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

 

 



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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. 

 

.

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

 

.

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.

 

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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

 

 

.

Adrian Clarke

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My dysfunctional heart

 
My heart is closed to loving these days
I rummage within
Like I search for keys
In my big fat weekday purse
It’s too clustered 
My search, too hurried
 
It flows today
Like the shallow pond
In my neighborhood
The butt of jokes
For those coming from area
Of unending stream
 
My heart doesn’t hold any miracle
An outsider roaming the streets
It isn’t the fabled village well
That migrant maids speak of
It doesn’t become my succor
In time of drought
 
A million caged birds
Entangled vocal chords
It can’t retrieve its voice
 
The hunt is on, nevertheless
In the darkness of late evening
In downtown bars

But recession hit those places hard
There are no happy hours left

 

 

Vandana Kumar

____________________________________________________________

Bio

Vandana Kumar is a French teacher, translator, recruitment consultant, Indie Film Producer, cinephile and poet residing in New Delhi, India. Her poems have been published in national and international websites, journals and anthologies of repute – ‘Outlook’, ‘Madras Courier’, ‘Grey Sparrow Journal’ to name only a very few. She has been a part of seminal feminist anthologies like the Indie Blue publication ‘The Kali Project’. Her cinema articles appear regularly in ‘Just-cinema’ and ‘The Daily Eye’. She was a jury member for the ‘All India Poetry Competition’ organized by ‘Cocoa-Butter’ and also co-edited their debut print anthology that resulted from this competition. Her recent collection of poems ‘Mannequin Of Our Times’ (February 2023) – has been awarded the ‘The Panorama International Book Award 2023’ and the ‘Mighty Pens Awards’ in the poetry category.

 

 

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The Nicompoop of Sadomasochism

I bit my wife today
She punched me in the eye.

 

——————————-

Disclaimer:
No Wifes or eyes were irreparable hurt during the making of this poem.

 

Nick & Claire Victor

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MARCUS AURELIUS DREAMBOOK

 

Dreams are not made by arrangement
Dreams are entirely ungoverned
Dreams are conceived and not made

When dreamers dream ‘outside the box’
Governments may box the dreamer
Dreams do not derive from any box

Grandiosity is sly
When planning to be simple   –      
‘Surely all mankind must live in boxes!’

Dreams are organic and normal
Even with the designate ‘abnormal’  
Governments are institutes of man

His days are re-designed continually
So worn-out nights of worry pass dream-free
Dream-free man is man so easily-governed

Governments merely make boxes
Boxes then developed and adapted
A right box and a wrong box both dream-free

Each holds a mechanical man
Convinced the human mind
Is simply another computer

Beautiful Dreamers   –   nonetheless
You will be on my ‘app.’
If I may be on yours

 

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Bernard Saint
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

 

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LOST & FOUND

the antique roses
were
obliterated by
aphids & alderflies
while
the heirloom vegetables
were
annihilated by
drought & deluge
whereas
it was a good year for orgasms

 

 

.

TERRENCE SYKES

 

 

.

 

 

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Sailing on a Strange Boat

The Waterboys, Hall for Cornwall, Truro, 25 October 2023

The Waterboys have covered a lot of musical ground since they began. A trio of ‘big music’ albums – energetic and expansive rock – were followed by a shift to folk-inflected music, before the band disbanded and then reformed, returning to rockier climes but also visiting the poetry of Yeats and Hendrix’s wailing guitar. The one constant has been Mike Scott, on a constant search for and reflection on the meaning of life and how to live it.

Tonight he has a mostly low key bass player and drummer keeping time, whilst he moves between acoustic and electric guitar with occasional visits to the piano, although this is mostly played by virtuoso James Halliwell. And on stage left, looking like Bill Bailey crossed with Rick Wakeman appearing in Night of the Living Dead, is Brother Paul, shaking his hair who hammers away at his Hammond organ or freaks out across the stage on his keytar. (When did you last see one of those in use?)

It’s his initial antics which provided a poor start to the proceedings and distract from the music but after a few songs the band seemed to have warmed up enough, and warmed the audience up enough, to chill into the music, reinventing songs from all over the last few decades, often in totally different arrangements.

‘How Long Will I Love You?’ remains wistfully romantic, the nostalgic narrative of ‘Ladbroke Grove Symphony’ turns almost ska, ‘The Pan Within’ becomes hard rock, bookended by versions of Patti Smith & Bruce Springtseen’s ‘Because the Night’. The most radical new version is a deconstruction of ‘This Is the Sea’, which is not only slowed right down but features sheets of improvised sound from pianist Halliwell, who quite rightly gets huge applause for his efforts tonight.

Another beautiful section of calm amongst the storm comes when Scott reads the ‘The Piper at the Gates of Dawn’ from Wind in the Willows, over a mystical, blues-tinged instrumental. Encore and closing song ‘The Whole of the Moon’ of course returns to singalong and wig-out territory, offering a joyous and uplifting end to the evening.

There’s a kind of default setting the Waterboys fall into, a kind of lazy boogie-rock circa 1970s, which Brother Paul’s organ attack doesn’t help rise above the cliché, but most songs tonight avoid this, reaching for something more. There are occasional echoes of Van Morrison, hints of the original Waterboys sound, plenty of new age imagery and impassioned folk melodies in the mix, and asides, limericks (‘There was an old man from Truro…’) and comedy from Scott, all adding up to a lively, busy and engaging gig. I wonder where the music will go and what they will do next? Whatever it is, I’m looking forward to hearing it.

 

 

.

Rupert Loydell

 

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a Hell Bus for the Niger Delta

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A HELL BUS FOR THE NIGER DELTA

 

 

I’ve been back in London for the last week during a gap in the Hell Bus tour, (see below for more on that) but rather than sleeping for a month, time and circumstance has thrown me right into the next project: a Niger Delta Hell Bus!

After my visit to the Niger Delta earlier this year, local Ogoni climate activists asked me to come back and create a version of the Hell Bus for use in their campaigns and for a backdrop for the annual Ogoni protest outside the Shell HQ in Port Harcourt on the 10th November. This annual march commemorates the execution of the Ogoni Nine, community activists who had campaigned against Shell’s destruction of the Niger Delta and who, at the behest of Shell, were framed by the former military dictatorship and executed in 1995. Shell also offered ‘witnesses’ in the case jobs with Shell if they gave false testimony against the Ogoni Nine.

It’s one of Shell’s more shocking crimes in living memory and I’m proud to be involved in commemorating the Ogoni heroes, who won a significant victory in preventing oil extraction in Ogoniland, although Shell’s oil infrastructure still leaks oil into their waterways, crops and communities, as I documented in this short documentary from my last visit:

 

The Niger Delta Hell Bus project is going to involve purchasing a minibus which will be owned and operated by Lekeh Development Foundation as an activist campaign vehicle, allowing Ogoni people to take part in climate demonstrations and actions towards a fossil free Niger Delta. It will also be used to help support affected communities.

I’m also planning to rent some billboard space (a first for everything!) to put up anti-Shell adverts in the run up to the protest, and locally print hundreds of Hell t-shirts to give out to protesters during the march.

I have secured some funding for this project but it’s a bit short of the total needed (turns out buses are more expensive out there than I thought!). As time is short and I’ve been too busy with the Hell Bus tour to apply for funding elsewhere I’m going to cover the additional costs myself, but anything anyone can chip in towards this would be greatly appreciated.

You can donate here.

       

 

HELL BUS TOUR

 

Back in the UK, the Hell Bus tour has gone brilliantly, and I’m absolutely delighted at the response it got around the country.

Massive thanks to Ad Free Cities and Switchit.Green for sorting all the logistics and to all the volunteers and venues who helped make this happen. I give a more comprehensive thanks in my recent blog post, which contains a few more photos.

There is still one more date: Bristol – 30th Oct-1st Nov at UWE, Frenchay Campus (outside the Student Union)

And an additional bonus date in Leeds 4th-5th November for Big Up Fest outside Tetley, although I’ll be in the Niger Delta by then, local AdBlock Leeds volunteers will be holding the fort!

 

   

An added benefit of working with AdFree Cities and Switchit.Green for this tour was that it gave people tangible actions they could take after coming through the bus, whether that’s changing their bank account or getting involved/starting up a local AdBlock group.

In Birmingham me and Robbie from Ad Free Cities did an event about advertising and by the end there was a new Ad Block Brum group set up and trainees signed up for subvertising training! That’s the good stuff.

I’m really looking forward to the bus being useful in activism like this going forward. Also looking forward to a 2024 tour, if you can host the bus please get in touch!

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

PALESTINE

 

It’s been absolutely heartbreaking watching the news come out of Palestine the last few weeks, thousands dead and genocidal rhetoric being broadcast and normalised daily. I haven’t had a chance to make any work during this current crisis, but I’ll link and post to a few older pieces here, including the above which I made during Israel’s invasion of Gaza in 2014, prints and postcards available here, 100% of profits go to Interpal.

The below images link to more details and hi-res images.

   

  

 

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!

 

MERSEYSIDE

I’m coming back to Merseyside in November for an exhibition of my work at Future Walls in Birkenhead. I’ll also be doing a talk and screening there on Monday 20th November. Free entry! Come look at art and listen to me blab!

I don’t have any specific details at the moment, but will post them on my socials as soon as I know. But here’s where it is:

75 Argyle St, Birkenhead CH41 6AB

 

 

 

MR DEMOTIVATOR MUGS

 

Got the Mr Demotivator mugs back in stock in time for those lazy winter snooze-ins.

You can order one here.

Also I still have some I Am Become Plastic Destroyer of Worlds t-shirts left in stock. Pink and black only.

 

Available here.

 

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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What Holds Mankind Back from Confronting the Forces Determined to Destroy It?

 

 

War, on anything other than a localised dispute level, is a contrived and preplanned event based on ulterior motive.

In the era of globalisation, war is used to create a distraction from something of more lasting significance which the protagonists want to introduce under cover of the smoke and fire dominating imagery and rhetoric of the battle ground. Something that will further enslave a large body of humanity to conform to the desired end game – and at a much faster rate than would otherwise prove possible.

War is also motivated by the desirability of an economic upturn to the fortunes of the military industrial complex, and, of course, as a harbinger of chaos.

Chaos is a vital factor in inducing traumatised populations to call for a big brother saviour to end the conflict. The conflict that these same ‘saviour’ promoting elite control agents have had a major part in starting in the first place.

Given that world events are politically and economically manipulated to give ever greater power to ever fewer institutions and those who run them, ‘enemies of the people’ are easily identified.

However, the difference between a 21st century enemy and an enemy of previous eras, is that the 21st century version uses advanced psychological manipulation as the main weapon of an increasingly virtual armoury.

Therefore today’s public enemy no. 1 – is a master of deception.

Grasping this, means recognising that we have a new dimension to get to grips with in order to develop a strategy able to lay bare this deception and to explode its psychological hold over the better part of humanity.

This can only be done by those who possess the foresight and awareness which enables them to identify the behaviour patterns and motivations common to the chief operatives behind the process of human enslavement.

It includes recognising the main causal elements behind the mass hypnosis of humanity. The inducing of a state of mind (and being) which leads good people ‘not to act’ when everything around them instinctively demands taking immediate action.

On further scrutinising this dire state of affairs, it becomes apparent that there is something jamming the broader survival instinct of a great swathe of the human population.

By ‘survival state’ I mean more than somehow managing to stay alive in a crisis where one’s physical being is at risk. The state which is jammed is not this, it is at the psychic and spiritual level. That state which instinctively gives one a sense of what is right and what is wrong – and a connectedness with others as well as with the natural environment which nurtures us.

When this connected state is healthy, we instantly feel outraged that any part of this collective living entity of which we are a part, is under threat from the egregious acts of other human beings.

But when it is not healthy – when it is sick – this instinctual outrage fails to cut in. Instead, the predominant emotion is one of withdrawal and passive self preservation. And it is this retreat into a self interested cul-de-sac of indifference to the fate of the family of man and nature – which is the real pandemic of our time.

I have described in previous articles how the techno-industrial digitalised-god of mass abstraction, coupled to its promise of ‘a culture of convenience’, has played a large part in drawing mankind away from making any effort to connect to its deeper nature, to respond to the call of a higher goal and guiding soul.

A selfish preoccupation with personal preference is accompanied by an indulgence in essentially cosmetic concerns. And this comes at the very time when the world is being torn apart by pre planned and harshly enforced divisions that are vampiring human values and setting the stage for the central control system to become fully despotic.

Those able to afford the false luxury of selfish self interest at a time like this, brutally stand-out as prime examples of a complete breakdown of humanitarian and spiritual sensitivities which provide life with its true resonance and real meaning.

What we have to do in order to get somewhere in dealing with this all pervading crisis, is to pin-point the source and nature of this great deception being perpetrated on a largely non resistant mankind. Not just the technology – but that which stands behind the tech and which has hypnotised living beings into following its poisonous surveillance and control programme.

Here, once we look deeply enough, we find the anti-life agenda which belongs to that category of human sicknesses we know as psychotic, psychopathic and sadistic. Such a state of human demise holds that there is no God. That it is man who is in charge of the universe – or should be – and that whatever forces exist ‘out there’, only those that help achieve the gross ambitions of earthlings are worth engaging with.

This is a cult persuasion. It is the predominant position held by the rump of world ‘leaders’ today. Their predominant state of being, no less. The younger ones have been trained by Klaus Schwab and his henchmen to be impenetrable and immune to human feelings. This is considered an imperative in the cause of the full techno-digital take over of daily life.

So our job is to understand this. Not to consign it to a box labelled ‘sickness of the 2%’ and put on the windowsill to be forgotten. It is up to us to acknowledge our part in accepting and allowing this cult siege of life on earth.

We, the people, are at least 90% of the problem. At each historical point, when conditions offered the chance to break the dark spell, we opted out. We failed to take action and take control of our destinies as fellow human beings who value truth, wisdom and justice above all else.

We instead allowed the red carpet to be rolled out for WEF ‘Young leaders’ and other psychotic power seekers to do their worst. Helped along by billionaire ego maniacs, corporate kings, queens and vulture bankers.

And if a brave group should rise up and block-off the centre of repressive power, as in Canada for example, then ‘we the people’s’ applause is fulsome. However, on an individual basis most say “Well done them!” but nevertheless revert to an impassive state of isolation, consigning the potentially life changing event to the same box on the window mantlepiece, while ruing the missed opportunity to rise-up as one and turn the tide of history.

It is undoubtedly the case that each of these ‘non-uprisings’ is a gift to our dark enslavers. Each clampdown which follows is more pervasive and more brutal than the last.

