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Beans On Toast: Toothpaste and the Tube launch…

Alan Dearling was there, and shares some pics and words too

‘Beans On Toast’ is becoming a one-person musical phenomena. A major set at Glasto in 2023 garnered him a new swathe of friends and fans. He is literally what you see and hear on the ‘tin’ (of beans). He’s got there the very hard way. Hard work, talent in oodles and almost constant gigging around the UK and world. Beans On toast is the stage name of Jay McAllister from Braintree in Essex. He’s a troubadour, a performer, a showman, an old-style trooper. A singer-songwriter with absolutely no home-place-space for a pigeon-hole. So far, I think, he’s released 16 studio albums. He’s established his own tradition by releasing a new record each year on 1 December, Jay’s birthday.

He was also one of the stars of the Fairport Convention annual festi at Cropredy in 2023. ‘Mythical Creatures’:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6H4STAoZnEA

‘The Golden Lion’: A song about a boozer and live music and arts events venue in Yorkshire, and UFOs and Happy Valley. It’s a centrepiece from the new Beans On Toast album which was triumphantly launched into the ecosphere at the Golden Lion on 1st December 2023 in Todmorden. An absolute sell-out, rammed event. The album is titled, ‘The Toothpaste & the Tube’. Really rather fab, with clever lyrics, lots of songs with powerful, evocative stories and themes. Nice mixture of styles and material.

Video: ‘Golden Lion’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YcqlKbe1D6w

Video: ‘Send me a Bird’ live: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NuYIVaTIvMY

Bassie Gracie and Lord Tensheds have joined Beans On Toast on this latest UK Tour. As Beans told us:  “Gracie is telling her brilliant, funny, moving poems, and Tensheds brings his rock n’ roll rollercoaster. On top of that, both are joining me onstage to form a new Beans on Toast three-piece band, which is very exciting indeed!”

Website: http://www.beansontoastmusic.com/

As Beans proclaimed to the World:

“ ‘Toothpaste and The Tube’ was recorded with the amazing @ferrisandsylvestermusic in their beautiful Wilsthrie home studio. I know them from @spiritualrecords in Camden and our paths often cross while out on the road. They had worked on the @jfrancissongs album, which was a huge favourite of mine, so I wrote them a letter asking if they’d like to make an album and left it in a festival dressing room knowing they’d be there the following day. They thought that was a great idea and a plan was put in place.

I took a collection of simple songs to the table and I asked Archie where he’d like to take them musically. To me this is a varied album, both on subject matter, style and sound. But at its core, it’s a folk album, and it’s about the world in which we live, for better or worse, it’s ours. So let’s live it.

The magnificent @rosskgordon played drums and keys on the album, it’s heavy on the Hammond, which I think gives this album its personality. Ross is a bloody legend.”

And in support at the launch of the new album and on the tour: Lord Tensheds and Bassie Gracie

Lord Tensheds: album: ‘The Days of my Confinement’:

A beautiful pianist and a darkly contorted soul. A punkier, younger, UK Tom Waits with equally gravel-fuelled songs, words and sentiments. Stark and deeply heartfelt, ‘The Bridge Song’ in particular kept the packed audience spell-bound. From Tensheds time living in West Yorkshire and witnessing heartbreak, suicides and more at first-hand…

‘The Bridge Song’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gDs2e00PG20

Bassie Gracie:

‘The Sound belongs Here’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QFm_5ASm-hA

“I’m Grace, I play the bass, people take photos of my face, I do poetry but I struggle with rhymes.”

She doesn’t…it’s her greatest attribute as a poet. Lots of rhymes… Charismatic, playful, joyful and FUN. But, challenging and thought-provoking too.

Last year in 2022, Beans On Toast produced ‘The Fascinating Adventures of Little Bee’, which was a collaboration project with Jaime and Lily Adamsfield. It was a collection of 10 children’s stories and songs in a box set. Beautifully illustrated by Lily, these ten adventures see Little Bee learn important lessons about the world.

Beans On Toast continues to tour constantly, he’s heading over to Australia in January 2024, and will presumably continue to release a new album each year on 1 December. Definitely one of music’s living legends…

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IT IS DELIRIA’S DAY

                                  On Jeff Young’s DELIRIA (Rough Trade Books,  2023)

 

Jeff Young trawls the ghost roads extracting scent from each shadow,
Exhuming beats from the rhythm of Rough Trade’s track through sound;
Both of the world and within as this tale connects secret stories
To the soul as lead singer, as Young’s new fable grows ancient
And this Aigburth Angel’s adventure in being open to all stays profound.

Deliria is a road movie for those who can no longer travel
In which Young’s nameless I and his ‘Marta’ transform across Portugal.
The Porto they find could exist in the record shop’s Portobello,
Vinyl spun, air infusing as the mix of moment and memory fuses
With words stoking music, from both Young as he’s writing

All the way through to the ending containing a sweet mallard’s call.
Jeff Young dreams for you and dreams large in this elegant pamphlet story;
Akin to David Rudkin’s recent Lighthouse Keeper, this is a tale told to time
And all it creates as well as all it transfigures; from its Roy Batty quote
To the hours that I and Marta traverse and soon climb ‘upwards into  

unknown galaxies’ from their soon revealed Hotel Brothel,
Guided by Pessoa’s Book of Disquiet, words wend their way towards
Wisdom that can only be sourced from the light that this poet prince
Casts as he peoples his visions; from an ox in a bar, fine dust rising,
Where ‘no one gives a shit that there’s a huge biblical beast  

Is on licensed premises’ to the enchanting image of a death sent
Buster Keaton dancing with a pigeon; as you slide into this story
You soon realise that Young’s diary of dream nations night.
Dreams are a form of madness, no doubt, in which the mind at last
Finds air’s purchase. Freed from the dark, age, and illness

The spirit within spends and sprees, as a holiday becomes
Holy day for the secular need for sensation that we can describe
As religious as the death of a friend spurs I’s journey. It is this
Escaping from an England into the European nacht which allows him,
And each reader beside to feel free. We are liberated by dreams

And licked back to life through Young’s language. As in all his work;
Plays and poems, Ghost Town before, Radio, he finesses the muse,
Won from past loss and from the love of his own Pearl and Amy
Into paragraphs to enchant you, encountering a horse ‘which seems
To be on fire.’ (It is the seems which enchants me) to a room full

Of rats where the Piper does not steal the children but is played
Through the penwork of a man ‘staying up all night listening for
broken hearted women,’ to a softly sung murder ballad.

The writer fills every encounter with spectres, finding both
Motion and music in this his recorded dream rodeo.

All art transforms. Art is not just about transportation.
But the act of moving the mind and the body is what the flow
Of words tries to do. With books as the score for the phantom
Instruments we imagine, orchestras and ensembles, singers
And bands who back you as you duet in turn

With what you are reading. And with what you are needing.
For the curative of the common page stages the concert
Of dreams we all hear. But which we often forget or ignore
Once the net of night meets day’s stitching
And we are sealed, stored or sutured, not in the fabric

Of night but day’s cloud spitting rain’s spite back at us,
Drenching those dreams; damning, dousing. But it is here
That Young’s visions poured through the pen warm all crowds,
Drying us to weep tears that blaze twin trails from his writing
He is a Liverpudlian La and and a Do Re who sends You

And Me to a Fa that exists off the scale, where we can see
Our dreams and then sing them. Words are melodies
In Jeff’s effing, as the Portuguese  drinking toast,
Fuck The Devil is a drive to the very edge in no car.
This story is Borges and (David) Brooks, Kerouac,

Hesse’s Knulp, and Ken Kesey. It is George and Walt Whitman
And something secret from Waits’ swordfishtrombones.
It is Burroughs beset and Ballard’s overgrown urban jungle,

As the ‘craftsman of cityscape poetics’ part stanazas
Each paragraph proudly to grant every vantage point

Its own throne.  This book is partly the pages that fly
When we think of time passing. It is slim enough
To be birdlike, as opening it out will make wings,
Held in the hand. In fact, from his to your own,
Gifts are granted. Jeff is Young for all ages

And present no doubt all stages of both dream
And desire; Deliria’s daze masking mourning
And recolouring at once, everything.   

 

 

                                                                                                               David Erdos 6/12/2

 

DELÍRIA (SIGNED COPIES) – Jeff Young

 

https://roughtradebooks.com/products/deliria-jeff-young.

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From Gandalf’s Garden to The Algarve

Muz Murray interviewed by Steve Andrews

I was recently reading The Portugal News when a name leapt out from the pages and took me right back to the days of Flower-Power and hippie counter culture. That name was Muz Murray and I was very happy to read that he now lives in Portugal too. He is a mystic, a yoga and mantra master, an artist, and the author of books that dive deep into the mysteries of mind, body and spirit, of life, the universe and everything. 

Muz Murray has been called “Europe’s answer to Eckhart Tolle,” but to my mind, he is the magical man who founded the Gandalf’s Garden magazine and centre in London in the late 1960s. My memories of IT (International Times) also take me back to the same time period, so what could be better I thought than an interview with Muz but published in the now? So I reached out to the universe to make this happen. I contacted IT, and sent Muz some questions.

From your most extraordinary life, please tell us about four of your most extraordinary experiences.  

I guess my first would be when I was gassed by the dentist in order to extract a tooth (that’s what they did in those days when I was a kid) and found myself out of my body and floating on the ceiling. I was able to watch the dentist and his assistant operating and heard them talking. That’s when I realised why many of us feel we can fly. 

Another was the constant childhood memory of being engulfed by a monstrous tidal wave, seemingly a mile high that swept across North Africa when Atlantis sank,covering the jungles with the sand of what is now the Sahara Desert. I was a youth sitting on the flat roof in a white adobe village in what now must be Libya when I saw the great wave coming. I had a dreadful fear of water while growing up and never swam until I forced myself in my sixties.  

My major experience was a sudden spiritual awakening that came out of the blue, when my consciousness appeared to expand to fill the universe. I was given revelatory knowledge beyond the capacity of the intellect to comprehend. This happened on the island of Cyprus, during several years of back-packing around the world. It was a completely natural experience and no drugs were involved. But it changed the whole course of my life. I found myself on the spiritual path with awe-inspiring insight into the nature of existence. I later learned that it was known as Cosmic Consciousness. And from then on, nothing would satisfy me but to regain the wonder of that experience.  

I relate the details of this momentous event in my book “Sharing the Quest: Secrets of Self-Understanding.” 

After many years of meditation and spiritual and yoga practices (and three years as a wandering monk in India) I achieved various states of Samadhi, or thought-free awakened consciousness.  

My last OOBE occurred after hanging on to the outside of an express train for ten hours through the night in India. I arrived in Rishikesh enfeebled with a raging fever. In an ashram, my guru-doctor tried to assist me with acupuncture. Unfortunately he hit a spot with one needle that caused instant death. I left my body and found myself crossing a vast rock arch over the universe to some unknown end. Then my mantra, which I had previously constantly mentally chanted, emerged in my consciousness and settled me. It seemed to be carrying me back to my body. When I realised I was back and before I was able to open my eyes, for the sake of the doc, I said, “It’s alright, I’m coming back!” He was greatly relieved, as he was contemplating throwing my blue corpse into the Ganges and wondering if he would be arrested for having killed a European.    

How did Gandalf’s Garden come about and how would you describe it? 

When I returned to the UK after three years travelling and working in various jobs down the whole of Africa, I no longer had any interest in a career. However, I went back to work at the BBC TV studios as a scenic artist in order to earn money to further my travels to India. During that period Flower-Power and hippiedom was on the rise and I encountered many lost and lonely hippies, who had been destroyed by society and then by drugs. I felt moved to help them with some direction.  

So I sank my India-bound savings into producing the first Issue of Gandalf’s Garden (with the blessing of Tolkien himself, I might add). Thus it began. Just six of us rented premises in World’s End at the far end of King’s Road, selling head shop goods, hand-made hippy clothes, exotic teas and porridge, and GG magazines. Soon we found we had become a community, a mecca for world crossers, and a haven for dossers and junkies on a bad trip. We nurtured them all. We also invited gurus and spiritual teachers of every stripe from all over the world to speak in our basement shrine-room. GG was a beacon of hope for many. 

Since the original magazines have now become valuable Sixties memorabilia,fetching over a hundred pounds each in the trade, I created a CD named “The Complete Gandalf’s Garden” offering copies of all the magazines, photos of the ‘Gardeners’, press cuttings, reviews of GG by authors in their books, and a 70-page account of the Life & Times of our community. (Available as a readable CD or a download. Find it here: https://bit.ly/2nSplOG) 

By the way, I still have one or two of the original magazines waiting for a good home for those who can afford it. I also have a few of the first ever copies of Issue 1 printed in the first 20 minutes of GG’s existence, provable by the lack of flowers in the title. I arrived just in time to stop the print run until the printer put in the flowers he had forgotten to add. Naturally, these are worth more.. 

How did you end up in Portugal, and tell us a bit about your life there? 

I was first invited by a Yoga Centre in the Algarve to teach Mantra for ten days with about 70 students. I loved the warmth and calm atmosphere of Portugal and the friendly people. So when some years later I was invited by an erstwhile friend who had moved to the Algarve, to come down for a holiday I was happy to do so. Whilst visiting him and his girlfriend, it was suggested that I came to live down there. They had an empty 2nd plot attached to their garden and said I could build a chalet there, sell my house in France (where I was then living) and retire on the proceeds. I would only need to pay for the electricity he said. This was quite an attractive proposition. 

Eventually, I decided to take the plunge, and change my life yet again. I put my house on the market, sold it, and sent all my furniture to the Algarve. 

I was just tidying up the house for the newcomers, having just a mattress and my laptop in an otherwise empty house, when I got a message in my email. “Well, actually, you can’t have a chalet in my garden, as it partly belongs to my ex-wife and we have problems. But you can have a room in my house for 1.000 Euros a month.” !!! What?   

With my furniture in storage in the Algarve, and a car chock full of my last bits and pieces, I had no alternative but to hare down to Portugal and run around like crazy to find someplace to buy that I could afford and still have a bit left over to live on. So that’s what I did. I found an isolated place in the hills, with no neighbours and no friends,and no one to talk to for three years. So I became a hermit.  

Now I rarely leave my ‘hermitage’ and spend my time trying to write my books, but mostly wrestling with computer confustications that I know not how to solve. And praying to the Gods of the Keyboard for a computer whizz-kid to come and sort out my Windows 11 complexities.    

 Can you please say something about your books? 

While I was wandering all over India as a sadhu (or errant monk) many fellow travellers constantly asked me where they could go for this or that teaching. So I investigated over 300 ashrams (spiritual hermitages) and collected all the information any seeker needed to know. Thus my first book was called “Seeking the Master—A Guide to the Ashrams of India and Nepal.”  This became the Bible of India-goers in the Eighties and was jokingly called the “Five-star Guru Guide.” After ten years, at the height of its popularity, my publisher retired and the book became out of date, as all the gurus had inconveniently gone and died on me. Very inconsiderate of them, I thought.  

A great labour of love was my second book,Ifflepinn Island”—an esoteric fantasy for children (and adults) with spiritual teachings slipped in as part of the adventures. I had worked on this book for sixty years, in between my travels and work. Reviewers have said it had the quality of “The Wizard of Oz,” “The Hobbit, “ and the “Narnia Chronicles” all-in-one. Unfortunately, my publisher turned out to be a skinflint and has not paid me any royalties for the past eight years. So I haven’t the impetus to promote the book.  

“Sharing the Quest: Secrets of Self-Understanding” developed from the time I was a kind of ‘spiritual agony aunt’ for Yoga Today magazine. Readers asked spiritual questions that were perturbing them and I answered them in depth, but in easy language. I later enlarged the articles into chapters offering yoga secrets and practices I was initiated into, and methods of self-understanding from my practice as a psychotherapist. This book is helping to clarify real spiritual issues for many seekers.  

You Are the Light: Secrets of the Sages Made Simple” is the culmination of all my spiritual insights and practices. It presents the mystery of Advaita i(the highest spiritual understanding) in a way that is comprehensible and illuminating for those seeking advanced teachings. Everything a seeker needs to know can be found here.  

Two different reviewers have said, “This is the only spiritual book I will ever need.” 
That says it all. 

For a little light relief, my latest book, “Old Mother West Wind Tales” is an updated rewrite of a 120-year-old American children’s classic, about the mischievous antics and adventures of the animals, birds and reptiles of the meadow, pond and wood. It was a book that charmed me when I was six years old. But having discovered it again in my eighties, I found it very old-fashioned in tone, so I decided to rewrite it in a more lyrical and upbeat style for the taste of children and parents today. I also changed many of the American animals to those inhabiting the English countryside, in order to introduce it to British children. And created 23 new illustrations. 

The book is getting all five-star reviews and charming adults as well as children, many of whom are saying this should become another children’s classic.  

So think of your kiddies for Christmas!   

Muz, I am sure many people think you look like a wizard, so if you could wave your wand what would your magic be? 

World peace—a world of people with open minds and open hearts.

Muz Murray, Author of: 

Seeking the Master –A Guide to the Ashrams of India and Nepal

Sharing the Quest — Secrets of Self-Understanding

Words on the Way –– Esoteric Sanskrit Terminology Explained

Ifflepinn Island-A spiritual fantasy for green-growing children and evergreen adults

Never Mind the Mind – Audio CD on Overcoming the Mind Machinations

You Are the Light: Secrets of the Sages Made Simple

https://www.muzmurray.com/you-are-the-light

Old Mother West Wind Tales–https://www.muzmurray.com/old-mother-west-wind-tales

All available from our UK Website: https://www.muzmurray.com  

and also on Amazon

Follow Muz on:

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/MantraMuz 

YouTube Videos: http://www.youtube.com/user/MuzMantraYoga

For more info on Steve Andrews:

https://steveandrews.info/

https://linktr.ee/steveandrews 

 

Steve Andrews is The Bard of Ely

WEBSITES:
https://steveandrews.info/
https://linktr.ee/steveandrews 
https://www.instagram.com/bardofely/
https://bardofely.bandcamp.com/follow_me
https://www.reverbnation.com/bardofely
https://www.facebook.com/TheBardofEly/
https://twitter.com/bardofely

BOOKS: Herbs of the Northern Shaman, Herbs of the Sun, Moon and Planets, Herbs of the Southern Shaman, Earth Spirit: Saving Mother Ocean, The Magic of Butterflies and Moths (all by Moon Books),

PUBLICATIONS: Big Issue Cymru, SWND, Kindred Spirit, MyHerbs, Permaculture, Welsh Coastal Life, Celtic Life International, Mediterranean Gardening and Outdoor Living, Bee Culture The Magazine of American Beekeeping, National Federation of Occupational Pensioners, Prediction, and Living Tenerife magazines, Tenerife News, Tenerife Weekly and the Tenerife Sun newspapers, as well as the Huffington Post, Whitstable Views, Tripedia and Ancient Origins websites.

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Interfaces at Dusk

 

Closing the door quickly. The windows reverberating from the blast. Nothing in sight. No one in the street or behind the houses. It could have been a heavily laden truck up on the highway, or a someone felling a tree. Unsettling. Jackknifing into the evening news. Fires in the city center, drone strikes, alarms sounding at the nuclear plant. Dreams crumbling into the folds of the day, shimmering despite the repetition of destruction, the cacophony of violence, disseminated a billion times, screens wobbling, volumes suddenly decreased. It was a good idea to close the door and stay away from the windows. The slight squeaking might be a bat in the attic, settling in for the night. Upside-down and at ease. The slightest crack between the window frame and the wall allows passage. I might join him in the attic, leave the screens wobbling in the kitchen, the kaleidoscope of destruction fading behind me. Better pull up the shaking wooden ladder, tuck the steps under the floor. The light might seep in.

 

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Andrea Moorhead
Pic: Claire Palmer

 

 

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Benjamin Zephaniah. Into the Enternity

God bless you Benjamin, a great man and an abiding energy.

 

 

 

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Sixty Nine


 

Sixty nine
your hair not quite as long
at this end of the sixties
you run your fingers through it
as you walk across the room
recalling those days of love and peace
peace signs and flower power
back when a lysergic honeymoon
in San Francisco seemed so attractive
but after all these springs and summers
gone like rivers into the sea
you’re still living here on this island
living in this city so many have left
but you still have the tears and the rain
the greenhouse and the grass growing
on the other side of the Honicknowle Hills
the long silver hair and the Dansette.
 
You look through the window
waiting for that point of invisibility
when everything darkens.
In the distance you see faces in the crowd
with the complexions of potatoes
the skyscrapers getting taller and taller-
Beckley Point, with a little help from Hoffman
turns into a birthday cake
burning hundreds of candles.
You walk across the room
following something in your memory
an intersection that leads back to the past
back to hanging around with a shoulder bag
of words outside Pete Russell’s
Hot Record Store on Market Avenue.
 
You see the sun going down
as you lower your eyelashes
a few minutes west of sleep.
You feel like running as if the sun
were a bus you just have to catch
the last bus that takes you home
to a house glowing with candles
eighteen teenage candles flickering
eight and a bit weeks to go
before leaving the sixties for the first time.
 
Sixty nine
you open a box of swans
take a deep breath
long enough to last
a shooting star, a split-second.
As you let it go
the candle flames move
away from your lips.
Night falls as you gaze
across the bay at French windows
showing pinpricks of light.
You look up at the sky
see no-one walking on the moon
like you did that star twinkling night
running with old friends
in and out of the Atlantic;
playing American leapfrog
down at Devils Point
sixty nine or thereabouts
as the years are numbered.

 

 

.
 
Kenny Knight

 

 

 

 

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Kissinger Arrives in Hell, Appointed Permanent National Security Advisor

BY KEVIN BARRETT,

In the illustrious culmination of his 100-year career, Henry Kissinger arrived in Hell today and was immediately appointed Satan’s National Security Advisor.

Kissinger will spend the rest of eternity devising futile diplomatic ruses and stratagems aimed at enhancing Hell’s nonexistent chances of defeating Heaven.

At a press conference announcing the appointment, Satan said that even though he knows he doesn’t have a chance in Hell of succeeding in his long-standing Global War on God (GWOG), he nonetheless hopes that Kissinger, by injecting notes of gravitas and realpolitic into the Kingdom of Hellfire’s infernally hopeless strategic and diplomatic efforts, will at least make the doomed enterprise more interesting.

Back on Earth, American president Joe Biden expressed hope that Kissinger’s mission to Hell would open up a new chapter in US-Hell relations. “Since we just paid Israel to murder 20,000 Palestinian civilians, and provided the weapons, the Devil must be looking fondly on America at this critical juncture in our history,” Biden said. “We have high hopes that Henry Kissinger will soon broker an agreement inaugurating a new era in which America and Hell work closely together to achieve our common goals. As I’ve always said, ‘If Kissinger can go to China, he damned well can go to Hell.”

Asked about his impressions of Hell, Kissinger quipped: “I’ve been to some Third World countries seeking nuclear weapons where things got almost this hot.” He added that when he arrived in Furth, Germany, as a US soldier right after World War II, he wondered where all the Zionists had gone. Smiling wickedly, the Gehennan immigrant who instantly rose to become National Security Advisor quipped: “Now I know.”

Here are some of Henry Kissinger’s greatest accomplishments:

Kissinger Arrives in Hell, Appointed Permanent National Security Advisor

 

https://thirdparadigm.substack.com/p/kissinger-and-the-balfour-declaration?utm_source=cross-post&publication_id=651440&post_id=139056142&utm_campaign=716517&isFreemail=false&r=3ksdi&utm_medium=email

 

 

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HOLIER THAN NOW

She went to sleep in Jesus,
took with her the flowers
handed by the men
who married her sisters
and the linen
she would wring
in boiling water
both sides of the  stain.

She went to sleep in Jesus,
as each voice she heard
echoed to the rejoicing spirit
who neatly wrapped her in dirt
without ever seeing her face,
or ever quite remembering her name.

 

Phil Bowen

 

 

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‘ANOTHER WORLD IS POSSIBLE’: STARVATION WAGES

 

Starvation Wages is self-described ‘Anarcho-Techno’,
a new protest music rooted in topical expression.
Jason Dean is soundtracking the twilight of late-period
capitalism and the beginning of an unknown future…

 

Innovation… and continuity.

A century of insurrection.

There are 1,276 critic-approved words to describe the sound of the electric guitar, used in various re-combinations since the dawn of Rock ‘n’ Roll. Those permutations are now exhausted. Time to move on. Jason Dean is a long-time veteran of the Seattle music scene. Now he resides in Burlington, Vermont, and he’s become Starvation Wages, evolving at new tangents reconfigured with an arsenal of synthesizers and samples to target the mind and the body.

When the Dada artists’ manifesto proclaimed burning down Art Galleries it was intended more as a Year Zero symbolism rather than an actual threat, a provocative slogan, in the same way that the Sex Pistols didn’t really wanna destroy passersby. Although it’s a useful stance. Is the future dream really no more than a shopping scheme?

‘Marketplace Fear’ is the debut EP from Starvation Wages, evolved through live performance, honed during the height and depths of the pandemic years, as a project thriving in underground DIY spaces, illegal warehouse raves and dance clubs.

‘Starvation Wages is fusing together a variety of elements in the more marginalized and underground worlds of music and politics. Celebrating some of the past’s great innovators and putting my own spin on it here in 2023. Thank you for giving it a listen and for your thoughtful comment’ says Jason graciously. ‘I heard the phrase ‘starvation wages’ first from a speech by Martin Luther King Jr, but it was also picked up by Bernie Sanders during the 2006 campaign. I was attracted to it because it encapsulates much of our late-stage capitalist world.’

The semantichrist video for the track ‘Anatomized’ and its remix, crawls with images of resistance to repressive totalitarian, lines of Perspex riot shields and visored helmets. Judge Dredd and ‘V For Vendetta’. Batons, banners, a missile ascending, people in motion in grainy streaked animation. Protest and survive. The terminal countdown. ‘Ev’rywhere I hear the sound of marching charging feet… the time is right for fighting in the street… what can a poor boy do, except sing for a rock ‘n’ roll band?’

​The music’s ‘focus on analogue sounds is a large component in the creation of tracks for Starvation Wages,’ he explains. ‘It’s a combination of samples from politically based sources acknowledging and expanding the radical nature inherent in the music. My influences for it were equally born in both marginalized and underground Black and Queer spaces in places like Detroit, as well as the charged political environment that gave rise to groups like Kraftwerk.’

Jason has played in various Punk and Indie bands, one of which – Mutiny Mutiny (including 2009s excellent five-track digital EP ‘Undefined’) was praised by post-Punk critic Jason M Heller at the AV Club, among other sites and zines. ‘Mutiny Mutiny was definitely on the more Indie side of things’ he recalls. ‘I’m incredibly proud of the band, but basically, our bass player was attending school and didn’t have as much time or focus for the band. We had a difficult time finding a consistent drummer. And it felt like the traction and notice we did get we weren’t able to capitalize on – as a band, with older folks who had more family and partner commitments. The larger interest kind of bypassed us at the time. But Mutiny Mutiny ended up lasting about eight years, after which it had run its course. A pretty great run, which again I’m really proud of.’

‘Meanwhile, I’d been interested in electronic music and producing electronic music for quite some time’ he continues. ‘At first it seemed a very computer-based largely digital world that had been dominant since the nineties, just looking at a computer screen, which I didn’t find particularly attractive. And analogue synthesizers were quite pricey. I was interested in doing a solo project where I’d only be tied by my own limitations regarding performing, touring, releasing music. Around this time, probably about 2016 or so, there were a lot of reasonably priced analogue synthesizers coming onto the market from the likes of Korg and other manufacturers. This led to a renewed interest in electronic music for me. The idea that I could buy a synth for maybe $300 or so and have a piece of hardware to manipulate and perform with also lended itself to a Punk Rock approach to electronic music. Essentially like buying a cheap guitar and starting to bang out chords and start a band. I bought these relatively inexpensive synthesizers and let them dictate a direction to a certain extent. Whatever I got out of them was going to be ‘my sound’ which of course was informed by my interest in the darker, noisier side of electronic music. It all started to coalesce in an exciting way.’

Starvation Wages began from the ethos that – explicitly or implicitly, all techno and industrial music is protest music that expands into the wider discourse of the twenty-first century. It takes cues from the likes of Alec Empire’s Atari Teenage Riot, the personal politics of groups like Throbbing Gristle, and the explicit takedowns of the Bush administration by nineties era Ministry. ‘Yes, big influences for me are the early wave of EBM bands, Frontline Assembly, Front 242 and the like.  Throbbing Gristle as well. The early industrial wave. Coil, so many pioneers. I just watched that Killing Joke documentary (‘The Death & Resurrection Show’, 2013, reissued 2020), of course they’re more on the post-Punk side, I think it came out several years ago, but I missed it at the time.’

‘Vermont has a pretty great music scene but is dominated by a lot of Punk and Metal with a decent amount of jam bands mixed in. This is where Phish got their start’ Jason explains. ‘The New England area also has a pretty thriving noise scene as well. Although finding an audience for the industrial techno/EBM (Electronic Body Music) side of things can be a bit difficult. Montreal is close by and the scene for that is much more active. I’ve been working on trying to find an entry point into the community up there. But Vermont is probably the closest place I’ve been in that actually has what I would call a ‘scene’, especially in the Punk/Hardcore/Metal community. There’s not a lot of bands but everyone shows up for the shows regardless and you see pretty much the same people at all of them. It strikes me in a similar way as a lot of people talked about Seattle before the Grunge explosion (I was a bit young to be active in the Seattle scene at that time).’

‘Marketplace Fear’ is both a statement against the cut-throat dystopian free market, and a synonym for agoraphobia, a condition from which Jason suffers – ‘agora’ is a Greek word that means ‘market place’. He composed all the music and plays all the instruments on the album, in Seattle and Vermont, mixing and mastering it with Brandon Busch (of Sojourner, Mutiny Mutiny, Detroit Breakout!).

​The intention was to create an album giving voice to ‘Anarchists and critics of American imperialism’. And Jason’s Punk take on industrial techno is the perfect format for songs like ‘Exarcheia’, which was ‘inspired by a trip to Greece not long after there were protests and riots in response to the austerity imposed there when it became financially troubled.’ There are sounds of panic, foreign-language voice samples, stabbing electro, the ‘black-&-red star of the anarchists’, both left-wing, countercultural and highly danceable. ‘I happened to be there right between a couple of the more active periods, and during that time the tension was palpable. They had the Riot Police lined up around Syntagma Square and stationed in Exarcheia. Seemed like they were just waiting for the next round of actions. It took me back to the days of WTO in Seattle (the waves of World Trade Organisation anti-globalisation protests). I love Greece and it’s heart-breaking to see what the country has been put through with the austerity packages imposed by the IMF (International Monetary Fund), but the people there have a strong spirit. I found it very inspiring, like I do a great number of protests and actions that typically take place outside of the US.’

The first single, ‘Anatomized’, fades into a head-kicking rhythm track, then quotes Allen Ginsberg in a context of how America wages war on both its own citizens and those abroad. Ginsberg is the Beat Generation poet with a penchant for sitting cross-legged naked armed only with his Buddhist finger-cymbals. Ginsberg’s poem ‘America’ (Berkeley, 17 January 1956) catches the total flavour of 1950s Cold War nuclear paranoia, ‘I can’t stand my own mind, America when will we end the human war? Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb’ (from ‘Selected Poems 1947-1995, HarperCollins Publishers Inc, 2001). ‘Though the Cold War is considered history and the atomic threat somewhat diminished since Ginsberg wrote that iconic ‘go fuck yourself with your atom bomb’ line, which is sampled in the track, America continues to use the equivalent of this most destructive of weapons on its own citizens every day. The damage caused by the consolidation of wealth, omnipresent racism, inequality, and the anaemic funding of social services compared to military defence budgets is the new atomic bomb and it still begs the question, ‘America, when will you end the human war?’.’

This writer loves Ginsberg’s poem ‘America’. Has it been a favourite of Jason’s, or did someone else draw it to his attention? ‘I’m a long-time Ginsberg fan’ he enthuses. ‘I met him in 1994 at a poetry reading and he signed my ‘Collected Poems’ book which I cherish. Ginsberg was very sweet. The whole poem is brilliant, but that line really jumps into your consciousness.’

Is it a direct lift of Ginsberg’s own voice used for the sample? ‘Indeed it is! That is actually a sample of him reading, but it has some processing on it so that might have thrown you off.’

The next track, ‘Occupy-Revolt’, detonates distortion and clean dancefloor beats, with swimming voice-samples from the Occupy movement that brought cities to a halt, machinegun etiquette style. ‘Surveillance Capitalism’ samples a certain Mr Zuckerberg, in ways that Sheffield experimentalists Cabaret Voltaire once did with ‘Spies In The Wires’ on their 1984 ‘Micro-Phonies’ album (the Cabs also quote Beat writer William Burroughs on their ‘Do Right’). Words are noise, as Mutiny Mutiny once pointed out.

