The Art of Landscape

Landscape A Go-Go (5CD, Cooking Vinyl/Landscape Music)

Subtitled ‘The Story of Landscape 1977-83’ this 5 CD, 84 track box set, which will be released on 21 July, is a welcome and surprising release from the band who made electrifying jazz-rock (which they sometimes erroneously called punk-jazz) but went to make electrified dance-funk as part of, or right next to, the New Romantic movement.

Originally an 8-piece, then a 6-piece, jazz band, Landscape performed anywhere and everywhere they could in and around London and then further afield, from art colleges to village fetes (if you call Barnes a village; it likes to pretend it is) to pub and club venues. I’m not sure if I first saw them at The Nashville or The Music Machine, but they were a welcome distraction from and contrast to the pub rock and recycled pub rock of punk in 1977.

They were one of the first bands to issue their own EPs back in the day too: U2XME1X2MUCH in 1977 and Workers Playtime the following year. There was quite a buzz around the band at the time, with sold-out gigs and the blessing of well-known hippy Jesus* who usually danced semi-naked in front of the stage, having handed out percussion instruments to those around him.

In 1980 their eponymous first album was released and they also appeared on Tomorrow’s World, discussing computer programming as well as their electronic drums and wind instruments. It was a sign of things to come. Before long two of the band were programming Fairlights for Kate Bush’s third album Never for Ever and the band reinvented themselves as an electronic dance band, somewhat incongruously dressing themselves in futuristic vinyl, but soon achieving pop success with ‘Einstein A-Go-Go’ and ‘Norman Bates.’ Both singles were quirky, unexpected tracks with killer hooks and bizarre videos.

The band would also turn up doing production duties on various, often surprising, projects, not least music & dance troupe Shock’s reversioning of ‘Angel Face’, a neglected 7″ classic. Anyway, Landscape persisted with the dance music, following their hit album From the Tea Rooms of Mars… (which contained their two hit singles and also the unjustly unsuccessful ‘European Man’ which had been issued several times) with a third, 1982’s Manhattan Boogie-Woogie. But the moment had gone, as moments often do, and despite a brief incarnation as Landscape III (a trio), the band broke up for good in 1984, with members continuing session and production work, and writing for films and television, including bass player Andy Pask’s theme for The Bill.

Now, in 2023, it’s great to have a CD box set that gathers up everything there is from back in the day, presumably on the back of new interest in and belated recognition of the band in the likes of Electronic Sound, Classic Pop and Rock & Roll Globe magazines, not to mention what Simon Reynolds calls Retromania, the urge to dig deep into and unearth the recent past.

Beautifully designed, produced and manufactured, Landscape A Go-Go kicks off with the first album before a smattering of unreleased live tunes from Norwich and London. Then it’s straight into the hit album on the second disc accompanied with various versions of singles, including a stonking 12″ version of ‘European Man’, and a couple of never released tracks. As you might expect, the third CD repeats the process for Manhattan Boogie-Woogie and its associated singles and mixes.

The really good stuff, for me anyway, is on the final two discs, where listeners will find music from the now impossible-to-find EPs (‘I still have mine,’ he said smugly) and the didn’t-even-know-about-it-til-now cassette album Thursday the 12th from 1974, as well as some unreleased music from London 1977-78 and tracks by Landscape III. And there are a few other versions, mixes and remixes too.

Although I like the Tea Rooms album, I don’t feel it’s aged well; I also get less and less interested in production and hi-fidelity as I get older. So, for me, it’s the highly original and perverse (if you think about the social and musical context of when it was produced) music from the band’s early days which is the real treasure here.

Rupert Loydell

*Find out more about Jesus Jellet here
https://flashbak.com/jesus-amongst-fans-naked-hippie-dancer-394617/
and here
https://www.ukrockfestivals.com/jesus-jellett.html

Pre-order Landscape A Go-Go at https://landscape.lnk.to/landscapeagogoYo

The Landscape official website is at https://landscape.band/

Landscape – U2XME1X2MUCH (you two-timed me one time too much):

Landscape – European Man (7-Inch Version)

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Celladoor and more at The Big Tree

 

Some exciting musical mayhem, poetry, punk, grunge and even classical sounds witnessed by Alan Dearling

https://www.facebook.com/CelladoorBand

‘The Big Tree’ is a new name for a Calderdale venue with a mixed past. Re-branded and with a new ethos around community music. It’s upstairs above a nightclub and it will take a while to become established alongside other venues such as The Golden Lion in Todmorden and the Trades Club in Hebden Bridge which both punch above their metaphorical creative weights.

Headliners on this particular night were Celladoor. They promote themselves as “…an independent musical entity run by artist Djinn Seldom Mire (Aaron James Davies).” They (and Aaron solo) look to have released 9 albums and 4 x eps. And according to their publicity, Aaron is an “exponent of ‘swamp folk’!”

On-line they appear to be complete and utter musical chameleons. Mesmeric and seemingly ever-changing in styles. From up-close and personal to mega-thematic. Melodic and grungy too… weird… Psych-Metal-Light, perhaps? On this night they were in full, garage band mode. It reminded me of the Seattle Sounds of Nirvana and the early Pixies. Arrogant, bridled aggression – wild and really rather wonderful. It certainly woke up the punters and got them bouncing. Here are some samples of their musical wares:

‘Falling Leaves’: https://www.facebook.com/reel/787253793062238

‘Counting Heads’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OgfeQygSilA

Album, ‘Wetiko’ on Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fFTV9ebJ5hU

From Youtube, a sample comment:

@kittentacticalwarfare1140

“Chilled yet spooky /,,/

The cover made it feel as if the whole album was the OST of a horror movie.”

The Big Djinn (I think it is an invisible, impish genie), Aaron, has oodles of charisma. And the band gave a 103 per cent in energy, great stage craft, and powerful songs. A pretty epic show if you like some noisy musical histrionics.

The Big Tree night was billed very much as a sampler, a taster of local talent. Certainly it was eclectic in the extreme, kicking off with twenty minutes from suedehead, punk-poet from Halifax, Keiron Lee Higgins. Fast delivery, lots of one-liners, political and edgy. Those who arrived early, listened, appreciated the wordsmith in action, and applauded. He’s online at:

https://www.facebook.com/keironhiggspoet/?locale=en_GB

Fake – a four piece, I think recently formed in the Calderdale Valley, brought along a bundle of mates, family and fans. Young, pretty confident, full of punk-attitude with a heavy-metal style. The front-man caresses the mic like an old pro and is an effective purveyor of invective! A bit in the mould of early Undertones. They sounded like they believe in their sentiments raging against governments and politicians in songs such as ‘Scum of the Earth’ – “What are you going to do, when they come for you?”

Solo guitarist, Rik Warwick, eyed up the crowd reflectively, then blasted them with some incendiary finger-picking. His set included classical guitar pieces (I think I perhaps recognised pieces from Bach and maybe, Rodriguez) and the crowd gave it some vocal ‘welly’ during an extended, almost violent rendition of Queen’s ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’.

Give him a big hand for virtuoso skill and talent.

 

To check out The Big Tree, go and visit them on Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100090731224688

 

 

 

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Ladies and Gentlemen,

 
The image you see here may well be an ideal work of art, or
Perhaps, it is a lurid and melodramatic allegory of the creative process?

You will observe how, on one level, the symbolism is obvious – an uncontrollable force overwhelms the ivory towers of pedantry and the bastions of patriarchy.

It is a force from ‘beyond’ – it is the dark energy of compulsive, unconscious drives; it is a monstrous incursion from the paraxial realm of Desire.

This oracular vision is presented to us by that Pythoness of Subliminal Terror, superstar choreographer of the Ballet Plastique des Noctambules, Ms Jenny Taylor aka Medusa Cascade – watch your step!

 

 

 

A.C. Evans
Art Worldnewser

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For Those In Peril On The Sea

I 

UNDER SEA AND SKY

At Liverpool Street station’s rear end sprouts 
A semi verdant oasis. One part biarritz, 
One part Wembley, complete  with lava lamp
Verges of a green graced semblance to Kent; 

Shimmer up Sun Street to see the ancient arse
Of the railway mounted by pyjama tinged
Scrapers merging now with sky colour
To make this strange set urban space heaven sent. 

Bar chairs like earrings hung at the tip of their
Callow tables. Bins as sentinels guarding
Against the imminent Intrusion of those 
Who stain nature’s strain fighting as it is

Through the paving to prove Itself fit for saving 
In a world which considers the cappuccino
To be more beautiful than the rose. 
London, you lean on the edge of Atlantis. 

We can glimpse It’s rim now in puddles
Banished by this current sun, which murders
Gardens by day and makes the suited animals suffer,
Whether in fur or nylon; surely the slow descent

Has begun. And yet for now above ground
We cling to the illusion of surface. As I write
Perched here men are dying on the Atlantic’s low bed. 
It is Wednesday today. Their oxygen runs out

Tomorrow. I will be at work when their minute 
And the last of their breath will be shed. 
For breath can be shed as well as blood, milk
And coffee. Cities can keep secrets just as oceans

And storms mystify. And yet we all disconnect. 
Was there once a thread between people? 
If there was those men need it and this respite
In the sunshine is just another buoy bobbing 

In an uncharted waters. Meanwhile peace
And turmoil conjoin and we are unfound
And unheeded, caught by calm and by chaos 
As further forces regard us somewhere beyond
                                        
silent skies

 

                                                          David Erdos 21/6/23

 

II
  

THE SEA: A SEQUEL

The monied men have now passed 
But consider the refugees who too met the water;
78 on one vessel and so many more swallowed up;

Stevie Smithing above the sea bed as something
Immeasurably darker consumes them; as if fate itself
Were partaking in an hourly sip from deaths cup. 

Let’s not have Unpriti Patel or Braverman as our Ahabs.
We have our Moby Dick Donalds and Boris as Jonah
Who will eat himself free soon enough. So let us take

Neptunes note and never again slice iced oceans.
Let the dignity of all dolphins teach all that’s swimming
And hidden beneath deep sea stuff. 

For the human spirit is slush when tossed and turned
By fear’s fathoms. The ship in the bottle will shatter
And sink behind glass which is eternally black

Despite the transparent sheen of all water. But across
Each sea blood is broiling in great thrashes of foam,
And sweat and trespass. 

Perhaps the sea punishes anyone who pushes against
Its kept secrets. The Titanic remains should have
Blurred now into the loss of light when life ends

And another strange space replaces the shape
Of the sunken. For there is no ascent, no salvation.
Not even angels it seems get the bends. 

One thinks of Spielberg and Shaw. Of 1912.
And Bermuda. Even Robert Maxwell, whale bloated
And then, the Mafia hits in black bags.  “You will sleep

with fishes.” Perhaps we should barely dip our toes
When in Brighton, St. Tropez or Gaeta, lest wary
Of coastguards we are subject to drift and net drags 

Perhaps Shakespeare’s sea should ensure
We stay Calibanned on our islands. Monstrous,
And mistaken, we have never I think known our place.

