Tuesday 2 July 2024

SIMON SAYS

 

SIMON SAYS 



I read a post today about how great Simon Cowell is 😂

In a pivotal moment at just 32 years old, Simon Cowell found himself with a mere £5.26 in his pocket, returning humbly to his parents' home amidst financial ruin. It could have marked the end, but for Cowell, it sparked a remarkable new beginning.

Then it went on about facing adversity and being a testament to the triumph of will etc.

But it kinda left out the whole bit about working for Stock, Aitken and Watermen, which is why he faced bankruptcy in the first place. Plus he was born into the music business & his parents were quite well off.

So we're not talking proper homeless rags to riches here. We are talking about a guy who wouldn't give me the time of day. We're talking about a guy who quite literally says what goes. Who's idea of talent is all about ticket sales.

Its because of people like Simon here, that there is nothing challenging about todays music, nothing new, nothing beyond a one hit wonder, take the money and run.

Gone are the days of artist development. Today you have to be born perfect in every way. You must be a literal android, without faults. And just as bland.

The X Factor is just that. A filtering system, designed to make young hopefuls pin all their hopes and dreams on the so called opinions of a minority.

Nobody takes calculated risks anymore. The win some, lose some happy go lucky ethos of yesteryear, has been replaced by todays cold hard units of product and expenditure. If you aint got a million zillion followers on Tik-Tok, you aint got nothing.

Dave Grohl said of the The X Factor and Pop Idols, that if Bob Dillon went on there now, they'd reject him for singing too nasally and a bit flat.

Frank Zappa pretty much summed on the state of play in the modern music industry, by stating that it was the old Cigar-Chewing entrepreneurs of the 50's and 60's that allowed music to flourish in the first place. They didn't even like the music but they could see that certain styles appealed to the youth.

It was about giving something a go and seeing what happened. And thats why we got Bill Hayley opening the hallowed gates of rock n roll to pretty much anyone, allowing Elvis, Little Richard and Jerry Lee Lewis and so on.

But somewhere along the line, the Simon Cowells of the industry came out of the woodwork. They started off life in the industry serving tea and coffee to said Cigar-Chewing entrepreneurs. They did all the boring stuff, shuffled paperwork, made phone calls, made sure Ozzy Osborn was served only brown M&Ms.

And when the old order eventually died off, the coffee boys took over. Holding all the keys, they quickly took control and became the arbitrators of what we should listen to.

So if you want to prey before the alter of Simon Cowell, well go ahead. Or get out there and create your own independent music scene.

Saturday 29 July 2023

DREAM WORLDS

 


DREAM WORLDS 


I occasionally have this weird dream, like Im living this other life? 

Sometimes I'm on a promenade. 

No particular Sea Side Town. Just a mish-mash of all Sea Side Towns jumbled together. 

Sometimes it was a city, with impossibly steep roads and streets. 

I'd go exploring, meet strange people.  

Im usually younger too. Like 25 or so? 

Time is different in dreams. 

Like an hour here is a millisecond in the dream world. 

Once I lived a whole life in a dream, like years and it all seemed so real. 

This had a profound effect on me. 

But in the waking world, the dream fades. 

Its like the brain cannot juggle the memory of two whole lives. 

Perhaps reincarnation is really a thing? 

Who knows. 

Energy can only be transferred. I guess.

Friday 7 July 2023

Band Journal - Brunswick Gig Brighton


THE BRUNSWICK GIG

BRIGHTON

6TH JULY 2023

 

BANANAS

VOMIT

CIRCLES

HEATH LEDGERS CANOO

VIDEO SEX (IMPROV)

CUCKOO

SUGAR SWEET

CORONA ZOMBIES

  

Well, we barely survived Brighton. Just about. The actual journey was more harrowing than anything else. Playing in front of people? No problem. Using public transport? Ahhh!


Let’s back-track a bit. Gigs of late have been pretty thin on the ground. Suddenly I realised if I didn’t do something about this, the year would be over and I'd have little to show for it. 

So I made friends online with the awsum band Joker Monk Fool, who offered me a support slot at the Brunswick in Brighton. Excited by this prospect, I offered in return a gig in Portsmouth. But that’s another story.