‘Awesome’ Jason enthuses. ‘I do know Cabaret Voltaire but I definitely need to dive deeper onto their catalogue, thank you so much! Burroughs is such a great source for samples. Oh Wow! That’s tremendous! That voice!’

And Mr Zuckerberg? ‘I use social media kind of sparingly, especially Facebook’ he admits. ‘Chris (Estey, PR) and the publicity folks wanted me to set up pages, I don’t know. I’m not super-thrilled about having to partake in that whole area of being an artist today that. I definitely appreciate the direct engagement that is possible with fans on social media. It’s the establishment and the push to find those people that can be a bit of a slog in our saturated world.’

In total, there’s positivity to the message ‘Another world is possible!’… that the future is up for grabs, that we can shape a better tomorrow through our own strivings, that ours is a ‘late-stage capitalist world…’ This writer approves of that a lot. ‘I do too!’ says Jason. ‘I think it’s an important way to frame… I’m not entirely sure what I would call it now, the struggle, the resistance, the revolution? It is foreshadowing because we are in the throes of late-stage capitalism, and it is important that we ask questions of what the next world should look like. Because the collapse is inevitable and as more and more people really begin to realize it, we can’t be defeatist or become victims to futility and passivity. The tipping point is not far off. We really seem to be past the threshold of any sustainability in regard to the current capitalistic system. The late-stage is playing itself out and the segment of the population it is affecting – the precariat class is growing quickly (the precariat is a social class comprised of people who are in a state of precarity, which is a condition of existence without predictability or security, McJobs, zero-hour and short-term contracts, minimum-wage), and the younger generations have realized that the current system has nothing to offer them. I like to think that a meaningful segment of people are just going to start saying fuck it, this is broken beyond repair so what are we going to build next?’

‘Thank you so much for your interest in my music’ he winds down. ‘Right now I’m going to be heading out for the evening. It’s the one-night-a-month Goth night here in Vermont. It’s a small but mighty group of folks in the Goth community here. Which kind of dovetails back into your first question…’

Starvation Wages is self-described ‘Anarcho-Techno’, a new protest music rooted in topical expression. Jason Dean is soundtracking the twilight of late-period capitalism and the beginning of an unknown future. ‘Dystopia or Utopia, we’ll decide,’ he says, ‘in the meantime, the long-time Anarchist slogan provides constant inspiration – ‘Another world is possible!’.’

Innovation… and continuity.

 

BY ANDREW DARLINGTON

 

‘Marketplace Fears’ by Starvation Wages

(1) ‘Exarceia’ 4:18

(2) ‘Anatomized’ 4:31

(3) ‘Occupy-Revolt’ 3:52

(4) ‘Surveillance Capitalism’ 4:13

(5) ‘Anatomized’ 4:31

Produced by Jason Dean, mixed & mastered by Brandon Busch at Sound Media Pro

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZcIGJ8aBcXg&t=13s

Limited edition twelve-inch clear vinyl

https://starvationwages.bandcamp.com/album/marketplace-fear

Mutiny Mutiny:

Don’t Quit Your Day Job (2013)
Stranded At The Drive-In (2013)

Undefined (2009)

Constellation (2011)

 

 

 

 

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Dinner with Corbyn and a Niger Delta Hell Bus

 

NIGER DELTA HELL BUS

Presenting the Niger Delta Hell Bus! A collaboration with Lekeh Development Foundation in support of Ogoni climate activists in the Niger Delta.

I got back from Nigeria earlier this month and I’m absolutely done in. It was a lot of work but it all came together in the end. The reaction to the Hell bus, posters and t-shirts was everything.

Massive thanks to everyone who generously chipped into the crowdfunder to help make this version of the bus a reality, I’ve left the crowdfunder open for a few more days to try and cover the bus’s running costs and also to fund a Hell t-shirt giveaway to activists in the Niger Delta since the shirts we printed for these events were so popular.

 

Photos above from the Ken Saro-Wiwa commemoration march in Boni, Ogoniland in Niger Delta on Friday 10th Nov. 

It was such an amazing day, helping keep the memory and the struggle of the Ogoni Nine alive, and that of the Ogoni people who still await justice both from the Nigerian government and Shell who destroyed their land and waterways, wrecked their fishing and agricultural economy and murdered, not just the Ogoni Nine, but thousands of villagers in reprisals for the Movement for the Survival of the Ogoni People’s (MOSOP) organising and protests against Shell oil extraction in the region in the 1990s.

Ken Saro Wiwa was the leader of MOSOP, a writer, poet, satirist and activist who was executed along with eight others by the Abacha regime after being framed for the murder of four Ogoni leaders. The charges were repellent, particularly for an avowedly non-violent movement.

I’d been working on the Niger Delta Hell Bus since the end of the Hell Bus UK tour so my feet have barely touched the ground. It wasn’t as big a project as the UK version as it’s a smaller bus without an internal exhibition, but the idea was that it’s a useful vehicle for organising and getting activists to actions, which is difficult in a country with limited and expensive options for transport.

Thanks and massive respect also to all the Ogoni activists and groups who helped make this such an amazing and moving commemoration of the Ogoni Nine. It’s such an incredible movement and I’m honoured to be involved in a small way in assisting their struggle.

 

 

 

      

 

 

FUCKS SAKE STICKERS

 

 

I made some “Fucks sake” stickers that can be stuck to things. I’m sure you can figure out a use for them. Order here

 

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PALESTINE

 

A poster I made a few years ago for a Palestine Solidarity Campaign initiative exposing UK universities who have multi-million pound investments that support Israeli apartheid, the Israeli arms trade, and the illegal settlement economy.

The database is available on the PSC website, please look into it if you’re currently at university, and put pressure on your institution, particularly if they have an “ethical investment policy”, you can hold them to their own standards. So many UK universities are still involved.

If any student or activist groups want a print file of this poster just email me 👍🏻

 

 

XMAS GIFTS!

If you’re looking for confusing and bewildering christmas gifts look no further than my online website. I’ll be adding a few new things over the next week, including some new print editions and some other bits and bobs.

Check my website for last Xmas posting dates.
I’ll be closing the shop on the 21st December.

  

 

      

 

 

ABSTAIN ON VOTING LABOUR

 

I made this graphic two weeks ago in disgust at the amount of Labour MPs, including my local MP Janet Daby who abstained on the Gaza ceasefire amendment to the King’s Speech which the SNP put before parliament. They’re now available as stickers!

Labour MP Kim Leadbeater made a video saying she wouldn’t be voting for the amendment because, “even if I did, nothing would change.” Which is interesting because that’s the same reason I won’t be voting for Labour at the next election! Was nice to see Massive Attack and Martyn Ware repost this graphic on their twitter accounts. I’m big fans of both, while also *not* being a fan of the Labour party (I should say apart from the dozen or so good and principled Labour MPs that are still hanging on in the PLP).

I’ve also included here some of the other graphics I’ve made about Labour since it started its Neo New Labour rightwards lurch under Starmer.

I’ll be voting Green at the next election and I encourage anyone who isn’t in a left Labour MPs constituency to do the same. Particularly important not to vote for Labour in some of the most right wing Labour MP constituencies, such as those of Yvette Cooper, Wes Streeting, David Lammy, & of course Starmer himself.

 

 

 

DINNER WITH JEREMY CORBYN

I was invited to dinner with Jeremy Corbyn a day or two after getting back from Nigeria. Gave him a copy of this print which he’d commented on when he visited the Hell Bus last year.

The dinner was for the opening night of the @peaceandjusticeproject 2023 international conference.

Came home with a jar of jam too!

 

 

ZAP GAMES

 

Was well happy to take this award home last weekend from the ZAP Games subvertising/anti-advertising awards which had its first UK award ceremony organised by Subvertisers International. This was in the Sculpture category for the Niger Delta Hell Bus.

It’s all a bit of fun but the award itself is really great, based on the keys that open bus stops, made by @shelkadelic

Born in Brussels (Belgium), the Z.A.P. GAMES is an action-subversion game that invites you to create interventions against corporate advertising spaces in our streets. ‘ZAP’ is french for ‘Zone Anti-Publicité’ / Anti-Advertising Zone.

The idea is that over 2 weeks in November 2023, right before Black Friday, individuals or teams act each in their own way against the outdoor advertising industry. I submitted the Hell Bus since I was doing it anyway and didn’t have time to make anything else haha

 

ZINE FOR PATREON BACKERS

I’m introducing a new reward for backers of my Patreon, an annual zine featuring all the work I’ve made over the last year. I’ll be printing and posting this in January so you just need to back me on Patreon before then to receive your copy.

I’m quite excited about this project as it’s a great way to collect a year’s work in something tangible and it means that in my least productive month of the year I’m able to make at least one solid thing.

Also I’ll be printing it on newsprint which I always find pleasing for some reason.

Back me on Patreon here!

 

 

 

 

EVENTS

 

I’ll be doing a stall of my work for the Artist Self-Publishers fair on the 16th December at Conway Hall in London. Open 11am-7pm. Free entry.

Conway Hall
25 Red Lion Square,
London WC1R 4RL

 

 

 

 

 

 

This update is public and shareable so please feel free to pass it on.
If you’re not on my mailing list but would like to be you can sign up here.

Eternal thanks to anyone who’s ever backed my work on Patreon or through the shop!

And thanks for reading!

 

 

 

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Captain Beefheart on Dr Demento 12/3/78 (full interview)

 

Thanks to Conduit19Abel

 

 

 

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Why I am an anarchist

‘It is indeed a feeling that ‘something just ain’t right.’’ 

 ‘“Peace, peace,” they cry’ – Jeremiah

‘The greatest challenge of the day is how to bring about a revolution of the heart’
– Dorothy Day

On Armistice Day, I joined the march for Palestine as it snaked round Victoria. I sighed, I sat down on some steps, looked at the last yellow leaves left on the trees and on the ground and renewed my conviction that at heart I am an anarchist.

Given all that’s written on the subject, how am I qualified to count myself in that number?

If a stranger asked me to qualify my self-claimed status as an anarchist, I would struggle to put words together. It is indeed a feeling that ‘something just ain’t right.’

The pro-Palestine marches, every week since 7 October, call for a ceasefire, a set of rules and agreements in war. Hardly anyone dares call for ‘No More War’, dares call for a higher goal for humanity, the peace that is necessary for life. The cries of ‘Ceasefire’ drown out the cries for ‘No more war!’

In my heart, I am an anarchist for all sorts of reasons. But the jolt that blasted into my head that day was that in personal, everyday relationships too, there are rules and structures, sometimes hidden, that work against the humanity, desire for good and hard work of all participants.

The first time I was arrested was for an Ash Wednesday action against nuclear weapons. John Dear, the US peace activist, who happened to be in town at the time, said: ‘You are a peace maker forever!’ I thought, ‘Yes!.’ Only resisting nuclear weapons – anyone can do that – but what about peace in daily life, family, relationships, the workplace?

Through my experience visiting refugee camps here and in the acres of paraphernalia of the Calais border, I have witnessed how the state relies on violence to exist.

So, if I am to be a peace activist, I must also be anarchist. A march, such as this one, is termed ‘peaceful’ and calls for an end to violence. However, the state views it as violent, in that it challenges the very existence of violence and therefore of the state (Judith Butler).

But oppressive structures exist not just in states. Family, marriage, workplace, voluntary roles all possibly turn out to have unjust frameworks that stubbornly resist being challenged.

Many, such as safeguarding, health and safety, employment law, legal partnership of marriage even, are intended to be beneficial, but when left to ossify, unexamined, they can turn into oppressive structures leading to secrecy and hurt.

Teaching English at a small charity recently, I was asked to send all lesson plans and schemes of work to the manager, a first for me. But then, when I am alone with my students in the classroom, there is a kind of privacy. The temptation is to sneak in some forbidden topics.

When work is undertaken from personal convictions, which hopefully most work is, it takes a brave volunteer or employee to stand up against the rules of the organisation however benign.

But there is also a sense of dismay when unhelpful restrictions are in conflict with the worker’s own sense of justice. Disappointment sets in when decisions are made badly, things are run in a certain way because that’s how they’ve always been.

My gradual realisation as a peace activist, in areas of daily life that have not been peaceful, is that anarchism is present as a source of potential rescue.

On the one side, legal structures haven’t helped, in fact become actually dangerous. On the other side are human relationships, where true and honest open communication is the prize.

There are countless legal frameworks for how to run a war: don’t bomb hospitals or civilians. Premature babies can’t wait while legal scholars write explainers in newspapers on whether the IDF could ever be justified in bombing the al-Shifa hospital in Gaza.

Surely we need no law to tell us it’s wrong to bomb civilians or indeed anyone.

As Carl von Clausewitz, the military theorist, wrote on the dangers of laws on war: ‘sooner or later, someone will come along with a sharp sword and hack off our arms.’ Laws have no currency in such desperate times.

I search for the truth in my heart, helped by a picture of Vivien Silver, peace activist murdered by Hamas, who said: ‘We refuse to accept a cycle of wars that only brings death, destruction and pain.’ What’s needed right now is our common belief in life and humanity.

‘They [cry] “peace, peace” when there is no peace’ – Jeremiah

 

Henrietta Cullinan

 

 

Reprinted from Peace News, Dec 1st 2023.

 

Peace News is at https://peacenews.info/

 

 

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2024 IT Calender

A homage recreation/re-imagination of the 1969 calendar from issue 46 (1968); I made it for fun earlier this year, to have a functional piece of the past on my wall (and to practice on my Illustrator skills) but when I found out there was a website and you guys accepted submissions I thought I should share it with you! 

 

 

 

 

With love from Mexico,
Deborah Chavarría.

 

 

 

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The Twenty-First Century: an Ode

it was going to be
a thing of wonder
we’d find cures for everything
and look after each other
abolish money
national boundaries
and the Bomb

there’d be cities on Mars
and the visionary structures
of Boulez Stockhausen and Cage
would be revealed for what they are
and give rise to a music
of the spheres
as yet unimagined
and rock jazz and the blues
would evolve into a psychedelic punk-rock
the likes of which
no-one has ever heard
that makes people want to dance
in new ways and go out
and change the world

and trains would become monorails
sliding silently between
sustainable solar-powered eco-communities
each with its own
stately pleasure-dome
where citizens might wander
through gardens bright with sinuous rills
where blossoms many an incense-bearing tree

and androids barely distinguishable from human beings
would become concert pianists
and everyone would have a great time

the musician Frederic Rzewski once wrote
music probably cannot change the world
but it is a good idea to act as if it could

it follows from that
that if life (like music) is an art
the least we can do
is live as if all this were possible

and of course
it’s only 2023
there’s still 77 years to go

 

 

 

Dominic Rivron
Illustration Nick Victor

 

 

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from Jim Henderson’s A SUFFOLK DIARY

Monday, November 20th

The Parish Council has decided that it is not necessary to reconvene the GASSE (“Go Away! Stay Somewhere Else!”) committee at the present time, because it is apparent that the government does not have a clue what it is doing about its unwanted foreign visitors, and until such time that we have something more definite than hearsay from someone who claims to knows someone in the Home Office or the like then the consensus is that we all have better things to do. John Garnham has also reminded us that, and I quote, “it’s almost that time of year again”. He meant the annual financial review – and I had thought it was the birth of the baby Jesus! (I do not often make jokes.) The Council’s Treasurer & Finance Officer, William Woods, seemed to me to fidget uncomfortably in his seat at mention of this, and he left the meeting rather abruptly at the end instead of joining us all in The Wheatsheaf for our usual pint. I did not know the Parish Council had any significant money, but apparently we get donations and the like, and hall hire charges, and income from the annual fete, all of which helps to pay, among other things, for the village Christmas tree which, I believe, is due to arrive in the next week or so.

Saturday, November 25th

Scandal! An apparently “well-oiled” Bob Merchant was in The Wheatsheaf a few nights back talking for all to hear about when he was going to start work on refurbishing the village hall, which surprised not a few, because it was well-known around the village that his company had not been given the job by the Parish Council because he was too pricey. Needless to say, word immediately reached the Parish Clerk, John Garnham, who can be quick off the mark when he wants to be and, long story short, it turns out that the company given the job – RJM Construction Ltd., which has an address in Lincolnshire – lists as its directors Robert and James Merchant. It is common knowledge in the village that James Merchant, Bob’s brother, is a vicar. In Lincolnshire.

This means Merchant has pulled the wool over our eyes, because he submitted a bid that was rejected, but has got the job anyway. My theory is that he was not sure if he would get the job because of who he is, or not get the job because of who he is, so he covered both bases, with his back-up plan a bit cheaper. However, John Garnham says it may not be the fait accompli that it seems, and he is looking into some kind of legal redress to have the contract cancelled. I do not know if not liking someone constitutes proper legal grounds. Somebody on the Council (I forget who) suggested we call Merchant in to meet and explain himself, but it was pointed out that the Council is not a court, and we are not able to issue summonses or subpoenas or the like. For what it is worth, it seems to me that as long as the hall is refurbished to the required standard and at a price that satisfies us and the insurers then it really does not matter. That Bob Merchant will be disliked in the village more than he already was is not our problem, but it is an unhappy state of affairs, and when and if work begins with this company I can imagine there may be some unpleasantness. I bumped into Michael Whittingham outside The Wheatsheaf at lunchtime today (he was on his way in) and what he had to say about the matter I do not wish to repeat here. It was mainly expletives, and full of grammatical and syntactical errors.

Frankly, I have other more important things on my mind. I have a list. (1) I have been plagued by toothache for several days, and have a visit to the dentist scheduled for Monday morning. (2) Our central heating has been playing up this week, which is excellent timing I don’t think, and we may have to get a new boiler, which is an expense I can seriously do without. And (3) my wife’s mother has come to stay with us, and when I enquired discreetly how long she was intending to stay neither she nor my wife would give me a definite answer. The two of them are having a lot of what seem to be very serious conversations that come to an abrupt halt whenever I get within earshot. I have always got on well with my mother-in-law, she is a very nice lady, especially when she is in her own house and not in ours. I assume she will be going home before Christmas. She has a husband, for goodness sake, unless they decide that he will also come here. I do not get on very well with him. He is a retired policeman, and very opinionated in a determinedly old school way e.g. he would enjoy a good hanging. If he does come the youths loitering around the War Memorial had better watch out.

Mention of the youth reminds me: I have decided that the Parish Council will have nothing to do with X/Twitter. I have been reading in the newspaper about the Musk chap, and it is all very distasteful. Unsurprisingly, Michael Whittingham thinks we should definitely sign up, which for me is a good reason not to. My further research seems to indicate that TikTok is mainly for young girls who like singing and dancing and pop stars, and Instagram, I understand, is mostly pictures, and while the village may be quite picturesque, the Parish Council is decidedly not. Anyhoo, I may be wrong, and my research has indeed been cursory and half-hearted, but I am taking my preferred route, which is to do nothing.

Sunday, November 26th  (2.30 a.m.)

I cannot sleep, and have done what the sleepless (and irritated) do in the 21st century i.e. fled to the computer. I had just turned off the light to go to sleep when my wife told me that “by the way” her father would be coming to join her mother on Wednesday, and they would be staying for Christmas and the New Year. More than a month! Michael Whittingham would have the necessary vocabulary to describe how I am feeling, but I shall not sink that low.

 

James Henderson

 

 

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transmission 6: ‘o superman’

 

 

 

                                    4 laurie Anderson

  • jude rogers

 

  1. fly me to the moon

 

she had learned / the language of memes

when pleasure means / stocks have gone up

where the advice was / please continue to hold

her right hand was constantly / on the phone

to check her portfolio

to check her / access to desire

 

  1. phoenix

 

it was all about taking the time

to think about the planet

with no money to make things

we have to look to our own resources

 

  • diamond hands

it was the age of / the meme community

with their range of / online practices

their brains fired / by a rocket emoji

& everyone’s excited / by diamond hands

to create a profit / from rapid re-sales

 

  1. suburban sprawl

it’s an engineered dissonance

not that I don’t like to listen

but there’s something about

cultural limits

something about

what can be said

 

  1. gender skew

we were instructed

to quarantine

we had tarpaulin sheets

& mosquito nets

& a bucket to bring water

from the tank

 

the women were

more susceptible

that molecular switch

tips the immune system

into overdrive

 

 

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Robert Hampson

Art: Rupert Loydell

 

 

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SPECTRAL LINES

But look!
Displacement of spectral lines
Awww! How about that!
Apart from the difficulties discussed, this
Is the maximum, so proceed to The Centre.
Whoa! It’s been rubbish hasn’t it?
Characterised by the fact that a spherical surface – now what?
Hiya kid! Yeah, really… so-so… waiting very anxiously
Certain considerations suggest this is not over yet
We need a bit of a drum-roll – don’t go anywhere!
 
The continuum is everything – so let’s ride!
Hello everyone! What a nail-biter that was!
We’re having a frank conversation – interested?
Wacky moments hells bells and whistles (serious stuff)
Fast-forward to now and the journey of a lifetime.
 
So let’s get to it and keep it fun!
First I looked into those pale blue pools:
Beyond the winged eyeliner I saw
High altitude vapour trails and
Scattered fair-weather clouds. 
Now take us off-grid – and to the very edge.
Oh! Wow! This is gorgeous!
I mean it’s been amazing!
Totally bonkers! A five-star experience!
Well, that’s about it from me.

 

 

A.C. Evans

 

 

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Fashionably Late

 

Today, I’m playing dead, adopting an unfashionable name and carving it into marble. It’s a fashion I’ve thus far endeavoured to avoid, but we all have our point at which we cave to social pressures, and everything from the rolling news to the shopping channel is full of shrouds and wailing. Even the nature docs don’t stop with the big fish eating the little fish, and now they don’t end until the water disappears from parched soil. For a long time, I just played possum – population decreasing but “least concern” – but it’s not a native species and my family called me weird; so now I’m going the whole hog or, rather, the whole daeodon, the so-called Terminator Pig, which disappeared in the middle Miocene. I like to think I’ll be back, but I’m building a pyre and a pyramid, taking tips from orangutans and tigers, and watching whole countries dress themselves in ashes.

 

 

 

Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

 

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THE WORLD OF ADVERTISING

The man dressed as an astronaut
on Ashton Market explains:

Once you’ve explored the Universe
and discovered pretty much everything
you need a new project and putting down
laminate flooring is just the ticket. It’s
available in a choice of colours from
pale blonde to chestnut knotted brown.

Easy to clean and even replace.

 

.

Steven Taylor
Art
Jack Kirby

 

 

 

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An Addiction to Image

We should really be focussing
our efforts on other types of
bee. “You’ll be hearing more
from me,” he said. A new wave

of military witnesses is coming
out of the shadows. It Lives or
Carnival of Souls?” It was as if for
a long time I didn’t exist,” she said,

“but he seems to look to you for
guidance and we need to keep
this show on the road.” She can
see patterns and tendencies

invisible to our eyes but a pirate
is striding through the library and
that’s when he said he saw a strange
object hovering in the distance.

“I can’t read this painting,” he said,
It’s all flying past at frightening speed.

 

.

Steve Spence


 

 

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Starch Like Intercession

Humility is not a fact. Come close that he may hear your mood turn creamed corn when fathoming absolution. Mordant speech cuts hypotheses of forgiveness beyond a human purview. Nice your way into his unriveting dark heart. Venial transgressions failing to play well with others stretch across the beach. One plays into a sacrament embedded in the march toward assumed redemption. No one weathers hat space anymore, given the downhome run on handsome warbling. Breach the dove path heard for its own sake mid-morning. Father something preceding a wide berth. 

Givens, plasticity in feeling seeds tossed freely away  

 

.

Sheila E. Murphy

 

 

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Under the Island: Experimental Music in Ireland 1960 – 1994

 

Nyahh Records

The Bandcamp label Nyahh has recently brought out a compilation album, Under the Island: Experimental Music in Ireland 1960 – 1994. A lot of famous acts – some more mainstream than others – came out of Ireland during that period. However, as the notes to the album say, “further down underground there were a few artists working away in their bedrooms and non-studio settings experimenting with tapes and handmade instruments.”

Of the fourteen tracks several stand out, either on account of the artist or artists involved, or the music itself, or a combination of both. The first track, Esoteric Sound Poem, is by Desmond Leslie. An RAF Spitfire pilot in WWII, he turned his attention in peace time to – among other things – electronic music. He was also a writer and film-maker: the album cover artwork features Leslie stood in front of an advert for a talk about his most famous work, the book Flying Saucers Have Landed. Leslie gained notoriety in the early 1960s as the person who punched the critic Bernard Levin live on air during the programme, That Was the Week That Was. Esoteric Sound Poem, created in 1960, is a classic piece of tape music featuring a mixture of recorded and electronic sounds together a fragment of Richard Strauss’ Don Juan.

Tape Piece One (1971), an early work by Roger Doyle, is a collage created from fragments of music, radio announcements and various other sounds. It’s quite animated and exploits the spatial possibilities of stereo. It’s not without humour, too: at one point a voice can be heard saying, ‘Oh, Roger, I so love you.’ Roger Doyle, like Leslie, was a seminal figure in the development of Irish electronic music. His electronic magnum opus is the 5-CD set, Babel, which he worked on through most of the 1990s. Doyle describes it as ‘a large-scale musical structure making use of many technologies and music languages, with each piece of music being thought of as a ‘room’ or place within an enormous tower city.’ In the early 1980s, he formed the music theatre company, Operating Theatre with the actor Olwen Fouéré, one of Ireland’s most important actors and performance artists. Together, they’ve performed around the world.

The album also includes an example of Operating Theatre’s output, an excerpt from The Pentagonal Dream Under Snow (1986). This was – though you wouldn’t know it from the album notes – a play that has been described as one of the greatest lost works of Irish theatre. A monodrama about toxic male sexuality, it was written for and performed by Fouéré. Through the use of a vocoder, she was able to speak with five different voices. Rather than being separate characters, the different voices are different aspects of the same man. Sadly, the album only credits Fouéré. In fact, the music was created by Roger Doyle, the play was written by Sebastian Barry and the performance was directed by David Heap.

Sean O’hUiginn’s Flostic (1977) sounds – in a way I can’t quite explain – like its title. Strange, close-up unpitched sounds, that I suspect would appeal to ASMR fans, are combined with others made with stretched elastic bands. Again, the piece is not without its humorous side. There’s also a two-minute excerpt of multidisciplinary artist Noel Molloy’s Ashes to Ashes (1980), a tape-piece that plays on the idea of sinister reversed messages being concealed in rock albums, etc. It takes Pope John Paul II’s speech to the young people of Ireland and reverses it. The result is an abstract soundscape, until you know what it is.

Fergus Kelly’s Foreign Bodies (1991) is a soundscape created from field recordings (including train sounds) and popular Turkish music. It was originally part of a tape/slide piece based on the situation of Turkish migrant workers working in Germany’s Ruhr District. Evening Echoes (1993-95) was an installation created by the photographer John Carson in collaboration with composer and musician Conor Kelly. What we hear is a piece of musique  concrète by Kelly, based on the street-calls of newspaper vendors, created to complement Carson’s photos.

The electronic piece by Daniel Figgis (aka Haa-Lacka Binttii, one-time drummer with The Virgin Prunes), Look! I’m Running!(1977), sounds like it might’ve been created with sound-effects from early computer-games. Maverick songwiter Giordaí Ua Laoghaire puts in an appearance, too, with a recorded live performance of An Pocaide (The Pocket). This, like the track by Danny McCarthy that precedes it, is reminiscent of the work of US-musician Eugene Chadbourne (lead singer of Shockabilly). Which came first, Chadbourne’s electric rake or McCarthy’s electric hurling stick? Go Google. There’s an internet time-vampire there if ever there was one.

One thing that’s quite frustrating about this album is the lack of album notes. There are some, but a lot more could be said – not just information, but context, too – about the artists and the tracks, especially given that we’re talking about experimental work from thirty or more years ago. And although what notes there are strive to create an outsider mystique (“artists working away in their bedrooms”) and it might well be the case for some of them, was it ever true of, say, Operating Theatre? I’m also interested to know what got left out: there’s no work by Michael O’Shea, for example, which is a shame. O’Shea created his own instrument, ‘Mo Cara’, a cross between a dulcimer and a sitar, with which he busked in Covent Garden and the London Underground. He went on to play in Ronnie Scotts and to support Ravi Shankar. That said, this is an intriguing album for anyone unfamiliar with experimental music in Ireland. As is the way with such compilations, every track is a potential line of enquiry.

 

 

Dominic Rivron

LINKS

Roger Doyle’s Bandcamp page:
https://rogerdoyle1.bandcamp.com/music

John Carson and Conor Kelly:
https://www.contrib.andrew.cmu.edu/~wjcarson/evening-echoes.html

Daniel Figgis:
https://danielfiggis.com/

Olwen Fouéré’s webpage:
http://www.olwenfouere.com/

Fergus Kelly:
https://www.roomtemperature.org/p/biography.html

https://www.roomtemperature.org/p/blog-page_39.html

Danny McCarthy:
https://nationalsculpturefactory.com/artists/danny-mccarthy/

Noel Molloy’s webpage:
https://www.noelmolloyart.com/

Giordaí Ua Laoghaire:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Giorda%C3%AD_Ua_Laoghaire

Michael O’Shea:
https://moshea.bandcamp.com/album/-

 

 

 

 

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Bippety and Boppety Discuss Self-Esteem

– To be honest, these days I feel small. Deflated.
– You know you can tell me anything.
– I just told you I feel small and deflated.
– Sorry. My hearing doesn’t seem to be as good as it used to be. 
– I feel small and deflated and nobody seems to listen to what I have to say.
– I hear a bird singing, or is it a distant train?
– Perhaps I should write you a note.
– Did you know there’s an app you can get that listens to a birdsong and tells you what bird it is?
– You’re not listening to me.
– Sorry. My eyesight doesn’t seem to be as good as it used to be.
– A carnival just rolled by and didn’t stop to speak. Do you
think I’ve gone missing?
– I hear you but I don’t see you.
– I think I’m over here.
– What I meant to say was, What?
– Sometimes it’s as if I’m standing in my own shadow.
– I have absolutely no idea what that means.
– It’s as if I don’t exist.
– We all have our problems.
– Sometimes I think I see voices.
– I say again, What?
– Hello?

 

 

Martin Stannard

 

 

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Live Music in the Brewery! Debdepan and Untitled Woman

A few words and pics from Alan Dearling

Debdepan: ‘The Goat’ from The Omen ep: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wr8B2nhvmJo

Love this, their new video: absolute tongue-in-cheekiness! Go take a look…

Headliners, Debdepan at this gig were Chelsea Tolhurst and Grace Bontoft, described in publicity as, “…a 2-piece band from Kent, who make dark, melodic music influenced by Warpaint, Marika Hackman, The Cure, PJ Harvey and The Big Moon.” The band released their first ep, OMEN on the 25th of July 2023 on Bamala Newtown.

‘Omen’ is musically up-close and personal, what they say is, “…self-reflective, but never self-indulgent, a swoosh through genres and styles that feels unhurried and satisfyingly assured.”

Live, they now have a third touring member adding an electronic-style of drumming into their overall sound. Debdepan reminded me a bit of The Creatures and the rather icy, ethereal sounds characterised on many of the earlier records from the 4AD record label, for instance, those from This Mortal Coil. Another friend also mentioned the Cocteau Twins. Possibly Portishead too. These may or may not be influences. Certainly Debdepan are slightly off-kilter, offering quirky, atmospheric darkness.

‘Darkest Hour’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PeHVw52AkIo

And here’s ‘Light Out’, recorded sparsely live at Ramsgate: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0AbK8FAdWF0

Debdepan came over as talented, good musicians, nice people, fun, and very approachable. After the gig at Eagles Crag they said: “We miss Tod already…so much so that when the van wouldn’t start we thought about staying forever.”

In support at the live gig in Eagles Crag Brewery at Robinwood Mill, near Todmorden, was the solo artist, Untitled Woman – billed as ‘electro bluestep’, she has previously been carnated as blt63. She has lived many lives, but she says, “…none of them hers. With so many ‘if only’s’… but not one regret. Order to chaos. Fragments to whole.  Silence to noise. It really is never too late.”

Utilising lots of pedals and computer loops filled with her own recorded sounds, Untitled Woman was also hypnotically dark, making the best use of her powerful, jazzy-inflected voice. She sounded a little like Annette Peacock with hints of Bowie’s Jacques Brel experiments when he re-worked, ‘Amsterdam’. 

Here’s a snippet from Untitled Woman’s ‘If only…’

“If only she made it then

If only she had begun

If only she had been

If only they had seen”

Untitled Woman: ‘Warrior’ on Soundcloud… is resilient, slightly odd-ball, quietly explaining that it is: “A song of love, loss and letting go.”