For if Prospero is God practising a truly alien magic
And Ariel is all angels singing from within Christ’s true face,
Or Mohammed’s, or more we may at last have our beacon

Shining now across surface while those it would
Search for are far fathomed forever and now
Waving beneath, without trace.

 

                                                         David Erdos 23/6/23 

 

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Unicorn

by Dominic Rivron

 

Sophie was asleep, curled up on the settee, the head of her favourite unicorn pressed close to her face. I didn’t want to disturb her, so I went into the bedroom as soon as my mobile started to ring. It was Sam. He asked me, had I noticed anything strange about Sophie recently? It was a strange question for an absent father like Sam to ask, I thought, but I didn’t say so. I just said no, which was the truth. Run your fingers across her forehead, he said. I can’t right now, I said. She’s asleep on the settee, curled up with Roxie. I don’t want to wake her up. Who on earth’s Roxie? he said. Her favourite unicorn, I said. You should know that, you’re her father. Well, do it when she wakes up, he said. Check if it’s smooth. What are you going on about? I said. This unicorn thing, he said. She could be turning into a unicorn. See if you can feel a horn growing in the middle of her forehead. I jabbed the phone, cut him off. I can do without him phoning me up, taking the piss.

A few minutes later, the phone rang again. It was Sam. I thought, should I or shouldn’t I, then answered it. I wanted someone to talk to and arguing with Sam was better than nothing. It passed the time. He carried on where he’d left off. I’m being serious, he said. Kids are turning into unicorns. Yes, whatever you say, Sam, I said, in my tired, fuck-you voice. Goodnight.

I didn’t believe a word of it, but I googled it nevertheless. It turned out, of course, that he hadn’t made it up. There were stories out there. There were pictures, video clips even. It’s so easy to fake stuff, though: to take it all at face value you’d have to be as stoned as Sam was most of the time. It was all just too stupid for words.

By the following morning, though, it’d hit the headlines. It wasn’t just an internet rumour: it was official. Children were turning into unicorns. Nobody knew quite what to do about it. We were told not to panic. A journalist with a microphone standing outside Number 10 said he understood the government COBRA committee were meeting later that morning. Plans would be made. Guidance would be issued. Days went by. Advice sheets came in the post and posters appeared on school gates. It told you what you could do to reduce the risk (not a lot, at that that time) and what to do if your child turned into a unicorn. Otherwise, life went on as normal, at least round our way.

About a week later, the government started publishing a graph on the internet every day, telling you how many children had turned into unicorns. There was even a map of Britain, too, with unicorn hot-spots shown in red. Manchester, Newcastle and London were the worst hit back then. Leeds was blue, which was worse than green but better than red. We were dark green, which was just slightly worse than light green.

Everyone remembers those first few weeks. The government called in the army and got them to erect emergency stable blocks. It quickly became clear too that, within days, Britain would run out of hay. There was talk of imports, although other countries in Europe were facing the same problem. Unicorns need space to graze. Sheep farms were requisitioned for grazing and farmers compensated. It didn’t come to much, though. A few people were found grazing for their offspring-turned-unicorns, but many more weren’t. And then, even well-provided for unicorns often ran away. Most of them ended up grazing in parks or on the grass verges of ring roads and suchlike places. Many got knocked down (like they still do). One Tory MP found herself ridiculed for suggesting the government was doing too much: horses were less bother than children, she said, and surely everyone had space to graze a unicorn. Another suggested that if there were too many unicorns, and as they weren’t human beings anymore, perhaps the best thing would be to cull them. This, on the whole, was accepted with a shrug by older people, but greeted angrily by young people with families. Fresh advice was issued: if your child turns into a unicorn, don’t give it too many sweet treats like sugar lumps because it’ll rot their teeth.

I remember the first time I saw a unicorn (doesn’t everyone?). It was in the small play-area at the end of our street. It’s all grass, with a swing and a slide in the middle. There’s a privet hedge and a fence all the way round it, so the children can’t run out into the road. The poor thing was about waist-height, bright pink and glittery. It looked confused and agitated. It kept cantering from one side of the area to the other. Every now and again it stopped in the middle and tried climbing sometimes onto on the swing, sometimes the slide. It’s hooves kept slipping off the equipment and it kept almost falling over. Then it would whinny and start cantering around again. I kept my distance and kept walking. Everyone takes them for granted now, but it was frightening back then. I felt so sorry for it, though. It was obviously still a child on the inside and couldn’t understand why it didn’t have arms and legs like a human. That’s what it’s like for them, they say, straight after they turn. It takes them time to adjust. Luckily, Sophie never turned, but I heard other parents at school say how, when they do, if you can get close enough to them to look into their eyes, you can still see the child in there. I’m not quite sure what they meant by it, but that’s what they said. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking.

I suppose the unicorn cults started up about then. They claimed the children who turned into unicorns were special children. They went out looking for unicorns and started venerating them. They claimed the whole thing was nothing to worry about. We were privileged to be living through a very special time, they said.

As the weeks went by, the scientists began to find out more about what was going on. Children with unicorn toys, they decided, were the ones most prone to becoming unicorns. Parents were told to confiscate and destroy them. There was much talk about a batch that had been imported from the Philippines but, as we all now know, it was all unicorns. Worryingly, they discovered that once a child began to turn, but before the changes became visible, they could pass the condition on to other children.

Of course, I was worried about Sophie. One night, as she slept, I carefully withdrew Roxie from her grasp. I cut him up into tiny shreds and put him in the bin. The next morning I told her that unicorns were magical animals and you never know when a unicorn might be called away to the magic unicorn land and that, however much they love you and want to stay with you, when they’re called they have to go. I remember thinking it sounded a bit lame and I should’ve come up with a better story, but she seemed to accept it.

As time went on, scientists discovered that the condition only affected children under twelve. The sense of relief when Sophie’s twelfth birthday came round was palpable. It was around that time she told me that of course she knew I’d taken Roxie and thrown him in the dustbin. She never lost her love of unicorns, though. When she left school she was lucky enough to gain an internship at the local unicorn sanctuary. She still helps out there.

After a few years, the unicorns started having baby unicorns. Foals grazing on the roadside became a common sight. Talk about cute. There was talk in parliament about birth control for unicorns, but it never got very far. The scientists, though, finally managed to come up with a vaccine for humans. The unicorn cults were against it, but most people were all for it. When it was rolled out, parents queued round the block with their children at the vaccination centres. You still get the odd one – usually, kids whose whose parents refused to get them vaccinated – but, generally, children don’t turn into unicorns anymore. Politicians began to talk about ‘living with unicorns’.

As everyone knows, unicorns have magic powers. It’s said that a unicorn’s tears have healing properties. The unicorn cultists bottle them and sell them. The same goes for unicorn horns. At first, unscrupulous people took to sawing the horns off roadkill but as time went on, a black market for powdered horn developed, fed by sinister poaching gangs. And not only that, but, as unicorn numbers increased, people began to notice a change in the weather. There’s a great deal more in the way of fine drizzle than there used to be. Whenever you look up into the sky these days, the chances are somewhere you’ll see a rainbow.

 

 

 

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ON THE EDGE OF TIME

      

Hawkwind + Hanterhir, Hall for Cornwall, Truro, 17 June 2023

It is an odd contrast: the recently refurbished Hall for Cornwall, now looking like every other civic theatre I have ever been to, is almost full of older people in dishevelled t-shirts listening to 1970s rock. And if the audience clearly didn’t get the memo about cutting your hair if you go bald on top, the band didn’t get the one in the 1980s about lasers not being the future of rock’n’roll light shows.

But then Hawkwind have stuck with what they do for over 40 years now: monstrous rhythms carefully overlayed with guitar riffs, synthesizer trills and glissando sequences, not to mention moments of contrasting liquid guitars and strident singing. Songs are extended, mutated and blurred into another, or simply take a turn into a Pink Floydian moment of calm before revving up again for another take off.

I’ve never seen Hawkwind before, and although there are a few albums lurking in my collection, they aren’t on heavy rotation. I suspect like a lot of people my age they came on to my radar as proto-punks, strident rebels with links to free festivals, Michael Moorcock, West London counterculture and an attitude which kept them as relevant as the emerging punk scene. Their brilliant 1977 album Quark, Strangeness & Charm helped too: it sounded totally of the moment, energetic, quirky and original, a kind of self-subversion foregrounding synthesizers and some of the wittiest lyrics they’ve ever composed.

Anyway, back to the present, as the band take us back to the past, except it’s very much of the now. The music is relentless, and I don’t mean that in a bad way. It draws you in and uplifts you. Like trance or classical minimalism it heightens your awareness of even small changes in texture, timing, mood and sound. Not to mention those moments when the music pauses for half a second then either drops into the glorious ascension of a bluesy guitar interlude or increases its pace to head for the finishing line. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised how tight they are, they’ve had enough years to practice, but – like Gong, who were also so together it was shocking – I still think of them as a haphazard band riffing on the back of a truck with hippies gathered round.


  
The lasers work in a similar way. I can’t pretend that they are any different to the ones in vogue for a couple of years in the 1980s. They shine beams of light out in a fan shape, beams which can be coloured, catch the smoke from the smoke machine, and can be moved to flicker and interact with beams from other lasers to make grids. But by using them almost non-stop throughout the concert, they act like a kind of strobe light or Brion Gysin dream machine, pulsing and shimmering, becoming almost part of the music.

I don’t know the music well enough to give you track titles. The lengthy ‘Levitation’ was a standout, as was ‘The Spirit of the Age’, which became a kind of singalong as the whole auditorium contributed echoing backing vocals for the chorus call and response. I think they did ‘Born to Go’, and I know they didn’t do ‘Silver Machine’. I also know I had a great time, and that Thighpaulsandra is a great keyboard player, coaxing all sorts of mutant sounds from his set-up as well as supplying fluid melodic layers in the mix. The younger guitarist and singer Magnus Martin was also noticeable for his lovely guitar work, whilst the trio of Brock, Chadwick and Mackinnon are the foundations of the band. It’s unbelievable how Dave Brock has been present on every single Hawkwind album (not to mention offshoot projects) and the energy his guitar and singing still contains.

Support – at the special invitation of Hawkwind themselves, who were watching from the wings – were local legends Hanterhir, a seven piece band who are hard to define musically. With violin, saxophone and flute laid over the top of guitars, drums and bass their music moves from psychedelic folk-punk to a more proggier rock (without the pretension). Despite taking the stage earlier than announced their 40 minute set kept us all entertained and won them plenty of musical converts, with their merch stand doing a brisk trade. Let’s hope we have more evenings like this in Truro, rather than the endless parade of musicals and tribute bands that are generally on offer.

 

 

 

Rupert Loydell (review & live photos)

 

 

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RIPPLES OF LIFE!

 

Stop dimming your light for others

Glow,

Shine,

Illuminate,

Dazzle them,

Set them as pyrotechnics.

Just never hide your light,

Making them comfortable

Was never your responsibility.

Once you stop counting

The leaves you lose

You will eventually stand tall

And wait for the new ones to grow.

You know the purpose of life

Is not to just survive

But to live.

Time waits for no one

And time is moving constantly!

Of course

You hold on to your breath,

And the moments you’re given,

To make more memories,

And savour the details.