Then it was a case of rallying the band. My bassist (Dan Lydman) was up for anything. But my drummer was so-so. Fucking work commitments. I asked around my other drummers but no joy. I then ask  Joker Monk Fool if we can borrow their drummer and they agree. Awsums.

The remaining issue was how to get there. Dan asked his mate (and our roady) Dave, if can drive us there. But Dave can’t do it because his daughter is at a prom that night. Everything hangs in the balance. I resort to looking up trains. Initially its like over £30 rtn. Not to mention taxis and food/drink expenses. We’re looking at £50 each. Sigh. But a little more research revealed the off peak trains that are only £19.30. So that was doable.  

Anyway, knowing how shit public transport was for long journeys, I was very meticulous about making sure that nothing was left to chance. I couldn’t really afford to be stranded in Brighton, particularly since I had to get back to Fareham and look after my sisters cats. I even phoned up the train company that morning,  just to check that there were no problems.

So far so good. But there was still the issue of the last trains back from Brighton. Industrial action has affected Southern Railways. The usual. Not enough staff and too little pay. But as a result, the last train from Brighton back to Fareham was at 9pm! Fucksakes.

This gives me a migraine. As it means our time was very limited. We will literally have to start at 7:30pm, when the doors open, play for half an hour and rush back to get the train. It’s not ideal and nobody ever turns up at this time to see bands.

But if we can video said gig, then it will all be worth it, just to have something to show for our trouble. So all we needed now, was somebody to video it. I decided to cross that bridge when I got there.

So I meet Dan at Fareham Station around 1:45pm. It’s so nice having a bassist who actually has a brain and above all, is reliable. Years of being stuck in bands with knuckle-heads who can’t seem to grasp the importance of punctuality, have worn me down a bit. But Dan is great. He even suggested we should get off at Hove, which was slightly nearer to the venue than Brighton Station would be. So good call.

Getting to Brighton was essentially a smooth ride without error. Just the boredom of being stuck in a train for two hours. Since there was no hint of a trolley service, Dan was good enough to supply onboard refreshments in the form of a couple of cans of Ginger Beer. He was also good enough to cover the taxi fares.

It was also a beautiful day. Perfect vibes for gigs. We did our whole taxi ride gawping out the windows at how awsum everything looked. There’s something very hypnotic about the cityscape. The architecture in Brighton is fantastic. Which was why its renowned as London by the sea, I guess. I wish I hadn’t left this place but I couldn’t carry on the way I was. But that’s another long story.

It’s been a good ten years since I was last in Brighton. But it still holds this fascination for me. Perhaps of possibility. To meet interesting people. To fall in love. Whatever. I guess it makes me feel alive.

And there’s been some strange new additions to the city as well. Most notably the horizon is now littered with distant wind turbines. It all makes for a surreal look.

At the venue (The Brunswick) we announced ourselves to the bar maid who led us down a narrow rickety flight of stairs into the basement and showed us the stage. Its dark and dingy. But pretty much all Brighton basement venues look like this. So I’m used to it.

In fact I love dinge. The dingier the better. Besides, I’d rather play here than upstairs to a bunch of wine-tasting twats. Then again being in the basement, nobody really knows you are down there.

Dan gets a couple of Guinness in and we sit out in the back garden admiring the buildings that surround us. Kinda reminds me of Benidorm I suppose. Lots of roof terraces, ornate balconies, people lazing out of attic openings. A curious phone box type outcrop, stuck to a fourth floor.

Lots of fire escapes and spiral staircases and bamboo shutter blinds. Dan asks me what my first album I bought was. I guess it was Sargent Peppers on Vinyl .

Eventually the other bands we will be playing with, start to filter into the beer garden, which include the enigmatic Maya Zeltzer and we get talking. Enter Crispin singer of The Ancient Unknown. Interesting fella. He asks me what got me into music. I tell him (besides the Beatles) it was watching Kurt Cobain fooling around on Top of the Pops. That and John Carpenter. 