And her ‘On the Radio’ is also fairly austere, but extremely climatic, a bit out-of-worldly, as are other tracks including ‘If only’:

https://soundcloud.com/user-705444160

 

 

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Workmanship

A day never begins
Until you dedicate
And let your
Workmanship bloom.
The waking anthem,
The descending light
From the divine delight
All make perfect time.
The sights might trouble
But the soothing outlook
Sharpens your working tool.
Some higher power
Isn’t an option
When the clock
Of necessity ticks.
An open outlook
Isn’t a doubtful question,
It is an action
That needs to be trusted.
A deed best serves
The need.

 

 

 

© Sushant Thapa
Biratnagar-13, Nepal
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

 

 

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THE VISUAL HEART OF OLDBOY

Oldboy, an iconic, provocative film that speaks both to the eyes and to the deepest ghosts hidden in the human mind. But who is the artist behind the surprising settings and the scenery breathtaking visual of the famous South Korean film ‘Oldboy? His extraordinary work helped shape the unique and engaging atmosphere of this cult film, giving us an unforgettable viewing experience. Today we have a chat with the production designer, Han Sung-won.

Thank you Han for giving us this interview, tell us a little about yourself before the questions 

Of course. I am Han SungWon.
I work for the movie, Old Boy as a set designer in 2003.

60% of the scenes were taken in the sets. We had two of big studios, and built many sets, such as the prison, elevator, rooms, Penthouse, etc. Also we made  a partial fence for location video shooting of when SUA who is UJIN’s sister fell down into the water.

The biggest set was the Penthouse. We had huge printed screens outside of the windows, and put lots of water in pools.

The walls of every set was able to assembled and disassembled easily so the cameramen could get multiple view angles easily.

It has been almost 20 years since we started pre-prduction, still I have the exciting emotions about the movie. I really enjoyed it and worked as like my own movie.

 

1-HOW DID YOU APPROACH THE WORLD OF CINEMA AND SCENOGRAPHY? WHAT WAS YOUR TRAINING?
I happened to work for submarine miniatures of the movie, Phantom in 1998. My team leader liked my work. He wanted me to work together after I graduated my university. My major was Industrial Design. I studied the designs of product, transportation, interior, and environment. So this helped me with working for movies.

2- YOU HAVE HAD THE HONOR OF WORKING FOR A GREAT MASTERPIECE OF SOUTH KOREAN CINEMA KNOWN IN ALL THE WORLD, WHAT A FEELING YOU HAD IN THE PUT YOUR ART OF SET DESIGNER AT THE SERVICE OFTHIS FILM?
I was so proud of that, happy, lucky, and honored to work with my favorite artists, the director Park, the actors, and staffs. I still remember the feelings when I saw my name on the credit when we had a staff preview of the movie.

3-   HOW DID YOU GET INVOLVED IN OLDBOY? HOW DID YOU START SETTING UP YOUR WORK ON THE FILM?
Like I said, my team leader liked my work and I came across him in the street one day after I graduated my university. He told me that he started his company newly and suggested me to work with him. We worked another movies before Oldboy. In the field of  Korean movies, they share many new screen plays. One of them, Oldboy was the best. After I read all I insisted with my boss to work for it.

As like another preproduction for movies, we had tons of meetings with the director, assistant directors, art director, and other staffs before crank in. We listened to them, suggested new concept & ways, and compromised all to make the movie better.
Lots of scenes in the sets, we made teams and started building sets in two studios.

 

4-  TO A YOUNG MAN WHO WOULD LIKE TO BE A SET DESIGNER, WHAT ADVICE WOULD YOU GIVE?
Nowadays they use lots of 3D graphics though, still real sets are needed. If you love movies and have passion for it, you can give it a try. You would feel thrilled and happy. The set design is related with art & production design. So it should be better to get knowledges about them.
There are many teams in a movie, so compromising with other teams and working together are important. “Team Work” 

To follow, unpublished photos from the set kindly granted by our set designer

 

Interview: Elena Caldera
Thanks to Han SungWon

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SAUSAGE 287

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column which is a triumph of no style over no substance

THE CARNIVORE IS OVER
An enterprising vegan butcher has opened a pop-up shop in Silverhill. Stanislav Waikiki’s Meat is Manslaughter will sell a range of items, including vegan pork chops, vegan sheep’s brains and vegan tripe – all made from goose feathers, soya beans and a rare, marrow-like vegetable cultivated in Wales called Pwelleriac, examples of which have been known to resemble the face of Ant McPartland. “Everyone’s a vegan now, let’s face it,” Mr Waikiki told HIP, “but in my opinion it’s just a passing fad, like The Twist, or Brexit. I mean, how long it will last is anybody’s guess but I’ll certainly be keeping my options open. Until this craze has run its course, you can count on me to soya-milk it to the max”.

READER: That’s quite a coincidence because I’m a vegan now.
MYSELF: Really? Since when?
READER: Since I read about it in The Daily Mail.
MYSELF:  Which means it must be true.
READER: Exactly. No more bacon sandwiches or fish and chips for me.
MYSELF:  What about leather shoes?
READER: You can’t eat leather shoes…..can you?
MYSELF:  Not unless you are Charlie Chaplin in his classic 1925 silent film The Gold Rush, but if you are vegan, you will be required to stop wearing them.
READER:  What? There was no mention of that in The Mail. If you think I’m going to Lidl in my bare feet you’re quite mistaken. I’m calling the whole thing off.
MYSELF: A great loss to the vegan movement, but very wise under the circumstances.
 

DAIRY FACT
During the war, milk was in very short supply as most fighting-age cows had been drafted into the army. The top secret formula for Mucau, a substitute milk which was originally manufactured by the Ersatz Volmilsch Company of Berlin was captured by British postmen parachuted behind enemy lines disguised as milkmen, who then sent the information to MI5 by registered post in a consignment of sausages intended for German prisoners of war incarcerated in Scotland. Mucau resembled milk in almost every way, except that it tasted like cat urine soaked in methylated spirits, which is essentially what it was; however its tea-lightening properties were widely regarded as a huge boost to national morale during the Battle of Britain, when shortages of leaf tea forced manufacturers to use sawdust and rabbit droppings instead. The result, most people agreed, was undrinkable without the addition of Mucau.

SOCCER BLOW
Fans of Hastings & St Leonards Warriors FC were left devastated last night after learning that former Manchester City and Liverpool striker Mario Balotelli, would not be joining the club after all. In an exclusive interview with HIP, Mario told us: “All they eat is the pies. All the time the pies. No ice cream, no spaghetti, no antipasto, just the pies. Also I wanted to play dressed as Batman, but they wouldn’t let me. They said the costume was too similar to the referee’s. When I suggested the ref could dress up as Robin, the manager fined me £500. The other players have no sense of humour. When I put a roman candle down defender Ron Balaclava’s shorts he cried like a girl.”
 

LETTERS
Mia Tryfell (Ms) of Wailing Trumpet writes to ask: why don’t so-called ‘smart’ motorways have dogging lanes?

Good question Mia. Whilst many might welcome the provision of lanes dedicated to this popular hobby, in my view it is far better to take the dog for a good long walk before embarking on a journey which necessitates the use of a smart motorway. A far better solution is to tell your satnav to avoid any roads beginning with M and allow plenty of time to visit one of the many lay-byes dotted around The UK’s traditional hedgerow-lined byeways, where your best friend can frolic and fraternise with other like-minded dogs.

DICTIONARY CORNER
Castanet (n) Spanish fisherman.
Rhubarb (v) (Australian) to regret having decided to cook outdoors.
Achoo (n) (onomatopoeic) one part of a bisected steam engine.

WIGS MIGHT FLY
Professor Thinktank’s latest brainwave- artificial dandruff flakes for toupée wearers -is being marketed worldwide by Japanese multinational Yadayada Industries. He calls his new invention Scrof, and I was shown this advance extract from the script of their $3,000,000 TV ad, which is to debut at the Superbowl:-

EXTERIOR DAY WINDY
We see an attractive young woman stroll by as a handsome man riding a motor scooter pulls alongside . As he removes his crash helmet, his toupée lifts momentarily and we glimpse her brief look of disappointment as she walks away. Undeterred, the man shakes his head and small white flakes begin to fall. She stops and looks at him with renewed interest. He makes the Scrof gesture, (a casual brush of the shoulder). She smiles and looks impressed as white flakes of ‘dandruff’ fall. Their eyes meet. She climbs on to his scooter and they ride off into the sunset.

DEEP-VOICED NARRATOR
Scrof By YadayadaYour little white lie.

VERY RAPID DISCLAIMER VOICEOVER:
Scrof contains modified time release toupée flakes with Zeitgeist which is highly toxic to birds, racoons, insects, fish, nursing mothers and children. May not contain nuts.

The Professor has also been nominated for an award by UNESCO for his most recent innovative device, a perforated sou’wester for people in drought-prone countries. When it rains, the hat takes in water, which is then stored in the patent hat-tank where it can be used for making tea. The inventor has also been working on a definitive method of differentiating between molehills and mountains, following the recent case of a group of amateur mountaineers who were trapped for over a week on a molehill near Leeds. A spokesman for the team who are making a full recovery in Roundhay General Hospital thanked the professor for his invaluable work which he hoped “would eradicate this problem for good”. Group leader Cuthbert Antrobus praised the bravery and dedication of the Ribble Valley Molehill Rescue Unit, who winched the team from the snow-covered molehill by radio-controlled toy helicopter just as they were about to run out of tea.

MYSELF: That reminds me- it’s 11 o’clock, time for my tea and buscuits.
READER: Shouldn’t that be tea and biscuits?
MYSELF: No, I always buy buscuits, as they are much cheaper than biscuits.
READER: Cheaper? Why?
MYSELF: Because they are misspelt, I suppose.

 

 

 Sausage Life! 

 

 

Sausage Life!

ATTENZIONE!
‘Watching Paint Die’ EP by Girl Bites Dog is out now and available wherever you rip off your music.
Made entirely without the assistance of AI, each listen is guaranteed to eliminate hair loss, cure gluten intolerance and stop your cat from pissing in next door’s garden.
Photo credit: Alice’s Dad (circa 2000)
 




Click image to connect. Alice’s Crazy Moon is an offbeat monthly podcast hosted by Alice Platt (BBC, Soho Radio) with the help of roaming reporter Bird Guano a.k.a Colin Gibson (Comic Strip Presents, Sausage Life). Each episode will centre around a different topic chosen by YOU the listener! The show is eclectic mix of music, facts about the artists and songs and a number of surrealistic and bizarre phone-ins and commercials from Bird Guano. Not forgetting everyones favourite poet, Big Pillow!

NB: IF YOU DO NOT HAVE A PAID SUBSCRIPTION TO SPOTIFY, THE SONGS WILL BE OF RESTRICTED LENGTH

JACK POUND: JESUS WANTS ME FOR A SUN READER aka PASS THE INSTANT YOGA

 

 



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By Colin Gibson

 

Back Issues

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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from Jim Henderson’s A SUFFOLK DIARY

Friday, November 17th

I have changed the title of my new role on the Parish Council to Community Liaison and Publicity Officer (CLAPO). It was originally Publicity & Community Liaison Officer but there was not a decent acronym for that, so I persuaded Joihn Garnham to let me change it around. He said he did not give a ****. Honestly, the language around here is deteriorating by the day. Although CLAPO is not great it is at least sayable.

Anyhoo, in my new role I am wondering if the Council should have a presence (I believe that is the correct term) on what is commonly called Social Media. I have to admit I am not at all well up on that kind of thing. My wife used to have a Facebook account, but since she was using it solely to communicate with her (male) friend Jan in Stowmarket in ways I do not wish to go into (I gather photographs were involved) – a liaison, by the way, which is no more – I am wary of raising the topic with her in case it opens what is still very much a fresh wound and an open sore. I wonder if things like Twitter (which is called X now, an even more stupid name) and Instagram and TikTok are more for the younger generation than people like me or, more to the point, for anyone who might be interested in Parish Council affairs. The young people who loiter around the War Memorial of an evening and, it seems, for the entirety of every weekend, are probably not the Council’s audience, and are unlikely to be unless we organize a rave, and I cannot see John Garnham, the Parish Clerk, or anyone on the Council having any interest in that.

I hear on the grapevine, incidentally, that there have been one or two grumbles from patrons at The Wheatsheaf about people drafted on to the Parish Council without being democratically elected. There is always someone moaning about someone, and it is usually someone who sits on their bum in the pub without actually doing anything themselves apart from moan. But anyhoo, John Garnham says that he has invoked a rarely used clause in the Council’s constitution and that everything is fine and above board, and if anyone wants to complain to him face-to-face they know where to find him. They probably won’t. He is quite a big chap.

We are, of course, keeping an eye on the question of what the government intends to do with what they describe as “illegal” foreigners coming into the country, because we do not want them bedding down here, especially as a modernised and refurbished village hall will be an even more attractive proposition than it was before the fire. According to Jez Taylor, who was in The Wheatsheaf last night, and who says he knows a chap in London who knows a chap who he says is sleeping with a woman who is married to someone who claims to work in the Home Office, the government is currently considering an alternative to their plan to send some of those foreign people to somewhere in Africa. While they sort out a few problems with their Plan A, a plan which would probably have been awful for the people involved, this chap says they are drawing up a Plan B, which is to send them to Norfolk until they can ship them all the way out and abroad. Speaking for myself, Norfolk is something else I would not wish upon anyone. (It is this kind of thing makes me so happy I’m not a foreigner, legal or illegal.) But as was pointed out (I think by Lulu behind the bar, a lively and popular young lady – popular with the male patrons at least – who is a lot sharper than her name would suggest) if that does happen then the village would be a very convenient halfway house on the journey from the south coast. I think we have to be on the alert, and I wonder if we should be reconvening GASSE (“Go Away! Stay Somewhere Else!”) on, say, a weekly meeting and surveillance basis just to be on the safe side. We do not want to be caught with our metaphorical trousers down.

Anyhoo, back to my CLAPO duties. I am going to ponder the Social Media question, and sound a few people out as to what they think. It would be good if I knew some young people. I may have to approach the War Memorial crowd, although I do not really fancy it, because they are a bit intimidating with their phones and music, vapes and appalling haircuts. Perhaps I will just stick to photocopying the occasional announcement and sticking it up on the noticeboard in the village shop. People do look at that noticeboard. I sold my old lawnmower inside 24 hours by putting up a postcard. I now have a state-of-the-art cordless hover-mower with a remote control, Wi-Fi, and face recognition. It is brilliant. Which reminds me I need to give the lawn a final cut tomorrow before Winter sets in. I should have done it a week or two back, but what with one thing and another I did not get around to it, and now the weather is not at all promising. I may have left it too late.

 

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James Henderson

 

 

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Ribbon

My mind’s a ribbon blue
Black hued parsley green
Ivy lead open
My further glance into
My Casanova smile
Delicacy lasts long
Old enough to fly
My cookies know that shape
Criss cross suburban South
Too ordinary for living
A motel of sky scrapers
Munich to Vienna
Topples into
Swimming nothing
My hats are over there
Hibiscus orange
Playing with fire
Rituals of ordinary ordinance
That shape still plunges
My mind’s a ribbon blue.

 

 

 

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Sayani Mukherjee
Photo Nick Victor

 

 

 

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“This is pretty avant-garde, isn’t it?”

There used to be warnings of backwards voices in innocuous songs, urging the sensitive towards Satan or suicide. Mothers waved placards, questions were asked in high places, and kids spent hours and hours in candlelit bedrooms trying to make sense of what sounded at best guess like shell more tofu shakers or a rusty fella over spurt, repeated at irregular speeds. It’s easier now with downloads, and consequently no one bothers. Besides, who listens to a song all the way through these days? It’s the same with those subliminal frames cut into movies which died out with VHS and the pause button. Mothers sleep soundly, the courts echo with libellous Tweets, and the kids are quietly stealing cars and shooting gangsters in downtown LA until they die inside. So much for popular culture, but if you speed up a sequence of every British PMQs since 2010, you can hear a loop of ringing cash registers and a chorus of privileged voices laughing as the ghost of Margaret Thatcher pushes a handcart across the wasteland and calls us all to Hell.

 

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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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Wasteland Heart 

 
 
I enter a gap 
In history
Created now.   
My knowledge is flickering
But the source of water 
Hasn’t dried. 
I tried to sleep
And keep telling myself 
That a glorious morning will arise 
Tomorrow. 
The debris of human archetype 
Haunts the scripts of future 
When war interrupts 
The divine madness 
Of possible literary beings. 
Humanism can soothe the pain.  
I fire my words
To reach in pearls 
That can glitter in the bosom 
Of wasteland heart. 
I know not 
About hopeless optimism, 
Instead I long for 
Which is my messiah symbol? 
 
 
 
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© Sushant Thapa
Biratnagar-13, Nepal 
Photo Nick Victor

 

 

 

 

 

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On The Way Out Or, Why Socialism Is Doomed

Why is Socialism doomed? A by-product of the Industrial Revolution that owed more to Methodism than Marx, and reflected the social conditions and  ideals of an age long gone, Socialism was a relatively short-lived ideological movement; its heyday was roughly between 1848 and 1870. Between 1870 and 1970 Socialism in England experienced a long, messy decline symbolised by the rejection of the Attlee government by a conservative working class that preferred Churchill and Eden, and eventually voted for Thatcher and Blair before succumbing to the jingoistic populism of Brexit and other diverse collective manias of tribal and/or sectarian identity politics.

Originally predicated on a simplistic class war concept that even at the time was outdated, Socialism despite its progressive aspirations has never been able to cope with its own retrograde, nonconformist religious roots and has since been overwhelmed by new, cosmopolitan elites of managerial professionals and private sector business-finance mavericks.

This class has rapidly evolved to implement the cross-border international markets and corporate-services sector needed to maintain and expand a global hyper-capitalist economy; it operates beyond the reach of conventional politics. Most politicians are representatives of, or minions of, this elite class and have no interest in traditional socialist ideas of social justice, equality or workers’ rights. This new class is well on the way to global takeover, and Socialism is well on the way… out.

 

 

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AC Evans

 

 

 

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Bippety and Boppety Chat Over Breakfast

– May I recount the dream I had last night or, to be more exact, in the hour before dawn?
– I’d really rather you didn’t.
– But it verges on the distressing. Nay, ‘alarming’ would be a better word.
– With every utterance my interest wanes.
– Or I could tell you about the nights when my brain refuses to sleep while my body cries out, silently, for the comforts of oblivion.
– Your manner of speech suggests you’ve been reading the wrong authors.
-I have a very esoteric library, and have been trying to read some of the books other people say I ought to read.
– As soon as you fall under the sway of ‘other people’ you are approaching deep water, which for you, who cannot swim, is, to use a word with which you are familiar, ‘alarming’.
– But they are clever people.
– Cleverer than you?
– I’ve always thought so.
– You are probably right.

 

Martin Stannard

 

 

 

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iiiiiiii

shot thru the plastic
confines & the corner of the angle
where your mouth drool
& the consequence of judge tongue
lip & dressing of the sentence
out into the secular city
cold with only cloth of sound-bite
& jargon of the pool where he fell
the cops & nouns gather
in the final glimmer of how we feel.

 

 

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Clive Gresswell

 

 

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Details from the Notebooks

 

 

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Peter Jaeger

 

 

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A Violin Leaves Home: the Night Before


 
Midnight’s wheeling down
from the clouds. Careless traffic
humming to itself. Stars
tap against the window screen
and the day already forgets itself.
The peaceful part
 
was when the light relaxed
and lay down on the mountain, finch time,
last flight before it all
goes blue: the streets, the canyons,
the past. Time
 
in a minor key, a few notes
and on it goes with ticking
in the wood. Such pleasure
 
is hard earned. Hours of practice
for the perfect seconds
when the bow is drawn in harmony
with darkness. The instrument
is lifetimes old. Listen,
 
the strings are so happy
they can’t tell a concert hall from
a frontier town café
where a gipsy plays past closing time
 
convinced that if he plays all night

he could retune the border.

 

 

David Chorlton
Painting: Marc Chagall

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The Old Rat I Trap Every Night

An old rat, knows all the tricks,
forgets, stumbles in the trap
again, shrieks as I release it
to its fate.

A small cloud of crows passes.
The vermin runs for some shade.
Shadows meditate. The season of harvest
brings a sage

down from his mute mountain.
He knocks on every door, asks for rations.
I pour gloaming into his tote
and question about the rat’s omens.
He says,

“A rat is the sign of a rat,
of life, aging and death, begging for food
and stealing when ignored.”

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Illustration Nick Victor

 

Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
 Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/ 
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
 
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FROM SEVEN GRAINS OF TRUTH

Find seven grains of truth

and mill them between two foundation of stones.

To the water
brought from nine wells

add a live yeast and a pinch of the salt of life.

Do not knead new dough in old kneding troughs.

Rising up is an alchemical transmutation.

Make your heart a blazing furnace,

to convert

the letters into daily morsel.

To feed with it

the starving souls

and wintering birds.

 

 

 

Natalia Nedialkova
(Progressive GEOMETRICUS)

translated by Dessy Tsvetkova, BULGARIA
Pic: Nick Victor

 

 

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The Way of the Hermit – Ken Smith (with Will Millard)

 

Pan Macmillan: isbn: 9781035009817

In review by Alan Dearling

This is a book endowed with musings on life, nature, what constitutes knowledge and skill. Ken tells the stories of his life simply, gently and with an old-fashioned warmth. He was very much a working-class lad who grew up in Derbyshire, but dreamed of another life. A life of freedom, travel and his own rejection of the strait-jacket of formal education. He suggests that: “…functionality and form, exactness and precision are rewarded over any semblance of imagaination.”

After being badly beaten up by eight shaven-headed young men outside of a disco in his home town, after two weeks in a coma and four brain operations, Ken’s travels took him trekking thousands of miles across the wild areas of the Yukon, the Rockies and the North-West territory of Canada. The book details his encounters with bears, honing his survival and foraging and water-skills, and developing his own personal philosophy. It’s not without conundrums. He’s a loner, an outsider, but he has never totally hidden himself away. He’s worked with others, but since the mid-1980s has lived in a legally-sanctioned, isolated, hand-built Canadian-style log cabin with adjacent other outbuildings on the banks of the ‘lonely loch’, Loch Treig, in the far north of Scotland. It’s 34 miles from the nearest post office at Spean Bridge.

He has often been more a tramp than a hermit, but has certainly lived outside of the usual conventions and his book explores and advocates for the benefits and liberation of ‘time alone’ and a closeness with the natural world. In fact the whole book is an invitation to readers to consider their own lives, their choices, life-styles and at the same time take more than a peek into Ken’s more solitary life. There are likely to be many stark contrasts.

Perhaps his philosphy is summed up in this extract: “It’s the chopping of the wood that underpins the truth of your life in the far reaches of the Highlands…Wood is your true friend, for wood provides light and warmth whenever you ask it to.”  

I much enjoyed the wry humour in Ken’s writings. You can almost see the twinkle in his eye as he recounts the challenges of an off-grid life and the foraging, fishing, growing crops, hunting and trapping for food and sustenance. There are some seriously hard times with gales, a chimney fire and plenty of snow. Yet he also enjoys visitors’ company and sharing his more than ample supply of home-made beer and birch-sap wine. That’s a part of the enigma of this particular ‘hermit’s life’. It’s a book about life’s choices, wisdom and humanity. It’s a step or three away from life’s merry-go-round, which Ken describes as, “…slow death through the grinding monotony”:

“Graft, drink, find a partner, graft, have some kids, pay bills, graft and die.”

The essential question posed by Ken, I suppose addressed to us all, is:

“You don’t ever stop to question it because you can’t stop.”

This quote, like many of the words in this book are offered with much humility. There’s nothing preachy here, which is one of its strengths. It reminded me a bit of Mark Twain’s Huck Finn, who made excursions in and out of ‘civilization’, but didn’t see it as either ‘natural’ or necessarily ‘comfortable’.

Ken’s more vulnerable now in his mid-70s and he has a GPS tracker with an emergency button on it. One day he may have to leave his cabin permanently, his ‘life in the wild’, but not yet. He’s said he wants to live to be 102,

“Don’t let your life pass you by while you wait for some imagined ‘best time’ in a future filled with so many unknowns…Go and do it now.”

 

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Below is a shortish clip from Lizzie Mackenzie’s Scottish BAFTA-winning BBC film about Ken: “Ken Smith, otherwise known as the Hermit of Treig, has lived in solitude for 40 years. But can he continue to do so with ill health and a declining memory?” …“If you love the land, it will sort of love you back.”… “When I die Iwant everyone to get merry, getting pissed-up on my home-made wine…Anyone can come.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Holdmese (1975)

 

 
 

Directed by Cannes-award winner Sándor Reisenbüchler, Holdmese is a psychedelic animated short that mixes pulp sci-fi, Tibetan mysticism and Slavic folklore. Two scientists propose that the moon is an ancient, derelict spaceship, and go on a journey through deep space to discover its origins. The influence of Stanley Kubrick’s 2001 is clear, but Reisenbüchler’s collage technique is distinctively- and irreverently- his own. Holdmese stands as a brilliant forgotten work of Communist animation.

 

Director: Sándor Reisenbüchler.
Cinematographer: Irén Henrik.

DOWNLOAD OPTIONS 

Download in MP4 (720p Encode w/Eng. hardsubs)

 Download in MKV (1080p Src. file w/Eng. softsubs)

Many thanks to @twoellstwoehs for the synopsis and to Balázs Kozma for improving the English subtitles.

 

 

 
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A Quiet Revolution

The Complete Obscure Records Collection, Various Artists (10CD, Dialago)

Like John Cage before him, Brian Eno is not only a composer and musician – one who moved from electronic art rock to ambient to ‘space jazz’ to systems music to who knows where – but a visual artist, commentator, theorist and provocateur. Maintaining to this day that he is a non-musician, intent on speaking out on political/Political and social issues, and devoted to making music as the product of processes and concepts, he is by turns brilliant, annoying, perceptive and occasionally naive; but always consistent in his attention to detail, his consideration of sound (even if, as he suggested, ambient music was or should be as ignorable as listenable) and to collaboration, whether as sidekick, session musician, producer or record label.

Yes, you read that right. One of the most critically and publically ignored activities Eno has been involved in has been his two record labels: Opal and the earlier Obscure Records were both harbingers of new music, with the Obscure catalogue releases from 1975-1978 being particularly surprising and original yet including musical works, composers and musicians, that are now well-known in experimental, classical and art-rock music circles.

Despite only cult success and okay sales, Eno’s solo records were highly regarded critically and Island Records were gently persuaded that Eno’s proposal for Obscure was a viable proposition financially and culturally. Since his art school days Eno had been interested and engaged in listening to experimental music, and in addition to being a member of both the Portsmouth Sinfonia and Cornelius Cardew’s Scratch Orchestra, had links with many of the musicians who were part of London’s improvising and avant-garde music scene, many of whom would have albums released by Obscure. Michael Nyman, known mostly back then as a writer about music (his Experimental Music remains an important book) and composer/musician Gavin Bryars were fellow curators and advisers with Eno, which perhaps helped reassure and convince Island.

The albums were issued in covers that each revealed a different small part of the same cityscape photo; that is the image was obscured by black ink. Four were issued in 1975, three in ’76 and a further three in ’78. Original editions (some were repressed; some have been reissued, repackaged or put out on CD) remain elusive and collectible, although back in the day they could be found (and were by me) in the 10p bargain basement of Record & Tape Exchange in Notting Hill and other secondhand record shops.

The first Obscure album was Gavin Bryars’ The Sinking of the Titanic, which contained the title piece on side one and ‘Jesus’ Blood Never Failed Me Yet’ on the flip. Bryars had been involved in improvised music, film soundtracks and new composition; he was someone who used research and source material to inform his work. In this case the score, described as ‘fairly open indeterminate’ by Bradford Bailey in the fantastically informative booklet which forms part of this set, is underpinned by the idea of the ship’s band going down with their ship (and, presumably, their captain) and use of the American hymn ‘Autumn’ which was being played at the time, as well as ragtime and other music in the repertoire. Bryars’ underlying concept or conceit was that the band carried on playing under the sea until the boat was lifted from the bottom of the sea 63 years later; in addition to the orchestral music, there are prepared tapes, spoken word and a music box as part of the piece.

A tape was and is central to the better known ‘Jesus’ Blood…’, where a looped fragment of a tramp’s emotional hymn singing slowly sees the addition and layering of slow, stately instruments until everyone is playing; the music then slowly fades away. It remains an incredibly moving work, although for some reason Bryars later re-imagined and lengthened the piece, recording it with the very marvellous but in this case totally inappropriate Tom Waits. This first recording remains the definitive version.

Ensemble Pieces was attributed to Christopher Hobbs, John Adams and Gavin Bryars, who are actually the composers of the work presented here, although Hobbs and Adams also play on three of the four tracks. These three are playful systems pieces, featuring toy pianos and percussion (‘Aran’); reed organs informed by bagpipes; and one where musicians each keep pace with different cassette recordings only they can hear. This second album is probably more notable for the first appearance of recorded work by American John Adams, in this case a live piece recorded in San Francisco in 1973. The piece calls for ‘proposal, debate and vote’ to facilitate the organisation of the piece for available instruments, and predates the driving minimalism Adams would later become known for.

The first cluster of Obscure releases was completed by Brian Eno’s Discreet Music and David Toop and Max Eastley’s New and Rediscovered Instruments. Eno’s titular first side contains a long tape systems piece situated somewhere between the quieter work which had been released by Fripp & Eno and the ambient music which was to follow, whilst the second side is a slightly dull and academic reinterpretation of what Eno’s sleeve notes call part of ‘a very systematic Renaissance canon.’ In a similar manner, the Eastley tracks on New and Rediscovered… feel more like research rather than solutions to his questions about synthesizing the visual and the musical within instrument making. Meanwhile Toop offers up three quiet songs which focus on ‘pitch as a function of time’. Like much of Toop’s music (although he also has a noisy side, as well as being an astute and engaging writer) it demands patience and an ability to listen to strange structures of organised sound.

Voices and Instruments, containing music by Jan Steele and John Cage, and the first of the 1976 releases, is one of my favourite Obscure albums. In some ways Jan Steele’s quiet, slow-paced and repetitive deconstruction of rock songs offers up an alternative version of Toop’s music; it too originally arose from improvisations, in this case by the York group F&W Hat. The music is unsettling yet beautiful, soporific but engaging, and the fact that one of the songs –  ‘All Day’ – uses a lyric from James Joyce’s Chamber Music provides a link to the John Cage works on side two, one of which also uses words from Joyce. This is sung by the very wonderful Robert Wyatt duetting with a piano, whilst ‘Experiences No. 2’ is a solo vocal piece. Elsewhere Carla Bley sings an ee cummings text and there are two brief piano works opening and closing the set.

I’m less convinced by Michael Nyman’s Decay Music, which contains music from scores that focus upon rhythmic and harmonic systems. ‘1-100’ was originally used to accompany a wonderful early Peter Greenaway short film (which literally shows the numbers 1-100), but here there are four different, superimposed takes which rather muddy the work; I prefer it with the visuals too. ‘Bell Set No. 1’ not surprisingly focuses on the sounds of bells, with an eye to foregrounding the decay and attack of their sound, along with a cluster of other percussion. It’s hypnotic, relaxing but overlong. It’s also the only CD that contains a ‘bonus track’, a faster version of ‘1-100’ played at breakneck speed in half the time. Fun but not at all essential.

The Penguin Café Orchestra are the odd ones out on Obscure Music. Their Music From the Penguin Café finds Simon Jeffes’ quirky and expressive musical sense already fully formed within a mix of dance, world and small group music. It’s music I want to like more than I do, but find too polished and exquisite, too self-aware and afraid to take risks for my liking, something I believe is evidenced by the identikit sound of the Orchestra’s many later releases.

The final three Obscure releases, two years later, saw more of a coherence returning to the series. Machine Music featured works by John White and Gavin Bryars, four ‘machine’ pieces by the former, and an engaging piece for four musicians each playing two guitars simultaneously by Bryars, ‘The Squirrel and the Ricketty Racketty Bridge’, a new version of what was originally a solo piece recorded by improvising guitarist Derek Bailey. This new layered-up and more complex version is wonderful, as is White’s ‘Drinking and Hooting Machine’, which involves the use of bottles to drink from and then produce a hoot from by blowing. Apparently the first take, which involved the use of Guinness bottles, produced chaos, so the five musicians involved had to resort to milk bottles. The other three machines are interesting at first listen but not work I shall return to, unlike the final two albums.