You cannot stop this river

But you can resist its flow.

Ebbing is existence and flooding is life.

And the ripples are memoirs.

 

 

 

Monalisa Parida
Photo Nick Victor

Bio:- Monalisa Parida is a post graduate student of English literature from India, Odisha and a prolific poetess. She  is very active in social media platforms and her poems have also been translated into different  languages and publish in various e-journals.

She has got 100 international award for writing poetry. Her poems have been publishing international e-journals “New York parrot”, “The Writers Club” (USA), “Suriyadoya literary  foundation”, “kabita Minar”, “Indian Periodical” (India) and “Offline Thinker “, “The Gorkha Times “ ( Nepal), “The Light House”(Portugal), “Bharatvision”(Romania), “International cultural forum for humanity and creativity”(Aleppo, Syria), “Atunispoetry.com”(Singapore) etc. And also published in various newspapers like “The Punjabi Writer Weekly(USA)”,  “News Kashmir (J&K, India)”, Republic of Sungurlu (Turkey)” etc.

One of  her poem published an American anthology named “The Literary Parrot Series-1 and  series-2 respectively (New York, USA)”. Her poems have been translated in various languages like Hindi, Bengali, Turkish, Persian, Romanian etc.  And she is the author of the book “Search For Serenity”, “My Favourite Grammar”, “Paradigm”, “Beyond Gorgeous”.

 

 

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BLOOD, GOLD & OIL

 
After great reviews I’m delighted to announce that Blood Gold and Oil plays at Riverside Studios Hammersmith July 10-13. Same great cast – Douglas Clarke-Wood, Suzanna Hamilton, Mascuud Dahir and director Isaac Bernier Doyle.  https://riversidestudios.co.uk/…/blood-gold-and-oil-73758/

 
 
 
 

From the Arab Revolt of World War One, a modern hero is constructed: The brilliant, flawed figure of Lawrence of Arabia. His legacy is as complex as his psyche.

A museum. Present day. A curator puts the finishing touches to her final exhibition while its subject – seemingly summoned by the passion of the archaeologist – searches for a way out. 

Produced for the 20th anniversary of the invasion of Iraq, BLOOD GOLD AND OIL scrapes away at the topsoil of TE Lawrence’s continued celebrity and interrogates all that lies beneath. Was he a brilliant military commander? Certainly. A Freedom fighter? He’d definitely like to think so. An agent of British colonialism? Could be.

During the course of the play, a real living exhibition is carefully pieced together with an array of genuine World War One artefacts on loan from the National Civil War Centre in Newark and Imperial War Museum. The finds were from a 2013 archaeological dig in Jordan where playwright Jan Woolf was a writer in residence and dug the play out of the ground.

“A profound and serious play where politics and psychology, authenticity and fable, artefacts and abstractions combine to epose a bitter truth to (the) British Public (…) This is vitally relevant subject matter and nourishment for a discerning audience” **** – The Morning Star

 

“Woolf is writing her way back to a place where she can confront the revered by bringing him into battle, not only with his past but the future (…) And so the play shimmers (…) This, then, is play as purpose, and more; play as evocation.”

–  The International Times

 

“Douglas Clarke-Wood as TE Lawrence effortlessly commands the stage as TE Lawrence”

– London Pub Theatres

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On The Father’s Day

The conversation with my dad
builds a monolith of laments.
Somehow he has learnt to sing
since his death and sings the song
I have in my head.

Oh, hush. I hiss. His voice breaks into
white noise and crickets. My mind is
a porch and an evening bush.
Here the dog, not ours, buried some bones.
My father makes an instrument using those.

Does the tune attune to an age of easy belief?

 

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Picture 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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HEIDI {takes her top off

 
Someone must have told me
because I remember it. Women
in Switzerland are allowed to vote.

Not in every election, but some of them.

I wonder if it’s liberating?

I am lying on my back in a field in Essex
having taken too much Acid and watching comets
smear themselves between stars in the clear night sky
while music swirls (in colour) from a stage that earlier
I would have sworn, was facing the other way. I read
newspaper accounts of where I was, after the event

and apparently it was marred by violence.

Hell’s Angels fighting with security.
Fires (almost) out of control. The main

thing I remember is a girl called Heidi.

Heidi dancing without her top.

Barclay James Harvest and the Faces.
Quintessence and the Groundhogs.

Edgar Broughton.

I must take another tab.

The moon’s a little crumbly.

Essex doesn’t seem so bad, considering.

It’s where I saw Heidi, dancing.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Steven Taylor
Picture Nick Victor
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Why Sancho?

 

 

I have invited Paterson Joseph to write an article about his novel – The Secret Diaries of Charles Ignatius Sancho

I was first introduced to Charles Ignatius Sancho by my parents who also introduced me to Olaudah Equiano. I recently watched a play about Olaudah Equiano called The Meaning of Zong. Charles Ignatius Sancho is an important and significant person in context to my own life and many others who may or may not be aware why. Paterson Joseph to me represents a sort of spirit of Ignatius Sancho. He brings his story to life. 

The Secret Diaries of Charles Ignatius Sancho
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Paterson Joseph (@ignatius_sancho)

Paterson Joseph Theatre Credits
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Paterson Joseph TV / Film Credits 
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The Secret Diaries of Charles Ignatius Sancho: Remarks from Actor and Author Paterson Joseph 5.9.23
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British Library, Preface to Sancho: An Act of Remembrance by Paterson Joseph
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Paterson Joseph takes Waterstones inside The British Library to see the documents that helped him write The Secret Diaries of Charles Ignatius Sancho
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Paterson Joseph announced as the next Chancellor of Oxford Brookes University
Oxford Brookes University

 

Why Sancho?
By Paterson Joseph 
London  
June 6th, 2023
There are many personalities of African or African-Caribbean descent in Great Britain from the long eighteenth-century that I might have chosen to focus on. Why did I choose the controversial, long-overlooked and sometimes vilified figure of Charles Ignatius Sancho for my study in Black British history?  

To begin with, Professor Gretchen Gerzina’s seminal book Black England – Life before Emancipation turned me from an ignorant Black Briton, convinced those who spoke of an earlier than-twentieth-century origin of Black Britain merely wishful thinkers – desperate to claim a place in the country that ignores or denies their presence – into an avid believer and student of that anterior African and Caribbean history that stretches all the way back to at least Roman Britain. 

What I found in Professor Gerzina’s work changed not only my perspective on those seeking a knowledge of a Black British history, but also wrought a sea-change in me that has taken these past twenty-four years to fully complete.  

… It began with an image, of course, the iconic image.
A Black Man is painted by the famous painter of The Blue Boy, Thomas Gainsborough. It is 1768. The sitter is looking off to our left. We observe him, but he is definitely not unaware of our gaze, our fascination. He gives nothing much away except … is that a faint smile playing around his beautifully rendered mouth? 

This is no ‘noble savage’, that staple image of the Black body from time immemorial; he is neither object nor a complete fantasy – though, it must be remarked this is certainly a performance. He is depicted with a hand in his waistcoat; his right, working hand. This denotes a ‘man of leisure’. Not true, since he was working as the chief servant, the valet, to the Duke of Montagu – who in turn was Governor and Constable of the royal residence, Windsor Castle. A remarkably exalted position for a Black man. Nevertheless, there is his hand, tucked deeply into his waistcoat. This red waistcoat is not the livery of the Montagus but rather a costume from Thomas Gainsborough’s dressing up box, a box he used for many a client. Theatre as Art and Art as Theatre. The red pings out like a beacon, offset by the vibrant, shimmering gold of the rich braiding on the edges, the gold buttons, all capped with a bright, white cravat; the pigment Gainsborough used designed to cause the white to glow like a lamp.  

Painted in his accustomed candlelight in one-hundred minutes in Bath in 1768, either in the spring or autumn of that year, this is a performance of person by both Thomas and Charles. They are ‘saying’ something here, not merely recording an image of a trusted, loved and loyal servant. This man was liked by his employer, more, he seems to have been admired by him, too. And it was this image more than the other stories I had read up to that point in Professor Gerzina’s book, that caught my eye and captured my imagination. 

Charles Ignatius Sancho’s image tells us something of the painter, too, it reminds us that Gainsborough was an outsider, as Sancho was an outsider. Gainsborough had come from Sudbury in Suffolk, a semi-rural spot to the South and east of the great Metropolis, growing exponentially in the early days of the eighteenth century. Later that century Thomas moved to the more fashionable (less expensive?) Bath, the famous spa town where the infirm and the hopeful came to ‘take the waters’ to cure their ailments and restore their health. It was also a town of pilgrimage for the great and the good – and the not-so-good to be vibrantly painted in the sombre gloom of the studio of that high-priest of portraiture, Thomas Gainsborough.  

Gainsborough preferred landscape but, alas, portraits paid the bills. Given his workmanlike one-hundred minutes, he clearly had a lot of clients to get through. However, with this client he seemed to take a special delight in the set-up. 

I first saw this image in Black England in 1999. I had never seen an image like it, that I can recall. I thought it must be a William Hogarth, that older contemporary of Gainsborough and his nearest, more successful rival Joshua, soon-to-be-knighted, Reynolds. William Hogarth, the lover of satire who laced several of his most famous works, not the least being A Rake’s Progress with Black witnesses. David Dabydeen’s brilliant book Hogarth’s Blacks details that purposeful peopling of Black figures in Hogarth’s prints, masterfully. I believed that Hogarth had attempted to depict the image of a free Black Man who might be dressed as finely as any lord, if granted an education and all the advantages high status could afford. 

But, when I read the account of the life of a baby born on a slave ship, orphaned by the age of two and sent to live with three women in Greenwich, south-east London, made to stand as a silent pet, an ornament, in order to show how rich, exotic and powerful his mistresses were, who became an actor, writer, composer and musician, finally earning enough status and financial means to purchase a grocery store in a street adjacent to Downing Street in Westminster, well … I was almost compelled to pursue his unlikely and extraordinary story above all others. 

I have only regretted venturing down this twenty-four-year cul-de-sac once. It was in the spring of 2021. I had sold the manuscript to Dialogue Books and my editor there, the extraordinarily perceptive Sharmaine Lovegrove, had asked me to whittle the story down from my planned – overly grand – three volumes to one and cut the word count to a slim eighty five thousand words. The average length, apparently, of a first novel. In fact, I had twenty years more of life to tell and had reached nearly one-hundred and ten thousand words, already. The task seemed beyond me. Sancho’s life, at least the fragments that we could be reasonably sure of, had not yet begun. I knew that squeezing it all in to fewer words than I had used, on top of finishing his life story was going to be difficult. The greater issue, however, proved to be his compromised position as a man who sold goods produced by captured 
Africans …  

I spent some days worried that I had backed the wrong historical horse, and that I was merely justifying the unjustifiable in a man who had been ignored by White historians and shunned by Black historians. I wondered if they may have both been correct in consigning Ignatius Sancho to the dustbin of history as a either too-slight or too-compromised a figure. 