The subsequent fear, anxiety and confusion that comes with this, is the fuel which the cult needs to maintain its Satanic regime.

This is not idle talk. Those who worship at the alter of Baphomet pledge to ensure their monster master will be well fed. Masonic temples exist within the British House of Parliament. Wherever ambition involves trampling on others to achieve desired aims, demonic forces are involved.

Washington DC, Canberra (capital of Australia), and the Vatican in Rome are architecturally designed according to Satanic symbolism that embraces and worships money and power as the supreme goal of life. The City of London ‘square mile’ adopts this same obsession and no doubt Wall Street does too – and other such centres of unrestrained Mammon worship.

The deep state operatives could not achieve their global enforcement regime without a direct link to centres of dark energy. Those most determined to be top dog will go to any lengths to achieve their ends.

This is why paedophilia and child sacrifice is resorted to within political and ‘elite’ circles whose calculated way of life is dependent on forever drawing upon the innocent power of others. Of vampiring the pure energy of innocent children and turning it into dark deeds of global repression.

So what is it that keeps mankind on its knees to those who freely indulge in continuous acts of murder?

Fear? Incredulity? Too much comfort? Cynical satisfaction with the ‘bargain slavery of the day’?

Something of each, no doubt. But more than all put together, it is my contention that the key is lack of self belief. And self belief does not mean ‘a big ego’, quite the opposite. It means knowing one is responding to that which offers guidance at the deepest level of one’s being.

Actions which come from this source are the only actions that will finally destroy the perpetrators of deep evil. There is no other answer to achieving the emancipation of mankind. There is no other force capable of deflating and defeating the Satanic vagabonds whose manifest life hating villainy spreads – almost unchecked – throughout a war torn world today.

Our true work, here and now, is to strengthen this bond we each have with our Creator and thereby to become properly prepared spiritual warriors, primed for confrontation with that which intends to destroy us and all trace of that Divine Spark which stirs our souls and makes us into real Human Beings.

Nurturing this spark to grow into a never dimming fire – this is our true challenge today. The call upon us all that will be the true catalyst to cast out the parasites and bring about the birth of a New Civilisation.

Courage, dear friends, courage. Victory is ours if we truly want it – and are ready to fight for it.

 

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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What to take with you when you flee

Early morning. A Mediterranean-blue haze
seen from a rooftop of my overcrowded block
is the colour of my fear. It presses down on me
like the rubble of a bombed-out building
where only the concrete frame of a door
to nowhere remains. What to take with you
when you flee? A passport? Its official, royal blue
embossed with gold is of little use
when you are not free to cross the borders.
The cerulean shawl worn by my grandmother
as she scrambled onto the donkey cart
from her home in 1948, never allowed to return.
This I’ll carry like a weight around my neck.
Clothes? Toiletries? As many as I can stuff
into this bag and still leave room enough
to gather the severed limbs and bloodless blue
faces of fleeing children blasted on the safe
evacuation route. Water I’ll take in a blue can,
if the pumps are turned on long enough,
and bread, but I’ll leave behind all other
sustenance. It will save space. I’ll pack
the blues of our unemployed youth
in this youngest of populations,
for they will be impossible to leave behind.
And I’ll carry the memory of the blue scrubs,
stale with rusty blood and despair,
of overstretched doctors. The electric-blue
spark of hope has been turned off,
so that will not be coming. Enough! Time is up.
I hear the buzz of drones that turn the sky
from blue to night, each one bearing
a tiny blue star like an approaching
galaxy of death over this thin strip of land.

 

 

Sally Spiers

 

 

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Some Notes On Writing

 

  • EVERYTHING HAS A NARRATIVE, a story of its own – and it isn’t necessarily the story that we think it is, and it isn’t the story that often we’d like it to be. With this in mind, for example – in the songs/pieces I’m writing currently, my ‘way in’ past the surface narrative is that of utilising automatic process  – initially fitting phrases together primarily for their ‘sound’, their musicality. Despite (perhaps) appearances to the contrary, for me as a writer the narrative ultimately is the element in all this that I consider to be the most important of all … because for me the whole business of writing is ALWAYS about communication. Tho, equally, that ‘communication’ would seem sometimes to appear to be a little incoherent and kinda difficult to place, the finished result is usually all the better for it.
  • For me, writing often begins with whatever particular words and phrases I ‘feel’ suit the mood and rhythms of the music. It always soon grows outward from here, however –  and all the while as I build the thing, considered ambiguity and multi layering are always to the forefront of my mind.
  • As I see it, the aim of the writing is to draw attention to a range of different phenomena: it is never just about cause and effect. You might say this is a protest of sorts – against those who would have you reduce the richness of experience into boxes of labels … ‘‘angst’’, ‘‘ennui’’, ‘‘happy’’ ‘‘sad’’ etc, etc. These places are real enough, they the places where people live / have their being – but such containment can’t be anything but reductive and unhelpful.
  • Next, all of this is crafted (of course!) and refined into songs, into some songs more than others. Songs are a mix of music and thought – they are a register of feelings that exist beyond definition – a wholly different place from the areas where ‘beliefs’ and attitudes rule the roost, those received wisdoms that run us all like automatons. It is music that enables/facilitates this, much more so words ever could – there are whole schools of thought that posit the idea that the very first vocal utterances were more akin to song and speech.
  • In writing, my feeling is that the songs, words and music here are NOT discreet entities – they are elements in the same discourse – where each casts certainty or doubt, illumination or shade, upon the other.
  • And, the overarching aim of the writing is to communicate one thing – that sometimes you make decisions for yourself on an obscure level: something in you is WISE, old and wise – wise enough to take care of you.
  • Always, the thing is to paint with words – effect is important and pivotal to the meaning: but meaning is essential. It is the most important factor in the writing – but also, importantly meaning is NOT fixed in place – and I do not see that as being the aim of art. The beauty of all this lies in its ambiguity.

        – October 2023 .

 

Martyn Bates

 

 

 

Martyn Bates has been half of the innovative post-punk duo Eyeless in Gaza, based in the West Midlands, since their inception in 1980. Their early albums were released (and since rereleased) by Cherry Red, who have also issued several compilations, with more recent work on labels such as Soleilmoon,  Monopol, Sub Rosa, Document, Integrity, and Ambivalent Scale.

He has also released several solo albums, starting with the lovely 10″ album Letters Written LP. Other collections include musical interpretations of James Joyce’s poems, noisier music as Kodak Strophes, reinventions of Murder Ballads with Mick Harris, and collaborative albums with Max Eastley, Anne Clarke, and as Twelve Thousand Days. He has also had two collections of his lyrics published as books, contributed tracks to many compilation albums, and reissued his early experimental solo work as The Migraine Inducers.

 

The official Eyeless in Gaza and Martyn Bates page is at https://www.eyelessingaza.com/

Eyeless in Gaza’s bandcamp site is at https://ambivalentscale.bandcamp.com/

Martyn Bates bandcamp site is at https://martynbates.bandcamp.com/

 

 

 

 

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Too Bright for Mr Mason

Bright too bright for Mr Mason
a man who has seen ghosts
a man who has come in
from a garden of sound and
cast his shadow on the wall
of this Church St café

Mr Mason who has kissed
tarnished brass with notes
of caffeine under his tongue
and crumbs of croissant
caught in his beard

Hot too hot for Mr Mason
a man who has studied cool and
who still has friends in the fire brigade
the fire brigade with their engines
gleaming like Alda’s lips red and bright
too bright for Mr Mason

 

 

G.N Deans
Photo Nick Victor

 

 

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WAKE UP! A BEGINNER’S GUIDE TO CONSPIRACY THEORISTS

 

What is true about the conspiracy myth? Underneath its literalism, it conveys important information that we ignore at great peril – Charles Eisenstein

Just before the weekend I had an encounter with one of my neighbours. It went something like this:

 

NEIGHBOUR:  Don’t go to town tomorrow

KR: Why not?

N: Well, you know – it’s going to happen here…the same thing…

KR: What is?

N: There’s going to be an attack in the town centre…I’ve got family in Israel…and we’re going to be digital-only by 2025…I can send you some links if you like…

KR: It’s ok thanks, I have my own sources of information

N: Oh good

What my neighbour seemed to be saying was that the recent disturbances in Israel – rocket attacks and a murderous raid by Hamas – were somehow going to be mirrored by a massive disturbance in the town centre of Hastings, with – presumably – street-fights, raids on businesses (those whose businesses and by whom the raids were to be carried out was unclear. We have a strong Baltic community here, a consequence of the relocation of refugees following the collapse in the 1990s of Yugoslavia. Reprisal attacks for whatever perceived slights or harms seemed to be the implication), and a generally risky or potentially catastrophic situation. The following day, having forgotten this encounter, I went into town. Nothing happened. As to the assertion that ‘we’ were going to be ‘digital-only’ by 2025, it was so vague that I struggled to make any sense of it. Yet to my neighbour both the town-centre attacks and the threat of being analogue-deprived in a couple of years’ time seemed to be true existential threats.

 

One of the more alarming consequences of the present era (or diverting and enlightening, depending on your personal perspective) is the proliferation of conspiracy theories, and those who subscribe to them. Until recently, these were almost exclusively disseminated online and via alt media, the theories ranging from the almost-plausible-until-thought-about, through to the outright bizarre.

In recent years, however, conspiracy theories have moved into the political mainstream.

 

Conspiracists attract ridicule and frustration among those who prefer rational analysis to what appear to be fantasy scenarios concerning the way the world is run. Psychologists attribute finding a conspiracy where there notionally is none to a cognitive bias called illusory pattern perception. Yet it may be important to consider what other, more subtle factors may account for the proliferation of such theories at the current time, to try to understand why this is so, and to learn how to deal with the potential impact on one’s personal life. How should one approach friends or family members who become attracted to conspiracy theories? What are the implications for politics in a world experiencing fear and disorientation, where those who promote conspiracy theories seem to be manufacturing them for their own ends? Who then is the conspirator, and who the conspired against? One thing seems certain: as Charles Eisenstein suggests above, if we write off conspiracists as deluded individuals, we ignore a fundamental, if uncomfortable truth that may in itself sound like a foundational myth: we are on occasion being cynically and systematically manipulated and deceived. In the UK, during the Brexit campaign, voters were told that a significant amount of money would be diverted from payments made to the EU to the NHS. It was untrue. The sad irony here is that many people sympathetic to causes espoused by prominent conspiracy theorists either ignored or failed to see this: they ended up voting to leave the EU. Three years later many voted to send a serial liar and shameless charlatan to No 10 Downing Street. This echoed a similar scenario in the US in 2016 when Donald Trump was elected the President of the United States.

 

According to a survey conducted by the University of Cambridge,

            The largest cross-national study ever conducted on conspiracy theories suggests that around a third of people in countries such as the UK and France think their governments are “hiding the truth” about immigration, and that voting for Brexit and Trump is associated with a wide range of conspiratorial beliefs – from science denial to takeover plots by Muslim migrants… Researchers also looked at a number of other popular conspiracy theories. Both Trump and Brexit voters were more likely to believe that climate change is a hoax, vaccines are harmful, and that a group of people “secretly control events and rule the world together’’.[1]

 

Early conspiracy theories, which became increasingly commonplace in the years immediately after the Second World War, included, but were not confined to, concerns about alien influence on human affairs, the development by the US military of an invisible, time-travelling warship, the assassination of JFK and so on. In recent years, largely thanks to the internet and the ease with which information can be shared via blogs and platforms such as YouTube, the frequency with which conspiracy theorists come to prominence has increased. David Icke, a former ITV sports presenter and Holocaust denier, has become something of cause celebre among the conspiracy communities, with his greatest hits including the idea that Royal Family are shape-shifting, baby-eating lizards, that the world would end in 1997, and that Covid-19 and environmental collapse are elaborate hoaxes. Piers Corbyn, brother of former Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn, believes this of climate change. American broadcaster and Infowars hard-line conspiracy theorist Alex Jones claims that governments have the power to control the weather, and once alleged that the majority of frogs in the US are gay – brought about by a secret ‘gay bomb’, a US government intervention using chemicals to encourage homosexuality and prevent people having children. He also claimed that the Sandy Hook elementary school shootings, in which 26 people died, were a hoax by gun control lobbyists, and claimed that parents of the allegedly murdered children were openly laughing at people who believed that the shooting was real. Donald Trump, and more recently Russell Brand, have claimed to be victims of ‘fake news’, or, in Brand’s case, moves by ‘legacy media’ to discredit him via allegations of sexual abuse, driven in part by envy of his considerable following down the rabbit holes of Youtube.

 

Other topics or preoccupations include establishing global economic reset and the new world order by shadowy groups of billionaires and other malicious actors (often referred to collectively as the Illuminati), with such groups notionally including Bill Gates, George Soros, Hillary Clinton and others; the use of extraterrestrial technology by the military and in experimental medicine; the belief that the Earth is flat, or that it is hollow with ancient tribes of extraterrestrial beings living inside it; variations on the End Times, the Rapture and other ideas expanding on biblical prophesies of the end of the world; that 5G was and presumably still is responsible for distributing Covid-19 ; that aeroplane exhaust fumes deliberately spread noxious substances, referred to as ‘chemtrails’; that the Apollo moon landings never happened; that MI6 were responsible for the death of Diana Spencer; the perceived infiltration of higher learning for sinister ends, leading to distrust of scientists and other ‘experts’; shifting gender identities causing the breakdown of conventional family structures; anti-vaxxing and suspicion of Big Pharma; ‘birther’ theories concerning the true birthplace of Barack Obama; that the death of George Floyd was a set-up involving actors designed to promote division and discord;  that the 9/11 attacks were an inside job, designed to legitimise US aggression in the Middle East; the gaining of power via Satanism, cannibalism and ritual child abuse and/or sacrifice; that the 2020 election was ‘stolen’ from Donald Trump; distrust of ‘15-minute cities’ as part of concerns regarding restrictions on freedom, and so on.  The last item on that depressing list is especially egregious: the perceived issue with restrictions on driving in crowded city centres, and related animus towards environmental campaigners, came in one particular instance from Rishi Sunak, the Prime Minister of the UK.

 

According to Esther Addley in the Guardian on 7th October 2023,

for a vocal few, the concept has become bound up in conspiracy theories about a ‘great reset’ that will see people confined to highly restricted zones by a cabal of climate-obsessed authorities. The climate crisis, they believe, is a contrivance to allow sinister powers to restrict individual freedoms – and this is one of their tools to do so.