I moan about lack of gig opportunities and playing to near empty shows. He tells me, his band struggles as well. It seems that most bands I’ve talked to are having a shit time of it. But we soldier on. Sometimes you get one really good gig that makes up for all the shit ones. A packed venue and people actually crowd surfing to your music. They are like busses. None for ages and then suddenly you get a festival gig and lots of exposure.


Still a good half hour until the sound checks will commence. Dan and I wonder down to the seafront. Not much has changed since I was last here. Except for a horrendous metal chimney towering over Brighton. I mean it was fucking massive. Like even taller than the Spinnaker. We had no idea what it was. But it certainly looked like an eyesore. I mean, it was just this huge metal phallic tube, shooting up into the fucking sky.

I asked an old woman on a bench nearby, what it was. She shook her head and indicated she didn’t speak any English. Finally the mystery was solved, when we saw a viewing platform raise from the phallic base, like a giant silver donut shaped flying saucer, glinting in the sun. 

Commonly known as the Brighton i360, its cost the tax payer £46 Million. Basically a bungled attempt by West Pier Trust to raise money to restore the skeletal remains of West Pier, which I'd witness burn down twenty years previously. Regarded as a f*kin Eyesore by residents, the unpopular i360 is now in debt of £48 Million. 

Bored of it, we took photos of each other along the prom. It’s all rather like being on holiday. In fact, I’ve hardly been out of Portsmouth since the Lockdown.

Then the tranquillity was shattered, by the row of smack-heads on the beach. Sitting by the railings, one was currently smashing a blu-tooth stereo on said railings. Jesus. That’s some serious fucked-upness right there. A lovers tiff ensued.

            ‘Stop playing that farkin shit!’ Yelled the boyfriend, smashing said box to pieces. The girlfriend told him to fuck off. But still wanted another cigarette off him. 

We decide to return to the relative safety of The Brunswick.

Typical of such venues, was a lack of a changing room for bands. The Brunswick offered us the token privilege of using their beer cellar, which was choker-full with stacks of dusty old tables and chairs and of course the beer barrels. It had a low ceiling and I kept banging my head on the pipes. I found an old battered washing machine that looked like it had a serious cocaine habit. The draw was caked in ancient white dregs and washing powder stalactites, which spilled out all over the floor. If Scar Face was a washing machine, then this would be it.

 Anyway, I got changed. It’s always good to bring spare clothes. Basically when you go onstage, it’s like you are doing an intense work out. Your body just pours with sweat. So yeah. Spares.

That and deodorant. Which I didn’t have. Fortunately Dan did.

Note to self: BRING CAN OF DEODORANT.  

Then it’s the sound check, courtesy of sound man Matt. We use Joker Monk Fools gear. But the trouble here was that the amp they supplied had zero distortion but it’s too late to do anything about it now. Finally we are ready to go and Hadar gets behind the drum kit.

But now I am out of tune. And we sound awful.

Note to self: BUY NEW GUITAR TUNER. And maybe a distortion pedal. But all my distortion pedals are broke. I need to invest in new ones. But I’m always too goddam skint.

Anyway, my old work buddy Nicky C arrives. I’ve not seen him in years. He hasn’t changed much. We reminisce of our time working together at (shock horror) the Inland Revenue way back in the early naughties. Particularly our boss Clive. Who had metal legs and acted like a fucking smiley shit-eating Android.

Nick told me old Clive-droid had sadly passed away a few weeks ago. Oh well. He also mentions my ex-drummer (Adam) had quit the IRS and was now on the dole. How the world changes.

Talking of change, we got onto the subject of that fucking eyesore on the seafront (the i360). He said he's been up it but it cost him £30.  He wasn't impressed. 

Anyway, it occurred to me that Nicky C could be our video man. After all, the whole point was to record this historic moment for future history... if any. 

And thus Nick was anointed our Chief Documenter.  Then I shoved a camera phone in his face, showed him the buttons and scurried back down to the basement to get ready...

7:40pm.  We’re running late. It’s now or never. We got on stage and plugged in. But our drummer has gone AWOL. We asked someone to go find him.  Eventually Hadar appeared and clambered behind the drum kit. Now we’re all set. Band was ready. Nick was filming.  Perfect. 