Tom Phillips became a world-famous artist. His paintings hang in the National Portrait Gallery, Tate Gallery and collections worldwide, and he has published several books documenting his projects, ideas and finished work. However, he is probably most famous for A Humument, a project that combines text with illustration and book art. Conceptually rooted in ideas of secret, hidden or found texts within another, Phillips’ book has been commercially available in several new and revised versions, as fine art screenprints and expensive limited editions, exhibited globally and documented online, and also provided its creator with inspiration and ideas for many other works, including Irma, an opera libretto.

However, on this Irma album we find the music attributed to Gavin Bryars and the libretto to Fred Orton (although it feels more like an adaptation of Phillips’ text). There have been other recordings since, which Phillips is on record as preferring, but even with the somewhat uptight and over-organised (perhaps over-produced or over-composed?) feel of this version, it remains an intriguing attempt at turning a conceptual text into an actual recording. It doesn’t, however, compete with the 1988 recording by AMM and Tom Phillips on Matchless.

In many ways Obscure saved the best until last, with Harold Budd’s The Pavilion of Dreams offering up four rich, languid tracks from ‘an extended cycle of works’. Although there had been an earlier album by Budd, of much noisier and more experimental work, this was the key album that introduced Budd to a wider audience and would in due course result in him working with the Cocteau Twins, John Foxx and Bill Nelson, and having albums released through Eno’s and David Sylvian’s record labels. Rooted in mystical jazz, Budd’s music here is spacious and seductive, with marimbas, harps and vibraphones, ethereal choirs and Marion Brown’s amazing alto sax playing, underpinning and entwining around Budd’s skeletal melodies. Bryars, White, Nyman and Eno are all present as musicians here on the final missive from this quirky, forward-looking label.

There are no artists here who did not go on to greater things (although that might not involved financial success or popular acclaim). Their music may have changed, they may have abandoned or started writing critical, conceptual or theoretical texts, they may have moved into soundtracks, the mainstream classical world, curation and/or sculpture, compiled anthologies of music to accompany surreal theses’, or simply continued making quirky, original music. Eno and co. certainly had his ear to the ground and his eye on the ball back then.

As does Dialogo today. This exquisite CD box set (also available as an LP edition) is a work of love, which includes not only remastered music presented in miniature versions of the original record sleeves but the original album notes and a wealth of critical and contextual material, including loads of new photos. Gavin Bryars, who has been heavily involved in this new edition, offers a personal reflection; Bradford Bailer’s long essay offers an ocean-spanning contextualisation for this new music; David Toop and Max Eastley each contribute a short piece on their part in Obscure; and pianist Richard Bernas talks about how he came to play four of the five Cage pieces on Voices and Instruments.

Following the reproduced sleeve notes, there are further, perhaps more obsessive and detailed contributions. Carlo Boccadoro attempts to pin down the enigmatic nature of the Obscure Music and document its ongoing influences and effects; there’s a reprint of an ‘Epiphanies’ contribution to the Wire by Tom Recchion, about the inspiration it gave to him; and then some detailed pieces about the art work and reproducing it, as well as a discography that isn’t quite, but does note the changes, repackaging etc. that followed on from the original editions.

All in all this is an unbelievable and long overdue reissue, one that facilitates listening anew and serious critical reappraisal. It’s well worth saving your pennies and enlivening your brain cells for.

 

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Rupert Loydell

More details and music excerpts at https://www.soundohm.com/product/obscure-box-cd

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Zephyr Sounds Sunday Sermon No. 149

On this week’s Sunday Sermon you get two for the price of one, husband and wife duo Steam Stock and Lady Babooshka team up for an hour of eclectic chilled out Sunday morning tunes… it’s time to get mild!

 

Steam Stock

Tracklist:
Ennio Morricone – The Strong
Dot Allison – Shyness Of Crowns
Beck – It’s All in Your Mind
Kurt Vile – Cool Water
Belly – Untogether
Nick Drake – Place to Be
Burt Bacharach – Anyone Who Had a Heart
Ry Cooder – Dark End of the Street
The Beatles – You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away
Crazy Horse – I Don’t Want to Talk About it
Neil Young – Don’t Let it Bring You Down
Skinshape – Moonlight Walk
Traffic Sound – Tell The World I’m Alive
Captain Matchbox Whoopee Band – That Cat is High
Spacemen Three – Big City (Everybody I Know Can be Found Here)

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The Zionist Cause is a Dark Reversal of the Real Destiny of Israel – A True Story

 

During the Summer of 1975 I worked as a volunteer on a Kibbutz in Northern Israel, close to the border with Lebanon. As a recent organic farming exponent in the UK, I wanted to explore how this unique socio economic experiment on the land was working.

Although my stay in Israel was relatively short, it was an intense and meaningful experience. One which, as you will see as this story unfolds, throws a highly prescient light on the current catastrophe.

There were maybe two hundred residents of the kibbutz, named ‘Rosh Ha Nikra’. I rose early and went to work on the land, coming back for a common breakfast at 9.a.m. It was too hot to work later in the mornings so I returned to the fields late afternoon to put in another session.

At its inception, the basis of this community was carved out of a desert. Only an intense commitment to establishing an enduring self sufficient village could turn the sour, salty land into something capable of growing sufficient food to provide for its occupants and a trading income.

By the time I visited, there was already a thriving rural economy in operation, growing and exporting avocado pears and dairy products. Houses and land are integrated as a cooperativein the kibbutz movement, with no private ownership.

Being situated close to the Lebanese border had its disadvantages. Missiles were periodically launched into surrounding territory as unresolved hostilities flared-up intermittently on the border land. It was disconcerting to an outsider, but the Rosh Ha Nikra community was hardened to this reality and did not let it break their daily routines.

I am not Jewish, but have worked closely with Jewish colleagues in theatre and education projects based largely in the USA and Belgium. This led me to become interested in further exploring the background to the Israeli/Palestinian tensions that dog the peaceful functioning of the ‘two-state’ land division established in1948.

In a break from the Kibbutz work schedule, I was fortuitously given the opportunity to meet a senior figure of the Israeli military, in Haifa. A kind, thoughtful individual who was close to retirement.

Questioning him about his perspective on Israeli/Palestinian tensions, he responded in a way that threw a highly significant light on the reality. I recount here my memory of the deeply prescient contents of what he said:

“Israel is not a country. The word in Hebrew means ‘to strive with God’ (to work with God). It is a tribal aspiration, it is not a place. To give the name Israel to this area of land is a falsification. It comes from the Zionist belief that this country is the original homeland of the Jews. There is no historical evidence for this belief, it is a dangerous fixation. Zionism is not Judaism.”

At the time I was not fully aware of the ramifications of this reply; however it vividly endured in my mind from there on.

My host asked what places I intended to visit in Israel. Definitely Jerusalem, I replied. His response was quite firm “Go beyond Jerusalem into the West Bank; into Jordan. Experience this place where Jordanians and Palestinian refugees live and work together.”

I took his advice, initially boarding a bus to Jerusalem. It was here that I first experienced an uneasy tension between Palestinian and Jewish citizens.

It should be remembered that a number of holy sites in Jerusalem are places of worship for both Palestinians and Jews. The ancient claims of both parties to the rights of ‘ownership’ of these sites causes an atmosphere of distrust and suspicion to never be far from the surface. Over the years, many bloody incidents have flared-up out of this febrile tension.

Within deeper spiritual texts of old, bestowing imaginary religious powers on material objects and buildings, is considered a form of blasphemy of God, whose omniscient presence is recognised as a manifestation of infinite spirit, giving equal status to all races, colours, creeds and places. A manifestation of universal truth, not a proclamation about rights of ownership.

This reflects on just why associating ‘Israel’ with a material possession would completely distort the true significance the epithet ‘To strive with God’.

After exploring the impressive but austere architecture of old Jerusalem, I stepped into a colourful, creaking bus heading down into the ancient city of Jericho.

Immediately the atmosphere lifted. The bus and its occupants slowly weaved its way down a long twisting road into the fertile valley below, while Arabic songs wailed out from the radio and the air became perfumed by sweet incense. Arabic headdresses replaced the casual Westernised attire of most Israelis.

Outside, barren mountain slopes predominated, but in a number of places basic agricultural cultivations were in progress.

Upon arriving in Old Jericho, a hoard of young men exuberantly offered their services to show visitors the local sites. I duly accepted the services of a young man with a broad smile, a good approximation of the English language and a promise of full knowledge of the relics of this ancient city.

After a long day spent walking the ruins and rugged path ways, my guide asked me where I was staying. I don’t know, was my reply. Did he recommend anywhere?

No he didn’t, advising it was not a good idea to stay in a local hotel. Instead, he invited me to his family home and to attend a ceremony celebrating the birth of his brother’s first child. A raucous event of much fraternal dancing and singing into which I was fully integrated.

During more quiet moments my host told me about living in a form of Israeli police state. He admitted the tensions, but never spoke badly of the occupiers of his homeland, even praising Jewish agricultural achievements made on the barren hills East of Jerusalem.

I spent a further few days visiting local townships; mostly peaceful, but some of the larger market towns, like Nablus, widely patrolled by Israeli armed police clearly expecting trouble.

A few weeks later I left the country, with a strong impression left imprinted on my mind: on the kibbutz I was treated as a co-worker – and in Jordan I was treated as a brother. It was possible for me to see how these two quite different cultures could coexist in peace.

But this could only work if the Israeli population would adopt the wisdom of the military leader I met in Haifa; and the Palestinians echo the respect for Israeli workers shown by my young Jordanian friend. Such qualities, forming the foundation of humanitarian inter-cultural respect, are the best, and perhaps only, chance for lasting peace and unity.

Almost fifty years later, my reflections are not dimmed. However they have been dashed on the rocks of a terrible political deception which has now emerged as the catalyst for an ethnic cleansing nightmare that blows apart any opportunity for a peaceful resolution.

This is a conflict created by the dark spin doctors of the New World Order. It is part of a deadly and carefully planned chess game designed to wipe Palestine, Gaza and the Palestinian people off the map and free-up the country of Israel to become the Zionist capital of the world.

Prime Minister Netanyahu has publicly declared as much. For him and his fanatical Zionist colleagues, it is ‘God’s will’ that they should obliterate any and all opposition to the ‘chosen race’ achieving its ends.

The great majority of Jews I know – and I believe the one’s I don’t – are appalled by this utterly insane megalomania. They have seen through the distortions and lies that surround the supposed preordained right of total ‘possession’ of this ancient strip of land at the Eastern most point of the Mediterranean sea.

Those warm hearted brothers, sisters and elders who presently live in Israel, hold the key to the restoration of sanity.

I most ardently call upon them to show the courage and irrevocable determination to resist Netanyahu’s mass extermination plans.

Such resistance has the potential to catalyse a large ground swell of bottom-up support from around the world; but to do so – it must start from within Israel itself and embody:

* Total non compliance with political orders.

* A nationwide refusal to to be party to the murder of fellow human beings.

* A solid rebuttal of the demands of military recruitment.

* A ‘pro humanity’ expression of unequivocal solidarity with Palestinian brothers, sisters and children who share the same territory and know it as home; and whose fate it is to be subject to the view that they are ‘animals’ destined for the slaughter house.

No thinking, feeling, self respecting Israelite could fall into line with such depravity.

Israel, as I learned, means ‘to strive with God’. A fine and liberating ideal. So if one is proud to be an Israeli citizen, one should know that this means to carry out actions that will be smiled upon by one’s Creator.

This is the true ideological goal of the tribe of Israel.

Anything else is a falsehood and must be recognised as that.

Not just for the sake of preventing an unimaginable tragedy for the people of Palestine and of Israel, but for all of humanity.

 

Julian Rose


Julian Rose is an organic farmer, writer, broadcaster and international activist. He is author of four books of which the latest ‘Overcoming the Robotic Mind’ is a clarion call to resist the despotic New World Order takeover of our lives. Do visit his website for further information www.julianrose.info

 

 

 

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Overestimation

Always the misplaced rage of knowledge,
clocks and gauges, always waiting…
in broken sequence… all witness erased…

Always symbols, figures, details…
Always something, someone…
to keep an eye on…

Always frightened, the machine conspires…
to incalculable innocence,
measures waning… standing naked…

Always patience, daggers, dancers,
brothers, lovers… estranged glances…
a train in a station…

All decisions already made, an understatement,
the age of overestimation, to fill pockets deep,
and keep all seats taken…

 

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© G. P. Fiddament 2023

 

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Bound Art Book Fair at the Whitworth

Saturday 25 November, 11am-5pm
Sunday 26 November, 10am-5pm
FREE entry, no need to book

The fair will feature dozens of local and international publishers, artist presses and collectives, as well as a free public programme of talks, workshops and parties. This year our programme has been developed to complement the concurrent Whitworth exhibition (Un)Defining Queer . We’ll explore the use of fashion media as a critical tool for communication, and survey historical and contemporary uses of print to celebrate, unify and inform LGBTQI communities and other marginalised identities.

Bound Art Book Fair’s mission is to provide a platform for a diverse and international range of projects and exhibitors to share their work and reach new audiences, with a particular focus on those from the North of England. We build and sustain communities around print publishing practices whilst exploring the potential for expanded forms of publishing that engage or interact with performance, music, sculpture, fashion, moving image and activism. Bound also instigates interim projects generating new publications and commissions, and we have worked with partners including the Working Class Movement Library, Derby International Photography Festival, and Sounds from the Other City.

More details, including a list of all the exhibitors here.

 

 

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Bullet Ghazal


 

When Jesus returns with his AR-15, he will stand like an assassin
in American weeds, taking aim at our ways, using love as his bullets.
 
Will the crowds that assemble remember their hands have agency
in a world where children’s names too often are inscribed on bullets?
 
It’s fear, not prayer, has brought us to our knees, mouths gagged,
flag-draped, in the rapid-fire scream of too many bullets.
 
Smell of sulfur all that remains, like a whiff of Satan
after the spray, the penetration and kill of too many bullets.
 
Faces and places flash through the mind, victims made nameless,
too many to count in the wake of our precious, revered bullets.
 
Day after day we attend the parade, watch from the curb
waving our flags, the continuous celebrated cascade of bullets
 
praised like returning heroes, raised on the shoulders of the crowd
as we count our daily dead, then bend to gather up the still-warm casings.
 
Might we count our blessings instead? Jesus sighs, scratches his head,
wonders if he’s come to the wrong place. Reading Psalms like a bullet list
 
he’s memorized, the words drop from his lips already dead. Hope surrenders
with a gun to its head. Chamber gravid with the promise of more bullets.

 

 

 

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Al Fournier

 

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BEYOND THE NEBULA: PETER J RIDLEY

Review of:

‘PETER J RIDLEY: SCIENCE FICTION
SHORT STORIES FROM THE FIFTIES’

 (2023, ISBN 979-886040-1402)

 

What Peter J Ridley terms ‘the chemical reaction we call life’ was different in the 1950s. The air of Venus was breathable, although the planet hides nasty secrets. There are space freighter lines from Mars to Earth via the Moon Harbour. The pilot punches out landing tape to feed into the ship’s controlling Brain. And he smokes his favourite brand of cigarette, even on an alien planet.

For Peter, the discovery of SF happened in spurts. First there was HG Wells, who crammed head-spinning concepts into reader’s heads and inspired so many young writers. Then there were the gaudy visual exploits of Flash Gordon and Buck Rogers, picture strips in comics sent from America by his Aunt. But the real catalyst was picking up a copy of ‘Amazing Stories’ from a bookstall located outside a London tube station. He was just eighteen years old, employed as a messenger boy at an artist’s agency. He had artistic ambitions himself, which led to him contributing his artwork to fanzines, a portfolio of which are appended in the last few pages of this 2023 collection, the first of them dated July 1949.

But by then, fiction had entered his bloodstream like a powerful narcotic, so he enrolled at Eltham Lit College in Mottingham, southeast London, where he began writing stories, hunched over his typewriter in a small Eltham backroom. A selection of those tales appear in print for the first time here.

‘Wonders Of The Spaceways’ provided the gateway up from a few fanzine appearances into pro but low-prestige publications. It was a small and garish pocket-book from the trashy shoestring ‘John Spencer’ stable of titles. ‘Rake’s Progress’ is a problem-solving story, when the space tramp ‘Don Juan’, on route for Ceres, encounters a dumbbell-shaped asteroid composed of solid magnetite, it traps them to its surface. The crew eventually ‘paint’ a solenoid around the asteroid in order to temporarily deactivate its charge sufficient to lift off. The tale hangs together well as an example of tech hard-science ingenuity, and asteroid 216 Kleopatra has indeed been subsequently shown to display a dumbbell appearance!

Then there was ‘Nebula’, a step up further, with a welcome extended by reader Ken Potter to the effect that ‘Ridley’s break into the prozine was very good to see.’ Edited by Peter Hamilton from an address in Scotland, ‘Nebula’ was a beautiful and fondly remembered little magazine that ran for forty-one issues from October 1952 through to June 1959, featuring writers luminous in their day, such as EC Tubb, William F Temple, FG Rayer, Philip E High and Eric Frank Russell. There were just three tales included in the debut issue, readers discovering Peter’s ‘The Ass’s Ears’ alongside stories by AE Van Vogt and ER James. With a title-reference to the old King Midas myth, Peter’s is a brief but highly readable tale set on Venus. The narrator suggests the fate of the extinct humanoid native Venusians, without actually spelling it out, after observing ants trap a large toad in a concealed pit. But it’s also a story about contemporary issues such as alcoholism, exploitation and the suppression of truth.

I came along much too late to enjoy ‘Nebula’ while it was still being publishing. I only discovered issues in a second-hand bookshop in Hull, while I was working as a print apprentice. At lunchbreak I would cycle a little way down to the bookshop, and select a magazine with an exciting cover, of a spaceship or a robot. It was only a little while later that I began to fill in the gaps between the issues I had, with the issues I didn’t have, until eventually I had a complete run.

The writers in those issues seemed like gods to me, and discovering each new story opened up my teenage mind to new and exciting possibilities for the future that I would be living. I was so grateful that I was eventually able to meet some of those writers and tell them just how much their work meant to me.

And now I’m in the fortunate position to tell Peter that same thing!

He returned in issue four with ‘…And It Shall Be Opened’, acclaimed by reader T Murray as a story that ‘reveals up-to-the-minute detailed knowledge of present-day thought in matters of space flight. A human and moving story.’ When the Captain of the ‘Star Witch’ dies just seven days out from Mars, the mix of crew and diverse passengers have to deal with an oxygen leak that will kill them all before they reach Moon Harbour. Harrison has to overcome the empyriphobe fear of naked space that has branded him a coward and a failure, in order to rescue a naïve young Ghyll who has ventured outside to trace the puncture.

Ridley ventured to The White Heart tavern on New Fetter Lane, just north of Fleet Street, where the SF community would gather informally, yet in awe of writers such as John Beynon (John Wyndham), Sam Youd (John Christopher) and Arthur C Clarke (who would fictionalise the meetings in his 1957 ‘Tales From The White Hart’ collection).

He returned to ‘Nebula’ after a few years break, apologising ‘it is, I must admit, some time since I bought a copy, and possibly for this reason I am more easily able to discern the degree of advancement made since the early days. The reading matter – now apparently largely home grown and original, is greatly improved.’ He goes on to praise the ‘glossy style’ of ‘Ted’ Tubb and the ‘atmospheric’ John Brunner, while criticising the ‘garish childishness’ of the illustrations, ‘regular readers are, of course, not much worried by the standard of the artwork, but bookstall-browsers who might become regulars are inclined to judge the apple by its skin’ (a letter in no.20). Peter Hamilton responds with a detailed dialogue defending his artists, but when Ridley appears with a new story of his own in no.22, it is not illustrated!

‘Morality’ is a gentle tale, with Karnak – ‘dried, and etched with years’, arriving at a seemingly idyllic planet after years of restless spacefaring, only to discover the world’s dark secret. There are a number of levels to the tale, despite its relative brevity, concerning ageing and youth, first in Karnak’s relationship with his daughter, Antigone, who prefers the isolation of space to human company, and then in the seemingly youthful inhabitants of the golden city who fear ageing so much that they hide behind youthful guises. For a young writer, it shows an impressive degree of perception.

Space gipsy Karnak was to return. First in the previously unpublished ‘It’s Cold Outside’, which is an extended meditation on life and death as he is marooned, floating in space, only to be ironically saved by a meteor that takes off his finger, but by doing so releases a jet of escaping air sufficient to nudge him back into the airlock. Then Karnak features in ‘Wish Upon A Star’ – Ridley’s final contribution to ‘Nebula’ (no.31, June 1958), where he’s in an issue stacked up against fiction by Robert Silverberg, Brian W Aldiss and EC Tubb. In the editorial Peter Hamilton claims Ridley as ‘another of my discoveries’ and expresses the hope that this will be the ‘forerunner of many more unusual stories by this very original new writer.’

Karnak lands on planet Arachne 4, only to discover it strangely familiar, to an unsettling degree when he starts to see his dead wife, Gina, approaching him from the estuary. As he flees in horror, the story ends on a nicely ironic humorous twist. The planet is a real-estate construction, a ‘psychoplasm that anticipates your every desire.’

‘Lowering my memory bucket down a seventy year deep well is a long job!’ Ridley says now, ‘I had it in mind to develop Karnak and his daughter into a series with K himself being a kind of freelance space explorer, but that didn’t happen.’

There are some hidden gems among the other, previously unseen bite-sized tales, which derive from a writing course he attended. ‘By The Shore Of The Loud Sea’ is virtually a tone-poem of vivid phrasing as he walks the storm-edge of a shoreline he uses Homer’s ‘wine-dark sea’ to describe. In what is almost a vignette he encounters a stranded mer-woman with vicious shark-teeth, he’s wary, but enticed to assist her back into the waves. He recalls ‘I can tell you that when I wrote the story about the mermaid I was influenced both by visits to Cornwall’s dramatic coast and my reading of some Penguin Book translations of ancient Greek writers. The latter also had a part in my development of the characters of Karnak and his whinging daughter.’

In ‘Back Seat Driver’ the Galactic Bureau’s policy of using a married couple to crew exploration starships results in the perfect Fifties Housewife in space, frying bacon, laying the table with fresh linen and hanging bright curtains around the spaceship ports that look out on empty space! But when they get into a First Contact situation with an alien ship, which he intends to destroy, she sensibly advises caution and so probably avoids interstellar war. ‘The Longest Laugh’ involves a rainforest planet among naked humanoid natives, on a quest for an exotic consciousness-raising drug called ‘Augmenticin’.

A favourite of mine is ‘The Traitor’, set on a Mars typical of so much Fifties SF, where lost cities left by extinct Martians conceal both fabulous treasures and hair-raising terrors. A Sand Rover team discover an ancient pale pink building that ‘resembled nothing more than one of the Kentish Oasts that Sheffard knew so well.’ The building contains gold and precious stones, but the centrepiece is wood, ‘wood was a much rarer commodity than either gold or diamonds in this treeless place.’ When they are trapped inside its walls by a sandstorm, rivalries and greed lead to murder. The sole survivor escapes and intends to respect the dead Martians by keeping their secret.

But there was to be no more fiction. How it is possible to write, and to be published, and then to cease, despite the financial pressures of family life? Surely writing its a kind of addiction that is impossible to shake off?  ‘Not so,’ he confides, ‘with regard to my giving up writing for commerce, this I think arose from my basic nature, I am a realist with a tendency to pessimism, and did not believe that my fiction writing was good enough to be a viable source of income. When I met my wife in 1958, I could see that my income from an undemanding job supplemented by occasional sales of writings would not support a wife and children, so I set about obtaining a commercial qualification. This took up all my time, and fiction writing ceased!’

With Peter now in his mid-nineties, living in Hampshire with June, his wife of sixty years, it is daughter Francesca who assembled, designed, and lightly edited this collection. ‘Back in the fifties the English language was more eloquent, stirring and persuasive’ she suggests, ‘and Peter’s writing displays that in abundance.’ Instead, he chose to develop his creativity into water colour painting, and by co-authoring a book of biographies of local First World War victims. But sadly, no more science fiction, concluding ‘my fiction writing days were a very long time ago.’

What Peter J Ridley terms ‘the chemical reaction we call life’ was different in the 1950s, this collection of tales provides a series of unique glimpses into those lost tomorrows.

BY ANDREW DARLINGTON 

WORKS BY PETER J RIDLEY

‘Dead World’ (‘Operation Fantast no.4’, March 1950) short fiction in Captain Ken F Slater’s fanzine.

‘Longevity And The Superman’ (‘Operation Fantast no.6’, September 1950) An essay.  

‘Rake’s Progress’ (‘Wonders Of The Spaceways no.1’, November 1950), uncollected fiction.

‘Choose Your Weapons’ (‘Slant no.5’, Spring 1951) fiction in Walt A Willis fanzine. Ridley says ‘I recall writing a story concerned with two adversaries fighting it out on a small asteroid, one armed with a laser weapon, the other with an old-fashioned rifle. It may have been called ‘Choose Your Weapons’. This was sparked off by my reading the novel ‘Brown On Resolution’ by C. S. Forester of Hornblower fame, although the two stories were markedly different.’

Cover and interior art for ‘Operation Fantast Newsletter’ (June 1951)

‘Strangers Under The Sun’ (‘Phantasmagoria’) 24-page fanzine edited by Derek Pickles from Bradford, reviewed in ‘Authentic Science Fiction no.11’ as Ridley’s ‘a longer story… has pride of place at the beginning of the mag.’

‘With Apologies To Marvel Science Stories’ (‘Science-Fiction Five Yearly no.1’, November 1951) interior artwork in the fanzine edited and published by Lee Hoffman.

‘The Ass’s Ears’ (‘Nebula no.1’, October 1952)

‘…And It Shall Be Opened’ (‘Nebula no.4’, June 1953) fiction with Terry Jeeves art.

Readers Letter in ‘Nebula no.20’, March 1957)

‘Morality’ (‘Nebula no.22’, July 1957)

‘Wish Upon A Star’ (‘Nebula no.31’, June 1958)

‘It’s Cold Outside’ (first published 2023)

‘By The Shore Of The Loud Sea’ (first published 2023)

‘Back Seat Driver’ (first published 2023)

‘The Longest Laugh’ (first published 2023)

‘The Traitor’ (first published 2023)

 

‘PETER J RIDLEY: SCIENCE FICTION SHORT STORIES FROM THE FIFTIES’

 Collection (2023, ISBN 979-886040-1402)

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Science-Fiction-Short-Stories-50s/dp/B0CHL92T3Y/ref=sr_1_2?qid=1700144614&refinements=p_27%3ARidley&s=books&sr=1-2

 

 

 

 

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The Storyteller


 
    
 
 
 
 
…and when he died
 
The Storyteller
 

Last seen in the Sailors’ Orphan Girls’ School, he hears their taunts
There’s girls and boys, loose cannons, rumbling around our road
Shooting blanks, as they kidnap words from a storytellers’ haunts
He told so many great tales, wanted us to hear him, recite, unload

So when he died, they respectfully prayed, then ran on into the night
Found a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, this story will unfold
Spread his precious notes, canon full of pride, a golden shower, light
Eleven thousand pages, words & deeds; stories our great master told

Rejoice, he’s gone, bask in his memory, now and ever after hours
Let’s all link hands, dance in his house, for our reflected glory
Rejoice in his romance, magic tales, refreshed by shining powers
You know, he laughs again; now begins, a new sweet, jackanory

Na na, na na nah.  Na na, na na nah.  Mickey Mouse
I hear their voices harping in the playground house

 

 

 
©Christopher 2023
 
 
 
 
Photographs by George P Landow

 

 

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I am your choice

I am the mentor
and I am the student,
I am the half shadow of the couple,
I am the vector
and I am the angle
of the building,
I am the pillar of the supple,
I am the lyric coffer
of the prosaic buffers,
I am the pale ceiling
of the blue abyss space,
I am the mentor,
I am the ways of your choice,
I am the face.

 

 

 

Dessy Tsvetkova
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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SAUSAGE 286


Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column which travels at the speed of time

MYSELF: I’m totes FUTTBT with people using all these daft acronyms all the time.
READER: FUTTBT?
MYSELF: Fed up to the back teeth. I mean FFS, they are just not necessary
READER: Unnecessary? Nonsense! NATO? UNESCO? ACAS? These organisations are the very essence of modern society without which we would be reduced to the status of uncivilised bogtrotters.
MYSELF: I see. In that case, I propose that we form a breakaway organisation called KUMQUAT. We can decide what it means later.





READER: LOL, LMAO, etc.

THINGS TO DO THIS CHRISTMAS

  1. Watch television. TV is especially sparkling at yuletide, and often features The Snowman, a film designed to get you off to sleep after lunch, so that the children can steal your alcohol. If you don’t own a television, buy something else to stare at, like a tank of tropical fish, or a tasteful nude by Modigliani.
  2. Sell your soul. A Faustian pact always livens up a dull holiday – you can always borrow one if you need it.
  3. Take up surfing. It keeps you fit, and a surfboard will always double as an ironing board in an emergency.
  4. Learn to play a musical instrument. A jaunty tune played on the pianoforte will make any party go with a bang. However, a word of caution; when I was a chap of diminished stature, music was made by professionals, with proper jackets and music stands, and moustaches which curled up at the ends. Today it is all leather trousers, electronic organs and stereophonic sound, a combination which quite frankly, does not cut the mustard, so dress accordingly.
  5. Apathy. Apathy is this year’s top hobby, and it’s easy to see why. Anyone can do it, all you need is an interest in virtually nothing, and a wide enough range of things to not care about.
  6. Make your own crackers. All you need are the following items: some hollow cardboard tubes, such as you might find in a toilet roll, crepe paper, twisty freezer-bag ties, a small quantity of nitro-glycerine or plastic explosive, and a funny joke or riddle.

Here is an example to start you off:
Q: What does an octopus have on its underpants?
A: Squidmarks.

POSTBAGGAGE
Dear sir or madam, or inflatable doll, or whatever,
my husband Donald suffers from chronic wind, which quite frankly is ruining our social life. During a recent foursome of bridge, I was mortified with embarrassment by the chorus of parps issuing from the rear of Donald’s trouser area, which at times resembled a brass band attending a pet shop fire. He is a very fussy eater who will only consume Heinz baked beans directly from the tin, making eating out very difficult. Should I attempt to change his diet? Or could something else be the culprit vis a vis the flatulence problem?
Coco de Moule (Mrs), Upper Dicker

Dear Mrs de Moule,
Although I sympathise entirely with your problem, I am afraid at this stage, a diet change may be too dangerous to attempt. It should be pointed out that the cause of your partner’s petomania is most likely phenohybrilogeniheliophyll, a byproduct of the linoleum manufacturing process which is used by Heinz to prevent their flatulent, sugary legumes from tasting like goat faeces. My advice is to install an extractor fan in the rear of Donald’s trousers, with an outlet situated at the farthest end of the garden.

MEDIA NEWS
Facebook, TikTok and X (formerly Y?) have jointly announced that for the duration of Christmas, the use of several words and phrases including peeps and blessed are to be barred from online posts, after reports that drains are backing up due to excessive vomiting. A comprehensive list of all proscribed sentimental horseshit will be published shortly. In another shock statement issued by Hastings’ Chief Constable Hydra Gorgon, it was revealed that chemtrails, once thought to be a government plot to control our minds, are nothing of the sort and are, in fact, the accumulation of vapour clouds exhaled by vaping children.

 

SURREAL ESTATE
Delightful semi-detached period cottage in much sought after location close to local amenities. 7,000 bedrooms (3,862 en suite), plus bijou box room too small even for small boxes. Master bedroom with fitted walk-in Narnia wardrobe, time machine and steam operated champagne cooler. 150-acre kitchenette with built-in appliances including hovering microwave nutmeg grinder, fitted giraffe hook and motorcycle racing monkeys. Olympic size indoor ski slope with artificial carp lake, golf umbrella repair shop and circus facilities. Enormous rear garden with 200ft beanstalk and mature giant.
Would suit professional footballer or bus conductress. Offers in the region of £800b invited.

 

Sausage Life!

ATTENZIONE!
‘Watching Paint Die’ EP by Girl Bites Dog is out now and available wherever you rip off your music.
Made entirely without the assistance of AI, each listen is guaranteed to eliminate hair loss, cure gluten intolerance and stop your cat from pissing in next door’s garden.
Photo credit: Alice’s Dad (circa 2000)
 




Click image to connect. Alice’s Crazy Moon is an offbeat monthly podcast hosted by Alice Platt (BBC, Soho Radio) with the help of roaming reporter Bird Guano a.k.a Colin Gibson (Comic Strip Presents, Sausage Life). Each episode will centre around a different topic chosen by YOU the listener! The show is eclectic mix of music, facts about the artists and songs and a number of surrealistic and bizarre phone-ins and commercials from Bird Guano. Not forgetting everyones favourite poet, Big Pillow!

