Archive for January, 2010

So the weekend saw us play our first ever headline tour. It was the Happy Huw Year Tour and it featured us, Swantom Bombs and Islet. We had a real blast as we took in the towns of Bournemouth, Bristol and London. All the gigs were packed out and the other bands really rocked especially Islet who we will be keeping a close eye on and waiting for there debut in the North East. We got up to all sorts of japes including stopping at services for sweets and pop and even having a can of beer or two…

I made a bit of a tour diary with the Flip cam I got from Santa Claus. have a butchers and tell us what you think.

Speak Soon

Frankie and the Heartstrings - Tour Diary Jan2010 from ,, on Vimeo.

Frankie x

Happy Huw Year


What an end to the year it was for the Heartstrings and its started pretty good in 2010….

So our single came out on Rough trade
It was weird but an amazing feeling to see our record in the shops where we have spent our hard earned cash over the years! The track Hunger was a sensation and has had lots of Radio play WA HOO !!!

To celebrate this we held a single launch at RPM records in Newcastle it was brilliant loads of people came, but the best was at the end when we were giving people our autographs…..

Last night our Maida Vale session was broadcast on BBC Radio1 , it was crazy to hear it back and see the video online IT SOUNDED RAD!!! especially Fragile ……fucking love that song.

This week we have a HUGE feature in the NME it says were gunna be big we already are in our world…..

I know what your saying how can all this be beaten …..well it was when Dave met his hero Dean Heslop in our very own practice room in Sunderland what a treat…..

anyway……..our first few praccys of the year were awsome and the new songs sound shit hot …..get ready for us 2010 your our bitch…….

Frankie x


I’m not saying I want to have my cock sucked in a toilet. In fact I’ll make my position clear here and now, I would rather not put my chucky in a gentleman’s mouth in a toilet.
Myself and fellow Heartstring (he’s the Heartstrings Heartstring in my opinion) had garnered a particularly unhealthy obsession with the public toilets apposite Sunderland beat eatery and pioneer of uranium fuelled coffee that is Louis Café. I should probably tell you a little about Louis café. Louis café is what all eateries and skinny frappacino Shoreditch hipster troughs aspire to be. So flagrantly and almost unbelievably pretentious that it’s a little difficult to believe that there isn’t some uber hip twatable crack fiend behind all of this formica brilliance. It remains the only place I know that pre cooks bacon rolls and then microwaves them on demand… complains….its fucking Louis; you’d be a dick to complain. Upstairs is a fish and chip restaurant that serves beer, although ive never ever seen anyone drink a beer in there. I once asked if they had a reasonable Chateau Neuf De Pappe, they looked at me like I’d wanked in the beef dripping. I hadn’t, but in hindsight I probably looked like a dick and they might have wanked on my chips, you live and you learn. Enough of this tish and fipsy, I have a tale to weave, a tale of dirty penises in local toilets.
So, once again myself and Michael find ourselves as cowardly social commentators sat on the lower level of the most unknowing bohemian stalwart this grey agnostic temple of dog shit has to offer. That’s what we did. Drank coffee and had a pop at the continuing array of dickheads, meatheads and scenster ballbags as they paraded by, never knowing that they were the victims of some razor sharp asides between myself and the ginger dream machine. If we were not absolute cowards and scared of pretty much everyone then we could honestly become full time verbal pugilists. But we are cowards so the very though is just fucking pointless. Society’s loss is our mumbling giggling gain.
Right fuck that I was talking about cocks, always give the people what they want.
Sunderland, much like any other city of little interest to anyone, is brimming with urban myth, fucked up characters in limbo with anything (themselves included); dickheads (mostly in bands/connected music (I don’t rule myself out here)). One such mumbling had foretold of a place……a place where like minded men could get together without inhibitions. A place where dreams are made, characters are formed. A place you can go and hang out with all the boys. 1 small room where you can hold your head high, then pop another fellas chucky in y’pyet and wiggle it about until his willy is sick. I think that’s what goes on, like I say I have yet to visit this welcoming gentlemen’s, well eatery I suppose.
Admittedly I can be a little vulgar. Massive swinging gammon style fanny……..see, its fucking easy. But, if you choose to get out of your comfort zone and look at things from a slightly different angle then the most amazing pieces of social tiffin are there for your enchantment. I’m no shit hippy, but if you look at a leaf long enough, that little fuckers are fascinating, like watching your hand on acid, really fascinating. Don’t try looking at Thatcher like this you’ll turn to stone because of the aids she will definately give you. I digress. So here we are playfully chatting about Sunderland’s least clandestine WC and the actual possibility of it being a social cocksuckery. I always like the fact that there is a place next door called chicken cottage. Irony, its all I have. So we watch and a chap enters. He is wearing a fairly non descript leisure wear style top, action slacks and has an unassuming bag for life style holdall. He’s in. Maybe he would like to point Percy at porcelain, crafty wash, chicken and mushroom form the Pie Shop and then home for Loose Women. He’s been in there a while. But I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. He could be dropping anchor at poo bay. But lord have mercy, another chap is on the naughty radar. This chap is slightly unkempt and would not look out of place on the Mexican version of crime stoppers, the fucker looks like a donkey rustler. Now I know that this place only has one cubicle, don’t question me, I just know it has. But, 2 guys 1 cubicle, he may be waiting. Alas no, within a 5 minute period that tiled den of Wilmot knows what was rocking to the tune of 8 assorted gentlemen (I don’t know how gentle they were). One at a time they file out. They leave gaps between their departure. Seems a little late to try and garner dignitary, but there’s Englishness in this I think. This makes me proud in the fucking weirdest way I have ever had the misfortune to experience.
It is a sad day when you have to move images from the urban myth file to the black reality department of what’s left of your brain. Imagine if you saw the Brazilian lady giving birth to tiny lobsters or saw some chap warning someone of an imminent terrorist attack because they had found his wallet. The fact is we don’t want things to be true all of the time. I don’t really want my life to have any truth in it at the moment, so I choose not to let the truth have its awkward little way.
The weeks have ebbed by and we have continued to make notes of the movements, patterns and odd activities of these fine illusion shattering battalion of bold brave men. I cant say I really understand it. The part we discussed was this. If your average meat headed, Peruvian sniffing, expensive knitwear wearing cunt has quite possibly alcohol fuelled intercourse with some naughty minx in a convenience in town, there is no problem. He is paraded around town like Jack the Biscuit, held aloft in his Sedan chair by 4 oiled men pumped up with steroids, which is obviously incredibly straight and harbours zero emotions as far as homosexual thoughts are concerned. That’s for you Mail readers aka bellends/my Dad. However, if you happen to of been fellated in a toilet in front of a dirty market selling rugs and pictures of Michael Jackson printed on a mahogany shield, well, you’re a fucking deviant.
I feel the only way to make an informed decision is if I try both.