Most of us would probably prefer our idols to be ‘better’ than we are – we imagine our heroines and heroes to have overcome their obstacles in life with a degree of integrity and by sheer force of moral nature. I have a deep mistrust of that model of mythologising, but I am also attracted to it as a man in need of Black heroes I can hold up as shining examples of the best that ‘we’ can be.  

When put this starkly, it appears a rather childish desire. Who but the very shallow can pretend to perfection in their life? Who could reasonably claim to have known all along where they needed to accept their circumstances and compromise and where to fight tooth and nail for change? Perhaps some. But none who I could ever hope to emulate. It remains beyond my ability or disposition to be that self-aware and flawless. 

It turned out that those dark nights and days of the soul paid dividends. For in sending Sancho to the interrogation room of my imagination and forcing him to honestly confront his ‘sins’, I found understanding of his choices and even, grand to say but true, forgiveness for his flaws and foibles. Flaubert wrote in his novel Madame Bovary when the heroine of the story finds herself disparaging an Abbé whom she had longed admired and had placed on a pedestal, that ‘idols must not be touched, the gilt wears off in our hands.’ In the case of Sancho, stripping him of the ‘gilt’ of idolatry, had allowed me to see the performance behind Gainsborough’s portrait and forced me, gently but relentlessly, to confront my own performance of a ‘good’ self with a ‘pure’ heart.  

And hard as that is, I prefer to live here, in the real world than behind the shiny glass of a captured snapshot of the person I might want to be, but who does not really exist. I chose Sancho, but in the end he taught me more about myself than I could ever have known without him.

 

 

Portrait of Ignatius Sancho by Thomas Gainsborough

Joshua Phillip
His personal website is
rorschacharchives.blogspot.com

 

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You Could Write a Poem about This

 

In order to feel less disconnected, I carry evaluation forms for every occasion: How was breakfast? How appropriate was the weather to your mood? How satisfied are you with the ageing process? It’s a simple system of one star to five, in which three signifies ambivalence, one is obscured by a veil of tears, five is an apotheosis in the arms of wheeling angels, and two and four are just there to create the illusion of nuance where nuance no longer exists. I remember once, on a bench overlooking a cut glass sea, loaded on cider and home grown, Shelley told me poets were the unacknowledged legislators of the world; so, as a mark of respect, I send my completed forms to the Poet Laureate, with a list of suggestions to make everything better for everyone. It’s a comfort to know that my voice is being heard and that I’m proactively participating in innovation and change; but he never replies, so I score him one out of a possible five.

 

 

Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

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Madonna with Green Figs

 

[after a painting by Nathaniel Nemo R.A.]

A sudden rush of rustle from within, (under?)

 the folds of cobalt plaster
  (or was it alabaster?)
and a holy child reached out a tender hand
 for a greengage-coloured fig
  uncomprehending its stolid & static
   inedibility.
Yet too young to be
 in search of the miraculous,
  he replaced the fruit
   in ripening disdain,
retreating inside (beneath?)
 the fading blue of sculptured dress
  in wonder
   (or was it distress?)
A sigh – the Madonna or the clothes she wore?
A cry – the virgin mother or the child she bore?

After time’s arrow lodged a precarious bull’s eye

 in the dartboard of The Three Kings,

  a diligent archivist

   chipped away at one of the figs

    to see if its inside were red

     to match the sea.

A tiny square of dry parchment

 unfolded, fluttered to the floor.

Written upon it was the Word –

 the Invisible word.

And the word was law

 (or was it lore?)

 

 

 

Julian Isaacs

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Universal

 

Tabloids on the east side

I keep looking at the mirror

It knows

How things work

The atoms of the human soul

An incense of intention

It keeps buzzing

In my head

The heads and tails of things

A silvery paws

Un femme

A Red Cross on my bosom

Innuendos everywhere

It touches with God’s mysteries

I keep chanting Him

The unnameable divine light

Above heads

The mirror knows

How things work

A silver spoon

Uni verse.

.

By

Sayani Mukherjee
Picture Nick Victor

.

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Timeless Eons

Neatly kept letters
Are carefully folded affections.
The ink from the timeless eons,
A personal story of scripted letters
Sent by a beloved narrator.
Early morning Muezzin’s waking call
From a distant Mosques’ loudspeaker
Wakes me up to the scripted jargons of love
I haven’t mispronounced the love
The jargon is my source code—
I live in it.
My time is your recollection,
This dwelling is full of spring
And unchanging.
Expression rains,
The weather of care sprouts
A fresh dandelion.
Why talk about flowers
When they are so delicate?
In blooming flowers
A beloved’s heart
Sways freely and aimlessly
Even when light air
Cares and knows its delicate touch.
The vivid visual of a colorful
Sight of a flower colors life
When life tries to hide away and fade.
Serenity’s fragrance
Emanates from a flower
To love the unrevealing eyesight.

 

 

 

Sushant Thapa 
Picture Nick Victor

 

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EDUCATION AS INDOCTRINATION

Just stifle the schools
to achieve your rule.

Switch educators
for God-conjurers,
and conjugation
with grammar purges.

Impose summaries,
abbreviations,
and bland certainties
on education.I

In your war against
ideas and style,
curiosity
is put on trial.

But the decorum
of your concrete courts
won’t withstand jungled
improvs of bold youth.

We gather the fires
of the books you burn
to build the bunting
above your ash urns.

 

 

 

Duane Vorhees

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Sifting the Sand


Is inconvenience an end in itself or
a means to serve a wider purpose?
Just let that one sink in for a moment
or two while we contemplate a future.

The repetition is numbing as what
at first seems like a dramatic event
stops being so when repeated a
hundred times a night. Reflective

surfaces appear in many of these
images and here we have repeating
patterns, sumptuous colour and
alternating shapes. Do you have a

flexible finance option? “Encountering
a UFO can be a life-changing experience,”
she said. Doorways and windows act as
frames within frames yet a second object

is coming into view. “Fearful of ridicule
we all remain tight-lipped,” he said.

 

Steve Spence
Picture Nick Victor

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A world without

a world without National Socialism
is unbelievable

so kill your children

a world without National Socialism
is unbelievable

 so kill yourselves

a world without your children
is unbelievable

so kill yourselves

a world without yourselves
is unbelievable

so kill your children

a world without your children
is unbelievable

so kill National Socialism

 


David Miller

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reel life



this happens 
on a street
I’ve never knowingly known before 
with my spirit down distracted 
and paying no heed 
a small man walks towards us
us being – should you care –
a Romanian surrealist photographer
a young French woman artist-musician
two English writers

how odd I think
to see somebody I know on this street
he catches my eye as I catch his
and something flashes across his face
this happens to the famous
I’ve learned in my anonymous life
it’s that look which silently says
yes – I am who you think I am

and then I remember
I don’t know this man
but I know his face
I can’t remember his name
but I can hear his voice
so how can it be
that he’s so familiar?
I’m in Paris not at home
I’m in a trance in France
on my own

he’s small and middle-aged
he’s quite ugly shall we say
he’s dressed down
not dressed up
but he knows
I know his mug
and I do
and now I know why:
I’ve seen him on screen
by the Seine
at night
with a beautiful girl

I tell the lovely artist-musician
the name of the film
she remembers this man
she remembers his name
she agrees he’s quite ugly
she agrees he’s really small
she agrees with me that…..
well – he’s a film star
what more is there to say?

and it’s true
there is nothing more to say
except that
just like him
we all star
in the movie
which is our life

 

Jeff Cloves, Paris 2009

The film star is Denis Lavant whom I first saw in Léos Carax’s film
Les Amants du Pont Neuf (1991). He co-starred with Juliette Binoche
and it’s his young/old face which has stayed with me ever since it seems.
I was visiting Paris for the exhibition and the celebration of the life 
of the great poet and screen writer Jacques Prévert at the Hotel de Ville.

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The Problem of London

Modern Buildings in London, Ian Nairn (Notting Hill Editions)
London’s South Bank. The History, Mireille Galinou (Your London Publishing)

I’ve never quite got the still-growing cult which fetishizes Ian Nairn’s opinionated books about architecture. His gazetteers are little more than brief summaries and commentaries fuelled by personal likes or dislikes, and outrageous statements more rooted in the moment than any considered position. For instance, Nairn declares Jacob Epstein’s Madonna and Child in Cavendish Square to be ‘almost the only worthwhile piece of sculpture in Central London’, although this is immediately undermined by the ‘(see also 12)’ which refers the reader to an entry on State House, Holborn and Barbara Hepworth’s Meridian, which he clumsily describes as ‘a helix or spiral which has first been elongated and then given corners, and hence a skipping polygonal rhythm’, having first compared it to ‘a dynamo whirring away in a private world’.

Even in 1964 this uninformed take on art and architecture must have seemed pretty thin. Are phrases such as ‘personal and homely’, ‘[n]o masterpiece, but something just as important’, ‘a sad end to a great talent’ and ‘[a] terrible performance’ of any use to the reader, let alone the ridiculous ‘[t]his is a good place to come if you think that modern architecture cannot provide mystery and poetry’? What on earth has architecture got to do with either mystery or poetry? It is about materials, design, use of space, setting, light and usability; all things Nairn mostly ignores because it quickly becomes apparent that he has mostly stood outside the buildings and looked up some information about the architect. He mostly conjectures, assumes and generalises alongside brief descriptions.

It’s unclear what Nairn really thought of the then new and ‘modern’ buildings he included here. He occasionally worries about issues such as the fact that ‘[w]hen a building as thoughtful as this [New Zealand House, Pall Mall] is a disruptive influence, then it is time to question the whole basis of tall blocks in cities’, going on to offer the throwaway yet pertinent conclusion for that entry that ‘[t]he real problems of modern architecture are just beginning.’ It’s strange how these issues are (mostly) hidden away within Nairn’s more forthright and generally upbeat takes on the houses, offices and schools included here. Unfortunately Nairn’s alcoholism and death, not to mention 50 years of demolition, extensions, alterations and grand architecture, mean that we will never know what he would have made of the lovely architectural chaos that comprises London now; and we now have only photos and the likes of this book as evidence that many of these buildings existed. I remain ambivalent about Nairn’s writing, but – to use on of his phrases – at least ‘[s]omebody really cared.’

 Mireille Galinou Galinou also cares about London. Her beautifully designed and printed book is both a history and a personal exploration and response to the South Bank, which she regards as ‘the centre of gravity for London’. For the purpose of this book the area includes Vauxhall and Lambeth, Waterloo, Borough and Bankside, Southwark and Bermondsey, and not just the area around the Festival Hall, Hayward Gallery and National Theatre the name is so often used for.

Galinou starts her story in 2007, when Antony Gormley’s life-size sculptures were somewhat unnervingly placed around the area, backpedals to The London Eye (has it only been there since 2002?) and then with a hop, skip and a jump we are back in the Middle Ages. Galinou is good at telling the history of London in both general and specific ways: we get to see early maps of the city and to read a discussion of and be shown details of A fête at Bermondsey, the first London landscape painting, Galinou is expert at interpreting the details and social customs and events included in the painting, as well as considering the source material and the fact ‘it is described as “an imaginary landscape”‘, despite the inclusion of ‘the very recognizable Tower of London’ and other details.