 

 

                                                *           *           *

 

Dr Stella Immanuel, a US physician from Houston, Texas, once claimed that a witch attempted to use abortion, gay marriage, and children’s toys to destroy the world, and ‘the gay agenda, secular humanism, Illuminati and the demonic New World Order’ conspire ‘to destroy our homes, families and the social fiber of America’.

 

Dr Immanuel is also a pastor. In one of her sermons, she claimed that many medical conditions – including being gay – could be blamed on demons and witches: According to a sermon she gave in 2013,’They turn into a woman and then they sleep with the man and collect his sperm… then they turn into the man and they sleep with a man and deposit the sperm and reproduce more of themselves’. When Facebook subsequently removed many of her videos from its platform, she declared that ‘Jesus Christ would destroy the social media giant’s servers if her videos were not restored to the platform’[2].

 

A post seen on Facebook during the pandemic of 2020 outlined a reading of the various scenarios concerning Covid-19:

            ‘The current plandemic is a hoax perpetuated by a global consortium of wealthy and powerful individuals, aimed at gaining control of the world’s population via a compulsory vaccine containing sophisticated microchip nanobots. Using the 5G network, these can be activated inside the host body via an invisible app in your smartphone. Unless you comply with new laws and restrictions put in place by authoritarian governments, your internal organs can be attacked or you can be killed. Trump is funding a space weapon to target these individuals and their organisations’.

 

Also during the global pandemic the American conspiracy theory group QAnon began to ramp up the rhetoric to posit a cabal of Satan-worshipping paedophiles and cannibals looking to take over the world, with help from the Rothschilds, Hollywood actors and other celebrities, and with Donald Trump cast as the angel of light sent to save the world via an event known as the Storm. QAnon has something of a following on the American far-right, including William Armacost, the mayor of a small town, Sequim, in Washington State, who is quoted as saying that QAnon followers are ‘fighting for humanity, truth, freedom, and saving children and others from human trafficking’. Forbes online alleges that 56% of American Republicans believe that claims made by QAnon are ‘mostly or partly true’. During the pandemic, a close friend sat me down and told me straight-faced that children are being kidnapped, locked in cages and tortured: Hollywood elites were countering the effects of aging via adrenaline harvested from children’s blood, oxidised into a psychoactive drug called adrenachrome (referred to by Hunter S. Thompson in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas – ‘There’s only one source for this stuff, the adrenalin glands from a living human body.’) This refers to anti-Semitic myths dating back to the Middle Ages, claiming that Jews murdered children for use in religious ritual practice.

According to such theories, celebrities such as Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie and the Rolling Stones use adrenachrome to stay youthful. Judging from recent pictures of the Rolling Stones they’ve wasted their money. But then, according to a QAnon affiliated group of J.F. Kennedy Jr. affiliated ‘truthers’, at one particular Rolling Stones gig, things on stage were not entirely what they might seem:

“People are saying that Elvis was in a mask playing the keyboard,” read one message from a user named Mustang Debbie. “Michael Jackson was there maybe playing Mick Jager [sic]…JFK Junior was playing the guitarist Keith Richards in the yellow shirt and they all had masks on…They are saying it wasn’t even the Rolling Stones doing the concert.” (A representative for the Rolling Stones declined to comment.) [3]

 

                                                            *           *           *

 

So far, so bizarre. The idea of Mick Jagger being a zombie Michael Jackson is actually quite a wildly creative notion, and it’s not hard to sympathise with David Icke’s notion that the Royal Family are cold-hearted blood-suckers, though only when seen as a metaphor, not hard truth. It’s easy to laugh about the notion that tinfoil hats can provide protection from alien telepathy, but are conspiracy theories the harmless paranoid ravings of those who have lost touch with reality, or are they an indication of something more serious? What do conspiracists have in common that leads them to what seem to be irrational beliefs about events in the world? What are the implications for mental health for people who subscribe to such theories? What are the effects in the political sphere of conspiracy theories?

 

In their journal entry, Understanding Conspiracy Theories, a group of US-based academics offers three distinct psychological imperatives for beliefs in conspiracies – ‘a tendency toward believing that malevolent groups are conspiring and a tendency to believe that official accounts are false’:

            People appear to be drawn to conspiracy theories when—compared to non-conspiracy explanations—they promise to satisfy important social psychological motives that can be characterized as epistemic (e.g., the desire for understanding, accuracy, and subjective certainty), existential (e.g., the desire for control and security), and social (e.g., the desire to maintain a positive image of the self or group).[4]

 

The authors go on to say that such beliefs appear to be stronger when events are especially large-scale or significant, and when mundane explanations seem unsatisfactory.

 

According to an article in Scientific American, a variety of psychological factors can be accounted for when trying to figure out why some people believe that shadowy elites are conspiring to control the world. Among these are low self-esteem, feelings of alienation, disenfranchisement  and lack of control; a sense of political powerlessness; fear or anxiety concerning alarming and seemingly random world events and the need to ascribe a pattern to such events; social and/or economic disadvantage; educational disadvantage or low educational achievement (signalling lack of opportunity due to systemic institutional failure, rather than lack of ability); pre-existing mental health conditions such as narcissism, paranoia, anxiety and depression, and lack of analytical or critical thinking. In a journal article titled The Psychology of Conspiracy Theories published by the Association for Psychological Science, the authors suggest that conspiracy belief may offer an important source of belonging and shared reality. In certain scenarios, people feel better about themselves because they have access to privileged information – the ‘truth’ – about significant events, the nature and implications of which the rest of us have been too slow to appreciate. Any attempt to persuade the conspiracist  that their theories are misjudged, baseless or irrational leads to the digging in of heels, and the suggestion that one is oneself part of the greater problem – that dependence on narratives via mainstream media has clouded one’s judgment, or that one is living in ignorance and needs to ‘wake up!’ [5]

 

To take a case in point, consider the death of Diana Spencer. Which scenario seems more likely – that the British establishment was uneasy about Diana’s association with Dodi Fayed, so MI6 were drafted in to assassinate her; or that the British establishment was uneasy about Diana’s association with Dodi Fayed, but that her death was the result of a tragic accident? The need to impose order on uncertainty regarding the precise circumstances of Diana’s death may lead to the first conclusion, while the lack of any such imperative may leave the second conclusion uncontested. It may be that for the conspiracist, objective truth is secondary to the need to express distrust or alienation from mainstream narratives, and to claim solidarity with others of a similar mindset. With regard to the surprisingly popular notion that the earth is flat – notionally one of the more extremely absurd conspiracist claims – this might seem to be the case. It may be that literal truth – that the Earth is flat – is not what is being claimed. What is being established is the belonging to a group which denies common understandings of how the world works, and how power operates.

 

Sadly, too, trying to persuade a conspiracy theorist that their beliefs may be off-track is often met with resistance. The authors of The Psychology of Conspiracy Theories note that the theories have a failsafe mechanism – they are

            resistant to falsification in that they postulate that conspirators use stealth and disinformation to cover up their actions—implying that people who try to debunk conspiracy theories may, themselves, be part of the conspiracy[6]

 

Essayist Charles Eisenstein, writing in May 2020 identifies the core issue for widespread lack of trust in the institutions we used to hold dear.

            The loss of trust in science, journalism, and government reflects their long corruption: their arrogance and elitism, their alliance with corporate interests, and their institutionalized suppression of dissent. The conspiracy myth embodies the realization of a profound disconnect between the public postures of our leaders and their true motivations and plans. It bespeaks a political culture that is opaque to the ordinary citizen, a world of secrecy, image, PR, spin, optics, talking points, perception management, narrative management, and information warfare. No wonder people suspect that there is another reality operating behind the curtains.[7] 

 

The results of the 2016 British referendum on membership of the EU and the US election of the same year may have signalled that feelings of disillusionment and distrust in certain sections of the population – the ‘left behind’ – towards mainstream political institutions was indeed at a low, signals that were missed by both complacent Remainers in the UK and Democrats in the US, with unfortunate results in both cases. If Trump wins a second term in 2024, the version of America that rose to be the most powerful nation in the world in the latter half of the 20th century may become unrecognisable. This may not seem an unattractive proposition to some. If the fallout from Brexit results in nationalist movements in the UK succeeding in bids for full independence from the Union, there may well be in the future no Britain at all, great or otherwise. All that will be left of the Grand Project will be a racist, back-woods tin-pot shithole called England.

 

                                                      *         *        *

 

In 1976 Eric Clapton gave a drunken racist rant in which he suggested that Enoch Powell was right and that the ‘wogs’ should all go home. According to Guitar.com ‘Clapton noted that when he told friends and family about his plans to write and record anti-vaccine and anti-lockdown songs’ with that other high-octane goon Van Morrison, members of his personal network were concerned[8]. Questioning their motives led him to the claim that videos on Youtube use a process called Mass Formation Hypnosis or Mass Formation Psychosis to stupefy viewers into believing everything they see on Youtube. This includes the ‘hivemind’ ‘morons’ who queued up for Covid vaccinations without realising they were being controlled by sinister forces. Eric said that ‘I could see it, once I kind of started to look for it. I saw it everywhere. And then I remembered seeing little things on YouTube, which were like subliminal advertising, It’s been going on for a long time – that thing of ‘you will own nothing and you will be happy’’. The irony that Clapton said all this in a video on Youtube seems to have escaped him.

 

My neighbour’s warning that we are all going to be ‘digital-only’ by 2025 taps into the paranoid notion that everything is a scam, expressed as a generalised sense of existential unease, couched in terms vague enough to avoid focusing on precise detail, seemingly on the understanding that the implied threat is already universally understood.

 

According to Professor Richard Evans of the Leverhulme Trust,

There is a crisis of trust in modern societies. Public confidence in the central institutions of representative democracy has been declining since the 1980s. Conspiracy theories play a key part in this process. At the same time, the terrorist attacks of 9/11 made Western governments increase the surveillance of their citizens, curtail civil liberties and launch the so-called “war on terror”. Lack of trust on this scale shown by governments towards the people further fuels the emergence and spread of conspiracy theories targeted at governments and states.[9]

 

In our current era of ‘post-truth’, ‘alternative facts’ and the claiming of one’s own potentially highly individualised beliefs or convictions as ‘my truth’, it may truly be that conspiracy theories, or alternative truths, have as much legitimacy in their own fashion as any mainstream account of what is happening in the world. Former conversations about attempts by the BBC to moderate –or ideally stifle – the output of ‘left-wing’ comedians speaks to notions of the deliberate eroding of freedom of speech or expression, and misrepresentation of truth, both personal and universal. Experience also tells us that when the money is good, many comedians tend to become less ‘left-wing’. Ask Ben Elton. Ricky Gervais’s abrasive rudeness at the Golden Globes award show in 2020 was not necessarily holding truth to power, as might have been claimed.  It was an act, a lucrative shtick, capitalising on his most bankable assets – his obnoxious bigotry, complacency and arrogance. Yet both Gervais’s act – his calling out of the many failings and idiosyncrasies of the TV and movie industry, while ignoring his own – and conspiracy theorists’ suspicion of mainstream information outlets, may contain kernels of truth about the world, elaborated upon for theatrical effect. All these years down the line we still don’t definitively or conclusively know what happened at Roswell, who ordered the assassination of John F Kennedy, or whose money was behind the 9/11 attacks; nor the precise circumstances of Diana Spencer’s death. We have accounts that pass into something like folklore, and conspiracy theories play an important part of building the myths that surround these events.

 

Yet sadly, claims that George Floyd’s death was a set-up or that Covid-19 is a hoax plays into the hands of racists, fascists, Trump supporters and a whole panoply of vulnerable and impressionable people, may increase paranoia among those whose mental health is already fragile, and further inflate the narcissistic egos of those who claim to have privileged access to the ‘truth’, while also asserting that the very notion of ‘truth’ is a sham.

 

And, positing Trump as an avenging angel sent to save the world from cannibals and satanic child abuse was never likely to generate a positive outcome for anyone.

 

 

SOURCES:

Cambridge University

CNBC

Forbes online

Guitar.com

Independent online

The Daily Beast

democracynow.org

Rolling Stone

Karen M. Douglas, Joseph E. Uscinski, Robbie M. Sutton, Aleksandra Cichocka, Turkay Nefes, Chee Siang Ang, Farzin Deravi, Understanding Conspiracy Theories’, Advances in Political Psychology, Vol. 40, Suppl. 1, 2019.

Adam M. Enders, Steven M. Smallpage, ‘Who Are Conspiracy Theorists? A Comprehensive Approach to Explaining Conspiracy Beliefs’, Social Science Quarterly, Volume 100, Number 6, October 2019

Karen M. Douglas and Robbie M. Sutton, ‘Why conspiracy theories matter: A social psychological analysis’, European Review of Social Psychology, November 2018

Evans, Professor Sir Richard, Conspiracy and Democracy, Leverhulme Trust, https://www.leverhulme.ac.uk/former-schemes/conspiracy-and-democracy,

 

 

Keith Rodway

 

[1] University of Cambridge Research, 23 November 2018

[2] BBC news online, July 29th, 2020

[3] Rolling Stone, November 4th, 2021

[4] Karen M. Douglas, Robbie M. Sutton, and Aleksandra Cichocka, Understanding Conspiracy Theories, Political Psychology, March 20th, 2019

[5] Karen M. Douglas et al, ibid

[6] Karen Douglas et al, ibid

[7] Eisenstein, Charles, The Conspiracy Myth, https://charleseisenstein.org/essays/the-conspiracy-myth/, May 2020

[8]Guitar.com, January 24th, 2022

[9] Evans, Professor Sir Richard, Conspiracy and Democracy, Leverhulme Trust, https://www.leverhulme.ac.uk/former-schemes/conspiracy-and-democracy, no date given

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Tighten the Spring


 
We see the news and hang our heads
Thank god the villain’s dead
                                or locked away
But in some quiet room in town
There sits another tortured frown
                                with his mind at play
 
Another daughter, another son
Victims of the misguided one
                                & his quest for fame
The cruelty that was handed out
The lies that the tormentors spread about
                                I often wonder who’s to blame
 
The dispossessed are everywhere
So far hidden, they’ve missed the care
                                we forgot to give
Who was it cast that very first stone
The mother, the father or the foster home
                                not live and let live
 
Now, I’m not attempting to forgive
But I question who the victim is
                                the cause then the crime
It’s easy to create a comfortable distance
Just another unfortunate instance
 
 
                                until the next time
 

 

.
Morgan Bryan

 

 

.