Dave “Pearl” Harper

Look Back and Avert Anger. Movement 1

There cannot be more than 2 weeks since the age of 17 that I have not been in a band. And even then I imagine I would be plotting some ghastly glam rock outfit with whatever drug addicts had the amps….and the drugs…..and legs and shit.
The first ham fisted outfit I was part of was a beat group named Up/Yz. I wore a bat winged blouse, Barry played a car boot sale purchased nameless plank finished with what I believe was car filler. As an interesting aside this car filler had been used on Barry’s collection of Morris Mariners which he we subsequently summoned about as they were all knackered and making the street look like a set from Rita, Sue and Bob too. Myself Singer (that’s the appropriate reference) attended an art show at the Reg Vardy Gallery. To cut a rather amusing but brutally long storey short, we met Barry and within an hour we had compared penises (Barry’s is akin to a shop soiled Chorizo) and if my peppered memory is king I believed we break danced in each others urine. I’m hoping for my parent’s sake that this is slightly sensationalized, I don’t think it is. All band bond in each others urine, this way all pomp and fanfare is eradicated.
2 weeks after our piss passadoble we were to meet our bass player Foggy. Foggy, besides from being the most cordial fellow I have ever had the pleasure to cross swords with had a thirst for d’erb that would make Jay Kay look like a cunt, which of course is a double negative, mist, nowt! We met in local stick carpet Mecca “The Royalty”. I was dressed in a patent leather, fur lined bomber jacket. I looked like Barbie Rough Trade. Turns out that Fog had been classically trained and had competed in a bass kumate or some shit. What also became clear is, that when he played in the orchestra he had a) been stoned off his kipper and b) had thought it safer to mime. I liked this cat. We drank a brace of Lamptons ale then retired to Singers significant other student shit pit and had a vomiting competition, well me and Barry did. I won. On leaving said property we were routinely accosted by the local tracksuit palare laden throng. Now to normal folk, well me, this is the signal to run like fuck, keep your flares clean and the fire in your belly primed for saucier times. Fogg, a man of principles and of green politics did not/could not muster those fluid legs and received a monumental kicking. I was fine, thank Christ for that! He was in the band.
We also had singer.
I could be wrong. Actually that ridiculous, I couldn’t. But I think all bands used to come together as a result of some fucked up series of quite possibly urine related incidents. There was no stylist, no remit albeit “play the fucker hard and loud!” and little of the snobbery I see in your shit band these days. Ours was a completely different snobbery. A snobbery that made people lie about us that was so fucking beautiful. An unbridled arrogance that prevented us from having anything else to do with the over romanticised cocksuckers singing about buck toothed ginger twee shaped proto cunts with the charisma of Piers Morgan’s bellend. I didn’t hate every other band, I didn’t have to. They would wake up the next day, the same as I would, but they would still be them, possibly damp with tears and crusted with last nights semen. I’m conscious that these bands owe any kudos still staining the ether to wet fucking hindsight. There can’t be a week that goes by that I don’t hear some damp flan of a cunt reminiscing like a fop Peter Kay. Honestly the Sunderland scene of several years ago has become the Rola Cola of a painfully local comedy set. There is no point in being romantic if it simply is not true, if there is little worth and zero desire to capitalise upon it. I got fucking lucky but I swallowed my rose tinted spectacles many ears ago. It’s just taken me a while to shit those final shards the FUCK out!

Dave “Pearl” Harper