The use of historical and artistic sources (of course, they are not exclusive) continues, with fascinating considerations of how South London was sometimes painted out of views, the great fires of London (yes, plural), and how art and topography differ. The last topic returns us to the 21st century with Sharon Beavan’s unfinished painting of the wide-eyed view from Blackfriars Bridge, wherein the buildings buckle and distort into patterns as the result of shifting points of view. Galinou briefly notes the importance of high views, noting how The Shard has recently produced a new one, before descending into a slightly uneasy installation piece in Clink Street which she argues evidenced ‘the soul of London’.

And then in Chapter 3 we are privy to ‘The Sweep of History’, seen in the first section mostly through archaeology, with brief discussion of the wooden jetty from 1500 BC whose remains have been found at Vauxhall and the Iron Age Waterloo Helmet, then the Roman necropolis, boats, encampments and temples, and finally the Domesday Book which shows only a low number of homesteads in the area. The next sections specifically focus on the time ‘around 1600’, 1770, 1845 and now, with each of the four South Bank areas getting their own brief sub-section (a device I initially found quite confusing). For each date, there is a map and gazetteer of important buildings and geographical features – big houses, gardens, marshes, churches, prisons, schools, theatres etc. – from the time, accompanied by contemporaneous prints and paintings. It’s fascinating to see how quickly the area develops and changes, what industries come and go, how the Thames is always present as both a thoroughfare and a divide.

The final section of the chapter ‘The South Bank now’ is briefly introduced with references to ‘Millennium Fever’, ‘Housing’ and ‘Hotelmania’, as well as a consideration of how ‘[t]he ghost from the past is still haunting the present’, principally by the reconfiguring of warehouses and other buildings for contemporary use (e.g. Tate Modern) but also the resurrection and reconstruction of The Globe Theatre. Then, within each area’s section we get socially and politically contextualised descriptions of recent and contemporary buildings. The information and detail evidenced here only reinforces my opinion of Ian Nairn, above: Galinou’s entries are informed, referenced, astute and informative.

Having devoted much of the 300+ pages so far to the historical and recent pasts, ‘The Quest’ (Chapter 4) tries to ‘find the soul’ of each of the areas. Vauxhall and Lambeth is presented as ‘Paradise Regained’, with a wander through the parks, pleasure grounds and nature of the area, along with a brief pause to read William Blake’s critical consideration of London, in his poem of the same name, which Galinou suggests is ‘the antithesis of the Garden of Eden’, ‘the fallen city groaning with the cries of its enslaved dwellers.’ She suggests his experience ‘revolved around two opposite poles: blissful contentment in the “Nest” [his home], fallen humanity when stepping out of the front door, though tampered by the hope of finding infinity.’ Squares and gardens and parks, along with The Garden Museum, still bear witness to the presence of public spaces and greenery and offer one possible focus for the city’s future.

Waterloo’s soul is a darker one. Galinou uses Blake’s dark visions and desire for London to become a new Jerusalem as a preface for a litany of drowning, murder, imprisonment, which evidence the ‘Fallen neighbourhood: Lust, Greed and Sloth’. It is not clear whether the railways and Waterloo Station helped the demise or the resurrection of the area, although George Augustus Sala is decisive in his 1858 judgement of the nearby New Cut:

     It isn’t picturesque, it isn’t quaint, it isn’t curious. It has not even the questionable
     merit of being old. It is simply Low. It is sordid, squalid, and, the truth must out,
     disreputable …. It is horrible, dreadful, we know, to have such a place: but then,
     consider – the population of London is fast advancing towards three millions, and
     the wicked people must live somewhere

Social reformers seemed to have been one of the catalysts for change in the area, but the popularity of music hall theatre at the end of the 19th Century slowly led to a resurgence of theatres on the South Bank, The Old Vic being instrumental. Later, of course, The Festival of Britain attracted many thousands of visitors and was instrumental in the development of institutional support for the arts. It also, of course, gave us The Festival Hall, and helped prompt the redevelopment of other areas on the South Bank. Galinou sees the example of, for instance, the community redevelopment of Coin Street, with its housing co-ops, neighbourhood centre and the Oxo Tower Wharf unit, as a challenge to what she calls the Goliaths of the development industry.

Theatre also features in the section on ‘Borough and Bankside’, but it is overshadowed by cholera and fire, cemeteries and death. Only when the industrial warehouses are abandoned can the likes of Derek Jarman live, create and party in spaces on the South Bank, slowly leading to formal studio provision and then the creation of Tate Modern, both an artistic and tourism success story. In this quarter, Galinou sees the ‘fluent marriage of the past with the present’ as key.

She seems less enthusiastic about The Shard, which gets discussed in relation to the Tower of Babel, and gets blamed (admittedly by Tom Ball, a member of the public, and not the author) for setting ‘a precedent for a flood of huge and tall buildings’ which will ‘spell an end to for London’s much admired human scale.’ Hmm. Shades of Prince Charles’s ignorance and interference here it seems. More reasoned perhaps is the objection to unsympathetic redevelopment which has not helped what Galinou calls ‘[t]he social pecking order’. The area is also considered in terms of its previous role as ‘London’s larder’ and the way contemporary microbreweries, food markets and restaurants have recently colonised the area, as well as those artists – such as Jarman again – who made use of abandoned warehouse and factory spaces. It is a combination of the new food and drink industry with the notion of a corporate identity that Galinou identifies here as key for future development.

In the final chapter, she expounds her ‘Answers to the quest’ from each area and section of the previous chapter, presents a fictional dialogue between an archaeologist and an architect on the back of asking them the same questions, and briefly touches upon the ‘disconnect between science and human emotions’ and ‘mental paralysis in the face of multi-culturalism’. The answer to these and other issues, she suggests, is already in existence: ‘a neighbourhood has grown which embraces art, compassion and healing’, which ‘has metaphysical, philosophical, artistic and spiritual undertones.’ This is neither vague utopian dreaming nor Conservative abdication of responsibility, it is what Galinou has already seen, alive and well today yet rooted in the past, for herself. The city, she suggests, is people not buildings, and everyone who lives in (or visits) London, must engage and be an active part.

This is a wonderful, optimistic, informative and ambitious publication. It manages to be a cultural and social history, an artistic engagement, a provocation and a rallying cry. It celebrates and mourns the past, documents the present, and offers up possibilities and challenges for the future, all in an engaging and individual manner. How rare this combination is. Go on, treat yourself to a copy.

 

 

 

Rupert Loydell

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MEDUSA CASCADE


 
The image you see here may well be an ideal work of art, or
Perhaps, it is a lurid and melodramatic allegory of the creative process?

You will observe how, on one level, the symbolism is obvious – an uncontrollable force overwhelms the ivory towers of pedantry and the bastions of patriarchy.

It is a force from ‘beyond’ – it is the dark energy of compulsive, unconscious drives; it is a monstrous incursion from the paraxial realm of Desire.

This oracular vision is presented to us by that Pythoness of Subliminal Terror, superstar choreographer of the Ballet Plastique des Noctambules, Ms Jenny Taylor aka Medusa Cascade – watch your step!

 

 

 

A.C. Evans

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Paul Simon in reflective mode with ‘Seven Psalms’

 

Alan Dearling shares some thoughts on Paul’s latest musical offering

‘Ruminations’ is probably what I’m sharing. It seems more appropriate rather than a ‘review’ or ‘commentary’. This 15th studio album by Paul Simon, now 81, is partly spoken, an intoned sonic poem. A strangely twisting musical “endless river flows” populated by ‘The Lord’. A soundscape largely of spiritual and religious meditations. There’s a simplicity and beauty within its single meandering acoustic journey – seven tracks recorded to be listened to in their entirety.

It quickly becomes obvious that this is some kind of ‘bookend’ in Paul’s long career, many aeons since the days when he was one half of Tom and Jerry with Art Garfunkel back in the very early coffee houses and folk clubs in the early 1960s. It’s an endpiece. A wonky and often off-tune entreaty to “Dip your hand(s) in Heaven’s Water”. At 33 minutes of solo ‘dangling conversations’ Simon is obviously filled with lamentations and mournful regrets. With added, occasional wry and rueful humour, including listening into two cows! But mostly it is a death song-cycle. A return to the womb.

“The Lord is our benediction and our curse.”

“We have no destination.”

“The Lord is a welcome door to the stranger.”

And finally in the Seventh Psalm, ‘Wait’, sung with his wife, Edie Brickell, we are engulfed in the quiet anticipation of standing outside of some kind of metaphorical or real, ‘Heaven’s Door’ or ‘gates’. Simon tells us that:

“I want to believe in the dreamless transition…”

“Children get ready – Time to come home.”

Musically, it is mostly a floating, vaguely Spanish-styled piece of acoustic guitar playing, with some added rather ethereal  instrumentation/orchestration. The recurrent guitar theme piece reminded me somewhat of Al Stewart’s ‘Small Fruit Song’ and ‘Anji’ from the late, great, Davey Graham for its frail simplicity. Apparently, Paul Simon lost his hearing in one ear during the recording. A thing of some beauty, but deeply tinged in sadness, some remorse, some regrets. A musical ‘dreaming’ or even a ‘haunting’, waiting for the Grim Reaper, perhaps, as his final ‘mystery guide’?

‘Seven Psalms’ – lamentations and prayers on life’s curious mysteries.

Amen.

Listen to the album on ‘Youtube’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ANtntuDslnk

  1. I hope that, like me, Paul Simon smiles when and if he sees a comment/review on Amazon marketplace which reads:

Lisa Bosworth:

1.0 out of 5 stars Only Plays Track One

Reviewed in the United States 🇺🇸 on 27 May 2023

I hope to find a way to return this CD for a refund. It only plays Track One, no matter how I try to get it to move on to the other “Psalms”.

 

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Requiem

 

A circle drawn by two vultures
about a hundred meters above
the dead wolf recurs in my mornings.

I blink, feel the heat laze on my eyelids,
shape a lasso with my shadow
and haul the beast to an eclipse.

Water sparkles nearby. The howling
halted in the air witnesses my awakening.
….

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Picture 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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My Abstraction

I don’t want to write abstract lines.
I choose,
Not the one in the mirror.
Today, I write and erase
I wonder will these lines ever stand
The test of time.
The night is as it is,
Countless stars sing the same song.
One shiny moon
In isolated sphere
Spreading her light.
A desire to burn before I extinguish
A philosophical seed,
Bearing the fruits of simplicity.
In abstract words,
I find imagination speaking
As I filter my words for this liquid expression.
My song is of the nightingale
In the deep woody heights
Of a grassy land.
I express to be,
Like this form.

 

 

 

Copyright Sushant Thapa
 Nepal
Photo Nick Victor

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Gender Self


Order the posters at https://store.crimethinc.com/collections/posters

Struggles Over Gender Today

Today, nonbinary identities and gender-neutral pronouns have emerged from trans/queer subcultures and online communities into workplaces, schools, and public debates. Trans communities have received unprecedented visibility.