 

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Green Ink

1.
From Tokyo to Narita on the Express, the pen’s green ink reminds us of Neruda; and of the bilious ocean; and of envious opinions. We are moving away from them all, even the words that teachers once cherished, that we learnt until they seemed a ‘thusness’ of language—as fashions then endorsed. Now, our language is of the body, and biting air, and words that fall like ginko leaves on the pathways of speaking. You say we will eat sunshine this evening. I say, let us consume the new words at the tip of each others’ tongues.

2.
The first time, there was green ink between my first and third fingers. We sat closer than my heartbeats and, as I chewed on my nail, my bottom lip was tinged with emerald. I wondered if I pressed my lips to yours, would I transfer a sort of greening. Now on a train to Narita, I think of the eels being stabbed and skinned in long sweeps. Knives stained and washed. I tell you our mentors are serpents and you shrug, as if to say ‘I had never understood’.

3.
The houses and apartments flow past the train as if time stamped impressions on the new day. The air is inked with their colours—and the shapes of walls, windows, roofs, gardens, fences. We would sketch them in the green of this contemporary hour, if that were possible—including the shrine that gathers up centuries. Old customs rise, like another way of saying who we are; old literatures speak with modern accents. You see an apartment where an important moment came and went; I am holding you years ago, pointing to the old gates where the Tori signal a pathway up a mountain that Bashõ once climbed.

4.
We learn words for prawn, mackerel and ‘what do you recommend?’ I love how the word ‘hotate’ sits on my lips, my tongue tapping the roof of my mouth. Later, you teach me your quiet; the pause between subject and verb. In the molten sky painting our hotel room window, we watch Mount Fuji’s shadow and haze, the glow that climbs and dissipates, like understandings broadcast into wide, wind-swept air.

 

.

Cassandra Atherton & Paul Hetherington

 

 

.

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Crushed Butter Rock

He liked to think his life enormous in the scheme of things. Unglued, construed, and multi-menacing with stance intact. A cracked denominator strips the figuring of range and fun. Crushed butter rock to spread across the wealth. A weathervane beside the shack. Tactile tools to use to factor in the innocence frayed though staid in mental fact. Delineate degrees of freedom made for the mensch we nimbly love.  A breeze rock, a clock in bloom. Why not domesticate fervor that one might ford the tenor river smoothed across the glide? Sandstone purview tenses hobbly stock. Uber-able distance creased in mind seeking safety in a narrow blind. 

Contractions choiced from speech, that he may know our love and weeds

 

,

Sheila E Murphy
Art: Rupert Loydell

 

 

 

.

 

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Hush Is The First Word of Freedom

(for Jack Foley)

This world’s soldiers pass
the cabinet in the shelled house
with our daughter inside, and 
one opens the door, lowers his gun, 
sighs a “Hush” and lets her exist

in that cell, the first one of many.
Cabinets infest the ruins, fill the city
with a child held within.
Their first word, ‘Hush’, builds hives
in their heads. They hum the same, 
the new God’s name.

They can scratch the other end, wooden,
until a lucky patch opens 
the code ‘Freedom’, the other world. 

 

 

.

Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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Train with no rails

Train with no rails
could be station,
could be transformation for flying,
could be a disaster,
train with no locomotive
could be country,
could be lonely camel found herself
suddenly close to an iceberg…
But train with no passengers
is simply sad..

 

 

Daisy Tsvete
Picture by Mike Lesser and Nick Victor

 

 

 

.

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Tiny Treasures

Alistair Fitchett on ‘Littoral States’ by Junkboy (Wayside And Woodland)

 

Beach walking is such a treasure. It is easy to take for granted when one grows up by the sea, when one’s mind is filled with thoughts of escape to places inland and urban: The bluster of crowds and the thrill of cultural connections so seductive and so much more preferable to the solace of space and Kerouac’s shefalying waves. Then again, Taking Things For Granted is in many respects the default setting for youth, and there is little point in reflecting on the inevitability of age other than to ruefully recognise that it comes to us all and that slipping free from the restrictions of our previous existences is a pleasure in itself. This, perhaps, what generations have meant when saying ‘No Regrets’ since time immemorial and so on ad-infinitum into gaudy futures.

Except… well, No Regrets, certainly, but there are certainly too Ghosts that haunt the liminal spaces of our everyday movements. Flickering presences slipping in from alternative timeframes. Those paths not taken or not even recognised as paths. Timeslips into possibilities endless and unimaginable:  A bigger brighter world, if only. Such collapses in structure tread through our waking dreams and the slippery elusiveness of sleep alike. They are the shifting sands, the subconscious equivalent to that littoral space of the beach walk. And what do we remember? Everything and nothing.

From the mirror calm of early morning summer and a har chill caressing cheeks as the sun glints through to the monstrous cacophony of winter gales and squalls spitting salt onto chapped lips; whitebait tossed to the sand from the surf catching the afternoon sun, glittering like tiny fragments of a mirror ball dashed on the dancefloor; milpreves migrating along the shoreline from cove to cove, carrying gateways to the land of the fae as they go. Staring at the sea and seeing Hiroshi Sugimoto visions as time elapses and retinas flare, giving the lie to David Lynch channelling John Ford’s advice to Spielberg about interesting horizon lines. Or white horses whipping across the wave tips as an Alfred Wallis fishing boat heads to harbour and the warmth of fire and brandy. Everything and nothing.

It’s all about loss, of course. Which is another way of saying it is all about the things we gain when contemplating loss, which are momentary and ultimately elusive but no less a valuable balm for all that.

This is the space that Junkboy tap into with their ‘Littoral States’ album; a record that employs explorations of the shoreline as a means of coming to terms with personal loss. With roots in COVID lockdown walks and the passing of their father, brothers Mik and Rich Hanscomb have built an album that traces generational life lines and the coastal landscape of Sussex. Fittingly, this is captured in abstract terms; in musical forms that flicker and flit elegantly between traditional folk structures and contemporary lenses. Fittingly too the record finds a home on Wayside And Woodland, a record label that has, over the past decade and a half, quietly but solidly rooted itself in that liminal area between suburban sprawl and rural mythology. With a visual aesthetic that is equal parts John Myers, Paul Nash and Vaughan Oliver, Wayside and Woodland is a deceptively calm haven where minutely strange things happen.

So it is with ‘Littoral States’, as the brothers Hanscomb navigate coastal threads from the Bognor Regis of their father’s birth, through Worthing, Brighton, Newhaven and Seaford. Field recordings provide subtle textural backdrops to songs that inhabit a place where ancient superstitious myth and modern progressive thought meander around each other, trading occasional fleeting embraces of mutual attraction. Long term Junkboy collaborators Will Calderbank, Becca Wright, Marcus Hamblett and Owen Gillham provide cello, violins, trumpets, banjo and e bow to colour in the songs, whilst vocalist Hannah Lewis provides an occasional Sandy Denny ingredient to proceedings. The allusion to Fairport Convention is not unintentional of course, for ‘Littoral States’ is certainly a record that places itself on the arc where Folk music is given a smooch of something altogether peculiar and reveals itself to be magically Other. On ‘Sea Captain’ Lewis’ voice follows a fairly traditional folk narrative, but on the terrific ‘Chase The Knucker’ (a legendary Sussex water dragon, I’m told) and ‘Witch Of The Watery Depths’ she dissolves mostly to a kind of abstract, restrained jazz improvisation with a Liz Fraser trembulation. It would have been easy to utilise this Siren song at more points throughout the album, and it is to the Hanscomb’s credit that they recognise the value of scarcity. Less is More.

Less Is More, indeed, and at just 32 minutes in length, the entire 10 track album is eloquently and admirably short. Repeated refrains bind many of the tracks together into a homogenous body of work, and whilst there are certainly no weak points, particular gems can be found in album opener ‘Cormorants At The Mouth Of The Ouse’ and ‘Cuckmere River Rises’. The former is all finger picked notes and succulent strings weaving between each other like wraiths dancing round the Maypole, whilst the latter is a delicious midsummer cornflower blue meditative meander downstream. Both are as glorious little instrumental sketches of Sussex as you are likely to find anywhere and should be filed next to John Nash paintings, or more pertinently perhaps those of Ivon Hitchens whose semi-abstract approach marked him out as the Patrick Heron of the South East.

That fracturing abstraction of vision is, in the end, the most lasting reverberation from ‘Littoral States’. It is a record that gently demands repeated listenings, each one rewarded with tiny details that transport us to places half-remembered and partially, hypnotically obscured. Beach walking treasure, no less.

Alistair Fitchett 2023.

 

‘Littoral States’ is available on the Wayside And Woodland label:

https://digital.waysideandwoodland.com/album/littoral-states

 

This review was first published by Caught By The River: https://www.caughtbytheriver.net/2023/10/junkboy-littoral-states-review/

 

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      IM. BOBBY CHARLTON 

 
 
 
 
 
                                                                                                                                                  
b. Oct 1937 d. Oct 2023
 
To BOY BASTIN and ALEX JAMES of THE ARSENAL
whom I’ve heard about many many times 
from my dad
To ‘ACE’ HASKOW of BARNET
who had a Wing Commander’s moustache
and flew down the wing like a Spitfire
and was 
‘The best footballer in the world’
for a very short time
To ‘BALDY HOGAN’ of BURHILL UNITED
who never gave up 
and probably still plays every week 
in the pages of the ‘Adventure’ magazine
To FRANK SWIFT of MANCHESTER CITY
who was killed incredibly 
in the Munich air crash
To BILLY STEEL of DERBY COUNTY
who still volleys the ball
from the pages of my
‘Stanley Matthews Football album’
for 1949
To STANLEY MATTHEWS of BLACKPOOL
whom I watched every time he came to London
because I knew he was
‘The Best Footballer in the world’
To the entire SPURS TEAM of 1951
who were my 
‘LILYWHITE BOYS’
and signed my autograph book
at a cricket match
To LEN SHACKLETON of SUNDERLAND
who was magical player
on his good days
and I once saw him on a good day
To FERENC PUSKAS and the HUNGARIAN TEAM 
who toppled our heroes in 1953
and changed everything
To MANCHESTER UNITED
who were slaughtered at Munich
and I couldn’t believe it
’til I got home from junior school
and listened to the radio
To the SPURS TEAM of 1961
who were very nearly as good
as the  SPURS TEAM of 1951 
To EUSEBIO da SILVA FERREIRA of PORTUGAL
who nearly won the World Cup by himself
To BOBBY CHARLTON of MANCHESTER UNITED
whose high-stepping gallop
and thunderbolt shooting
is one of the great sights of English football
 
with
respect
incredible envy
and love
from Jeff Cloves
 
1966
 
 
NOTE
this poem was first published
in the football edition of my magazine Poetsdoos in 1967
to celebrate England winning the World Cup
‘Poetsdoos’ is a Dutch word
(pronounced Pootsdos I believe) 
meaning shoe shine box
and was a nod to The Provos
a bunch of environmental anarchists in Amsterdam
who launched the Free White Bicycles campaign
 
 
 
 
 
 
.
 
 

Jeff Cloves. 

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Children of the Night (A Halloween Mix)

A short, dark, eclectic mix by Steam Stock, master of the macabre! Zombies, ghosts and Bela Lugosi… what more could you want this Halloween?

Tracklist

Playing tracks by PJ Harvey, Childish Gambino, Sufjan Stevens, Ralph Stanley, The Mars Volta and more.

 

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Roger Waters After Recent Visit To Julian Assange

An important message from #RogerWaters. We must keep Julian at the front of our minds and be ready to assemble when Day X is officially announced.

Please share this message and sign up below for updates: https://dontextraditeassange.com/day-x/ #FreeJulianAssange

Julian Assange has been imprisoned for 1656 days

Message from Stella Assange

Dear Peter

Julian is reaching the end of the road in the British courts. He is now into his fifth year of imprisonment without conviction in Britain’s notorious Belmarsh prison. On the third of July, he spent his fifth birthday in a small isolated cell. 

On June 6th, a single High Court judge rejected Julian’s application for permission to appeal. That means that the British appeal court will not have the opportunity to argue why he should not be extradited to the senior judiciary of the UK, and if that decision is confirmed in coming weeks or months by a panel of two separate High Court judges, Julian will not be able to appeal to the Supreme Court either and the Home Office will initiate his extradition. Julian will attempt to apply to the European Court of a Human Rights, but that avenue is neither automatic nor assured. 

The British Courts still have the opportunity to reverse course and do the right thing. The case is clear cut, this is a political persecution, Julian is the victim of a vengeful prosecution instigated by the same authorities that were plotting to kidnap and murder him. The charges re a fit up, because he cannot invoke a public interest defence. He is being used as a deterrent to bully reporters and citizens not to challenge corruption and abuse.

Those who wish to silence and imprison Julian for the rest of his life have contempt for what he stands for —our right to speak and know the truth and the agency of well-informed people to achieve reform and accountability. 

Julian needs each and everyone of us to stand by him and push back. If you are a UK resident, come to the courts on the day of the public hearing, sign this public petition to the House of Commons to call on the current Home Secretary to take all measures and block the extradition to the United States. https://actionnetwork.org/petitions/petition-to-the-house-of-commons

Check out this Free Assange Emergency Toolkit for other ways to help.

If the US and UK want to hold the moral and political high ground on freedom of expression, dropping the case and letting Julian come home is the only way to achieve it.

Join the fight and stand up for Julian. Don’t stop until he is free and back home with us.

This show of solidarity keeps Julian’s spirits strong as he fights an epic battle for his life and for the future of our freedoms. 

If you wish to donate to Julian’s defence: https://www.crowdjustice.com/case/assangeappeal/

You can donate to UK campaign: https://www.crowdfunder.co.uk/p/free-assange

You can also set up a regular donation.

Thank you!

 

Stella Assange

 

Get Ready for Day X

Julian Assange is facing his last chance to stop extradition in a UK court. The Royal Courts of Justice have not released a date yet but we have to be ready to protest.

Place: Royal Courts of Justice, Strand, London, WC2A 2LL
Time: 9am BST

Sign Up for the Notification

Sign Petition to UK House of Commons

If you are in UK sign our public petition to the House of Commons which will be presented by an MP. We are collecting as many signatures as possible across the UK asking the House of Commons to urge the Government to take action. 

Sign Petition Here

Our campaign relies on donations from the the general public.

Whether you can give £1 or £1000, your support makes a huge difference. We are raising to help us mobilize massive #FreeAssange protests similar to our Human Chain or the Night Carnival event.

Help us raise funds to keep the #FreeAssange billboard outside Belmarsh prison where Julian Assange is currently imprisoned – Join our Crowdfunder.