NB: IF YOU DO NOT HAVE A PAID SUBSCRIPTION TO SPOTIFY, THE SONGS WILL BE OF RESTRICTED LENGTH

JACK POUND: JESUS WANTS ME FOR A SUN READER aka PASS THE INSTANT YOGA

 

 



SAY GOODBYE TO IRONING MISERY!
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Take years off your smalls with Botoxydol!
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SPONSORED ADVERTISEMENT
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By Colin Gibson

 

Back Issues

 

 

 

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Alan Dearling’s New and Old Music – Autumn 2023

Rolling Stones: Hackney Diamonds

This new album in 2023 is an unexpected pleasure. It’s like meeting up with a collection of war-ravaged old mates in a boozer in Hackney. It is very much an amalgam of essences from nearly every Stones’ song. It’s instantly recognisable as the Stones with lots of, yes, Hackney-ed riffs, snarls, whines, catchy tunes and part-tunes. It even sports two tracks featuring Charlie Watts on drums, and one with Bill Wyman on bass too. And an almost Sex Pistols-like number, ‘Bite My Head off’ which has some really rather spiffing, buzzing bass lines, courtesy of Paul McCartney, and includes the line: “I’m fucking with your brain”. Less successfully in my view are small cameos from Elton John and Stevie Wonder, but Lady Gaga conjures up a storm of soulful sounds, trading vocals with Mick, on the seven minute long track, ‘Sweet Sounds of Heaven’ which soars in walls and crescendos of gospel sounds and ends in a cappella quietness with Lady Gaga trilling alone. A lot of the ‘feel’ of many tracks is reminiscent of ‘You can’t always get what you want’, which is not a bad thing at all.

There’s slow blues and subdued guitar licks on ‘Dreamy Skies’, but overall it’s still very much the Stones’ take on Rock ‘n’ Roll. And then it ends on track 13, with ‘Rolling Stone Blues’, which is actually a homage version of Muddy Waters’ ‘Catfish Blues’. Reverential, stripped-back guitar, bass, harmonica, drums… “Oh well, oh well, I got a boy child coming…He’s gonna be a rolling stone.” 

It’s a good album and nearly up there with the greatest ones from the old bad boys of rock.

Clips of Mick, Lady Gaga and the boys from the album launch in the USA: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z3E_V4eB3e0

Paul Lush: Six Ways From Sunday

Paul was born in Australia, but is a part of the UK’s burgeoning Americana scene. It’s the sort of album you’d be likely to buy after a live Paul Lush gig. There are shades of Dylan and even Rod Stewart’s ‘Mandolin Wind’. Plenty of quality songs, especially the ones with strong narrative story-lines. The most powerful songs are steeped in loss, break-ups and sorrowful moments. And lots of intelligent lines of observation such as, “No-one comes out of this looking good.”

Paul Lush has been on lots of other albums including ones as part of Danny and The Champions of the World. And he released his own album ‘And there it is’ in 2021 with Angela Gannon from the Magic Numbers on vocals. But this album has allowed him to take the lead and step into the spotlight. There’s a nice mix of musical styles including some incendiary guitar solos. As a whole, the LP is a bit like an album from Australia’s Joe Camilleri from The Black Sorrows. Lots of variety, some catchy musical hooks, lush arrangements (sorry, I couldn’t help adding that!) and plenty of soulful meanderings.

 https://music.apple.com/au/artist/paul-lush-and-araluen/1697479090

 

Anoushka Shankar: Chapter 1: Forever, For Now

An ep (a mini LP) of much beauty. Tranquillity, sitar blending with piano on ‘Daydreaming’, the opening track featuring Nils Frahm tinkling the keys. It’s apparently based on a Karnatic lullaby. I witnessed Anoushka live with her sitar and electronic dance ‘set’ at the Boom Festival in Portugal and that is one of the very special musical moments in my life. The music on this release is at times reminiscent of George Harrison’s use of sitar on tracks like ‘Within you, Without you’ – strangely transcendental. Floating, haunting, bewitching sounds.

Here’s what Anoushka says about the mini-album, which is the first in a planned set of at least three:

“…and one day last summer, while I was in the garden with my two sons and my sitar, I was strumming when one of my sons got tired and lay down in my lap. As I started finding this melody from my childhood, he fell asleep, and I remember trying to savour the beauty of the moment. This song is a snapshot of afternoon sun through leaves, roses in bloom, a child dozing on his mother’s lap, the preciousness of a single moment fully lived and witnessed. This whole chapter, in fact, is about that feeling, being completely in the fullness and transience of a single moment, coming to forever – for now.”

https://anoushkashankar.bandcamp.com/album/chapter-i-forever-for-now

 

Mabe Fratti: Se ve desde aqui (It is seen from here)

This Guatamalan born, Mexican-based artist had passed me by. She’s a cellist and synth player armed with an experimental musical palette. And she has brought together some kindred musical talents in a multi-layered set of soundscapes abetted with much electronica and violin, drums and saxophone. It seems to me, part modern classical, and part free-jazz. Tonal and atonal patterns, atmospherics, oft-times unnerving, which Mabe calls her, “…abrasive barbed wire cacophony.” In fact, it is almost impossible to categorise, at times a little austere – a daunting and challenging liminal portal into dissonance. If ethereal vocals and acoustic bass sounds are your bag – then this is well worth a musical visit. It’s complex, experimental and is something akin to a collection of sound experiments. I sensed an affinity of sorts with Jan Garbarek in his sax playing along the fiords of Norway with Ralph Towner and Terje Rypdal, alongside perhaps, a voyage into the way out, far reaches into outer space that Arthur Russell utilised. It can be a cold an icy landscape.

Here is Mabe Fratti live: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QTskdzJ1VCE

 

Speed of The Stars (Steve Kilbey and Frank Kearns)

This album from Speed of The Stars has had a strange birth and gestation it seems. It was apparently started way back in 1998, was finished in 2016, then has been re-released with additional tracks in 2023. Kearns is a member of the Irish alt-rockers, Cactus World News, and Kilbey is best known for his role in psychedelic outfit, The Church. It’s very wordy and at times it comes over like a missing selection of tracks from Pink Floyd’s ‘The Wall’. 

They describe it as, “…progressive gossamer alt-pop, high on…dreamy atmospherics.” I’d agree.

There are waves of warm textures on tracks like ‘Autumn Daze’, and ‘Stupid Dream’ which could easily be entitled, ‘The Shimmering’. Sometimes it gets a bit samey, but it’s classy stuff, albeit a tad pretentious (or sublime, depending on your viewpoint) as on ‘Heliotropic’.

https://easyaction.co.uk/product/speed-of-the-stars-steve-kilbey-frank-kearns/

 

Ari Satlin/Zman8: [Chill Space Mix Series 124] Digital Nomads – Takin’ A Cab To Gab

The blurb says it all, more or less. “Digital Nomads is a psychedelic chill project of East Coast Electronics and Zman8. They have crafted a mix featuring the best of Gabriel Le Mar and Saafi Brothers.” Ambient, floating sounds. Spacey and uplifting. A nice way to work to, and for rest and play too. Ari keeps in touch with me from his new abode in the USA, in New York.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1BkS7X3lJ8M

Peter Green: The End of the Game

Intense. Adventurous and even, at times, frightening. This extended 50th Anniversary version of Peter Green’s last great album from his early career (recorded in 1970), and was re-released in 2020 by Cherry Red Records. It’s essentially a jam, but rather scary! Zoot Money was one of Green’s musical collaborators on the recording session. He remembers, “(Peter) asked if I would come down to the studio that very night and we’d just play together and see what came out…”

If you only remember ‘Albatross’ and his blues playing with the original Fleetwood Mac, this may come as something of a musical surprise. It was quite an experience for the five participants, who had never played collectively together before. It’s loose, unstructured and the original vinyl album version, which I still have, has been augmented by both sides of Peter Green’s two singles, ‘Heavy Heart/No Way Out’ (1971) and ‘Beasts of Burden/Uganda Woman’ (1972).

Hear some of it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SoVspJ3Mq90

Robb Johnson and the Xmas Irregulars: Murder at The Grange

This is a completely eccentric oddity. It’s receiving a special festive release for Christmas 2023. It’s a recording of a musical ‘entertainment’ – a show, a live event which was performed by Robb with members of his ‘Irregulars’. It’s an old-fashioned sort of affair. A mix and match of whimsy, jazz, scat singing, double-bass, piano, trumpet, sax, violin and viola, plus oodles of pastoral musical theatre. Lots of vocal word-play. It’s absolutely Christmas-themed. A playful, novelty item that is a throwback to the 1950s/early 1960s, as it says in the promotional literature: “50s jazz, Father Christmas, mistletoe, sprouts etc.”  Or, as they sing: “Wotcha gonna do with your brussel sprouts? Hallelujah! Oh be joyful!”

https://www.robbjohnson.co.uk/

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Memory seeping

Held, Anne Michaels (Bloomsbury)

Along with several poetry books Anne Michaels has previous published two other novels. I regard her first, Fugitive Pieces, as a masterpiece, yet Held is even better. It moves back and forward in time, and moves around Europe: France, Yorkshire, Suffolk, Estonia, Dorset and the Gulf of Finland. Whilst each chapter is clearly labelled with regard to both location and year, the juxtaposition of those years, jumps forward or back, mean we must keep an eye on what is memory, what is action, what is fact, what is nostalgia or later interpretation.

Starting in the war in 1917, we move chapter by chapter through 1920 to 1951, to 1984, then back in the same location to 1964, before returning to 1984. Then it is 1902, then 1980, then 1908, 1912, before we move to 2010 and end up in the near future in 2025. It is not a difficult read, it is not science fiction or experimental fiction, but it is a story told in sections that slowly coalesce as we understand and rethink what has gone before in the book.

It is a book about remembering and how open that act is to where someone is now, during that act of remembering, as well as what the cause or focus of that remembering is:

     You could put a word in front of your thoughts and see
     everything through that word — faith, family, illness. It
     could be your own words or someone else’s, like wearing
     glasses that were the wrong prescription — wrong, or
     just not yours. Or, you could put your hands in front of
     your eyes in denial — but even so, he thought, you would
     continue to see, you can’t stop seeing what’s inside you.

There is a persistence to our memories, our brains contain so much that we might prefer to not rise to the conscious level:

     Everything that stakes its claim in us, everywhere that
     history stakes its claim in us. There are images that can,
     like certain rhythms, dismantle us […]

Everything changes; this, and how memories inform and disform our lives, is what Michaels’ book is about. ‘A field becomes a battlefield; becomes a field again’, ‘[a] man who survived one war dies in another’, she writes, noting that although ‘[w]e think of history as moments of upheaval when forces converge’, ‘sometimes history is simply detritus: midden mounds, ghost nets, panoramic beaches of plastic sand.’

There are, of course, people, characters and events in this book, it is in no way a theoretical exercise in philosophy, linguistics or academic theory. John is hurt in WW1 which triggers recollections of his past, and once home and established as a photographer, ghosts both new and old, appear in his pictures. The book is also a family saga, an expansive and spreading family, with their own interpretations of moments they have shared, as well as the private ones and those they choose to keep to themselves. There are children, relationships, deaths and funerals; gardens in sunlight, rivers reflecting sunlight and then in flood; there are familial discontinuities and misrememberings, implied and future memories, and throughout the book ‘[t]he long fuse of memory, always alight.’ It is a warm, gentle and powerful novel; a book of moments, reimaginings, forgettings, disturbances and digressions. Anne Michaels has excelled herself once again.

 

 

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Rupert Loydell

 

 

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Myriad Mysteries

David Lynch. A Retrospective, Ian Nathan (Palazzo)

Ian Nathan claims that this ‘is not a book that sets out to unpick’ what he calls ‘the myriad mysteries’ in David Lynch’s films, but rather ‘a search for an understanding of that much used word, Lynchian’. Nathan also notes that ‘this book focusses on Lynch behind the camera, and only mentions the copious paintings, sculptures, photographic collections, commercials, stage productions and albums in passing’, which is a shame as these seem an important part of Lynch’s world view. And call me a cynic, but aren’t those mysteries the substance of being Lynchian?

Nathan, however, pursues a biographical and historical route rather than a critical one: we are told how films evolved, were scripted, shot and received rather than offered any cinematographic or critical insights. Nathan is apt to make dramatic declamations; in his chapter about Dune he notes that, despite the perceived failures of Lynch’s version, the film ‘still tells us so much about the director’, although Nathan resorts to telling the reader that ‘from the every start a cosmic aura pervaded [Lynch’s] films’ and that ‘[a]ll of them occupy worlds that are never quite normal, a Lynchian otherness seeps in, or bubbles up from below’, which hardly helps unpick what the word Lynchian actually means. Neither does his suggestion that we ‘think of [Dune] as an alien art project’.

More interesting is Nathan’s contention that ‘the failure of Dune was the making of Lynch’ and that

     Twin Peaks was a demonstration – and a kind of redemption – that certain
     stories should be allowed to swim and stretch in certain directions, without
     the constrictions of theatrical showings, marketing departments and a
     producer wearing a mask of smiles

although it will be another 20 pages before the reader comes to Twin Peaks.

Between Dune, which gradually seems to have become more accepted than it was at the time, and Twin Peaks, there was of course, Blue Velvet, which Nathan calls ‘the most provocative yet poetic examples of Lynch’s phantasmagorical America’, although he also notes that ‘Lynch still considers Blue Velvet his “most normal film.”‘ Nathan uses Lynch’s own ideas and that of critics to discuss whether Dennis Hopper’s character Frank is ‘not so much evil as twisted’, and how ‘part of the great appeal of Lynch is how personal his films feel to us’, not to mention the fact that ‘[t]here is a psychic intimacy between Lynch’s lack of self-consciousness and our secret psyches’. None of these ideas are unpicked further; for me, a David Foster Wallace quotation reproduced here is far more useful, where he notes that Lynch’s best movies ‘tend to derive a lot of their emotional power from their ability to make us feel complicit in their sickness’.

The first two series of Twin Peaks and the film Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me share a chapter, where once again Nathan resorts to talking around the film rather than about the film itself, repeating well known stories such as how Lynch spotted Frank Silva on set and created the demon BOB, and how Lynch was forced to reveal the killer well before he had planned. ‘If [Lynch] had had his way, the identity of the killer would have remained elusive for many seasons to come’, notes Nathan. Instead, once the audience were in the know, ‘[a]s Lynch foresaw, the air immediately went out of the strange balloon’ that he had created, and ‘[t]he audience awoke to the sensation that it was so much better wanting to know than knowing.’

Lynch also self-sabotaged his project by releasing a dark, horrific film that re-imagined the town of Twin Peaks as a much grittier and more sexualised place, alienating those – myself included – who had enjoyed the more surreal and homely elements of apple pie smalltown America rather than the occult violence in Fire Walk With Me. Twin Peaks: The Return, 25 years later, would go some way to reinstating the weird and puzzling a devoted audience, but in the meantime Lynch would make a number of strange movies – Wild At Heart, a debauched road trip; Lost Highway, a tale of murder and doppelgangers; Mulholland Drive, which explored the underbelly of wealthy Los Angeles; Inland Empire, which Nathan claims is ‘a multidimensional rabbit hole of altered states and alternative dimensions’ – and a quirky tale of tenacious individualism, Lawnmower Man.

What Nathan never does, despite his declaration that he will, is unpick what Lynchian is, in fact the book ends with the author excusing himself: ‘As to the true meaning of Lynchian? The mystery endures.’ True enough, but elsewhere critics and writers have tried harder to unpick the mechanics and meaning of Lynch’s ouevre, with attention to the sound design of the films and albums, the symbolism and meaning of the signs, props, locations and characters who populate Lynch’s world, not to mention the visual design elements of not only Lynch’s films but also his photographs and art works. They are all part of the same world that Lynch has created, and to ignore them in favour of summary, Hollywood stories and generalised assumptions feels like a cop-out. It is, of course, okay to ‘thrill to the unexpectedness’ of Lynch’s projects, perhaps even to accept that ‘we’re all living inside the dream’, but that doesn’t mean we can’t think about it, even in the beautifully produced coffee table world that this book inhabits.

 

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Rupert Loydell

 

 

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Of Course, You Know I Am David Gascoyne

Nineteen-thirties teenager

Pacing park and pavement in East Twickenham

Declining French irregular verbs

So that as a Briton

He might better understand Breton

 

A psychogeographic return trail

Across La Manche to Gay Paris

Night visions of amphetamine disturbance

Good morning midnight

Though it’s not quite three

Hands whizzed backwards on a leaning clock

Transfixing time

For the rake of Teddington Lock

 

Melted poems not yet written

Like snowflakes on a kitten

Moons of cheese, lunes de fromage

A surrealist equipage

Shafts of Sauterne-like light

In St Stephen’s

Deep, steep, crisp, uneven…

 

Sentient sadness, intelligent madness

Took him down the decades

To a care home on the Isle of Wight

(Coloured sand tickling in the dark blue night)

One afternoon his nurse and future wife

Performed his poem at a reading –

Of a sudden, his subconscious bleeding,

He cried:

‘Of course, you know I am David Gascoyne…’

 

She did now.

 

 

 

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Julian Isaacs
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Bippety and Boppety Talk About the Countryside

– Sometimes I think I don’t appreciate Mother Nature enough.
– You should certainly get out more.
– I like the idea of the countryside and watching the flora and fauna etc. but it’s a bit of a palaver to go there.
– In what way a palaver?
– Well, you have to wear the right clothes, get some of those waterproofs and walking boots people have. Then there’s the travel.
– I believe Charles Darwin and Gilbert White faced the same difficulties but found a way to overcome them.
– I’m pretty sure Darwin had a ship laid on for him. I don’t know about the other bloke. But the bus service around here is terrible, as I have mentioned on more than one occasion.
– I have to say that what you call ‘palaver’ does not seem particularly insurmountable. The will, on the other hand, is something else.
– You might be right. I can be a bit of a prevaricator
sometimes.
– You know what they say: where there’s a will there’s a prevaricator finding a reason not to do something.
– That’s quite amusing, but doesn’t seem to make much sense.
– Whatever. I’m sure Mother Nature and her children would be happy to see you one day.
– I guess I might need to use my willpower.
– If you can find it.

 

Martin Stannard

 

 

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Parity

Of a fanciful progression of
Inertia bounded by ghouls and ghosts
What on earth are you doing here?
What did you come for?
Other than to see her again
Running hot and cold
A different kind of strange
Must I defend these responses?
We’ll get together he said
But I just wanted to slip away
I’ve got my own take on this picture
I know it’s unlike your’s
You wouldn’t want to force it now, would you?
There are supports and contributions
But they are supports in difference
You like game shows
I like police procedurals
You want to live a couple of blocks down
I don’t see why that would be a problem
And your choice of an inspired leader
Isn’t mine either
The space between
She just couldn’t leave it be, they said
Due process
I can’t altogether account for what I like
But as he said I want to be more like me
And less like you
That great difference between parity and submission

 

 

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Clark Allison

 

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IKE & TINA

 
The American Dream
When it came to Hyde

Was a warped and wobbly 45
In the Jukebox owned by Meschia’s

Which favoured Phil Spector
Over Motown and Soul

The Ronettes and Crystals
Tomorrow’s Sound Today

River Deep, Mountain High

The bombast of the fairground
Not the Howl of the hippies
 
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Steven Taylor
 
 
 
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A SUFFOLK DIARY


Monday, November 13th

I have not been writing much in my diary of late. To be honest, I have not been writing anything in it at all. My wife and I, because of the little domestic difficulties we encountered as a result of her dastardly dishonesty and downright cheating with her friend Jan in Stowmarket, have been having what can perhaps best be described as a quiet time, each minding their own business, and thinking their own thoughts.

As a result of the fire at the village hall (I refer you back, should you need it, to the diary for Wednesday, September 27th) my wife has had to find a new home for the yoga class she teaches ( Oh Yeah! Yoga!). In much the same way, all the other activities that usually go on in the hall, such as the Young Mother’s Knitting Society, the weekly Scrabble Lunch, the Book Group, Watercolour Art for All Afternoons, and the Christian Youth Club and the Boy Scouts have also had to find somewhere else. Turns out it was not such a big problem, as the Cricket Club said she could use their old hall, which has been sitting gathering dust since 2018, when the club found it could no longer muster eleven chaps to make up a team. My wife says it is not a very salubrious environment for yoga, and it has more spiders than she has ever seen in her life, plus the kitchen is unusable, but beggars cannot be choosers. I poked my head in the door one afternoon, and it is a bit shabby, but it is only for yoga.

The main reason I have gone back to the diary today is to record (if only for historical and documentary purposes) some changes that have taken place in our local (very local) government i.e. the Parish Council. Elections to the Council were not due until at least this time next year, but there were some rumblings and grumblings during the period when we were concerned about the Government in Whitehall intending to dump a lot of “illegal” foreigners on to us and have them living in the village hall, and some personal animosities surfaced. One or two resignations followed involving some who had also been part of the GASSE (“Go Away! Stay Somewhere Else!”) group, and John Garnham, the Parish Clerk, has been forced into unwanted action to revivify the Council, or to give it the impression of life, at least.

Anyhoo, Bob Merchant has resigned from his post as Buildings & Environment Superintendent and been replaced by – and I cannot believe I am writing this –  Michael Whittingham. What he knows about buildings or the environment I really have no idea, and I am not at all convinced he has the tact or diplomatic skills to serve as a community representative, but I suppose that is the way of the world these days at all levels of government. I think Bob was upset that he did not get the contract to refurbish the hall, but I was not surprised. He has never been cheap. Bernie Shepherdson has moved from Logistics to Finance, replacing Miss Tindle, who apparently informed John Garnham that she wishes to devote more time to her stamp collection. She has, however, agreed to take on the role of Refreshments Officer in place of Miss Goldsmith, who has gone to live with her sister in Lyme Regis. The not unimportant role of Publicity & Community Liaison Officer had been held for a long time by Jeffrey Cooper, but he very much under-performed with GASSE and has now said his war wound has been playing him up, and is using that as an excuse to step down. The post has been filled by yours truly, which is my “debut” on the Council, and something that I am looking forward to with enthusiasm. I think my efficiency and dedication to duty as the Advanced Round-the-clock Security Executive (ARSE) for GASSE did not go unnoticed.

In case you are interested, work on the Hall repairs and refurbishment is due to start at the end of this month, once one or two minor details are agreed as regards required facilities i.e. toilets etc. I am not sure we need a baby/nappy changing room – what’s wrong with an ordinary toilet? – but that is not my province.

Oh, my wife is calling from the kitchen. We have friends, Barry and Jill Hill, coming for supper this evening, and she probably wants to consult me about the menu, as if she cares what I think. I was not in favour of this supper, which will mean pretending that everything is hunky dory between us, but my wife says they are our oldest friends and we owe them a meal.

 

 

James Henderson

 

 

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pass…

 

He liked listening to Radio Tres.

The introductions and links assisted his Español,

  the recordings his understanding of serious music.

[he slouched on his cot, scrabbling with his fingers

 in the vegetable background of memory]

Every night on the bare mountain was as barren as the last.

 

On the overhead washing line, the Tibetan prayer flags

  were flying at half mast:

    half a lifetime was a cliché,

    Sofía a world away.

[the Madre never weeded beans.

  she looked after the investments and drove in a big limousine]

 

The future loomed imperfect,

  the past hovered in the present.

[there was a halo painted on the wall

 at the back of her absence]

The sky was blue, the earth red, the olives green.

All faded to secondary colours.

[bare feet on rare earth make no sound]

Mañana ever comes.

 

He needed a drink.

‘Juanito!’

 

 

 

Julian Isaacs

 

 

 

 

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Creating the Stories

 

Unthreading the reports. A map, a voice, commentary. Faces seen once, the screen glows, gutters out like a flame. There’s no electricity today. Shredded map, jumbled words. An image distorted. It could have been a child’s face or a woman’s. When the current is restored, it won’t be there. Glittering screen moving on against other information, other shots of strangers. The incompleteness is unsettling. I could have been there, with them, at that time. Or is everything erased—the sound, the sight, the hammering insistence of words? Under the light something does persist. A slight whispering, an almost imperceptible trembling, the muted pulsing of blood flowing through veins. Flickering at the window. Someone driving by. It’s night again, lights striking the windows. The faintest echo of a voice. It could be a child’s or a woman’s. Darker and darker. Insistent, nearer and nearer. Someone at the door, in the room with me. Am I dreaming away the silence, threading electrons on an invisible line? When the current is restored, not a trace. Not a shadow on the wall, nor the soft glow of a face passing by the window.

 

 

Andrea Moorhead

 

 

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Cruella de Vil’s new career

 

 

Villainy today is a multi-million-pound racket – everybody’s at it
so Cruella needs a new persona to make herself a packet.

She turns her attention to a new ambition –
building a portfolio for the thoroughly modern villain
with 21st century hopes and aspirations,
she’ll be a wicked role model, an evil inspiration.

But then of course, you’ve guessed it – the name’s not cool.
Too obvious, she purrs, too boring, too old-school.
She strokes her chin in villain style, her villain’s brain cells whirl and wheel.
She tries a few new names that have the right sort of feel –
Anthrax, Rubella, Flagella, Salmonella.
Then – I have it, she screeches, I’ll call myself SUella.

She gets a job, Home Secretary, the perfect cover story.  
Hiding in plain sight as a right-wing hardline Tory
Eradicate Asylum Seekers – it’s the perfect way to start,
style over substance, the way to win the voters’ hearts.

My dream to see those planes take off, she cackles like a witch, 
Can’t wait to watch them disappear – I’m such an awesome bitch.
But then she has another thought – why bother to delay
when we can send The Navy out to turn them all away?

What’s a few drowned families or missing children
between adoring followers and a world-beating villain?

Next those hobos and druggies making bad lifestyle choices.
So unsightly my dears. What’s wrong with cardboard boxes?
It’s more than good enough for those destitute tossers,
and if they cut up rough, then I’ll simply send in the rozzers.

Her next clever move is to sack her loyal sidekicks,
Jasper and Horace, those bumbling useless dipsticks,
And it doesn’t take long for her to find a new associate.
His name is Tommy Robinson – he’s got a gang of vicious mates.

She whispers in their ears a song of racism, hate,
rewrites a few annoying laws so we can’t demonstrate,
can’t carry banners, can’t chant slogans, can’t shout,
can’t support any of the causes she doesn’t care about.

Cruella/Suella smiles her best villain smile,
already she’s come up with some fantastic villain wiles.
And the best bit is, you fuckwits haven’t realised,
that I’m a bone fide devil in a brand-new disguise.
I can’t wait to find out what a monster I CAN be –
just wait till I’m Prime Minister, then — YOU’LL SEE. 

 

 

 

Liz McPherson
Cartoon Peter Brookes

 

Liz McPherson has been horse-riding in the Mongolian desert and motorcycling in Morocco but tends to stick more to poetry these days, which is not necessarily a safer pursuit but definitely a less sandy one. Liz’s work is in Dreamcatcher, The High Window, Obsessed with Pipework, Culture Matters, Dreich, and other print and online poetry zines.

 

 

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Rooster

 
The rooster crows, a new dawn breaks; his gaggle of hens abide
 
He struts, displays his stiff hennin comb, cock-a-hoop for his tribe
 
 
 
No cat and fox rain, or numbing pain, could ever stop his cry
 
King of Uruk*, he searched for immortality, displayed his pride
 
 
 
Let’s be part of him, possessing us, before we fall and die
 
In This Enchanted Isle, remembered, and so my flock survive
 
 
 
 
 
Christopher
 
 
*Gilgamesh
 
 
 
 
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The Gathering

they began appearing
just like that
one after the other
first the distant ancestors
(they found it hardest
to adapt
and made their way
into the hills
and kept themselves
to themselves)
then came the men
in doublet and hose
the women in their farthingales
who thought all the lights
were the work of witches
then the more recent
in their frock-coats and
crinolines hiding from
the shiny screens
backing off from the horseless
carriages then
the men in their trilbies
and sharp suits
the women in their cloche hats
all more intrigued
than alarmed and then
the mods in their parkas
the rockers in their leathers
the hippies with their long hair
beads and sandals
they all talked
of the rapture but told us
we weren’t going anywhere
we were there already
they were coming to us
not the other way round
and expressed their horror
at how we could get it so wrong

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Dominic Rivron
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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Mission Gallery

A contemporary ekphrasis

 

  1. The Uprising

Framed in Rembrandt-brown metal the barricade stretches carbon fibres beyond the city. Soldiers are gathered with a group of prisoners; a Navistar’s headlights reflect from shackles and handcuffs. They will eventually release the rebel leader (a figure of folklore) but at this moment night’s umber catches everyone in its net – the captain, his soldiers, the revolutionary leader’s ragtag supporters. The headlights are aimed at the single figure of a woman, who looks toward the old city and the ocean that’s already swallowing its boundary. There is a hint of blue despite the night; a sense of time pressing her body; and impossibly white nylon sleeves on her raised arms.

 

  1. The Interrogation

The lead white walls are an examining stare; the prisoner sits with legs apart, glancing at something we don’t see. Words ascend the walls but we can’t hear them. The interrogator points long silver fingernails, slicing the air with questions. The prisoner’s crime is unclear, but a flag of stars smoulders on the table and fragile smoke escapes an ashtray. The prisoner might be smiling, even as a shadow in the cell’s corner reaches toward his arms.

 

  1. The Riot

Crowds are splashes and slabs of colour; the painting shows a hurly-burly of dense pigments and clashing tones. A torn uniform is smeared by blue air; someone’s shout is a streak of ultramarine. Here’s a girl who stumbles on the street. Here’s a Pomeranian barking. Baubles are daubed on street lamps and the tarmac is lit by the orange glow from an autogyro’s lights. A man is pointing a gun. In the left-hand corner a squirrel hair from the painter’s brush hangs next to his signature.

 

  1. Dinner at the Kinboshi with Friends

It’s as if the bar is breathing, its inhabitants squeezed between balconies on the north side of the quarter. As they talk and drink the walls become lungs and throats. The cod testicle and tofu skin arrives and they sit back for a moment, scattering chilli flakes across the food. Since the recent decree, even such a gathering may be illegal – but no-one’s sure of the rules. A young woman speaks of her mother’s isolation; an older man begins to cry, afterwards saying “it’s nothing”. A spy-for-a-safer-city camera blinks coolly in the mall.

 

 

.Cassandra Atherton & Paul Hetherington

 

 

 

 

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(G)rave

We arrive in disguise, unsure of whether it’s a party or a protest. All we were given was the time, the place, and a theme: our departed ancestors. I come painted in the ashes of my mother, my father, and my grandparents on both sides, and when I arrive a hanged man fingers a crude cross onto my forehead in crude oil, and tells me to leave my coat on the pile or the pyre – it’s hard to hear over music that’s so loud that birds are falling from the sky. The song is breaking glass and falling trees, and everyone is dancing to the rhythm of batons on Perspex shields. Children in the ill-fitting costumes of adulthood fall to their knees, and the forgotten dead, dressed up as the neglected living, throw shadow shapes in naked flame. It’s hot, hot, hot, Hi-NRG, and bodies press and slide where they really, really shouldn’t, until a whistle rips the universe into a billion tiny pieces. In the restroom mirror, I don’t know whose blood I’m wearing. Someone’s hammering on the door.

 

 

Oz Hardwick

 

 

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Nine Months from Present Tense

Stalwart tent stretch summons playthings that darn the yard with yeast and stone. Schenectady points out fissure tenable on toast points. Are you hungry now, or is your curiosity mildly stalled? This one worn shade of grace may speak for days about abnormal openings we’ll leave to the doc on call. Are you twinned with raiment by way of petty theft from closets full of wrap? The mustard seed could match all madras shorn. Beleaguered graduate assistants voice disgust to one another far from earshot of the provost. Is this your best work? inquired the foster parent parroting the vetting of a would-be speech to be delivered nine months from present tense. 

Lovelorn progeny, peacock hues, a magistrate who sings the blues

 

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Sheila E. Murphy

 

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Cameron Meets/Greets – Revisited


lank fashion offers

no slit of shade
an invitation to treat?

grin how
Jacques Cousteau
grinned

a shark in a
(offal-drop)
frenzy

 

   

Paul Hawkins
Illustration: Claire Palmer

First published on International Times on March 12th 2015

 

 

 

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Horace Flaccus Hears the Future

 

 

I am the son of a slave
A link upon a lineage of slaves
Yet you tell me

Future academics shall employ
My poetry to prop their pale Republic
My verse to dull and neutralise
Unruly student bodies
Sustaining the Zuppa Inglese   –
A broken Briton sweet of Eton Mess

Sinecure professors
Seeking their preferment
Anxious aspirin tans
Applied by British Libraries
Shall learnedly turn to translate
My olive skin to suet

Re-fitting me
In trainer-teacher factories
To petrify a culture
Their own has since demolished

Deluded they supplant it   –
And to what appalling end?