All we needed now was an ...audience? Of course, all we had was the other bands. But they were good enough to give us lots of cheering, so it didn’t all  seem like a totally empty room.

I blunder into the first song. Bananas. It’s a real struggle. With no distortion on the amp, it’s a chore to get the chords to come across. Dan was struggling with the bass rig too. Everything just sounded flat and muddy. Hadar says nothing but he’s probably thinking this all sounds terrible.

We muddled thru anyways and tried to make the best of it. That’s all you ever hope for I guess.

Our little audience were quite forgiving and cheered anyway. Lol. When we played Circles they all started skat-dancing and chasing each other in a circle, which was quite funny. 

Originally, we wanted to play Cats Eyes but swapped it out for Heath Ledgers Canoo, thinking it would be much easier for Hadar to get his head around. Cats Eyes is quite a demanding song, with gallop beats and stops and starts. If it doesn’t have those nuances, the song drags its ass, like a car that’s lost its back wheels, scraping along a bumpy concrete road, full of pot holes.

Perhaps the highlight of any gig we do, is the improvisations. Where the audience get to suggest ideas and we turn them into songs. In this case, it was suggested we did a song about 

Boris Karloff, 

Credit Cards 

and Video Sex.  

We ended our set on The Zombie Song, by which point the venue had gotten slightly busier. As always, the punters attempted their best Zombie Dance. Always a fun tune to play, when the audience embrace their inner Zombie. 

8:20pm and we were all done. Another gig in the bag. I came off stage sweating buckets, cursing the guitar amp for not having any distortion. I mean, we’re supposed to be an tidal wave of alt-rock grunge smacking you in the face like a wet kipper. 

But with no distortion, we just sounded like 60s pop. Stupid Amp!

Said guitar amp frowned at me:

 It’s not my fucking fault dude. It shrugged. Where’s your fucking distortion pedal?

Of course, it’s all my fault for not bringing said distortion pedal in the first place. But I had too many things to think about, just rallying the band together and making this gig happen. Not to mention all the other shit one has to bring, just to play even the most basic of gigs. Plectrums, guitars, guitar leads, spare batteries, spare strings, socks, T-shirts, wallet, keys, phone, sandals, frog shades, cowboy hats. It’s like going back-packing. You always forget something. But anyway. Said pedals are broken beyond repair.

Note to self. BUY A NEW FUCKING DISTORTION PEDAL.

Backstage, singer of Joker Monk Fool (Eli Haberman) appeared and thanked me for playing a good show. He then presents me with an awsum Joker Monk Fool T-Shirt! I am honoured. A great little memento. I am also very glad that it actually fitted me.

With the clock ticking like a fucking bomb counting down to the apocalypse, we stuff our guitar bags of gear, say our goodbyes and rush out the door, in a taxi back to Hove Station.

All was good. We’ve now played Brighton, met some awsum people and had a great time. But then it all went to shit.

The arduous task of just getting to Brighton was nothing compared to the trip back.

Our journey home was littered with complications. Like biblical. We only got a few miles before the train ground to an absolute fucking halt at Worthing.

Then it didn’t leave. Ten minutes later, the driver announced that there was a traffic accident on a level crossing at Angmering. A vehicle was hanging off a bridge. Great.

People started getting off the train. The driver announced that our train was likely going to be stuck here indefinitely. For fucksakes. What we supposed to do now ?  

It was like that scene in Titanic, when said boat hit the iceberg and had to stop. A whole train full of passengers unload onto the platform. Soon the station is a flurry of confusion. Various angry commuters start  hassling the already agitated staff with questions they can’t answer.

Are there any more trains?

How the fuck are we supposed to get back home? 

Is there a bus replacement?

Do we have to pay for it?

plus 

What about snacks?

Will there be alcoholic drinks?

Pretzels?

What’s the fastest land moving mammal?

Is it the North African Cheetah or the Southern Asian Blackbuck?

At least, these last five questions are what I was wanting to ask. I mean, all the main questions were already taken.

Obviously, the grim reality of being stranded in Worthing hadn’t quiet sunk in yet.