DEA Campaign

 

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Alan Lomax’s Massive Music Archive Is Online: Features 17,000 Historic Blues & Folk Recordings

A huge treasure trove of songs and interviews recorded by the legendary folklorist Alan Lomax from the 1940s into the 1990s have been digitized and made available online for free listening. The Association for Cultural Equity, a nonprofit organization founded by Lomax in the 1980s, has posted some 17,000 recordings.

“For the first time,” Cultural Equity Executive Director Don Fleming told NPR’s Joel Rose, “everything that we’ve digitized of Alan’s field recording trips are online, on our Web site. It’s every take, all the way through. False takes, interviews, music.”

It’s an amazing resource. For a quick taste, here are a few examples from one of the best-known areas of Lomax’s research, his recordings of traditional African American culture:

But that’s just scratching the surface of what’s inside the enormous archive. Lomax’s work extended far beyond the Deep South, into other areas and cultures of America, the Caribbean, Europe and Asia. “He believed that all cultures should be looked at on an even playing field,” his daughter Anna Lomax Wood told NPR. “Not that they’re all alike. But they should be given the same dignity, or they had the same dignity and worth as any other.”

You can listen to Rose’s piece about the archive on the NPR website, as well as a 1990 interview with Lomax by Terry Gross of Fresh Air, which includes sample recordings from Woody Guthrie, Jelly Roll Morton, Lead Belly and Mississippi Fred McDowell. To dive into the Lomax audio archive, you can search the vast collection by artist, date, genre, country and other categories.

Note: An earlier version of this post originally appeared on our site in March 2012.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newsletter, please find it here.

If you would like to support the mission of Open Culture, consider making a donation to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your contributions will help us continue providing the best free cultural and educational materials to learners everywhere. You can contribute through PayPalPatreon, and Venmo (@openculture). Thanks!

Related Content:

New, Interactive Web Site Puts Online Thousands of International Folk Songs Recorded by the Great Folklorist Alan Lomax

Stream 35 Hours of Classic Blues, Folk, & Bluegrass Recordings from Smithsonian Folkways: 837 Tracks Featuring Lead Belly, Woody Guthrie & More

Woody Guthrie Creates a Doodle-Filled List of 33 New Year’s Resolutions (1943): Beat Fascism, Write a Song a Day, and Keep the Hoping Machine Running

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Ernesto Diaz-Infante: Diciembre

Ernesto Diaz-Infante made his first recordings in his early teens. When he was 14, feeling bored, trapped, and in need of transformation and escape, he adopted the moniker Nicte-Ha, based on the Mayan legend of the princess who is transformed into a water-lily. Over the next two years he made a series of recordings as a ‘one man band’, using guitar, keyboards, synthesizer and drum machine. He curated and released them years later, in 2020. These hauntingly effective lo-fi recordings have an outsider sensibility about them that will be familiar to anyone  acquainted with WFMU’s 365-Day Project and, especially seen in the context of his later work, they’re definitely worth listening to.

In the 1990s, he produced some of his most approachable music, including the albums It’zat (1997) and Tepeu (1998). He plays the piano on both. In 2001, he and the guitarist Chris Forsyth released the album Wire and Wooden Boxes, an intriguing half-way house between the often sparse simplicity of his earlier piano work and more ‘hard-core’ noise-based free improvisation. The album Untitled (2002) is guitar-based and explores a completely different sound-world to the earlier piano music, incorporating two quarter-hour long sound-collages assembled from field recordings.

In 2005, he released the album Mirrors on the Crisis of the Moment, an explicitly political album, one of several collaborations he’s undertaken with his partner, the film-maker Marjorie Sturm. The tracks bear titles such as ‘Work-Wage System’ and ‘Repression of the Unseen Psychic Fields’. He has cited the American Beat poets as an influence and, as with them, both politics and mysticism find a way into his work. The album wistful entrance, wistful exit (2014), was made during what he described as a difficult time in his life and it’s perhaps the most austere minimalist music he’s ever made. Tunnels (2016) was made in response to the discovery of tunnels built by Palestinians during the 2014 Israel-Gaza conflict. Diaz-Infante described it as ‘a mantra for peace’. The music is, again, uncompromisingly minimal and to listen to it demands an attentiveness which can only be maintained by the achievement of a level of inner peace on the part of the listener. And as you travel down the tunnels of sound, you become aware of subtle changes, although it’s sometimes hard to be sure if the change is real or if one’s centre of attention has simply shifted to a different part of the sound.

Diaz-Infante describes the album Manitas (2017) as a response to the Trumpian political climate. He says of it: ‘It was inspired by listening to Cecil Taylor’s ‘Air Above Mountains’. It’s a spectral way of playing I have been developing, of avoiding melodies or harmonies, and using extended techniques, strumming, free-form fingering and picking, that verges on noise. I’m interested in automatism, letting the unconscious mind take control.’ Interestingly, elsewhere he describes his creative process as ‘bringing order out of chaos.’ I would say the emphasis here is on ‘bringing’: in Diaz-Infante’s music, passages of chaotic, asymmetrical figures will often distil into repeated patterns or drones in a way that reminds one of the way a meditating mind clears away distractions to gain equilibrium.

The workings of the mind are certainly one of his preoccupations (you can see it in his choice of track titles, such as ‘Fear of Love’, ‘Fear of Going Crazy’ and ‘Moving Away from My Mind’).  ‘I suffer from seasonal depression,’ he explains, in the notes that go with his latest album. ‘The holidays are often hard for me.’ Over the Christmas holidays in 2022, he planned and recorded a series of guitar improvisations based on words that reflected the way he was feeling at the time. The result was Diciembre (2023).

There are six tracks. In each (with the exception, perhaps, of the fourth), the music seems to depict a state of mind. This is intriguing, as it goes against the way free improvised music is so often seen, talked about and packaged as a doggedly abstract form of music-making.  For example, in the first track, ‘mania’, waves of sound rise up and down in a noisy, distorted sound-world in which notes, when they emerge, are simply sounds, stripped of any harmonic or melodic context. The second – ‘anxiety’ –  is slower, but no more comfortable with its sharp, insectoid attacks. If this were music for a film in which people were experiencing these states, one could imagine it fitting perfectly. The surprise is the fourth track, ‘circadian’. It begins with a fast-moving, diatonic texture that would appeal to fans of Steve Reich. Throughout it, there’s a sense of cyclic movement.

This isn’t Diaz-Infante’s first explicit musical exploration of mental health. In 2011, he made Emilio, an album which he described as a ‘yoik’ to his uncle Emilio. A ‘yoik’, according to Morton Feldman ‘is meant to reflect a person or place. This does not mean that it is a song about the person or place, but that the yoiker is attempting to transfer the essence of that person or place into song – one yoiks their friend, not about their friend.’ Diaz-Infante’s uncle Emilio was confined to a mental institution for most of his life. As a child, Diaz-Infante visited him from time to time, with his parents. His presence, he said, ‘was mostly experienced in a foreboding and ghost-like way.’ The album was created with various guitars, bajo sexto (a Mexican instrument not unlike the 12-string guitar), singing bowl, electronic tampora and field recordings.

When looking for ways to describe his music (and what I’ve touched on in this article, by the way, is only the tip of the iceberg) I always find myself going back to the twentieth century. There are echoes of the Beats, John Cage, Morton Feldman, La Monte Young, Derek Bailey. There is so much to be found in it which was important back then and is still important now. His preoccupations with the mind, mysticism and politics represent – how can one put it? – a search for psychic equilibrium. As someone once said, music is so powerful that the kind you listen to can actually shape the person you are.

Dominic Rivron

LINKS

Ernesto Diaz-Infante’s Bandcamp page:

https://ernestodiaz-infante.bandcamp.com/music

Ernesto Diaz-Infante at Pax Recordings:
https://paxrecordings.bandcamp.com/music

Ernesto Diaz-Infante at Spotify:
https://open.spotify.com/artist/1M1Cdm65jHkByvZqguSC4i?si=dqw1vCjIQk-VUGypEC4PHA

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I Feel Love

 

As AI shuts down opportunities to feel alive, we seek out the tangible in the body sector, signing up for anything with the promise of discomfort. I’ve a weekend gig as a fairground geek, biting the heads of whatever anyone throws and scratching myself until I’m raw, and I work the odd saint’s day, recreating obscure martyrdoms with nails, or flails, or whatever weird shit’s been handed down from suffering father to suffering son for as long as pain’s been preferable to a cocoon of keys and bright colours. It’s a kind of crusade, like in the films or the five-star 5D Experience. It’s a kind stranger offering vinegar instead of wine. The rest of the time, I work in my sleep, but when the shining people who know what’s best lay soft light across my face, I bruise myself where no one will ever see, and hold on to the tower of fire my father could never escape.

 

Oz Hardwick
Pic: Nick Victor

 

 

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Music is Life! How Psychedelia morphed into EDM (perhaps)!

Alan Dearling

Music has been a major part of my life since the 1960s. It continued to be a part of my lifeblood from my school days on the south coast of England, through my time as a university student (and sometime scribe and promoter) at the University of Kent at Canterbury (UKC) from 1969, during what became known as the ‘Canterbury Scene’. Members of bands like Caravan and Spirogyra, along with Steve Hillage were actually some of my fellow students there. But the legacy of Soft Machine, Daevid Allen and Kevin Ayers lived on. Outsider Music, so-called ‘Alternative Music’ before the term ‘Indie’ was invented. And alongside performers at the UKC – mainstream bands such as The Who, Led Zeppelin, the original Fleetwood Mac and Chicken Shack, many of the students had their own favourites such as Quintessence and the early line-ups of Hawkwind and Family. Not only were these bands dubbed ‘psychedelic’, so too were the drugs consumed by many of the audience at gigs and those early festies such as Phun City, Harmony Farm and the Isle of Wight extravaganzas! The very word ‘psychedelia’ summons up images of hallucinations, ‘trips’ and mind-altering experiences. And it could be argued that in their own way, Raja Ram with Quintessence were amongst the earliest purveyors of ‘psy-trance’, with Indian rhythms and chants combined with the smells of joss sticks and incense. ‘Blissful Company’ was the very appropriate title of their first album in 1969. Raja Ram (actually Ron Rothfield originally from Australia) contributed to my co-authored book with Mook Bahloo, Alternative Australia – and by that time in about 2000 was one of the leading light DJs of the post-Goa techno-tribes, forming Shpongle with Simon Posford. I last saw him wowing the crowd, in a deluge of rain and mud at the Ozora Festival in Hungary in 2019 (first pic and below). I also spent time watching and chatting with Gaudi and Youth at Ozora and Steve Hillage and Miquette Giraudy (pics below).

But back in the student days of my youth, I was privileged to experience many aural and visual adventures in the presence of Hawkwind, loud and insistent, repetitive, sonic, emitting wave upon wave of mind-frying psychedelic beats. Hypnotic early light shows featuring liquid wheels, background film projections of scenes from movies such as Bunuel and Dali’s ‘Un Chien Andalou’, powerful strobes, oscillators, minimoogs and even theremin and keys (courtesy, over the Hawkwind-years, of a diverse range of musicians including DikMik, Del Dettmar and Tim Blake). These were a major element in the musical Warp factor. It was drum and bass-driven, with Terry Ollis, the legendary naked Hawkwind drummer and dancer, Stacia Blake, providing added ingredients for ‘turning on’ and ‘freaking out’. As Mojo magazine’s Ian Harrison recalled in issue 312 in late 2019, it was a story of: serendipity, LSD, speed, strobes, nudity, idealism and chances taken and squandered.” Entering into the ‘Space Ritual’ was one of the rites of passage. Space Rock had arrived by the beginning of the 1970s. Canterbury was one of its geographic focal points. But, of course, we didn’t know that the Canterbury Scene was happening. Sensory overload was an essential part of the experience. You just lived it. Scarred, possibly for life, but maybe in a good way! The repetitive beats that were the foundation of the Hawkwind sound spawned many other offshoot bands and probably fuelled the nascent electronic dance music phenomenon that gradually evolved from the 1970s onwards.

From 1972, I was a full-time youth worker in clubs in Essex, London and Scotland, with a budget for putting on many bands and performers. It enabled me to support many young people at the clubs that I ostensibly ran to participate in music as performers as well as spectators. I was a sometime writer, contributing to some of the early underground magazines and student magazines, and gradually evolved as a photographer. I wrote literally many hundreds of articles for the youth work, social work and mainstream press about young people, places and events – many linked to music events, bands, the politics of youth and countercultures. From 1979 onwards I wrote, commissioned and edited books, full-time from about 1988. Again, these books often featured music centre-stage. Remembering back to the ’60s onwards, pop, rock, blues, prog (progressive)


and underground and experimental music spread its many tentacles into jazz, free form, reggae and later, punk and new wave. Disco, glam, pop, metal, rave, techno and fusions. Dance was never my passion, but over the years my involvement and understanding grew through my proactive involvement in the Reggae Sound System clashes, featuring MCs, bands like Misty in Roots (in photo). Reggae has always provided the rhythm and beats for dance. I became a ‘regular’ at many Travellers’ festivals and events with their travelling sound systems, visiting Goa’s Calangute and Candolim, and much later at forest raves (‘doofs’) in New South Wales and Queensland, Australia. And I was subsumed into the relatively anarchic dance music of the late 1980s and into the ’90s at Glastonbury, with the likes of Zion Train playing alongside DJs, The Orb and Prodigy. The Orb’s first two albums caught the electronic hearts and minds of a generation – The Orb’s ‘Adventures beyond the Ultraworld’ (1991) and ‘U.F.Orb’ (1992). The original Orb split in two, with Alex Paterson continuing at the helm of various iterations of The Orb, whilst Jimmy Cauty became one half of the hugely influential JAMS or JAMMS (the Justified and Ancients of Mu-Mu) and the mighty, genre-defying,

 

KLF in their ice-cream van (which I believe stands for the Kopyright Liberation Front). ‘TranCentral’, ‘Justified And Ancient’ and ‘What Time Is Love?’ had become signature sounds in the 1990s’ worlds of clubbers, trancers and party people. Cross-cultural interests took my travelling soul to seek out ‘free cultural spaces’ such as Ruigoord outside Amsterdam, Christiania in Copenhagen

(Landjuweel photo), and trips into African music – that is essentially dance music and on the edges of psychedelia from the likes of Sunny Ade and Fela Kuti. Whilst festies like Boom in Portugal (pic on next page), Ozora in Hungary, and events in Uzupis in Lithuania are mostly DJ-oriented, I’ve been enjoying a creative mix of live and DJ-oriented events around Todmorden in West Yorkshire. These have included electronic and psychedelic sets from DJs/producers such as Andy Votel, David Holmes, Andrew Weatherall (photo left), cross-cultural ambassador of techno-punk and much else (before his untimely demise), Goldie, A Guy called Gerald (808 State) and The Orb. And even the snooker supremo, Steve Davis, who currently teams up with Kavus Torabi (front-man from the new incarnation of Gong), and are two-thirds of The Utopia Strong.  Taken together, these gigs, these musicians have taken me into the Freak-Zones of popular music and beyond. I realise now that I have actually become much more involved with Electronic Dance Music (EDM) than I thought. Even, if I’m essentially an Old Hippy!