 

 

Bernard Saint
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

 

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 Being Alive Kills You       As It Was    

Peter Woodcock telling tales at Pentameters Theatre
Photograph by Leonie Scott Matthews

 
 

And if I lay store in trying to access the truth, then I have to admit how evasive it is. However clear I begin describing the time, the place, the sensations that occurred of a particular event, other ideas break the flow, take me off course until I back track and take stock.

Something as simple as revealing the inner drama I, we all, go through of just being alive.

Age of course is a good mentor-ageing and being aware that the body is failing.

But more important is to keep track of the beliefs one identifies with, almost unconsciously, even in old age. That, somehow all this happened unknown to me.

The sudden realisation that so many of my friends are dead, that conversations ceased, arguments, laughter, shared intimacies.  

As time goes by there are less and less I can share these with, not only because friends died, but the age of intimate conversation seems to have also died. In its place are three second quips, headlines from trash newspapers, pretend concern, the emphatic gaze, the squeezing of your hand, the dreaded words, ‘I have been there, too.’

No you haven’t, I want to say.

You haven’t wandered the streets wondering who you were, feeling a terrifying chill of disconnection from your surroundings, as if entombed behind glass, watching the outside world unfold like a film.

Or waiting for the telephone call to tell you the relationship is over, the person has gone back to a previous lover, as you were too much, too difficult, too demanding because I questioned his mediocre life and his yuppie new age cod psychology, filched from better sex manuals and idiot counsellors writing in the Sunday papers, giving lifestyle advice. Lifestyle indeed!

Life doesn’t have a style. It’s not a Habitat sofa or whatever is the latest desired object to put your arse on. You may know your skinny latte with oat-milk from a frappuccino, your bagel from a toastie, but you do not know how to live. You have no culture.

Culture has become homogenised, buy one and get one free, indulging in mental masturbation about which dickhead and bimbo is going to win Love Island.

There you are! I’ve gone off at a tangent again. Away from the incessant rain, the depression, the effort to just get up and do something. Something I had planned to do but now have totally forgotten what it was.

My cleaner says he notices older people stop while doing things, fastening shoes, if they can reach them, pulling on a dressing gown and instead sit, as if frozen, remembering some memory that has resurfaced. How such and such had hysterics when they were told about something, how the mother of a friend, who had died, refused to speak to her son’s ex-lovers, all gay. It’s as if each moment expands into a drama, a slow-motion film, which has no bearing on the present.

Then, most things in life have no bearing on the present, because often we are unaware of the present. Caught up in how we think things are, the voices in our head adding their advice and, in a flash, we forget the present.

The flowers I bought two days ago are still fragrant, but the old hag who sold then, watching me like a hawk gave me a headache, what was she expecting, I’d steal the anemones?  Urinate on the potted fern?  

And I had toyed for days about buying flowers. An extravagance.  

But beauty is essential, and I have over the years lost my appreciation of it because of the English disease of utilitarianism. Of seeing beauty as an indulgence, a sin against frugality. Whereas in Europe beauty is revered. Whether it is a beautiful painting by Corot or Van Gogh or a plate of fresh, sliced tomatoes with olives and basil, glistening with olive oil on a plate.

I can’t blame the batty old English, I myself have downgraded my sense of what is beautiful. Too many ultra-realism thrillers on television taking place in sink estates, or redundant shopping centres.

Of course, if you live, as in London near a heath or large park, beauty is accessible, but you have to make the effort to go and see it.

But what I mean, are the vast areas in the day of emptiness.

Voids in which you fall, usually asleep and wake up confused, not really knowing if you are still in the dream. And then you notice, oh yes! life is unreal anyhow. It doesn’t follow a script. You may repeat your routines, some being secret superstitions and rituals for unacknowledged gods or demons, but you’re not really here. Only as a watcher.  A voyeur of your own life until, miraculously something wakes you up, and life becomes real once again.

 

© Peter Woodcock,  March 2020 

 

 

 

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Tender



and if you and I are
roses
so how much are
the words
mumbled
in the breaking
most tender of the day
and this world is perfect
like a seashell
left by someone
on a desert shore

 

 

Daisy Tsvete

 

 

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Blood River

 

 

Mike Ferguson

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HARLEQUIN LADYBIRDS

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
I have invited Danny Widerscope to share some of his research. In this particular case about ladybirds. 
Video at the end is about Freshwater Hoglouse.
Photographs and video copyright of Danny Widerscope
 
 
More information –
 
WHY HARLEQUIN LADYBIRDS ARE INVADING OUR HOMES 
Natural History Museum
 
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            1.  
 
 
 
Harlequin Ladybirds that had to be removed from hibernation at work (154 in total). I found three forms. The commonest f.succinea (0-21 spots), f.spectabilis (Black with 4 spots) and f.conspicua (Black with 2 spots). None of the form acyridis (Black with 21 Red spots).
 

Introduced to Europe as a pest control, reached Britain in 2004. Out compete native species by feeding 4x faster. Considered the most invasive ladybird in the world.

 
 

 

 
 

 

 
 
 

 

Rorschach Art Publication 
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TRUE CRIME

I. BOURGEOUIS BURGLARY 

His recurrent childhood nightmare was of getting caught burgling a house. He recalled the alien smells, the feeling of suffocating in the noisome dark, a certainty he’d lost any security forever. 

Then he’d be awake, safely stretched in bed.

Now he was planning to make this reality. He was clearly mad. The place he’d chosen was a detached house, way up Cumnor Hill. It was to be a ritual desecration, a revenge attack on the class and character of its owners. 

Talk with such types had become circular; nothing could breach their liberal certainties. Words no longer held any meaning for these people. It’s pointless to contradict this with more explanation. An empirical representation of his opposing thought was needed – for himself, and for them. Hadn’t the husband demanded it?

‘You’re a right-wing wanker. Worse than a Nazi.’

He was mad but not responsible for making himself so. His class was the target. To wear a Balaclava was essential, not to avoid recognition but from 70s memories of drying them on school radiators and images of terrorists.  

*

You’ll need to know the details, what I took. 
A penknife: small; portable; collectable. 
I’ve kept some from my childhood,
lost the flick-knives from trips to France. 
I waited at least an hour on the sloping lawn,
hidden from the house, the incline so steep.
The expected security lights didn’t activate.
Of course there was an alarm – I welcomed it.

Have you been inside a house when one goes off? 
Sickening disorientation and five-minutes’ panic. 
Time for me to smash up some pictures,
piss in a wicker basket and their boots,
tear off a coat-rack then grab the knife.
I was filmed jumping over a hedge.    

*

He sat and dug under his finger nails with the shining blade:

The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.

Presumably the soil he removed was ‘forensic evidence’? In a true-crime documentary, trace-element analysis would pinpoint the Cumnor ridge and its famous clay.

His urine would obviously yield DNA.

But he doubted this bourgeois burglary would divert the police from queuing in Greggs or surfing internet porn. 

He was safe. 

II. SONNET ON STEALING A CAR

At fifty-nine I’ve stolen my first car.
In films it’s done with the utmost of ease –
glancing round, ruler down the driver’s door,
a rapid twisting of wires and away.
Reality? Smashing my way in then
electrocuted getting connection.
Alarm blaring, me waving and mouthing:
‘Don’t worry, it’s my car – temperamental!

Meanwhile, that burgled berk from Cumnor Hill
is bustling back, swinging his Waitrose bag. 
Eventually it starts and I soak him, 
aquaplaning through water, a puddle
for him and his wife. I flick salt-shaker
gestures and he feebly attempts to chase.  


III. RACHE

Like A Study in Scarlet, red ‘Rache’ carved
inside their lives. He saw them smiling and
decided how to; who to trust. But the
rash sharing of an obsession was why  
many got caught. If he acted alone,  
only his thoughts had importance. He could
live inside those and switch to some dagger –
if he dared to – then slash without warning. 

You think this mad but the pain seen in her 
should not be forgiven. To know they had  
enjoyed it ’caused his monstrous behaviour.’
True-crime documentaries said that and
‘Nobody thought he would ever do this.’ 
Each step was easily traced, if you tried.

IV. UNMASKING OF A SERIAL KILLER

In the old Truman brewery, Brick Lane, 
the world’s leading Ripper experts sipping 
champagne while ruminating on some wretch;   
Isaac Dipski – the mad kosher butcher –
lifted crusts from gutters, believed he was
conversing with Abraham using farts.  
Five witness reports of him running past
Chapman’s death scene on the way to Nando’s.

The killer is named, to thundering applause: 
‘Charles Allen Lechmere, found there in Buck’s Row,
we’ve tracked his mobile phone. Early for work –
claimed he thought it was on old tarpaulin –
standing by Polly Nichols, freshly slain. 
And there’s six minutes lost he can’t explain…’     
 

V: AMONGST THE HALF MAD

I’m not complaining –
it’s where I’m meant to be.
An Internet discussion board:
Casebook: Jack the Ripper; I’m barred!

Was it him – Francis Thompson – my quest.
London, up from autumnal tree-tunnels
to border areas of Holborn, the City, those
streets I walked once, bored, lonely. no one.

Up past Newgate, St Mary-le-Bow down to
Watling Street with its views of St Paul’s.
St Stephen Walbrook, my days have
wandered then become a joke, his

‘have crackled and gone up in smoke’.
Praise God no tourists, just sentinel
towers from Wren dwarfed by capital.
It’s beautiful to live on visuals,

memories – bits of a building, a
childhood scout-hut, some adventure
playground. Schools are here, one
on Mitre Square where I’m going.

A lone muttering, others the same.
London can be taken by trackless
steps. Odd to arrive in Bevis Marks,
into Dukes Place & down the passage –

St Botolph Church, burial place of rebels.
So was I banned for posting my research:
‘I may have hitherto hidden my dismay,
at the seeming shambles that is “Ripperology” –


Simple experiments and observations.

It’s sorted! Took me twenty minutes on site.
Discovery of a new (highly unsavoury) ‘clew’ –
bagged and sent to forensics. All done after


a leisurely stroll from Drury Lane, through

old Holborn/City (some Wren churches) to
Mitre Square, where I solved the case!
I don’t want to be critical;


but what the hell have you all

been doing for these 135 years?’

VI: THIS BITER GETS BITTEN

It’s at this point the decent reader wants
to see this writer receive what he’s doled
out. So here’s a rambling account of how I 
escaped down alleys, through slippery 
courts. Not in London or Oxford but in
a place too Gothic to be safe since when 
I was there it wasn’t for tourists but exile.
This was before the fall of the Berlin Wall, 
in Prague, 1989. The country in freefall –
you know the old Eastern block cities 
had bad crime under Communism? 
In fact, it was more dangerous since 
the causes couldn’t be admitted as 
social, in a perfect society. I went 
for a walk along the river and away 
from anything picturesque towards
distant tower-blocks. Such numbers
of them in a line, like that scene from
the Bourne film where he visits the Russian
girl – St Petersburg I think – whose parents
he’s killed. Anyway, on I walked into the 
Czechoslovakian night, lights were up so
high I remember, then I was hit from behind
and expertly fleeced – a smell of vodka or
schnapps. The man took very little, since I 
grabbed his leg and pushed him over easily. 
But the fear! I ran without wondering why it 
was raining with no drops on the river; blood
of course from a broken head. I got back to
the Hotel Bristol, reception called a medic 
who nodded without interest and said only a 
fool walks in any of those places, especially as
the whole of our state is failing. My money was
gone but only worthless Czech stuff I’d bought
at five times the official rate. It’s not much but
I can say I’ve suffered from True Crime just
as we all have, though I’d forgotten it and any  
experiences. Like how a friend from university 
was murdered by a whack across the head.
That was in London, near Battersea Park. 

 

 

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Paul Sutton

 

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Walk With Me

 




walk with me
down this dark street let’s
get away from here

have we passed this way before?
were you with me then?
I can’t be sure

my imaginary friend
imaginary to me that is
to you you’re more than real
and reading this
you conjure me with words

have we passed this way before
down this dark street?
The lights look different somehow
they pull things down
they build them up
it’s hard to know

but walk with me
down this dark street let’s
get away
while there’s still time

 

 

 

Dominic Rivron
Picture Nick Victor

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Broken English

 
 
[Verse 1]
Could have come through anytime
Cold, lonely puritan
What are you fighting for?
It’s not my security

[Chorus]
It’s just an old war
Not even a cold war
Don’t say it in Russian
Don’t say it in German
Say it in broken English
Say it in broken English

[Verse 2]
Lose your father, your husband
Your mother, your children
What are you dying for?
It’s not my reality

[Chorus]
It’s just an old war
Not even a cold war
Don’t say it in Russian
Don’t say it in German
Say it in broken English
Say it in broken English

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Trippy eagles, vagina wounds, dragon intimacy: how medieval art got weird

 
Trippy eagle of souls from Dante’s Divine Comedy.
Trippy eagle of souls from Dante’s Divine Comedy. Photograph: Weird Medieval Guys
 

 

A Twitter account of the oddest illustrations from the middle ages has now become a book. Behind these naive drawings, author Olivia M Swarthout says, lie serious truths

 

It is often assumed that the art that best communicates the spirit of its era is also the art that transcends it. We value the virtuosic, the original and the profound. But that doesn’t tell the whole story. Sometimes, the art that actually reveals the most about an era is precisely the opposite: the clumsy, the transient, the profane and the plain baffling.

By matching funny, irreverent captions with painstakingly sourced details from medieval manuscripts, the X (formerly Twitter) account Weird Medieval Guys has amassed more than half a million followers since mid-2019. The woman behind this carefully curated assortment of cute bats, armless frogs, musical skeletons, queens enjoying intimacy with dragons and amusingly dispassionate scenes of brutal violence is Olivia M Swarthout, an American data scientist in London whose interest in art history has turned this online labour of love into a book of the same name. What started life as a series of witty recontextualisations of illustrations by anonymous artists has become a gently fascinating insight into the marginalia of a lost era.

 

Much of the art is clunky, but that’s a huge part of its charm. “In some ways, they’re like the notes you pass back and forth in class,” says Swarthout. “People might ask why they couldn’t draw animals right or why certain things look weird, but I think that’s a reductive way of looking at it. There’s so much contained in this art – and particularly in the fact that a lot of it isn’t all that well-executed or approached with the artistic precision that we’re familiar with – that actually tells us so much about medieval life.”

 
Leaf from an Antiphoner, Creation of heaven and earth.
Everything is illuminated: the wonder of medieval manuscripts – in pictures
 
Read more

As eccentric as it now looks, much of the art in the book is roughly comparable to the commercial art of today’s stock photography. It was only toward the end of the middle ages that artists became revered figures. Most of the time, says Swarthout, the artists were “just people with a job to do. They weren’t imbuing their illustrations with a unique artistic spirit; they were just tradespeople.” But because of that, there is a delightful cheek to many of the pictures; a sense that these unsung figures are enlivening their working days with some sneaky fun. “The written word was seen as being more sacred,” says Swarthout. “In a lot of these cases, they’re responding to what’s on the page. It was a way of artists pushing back.”

As these original works were often made with subversive intent, what Swarthout does with them on social media is entirely appropriate. She turns the images into memes. “You see motifs that constantly repeat themselves. In the same way now, people will take something on the internet and repeat it and you’ll then have a period of parodying it,” she says. “People ask about certain motifs in medieval art – for example, there are a lot of images of rabbits committing acts of violence. And you can really only explain the persistence of something like that by assuming that it was something that started off funny but was repeated so much that it became interesting. And that’s often the basis of a meme – it’s something that is stripped of its original context.”

But what makes them work many centuries later? In their naivety, they contain something simultaneously unknowably exotic and recognisable, even universal. “Facial expressions are important,” says Swarthout. “What makes them funny is often a juxtaposition of expression and situation, plus the medieval setting. As reductive and silly as a lot of this is, in some ways the essence of it is finding something where people can say: ‘That reminds me of myself.’”

A very peculiar practice: five illustrations from the book

 Man swallowed by a whale.
Photograph: Weird Medieval Guys

Man swallowed by a whale
“It’s a depiction of the story of Jonah and the whale,” explains Swarthout. “I don’t think there’s a way to show a guy getting swallowed by a whale that’s not at least a bit funny. The artist struggled to convey the whale as a really big creature, but also fit the guy in there as well. It’s funny when you know the context: that Jonah was trying to run away from his job as a prophet and he ended up getting swallowed by a whale. It’s relatable.”

Trippy eagle of souls (see main image)
“This is from Dante’s Divine Comedy. It’s Dante and [his lover] Beatrice travelling through heaven, where they meet an eagle that is comprised of all the souls of righteous people amalgamated into a massive bird. It’s such a powerful image and quite trippy.”

Snail combat.
Photograph: Weird Medieval Guys

Snail combat
“This is one of the most common and baffling motifs. It’s like the meaning of the snail was so well known in the middle ages that no one felt they needed to write it down. There are different theories: one believes that snails represented different groups of people, such as the Lombards. Or that they represented lazy people. They were also a threat to crops.”

Christ’s side wound.
Photograph: Weird Medieval Guys

Christ’s side wound
“A lot of people have noticed that this is very vaginal, but because we tend to assume naivety in these artists, we think it’s accidental. But there’s actually a strong artistic tradition of Christ’s wounds looking vaginal. This isn’t the only one, although I think it’s probably the most magnificent. There are also images of Christ on the cross giving birth to a personification of the church through his wound. The imagery of the wound as a womb was quite common.”

 Man stabbed in the head.
Photograph: Weird Medieval Guys

Man stabbed in the head
“It’s funny from the get-go – the sword is being plunged directly into his skull, but he looks very nonchalant. The context is more baffling. It’s from a book of songs from different writers and composers. This is his artist portrait. Most of the artist portraits from the book are people on horses, people winning fights and such. It’s funny to think about this guy and why he chose this.”

Weird Medieval Guys: How to Live, Laugh, Love (and Die) in Dark Times is published on 2 November by Square Peg.

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The Flying Prince

UFOs return many years later. The prince rides the ship in the middle. It has an auditorium. The aisles are filled with the chess pieces.

The prince still wears a Jimi Hendrix Royal Hussar jacket over his Lennon tee. He hasn’t aged a bit, but we have forgotten him, forgotten that the flying saucers take time out of the equation. 

The prince has been practicing a speech and an anthem in his solitary auditorium, but when he sees that we have flared up another war he stays silent. Perhaps we can never remember about ourselves. Perhaps the time that doesn’t age the prince ravages our memories with doubled hunger.

We feel cold, writhe, watch the ships and kneel down. The rays turn the tree tops into brown, saffron, Mandarin, crimson and purple. 

The prince offers us Autumn.

We stand up, bite our nails and stay distant. Fear takes the prince’s name. We are unimpressed with his gift. The season will come here anyway and mess with the yards and lanes. 

The lips of the prince quiver. The emotion on earth begins to curl his mind as it it is peace’s autobiography ignited. and gray his hair. He must fly and leave the sphere of time once again.

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Painting Nick Victor

 

 
 
 
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The Known Soldier

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Bippety and Boppety and the Weathers of the Soul

– I’m thinking about becoming nocturnal, a creature of the night.
– I understand the impulse to societal reticence.
– But I want also to shun the hours of sleep so that I may dance or weave a magical world of words. What will become of me?
– Allow me some time to come up with a suitably wry response to that jibber-jabber.
– Okay.
– Actually, I think I’m going to wait for the Winter to arrive, by which time we will both have forgotten this.
– No problem. I’m used to waiting. The bus service here is lousy, as I have mentioned on more than one occasion.
– Now it has! Winter is here in its Eskimo, I mean Inuit outfit, which rhymes.
– I know. I’m chilly, although in my head it’s still early Spring, windy and wet. I am often baffled by the weathers of the soul.
– Such phrases leave me feeling more bereft than I’m already feeling.
– What dost thou mean?
– I don’t know. I say what I think is required.

 

Martin Stannard

 

 

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Look!

Look at the news and tell me
that Remembrance Day is obsolete.

Look at the War memorials
listing brothers, fathers, sons
Relatives of many here today.

Look at your television’s daily
scenes of conflict, death, destruction.

Look at the local papers,
not just the UK dailies.
You’ll read of local folk who signed up for
a bit of adventure, perhaps to learn a trade.
Doing their bit with humanitarian aid;
Peacekeeping; protecting innocent victims
even when it puts them smack bang in
the middle of the conflict zone.

Look around at those with us today and see
living veterans of conflicts far and near
Twenty-somethings up to eighty-plus.

Look at how their memories haunt their eyes.
For them, Remembrance isn’t just one day
It’s today and tomorrow and all their days to come.

Look – with open eyes and heart, then
tell me Remembrance Day is obsolete.

 

 

 

Boakesey Closs

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Boakesey is a former teacher, who lives on the Isle of Man and is the current (IXth) Manx Bard. She has been published locally and in the Places of Poetry anthology, Poetry for Mental Health and is in the Lancaster Litfest Poetry Mosaic. She is a stroke survivor and is physically challenged but it does not stop her from writing.

 

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We are ‘The Resistance’

 

 

As one attempts to make sense of the horrors of war that the global media flashes across screens and newsprint, day and night 24/7, one can feel a numbing sensation closing down one’s ability to respond, as an organic human being should respond.

The breathtaking volume of bombs, blood and brutality that form the centrepiece of the devastation in Gaza, comes on top of the seemingly interminable hostilities playing-out their realities in Ukraine.

In all of this, any sign of a credible, reasoned and rational intervention is lost beneath a sea of soulless, hypocritical statements from those in positions of ‘authority’ on the world stage.

National/geopolitical ‘positions’ taken by rolled-out representatives of the status quo, are held to be more important than responses that have some link to heart felt emotions.

Scenes of mass genocide and ethnic cleansing are condoned as ‘acceptable’ if those responding to the bloodbath see some political or geopolitical advantage in backing the cause of the chief protagonist.

Those who for long periods of their lives are deeply repressed and isolated, seek reprisals if ever the chance comes their way to breakout of slavery. This is, under permanent conditions of inhuman containment, an almost inevitable reaction.

One cannot judge behaviour patterns of those suffering under conditions of persistent repression, as being in any way comparable to what are considered acceptable behaviour patterns in times of relative peace and freedom.

The human struggle for a basic degree of liberty is forced into taking the form of a violent struggle when no other support intervenes to bring justice to bear.

This lack of coordinated intervention to end a massacre is the most perilous aspect of the Israel/Hamas conflict, and it the most telling indicator of the bankruptcy of what is considered to be ‘civilised society’.

A fear of going against the dogma of what constitutes the pecking order of the global power pyramid, appears to paralyse nations from coming together to enforce a humane path of conflict intervention and resolution, however tenuous that might initially be.

But the truth is, that behind this implausible state of impasse, is a small anti-life global cult that wishes to prolong the pain and destruction for its own ends, and covertly backs both sides of the conflict in order to produce the maximum disruption, chaos and death.

Yes, this is pure evil in action. It is the manifestation of a long standing, once covert, but now overt demonic ambition – whose roots go far back in human history – and which has recently emerged as the chief protagonist of disruptive chaos and division now manifesting at the foundational level of our daily lives.

The problem for all of us who are determined to resist the manifestations of such dark actors, is that this cult is very clever, highly deceptive and well disguised. It’s main agents wear a fixed smile, a pressed shirt and are very well rehearsed in powers of communication. Psychopaths in a suit.

One would never guess that they harbour an abiding hate for a creative, loving humanity. But they do.

Drawing back from the carnage of the battlefield into the intimacy of our own personal lives, it seems almost impossible to imagine that things could ever descend to such a state of brutality and disrespect for human life.

Yet, as I barely need to point out, a commitment to maintaining some form of civility, humanity and justice, in this fast moving aggressively competitive ‘Westernised’ world, runs only skin deep – amongst far too high a percentage of human beings.

Just under the surface one can’t fail to recognise the same symptoms of the degradation of fundamental human values which become explosively magnified in war time confrontations.

Holding the line of decency, respect and basic social justice – is not just an important aim for every feeling individual in this precarious moment of human history – it is an absolute imperative.

At a time when the political status quo is riven through with hypocrisy, immorality and arrogance, we have a very real war on our hands right here in our own backyards.

That which can turn into full blooded fascism at any moment, has its origins in a breakdown of the basic rights, freedoms and values of a sane society. That breakdown is already well advanced under the corporate, banker, military dictatorship that heads the dominant global power structures of today.

Let us not hesitate to recognise that ‘we the people’ who are possessed of warm hearts, courage and a deep sympathy for the plight of the downtrodden, are the resistance. We carry the flag of human honour.

Let us sever any lingering illusion that some existing political institution, or ‘fake saviour’ will come forward to bring dignity and basic equality back to human, animal and ecological life.

We must be fiercely realistic. With very few exceptions, those who politically represent their constituencies in the fake democracies of the world, are there to do the jobs the hidden deep state cabal has consigned them to fulfil.

We who refuse to be slaves to these puppets – and refuse to be sucked into their WEF led digital, hive mind artificial intelligence control programme – whose technological dictatorship is sucking-in all but the most determined freedom fighters – we are the ones who must carry forward the great struggle for human emancipation.

There is an unseen universal vibratory energy field which connects all those who share a deep aspiration and determination to bring about a better world.

It supersedes the primitive and polluting WiFi EMF radiation grid and cannot be brought under ‘surveillance’ programmes of central control. It is a common wavelength which connects-up spirit warriors wherever they are in action in the world.

We are being empowered to lead, initially on an individual by individual basis, but increasingly as an interconnected force of irrepressible positivity and power.

Know that you, who are reading this article, belong to this tribe. Have faith in your as yet untested powers and joyously step forth to be part of that unique fight for victory which will, one day, completely transform the face of earthly conflicts.

We are the resistance. And in our hearts we know, that to be unified within such an army means that we will also emerge as the most qualified arbiters of a universally longed for state of peace.

Peace, in my language, means a dynamic state of shared equilibrium. Every day we should fight for peace. It has nothing to do with ‘passivity’ which should be recognised as the most pervasive social sickness afflicting mankind at this pivotal moment of history.

Just around the corner there is a whole new world longing to be born. Will we ever find a more meaningful challenge than to bring it to birth?

 

Julian Rose

 

Julian Rose is an early pioneer of UK organic farmer, a writer, broadcaster and international activist. He is author of three books, the most recent of which is ‘Overcoming the Robotic Mind’. Go to his website for further information www.julianrose.info

 

 

 

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AT 82

                                                   For Heathcote Williams on what would have been his birthday                                                   
                                                                                                 on November 15

 

 

At 82 those graced hands would have had a touch
More curvature to them; perhaps a tad claw-like,

And marked by a pen’s callouses, as you scribbled on,
Intent to engage generations with journalistic revelations

And word inferred palaces in which you still reside
Albeit somewhere other than Oxford; some stellar

Locale, no doubt secret but known to Shelley of course,
And Marlowe. Not forgetting Burroughs and Beilles

And each bristling kiss gobbed by Ginsberg,
As each great poet prances, prosody preens to bestow

Glory to the stars, and from the stars
Through each sentence that you gave and gifted.

I will read you again on Wednesday. As I do everyday.
Rarely does one go by with no Williams. I touch

Your text at the table at which I have sat to scribe this.
And imagine the spot you now ink with a stain

That’s pure spirit as I recall from death,
The skin’s celebration. For the former flesh, then

More feeling. Happy birthday, H.
Here’s your kiss.

 

 

                                                                            David Erdos 10/11/23

 

 

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Bombed Out  (in Morecambe)



Bombed out, 5.30am, November’s night-wandering insomniac:
this place embodies an inner state.
Is there some post-war hope? I doubt it.
The silent streets pass on.

Glide, shift on, through the castellations of high Victorian terraces between wastelands and shutters,
echoing vanished cities of the 50s, lodged out of mind . . . impoverished tree-lined squares, autumn swings, bead curtains across crumbling bay windows, glowing, warm,
Ban the Bomb . . .

Here, decades on,
the crassness of contemporary vehicles concealed . . . nocturne . . . the crooked bins and cobbled alleys appear gaslit, seriously suggesting attack by razor.
Haunted corners and gap-toothed fences abruptly diluted by parked-up campers.

Left and right, backtracking, another angle, another shift, trying to lose direction, keep away from the roar, remember the grail, forget the grail . . .

                                                _________________

Through tall grasses at the stub of a street, the roar enlarges . . . fathomless edge to this abandoned planet.
But the towering tide wished for, advancing to obliterate, is not here. The sea is flat.
There are no waves, the sound comes from within – an endless subliminal rage, 
fury smothered in conscience, the mud of routine, the silt of habit,
or by the brief glitter of new channels, willingly beguiled.

Personal and planetary, political, societal, accusatory; against tact, against compromise, against the inner deaths and personal prisons we tirelessly remake . . .  all the nails of the human condition are hammered home.

                                                _________________

Facing the void, the old facades grow taller in defiance or expectation and are interspersed with newer blocks, apartments trying to believe in somewhere else, or that the future will prove them right.
Nearby must live the old sea captain we once met in summer daylight, calmly settled on his veranda, likely rented, probably resting on tolerance. Whether he’d ever been to sea was hard to tell, but he had the pipe and the crested cap and was keen – doing up his shirt – to be recorded. Was that his image? Was that how he survived? A ghost behind a curtain of sea mist or pipe smoke.

But that was afternoon, and my daughter – smiling, half-embarrassed – was by my side. This is solitary night, where the rare lighted windows of other restless loners, secret sharers of the roar, float high in space above the frontier of the promenade.
Or grounded amongst the red flick of burglar alarms, these isolated rooms move into negative florescence, kitchen clocks and coffee machines. Angst becomes ghastly white. Grief a vacuum.

To be more prosaic, some of these questing, pacing or absent figures must be early risers or workers. Or determined losers – whose failure is the missing success which might have saved us.

Between these human cells are other impassive displays:
angular picnic invitations concrete under expectant lamps.
Fairy lights which burst and fade to a background of drapery
– advents of Christmas? or are they always here:
Reassuring dells of weary, eternal festivity.

                                                _________________

Side-shoved by the wind on this endless prom, reaching wide beneath low cliffs, the breezy semis recede above, lost in the night and grass without colour, only texture.
Their gardens wait – territories guarded by the characteristic stones beloved of walls around here: whispering knights[i], frozen warriors, melted chess pieces after the blast.

I know this long prom’s aim, all the way from Happy Mount, past book stalls and the Midland Hotel, Pleasureland, Aldi and the Old Battery – not forgetting the clock tower whose four faces offer four different times, all correct twice a day.
I know its final aim from previous daylights.
The ancient maritime village left behind, its graveyard above the ocean, a rural headland with grave holes carved for disarticulated saints perhaps
and a crown of trees – to half hide the nuclear mess beyond, those two ominous illuminated blocks . . .
while distant across the interplanetary rift of drowning tides,
the red lights of Barrow are about to sink.

Wide, dark and sinuous, this tenuous fringe – path, railings, sea defences – draws a submarine future between silent bedrooms and the elemental roar.
But a shuttle craft is in pursuit, its flashing lights and whirring brushes bringing me back to earth. The lit cab above; the driver’s newspaper . . . what a strange vigil. Scouring the only part of town which doesn’t need it.
Is there some post-war hope?
I don’t think so
I’m not sure
Perhaps.

 

Lawrence Freiesleben

[i] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rollright_Stones

 

 

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Not Now

No measure of truth could ever survive us,
the collective whites of our eyes, bloodshot,
so as to hide no lies behind.

Can there really be such thing as return?
Stumbling face first at the brick wall of eternity,
voices hoarse and gravelly,

we’re sprung from our eternal graves,
forced to sing with strangers,
no rhyme or reason among them.

Here for countless hours,
chewing the face off reality,
what would or could ever inspire us to action again?

Every level a common devil,
every evil a bumbling pinball,
another thread to cling to.

Sometimes no news is good news.
We part without word or trouble.
Not now though.

Not now.

 

 

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© G. P. Fiddament 2023

 

 

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Beach Hut

the wall fell down
                        into the marram grass
was there anyone there to hear it
            if not
                        did it make a sound
you can see
where the dry sand blew in
            off the dunes
and a jar of coffee on a shelf
a kettle still stood on a ring
a curling cardboard box
            full of teabags
all open to the sky
            somehow
                        they haven’t blown away

but if there’s no-one there to see them
            are they what I say

 

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Dominic Rivron

 

 

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In the bedroom of mirrors

In the bedroom of mirrors,
you see yourself as others see you.

There’s no hiding there.
Not in any era.