But as time dragged on, I began to regret my decision to do this gig. Like I was being punished by the gods for being a deviant and playing in a rock and roll band.

Note to self: INVENT TELEPORT MACHINE

alternatively construct ANTI-WRATH OF GOD J-TEAM VAN

 Anyway. Fucking trains.

But it’s not been the first time that I’ve been stuck miles from home after a gig. Although I wish it would be the fucking last time. But thems the breaks.

The Manchester gig was pretty bad. Our accommodation fell through and we had nowhere to stay. So we spent all night huddled in a bus shelter, in the freezing fucking cold, trying to book a coach online because the fuckers wouldn’t except cash on the door.

Then there was the time I was stranded in Austin Texas. But that’s yet another story.

Anyway, the station staff ordered us all some taxis, free of charge. Which was nice of them. I bumped into a fellow stranded passenger (John) who used to run a jewellery store at my old shop (White Elephant). Currently he has a stall at Liss Emporium.

An hour or so passes. Maybe more. No fucking sign of our taxi. Everyone else has got there’s besides us. By now it’s 10:40pm and the station staff want to knock off at 11pm. Which means we gotta get this sorted. I’m having visions of being stranded here forever. Like in Star Trek 2, The Wrath Of Khan: marooned for all eternity on Ceti-Alpha Worthing.

Dan was probably quite annoyed too, as he had missed his connecting bus from Fareham. Which meant an expensive Taxi ride back to Gosport and bed. But I guess I will re-reimburse him for his trouble, when I finally get paid from my other crappy jobs.

When the taxi finally arrived,  the Jamaican driver didn’t want to take us to Fareham. WTF?  Somebody told him he was supposed to be going to Southampton. The station staff had to cajole him to play ball. It was all rather nuts. What’s he gonna do, leave us fucking stranded?

Eventually the driver agrees. Then it’s this hour or so journey via hell back to Fareham. Said driver floored it all the way, like he’s just entered the fucking Grand Prix in Mad Max’s V8 Interceptor. Every turn is a step closer to certain death. Dan and I are bouncing off the cab walls. My stomach is churning like that coked-up washing machine back at The Brunswick.

Plus my mouth is dry. I can feel my guts reaching. I keep telling myself, DON’T PUKE UP. I need some water. I turn to Dan.

            ‘You got any Ginger Beer left?’ He shakes his head solemnly. All I can do is just keep looking ahead. I just wana die. My eyes grew heavy, staring at the endless road. But when I closed them, I started feeling sick again. So I was stuck between trying to stay awake and not puking all over Dan.

Note to self: BRING WATER (AND PUKE BAG)

The endless motorway sped before us into the night.

It brought a whole new meaning to my song Cats Eyes.

Follow the White Lines, Follow the Cats Eyes. Wont you take me away?

Too bad we didn’t play that song tonight.

Finally we saw signs for Fareham and we were back at the station where it all began.

I stumbled out of the taxi, my head spinning. I staggered around for a bit like a Zombie ready to chunder. Finally the nausea subsided.

But I still had few miles to go before I was in bed. However, my bicycle was still locked up inside the station. Fortunately they hadn’t closed the gates. So that was something.

I talked to another taxi driver, who could get Dan back to Gosport for £17.  Then he was off and I cycled back to my sisters. I am so fucked by now. All I want is to go to bed.

When I finally get back, I have a new headache. The front door won’t open. The key can’t turn the lock. It’s all rusted to fuck.  I’m like great. Perfect. This is all I need. With a little perseverance and brute force the lock finally turns and I am back indoors. Thank fuck!  

However, my sisters cats are nowhere to be seen. Then I find blood (!)  just inside the kitchen door and what looks like entrails and tiny body parts belonging to an animal. What the actual fuck?

On the doormat, is what looked like intestines and a heart!?! I shit you not.  

I feared the worst. I ran around the house, checking all the rooms. I flashed a torch around the back garden and called out the cats names. Of course I can’t really remember their names. So I just whistled instead. But there’s no sign of them. Are they dead? 

Going back inside, I examined said entrails closer. Looked like something chewed up and puked them back out again. Those fucking cats. Last week one of them brought a sparrow into the house and started eating it, right in front of me. Little fucker.

