Francisco Garcia

Freelance culture, nightlife and music writer found mainly over at Vice UK/US, Thump, Noisey and Fresh on the Net among a few scattered others. Here's a fairly random scattering of features from the last few months.

Also: a few blobs of investigative experience, branded content research and press release writing. Noise me up on the e-mail above^, or over Twitter.

First Beers, First Shags, and Shit Haircuts: How I Grew to Love The Fall

When I was at the sweaty, hormonal juncture that comes from being fifteen years old, music seemed like the easiest path up the treacherous, probably unscalable crag leading to teenage cool. Every week I’d slam down my pile of change in every local newsagent for my NME, Q, and Kerrang. Every week I’d take a biro and score through the latest ‘introducing’ feature on the latest indie band predestined for their one album spurt of glory. I’d load up the wheezing Dell desktop in my Aunt’s room and dut

Meet Trap Toys, the Dudes Turning Rappers into Badass Action Figures

Have you ever thought – while staring in appalled apathy at the unending rows of sinister Stretch Armstrongs in your local toy shop – how good it would be if someone melted Eazy E down into a plastic figurine, complete with Action Man sized, heart-threatening muscles, guns, and tight y-front pants, in a way that resembled the original 1980s He-Man? And called it Eazy-He? Luckily for you, you strange and specific person, there are two men who have created exactly that plus other creations as ‘Sp

I Watched the Clip of Roberto Martinez Dancing to Jason Derulo 400 Times in a Row, These Are My Thoughts...

The caption is right. The caption does not lie. This is a Snapchat of Roberto Martinez, manager of a great English footballing institution, Everton, declaring bankruptcy on the coordination of each of his limbs at a Jason Derulo concert. I have watched this video so much, I can't cope without it. I have stopped watching it to write this, but I am still listening to it in the background. I need these sounds now, they are part of me, like the faint beep on a heart monitor.

A Priceless, 150-Year-Old Antique Guitar Was Destroyed During Filming of The Hateful Eight

What is the furthest length you’ve gone to in pursuit of artistic authenticity? Nicking your dad’s black cashmere scarf for that 2K6 Windows movie-maker hood video was pretty mental, true. Raiding SportsDirect for ankle-socks, batty riding velvet shorts and a whistle for your ‘supply P.E teacher’ Halloween costume showed clarity of vision, no doubt. Congratulations, you are an artist. But whilst you may be an artist, Quentin Tarantino is an auteur. Quentin Tarantino is an auteur because he loans

We Tracked Down and Spoke to Elusive Happy Hardcore Legend DJ Rankin

A couple of months have elapsed since I wrote a piece on these hallowed pages, profiling the mystery cloaked, balls-in-a-titanium-vice falsetto ad-libbing king of the MySpace age: DJ Rankin. I say profile, but it was more of a frenzied cry into a fragile network of long obsolete forums and eight-page-along Google searches. Facts were gruel thin on the ground. I wanted to find out the truth about a man who clogged the memory of every Motorola Razor in the land between 2005-2009, but every lead, every crumb of information bent back on itself in an ever more complex, ever more frustrating net of hearsay and speculation.

Reflecting on the Pranks of Dean Blunt, the Greatest Piss-Taker in British Music

The British, as a people, are the inveterate piss-takers of the free world. We produce top-notch piss-takers at the same rate China produces our steel – from You’ve Been Framed, to the Big Breakfast, through to The Day Today and Brass Eye, all the way to your grandad putting an unwanted sugar in your nan’s tea. Sure, the future may be coloured a carpet-fluff shade of grey for most of us, but the grand tradition of determined trolling and bloody minded pranking steamrolls on unimpeded.

We Went to Dean Blunt's Private View Last Night

It's better, always better, to get the wank right out the way, right out in the open, right at the start. So here it is: here's the floppy cock on the table, right at the very start. Dean Blunt has an exhibition on at the Cubitt Artists gallery in Angel, it's running from the 28th of January to the 28th of February and, to my mind, it's funny and disingenuous in the same way that all the best Dean Blunt is funny and disingenuous. I know this because I trekked down to the private view last night.

Croydon Tiger Tiger and the Death of the Heart of the High Street

So it's farewell then to the Croydon output of Tiger Tiger. No more booths will be booked, no more plutonium enriched VKs will be served, no more overdraft facilitated Grey Goose rounds will be peacockingly consumed. The party's over Croydon and no, your mate is definitely not allowed back in to get his jacket, I caught him shitting into the mop bucket, and will you please stop swinging that mop at me, it's covered in your mates shit.
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