Your past is etched clearly in every
wrinkle and sinew of your
reflected skin

and there in the infinity
of reflection on reflection on reflection
is every aspect of your future

laid bare before the world 
to which you belong.

The present, frozen as a picture
reminding you what is possible
and what is now gone. 

 

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Gary Boswell

 

 

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Falling 

Stars falling
a full
moon
falling
falling over
Jerusalem the world
the world
falling 
falling off
a cliff
falling
falling
falling

 

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James McLaughlin

 

 

 

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Paradise & Perdition

crack
the jackdaw
bathes
in the iodine
resplendent castles
capture & capitulate
new waves regurgitate
the slowly sinking mailbags
stuffed with late capital corpses
& stretching long shadows cast
a storm
glimpses in the inkling
such a limbo world of skeleton
rattles in eardrums
a constant stream of
the price of paradise & perdition.

 

 

.
Clive Gresswell

 

 

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Silence of the Voice

The sprouting voice of creation,
The peaceful drop of silence;
All flow in the river of awakening.
Sights trouble, but words express.
The light enters
The vacuum, that resounds
With touch of understanding.
A well-built nest
Makes the twittering sounds
Its home.
The energy of created life
In a nest
Makes the wings
That propels and
Wins the battle against clouds.
Silence can never be silenced
If it is an awakening.
In the vibration of Om
The mantra of life lives.
The world can be painted
When you hear every hushed
Language of care.

 

 

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© Sushant Thapa
Biratnagar-13, Nepal
Picture Nick Victor

 

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Instead of Sitting Down with CND

We had parades in support of the established church

Godly folk in their white starched best with banners
And imported brass bands, hired from outside

Former mining towns (with colliery names)

To march us down between the shuttered shops
On Market Street to honour the certainties of sin

The unchallenged link between church and state

A vicar agreed on rotation speaking familiar blessings
Into an unfamiliar microphone, his voice wavering

In the breeze before he reached for ever and ever
Amen. The biggest walk we had was at Whitsun

When all of Hyde came out, curious
To watch us pace and rally in our splendour

As though we were the circus come to town

You don’t think when you’re taking part
But there’s a kind of madness involved

In religious certainty

For ours was the power
The glory. The Kingdom come

Marching As To War

1,314 people were arrested in Trafalgar Square

 

 

 

Steven Taylor
Photo   Anti-fascist demonstrator protesting against a National Socialist Party rally, Trafalgar Square, London, 1962 © Don McCullin

 

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In your eyes

Glowing dots in your eyes
form constellations…
I make a wish every day
one wish at a time.
You offer me a desert rose.
I bring it to my lips.
Minty magic runs down the leaves.
Glowing dots in my eyes…
The first wish is now being granted…

 

 

 

Dessy Tsvetkova

 

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Ted and Sylvia At Their Satanic Majesties’ Request

 

As they got back to the car at Burnham Beeches

(And Ted, head down, scribbled: feverish, unaware,

Musing on those first furry post war peaches –

Editors at Faber said his work was better,

Just wait till they discovered this birthday letter!)

She saw a rainbow coming colours everywhere

Illuminating the bluebell clad clearing

Spanning the spectrum in a prism soft and bright

 

While Ted walked tall her sapphire eyes saw a small

Gossamer envelope tucked in the quarterlight

And, as if that was not enough to enthrall,

It contained a fortune cookie left by a sprite

Predicting copyright wars that came with the fame,

Foretelling revolution in Paris in May

And Brian Jones in the wings, next to play death’s damp game

Surely, she thought, that wasn’t all there was to say?

 

Instinctively distrusting what she was hearing

In that tender Bucks idyl of afternoon light,

In spite of the spring at her step she was fearing

The long return journey back to the starless night

 

It was only five years later but she was already

 

Two thousand light years from home

 

 

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Julian Isaacs
Painting Rupert Loydell

 

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SAUSAGE 285

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column which asks: why aren’t children allowed to join the House of Commons straight from school? 

READER: I thought they already were.
MYSELF:  It’s a rhetorical question.
READER: What’s a rhetorical question?
MYSELF:  It’s a sarcastic enquiry, to which the answer is already known.
READER: Give me an example.
MYSELF:  OK, have you seen the new John Lewis Christmas ad?
READER: Of course I have
MYSELF:  There you are.
READER: But you know I always watch that as soon as it comes out
MYSELF:  Exactly.
READER: So why did you bother asking me?
Bird Guano has left the conversation

 

FACT OR MYTH?
The truth behind some popular misconceptions

  • MYTH: Money is an essential ingredient in a capitalist-based society.
    FACT:
    Not true. I recently paid for a Swedish massage with a kilo of purple sprouting broccoli.
  • MYTH: His Holiness The Pope does not need to wash his hands after pooing in the woods, because he is infallible.
  • FACT: The Pope defecates, not in the woods, but in a solid gold toilet in his private apartments in The Vatican, and is cleansed by altar boys using toilet paper made from the Dead Sea Scrolls. Any faeces which manages to cling to the Holy Father’s bottom is removed by nuns using a high-pressure fireman’s hose containing holy water.
  • MYTH: Russell Brand is a fraudulent hot-air balloon, a narcissistic windbag and a hyperactive thesaurus of faux-Dickensian cock.
  • FACT: That one’s all true I’m afraid.

 

DICTIONARY CORNER
Maudlin (v) Playing the Maudle, an Elizabethan wind instrument, related to the bagpipe.
Romantic (n) What you got up to in Rome.

BIRD CALL
A new phone-in feature designed to elicit views straight from our reader’s mouths
As our first topic, we are going to discuss the ins and outs of what has become known as Brexit, and football celebrities. What is a hard border? Where are the Andes? What is the dark secret behind David Beckham’s gormless grin? Temporary Postman Mrs Celia Molasses of Upper Dicker is on the line. Hello Celia! What is the nature of your Bird Call.
CELIA: First time caller Bird …. I’m a bit nervous.
BG:     Please don’t be nervous Celia. I’m just like you, except massively overpaid.
CELIA: I’m shaking like a leaf. I’ve spilt half my gin already and it’s only eleven o’clock.
BG: Well just try and relax darling. I don’t bite, except in self-defence. Have you got your radio on by any chance love? I’m getting some interference on the line.
CELIA: It’s probably my husband’s life support machine, hang on I’ll just go and turn it
off.
BG: No, just a minute, don’t do that love! Hello? Celia? Oh dear. Right. Let’s have our next caller, Reg Knowles is calling from Beyondenden in Sussex. What’s your beef Reg?
REG: Good morning Mr Guano. Your listeners might know me better as Reg “Grassy” Knowles, an initial suspect in the investigation into the assassination of John F Kennedy in 1963.
BG: That’s fascinating. Call me Bird by the way, and welcome to the show. May I call you “Grassy”?
REG:  No you may not. I hardly know you. I’m calling about the appalling odour of young people nowadays. You get on a bus and all you can smell is Lynx and high energy drinks. Just tell me this; whatever happened to wind-up gramophones and dark green wallpaper with parrots? And saluting AA men? I myself wear false armpits, which you can put in the washing machine (60 degrees), and now I hardly offend anyone.
BG: Well that’s very interesting sir, but today’s discussion was about Brexit, and…
CELIA: Hello?… Hello?
REG: Who’s that?
BG: Thank you Reg, great call…Celia! That’s a much better line dear. How is your husband?
CELIA: Let’s just say he’s in a better place Bird. This Brexit business would have killed him anyway.
Horrible interference, like kittens falling into a cauldron of boiling custard.
BG: Celia? Celia! Hello?
VOICEOVER: We appear to have temporarily lost the transmission for Bird Calls. We apologise to listeners and In the meantime, here is a drawing of a piece of music.
MUSIC: Nude Descending Staircase by Marcel Duchamp

CINEMA REVIEW
Ealing Cat People (2019, Dir: Todd Goy)
Shot entirely on location in Los Angeles, this US remake of Hideo Izzymoto’s The Emperor’s Daughter  fails on many levels. To say that its original setting, the bleak, tyrannical suburb of Ealing during the cruel Tang dynasty, fails to translate to the 21st century, would be a titanic understatement. One is never entirely convinced that one is in leafy West London, despite the signposts to Ealing Broadway underground station littering Hollywood Boulevard. The normally reliable Terence Nonce puts in a wooden performance as Brad Kentuckian, the travelling shoe salesman with a penchant for living above his means, who has a price put on his head after he gets on the wrong side of Chico Pachooka the Mr Big of local Latino crime syndicate The Cats (unconvincingly portrayed by ex-drug cartel boss and associate producer Enrico Enchilada. My advice: Stick to the original. ★

SURVIVAL OF THE FLATTEST
Hastings Flat Earth Society has been awarded the coveted Plaque D’Idiote by the Paris-based Institut de Bêtise. HFES spokesman Ken Sideboard of Silverhill told us: “We couldn’t be more proud, especially after beating our arch-rivals, The Flatter Earth Society to the prize. We were planning a huge celebration party, but some members of our committee, who are currently on holiday in South America, haven’t responded to our emails and we are beginning to think they may have fallen off”.

 

 

 

Sausage Life!

 
 
 

 




Click image to connect. Alice’s Crazy Moon is an offbeat monthly podcast hosted by Alice Platt (BBC, Soho Radio) with the help of roaming reporter Bird Guano a.k.a Colin Gibson (Comic Strip Presents, Sausage Life). Each episode will centre around a different topic chosen by YOU the listener! The show is eclectic mix of music, facts about the artists and songs and a number of surrealistic and bizarre phone-ins and commercials from Bird Guano. Not forgetting everyones favourite poet, Big Pillow!

NB: IF YOU DO NOT HAVE A PAID SUBSCRIPTION TO SPOTIFY, THE SONGS WILL BE OF RESTRICTED LENGTH

JACK POUND: JESUS WANTS ME FOR A SUN READER aka PASS THE INSTANT YOGA

 

 



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Halloween and Amusia at the Church!

Alan Dearling cogitates in suitable attire on the weekend before Halloween

‘Amusia’: I considered the meaning(s) of the word, and indeed what an event in that name might involve. Here’s one of many definitions:

“Congenital amusia, commonly known as tone deafness or a tin ear, refers to a musical disability that cannot be explained by prior brain lesion, hearing loss, cognitive defects, or lack of environmental stimulation, and it affects about 4% of the population.”

Four different posters proliferated around ‘The Valley’ in advance of this event, which was billed as the largest one so far organised in the name of the ‘Amusia’ collective group. They have their own Facebook site, but it is a tad difficult to find out exactly who is co-ordinating the proceedings. I had been invited along to take pics at earlier events in a range of venues stretching from Oldham to Halifax. And, in an on-line message exchange, had agreed to come along to the really rather spectacular Unitarian Church in Todmorden to take photos during the afternoon sessions of the event. I arrived just after the start time of 1pm, to see Rik Warwick heading off from the venue, apparently on a mission, despite the fact that he was billed to be the first performer in the 1 to 2pm slot. https://www.facebook.com/amusia.awareness

The second artist, Pip Fowler on auto-harp, stepped into the breach and after a sound-check, he took to the stage. The sound quality thanks to engineer, Dave, was great, employing the natural church acoustics to great effect. Some clever wordplay in Pip’s lyrics too.  

After Pip’s solo performance, Rik arrived onto the stage area and played some intricate classical and popular acoustic guitar tunes, including his versions of ‘Tubular Bells’ and ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. Sadly, there was only a small audience, mostly comprised of other musicians. Subsequently, I watched and listened to two out of the next three performances which took place up until after 7pm. First was electronica from Torsk. He looked the part, representing some kind of dark persona from the Addams family!

Later it was the heavy, thunderous music of TV Face. Musically impressive and suitably loud…but sadly still not very much of an audience. TV Face Live video by Darren Green Films: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h4Fo-WL9GNI

But then it seemed that there was no-one from Amusia on door-control, no arm bands and even no felt pen for marking the hands of paying and ticketed customers. This left the volunteer ladies on the Unitarian pop-up ‘donations’ bar in the unenviable position of dealing with the Amusia punters. After 9pm, sometime after I had left, I’ve been told that a lot of people did come up from the Golden Lion as that venue closed its doors for a sold-out ticket DJ event. I am also informed that there were still no Amusia staff to be found, including Rik, who seemed to be have some sort of role as MC.

The Unitarian Church usually has a strict 10pm curfew rule on account of noise affecting neighbours. This event finished at midnight, with the final band unable to play because of late running. It appears that later in the evening from about 11pm that there was friction over which punters had paid or not. Apparently, the fee for use of the Church from morning until when staff finally left after 1am on the Sunday morning was not paid. I’ve not been able to ascertain whether the performers got paid whatever they were promised. All rather sad when eleven acts were billed to perform…armed with, and offering an abundance of talent to share.

Here’s a personal view of one of the volunteers at the Church: “Whilst I understand that there was an intentional mystery surrounding the Amusia event at Todmorden Unitarian Church, for those of us who volunteered for 15 hours each from Saturday to early hours on Sunday morning, the most significant mystery was – who was the Event Organiser?

Confusion reigned from the late kick off to the well-beyond curfew ending. Such a great opportunity to host an event in our spectacular church was squandered with no arrangements for the door management or on the door tickets to name but one issue.

I hope this does not reflect on the people who voluntarily look after the Unitarian Church.”

It’s interesting to read how the Amusia event was billed in advance publicity – see below. Actually, it’s fascinating, quasi-scientific, but also very much tongue-in-cheek. But one questions if on this particular occasion it fulfilled what was written on the proverbial ‘tin’! (In the week after Halloween, Amusia were contacted for any comments, but didn’t respond).

“Amusia will be conducting a large scale safety exercise at the Todmorden Unitarian Church (behind Golden Lion) in order to maximise the safety and well-being of future potential Listening Test subjects at the adopted site. This 12 hour exercise is called a Site Installation Interface Trial and Safety Assessment All Dayer.

This exercise presents a simulated live music concert experience to trial participants who will undergo exposure to experimental and contrasting auditory materials. The Site Installation Interface Trial and Safety Assessment All Dayer this Saturday takes place at a time most commonly associated with Halloween celebrations and, as such, must be conducted accordingly as a Halloween special.

For the first time ever at an Amusia Site Installation Interface Trial and Safety Assessment the use of fancy dress will be in effect. Fancy dress will be encouraged for all on-site trial participants. Halloween cake will be available and Halloween everything. Trial technicians and psychologists may also take part in the fancy dress, but please be aware that this is large scale complex safety exercise and that very important and serious work must be carried out in a precise and professional manner.

Normal ecclesiastical operations may be disrupted during this time. Amusia wishes to thank the congregation, staff, volunteers and clergy of The Unitarian Church for their patience and understanding while we conduct these important safety trials with these experimental materials.

The Site Installation Interface Trial and Safety Assessment is a temporary state of experimental condition to monitor the safety and wellbeing of potential Listening Test subjects via a series of simulated live music performances.  It is a potentially high-risk environment and must be delivered with the due diligence of a highly aware and communicative team working to the best of their abilities. The use of alcohol is advised for trial participants ONLY.  Amusia technicians and scientists are STRICTLY PROHIBITED FROM CONSUMING ALCOHOL.  This is not a joke and it is certainly not funny.”

The night before was a lively ‘live’ music night at Eagles Crag Brewery in their taproom extravaganza.

First up were Cobalt Tales – Pat and Nuala from Sheffield. Headlining was Nick B Hall, well-known as half of Plumhall. This gig was organised by Dark Matter Promotions in collaboration with the lads in Eagles Crag.

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Dancing In The Streets: No Fun

A BBC Documentary on the birth of Punk featuring Jonathan Richman, Television, Blondie, Ramones, Talking Heads, Sex Pistols, the Clash, Bob Marley, Lee Perry and many others.

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Remembrance & White Poppies

The white poppy has been worn in the run-up to Remembrance Day for ninety years, as a symbol of remembrance and peace.

White poppies are worn every year by thousands of people across the UK and beyond. They were first produced in 1933 in the aftermath of the First World War, by members of the Co-operative Women’s Guild. Many of these women had lost family and friends in the First World War. They wanted to hold on to the key message of Remembrance Day, ‘never again’.

White poppies stand for three things.



Remembrance of all victims of war
, including both civilians and members of the armed forces. We remember people of all nationalities. We remember those killed in wars happening now, as well as in the past. We also remember those who are often excluded from the mainstream, such as refugees and victims of colonial conflicts.



Challenging war and militarism
, as well as any attempt to glorify or celebrate war. White poppies encourage us to question the way war is normalised and justified. They remind us of the need to resist war and its causes today.



A commitment to peace
and to seeking nonviolent solutions to conflict. By drawing attention to the devastating human cost of war, white poppies highlight the urgency of our ongoing struggle for peace.


Watch writer and poet Benjamin Zephaniah explain why he wears a white poppy. “I love wearing my white poppy… We have to remember all victims of war, not just the select few. And we have to work towards a world where there is no war.”

Find out more at https://www.ppu.org.uk/remembrance-white-poppies


(Material and video from Peace Pledge Union)

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The Burnt Pieces of The Puzzle

Two fragmented men in the circle of the burn
mumble, “You can
see why people kill from a distance.
You cannot know why people kill.”

Green lava grass gathers 
around the forbidden zone.
Gossips ripple. Wind spreads the fire.
By the gong nothing remains.

An urban eagle pieces together the flesh.
The puzzle solved persists to be a puzzle.

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Photo Nick Victor

 

Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
 Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/ 
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
 
 
 
 
 
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Et Tu, Big Issue?

 

Some of the houses owned by the Royals

Banquet for Charles at Versailles

 

 

 

 

 

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Ursula


 
                    1
 
What you need right now
is to take your shoes
away from the wallpaper
drop out into the noise
away from the voices in your head
away from socialising with houseflies.
Pick up your briefcase
your ink-stained notebook
choc-o-bloc with post modern dust
when you reach the corner
of Ghost Town Street
bypass as much midweek traffic as you can
lose yourself in the back lanes of Greenbank
then cut across to Freedom Fields
that old Victorian nightingale on the hill
try to imagine your blue-grey eyes
looking through a post-war window
its November
you’ve just missed Halloween
there are leaves and rockets in the sky
its seven and a bit weeks to Christmas
but you don’t know that yet.
Note the absence of storks
which some years later
slipped into the narrative of mythology
only to vanish again.
Note the long gone models of cars
names once so familiar
now lost to you as they slowly
drive up the hill from the direction
of Beaumont Park.
Turn your blue-grey eyes
west for a moment
over the rooftops to the train station
five minutes by pram
to the house where you lived as a child
around the corner from Wyndham Square
in the quiet years after the war.
Look into the future
sense the nostalgia
waiting patiently in the past
tuck those memories away for now
let other memories loose
drifting over the rooftops of Mutley Plain
now glimpsed in the distance
five minutes by walking stick
to Cheltenham Place.
 

                    2
 
Walking through the heart of the city
you dip your pen into the river
and there you dream of Ursula
there you dream movies
that never star Redford or Coburn
or anyone who crossed
your childhood gaze.
There are narratives here
slipping down side streets
tangents waiting on every corner
distractions to lure you
fairytales to enchant
memories hidden under
the closed eyes of bar rooms.
There are dropouts
smoking reefers on Lisson Grove
dropping out to write fiction
dropping out to write free verse
it comes out of stardust
comes out of a fistful
of twenty pound notes
the past lives here
in a room above your shoulders
it slips out of a briefcase
out of a pocket
a pen searching for a notebook
to lay words down
in an ink-free zone
before the voices in your head
slip back into silence, into solidarity.
 
Your gaze drifts across the road
to the Hyde Park Hotel
where nothing moves out on the island
where that collective silence
stretches into April.
You could live here
a freeloader writing free verse
dropping the Queen into the jukebox
playing the Rolling Stones
in a nod to irony.
On some future weekend
when the doors of the hotel
are flung open
it’ll be like November
there’ll be rockets all over town
like there were on that bonfire night
when you went to a Language Club reading
in a room above the bar
the night a rock band opened
for Lee Harwood and Helen Macdonald.
 
Moving closer to the island
lit up in red and amber
you walk with the green man
under the ever changing
colours of the road
looking up you see that
the hotel’s brightly lit windows
have now grown dark.
As you cross the road
with your unvaccinated shadow
you see curtains move
sense the eyes of bartenders
looking out, marooned in lockdown.
 
Turning in the direction of North Hill
you travel back through the years
set somewhere between
ballroom dancing and punk rock
you see memories
popping  out of the darkness
old friends hanging around
on street corners
flashbacks flickering into life
on the screen of the old Belgrave cinema.
As you begin to close the door
on these tit-bits of suburban fiction
you stumble on a memory
of desert island Dansette nights
smoking weed on Connaught Avenue
talking psychedelic rock with Roy Plomley
plonking you feet under Angie’s table.
You see yourself crossing the doorsteps
of second-hand bookshops
in desert island boots or plimsolls
before heading back home
to the Tumbleweed Hotel to read
Marion Zimmer Bradley
Michael Moorcock
Larry McMurtry.
 
Leaving Mutley Plain
you take off on another shoestring tour
through the posh part of town.
After the leafiness of Wilderness Road
you reach the summit of Hill Crest.
Laying down your free verse flag
you discover there’s more than one house
on Hermitage Road.
Here on the hill overlooking the city
you see the dark eyes of clouds
overlooking the ground.
As the rain starts to tumble out of the air
it falls from your eyes in solidarity.
 
 
                    3
 
In a hat trick nod to Charlie Chaplin,
Acker Bilk and John Cleese
you take a bowler hat
out of your briefcase
you recall carriages of bowlercrats
reading broadsheets
travelling home to Highgate
like some underground spy ring
on the Northern Line.
You try to recall a time
when bowler hats ever formed
or complimented
part of a pinstripe period
down here in the seaside sticks
but nothing pops out of the trilby.
If bowler hats had ever been worn here
then the chances are
they would have been worn
in the vicinity of Henders Corner
but in another lifetime
as the crow flies or the frisbee
but even that feels
slightly anachronistic
as does the notion
of crows playing frisbee
in or out of any pinstripe period.
 
Out on Mannamead Road
you try to remember the names
of other writers who’ve lived here
Adele Seymour
Francesca Henderson
Veronica Russell
Harriett Carrington-Fisher
George Braithwaite
Eric Applegate
Amelia Wickenden
Alice Midwinter
Gabrielle Lane.
The straw hatted surrealists
of Mannamead and Hartley
who’ve always reminded you
of a posh spy ring in Portmerion
Cambridge
Newton Ferrers
Noss Mayo.
 
Taking a seat in Thorn Park
you call a friend in Freedom Fields
to tell her you can’t remember
the last time you left Speedwell City.
Ending the call you write a note
to the voices in your head
listing some of the things
you’d like for Christmas
a pair of grungy trousers
a clarinet
a slapstick movie
with the sound turned down.
 
Leaving Thorn Park
you turn your blue-grey eyes
towards spending some time
dancing with Ursula
to a little bit of trad jazz
a little pink elephant waltz
under trees taller than houses
where a leafy decadence
lingers in the air.

 

 

.
 
Kenny Knight

 

 

,

 

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Careering. Jah Wobble.

Jah Wobble and the Invaders of the Heart / Sudbury Quay Theatre 1.11.23



Driving down lanes in leafy Suffolk, through wild, stormy weather, brings you to the tiny Quay Theatre in Sudbury, a surprising setting in which to encounter a post-punk legend. Jah Wobble’s career continues to expand at a dizzying rate – Thames Symphony and The Bus Routes of South London are just two of this year’s CD releases, and a project with none other than Rick Wakeman has recently seen the light. Tonight, however, the road-hardened current Invaders of the Heart line-up of George King, Martin Chung and Marc Layton-Bennett, show they’re completely capable of also tackling the daunting foundation stones of his music, the first two Public Image albums, especially the hugely influential Metal Box.

Wobble also has a huge, sprawling back catalogue of music produced since he parted ways with that band and the first set plunges immediately into a ferocious ‘Becoming More Like God’, from his 1994 album, followed by the thunderous jazz of ‘7’ and the slow revisiting of ‘Public Image’, with Wobble on vocals. On the first, Marc Layton-Bennett puts his stamp on drum patterns originally laid down by Jaki Leibezeit, while guitarist Martin Chung has the unenviable task of recreating the late Keith Levene’s jangling riff on PiL’s calling-card.

Metal Box in Dub has recently seen Wobble create newer versions of songs originally mostly created by himself, Levene and John Lydon in the studio, and tonight Public Image-era tracks comprise nearly half the set list. These, however, are radical re-versions, not just recreations of the originals: ‘Socialist’, for example, is announced as a ‘drum and bass’ version, and the Invaders build forcefully on the original brief blueprint. Similarly, ‘Fodderstompf’, from the first PiL album, is despatched as a gleeful, pulsing closer to the first set.

The spacey ska/dub of ‘Liquidator’ reminds us of one of Wobble’s major influences, and his prowess on bass, despite a broken thumb, remains fluent and powerful, cutting through the walls of keyboard and guitar, anchoring everything through nifty turns and sudden pauses. In the second set, two selections from Rising above Bedlam, the 1991 release which re-established him, see George King dropping little keyboard runs in between the bass and Layton-Bennett’s astonishing drumming – ‘Visions of You’, complete with pre-recorded backing vocals, becomes a wall of riffing.

Two more important Metal Box-era songs follow: ‘Poptones’ again sees Chung building fearlessly on Levene’s original dissonant arpeggios, while ‘Careering’ becomes epically propulsive, despite the rather scrappy spoken/sung vocals. Onstage, structures which seemed claustrophobic studio creations come to life again, revealing just how melodic the Levene/Wobble partnership originally was. It seems a pity that ‘Swan Lake’ and ‘Graveyard’ were not also given an airing.

Throughout the evening, Wobble’s demented, larky MC patter leavens the intensity of the material and delights the audience, while the entire band regularly reveal their tight interplay and willingness to take risks. The second set roars to a close with the ‘How Much Are They’/’Invaders’ theme segue, taken at a dizzying pace, as on the 2017 Usual Suspects release. The final song is a cover of ‘Get Carter’, the theme to the 1971 Michael Caine film, introduced by dialogue from it: once again, the entire band push the song to its limits, King’s keyboard flourishes adding grace-notes as it concludes. The current Invaders line-up is a hugely powerful outfit – Wobble is rightly proud of them. A pity there was no room for anything from 2016’s Everything is No Thing, this line-up’s most consistent set of new jazz-skronk material, but you can’t have everything. By the time you read this, Wobble will have several more projects on the go, determined to keep moving.

 

 

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M.C. Caseley / 2.11.23

 

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Authoritarians Drunk on Power: It’s Time to Recalibrate the Government

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“There is something terribly wrong with this country, isn’t there? Cruelty and injustice, intolerance and oppression. And where once you had the freedom to object, to think and speak as you saw fit, you now have censors and systems of surveillance coercing your conformity and soliciting your submission. How did this happen? Who’s to blame?”— V for Vendetta

 

We have arrived at the dystopian future depicted in the 2005 film V for Vendetta, which is no future at all.

Set in the year 2020, V for Vendetta (written and produced by the Wachowskis) provides an eerie glimpse into a parallel universe in which a government-engineered virus wreaks havoc on the world. Capitalizing on the people’s fear, a totalitarian government comes to power that knows all, sees all, controls everything and promises safety and security above all.

Concentration camps (jails, private prisons and detention facilities) have been established to house political prisoners and others deemed to be enemies of the state. Executions of undesirables (extremists, troublemakers and the like) are common, while other enemies of the state are made to “disappear.” Populist uprisings and protests are met with extreme force. The television networks are controlled by the government with the purpose of perpetuating the regime. And most of the population is hooked into an entertainment mode and are clueless.

With Vendetta, whose imagery borrows heavily from Nazi Germany’s Third Reich and George Orwell’s 1984, we come full circle. The corporate state in V conducts mass surveillance on its citizens, helped along by closed-circuit televisions. Also, London is under yellow-coded curfew alerts, similar to the American government’s color-coded Homeland Security Advisory System.

Sounds painfully familiar, doesn’t it?

As director James McTeighe observed about the tyrannical regime in V for Vendetta, “It really showed what can happen when society is ruled by government, rather than the government being run as a voice of the people. I don’t think it’s such a big leap to say things like that can happen when leaders stop listening to the people.”

Clearly, those we appointed to represent our interests have stopped following the Constitution and listening to the American people.

What will it take for the government to start listening to the people again?

In V for Vendetta, as in my novel The Erik Blair Diaries, the subtext is that authoritarian regimes—through a vicious cycle of manipulation, oppression and fear-mongering—foment violence, manufacture crises, and breed terrorists, thereby giving rise to a recurring cycle of blowback and violence.

Only when the government itself becomes synonymous with the terrorism wreaking havoc in their lives do the people to finally mobilize and stand up to the government’s tyranny.

V, a bold, charismatic freedom fighter, urges the British people to rise up and resist the government. In Vendetta, V the film’s masked crusader blows up the seat of government on November 5, Guy Fawkes Day, while in Erik Blair, freedom fighters plot to unmask the Deep State.

Acts of desperation and outright anarchy are what happens when a parasitical government muzzles the citizenry, fences them in, herds them, brands them, whips them into submission, forces them to ante up the sweat of their brows while giving them little in return, and then provides them with little to no outlet for voicing their discontent: people get desperate, citizens lose hope, and lawful, nonviolent resistance gives way to unlawful, violent resistance.

This way lies madness.

Then again, madness may be unavoidable unless we can wrest back control over our runaway government starting at the local level.

It is time to recalibrate the government.

For years now, we have suffered the injustices, cruelties, corruption and abuse of an entrenched government bureaucracy that has no regard for the Constitution or the rights of the citizenry.

By “government,” I’m not referring to the farce that is the highly partisan, two-party, bureaucracy of the Republicans and Democrats. Rather, I’m referring to “government” with a capital “G,” the entrenched Deep State that is unaffected by elections, unaltered by populist movements, and has set itself beyond the reach of the law.

We are overdue for a systemic check on the government’s overreaches and power grabs.

We have lingered too long in this strange twilight zone where ego trumps justice, propaganda perverts truth, and imperial presidents—empowered to indulge their authoritarian tendencies by legalistic courts, corrupt legislatures and a disinterested, distracted populace—rule by fiat rather than by the rule of law.

The COVID-19 pandemic provided the government with the perfect excuse to lay claim to a long laundry list of terrifying lockdown powers (at both the federal and state level) that override the Constitution: the ability to suspend the Constitution, indefinitely detain American citizens, bypass the courts, quarantine whole communities or segments of the population, override the First Amendment by outlawing religious gatherings and assemblies of more than a few people, shut down entire industries and manipulate the economy, muzzle dissidents, reshape financial markets, create a digital currency (and thus further restrict the use of cash), determine who should live or die, and impose health mandates on large segments of the population.

Crises tend to bring out the authoritarian tendencies in government.

That’s no surprise: power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Where we find ourselves now is in the unenviable position of needing to rein in all three branches of government—the Executive, the Judicial, and the Legislative—that have exceeded their authority and grown drunk on power.

This is exactly the kind of concentrated, absolute power the founders attempted to guard against by establishing a system of checks of balances that separate and shares power between three co-equal branches: the executive, the legislative and the judiciary.

“The system of checks and balances that the Framers envisioned now lacks effective checks and is no longer in balance,” concludes law professor William P. Marshall. “The implications of this are serious. The Framers designed a system of separation of powers to combat government excess and abuse and to curb incompetence. They also believed that, in the absence of an effective separation-of-powers structure, such ills would inevitably follow. Unfortunately, however, power once taken is not easily surrendered.”

Unadulterated power in any branch of government is a menace to freedom.

There’s no point debating which political party would be more dangerous with these powers.

The fact that any individual—or branch of government—of any political persuasion is empowered to act like a dictator is danger enough.

So, what we can do to wrest back control over a runaway government and an imperial presidency?

It won’t be easy.

We are the unwitting victims of a system so corrupt that those who stand up for the rule of law and aspire to transparency in government are in the minority.

This corruption is so vast it spans all branches of government: from the power-hungry agencies under the executive branch and the corporate puppets within the legislative branch to a judiciary that is, more often than not, elitist and biased towards government entities and corporations.

We are ruled by an elite class of individuals who are completely out of touch with the travails of the average American.

We are viewed as relatively expendable in the eyes of government: faceless numbers of individuals who serve one purpose, which is to keep the government machine running through our labor and our tax dollars. Those in power aren’t losing any sleep over the indignities we are being made to suffer or the possible risks to our health. All they seem to care about are power and control.

We are being made to suffer countless abuses at the government’s hands.

We have little protection against standing armies (domestic and military), invasive surveillance, marauding SWAT teams, an overwhelming government arsenal of assault vehicles and firepower, and a barrage of laws that criminalize everything from vegetable gardens to lemonade stands.