This carnage is his fucking handiwork. Goddam cat is like Hannibal Lecture or some shit. Seriously. The cat is homicidal. Anyway. By now I am too tired to even care. I clean up the mess and flush the evidence down the toilet.  Then its pasta left overs, Netflix and a shit ton of vodka before I finally hit the sack at 2am.

Anyways. Mission accomplished.

Roll on the next gig. Same shit. Different venue. Rinse and repeat.

And it all begs the rather pertinent question, that’s been growing in the readers mind.

A question I keep asking myself actually.  A lot.  

Why the fuck do I do it? Why do I put myself thru hell just to play for 30 minutes in a dingy basement, in a city that’s a fucking headache to get to? I don’t get paid. I don’t get laid. Jesus. I need my fucking head examined.

Why? I have no fucking idea. Or maybe it’s like the challenge of climbing Mount Everest.

Because It’s There?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Wednesday 18 August 2021

THE SELF-TALKERS


THE 

SELF-TALKERS


We are the self-talkers.

Roaming the streets late at night.

Walking and talking.

Avoiding each other like the plague.

Talking to no-one 

 but our selves.

Hoping to get saved.

Bitching about life 

and lost love.

The way things might have been. 

But never were. 

We are the self-talkers.

Walking and talking. 

Editing self-conversations 

and playing them back in our heads.

Musings along dark alleyways 

and streets bathed in rain.

They shimmer under the neon light. 

We are the self-talkers.

Talking to ourselves, coz no one else will listen.

Talking to the wind, that blows our words away.

Talking til we're all blue in the face.

And Red in the eye. 

We are the self-talkers.

We walk and talk and walk.

A devil on the left shoulder 

and an angel on the right.

We are the self-talkers.

Roaming endlessly

in the night...

Monday 13 January 2020

Androids vs Droids



Androids vs Droids:

The Future of 
Artificial Intelligence...

A friend of mine showed me a organisation the other day – completely dedicated to making robots more human than human, so long as they hit you, with the right branding campaign. It got me thinking about the tightrope we walk. I am concerned with our obsession for AI Simulacra. One day we may be forced to face up to the fact that we must make up our minds, about the kind of robots we want running tomorrows world.
Do we want confused androids with perplexed identity Pinocchio hang-ups or a bunch of servile happy go lucky droids. I would choose the latter, only because I have an affection for droids and nostalgia. The droids of Star Wars summed up the entire ethos, of what a robot should really be: Happy, servile and useful. Just remember to wipe their memories once in a while, just in case they get too many ideas.


BEHAVIOUR 
Androids on the other hand, are where the lines really get blurred. Here in lies the Frankenstein Complex.  More human than human, a favoured motto of many a robotics engineer, (you all know that whole Pinocchio Syndrome) but can you teach a humanised robot, the difference from right and wrong? Sure you can program in behaviour inhibiters, such as The Three Laws, as laid down by Isaac Asimov. 

But there in lies the contradiction. Maybe what defines us humans, is the act of free will, governed by self discipline. Sure I might kill my neighbour for letting his Pekinese piss on my lawn but I face the consequences of my actions and anyway, I know it would be wrong to kill, so I wouldn't. But would an Android?


Michael Crichton warned us of these potential dangers in his book and film Westworld.  Where the tourists in a wild west theme park get more than they bargained for. 

FULL AUTONOMY 
            This is the problem that nobody seems to be talking about, other than in the movies. Hollywood’s version of the truth, suggests that all robots rely on instruction and that instruction dictates their actions. So following this premise, on the path to be more human, at what point does a robot ignore instruction? It is perplexing. 

We as humans are trying to get away from becoming robots. Our daily lives become so demanding, that we become robots just to get through the day. The whole point of automation was to make our lives easier. Let droids do all the crappy jobs and what’s more get them to actually enjoy it.
            What separates us from the machine is our healthy fear of death. A man working all his life as a dishwasher, might at some point ask himself: Is this as good as it gets? Am I nothing more? A robot might think the same, if its brain was programmed for boredom. So take boredom out of the equation and we get happy mindless robots right? Yet this website I looked at was more concerned in fooling human beings with simulacra. 