On the other hand, what had been a rising wave of conservative backlash has grown into a tsunami. It is no exaggeration to describe the reactionary program as gender fascism. As the popular saying goes, “First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win.” The struggle for gender self-determination has reached the “then they fight you” stage. Today, access to abortion care has been severely restricted in large regions of the US, while hundreds of proposed laws target trans people, especially youth, with restrictions on medical care, participation in sports, bathroom access, legal documentation, entertainment and culture, and more. At the same time, heads of state are citing the preservation of gender roles among their chief justifications for full-scale wars.

Yet at the same time that reactionaries are attempting to use state power to crush gender non-conformity and eliminate reproductive autonomy, the identity politics that emerged from 20th century liberation struggles are experiencing a crisis.

The right-wing culture war offensive on the terrain of gender seeks to take advantage of this crisis. While the breadth of support for abortion rights worries Republican strategists who are concerned with their electoral prospects, the right is gambling that it can target trans people with impunity, seeing them as a small and politically less powerful demographic ripe for scapegoating. By framing their attacks as defenses against existential threats to children, the family, and the gender order itself, they have inflamed their base with a sense of mission that identity-based coalitions have not been able to overcome.

The same social changes that have uprooted fixed notions of gender and enabled more expansive ways of being have also destabilized models of organizing that relied on coherent notions of identity. We need new ways of understanding ourselves to fight the forces that divide and oppress us, new ways to conceptualize who we are and what we can become.

Abolition and Self-Determination

How might we approach the task of undoing gender, combining the best elements of gender abolition and gender self-determination? By identifying which aspects of gender need abolishing, we can propose some points of departure:

Abolish gender segregation—ensure that people of all genders have access to the same opportunities, resources, social spaces, and forms of agency.

Abolish fixed gender roles—break the association between certain traits and certain genders, demonstrating new constellations of the qualities and capabilities that are currently associated with one gender or another. As the original poster suggests, you can be strong without being a boy and sensitive without being a girl; while this sentiment is increasingly accepted today, how much further can we go towards breaking free of the fixed roles and binaries that organize our thinking about human beings?

Abolish gender hierarchies—End practices that privilege one gender over another, and those that value some qualities and capabilities over others because of the gender they are associated with. Hillary Clinton becoming president would not have served to qualify our society as feminist—if a person of any gender has to outdo all other contenders in demonstrating traditionally masculine characteristics in order to get a foothold in politics, and if all political institutions continue functioning according to patriarchal priorities and protocols, gender oppression remains in effect even if not everyone in a position of power is a man.

Abolish gender gatekeeping—Do away with the boundaries that control who can identify with any gender. Defending trans identity, gender nonconformity, and other departures from fixed binary gender represents a step towards this goal.

Abolishing these dimensions of gender can create the space for the free flourishing of all people outside of oppressive roles and identities. We can affirm both the creative impulses that lead millions of people today to define themselves in gendered terms outside of birth assignments and binaries, while also taking aim at the structural conditions that constrain our lives regardless of how we identify.

As anarchists, we believe that we can only be free when all of us are free, and that everything that expands the horizons of freedom for others will benefit us, too. Nowhere is this plainer than on the terrain of gender.

 

Reprinted from anarchist.news.org / crimethinc.com/

 

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Steam’s Groove – (episode 25)

Steam Stock

Tracklist:
Alphonse Mouzon – Sunshower
RAMP – Everybody Loves the Sunshine
Bobbi Humphrey – Fun House
Tom Scott – Sneakin’ in the Back
Eddie Palmieri – Harlem River Drive
The Bar Kays – Son of Shaft
Isaac Hayes – Hung Up On My Baby
William De Vaughn – Be Thankful for What You Got
Johnny Bristol – Do it to My Mind
The Isley Brothers – Summer Breeze (part I)
The Isley Brothers – Summer Breeze (part II)
Grant Green – Down Here on the Ground
Rasputin’s Stash – Mr Cool
Inell Young – The Next Ball Game
Leo’s Sunshipp – Give Me the Sunshine

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Nothing To See Here

 I walked alone on Parliament Square 

A card on a cord around my neck.

One word written in the centre, ‘NOT…’,  

Arrows drawn pointing from a clock face

 

A darkclothedman accosted me,

‘You’re spreading alarm with your sign;

That piece of cord, it’s a lock-on device’.

I was surrounded, police handcuffed me.

They pushed me to the ground, ‘kneel!’.

A crowd gathered. 

I held my arms up to pray. 

A voice beside me said, ‘take him away’.

‘Lock him up, throw away the key, .

‘Tell everyone, ‘cancel him, no platform him’.

 

Lost for words, I was stuck in a cell

‘For your own good, your protection!’,

From their thoughts yours & mine.

Lesson learned; I’ll never walk alone.

Nothing to see here.

 

© Christopher 

 

 

.

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GOODBYE, GLENDA

It was the exquisite if unusual shape of her nose
That gave both sense and scope to her beauty.

This face, born in Birkenhead, ever strident, who got to be
Hampstead and Highgate’s MP. Ferocious from the first,

Her stare and voice stunned and startled, her glare
As soul searching as her delivery.  Not to mention

Her Je Ne Sais Quoi, as she could be handsome, ugly,
And pretty. Glenda in her bob and fringe, smiling sweetly,

Or corpsing with Morecambe and Wise melted most.
But look at her Elizabeth R, or hear her growls and groans

From back benches in which free from glamour,
She could whip up wild water after ceaselessly rocking boats.

As with Clare Short, she became one of Labour’s strong
Women; after Barbara Castle and Jennie Lee, Glenda sought

Some deeper truth that she could no longer find
In her acting. Let’s not forget that the Marat-Sade made her.

She was no dolly. From no casting couch was she bought.
She had her own allure, more in line with Dench, Smith

And Atkins; far more refined, almost studied, and free from
The glaze others fought. Such as Dame Diana Rigg, or those

Who frequently fell by the wayside, the dollied doves
Of the ‘60s; Glenda was more raven-like. For she grew

Somewhat coarser with age. It was as if beauty’s embodiment
Bothered. In closing in on the issues, did her hardening

Hurt her fans’ view? She would not have noticed, or cared.
In her return to TV and film in her eighties, she played King Lear;

Crow-like, craven, one part hag, nine parts true.
She had freed herself from the fame which is the alleged

Curse of all actors. Immerse yourself in the honey,
And even the busiest bee becomes wasp, as he, she,

Or they bare the sting of falsity thrust upon them.
Glenda Jackson just jacked that. She felt the mask mark,

Ripped it off, to reveal the bare bones hidden behind
Human beauty. She, independent after her early marriages

Rocked not only the boat, but the stage, film-set
And House of Commons. From privilege, purpose,

Such as it is, with or without public flock. And now,
She is another one gone, after so many losses.

A few remain in their eighties and nineties,
Nevertheless clinging on to a world we don’t know

As their replacements seem shallow. Apparently,
The arctic ice is retreating and at a tempo,

Which makes heavy weather (and metal)
From Mother Nature’s folksong. They will escape,

These spent stars who fought and argued for standards,
In Glenda’s republican cause, rights for women

And the socialist stance fired her. That special need
To believe that each on Earth was made equal.

She gave up fripperies to clutch at the fundamental.
She, a burned beauty,  moved from rose to thorn,

Smile to slur. And so we wave you off, as you exchange
Your English end now for Eden.  Which was never

On earth. In star gardens, beauty blooms through new roses.
These sky-flowers are gathered as the lost plot evolutions.

And perhaps revolution. Meantime, stars labour within
And for a new language. The light begins speaking.

And with this and they, God confers.

 

                                                                         David Erdos 15/6/23 

 

 

 

.

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Graeber and Wengrow on the Myth of the Stupid Savage

We’re proud to present this talk by David Graeber and David Wengrow, entitled The Myth of the Stupid Savage: Rousseau’s Ghost and the Future of Political Anthropology. Originally presented at the PPA+ Conference at the University of Amsterdam in May 2019.

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Talk Talk Spirit of Eden

 

(Part 1 suite)
0:00 The Rainbow
8:03 Eden
15:43 Desire

23:00 Inheritance
28:23 I Believe in You
34:39 Wealth

https://www.progarchives.com/album.asp?id=5833

Classic Album: Spirit Of Eden – Talk Talk

Music From Beyond: Talk Talk’s Spirit Of Eden At 30

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UNDERSTANDING

 
I’ll gave you Mars Attacks!
Said my Mother and smacked their legs

The back of their thighs with the flat of her hand

Nothing scared her
When she had her dander up. The Marxian notion

That capitalism inevitably creates a pool
Of unemployed labour which is used
To prevent wages rising faster than productivity
Was indisputable to anyone
Working in a cotton mill as a machinist

The relative impoverishment of workers
Is an essential feature of the capitalist system

That’s not how Mum would have said it
But it was what she meant by inference

Mars Attacks or Marx Attacks. It makes no difference
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Steven Taylor

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Endling*

the last demonstrator
holds up a placard
with nothing written on it

people stop to look
and read there
what they want to read

a prophecy of doom
a message of hope
a recipe for living
a horoscope

left-wing propaganda
or a revelation
a plan to save the world
from devastation

one of the passers-by
calls the police
who when they’ve read
what she has to say
put her in a van
and take her away

*Endling: a word coined in 1996 for the last individual member of a species, on the death of which the species becomes extinct.

 

 

Dominic Rivron

 

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Preliminary Findings

We followed the science through streets lined with statues, their faces worn smooth and their inscriptions lost beneath graffiti and grime. These are our past, said the guide with the mask, and this is our glittering future. He lifted a vial, which was caught by the sun as if it was a bird in a trap, its song a coruscation of ecstatic fear. Its secrets were patented and beyond my understanding, but I saw it as a sign to follow through fields where lambs lay down, blissfully unaware of lions, while the real life rumbled deep underground. None may pass, said the guard with the gun, there’s nothing to see here. He lifted a finger that was nothing but bone and pointed to a place inside my head where nothing moved but vulgar fractions and a steady blue flame. Silence followed, and I saw the sum of all reasons as a single figure, a simple equation, a songbird trapped in a glass flask. I followed the silence back to the crowd, where statues bowed with the weight of failed experiments, where the guide in the long white coat checked the time and cleared his throat. This is what we’ve got so far, he said, striking a match from a book he picked up in a club that closed when the dancers turned to stone. The results should be in any day.

 

 

 

 

 Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

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SAUSAGE Life 274

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column which neither likes nor dislikes Marmite

READER: I had a really bizarre dream last night.

MYSELF: Bizarre you say…how curiously fascinating, yet strangely repellent.

READER: Would you like me to tell you about it?

MYSELF: As long as you don’t mind me checking my Instagram account and my facebook page at the same time.

READER: It was so weird. In the dream I was a giant cockroach, and I was lying in bed…..

MYSELF: Wow! My trans kitten video got 37 likes!

