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Profile: Vorn




Tonight I’m going to set my alarm to awaken me with the glorious sound of Vorn. I want to start tomorrow in a good mood. Vorn’s a man who thankfully allows me to do this with his blend of psychedelic, circus, pop-tastic ready mix smorgasboard of well constructed songs. Elvis Costello once said that, “Writing about music is like dancing about architecture.”
Well here I am dancing about architecture. That’s because, to me, Vorn is a musical architect. He is a tremulous fruit machine, beachcombing a chewy merry-go-sound. He provides us with the necessary sustenance in the form of a sonic scroggin for those hikes up overture mountain.
When Vorn and the Fabulous Fisherman played at Mighty Mighty on 28th July, I found myself unconscious on a couch missing the point. That was because I was having nightmares…. untill, I awoke to a fit of grand guitar histrionics during his solo for the song ‘Friendly Skies.’ ( One of the many songs which grace his great last album, ‘Thunk.’ ) I fell asleep again shortly after, due to inebriation. Because Vorn’s music sounds good in all kinds of altered-conscious states, this didn’t prove to be a problem. I would happily eat, sleep, drive, ride bikes, dance, burp, blink, drink tea, picnic, hike up overture mountain, run through poppy fields, have sex, masturbate, play pictionary, twister, cluedo, and awaken to Vorn. Some of these things I have actually done. Some even simultaneously. I’m thinking my next haircut will be done to a Vorn album.
Now, though Vorn is an accomplished busker also, ( he does justice to many a classic rock cover on accordian), he comes across magnificently in the band format. His band is infamous for changing their name by deed pole for each gig. They are a garish, waxwork museum of implausible characters. There’s Dezcor, the planet smashing cyborg thumposaur. Dr. Strangeglove, on keys and skeletons and closets. Jef, on percussion, and hand relief teaching and a cocktail of mandrax and instant coffee. On bass, Bootsy Collins trapped in the body of a white, balding, fuktard from Birmingham called Simon….and Vorn himself has had a hip-hoperation to turn him from a flat-headed dwarf with false teeth into a mystical rock god from the funk fusion pantheon.
Personally I reckon you should all do yourselves a favour and check Vorn out. He has more than one album. A lot more than one fan. Possibly even more than two personalities.
Thunk is available where any good music is ‘souled’. Or. You can check him out at www.myspace.com/vornmusic.
Right. There you go Mr Elvis Costello, I just broke into a frenzy of moonwalks, crazy legs, the tango, a slow waltz, head banging, and a rather dubious out-of-time robot. There may have been, in fact was, a twist. In utmost respect for Vorn himself, I deemed it necessary to leave out Suzanne Pauls’ horrendous ‘Funky Chicken.’ Do the mashed potato. Night night campers, I’m gonna snowboard to Vorn, down Wolverton Mountain.