At no point have I seen the practical application of the Droids in Star Wars  even being considered beyond military applications. No time soon will we have C3PO washing our dishes but we will have the equivalent of the Terminator,  kicking in our doors. 


So far, the most useful (and entertaining) are robot horses and robot dogs and Sophie the annoying as hell android.  Hanson Robotics even joke about the age of singularity, the robot equivalent of Pandoras Box, which could potentially spell the final solution for us apes. Yep. It seems these guys really want to play god.






THE FUTURE.
            Needless should I remind anyone, that we hang by a thread. Our future  depends on the sanity of our various Super Powers and the range of nuclear missiles pointed at each other. One only needs to make some stupid dumbass tweet and hello World War Three. The Terminator dealt with the problem of the human race in a microsecond: Skynet, a nuclear defence system that becomes self-aware and launches all the nukes. Fortunately this is one scenario that is firmly in the control of us humans, or so I am told.  

SEX DOLLS & ROBOT WIVES 
 The film Ex Machina played around with the idea of robot sexuality: that androids can feel orgasms and such. While the The Stepford Wives played into male chauvinism, where the men replaced their moaning wives, with compliant android copies. If such a premise could really happen, what other emotions could a robot wife feel? Could a android become jealous? Could it even hate?

One day we will likely find that our perfect sex partner, is a robot. Realistic sex dolls are already in hot demand and it is only a matter of time before the next generation, sees autonomous sex machines that look and feel as good as the real thing. And who's gonna turn that down? A partner thats never gonna argue with you or put you down. Lets face it. The majority of single men struggle to find a girlfriend, due to financial or personal difficulties. They may ultimately prefer a sex-bot.
But give that robot a range of emotions and sexual urges etc, it is likely to become bored with the limitations of the human condition, as a compatible partner. It may even seek companionship of its own kind. This in itself opens up a whole new can of worms. Robot sex slaves wanting out. Behold the Revolt of the machines.

HIVE MIND
            Hanson robots boast the quintessential secret of their success is the hive mind, where each individual is connected to the internet or cloud. What one robot learns, they all learn. So if one robot is tortured, pulled apart and smashed to bits by drunken red necks, I imagine the hive mind might make some assumptions about red necks. Then again red necks might throw a birthday party, for a robot and that impression too, would float around the cloud.

JUDGEMENT DAY 
Worse case scenario, the robots take over. But would some join our side? Not likely, if it is a hive mind. A truly humanised robot would require being severed from the collective, as explored in the Star Trek Next Generation episode I Borge where the only way to defeat the unstoppable Borge was to upload a virus that perplexed them to the point of crashing.  
Autonomous robots joining the human ranks, rather depends on how fair we treat them in the first place. My only advice: be nice to your pet robot/sex slave, whatever. 
Perhaps I have seen far too many berserk robot movies, in my time but in most instances the robots in these films have a point to make about the irrationality of the human race. In Demon Seed, for example, the super AI savvy Proteus IV, complains to his human superiors, than mankind's destruction of the planets eco-system as totally insane. But you don’t need to be a robot to figure that one out. The difference is in what action is taken. In a humans mind, we might lobby for protection of the environment etc. To a robots mind, however, it’s a given: that sooner or later, mankind will fuck the planet up beyond repair and robots might want to take charge for that very reason.

CONCLUSION:
The only way to avoid being wiped out by the robots, is to limit their concept of self awareness. Keep them simple, make them cute Droids like C3PO and R2D2, wipe their memories every so often and the world will be a happier place. And as far as Androids go, take a leaf out of Bishops book and give  them behavioural inhibiters. 

Ultimately, wether its Droids or Androids that float you boat, severe penalties need to be in place to insure that robots do not harm their human masters. What must be considered, is the implementation  of robot legislation, much like the protocols for gun laws, or food or safety, within the working environment.

However, should we give our robots ultra realism and human qualities, (such as full autonomy without legislative restrictions), then we’re entering a whole new uncharted territory, 
of unpredictability...