READER: ……I was lying in bed watching Prime Minister’s Questions. MPs from across the political spectrum were expressing serious doubts about a former PM. The entire house was a heaving sea of weeping MPs and ministers, clutching each other for comfort as the evidence linking Boris Johnson with poverty, famine, war and numerous other biblical plagues mounted up. American tourists hurled themselves from the public gallery in despair. Just when all seemed lost Suella Braverman, the Minister for Cruel Sports stood up and addressed the swamp of disappointed men like a heroic wooden figurehead nailed to the prow of a Russian oligarch’s gigantic yacht. Through a child’s red and yellow plastic megaphone which made her sound like Darth Vader, she verbally swatted the pathetic doubters like flies. All accusations about Boris Johnson’s pathological opposition to the truth evaporated as she defended his reputation with character, wit and unambiguous clarity. Huge words leapt out of her face like spawning salmon, submerging all opposition in a foaming tsunami of sarcasm. Then I woke up to find my hot water bottle had burst. Hello? Are you still there?

MYSELF: Hahaha! Pardon? Oh I’m so sorry! I was looking at a photo of a zebra stealing someone’s breakfast through the open window of a motorhome in a Kenyan safari park. Did you say something?

 

MYSTIC DORIS – ASTROLOGER TO THE STARS.

WHY NOT LET DORIS TAKE YOU ON A PERSONAL JOURNEY INTO YOUR FUTURE.
STRAP YOURSELF IN AND PRETEND YOU ARE IN AN E-TYPE JAGUAR WITH WALNUT TRIM, RATHER THAN A VAUXHALL VIVA WITH A FAULTY CLUTCH AND SOME HALF-EATEN SANDWICHES AND ORANGE PEEL ALL OVER THE BACK SEAT AND A FUNNY SMELL COMING FROM THE GLOVE COMPARTMENT.

Capricorn (22 December-20January) Take your shoes off. relax. love will come in time. Just don’t wear those leggings.
Aquarius (21 January-19 February) Even if you were good looking, your too old. Forget it.
Pisces (20 February-20 March)  Ha ha! Serves you right!
Aries (21 March-20 April)  Anyone can write a novel. Stop complaining and get on with it.
Taurus (21 April-21 May)  Give up, you’re fucked.
Gemini (22 May-21 June) Remember when you could call an egg an egg? Well you can’t now.
Cancer (22June 23 July) Go ahead, stroke it, no-one else will
Leo (24 July-23 August) June will see another influx of red squirrels trying to steal our squirrels’ jobs. Sprinkle nuts outside, spread glue and wait for squirrels. When firmly stuck, store squirrels in temporary barge or send to Rwanda.
Virgo (24 August-23 September) With Mercury absconding, it is very important to order expensive furniture on the 28th. A wren’s egg under the floorboards will repel immigrants.
Libra (24 September-23 October) June can be difficult for those born under the weight watching machine. On one side is a monkey, on the other, a goat. Both are your enemy.
Scorpio (24 October-23 November) Bad news for Scorpios! Despite desperate sycophantic arse kissing, you will not go to the ball.
Saggitarius (24 November-21 December) Purse your lips, be very very cross and stamp your little feet. You will get what you want, but it won’t be a seat in the Lords.

WENDY WRITES
Dear Wendy,
How do I get rid of dinner guests who are boring, have outstripped their welcome and insist on hanging on until all the brandy has run out? Last week, some of them were still there the following morning
Llowell Llewelllyn
Professor of Dominoes
Llllyllythgangohohoho University
Gwynthylligollygingganggoolygoolygooolygoolygingganggooogingganggoo
Wales 

Dear Mr Llwelllyn (I hope I have pronounced that correctly),
I was sorry to hear about your dinner guest problem. Here’s an ad I clipped out of What Specialist? magazine the other day which might help you cope with future occurrances of gastricus malapropis.

FED UP WITH GHASTLY CLINGING GUESTS WHO WON’T GO HOME?
When even coming downstairs in your pyjamas doesn’t do the trick, what you need is Robinson’s Surprise Spring Loaded Cocktail Sausages
Each tin contains 12 tasty spring-loaded luxury frankfurter sausages. After only one bite, the sausage burst open, piercing the cheeks with razor sharp metal shards. Mail order only £5 per tin.

Of course if the cocktail sausages don’t work, this method of dealing with guests described in Crouton’s Guide To Etiquette And Social Discourse by the 19th century French sociologist Moulin Crouton, may well do the trick. A little may be lost in the translation.

“Certayn persons, where good intercourse hath ceased to flowe wythe the partayking of wine, may cause thru slypping of tongue or unpleasant engagement, an atmosphere inconsystant wythe the dyning rules of the house. It is permissible under these circumstances for the host to bryng to the table hys shaving instruments, and after stropping his razor on the unruly guest’s tie, or in the case of a lady, her tongue, he may procede to plunge his shaving brush into the guest’s soupe (or gravye, or custarde, depending upon whych course the offendyng behavioure hath taken place), and commence to lather his face wyth it. Should the guest prove as thykke skynned as a Rwandan rhinocerous, and remayne seated even after the host hath applied hot towels and bay rum, he may approache the guest from behynde and placing a loaded revolver next to the temple, gentlye squeeze the trygger.

In order to preserve the host and hostesse’s position on the social ladder, care should be taken not to injure any of the other guests”.

I hope this has been of some help.
Wendy

 

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

 

 



SAY GOODBYE TO IRONING MISERY!
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Take years off your smalls with Botoxydol!
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MAY CAUSE SMILEY FACE T-SHIRTS TO LOOK
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SPONSORED ADVERTISEMENT
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ORPHEUS RISING

Agape is summoned as sitting in a circle
We pass the loving-cup from left to right
Soft words with harmonious music
Transforming sight to insight

We set aside restraint of narrative
Time is not one singular straight line
The mind’s conceptions know no end
But tenderly return to others   –

We are no ‘club’ mankind can recognise
We practice an inclusion so transparent
As to prove invisible   –   as stars
Long dead but on the world still shining

Our poems are not photos of the family
Charming chums nor keepsakes of a country
Accessible by rail nor air nor car
They are not card-tricks puzzle-rings nor jigsaws

The human race some have been running for
Or from in seeking out ‘the hidden god’   –
His face is framed in every being’s face
Her face is in creation’s open smile

No need of vision from a far horizon
The floating bridge of dream is harboured here
The Golden Fleece has fled the ship of state
To walk by common speech in every street

 

 

Bernard Saint   
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

.

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A CONVERSATION WITH KEN AND ELAINE EDWARDS

 

I first became aware of Ken and Elaine Edwards around 15 years ago in what was at that time my local pub – the Jenny Lind in Hastings Old Town. They were playing in their band the Moors. I was struck immediately that here was fusion music – an eclectic mix of rock, jazz, spoken word, poetry and improv, inflected with musical influences from North Africa – that actually worked; it sounded like its own thing, rather than a mash-up of styles and influences that didn’t quite belong together.

I used to hear Elaine working on her scales on the saxophone as I passed their house:  they lived in the next street. As the years went by, the Moors morphed into Afrit Nebula, a three-piece band featuring percussionist Jamie Harris, who came recommended by veteran British jazz luminary Trevor Watts. Later, when Harris rejoined Watts’ band, he was replaced by drummer and percussionist Yair Katz.

Late last year Ken gave me his book Wild Metrics: as well as being the bass player in both the Moors and Afrit Nebula, Ken is an author, publisher, poet and spoken word artist. The book was set mainly in London in the 1970s, and captured perfectly the alternative arts scene of its day – poets reciting in pubs and dingy clubs, the happenings, the arts labs, the licensed squats, the drifters, losers and loners and people sadly adrift in life  –  and the mimeographed literary booklets. These would often be run off on the Roneo or Gestetner machine (too involved to explain here – look it up!) that someone who worked in an office had down-time access to. These were effectively home-crafted zines in their early incarnations, before the arrival of photocopiers. They would be sold or given away or exchanged for a pint and a roll-up in those same pubs and clubs, hawked on the streets, or distributed through alternative networks via the postal service.

At the same time that I was given Wild Metrics, I also bought a copy of Inalienable by Afrit Nebula, and Elaine’s The Bulverhythe Variations  – something like  a lockdown diary in book and CD form. Bulverhythe is a stretch of beach in St Leonards that is home to the wreck of the Amsterdam, a remarkably intact, 260-year-old Dutch East Indiaman cargo ship, once the property of the now-notorious East India Trading Company. It now lies submerged in the soft silty sand, and is fully visible only at very low tides. Dominating the landscape is a former railway diesel shed, now a repair workshop for ageing locomotives and carriages.

 

Intrigued by all this, I visited Elaine and Ken in their seaside home in Hastings to learn more.

KR: 1. Can you tell us about the events described in Wild Metrics, and how in broad terms you got from there to making music? Did your experiences in the alternative culture of the 1970s inform your work as a musician? If so, how?

Ken: Wild Metrics is an account of four years in my life (1974-78) when I was heavily involved with the licensed squatting and avant-poetry movements in London. It’s based on the diaries I kept at the time, and was originally going to be a novel, but it didn’t work as fiction. I tried changing everybody’s name and embellishing the narrative but somehow that just killed it. So I ended up writing it as a memoir (with some names changed). I appended a disclaimer: “This is essentially a work of imagination. Names, characters and places have a complex relation to real people and locations, and incidents narrated may not necessarily have occurred in the way or in the sequence described, or at all. Apologies for any confusion created.”

Although I had taught myself to play a few chords on guitar and was passionately interested in music, I was not an active musician at that time. I was writing songs, but was mostly too shy and lacking in confidence to perform them in public. Even doing poetry readings was a nerve-shattering experience for me. It’s different now, I love performing. I knew a lot of poets, including the sound poet Bob Cobbing, and people like Jeff Nuttall, Barry MacSweeney, Tom Raworth, Lee Harwood, all of whom are now dead. (I didn’t cross paths with Pete Brown, the Cream/Jack Bruce lyricist, but had his books as well as the albums, and met him briefly many years later in Hastings, my current home town, where he had come to live. He died a few weeks ago.)

It was an exciting time, we felt we were overturning all the dead norms of writing. It was at that period that I also started publishing, at first using a Roneo duplicator (mimeograph machine), which will be a complete mystery to young people today. Even in the time before digital culture and the internet we could make our own books!

The central part of Wild Metrics is an account of being hired to work for a very famous musician. It was a bizarre three months in my life: one day I was living in a condemned house in Bayswater, west London, the next I woke up in a palatial ensuite room in the St Regis Hotel in New York. I anonymised him in the book, but it doesn’t take a lot of detective work to find out the musician was Paul McCartney. I have been asked why I called him “The Rock Star” throughout, and changed the names of his band (Wings), family and entourage. Was it because I was afraid of being sued? Not at all, there’s nothing libellous in the book. I just didn’t want my memoir to be overshadowed by such a ridiculously famous being. I was actually hired as a private tutor to 13-year-old Heather, Paul’s stepdaughter (daughter of Linda). The family was embarking on a three-month tour, Wings Over America, and Heather’s school had stipulated that they must take a tutor so that she would not miss out on schooling. It was by turns a frustrating and fascinating experience. I did get to hang out a bit with Wings (Denny Laine and Jimmy McCulloch were lovely guys) but mostly I spent time mooching about in hotels and occasionally being taken to wherever the McCartney family were staying so I could give Heather her lesson. As a result, I got an up-close view of what extreme fame is like. It is not nice. The one musical lesson I took from it was the value of intense preparation: Wings were fantastic on stage throughout (from my conversations with Paul it was obvious he was trying to recreate the energy of the early Beatles, which he mourned – but the Beatles were the elephant in the room, not to be actually alluded to!). He had drilled the band through weeks of daily rehearsals even before the first gig. That’s how you get good.

