Yes, folks, the glorious news that you’ve all been waiting for - the new STAVKA album is nearly almost virtually just about ready for release! Woot! And when I say “release” I mean it’ll be offered to thegenital pubic at the wondrous STAVKA webstore where a glistening CD-R burn graced with my marker pen doodles and a cheaply photocopied jacket can be yours for just ten bucks US. Yay!

For a while there it looked as though this album was going to go the Zen route after several years of infuriating tussles with various bits of machinery (to be documented in a future post), all of which seemed hell-bent on blocking my creative endeavours and preventing them from coming to fruition. The Zen route does have its attractions, mind: finish an album and then never make any copies of it at all, because it’s all about the journey, not the arriving. Of course, the hardcore among you might go one step further and say, “Hey Mr.Stavka, why don’t you go the whole way and not even bother to record the album at all, and just keep it as an idea?” I must admit that I have been tempted down that particular alley more than once, but no, once the hell that is production is over and a few intervening years have er….intervened, it’s great to be able to sit back, throw the CD on and marvel at how I was ever able to come up with all that power pop goodness.

Mind you, I have scaled down considerably on the distribution front with regard to my musical outpourings. Back in 1998 when I first acquired the means to pump out my own fully-formed CD albums, I foolishly allowed my youthful enthusiasm to obscure reality, and proudly dished out copies of my latest to all and sundry: family, friends, Rabbis, insurance salesmen, Jehovah’s Witnesses, window cleaners, passers-by, homeless urchins and stray dogs. Only slowly did I come to realise that others might not be sharing my joy: noticing my CDs used as coasters, oversized necklaces or shiny rotating devices to scare off crows, I began to get the hint.

But indifference eventually turned to outright abuse. Here’s a typical conversation from that period, reproduced verbatim:

Suffering Artist: “Hello, old friend. A while ago I gave you a copy of my latest long player, a forty-seven song cyclical diaphonic chant about entropy and angst. I spent the last eight years making it: a real labour of love and an actual part of my soul, my being. Pray, ply me with encouraging remarks and give me a warm gooey feeling inside with your loving support, even though I am fully aware that my kind of music is a tad different to your usual fare of bland banal commercial fodder.”
Alleged Friend: “It’s shite. I threw it out with the fish offal.”
Suffering Artist: “Thank you, good sir. May all your children be born without arseholes.”

So, over the years I have gradually reduced my distribution to the point where I only give out copies of my wares to people who actively express an interest, and that area of the CD booklet usually reserved for a list of names the artiste wishes to thank for help and support remains completely blank. It’s as if the whole thing has come full circle: I began creating music with a bunch of mates back in the late 70’s, writing and recording solely for our own amusement and pleasure with no thought or need of a wider audience at all. Now I’m right back there, although through the internet I have had something of a revelation of late. After airing my music each week on the late lamented A-Bomb City Podcast I was amazed at the number of positive comments I got from listeners, as well as having a few requests for my songs to be used by other broadcasters in their own shows. And a couple of folks even bought CDs from the STAVKA emporium! Wow, that’s my pension sorted!

Strange though, how support and vindication has to come from total strangers in other countries rather than friends and family.

Well, fuck ‘em, it looks like it’s me who gets the last larf, as I lie here in my Beverley Hills mansion snorting cocaine from the arse cracks of a coterie of curvaceous concubines, playing the role of rock star with consummate ease.