Delving back to the past…

I was never passive in my musical and cultural obsessions. I made very real efforts to attend gigs and festivals, and went travelling to Amsterdam in the late 1960s and was able to drift in and out of the squatting, arts scene and the clubs like Paradiso and Melk Weg (the Milky Way). There, I met pioneers of the ‘underground’ and the Provos (the Provocateurs), the Gnomes and the members of the Amsterdam Balloon Company who became the first kraakers and took over the free cultural space at Ruigoord. I was at the magnificent mess and madness that were the Isle of Wight festies of 1969 and 1970. The psychedelic music from the 1960s onwards was essentially a mixed palette of styles, instruments and sounds. Electronica was a part, but so were the whimsical psychedelic sounds, sometimes called ‘Acid-folk’, created by the likes of the Incredible String Band, Dr Strangely Strange and Donovan. Psychedelia was a many-headed Hydra. Still is! The Small Faces’ ‘Itchycoo Park’, with its phased instrumentation, was sometimes lumped together with the music of other so-called ‘experimental’ bands like Pink Floyd (who I saw live with Syd Barrett at the Shoreline Club in 1967 on the seafront at Bognor Regis in West Sussex). This was way back when they were performing their hit single, ‘See Emily Play’, along with extraordinary space-electronica such as ‘Astronomy Domine’, with synths played by Roger Waters and Richard Wright and later keyboards and synthesisers by David Gilmour. They were just entering one of their most improvisational/experimental stages. The Beatles’ own experiments in sound demonstrated the effectiveness of electronics with collisions of eastern and western sounds in tracks like ‘Tomorrow Never Knows’, ‘Lucy In Sky With Diamonds’ and ‘Baby You’re A Rich Man’ and the cacophonous ‘Revolution Number 9’. The UK’s underground press, particularly International Times and Oz, serviced the music and festi scene advertising gigs, reporting on others and promoting the gurus of the day such as William Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg, Timothy Leary, Ken Kesey and a little later, Hunter S. Thompson. I was a tiny part of that ‘revolution in the minds’ of a generation.

If Hair was the first major hippy musical on the West End stage in the 1960s, the crashing organ and Moog sounds of Keith Emerson of The Nice (and then with Emerson, Lake and Palmer) provided another mythic musical symbol. I’d put them into the same experimental musical category as the dark swirling sounds of Brian Auger’s organ coupled with the rather spiky and ethereal voice of Julie Driscoll on their version of Dylan’s ‘This Wheel’s on Fire’. I was much impressed with the live power and energy, if not always the over-the-top showmanship of Mister Emerson. ELP were one of the headline acts at the Isle of Wight festival on their debut gig.

Likewise, the two-handed mix of piano-bass and electric organ sounds of Ray Manzarek on The Doors’ tracks, ‘Light My Fire’, ‘When the Music’s Over’ and ‘The End were soundscapes for the anti-Vietnam protests, along with some of the music by Jefferson Airplane, Grateful Dead and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, and even Frank Zappa and compatriots. Dance music it wasn’t. But psychedelic and drugs-induced, Yes! ‘Eight Miles High’ indeed…

An out and out favourite electronica album from my student days was the ground-breaking, ‘An Electric Storm’ from White Noise. David Vorhaus formed this outfit with Delia Derbyshire, a member of the innovative, BBC’s Radiophonic Workshop. It wasn’t a happy musical relationship. Yet, it still holds up today as being a heady mix of the psychedelic, the experimental and the unsettling. Delia is now oft-referred to as the creator of the Dr Who theme, but to my mind ‘Electric Storm’ really is a mini-masterpiece! The invention of the Moog synthesiser by Robert Moog in the USA (essentially a pitch-alternating oscillator) fuelled many cross-over experiments between electronic and classical music. These included the musical soundtrack recorded in 1971 by Wendy Carlos for the Stanley Kubrick film, Clockwork Orange, which was apparently the first record to make use of a vocoder. Later in 1973, Isao Tomita transformed Debussy’s music into the electronic ‘Snowflakes Are Dancing’, with the Moog ‘sound’ at its heart. Other electronic ambient pioneers who were sometimes perceived as outliers in psychedelia included Neil Ardley, pianist and synthesiser player (‘Kaleidoscope of Rainbows’) and Terry Riley, using tape loops and synths (‘Rainbow in Curved Air’ and ‘In C’) – both perhaps viewed as jazzers. Then there was Tangerine Dream, who I witnessed when working back stage at the Chichester Festival Theatre in 1974. The stage was completely dominated by a vast Moog. Their set was relatively early into their career (though they had actually formed in Germany in 1967), and Edgar Froese was busy working on his solo Aqua album. Tangerine Dream were named apparently through a mis-hearing of the line about “Tangerine trees” in the Beatles’ ‘Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds’. They were definitely forerunners of psychedelic prog electronica conjuring up panoramic, sweeping soundscapes, way before the pomp and sometimes overblown outputs of the Greek, Vangelis, and from France, Jean Michel Jarre with ‘Oxygene’, which is a sort of ‘Tubular Bells’ for synths. Before and after came Kraftwerk, formed in 1970, but whose career went luminescent from 1974, with ‘Autobahn’. They were the architects of Krautrock, along with Can and Neu! Kraftwerk can be viewed as the masters of machine-music and even techno. I recently took photos at a solo set from Wolfgang Flur (pictured), who was the electronic percussion player in Kraftwerk during their most commercially successful period.

Then there’s possibly the most influential of all in the evolution of electronica in popular music, Brian Eno, who started out in 1971 with Roxy Music, using a VCS 3 synthesiser, but later became revered as an ambient electronic pioneering composer and performer. Brian Eno is also a highly influential producer and worked collaboratively with David Bowie on his Berlin trilogy – albums that took Bowie into new sounds and new musical territories. ‘Low’, ‘Heroes’ and ‘Lodger’ were ground-breaking, weird and wonderful, exhilarating in equal parts. Electronica through its use of instrumental textures had arrived in the darker recesses of the musical mainstream. ‘Speed of Life’ was a prescient title for the opening track on ‘Low’.

The new Traveller festivals in the UK spawned new sounds, bands and sound systems. And it intertwined with the party scene, garage and squat events. Collectively this somewhat anarchic DiY spirit spilled into the dance tents of Glastonbury and other major events and gradually festival organisers came to the realisation that the true performers at many musical events were the punters  – the crazy dancers. They were also using a different range of drugs like ecstasy and ketamine. For some, the party seemed to never stop. From these pioneers, music – much of it electronica, with many ‘world’ influences, and certainly dance-orientated – emerged from Dubzone, Ozric Tentacles Trans-Global Underground, Inner City Unit, Astralasia, Underworld, Alien Progeny, Leftfield, Massive Attack, Chemical Brothers, Hallucinogen (a Simon Posford project) and Merv Peplar (pic, performing as Eat Static). There were many others too who fed into the music sets from DJ outfits like Spiral Tribe, Bedlam, the Exodus Collective and more mainstream DJs such as Fat Boy Slim, Billy Nasty and Andrew Weatherall. It’s quite a list!

Musical ‘boundaries’ were increasingly blurred, club and house, techno and trance music melded with dub, reggae, world sounds and even Old Skool blues, two-tone, blues, ska and rockabilly. Early reggae MCs became rap stars. But electronic beats, drum ‘n’ bass were increasingly programmed by DJs to segue beats from one track and musical sequence into the next to keep the dance-floors across Europe and the world – pumping! But, there was also a softer side of chill-out sessions, a rise of ambient trance. Still forms of electronica, but of different hues. French creators, such as Air, Daft Punk and even the music of Serge Gainsbourg, have been re-mixed by the like of The Orb and Howie B, adding in their musical spices and herbs to the concoctions. Spiritualised, Portishead, Kosheen and Orbital were significant players too. But there are many, many more.

Luckily, new outfits and conglomerations of artists will always be emerging. For instance, very recently I’ve enjoyed a thoroughly invigorating set from Aircooled (photo), who are largely members of Placebo, the Wedding Present and Neotropic. Aircooled is an exciting new band mixing vocals, instruments and electronica into a newly crafted tapestry of sound. Nu-jazz is also a seed bed for cross-pollination of musical ideas and styles, with the likes of the Ezra Collective and Plant Food using many elements of electronica, EDM and psychedelia and mixing it up in bubbling creations of rap, jazz, soul, rock and more. Another unusual artist in electronica who I saw recently at the Hope Chapel in Hebden Bridge, West Yorkshire is Dave Clarkson. After the gig, I bought his solo album, ‘A Pocket Guide To Dream Land (Faded Fairgrounds And Coastal Ghost Towns)’, which features field recordings of rollercoasters, penny arcades, spectral ballrooms, steam organs and much more sampled from across the UK which Dave has, he said, “complemented, mangled or untangled”. It’s definitely electronica, full of loops and strangely hypnotic, but it ain’t EDM!

Summing up (sort of)

I’ve been privileged and lucky to make time to see many of these performers as I travelled in the UK, in Europe and beyond, to festies such as Woodford in Queensland, Australia, events at the squatted ADM outside of Amsterdam and Landjuweel at Ruigoord nearby, often bumping into musical friends such as Gaudi, Youth, Chris Tofu (and Continental Drifts’ artists at the ‘London Re-Mixed’ festivals in Shoreditch, London). Then there’s Eat Static and Steve Hillage, performing DJ sets with Miquette Giraudy as System 7 and Mirror System, and in particular the extended families of Gong, Zion Train, Hawkwind and Nik Turner (and his many collaborators) to name just a few.

In the late ’70s, the 1980s and well into the ’90s, I was writing and editing a lot of books, increasingly many with, and about, the new Traveller and eco-protest scene and their festivals in the UK and Europe. I lived on a narrowboat for a while on the River Severn and around the ‘Cut’ as the canal system was known by boaters. I was attending relatively few mainstream gigs and wasn’t in the Manchester and Factory Records orbit at all. I’ve become much more aware of it since moving to a new home in Todmorden in West Yorkshire, where the Mad-chester scene still holds much sway. So, whilst I bought a few of the records that were electronica and then rave – it wasn’t much on my personal radar. More so now on the outer fringes of the diverse worlds of Joy Division, New Order, who brought a Goth-darkness and dance ethos into post-punk electronica, and the more energetic Happy Mondays, the Stone Roses, and Primal Scream who originated in Glasgow but later worked with Andrew Weatherall, Alan McGee from Creation Records, and Youth. I only saw glimpses of these bands at festies such as Glasto. It was not a major feature of my life, though the latter three bands could be said to blend psychedelia and rock together with dance beats and ‘mixes’, they were not particularly part of electronica. I think though, that I was fairly aware of the move away from old-style psychedelia, to much more dance-focused sound systems and events. In and around Todmorden, I am taking more photos, writing articles and reviewing some of those bands and even more DJs who were major players in the Mad-chester days of Acid House and famed, Hacienda Club, including working at the Twisted Nerve Records 25 year party event in December 2022 hosted by Damon Gough (Badly Drawn Boy) and Andy Votel.

Andrew Weatherall was last at the Golden Lion in Todmorden with his many worldwide and local fans and friends for the 5th ALFOS weekender (A Love From Outer Space) with Sean Johnston and others, in June 2019. Sadly, it took place only a relatively short time before his untimely demise at the age of 57 in February 2020. I was there for most of that weekend, and had opportunities to chat with him, finding him to be gentle, warm, companionable and deeply knowledgeable concerning many styles of music. The range of music he played over three days was genuinely genre-defying. It encompassed rockabilly, blues, psychedelia, techno, electronica, rave, hip-hop, rock and dance.  But I guess, Andrew will be most remembered for being centre-stage during Acid House and as the producer of Primal Scream’s ‘Loaded’ from ‘Screamadelica’ and My Bloody Valentine’s ‘Soon’. His own electronica trio, The Sabres of Paradise, released three cult albums and others with Chris Mackin in Two Lone Horseman. Recently I was invited to the AW60 weekender to take photos of the event – a celebration of Andrew’s life, along with many members of his family and DJ and musician friends, including Andy Bell (in pic above) (Ride, Oasis, GLOK and solo electronica).  I’ve also been able to watch GLOK – an amazing and innovative electronica extravaganza. All in all, the magnificent parties continue for AW, the Guv’nor!

I like to explore and push my own musical boundaries too and delve into the cracks and crannies of music. I really rather abhor ‘labels’ and categorisations of musical genres. But even before my visits to WOMAD events and the World stages at Glasto and beyond, I guess I was a proponent of music that was ‘Jeux sans frontieres’! The divisions between producers, composers, performers, musicians, DJs, MCs had been warped and twisted into new alien musical life-forms many years earlier. Re-mixes, musical exhumations, recycled… New and Old Skools. And, whether a music set is ‘Banging’ or ‘Cool – the Beats do just ‘go on’!

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Barney Bubbles

The Barney Bubbles Light Show Dury Lane Art lab 1967

Progressive print stages of Barney Bubbles Hawkwind poster. 1970s.


Space Ritual Cover for Hawkwind

The original UK LP sleeve of Brinsley Schwarz‘s Brinsley Schwarz (1970) designed by Barney Bubbles

The original UK LP sleeve of Hawkwind‘s In Search of Space designed by Barney Bubbles

 

https://barneybubbles.com/

https://thamesandhudson.com/the-wild-world-of-barney-bubbles-graphic-design-and-the-art-of-music-9780500296455

 

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EASE OR LIFE: AN IDEOLOGICAL DIVIDE BETWEEN LEFT AND RIGHT

In their efforts to understand the conditions of liberty and a possibility of happiness to some degree, presupposing life or ease, two thinkers invoked a hidden hand in their formulaic diptych: Creator or Market – which? One slogan was fundamental, and the other, developmental

“Ease. Liberty.
Happiness.”
     –Adam Smith,
        economist.

