thing old fuckers have. Think Hinge and Bracket if you’re of a certain age. Anyway, they don’t work with the aforementioned attire.
Gerry’s chart, tune et al.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Kate Bush Wild Man NE 1 30
29 Foo Fighters Arlandria 17 8 11
28 Cage The Elephant Aberdeen NE 1 28
27 Evanescence What You Want 20 6 14
26 The Big Pink Stay Gold 28 3 26
25 Blink 182 Up All Night 15 8 3
24 Manic Street Preachers This Is The Day 30 2 24
23 All The Young Welcome Home 19 16 1
22 The Jezabels Endless Summer 23 3 22
21 Alice Cooper I’ll Bite Your Face Off 24 2 21
20 Cerebral Ballzy On The Run NE 1 20
19 Brett Anderson Brittle Heart 21 4 19
18 The Kooks Is It Me? 12 8 10
17 Birdy People Help The People 26 2 17
16 The Subways We Don’t Need Money 10 9 2
15 Arctic Monkeys Suck It And See 18 3 15
14 I Am Giant And We’ll Defy 22 2 14
13 Cherri Bomb Spin 9 6 8
12 Airship Algebra 16 4 12
11 Bombay Bicycle Club Shuffle 7 9 1
10 Enter Shikari Sssnakepit 14 4 10
9 The Horrors I Can See Through You 5 7 3
8 White Lies The Power And The Glory 13 3 8
7 Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds AKA What A Life 8 5 7
6 All The Young Quiet Night In 11 3 6
5 Mastodon Curl Of The Burl 11 5 5
4 The Duke Spirit Surrender 5 4 4
3 The Howling Bells Into The Sky 2 5 2
2 Battles ft Gary Numan My Machines 3 4 2
1 Jane’s Addiction Irresistable Force 1 4 1