In the name of national security, we’re being subjected to government agencies such as the NSA, FBI and others listening in on our phone calls, reading our mail, monitoring our emails, and carrying out warrantless “black bag” searches of our homes. Adding to the abuse, we have to deal with surveillance cameras mounted on street corners and in traffic lights, weather satellites co-opted for use as spy cameras from space, and thermal sensory imaging devices that can detect heat and movement through the walls of our homes.

That doesn’t even begin to touch on the many ways in which our Fourth Amendment rights are trampled upon by militarized police and SWAT teams empowered to act as laws unto themselves.

In other words, freedom—or what’s left of it—is threatened from every direction.

The predators of the police state are wreaking havoc on our freedoms, our communities, and our lives. The government doesn’t listen to the citizenry, it refuses to abide by the Constitution, which is our rule of law, and it treats the citizenry as a source of funding and little else. Police officers are shooting unarmed citizens and their household pets. Government agents—including local police—are being armed to the teeth and encouraged to act like soldiers on a battlefield. Bloated government agencies are fleecing taxpayers. Government technicians are spying on our emails and phone calls. Government contractors are making a killing by waging endless wars abroad.

In other words, the American police state is alive and well and flourishing.

Nothing has changed, and nothing will change unless we insist on it.

How to do this? It’s not rocket science.

There is no 10-step plan. If there were a 10-step plan, however, the first step would be as follows: turn off the televisions, tune out the politicians, and do your part to stand up for freedom principles in your own communities.

Stand up for your own rights, of course, but more importantly, stand up for the rights of those with whom you might disagree. Defend freedom at all costs. Defend justice at all costs. Make no exceptions based on race, religion, creed, politics, immigration status, sexual orientation, etc. Vote like Americans, for a change, not Republicans or Democrats.

Most of all, use your power—and there is power in our numbers—to nullify anything and everything the government does that undermines the freedom principles on which this nation was founded.

Don’t play semantics. Don’t justify. Don’t politicize it. If it carries even a whiff of tyranny, oppose it. Demand that your representatives in government cut you a better deal, one that abides by the Constitution and doesn’t just attempt to sidestep it.

That’s their job: make them do it.

As I make clear in my book Battlefield America: The War on the American People and in its fictional counterpart The Erik Blair Diaries, all freedoms hang together. They fall together, as well.

The police state does not discriminate. Eventually, we will all suffer the same fate.

 

John Whitehead

 

ABOUT JOHN W. WHITEHEAD

Constitutional attorney and author John W. Whitehead is founder and president of The Rutherford Institute. His most recent books are the best-selling Battlefield America: The War on the American People, the award-winning A Government of Wolves: The Emerging American Police State, and a debut dystopian fiction novel, The Erik Blair Diaries. Whitehead can be contacted at [email protected]. Nisha Whitehead is the Executive Director of The Rutherford Institute. Information about The Rutherford Institute is available at www.rutherford.org.

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Diamonds In The Moss

 

Bruce Robinson once described Vivian Mackerrell,
His friend and the inspiration for Withnail
As diminished in dying; middle-aged,
Stomach-drinking and still listening to The Stones.

But why not resist that slight slur,
When six decades on they’re still playing,
Releasing at 80 years old a new blessing,
For which no jibe or jury, or even observant jew

Could attone. Hackney Diamonds, they say
Refers to the shattered glass of a windscreen;
Something akin to East London aggression,
And this is a London Band afterall,

Albeit suburb burned, yet the fame
Soon earned rendered legends, defined
As I understand it, with their mouths and habits
The emblems of Rock n’ Roll’s epic call.

These bomb born boys, the squirts of ’43
Set the template for Pop which has bubbled
From microphone spit to champagne
In the Caribbean and Kent. Yet sour, or sweet

They stay special. Regardless of taste,
Richards, Jagger, the lost Watts and Wood
Make the claim for being the greatest of all,
Besting even The Beatles. If not in content,

Then power, both staying and stored
In the drawl of Mick’s wide mouth sprawl,
Or Keith’s guitar and drug drawn mythos;
The fact that these two types of man

Form one posse grants The Stones
Deeper substance and reduces each successive
Band’s progress, whether younger or not,
To a crawl. For this new record’s a badge

For physical and soulful endurance.
If their music hasn’t evolved then it doesn’t
Need to; for by staying together for longer
Than the life-span of my Dad

They’ll be a story saga to tell when music itself
Becomes cell based. Or part of the air,
Or wallpaper, or as future downloads to our DNA
Turns touch mad. That’s if we survive.

So start shining these diamonds. Kept inside
An album in a Country Blues Pop Rock style,
In which The Stones roll the past (and in a war
worn world that seems hopeful), to make it

An effective part of the present,
Easing out an example for others who seek
To swagger down the same mile.
Whether country, or not. And to do that

At 80 is to revive your grandparents,
And perhaps further back,
Revealing what is possible for us all,
Through both the spirit of man and the sinew.

The video for their lead single ANGRY
Makes you prize Sydney Sweeney’s figure,
But its for Keith’s smoking sneer
On the billboard, and Mick’s pout and preen

Pursed lips crack into the widest of smiles,
Made from knowing your place and respecting
The fact that you will not be as famous
And will not contribute half as much

As those young rebels, now old,
These former fires soon vapoured.
Just look at Keith’s fingers: arthritic,
Beauty still flows through that touch.

And look at how he’s still here,
Alongside Jagger’s advert for fitness.
His PE teacher father clearly installed
In his bones the means to prosper

And rise, as well as how to defy Time’s
Wracked stages. Ladies and gentlemen,
Fate and fame won’t forget them.
I give you the louche and the lauded,

And with Wyman and McCartney on bass
And the ghosts of Jones and Watts
Gathered to them, reignite the fight
And the fire of the fucking and feared

                                        Rolling Stones.

 

 

David Erdos

 

 

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THE PRETTIEST WEED IN THE CRACK

So rare being the prettiest weed in the crack;
this valley well known for familiar flowers,
brown ends were killed so they won’t come back,
caterpillars can chew on a leaf for hours.

This valley well known for familiar flowers,
a perfect spot for where the hedgehog lives –
caterpillars can chew on a leaf for hours;
bees tend the honey trap inside their hives.

A perfect spot for where the hedgehog lives
and seeds that form the dandelion clock;
bees tend the honey trap inside their hives,
pink thistles creep around the garden rock.

And seeds that form the dandelion clock
are blown in the air to create a wish
as pink thistles creep around the garden rock –
petals in foliage and petals from a dish

are blown in the air to create a wish
through something growing in the grass.
Petals in foliage and petals from a dish
all lie aground as outer layers pass

through something growing in the grass
beside still waters and safe habitats to where
all lie aground, as outer layers pass
through sycamore wings sown as a pair

beside still waters and safe habitats – to where
brown ends were killed so they won’t come back
through sycamore wings sown as a pair
but not so rare as being the prettiest weed in the crack.

 

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Phil Bowen

 

 

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NOW AND WHEN?

 

On The Beatles last song

 

Is it any good? That’s the point. But does it need to be
Is the question. As it is, this last Lennon is reason
Enough to tune in. As McCartney and Starr
Lay the ground for the unwound road death
Soon shortened and an ironically McCartneyesque
Lyric, as most of latter Lennons are, shows no sin.

But it is discernible all the same, even though
He was always straightforward. Just listen to God
Or Mother, Woman, or, poignantly Borrowed Time,

Which is on Milk and Honey. That haunts,
While Now and Then empathises, as the Fab Four
Fall in together for a final refrain all feels fine.

With the full and touching story enclosed, especially
With a trip through Love Me Do on the flip side.
This is perhaps Paul and Ringo’s love letter to John
And to George lost so young.  At 40 and 58. But then
George was even while older, the youngest.
And in so many ways the most witty in terms

Of what was said if not sung. Both of these dead men
Were brave, facing attacks from a lunatic fringe
Hanging heavy; both became sacrificial so that their
Partners in song could go on. I’m sure that Townshend
And Daltrey feel this, in losing Moon and Entwistle,
And thus The Wheatles with bass and drums left

Could seal song. But then each great group has a pact
From which time and tide make an island. Now and Then
As a title provides enough premonition to make all

Of Lennon’s lasts prophecies. And The Beatles
Were and are biblical. They are enough these days
To believe in. Never of course quite the image
Upon which we were raised, we still see

A fresh formation for Gods as we currently
Understand them. And so this song, sweetly spun
From the 60s, has its late 70s shimmer
As well as a repeal for the day to reconsider the past
And the riches won, lost and squandered. Its stately
Piano chords show this as its slow swirl of guitars

Hold full sway. It is literally a song of two worlds;
Earth harmonizing with Heaven.  A song séance
Singing, through an Ouija led microphone.
McCartney’s own fits right in as does some
Of Geroge’s last playing. AI reconstructed,
Harrisons’ HAL has more tone. And Lennon

More gain than Free as a Bird did for starters.
And this is a John we imagine as he becomes
Instrument. And not the often edgy legend
Of old, complete with familial trauma,
And a secret service file squatting over what
They deemed dark intent. His ghost and glasses

Refract the former complications of living,
What with half the band Angeled and half angled
Now at the edge of the within and without,
Or stood by the Blue Jay Way leading nowhere,
With two nowhere men returned to us
And to those they left behind, like Kane’s sledge.

Now and Then’s not the song that should have
Formed their finale. Alive now, I am certain
They would have done one of their old fan club
Christmas songs. Or sounded like ELO,
Or Tears for Fears. Or Oasis. Or perhaps
They’d have Floyded, or Rock n’ Rolled the last gong.

Something momentous to end Pop Music’s first
Genius story. Four middle to working class heroes
Who in four short years near evolved. This last leaf
Leaves the tree which will remain ever standing.
It is not complete. Men were murdered by cancer
And gun. Nothing’s solved. And yet what was soured

Tastes sweet thanks to the elegance of it. The dignity
And the beauty of friends in flesh playing in perfect
Sync with the soul. It is not the reunion we sought
But it is all we have. And feels fitting. As boys in their
40s and 80s stand equal, knowing that while Then
Holds the substance the long and absent now
                                           still feels whole.

 

 

                                                                              David Erdos 2/11/23    

 

 

 

 

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I FORGET

I forget I put eggs on to boil and burn the pan and almost the house down.

I forget I’d arranged to meet G. for coffee so I tell him I was sick. He’ll believe that.

I forget I don’t like poetry and write 17 poems before lunch.

I forget to shut the front door. Anybody could have walked in. I wouldn’t mind if it was a lady.

I forget to feed the cat but she texts me a reminder.

I forget to tell my friend I think he’s a brilliant writer. (I don’t really forget! He’s not!)

I forget the name of the man who invented sausages. Or was it a lady?

I forget to go to the allotment then I remember I haven’t got an allotment.

I forget why I came into the kitchen so I go back into the living room.

I forget why I came into the living room.

I forget the name of the chap who wrote “I Remember”. Joe Something-or-other.

I forget to flush the toilet after a Number 2. It’s a good job I live alone!

I forget to send Robert Loydell his regular little ‘backhander’. On purpose!

I forget to put tea in the teapot and make a nice cup of hot water.

I forget to go to my friend’s funeral. I’ll tell him I had a tummy upset. (I use this excuse a lot.)

I forget I don’t like poetry and write another 23 poems before tea.

I forget if I’ve changed my underwear this week. I’ll do it tomorrow if I remember.

I forget the little Russian I used to know. I think his name was Ivan. Or was it a lady?

I forget to put the bins out. I thought it was Wednesday but it’s not.

I forget why I got out of bed this morning and now it’s nearly bedtime.

I forget to say my prayers but will probably survive the night.

I forget why I started writing ‘I forget’ sentences so I’m stopping now.

I forget I said I was going to stop writing ‘I forget’ sentences.

I forget  to clean my teeth and have to get out of bed after I’ve got all nice and snug.

 

 

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– – Eric Eric

 

 

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WITNESS

 

Meeting with the dubious importer

you could sense, even while showing off

expansive lawns and woodland, how

he was assessing whether you could be

of use as an appendage to his contacts.

Then, introduction to the gracious wife.

 

Much later, meeting the son, contingent

on a different narrative, surprise

at how he proved to be both charming and

disarming, glad of any opportunity

to dispense from his extensive

knowledge of ecclesiology.

 

Yet all the time aware of being your

familiar retentive self, ready

to engage, while struggling to find words;

as at the garden party afterward where

as outsiders, so of no intrinsic interest,

some unaccustomed effort was required. 

 

Which may be how you found yourself squeezed

in a sports car driven by Mollie Someone,

frilly matron, travelling too fast

to reach the station, although when she backed

into that road-sign you were a spectator

on a rolling hill in open country

 

where it proved possible to get a signal,

ring emergency, but not give any

clear location, only describe the scene,

with fragments of a story you could barely

comprehend, and so had no idea

if it was one that you were meant to tell.

 

.

 

 

Tony Lucas

 

 

 

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WAYS WE FAIL & GO WRONG

The mystery guest behind the water feature,
face distorted by magnets –
is it really you at last? Lost for so long, and
once found made steadily
more like us, consuming strangeness
wholesale?

Tiny, tiny machines nest in soft assembly,
never yet pillowed nor
dispersed by way of osmotic suction
of an extreme kind;
against which, dreams, about freedom and
wanting.

 – And something bursts violently through from
the interior to the body’s
surface: flailing, unfolding, eating darkness –
casting a fateful gloss,
slumbrous first fruits divided with real knives,
foretold.

Raked or stranded in fierce strips, the target
trips and goes over,
spinning in partial treatment, a hammered slide
between frequencies
ramped up through slippery seasons; stiff with
fortitude

but assembled by entry, takes a chunk out
of declared edges, signs
transposed in lawful order and lossless
orbiting of each attractor;
coasts to a full stop, and comes at last
to rest.

 

 

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Nick Totton
Art: Rupert Loydell

 

 

 

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Alien

Todd decided to take a break from the report he was writing and get some air. He set off across a field near his house, his mind still running over the conclusions he was trying to formulate. Coming towards him on the footpath he noticed an unfamiliar figure, a youngish man, carrying a large book. As the man got closer Todd could see that the text on the cover was in a script he didn’t recognize. The figure slowed as they drew level. ’Can I ask you a question?’ the man said. Rough sleepers often bivouacked in a nearby copse, and some could be aggressive, so Todd was wary. But the stranger didn’t look like one of the rough sleeping types. There was something odd about him. His skin had an almost luminous hue. ‘What do you want to know?’ Todd asked. The script on the cover of the book was unlike anything he had encountered before. ‘Have you ever seen an alien?’ the man asked, looking earnestly at Todd. ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ Todd replied. ‘You’re looking at one now,’ the stranger said. ‘We’re here on a special mission. I’d like to give you this book. It’s all about the solar system I come from.’ ‘I won’t be able to read it,’ Todd said. ‘Don’t worry,’ the stranger reassured him, holding out the book. ‘It’s in a universal language. You just have to open your mind and you’ll find it makes perfect sense.’

 

 

Simon Collings

 

 

 

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I Kissed the Book

 

I kissed the last book
After I finished reading it.

Never was it done so easy
It was not a task

Because I never felt it as a burden.

The weight of words can reveal.
The burden is let loose.

I kiss the last mental display,
The words move me like images.

I see words like a movie, as I read.
Wake me not from this spellbinding life.

My hands are firm,
I see the world through the height of words.

Speaking is futile,
When I read the words perform actions.

Blessed is the senses,
When I distill the equivocation.

The liquid electricity of words
Shine the dark road to the unseen soul.

Reading lets the light dance
In the open cosmos.

 

 

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Copyright Sushant Thapa
Biratnagar-13, Nepal

 

 

 

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Multitudinous

 

Mike Ferguson
 
 
 
 
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DAWN CHORUS {a Mills & Boon Romance}

 

We could shower first and then make love
Or just not bother. Do it dirty. Equally

Delight it what we bring to the performance
From the previous evening. Whatever
Our names might be, we come from Hyde

One of us raised in Newton, the other  
Opposite the Providence Mill (canal side)

It’s odd that we didn’t know each other
But these things happen. There are folk
On Hattersley who never once saw Lemmy

Lemmy from Motorhead
When he was courting someone local

He’d swagger down to the corner shop,
Cowboy-style each morning, to get his fags
And paper. I bet Lemmy didn’t shower first

Let’s do it and damn decorum  

 

 

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Steven Taylor
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

 

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Zeus in the Street

 

Outwardly

he is Dazzler             Shower of Gold

charismatic                            

                              OVERWHELMING

                                      in his persona’s                         Force

 

        Inwardly

                he is Masquerade          Façade          Cloak and Cover-Up

                a fallacious cuckoo-bird

 

This is the thunderbolt           of a white swan’s wings

The moment when the hood

                                                        slips

and the mask

            turns round

 

inexplicable (in his mind) are words such as

          Serial                     Predator

             Prowler                     from whom the vulnerable

               shrink

 

 

Zeus lurks                

                        instreetslongdarkcorridorscellarsandemptyrooms

 

A shower of gold in a cesspit

 

.

 

 

Mandy Pannett

 

 

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Zephyr Sounds Sunday Sermon No. 146

Steam Stock in the pulpit this week with an hour of chilled musical delights… it’s time to get mild!

Tracklist:
Gilberto Gil and Os Mutantes – Miserere Nóbis
Sufjan Stevens – The Upper Peninsula
Sigur Rós – Hoppípolla
Sigur Rós – Meo Blódnasir
Lampchop – Up with People
Pastor T.L. Barrett and the Youth for Christ Orchestra – Nobody Knows
Tom Waits – Yesterday is Here
Tom Waits – Shore Leave
Tom Waits – Anywhere I Lay My Hat
Elliott Smith – Angel in the Snow
David Bowie – Quicksand
Dinosaur Jr. – Not the Same
PJ Harvey – The Glorious Land
Brian Eno – Everything Merges with the Night
Radiohead – True Love Waits (Live in Oslo)
Screamin’ Jay Hawkins – I Put a Spell on You

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Exotic Connections and Other Such Stuff Vol 2 (various artists)

Dukes of Scuba started life in 2018 as a paper fanzine promoting and documenting improvised and experimental music in Wales. It evolved into a webzine, a label and a concert/workshop series (‘Scratch’) in Bangor. Exotic Connections and Other Such Stuff Vol 2 is the latest release by the label – Recordiau Dukes – and is a follow-up album to Vol 1, which came out at the end of 2022. As the album blurb says: To help document and promote the current Welsh scene, Dukes of Scuba has partnered again with The South Wales Improvisers to create the second volume in a series of download compilation albums of free improvisation and experimental music which shine a spotlight upon new music from across the whole of the country. The emphasis in the first Exotic Connections album tended towards improvised music. The emphasis here is, if anything towards the experimental and semi-improvised, although I’ve not added up the minutes and there’s a substantial amount of improvisation, too.

The first track, ‘Limehouse’, is taken from the album Dérive, a collaboration between Observation Point (the alter-ego of  South Wales musician Antony Thomas) and composer/creator Susan Matthews. The album explores the mythology that has grown up around 18th-century architect Nicholas Hawksmoor’s esoteric designs for six London churches. These are purportedly connected in a geometrical pattern by ley lines (an idea which finds its way into Alan Moore’s graphic novel, ‘From Hell’). Dérive is a term used by psychogeographers for urban wandering that explores (as Guy Debord, the inventor of psychogeography put it) “specific effects of the geographical environment (whether consciously organized or not) on the emotions and behavior of individuals.”  The title of the track, ‘Limehouse’, refers to St. Anne’s Church, Limehouse, a Hawksmoor church in Tower Hamlets. Thinking about psychogeography and music it strikes me that a lot can be made of an association between the two: if one goes out on a dérive one expects to be surprised, to see (or hear) things (and see things in things) that one didn’t expect. Listening to ‘Limehouse’, though, I expected to be surprised, but I wasn’t. Thomas and Matthews took a more impressionistic path. That’s not to say the track isn’t effective: it is. It would make great music for a film.

The duo Hopewell Ink (Kathy and David Boswell) combine spoken word with composed music. Kathy writes the words: intense sessions of free-writing are edited down to create a spoken text. David creates the musical element. This might involve a range of sound sources, from more familiar acoustic and electronic instruments to aeolian (wind-powered) instruments and field recordings. ‘No Longer a Car’ (‘It did not liquefy as a corpse should / Instead it became more angular’) was recorded during a live set on Neil Crud’s Punk and Beyond online radio show. Metallic percussion figures prominently in the track and I wondered if metal car-parts were involved (they’re certainly invoked) – a reasonable assumption as we’re talking about an outfit known to fasten contact mics to fences.

John Harvey describes himself, as well as being a performer, as an ‘historian of sound and visual art’. He describes his  ‘Musical Instruments Played the Old Familiar Tunes’ as referencing instances of musical instruments playing themselves under the direction of a medium (a stunt popular in the 19th century). It’s an improvisation for electric guitar processed by software that emulates a ‘spirit box’ – a radio scanner that usually produces white noise which spirits (users claim) can mould into comprehensible words.

Lyndon Owen’s ‘Sonic Fruit and Veg Machine’ is a light-hearted piece of process music. And why not? It’s a process piece that uses the electrical resistance of vegetables to control oscillators. The audience, divided into four groups, are the performers, each group being provided with what sounds like a theremin adapted to be played by cabbages, carrots and such like (with the assistance, of course, of the human participants). From the verbal description, it sounds like it’s great fun to make. The end result is a good listen, even if you know nothing of the process that led up to it. Hopefully, the vegetables are eaten afterwards.

‘Thinking of the River’, created by Martin Lloyd Chitty (better known, perhaps, as a singer-songwriter) is a soundscape using field recordings together with drums and minimal electronics. It’s part of a larger project that takes the poetry of Basil Bunting and the landscape of the Howgills as its starting point.

Lightening In A Bottle is a free improvisation duo consisting of Richard McReynolds (Guitar) & Luke Robinson (Drums). Their performances are spontaneous and unplanned. The uncertainty this creates puts a weight of responsibility on the performers and, listening to this track – ‘Blue Screen Disco Queen’ – I could almost smell the adrenalin. It’s the longest track on the album and, for me, one of the most engaging. Any improvising musician will recognise the chuckles that got caught on the recording at the end, the elation of knowing that synergy happened and somehow, in a way that feels outside your control, what you just did really worked.

We’re not told a lot about ‘CeVoix’ by Simon Rogers (aka Etchedbright). Listening to it, I’d hazard that it’s a piece for violin, electronics, harp and percussion. I, for one, am pleased to think people are still making music like this (be it composed or improvised), in an atonal style that owes a lot to serialism, a sound-world with occasional echoes of Stockhausen. Rogers is a visual artist, as well as a composer.

The Improvisers Ensemble (IE), founded by Spontaneous Music Ensemble-veteran Maggie Nicols, meets every Sunday and makes music over the internet. The line-up varies. ‘Stages of Life’ was recorded in June this year. The piece, the blurb tells us, is based on the title. The line-up is jazz-based – saxophones, bass, drums and voice. The music, as one might expect, becomes less frenetic as time goes on. It says a lot for it that one doesn’t have to know the title and the plan to appreciate it.

South Wales Improvisers meet fortnightly at SHIFT in Cardiff. What we hear of them is a seven-minute excerpt from a session held, again, in June this year. The group welcomes players of all levels, with or without experience. All they ask, to quote their website, is ‘that you love an open mind, a willingness to listen, to respond and enjoy.’ Listening to them made me wish I lived nearer Cardiff.

Pieriant are a duo (Rose and Dan Linn-Pearl) who perform on violin, electric guitar and found objects. They describe what they do as semi-improvised. Their name, Pieriant, translates into English as ‘machine’. One has to imagine not a production line robot but some sort of fantastic device producing curious, enchanting musical artefacts.  The track showcased here, ‘Tri Yn Yr Lolfa’, translates as ‘Three in the Lounge’ which, I guess, refers to the fact that as well as the two adult performers, we can hear the voice of a small child whose contributions (live? pre-recorded?) are not only touching, but ask the question, when we feel moved to make sounds in the world, in what circumstances can we consider what we’re doing to be music? Pieriant describe themselves as ‘[pursuing] moods of minimalism, drone, post-rock, soundscape and spoken word’. Listening to them, I would resist any attempt to pigeon-hole them with a genre. As is the case with a lot of interesting musicians, their ‘style’ is probably best described as being whatever the end-product of what they’re trying to do turns out to be.

As is the way with such compilation albums, every track on Exotic Connections is a potential line of enquiry that can lead the listener into the work of the showcased performer. People will have their own favourites. Anyone who finds it interesting will want to check out the first volume, too, if they don’t already know it (see links below).

 

Dominic Rivron

LINKS

Dukes of Scuba:

https://www.ashcookemusic.co.uk/dukes-of-scuba

Dukes of Scuba Bandcamp page (Recordiau Dukes):
https://recordiaudukes.bandcamp.com/music

Exotic Connections and Other Such Stuff Vol 1:
https://recordiaudukes.bandcamp.com/album/exotic-connections-other-such-stuff-vol-1

Observation Point/Susan Matthews:
https://observationpoint.bandcamp.com/album/la-d-rive

Hopewell Ink:
https://www.freewriterscompanion.com/hopewell-ink-exposed/

John Harvey:
https://johnharvey.org.uk/

Lyndon Owen
https://lyndonowen.cymru/experimental-page/

Martin Lloyd Chitty:
https://martinlloydchitty.com/

Richard McReynolds:

https://richardmcreynolds.bandcamp.com/album/silent-voice

 

Simon Rogers (Etchedbright):
https://www.etchedbright.art/

Improvisers Ensemble (IE):
https://www.youtube.com/@improvisersensembleie5902

 

South Wales Improvisers:

https://shiftcardiff.org/south-wales-improvisors/

Pieriant:
https://peiriant.bandcamp.com/music

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The Script

Inkwells run dry and prices rise, so words are at a premium. Only the ostentatiously wealthy display public circumlocution, indulging in vulgar prevarication and tergiversation, while we the people are brief and pithy. There are, of course, alternatives, and although less permanent than traditional methods, I’ve found that the condensation on crowded train windows makes a workable substitute for perfunctory transactions. It’s something in the distance and waiting, a quality hanging between loss and anticipation, with just the right quantities of boredom, frustration, and nothing at all. It serves for shopping lists and to-do lists and, at a push, notices of the untimely deaths in unexpected circumstances of not-too-close relatives. For some reason, the condensation on bus windows, however crowded, won’t work at all. Cars? Don’t be silly. The deeply religious, of course, deny the need for ink and its analogues altogether, proclaiming the utopian democracy of the Digital Kingdom. But where does that leave us? Lost for words. Lies cost nothing and, even since I started typing, this sentence has changed beyond all recognition.

 

 

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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

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Whole Earth Index

 

Here lies a nearly-complete archive of Whole Earth publications, a series of journals and magazines descended from the Whole Earth Catalog, published by Stewart Brand and the POINT Foundation between 1970 and 2002. They are made available here for scholarship, education, and research purposes.

https://wholeearth.info/

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Radical Book Fair 2023: Revolutionary Feeling

The 2023 Radical Book Fair is taking place on 9th -12th November at the Assembly Roxy in Edinburgh!

This year, the fair’s theme is Revolutionary Feeling. Throughout our four days of panels, workshops, publisher and activist stalls, we’ll explore the movement between our inner worlds and the society that shapes them, between personal and collective experience, the individual and the systemic in harm as well as joy. Together, we hope to turn our gaze toward honest futures, definied by care and collective power.

TICKETS: The Radical Book Fair is entirely bookshop run, without outside funding, so any and all support means the world to us. The Fair is FREE to BROWSE Thursday – Sunday and you can drop in whenever we are open.

Events are £5 or free – we completely understand paying for one event and then getting free spots for others. ALL ticket sales help both to anticipate attendance and to help us pay all our speakers. If you have any questions please don’t hesitate to ask!

Events listings and further details at https://lighthousebookshop.com/events/radical-book-fair-2023-radical-feeling

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On Matthew Perry’s Passing

Friends die. It takes a while,
more than the summer of this life,
to realise the verity we knew.

Almost Halloween, the moon waning,
half a life, candied, decays the other half.
No urge to stroll a mile laden with leaves, 
to step in a café at the centre 
of your memory’s city and to see no face
you know, the bodies you left wearing
something new, laughter rolling, shadows, 
and the seats now in Vogue tides through. 

Better yet, stay on the couch, hear
the retro clapping in the backdrop
of a sitcom, spill some icecream soup
or stale caffeine made following a net recipe.

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor

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Goldie

                          

“A night of rumbling bass sounds, a rammed, heaving mass of humanity in full dancing mode…with wild moments of madness and mayhem”, suggests Alan Dearling

Goldie is a proper larger-than-life geezer. A star who is also everyone’s mate. He’s a natural chameleon, with an eye-popping, mind-blowing range of artistic, musical and acting achievements behind him. And, obviously more to come.  It was great to meet him, albeit briefly. A little more about him in a wee while…

The event I attended was the Marcus Intalex Music Foundation night. A night celebrating the life of Marcus Kaye…  It was a night of performance with djs and music producers of music providing pulsating, foundations-shaking drum ‘n’ bass. A night too for audience participation. To dance, bounce, gyrate, jump and buzz.

The Foundation itself ran a dj mixing and mc-ing workshop earlier in the day.  Goldie was the headline act, but a lot of the other djs are renowned in this genre.

From their site: “MIMF is a platform to support and nurture music talent in many aspects of music development and the culture that surrounds it.

One of Marcus’ greatest passions was to encourage and guide aspiring music talent, as well as pass on the knowledge he himself acquired over the course of his long-standing and successful career.

His importance to the Manchester music scene cannot be overstated, and as an extension of that, the Marcus Intalex Music Foundation aims to continue working in this spirit.

From workshops and studio sessions, to seminars and events; we will host and facilitate a series of programming for people to explore, learn and immerse themselves in everything we love about music and the people we admire.”

Here are a few images of some of the MIMF team and performers:

 

With Gig, venue host (left) at the MIMF event

Goldie was born: Clifford Joseph Price in 1965. He’s also been awarded an MBE. He first came into the public consciousness working as a graffiti artist, especially around Wolverhampton, and much of his early work was futuristic and also a form of politicised social commentary. But soon he turned to honing his skills as a musician, dj and music producer in the UK world of jungle, drum and bass and breakbeat, hardcore scenes.  From Wikipedia we learn that: “He released a variety of singles under the pseudonym Rufige Kru and co-founded the label Metalheadz. He later released several albums under his own name, including the 1995 album Timeless, which entered the UK charts at number 7.”

He featured on the cover of the ‘Face’ magazine in 1995 as the ‘Bass Explorer’, the ‘Breakbeat Alchemist’, with hobbies including snowboarding, walking the dog and dentistry!

Many folk recognise him from his role in the 1999 James Bond film, ‘The World Is Not Enough’, and from Guy Ritchie’s ‘Snatch’ (2000). UK audiences also know him from the long-running BBC series, ‘East Enders’ (2001–2002). Increasingly he has also appeared in a number of celebrity reality television shows, including ‘Celebrity Big Brother 2’, ‘Strictly Come Dancing’, ‘Come Dine with Me’ and ‘Maestro’. He still occasionally performs as a musician in Metalheadz, having recently put on a show at London’s Koko venue. He is a high-energy, high-octane performer.

A 2020 documentary for Sky Arts called, ‘The Art that made me’, has been very positively reviewed, and Goldie has, since 2007, returned to producing new art work alongside his music and acting careers.  A clip is here: https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=959291614603097

 

Goldie’s latest offering is ‘Timeless’ (30 years on) – “… ‘re-takes’ not re-mixes”, Goldie says of his new release, 2 x CDs; 3 x LPs and digital. https://goldie.lnk.to/timelessremixesFB

 

Goldie’s Metalheadz logo adorns one wall outside the Golden Lion venue for the MIMF extravaganza – pictured here with local muso, Sam Durham.

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Three Intercepts

                1

measured wavelengths
flag up
customary closed-back
headphones massacre
NEWS FLASH
metaphoric call
it fission
fabulous advances
cemented in
the one
flesh culture
war origins
phantasmal Adamic
paradox ripped
out scarscaped
ore logged
terra di
nessuno ein
Wort to
begin with
global fuelling
a more
            powerful jaw

               2

migrant world
view stabilizing:
habitat breakdown
Noth Atlantic
Culture Specific
Items simultaneously
moving East
historic imperatives
geography spiritual
strategy lift-off
a salire
alle stelle
latterly airless
invasions rampant
alarm bells
trigger Border
Security at
Moon Estates

             3

heritage wreckage
off-screen eternal
return in
real time
sticking to
the facts
matrix for
wave Futures
progressing on
a closed
circuit
         interface
teleport
            space
displaced blue
sky deposits
arrive at
the cashpoint
a century
in advance

 

 

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Adrian Clarke

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