“Life. Liberty.
The Pursuit of Happiness.”
     –Thomas Jefferson,
        statesman

WEALTH OF NATIONS,
DECLARATION
1776

 

.

Duane Vorhees

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Carrying that Tutu

 

 

I am attaching imges of the screen-printed ballet tutu, machine sewn together with text from my Royal Ballet and Elmhurst School reports!! Yikes!

Plus, the lead and aluminium tutu I created along with my aluminium pointe shoes – these were my Freeds shoes cast in aluminium and are unfinished but I loved the gnarliness of them. These were part of my Bachelor of Visual Arts final work for 2011, a study of ‘weight’ a mighty testy subject for ballet dancers!

 

Requiem Ignotum (2011) amended

 

Requiem Ignotum is an installation about ballet, someone, and no-one.

It explores the realms of dance through sculpture and screen-printing, using autobiographical references. It questions the performative aspects of perfection, body weight, femininity, fragility, text, longevity, and memory. The lead and paper tutus assume

the role of a bizarre pas de deux, the former will remain intact for perpetuity whilst the latter in time dissolves and disappears mimicking the timeline of a dancer.

The scene is set as if on a theatre stage. The suspended ballet costume hangs mid-air as if lifted by an imaginary partner whilst the invisible dancer’s pointe shoes stay motionless appearing to need little prompting to pirouette or chainés to the next stanza of music. They appear as ‘objects out of action’. (Braddock. 2008:13)

The work questions density on many levels, the absurd fantasy of a tutu constructed of lead, (Pb 82), any form of movement would be impossible. The ironic use of lead to stand for the ballet tutu whose composition is lightness and femininity, here the lead resembles body armour. It also interrogates the irrational focus placed on the dancer’s body, trained, and contorted for the aesthetic standard aspired for ballet perfectionism. The lead tutu presupposes the immense weight, density of the dancer’s physical and mental psyche as their striving for ethereal weightlessness becomes the pinnacle of bodily perfection. “It is often said that dance is the creation of illusion: for example, the illusion of a weightless body”. (Sontag, 2003:191)

In opposition the malleability and composition of lead compliments the flexibility of the dancer and her steely resolve to overcome all. Lead for sculptor Anthony Gormley “brings silence and stillness, it is so inert, so dense, its greyness combines all colours”. (Gormley, 1984:12). The lead appears sewn, stitched with rivets such as in a tulle tutu, with the top layer screen-printed in silver text, entrants from my childhood diary, when training to be a ballet dancer. The metal brings a funereal aspect to the work because of its association with death and burial, and death as in the termination of a dancer’s career. Modern dancer Martha Graham laments, “a dancer, more than any other human being, dies two deaths: the first, the physical when the powerfully trained body will no longer respond as you would wish … without dancing, I wished to die”. (Graham, 1991:238)

The accompanying pointe shoes cast in aluminium are a play on weight and density, it would be impossible to dance in such creations, yet they imbue the identity of their original satin slippers and invent the possibility that the dancer may have momentarily slipped out of them. The lead tutu and aluminium pointe shoes together assume a performative illusion all their own, frozen in time, waiting for the dancer’s body to slide into the belly of the costume and for the performance to begin.

The screen-printed hahnemuhle paper tutu is created in the same way an actual tutu is constructed and sewn, with 24 paper frills of various dimensions (54-75 inches long) and widths 13 by 1.5 inches, each individually screen-printed and stitched by a sewing machine. The tutu signifies my early dreams and ideals as a young dancer, screen-printed journal ramblings appropriated to assume the materiality of the dancer’s skirt. The original pages of my 5-year diary and school reports from Elmhurst & the Royal Ballet Schools, create the wave and pattern of a new fabric. The colours of ink are a theme, red symbolises the emotion and blood of the dancer, paynes grey her steely attitude and strength, and silver for femininity, and theatricality, mirroring the chemical elements.

The process of creating this body of work required endless toil not unlike the ritual of the daily ballet class, rehearsals, performance, repetition to reveal a result – performance versus artwork. Anselm Kiefer refers to personal experience being intrinsic to his arts practice, “he cannot abide an art form which, he imagines lacks the powerful impulse of life experience”. (Rosenthal, 1987:10).

This work embodies such.

 

 

Notes

Auckland University of Technology, 2008.
Braddock, Christopher Gregory. “The artist will be present: performing partial objects and subjects.” PhD diss.,
Graham, Martha. Blood Memory: An Autobiography, Doubleday: New York, 1991.
Rosenthal, M. Anselm Kiefer, Chicago Philadelphia, Presvel-Verlag, 1987.
Salvatore Ala, Anthony Gormley, Coracle Press: London, 1984.
Sontag, Susan. Where the Stress Falls, Vintage: London, 2003.

 

 

Sonia York-Pryce, Dr Visual Arts
https://soniayork-pryce.wixsite.com/mysite

Toucher Légèrment: or how to print an etching through dance.
https://vimeo.com/manage/videos/46432756

 

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Echo

She tells me I put everything so beautifully and poetically when I explain it to her. I tell her I wish it was like that in my mind, but instead, I have violent Gods fighting amongst one another. Like the way our situation wasn’t perfect, and I had to let her love walk away out my door that day.

And it’s a shame, like the rose I gave her today, not knowing what it would’ve been like placing it on my gravestone and feeling sad, but then again hopeful, that we would meet up and do it all over again.

 

Paul Butterfield Jr

 

 

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Manchester + salford Anarchist Book Fair

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NOWHERE IMPERFECT

 

A Provisional Cosmology

Nothingness is always an elsewhere. – Sartre

There are secret motions, out of sight, that lie concealed in matter – Lucretius

How can a self-activating universe emerge from nowhere?

Activity in the cosmic substrate (quantum vacuum) involves an indeterminate relationship, governed by the Uncertainty Principle, between the complimentary quantities of energy and time. The Uncertainty Principle is not an intellectual construct but a fundamental characteristic of phenomena.
This uncertainty relation allows for the transformation of ‘borrowed energy’ into a particle called a pion. At a subatomic level pairs of such exchange particles or mesons, provide the attractive intra-nuclear force between protons and neutrons (nucleons) within the atomic nucleus. These ‘virtual’ particles are the objective source of The Casimir Effect, a phenomenon that confirms the existence of minimal energy entities in apparently ‘empty’ space.

There is no absolute void and no such thing as absolutely empty space, even though the Uncertainty Principle ensures that subatomic activity in the void, or quantum vacuum, cannot be described with precise exactitude. A field of absolutely empty space cannot ‘exist’ because the Uncertainty Principle prohibits a field fixed absolutely at zero. In the quantum universe no field can have both a precise value (zero) and a precise rate of change (zero) simultaneously, consequently there will always be a minimum level of uncertainty, a certain level of irregularity, slight fluctuations in the density and velocity of particles. These non-uniform perturbations would be as small as they could be, but would, nevertheless, lead to anomalies in the otherwise smooth regularity of any emerging points of space-time generated by such irregular fluctuations through friction.

The Big Bang event can be understood as the explosive after-effect of an extended chain of irregular perturbations among fluctuating virtual particles generated by borrowed energy comprising the indeterminate pre-cosmic substrate at the quantum level. The density fluctuations already present in the initial space-time singularity, and observed in the CMB (Cosmic Microwave Background), formed the basis of subsequent physical irregularities in the early material conditions of the universe and eventually gave rise to all the astronomical features of the observable cosmos.

These astronomical features are the by-product of a quantum eruption, much as the material expelled from a volcano is the by-product of a violent subterranean event. The outcome of this ‘eruption’ is an expanding red-shift universe of galaxies in space-time that, in due course, having exhausted its propulsive momentum, will revert to an original quantum state. In the interim, over immense periods of time, complex chemical chain-reactions, together with the interplay of forces and the synthesis of stellar elements, will engender all the phenomena of organisation and animation humans call ‘nature’, including living organisms such as bacteria, plants and animals on diverse planets. Notwithstanding the vast time-scales involved, ‘existence’ as experienced by these organisms, is as transient as the universe itself – a universe tending to disorder, reflecting latent chaos and where time is an emergent property arising from the red-shift expansion.

There is no substantive role for intelligence, imagination, self-awareness and other capacities of sentience in a value-neutral and non-purposive universe, although the development of sentience in humans gives rise to anthropomorphic interpretations of existence. Such interpretations are based on a false identification of structural organisation with thought. Even though these capacities – survival strategies of evolutionary adaptation – are of great value to physically weak organisms, they have no intrinsic significance. The same is true of all metaphysical speculation which, being a by-product or side effect of self-awareness, is disconnected from the factual basis of actual reality.

A condition known as the ‘no-boundary condition’ applies to both the manifest universe and the pre-cosmic quantum vacuum. Thus, just as there is no such phenomenon as ‘empty’ space, there is no possibility of any ‘edge’ demarcating either the physical macrocosm, or its quantum substrate, from any form of ‘outside’ above or beyond the manifest sphere.

Even taking into account the possibility of ‘other’ dimensions or the possible viability of the hypothetical ‘many worlds’ interpretation of quantum mechanics, the substrate and the cosmic totality are indivisible and coextensive. There is no exterior or transcendent sphere of existence, just as there is no possibility of ‘non-existence’ because there is no absolute void: total nothingness cannot exist.

The answer to the perennial question of origination (where does the universe come from?) can be answered with reference to the quantum vacuum. But if we ask how this vacuum in its turn can exist and from where it derives its existence it must be said that the answer cannot be calibrated with absolute exactitude. This failure of exactitude is the natural consequence of the Uncertainty Principle governing indeterminate relations between complimentary quantities, ensuring that the ‘given’ substrate perpetuates itself. Furthermore, this self-perpetuation cannot be seen as a ‘genesis’ or ‘birth’, or mode of becoming, for such an idea would imply that a void lacking a space-time continuum can emerge from a state prior to its own existence – an outlandish and superfluous assumption.

The Uncertainty Principle also explains how, through non-uniformity (anisotropy) and the process of ‘borrowed’ energy, the quantum vacuum may give rise, from an imperfect ‘nowhere’, to any number of expanding but finite space-time universes.

 

 

AC Evans

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Coil’s Journey to Avebury

Here is Derek Jarman’s 1971 Super 8 film of his own journeys around the stones with Coil’s lively, bubbling electronic soundtrack which was commissioned and made for the posthumous release but never commercially released, although it was used on the film festivals circuit. Coil had previously provided the soundtrack to Jarman’s The Angelic Conversation, his exploration of male sexuality and desire which uses the spoken words of Shakespeare’s sonnets and Jarman’s slow-moving visuals to create ‘a world of magic and ritual’.

Coil were formed in London in 1983 by John Balance as a solo side project to Psychic TV, but developed into a full-scale musical group in 1984, when Balance cemented a partnership with Peter ‘Sleazy’ Christopherson, who had been a founder of Psychic TV and member of Throbbing Gristle.

When Balance died tragically in an accident at his home in 2004, Christopherson decided that Coil would not continue. Christopherson died in 2010.

Derek Jarman’s films remain available on BFI releases, and some of Coil’s music is available at https://coilofficial.bandcamp.com/

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Go to Docs

Aye def Oh
Shopping IS the new religion some
one must have said to me
once or maybe I made it up
this bullet from the blue
by myself well its fucking 
true the whole retail
park jammed on a Sunday
10am wtf
this cunt nearly flattened
me in his four by four
‘Big Gus 1’ trying 
to get to ASDA as if
his pissed stained 
existence depended on a
pishing bogof or
the freshest stale 
stodge or whether he
could save five 
fucking pence on Carlsberg so
I deems to have
a word with 
him tell him of
his wrong doing
before God
that there is
more to fucking 
life than ASDA
and Argos then I 
sees him a shit
brickhouse sliding
out the side
of BIG GUS 1 and
I thinks maybe
I’ll tackle him
another day and
there is 
four pence 
off a gallon

 

 

.

james mclaughlin

 

 

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Hollow

The victory is mine, at last!
I knew this day would come:
revenge for all the wrongful past
and bloody justice done.

Yet… nothing sates my vengeful lust –
how soon my triumph turns to shame –
for all our soldiers feed the dust
and Pyrrhus is my name.

 

 

 

Mandy Schiffrin
Picture Rupert Loydell

 

 

 

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A Potrait of Dennis Gould.

Filmed and Edited by Alasdair Ogilvie
Music: Gareth Carey
Index page photo by Clean Steve

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Women Of Surrealism:

When André Breton, a leader of the Surrealist movement and author of its first manifesto, wrote that “the problem of woman is the most marvelous and disturbing problem in all the world,” he was not alluding to the unfair lack of recognition experienced by his female peers.

Marquee name Surrealists like Breton, Salvador DalíMan RayRené Magritte, and Max Ernst positioned the women in their circle as muses and symbols of erotic femininity, rather than artists in their own right.

As Méret Oppenheim, subject of a recent retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art, is seen remarking at the outset of Behind the Masterpiece‘s introduction to “the fantastic women of Surrealism”, above, it was up to female Surrealists to free themselves of the narrowly defined role society – and their male counterparts – sought to impose on them:

A woman isn’t entitled to think, to express aggressive ideas.

The first artist Behind the Masterpiece profiles needs no introduction. Frida Kahlo is surely one of the best known female artists in the world, a woman who played by her own rules, turning to poetic, often brutal imagery as she delved into her own physical and mental suffering:

I paint self-portraits, because I paint my own reality. I paint what I need to. Painting completed my life. I lost three children and painting substituted for all of this… I am not sick, I am broken. But I am happy to be alive as long as I can paint.

The National Museum of Women in the Arts notes that Remedios Varo –  the subject of a current exhibition at the Art Institute of Chicago– and Leonora Carrington “were seen as the ‘femmes-enfants’ to the famous and much older male artists in their lives.”

Their friendship was ultimately more satisfying and far longer lasting then their romantic attachments to Surrealist luminaries Ernst and poet Benjamin Péret. Carrington paid tribute to it in her novel, The Hearing Trumpet.

The pair’s work reveals a shared interest in alchemy, astrology and the occult, approaching them from characteristically different angles, as per Stefan van Raay, author of Surreal Friends: Leonora Carrington, Remedios Varo, and Kati Horna:

Carrington’s work is about tone and color and Varo’s is about line and form.

The name of Dorothea Tanning, like that of Leonora Carrington, is often linked to Max Ernst, though she made no bones about her desire to keep her artistic identity separate from that of her husband of 30 years.

Her work evolved several times over the course of a career spanning seven decades, but her first major museum survey was a posthumous one.

University of Cambridge art history professor, Alyce Mahon, co-curator of that Tate Modern exhibit, touches on the nature of Tanning’s deceptively feminine soft sculptures:

If I asked for two words that you associate with pin cushions, you would say sewing and craft, and you would associate those with the female in the house. Tanning played with the idea of wifely skills and took a very humble object and turned it into a fetish. She crafted her first one out of velvet in 1965 and randomly placed pins in it and aligned it with a voodoo doll. She says it ‘bristles’ with images. So she takes something fabulously familiar and makes it uncanny and strange to encourage us to think differently.

Tanning rejected the label of ‘woman artist’, viewing it as “just as much a contradiction in terms as ‘man artist’ or ‘elephant artist’.”

Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Sigmund Freud!

The famed psychoanalyst’s concept of the subconscious mind was central to Surrealism, but he also wrote that “women oppose change, receive passively, and add nothing of their own.”

One wonders what he would have made of Object, the fur lined teacup, saucer and spoon that is Oppenheim’s best known work, for better or worse.

In an essay for Khan Academy’s AP/College Art History course Josh Rose describes how Museum of Modern Art patrons declared it the “quintessential” Surrealist object when it was featured in the influential 1936-37 exhibition “Fantastic Art, Dada, and Surrealism:”

But for Oppenheim, the prestige and focus on this one object proved too much, and she spent more than a decade out of the artistic limelight, destroying much of the work she produced during that period. It was only later when she re-emerged, and began publicly showing new paintings and objects with renewed vigor and confidence, that she began reclaiming some of the intent of her work. When she was given an award for her work by the City of Basel, she touched upon this in her acceptance speech, (saying,) “I think it is the duty of a woman to lead a life that expresses her disbelief in the validity of the taboos that have been imposed upon her kind for thousands of years. Nobody will give you freedom; you have to take it.”

Related Content

Discover Leonora Carrington, Britain’s Lost Surrealist Painter

A Brief Animated Introduction to the Life and Work of Frida Kahlo

The Forgotten Women of Surrealism: A Magical, Short Animated Film


– Ayun Halliday is the Chief Primatologist of the East Village Inky zine and author, most recently, of Creative, Not Famous: The Small Potato Manifesto and Creative, Not Famous Activity Boo
thanks to k
. Follow

her @AyunHalliday.

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LEST WE FORGET: TRASHED BBC2 DOCUMENTARY FROM 1986

The Battle of the Beanfield took place over several hours on 1 June 1985, when police prevented The Peace Convoy, several hundred, from setting up the 1985 Stonehenge Free Festival. Around 1,300 police officers took part in an operation against approximately 600 travellers.

According to The Observer, pregnant women and those holding babies were clubbed by police with truncheons and the police were hitting “anybody they could reach”. When some of the travellers tried to escape by driving away through the fields, The Observer stated that the police threw truncheons, shields, fire extinguishers and stones at them to try to stop them.
 
Dozens were injured  and 537 travellers were eventually arrested. This represents one of the largest mass arrests of civilians since at least the Second World War, possibly one of the biggest in English legal history.

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Marcus Aurelius at the Cenotaph

I have no use for grandiose procession
Victors in a war are unimpressed
By anything save universal sadness
While what an eager populace expects
May differ by degree   –   intoxicants
Such as the siege and slaughter of a foe
Make only a non-combatant trip out
On patriotic fervour

Our nausea we swallow back until
Safely back in barracks we can spew
Indignation that the landless poor
Courageous young   –   and untried soldier
Suffer on all sides in time of war

Those who seek revenge
Can build two coffins   –
One might house our shared humanity:
You kill now at a distance   –   but despatched
To total up the damage
Find a face familiar as your own
Amid the butcher’s block that was a town

I do not care to go to war at all
But if I must I wear a black armband
As going to the funeral of a friend
Forgive me if I keep my armband on
Two or three years more
Beyond all sacrilegious celebration   –
This is Sicilian custom and tradition

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Bernard Saint
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

 

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Benjamin Partridge

 

 
The Beef And Dairy Network Podcast

The Beef And Dairy Network Podcast is a comedy podcast I started making in July 2015. In April 2016, it joined the Maximum Fun podcast network.

It is the number one podcast for those involved or just interested in the production of beef animals and dairy herds.

6 episodes were broadcast on BBC Radio 4 in April/May 2017 and a further 4 episodes were broadcast in April 2018. Info here.

WINNER – Gold – Best Comedy at the British Podcast Awards 2017.

WINNER – Gold – Best Comedy at the British Podcast Awards 2018.

“A gorgeously absurd comedy podcast by Benjamin Partridge. Played completely straight, it offers total immersion in one man’s comedy world.”
The 50 best podcasts of 2016, The Guardian (read here)

“This is a lovely, funny show.”
The Observer (read review here)

“wonderfully deadpan”
Chortle.co.uk (read review here)

“an impressively funny program, featuring bizarrely hilarious and deadpan dispatches”
The A.V. Club (read review here)

“Walking down the road yesterday with my headphones on, I began to smile to myself, then chuckle, and finally – stopped in my tracks by the strange sensation – I let out a long, loud hoot of laughter.”
The Telegraph (read review here)

“A constant delight”
The Times (read review here)

www.beefanddairynetwork.com

RSS link: https://feeds.simplecast.com/4NOSW3hj

iTunes link: https://itunes.apple.com/gb/podcast/beef-and-dairy-network/id1022024768

 

 

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Lost

 

I hear the missiles screaming in the air

My heart feels I’ll soon not be here

 

I scrabble through the strangling clouds of dust

I see the torching flames and feel the heat

Sirens wailing, raised arms, tears of grief

No, no, no, no, it cannot be, the wages of trust

It’s all yours, yours, yours, and my defeat

Torn apart, I reach for you, now only have belief

 

I’m alone again, and dream of dying too

But think I must remain to remember you

 

© Christopher 2023

 

 

 

 

 

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Songs to Learn and Sing

The news is nothing but a background hum – less about tragedies and tiny
triumphs than it is about rhythm, as it insinuates itself into everything, from the
speed at which I eat my breakfast to the jaunty spring in my step as I almost
dance across parched fields where nothing will ever grow again. To my left,
doctors sell controlled drugs in pick ‘n’ mix baggies; to my right, a man in a
brocaded gown smashes a baby grand with a sledgehammer; and straight ahead,
a woman in blood-dashed overalls straps a child to a burning wheel. But there’s
still room for miracles, for turning water into wine, and for raising red dust back
to brimming life; and although it’s so hot that my eyes are melting behind my
shades, even disaster is in 5/4 time and the key change will bring sweet, sweet
rain

 

 

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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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(OTHER)WISE AFTER THE EVENT

 

                                                    On The Otherwise: The Screenplay For a Horror Film That Never Was

                                                               By Mark E. Smith & Graham Duff (Strange Attractor Press)

 

 

In this case its death, as well as daring, as the event
That I’m marking is the release at last of a script
By Mark E. Smith and Graham Duff, two cult fed writers
Who, while their disciplines differed each tailored tales
And stories fit for both stage, screen and crypt.

For this is a well prepared film, the fruit of a projected
TV series, withered on the twisted vine of commission
For being ‘too weird.’ It is not. Off the beaten track, possibly,
Matching the locale of its story: Pendle of all places,
Where mixed with mire lost footsteps lap land and folklore

To mark a location in which time is reminded
That legend licks language and cannot be forgot.
Smith is conjured up too, by Duff.
The Fall are characters in the story, recording an EP,
While three Jacobite ghosts stalk the lane.

And where the sons of witches converge
And come close to endangering women,
And where Smith appears sagely, posing in scenes
Made fag and pint-vivid as the lost man re-emerges
From the simple print of his name.

An old singer’s folk song imprints inside the makeshift
Studio setting. Ancient coins act as switches releasing
Light through water and a mucus like growth
Through the bins of the studio speakers within
As a sense of random violence soon gathers

Alongside plans for rape and resistance,
As eras as esoterica mingle, in this snake-like
Screenplay in which genres are shedding
All expectation and skin. The Fall record all the while,
The songs used as source music. Making this film

Their version of A Hard Day’s Night. Fitting, mate.
As it was sparked by Smith and shaped by Duff
To showcase, the fact that the Fall were a landscape
For riot and rule. A template for what form can be
In line with style; something shifting, as rock

And punk reconfigure under Smith’s Dada speak;
That dense poetry, alongside his avant-narrative explorations
Which are exemplified later as 25 songs as story
Are opened out. Smith’s technique was something raw,
Yet full formed, primed by Can and Camus of course,

And by all of his reading and watching. And this book
Also houses discussions and essays that further reveal
The full man. Who in hitting the North brought an avalanche
Of ideas to all places, as seen in the scribble of his quickly
Written aheets and brain plans. Smith’s widow,

Elena Poulou sets the scene, chronicling evenings around
German Soaps, love and Dallas, while revealing the gentle
Behind the leering gargoyle. While Duff expounds
On Smith’s myth which fashioned fans as disciples,
For him, getting to write with his teenage hero

Made TV’s hoary work holy as wine was traded
For Pilsner and they lit the lamp of art. Laughs as oil.
So this book is much more than a script. Its beautiful bind
And soft, smooth bulk appears human. It serves to disrupt
What was fearsome in and around Mark Smith’s rep.

For as Mark and Graham talk on in transcript form
Time’s rewinding, summoning those old tapes
And bootlegs from which the lost revive, while we’ve wept.
Words return men. And you hear Smith speak through
These pages. For that act alone then, its worth it.

The Otherwise of the story are also the substance
Which Smith inhales as he smokes in some other North,
Somewhere suitably bleak. Stars are raining.
But where he is still heard to cackle, while describing
In words which burn brimstone the meaning within

God’s grim joke. Picture the album cover for that;
Smith and stars, saucers, chimneys, and behind his sneer 
Oozing aether, an alien on guitar. You can feel it all
In this film. He may even have Lindsay Anderson with him.
O, Lucky Man, Graham, to have written with him.

What adventure. The script ends with a shovel
Straight in the face. Words like this win us,
And they can change us too, as they scar.

 

 

                                                                                       David Erdos,  5/10/23 

 

https://strangeattractor.greedbag.com/buy/the-otherwise/

 

 

 

 

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The Gravediggers Blast and Bless[i]

 

 

                              John Steed in the Land of Lost Content

 

Has the ideal of community always been an illusion?

Barring (or including) colonies of artists or other like-minded souls.

Carrion-crow, loner born, am I seeing it wrong?

Yet I can appreciate it from outside: This Happy Breed[ii], the truth in the myth . . .

also, the nonsense and hypocrisy.

Do you love your country? my youngest son asked by a twilight garden drowning in

            crowns and union jacks.

It passed beyond a car park, empty, and I thought of John Steed[iii], Hawker Hurricanes[iv],

            the reddest roses, fish and chips –

All those things I can love about Albion, along with tolerance and saying sorry

but not John Bull with Brexit blindfold, the royal family

the landed gentry or nouveau riche.

 

 

We were at Barkby, Leicestershire – The Heart of rural England – claim signs by the                      motorway

and the richness of the gloaming stole upon my grave, the pedal crank ceasing to turn.

We came to the Malt Shovel and its shade of willows

A pint of Jubilee Ale, bought for me in irony, to contemplate the day

Pomp and pageantry have always made me queasy, Nationalism and Patriotism too.

A dash may help survive a war but the rest blusters, poisons and destroys

Places, feelings, traditions – they are all leaves in a book whose bittersweet pages I like to turn and mostly try to laugh

their shelf gets higher and higher . . .

For reference only.

 

 

Beyond Melton Mowbray (bypassed, still unknown) a miniature tunnel leads to a lake

no longer slowing towards a station where once Dame Diana Rigg was tied to the tracks[v] . . .

Here in April 1965 – fantasy of course – in black and white, lived a lord[vi] whose eccentricity and hatred of cars makes him acceptable

Giving generous funds to ailing railwaymen or so he thinks

His toy signalbox houses a lever that will fatally jam Albion’s radar

leaving us open to invasion – but by whom exactly?

To what happened perhaps?

To technology and acquisition:

Forces no partisans could resist

 

 

For all its timeless artifacts I cannot make this nostalgia paradise fit

The parallels are obvious, but ‘65 too faint, I cannot get back –

From beer tents, classic cars and strolling Sunday visitors

my faith can’t achieve the leap

The landscapes, the villages there and back, are almost too perfect,

lodged, poshed,

at ease.

They don’t care about the era.

 

 

Via Moscow Lane – a green track thwarted, virtually blocked – to Burrough-on-the-Hill

is the improvised weft and wend of our journey back

until a new garden breathing the air of swooping fields

calls a halt.

Late afternoon, flapping flags aloft

swathes of ox-eye daisies bless this memorial to Arnhem

– Operation Market Garden’s 10th Battalion Parachute Regiment[vii]

            billeted here in ‘44 –

(a mere 36 of nearly 600 returned a fortnight later).

If only, within reach, the stones weren’t marred by their clumsy bas relief,

cartoonish figures trite in the face of capture and sacrifice –

What choice is there but to trust,

that it’s the thought that counts?

 

 

Eventually we roll on downhill, too far downhill, and have to come back

strike cross-country for the high decaying arches of John O Gaunt

a red-brick viaduct shut before the Avengers’[viii] jaunty visit.

Into this stratosphere, this time-lapse shift

cloud across the eyes and between them – white canopies bloom –

the flowers of death . . .

 

 

In the Malt Shovel I realise my misapprehension

– a trivial, forgivable one, in a universe of constant delusion – 

of muddling Melton Mowbray with Melton Constable[ix] when the latter

is a hundred miles east

a new town founded by a railway junction whose brief heyday passed a century ago.

There, where the village workshops painted their locomotives in golden ochre[x]

            or “autumn leaf”

all directions met – a fact I will force to be symbolic.

Our zenith is seriously past too

But who’s to say we can’t ever get back?

Or am I duping myself with that last-minute wish?

 

                                                       Stapleford Park, 12th June 2022

 

 

 

For Ivo, June 2022

© Lawrence Freiesleben,

[email protected]

 

NOTES

[i] https://modjourn.org/journal/blast/

[ii] https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0037367/?ref_=nm_knf_i2

[iii] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Steed

[iv] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hawker_Hurricane

[v] https://www.leicestermercury.co.uk/news/history/gallery/day-patrick-macnee-diana-rigg-6617588

[vi] https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0516912/characters/nm0292226

[vii] https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-leicestershire-49577353

[viii] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Avengers_(TV_series)

[ix] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Melton_Constable

[x] https://www.lner.info/co/MGN/livery.php

 

 

 

 

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