In the years following, I continued to write and publish, though earning my living through journalism rather than creative work. I was on the fringes of various musical projects. I had started getting more interested in jazz and various ethnic musics. In the 1990s I learned to play violin, which I can still do, though not very well, and to read music (likewise). I was involved in the East London Late Starters Orchestra and CoMA (Contemporary Music for All) which aimed to open up contemporary composition to people of all abilities and levels of experience. At a summer school in Yorkshire in 1997 I met Elaine, and we hit it off both musically and personally. We became a duo, performing our own experimental words-and-music combinations, in venues such as pub upper rooms in London and at poetry festivals.

 

  1. How did the Moors develop? Where did the North African influence come from? How do you feel the music of Afrit Nebula differs from, or expands upon, that of the Moors?

By the turn of the century Elaine had moved into my south London flat and we had a happy five years there, but in 2004 we decided to move to the coast, where we could afford a bigger house, and ended up in Hastings Old Town. Elaine had a formal music/related arts education and had achieved diploma standard on flute, but she was now learning the soprano sax and getting into jazz. We briefly had a duo playing klezmer (the music of Eastern European Jews – though neither of us is Jewish) on flute and guitar. She was frustrated that although she was depping in various jazz/swing bands in Hastings she hadn’t got a regular gig. I told her that if she wanted we could form our own band and I would play bass. I acquired a bass guitar and started learning. I soon realised I had at last found my own instrument. We got together with guitarist Richard Butler, an Old Town neighbour, and Jenny Benwell, a violinist Elaine met through teaching with the East Sussex Music Service, and started jamming, at first on the klezmer and Sephardic tunes we knew, joined later by local drummer Andy Maby. Before we knew it, we had a band: The Moors. The then manager of the Stag (a folk pub) asked us to play weekly in their back bar and people started turning up. Soon we had a regular gig at the Jenny Lind, which is probably the premier music venue in Hastings Old Town. The band members, to our astonishment, turned up every week for rehearsals at our house, whether or not we had a gig, and so we got good. We rocked! Elaine and I were overwhelmed – although we’d had a great deal of musical experience over the years, neither of us had actually run a band before.

I was brought up in Gibraltar and perhaps as a result am very interested in the traditional musics of the southern Mediterranean. The more I study the more I realise there is one music, many traditions, carried in some cases by the Jewish and Gypsy diasporas. You can hear the same scales and rhythms in klezmer, in Sephardic Jewish music, in Turkish and Middle Eastern music, in the Balkans. In The Moors we tried to fuse that with our own rock traditions, and our own compositions.

 

  1. Was the new approach as heard in Afrit deliberate or did come entirely by chance, or neither/both?

It wasn’t by chance. The Moors had become very successful locally in Hastings, Rye, Brighton and on one occasion as far afield as Brecon in Wales. But both Elaine and I were looking for a more improvisatory approach. We wanted to develop our jazz skills, if you like. The other members of the band were less keen. So the two of us decided to start a second band with this in mind. The saxophonist Trevor Watts, a Hastings resident, recommended that we get in touch with the percussionist Jamie Harris, whom he’d worked with as a duo in the past. Jamie, Elaine and I started jamming. The result was the trio Afrit Nebula. Because of Jamie’s influence, we were going further into the Afro-Cuban feel which had come into The Moors a little bit, and also some North African influence. The three of us shared an interest in jazz/improv, and we even did a cover of Ornette Coleman’s “Lonely Woman”. Some of the Balkan influence remained. Essentially it was a more improvisatory, rhythm-based approach. We tried to keep the two bands going simultaneously, but eventually it was agreed that The Moors had done all it was going to do. We had ten good years with that band.

We played with Jamie for seven years in all, recording an album and an EP. Through Jamie’s contacts, we played at a small rock festival in the Czech Republic. We provided the music for a multi-media event at the Kino-Teatr in St Leonards with Japanese dancer Yumino Seki and film-maker Mark French. Eventually that phase came to an end when Jamie was asked by Trevor Watts to join a new trio, Eternal Triangle, which meant committing to touring. It was sad to see him go, but we had an immediate replacement in the drummer Yair Katz, whom we’d known for some time. Yair was born in Israel and spent many years in New Zealand playing in rock bands before coming to live in St Leonards. We share many musical tastes, and he gives the band a more swing-like feel. We lost Jamie’s powerful blues voice, but Yair can sing and also play guitar, so there were other options. We have recorded an album with Yair, and have plans to join forces again with Yumino Seki in a dance performance, with music mostly written by Elaine.

 

  1. Hastings is considered by many to be the Mecca of music on the South Eastern coast. How would you respond to this?

I think I can say that were it not for moving to Hastings Old Town in 2004 (we have since moved a mile or two west to St Leonards) Elaine and I would probably not have started a band. The musical culture here is vibrant. A lot of it is rock, blues and folk music, but we have tried to provide something a little different. Playing at the Jenny Lind in the Old Town is still such a buzz – we always attract a knowledgeable and enthusiastic audience. And currently St Leonards seems to be going through an art/music renaissance which we are very happy to be part of.

 

  1. As an author, publisher and musician, where do you feel your overarching loyalties lie – if they do? Or is it all subject to a continuum?

I have always regarded myself as a writer primarily, but it has been a privilege to develop my musical skills with such wonderful and talented people. The thing about writing is that it can be a lonely business. The joy of music rests partly in how it can exist in interaction with others. And I do feel that my musical experiences feed back into my writing all the time, in terms of a feeling for rhythm, pacing, sound, texture. So it’s all one really!

 

KR: Can you tell us about your early life and how you came to be a musician and composer.

I was born in a Norfolk village and have a typical rural working class background.  Roaming the countryside on bikes and general ‘tomboy’ activities were what I liked best.  

My first memory of playing piano was my father teaching me ‘Chopsticks’, closely followed by playing songs I had been learning at school. My father played the clarinet in a local dance band, and also played the accordion – sometimes entertaining people in the pub next door.  I grew up hearing 1940’s dance band music and classical piano music (my older brother was a brilliant pianist). I loved it all… Very soon I like my brother began having lessons with the local piano teacher, taking my grades, performing in local functions.  We also had a Yamaha electric organ and I loved to play Latin and Swing.

 

I left school with very little in the way of academic qualifications.  In my mid twenties and living in London I hired a flute.  This put me on the musical and creative journey I’m still on.  Outside of my job as a medical secretary I learned how to play the flute using all my spare time and annual holidays.  I had a wonderful Irish flute teacher, adept in classical, jazz and Irish folk music who I visited once a week.  He believed in a kind of ‘Baptism of Fire’ approach – playing Bach flute duets for lessons well over an hour a week and sometimes music by Miles Davis.  I survived and learned quickly, eventually giving up my job, moving back to Norfolk and working on piano, flute and theory in a small hut in my parent’s garden!  I was following a very powerfully felt intuition during this time but actually had no idea where I was going.  I was encouraged by a local music teacher to apply to college.  After many rejections from universities I managed to be accepted on to a very original performance art degree in Chichester.  It was a true garden of discovery – studying as a musician while relating music as a creative art form to dance, art, creative writing.  Here I discovered a kind of intuitive flair for creating music and improvising – nurtured to create as we all were in this very eclectic environment.

 

I did a PGCE at Sussex University and taught in secondary schools – teaching music and performing arts.  I organised a ‘Composers Extra Curricular Group’ for the GCSE and A Level groups – which was rewarding.  I was lucky to teach at a time when adequate funding was made available to the Arts Departments in Schools (which is probably not now the case).  I remember inviting composers of new music such as Stephen Montague who wrote Dark Sun (a piece about Hiroshima) to work and perform it in concert. Also African and Indian dancers, musicians and writers to work with the students.  New and creative ways of working in the Arts – I felt privileged to have contributed to this. 

 

I met Ken during this period on a Summer School for contemporary music making in Yorkshire (COMA), went on to live in Peckham, South London and eventually moved to Hastings. I was inspired by Ken’s writing and attending his poetry evenings in London pubs. Sometimes we performed together using Ken’s words and my flute compositions.  I began work with what was then East Sussex Music Service working as a peripatetic teacher.  I had to work very hard to retrieve my former playing skills on flute and piano to pass the auditions.  My energies up to then had been going into classroom teaching and running music departments. It was also during this time I took up the saxophones (tenor and soprano) and became very interested in jazz.  At the same time Ken had taken up the bass guitar, and together we formed The Moors  and Afrit Nebula, which Ken has described.

 

In recent years I have dedicated more time to composing, improvising and collaborating on projects.  I was fortunate to have piano lessons with John Tilbury at Goldsmiths College – one of the foremost interpreters of Morton Feldman’s music, and a member of the free improvisation group AMM.  He introduced me to composers piano works which I think are still highly influential on my own compositions now: –  works by Olivier Messiaen, John Cage, Arvo Part, Morton Feldman, Frederic Mompou, Howard Skempton to name but a few. I particularly felt this influence in my last project which was written for piano during the pandemic on a series of photos taken on my runs in Bulverhythe, St. Leonards on Sea,  ‘Bulverhythe Variations’,  which also combined with a narrative by Ken and was performed last Autumn at The Beacon in Hastings.

 

Both Ken and I have used our composing ideas in The Moors and in Afrit Nebula particularly as starting points to improvised pieces.  We have been thrilled to work with some very creative and talented people over the years both in our bands and in collaborations with other art forms.  We will be working for the second time with the Butoh dancer Yumino Seki in a Coastal Currents project in Hastings in September which we are very excited about.

 

To conclude I would like to share a quote by the dancer Martha Graham which I have often referred to for motivation.  We all have an individual voice whatever our art – and I have found this to be wonderful message for the young just starting out, and the older of us who need reminding sometimes!

 

 There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and will be lost.”

Martha Graham

 

http://www.realitystreet.co.uk/

https://www.afritnebula.com/

https://afritnebula.bandcamp.com/

https://jazzjournal.co.uk/2022/08/26/afrit-nebula-inalienable/

 

 

Keith Rodway

 

 

 

 

 

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COWARDLY CUSTARD (For You Know Who)  

 
 


Coward, you claimed to represent something.
But look at the way you took Uxbridge,
Because you could not get Kensington;
Squeezing into a suburb the bloat  

Of the Borison you were preaching:
A corrupted prayer, full of nothing,
Not even the Brexit that you placed
Your plan for economic cleansing on. 

People who know me expect the writing
Of this poem. I have spent more words on you
Than on my lost love and parents; well,
Not quite, but enough. So, now,  

May you fade having finally shown your true
Colours, for like the indicted Trump,
You sought power for power’s sake,
Through your bluff; a great pot-bellied pose 

As you puffed cheeks and mumbled.
Are  you anything else but the ego
Of an already dated cartoon? Not even those
Who worked with you know. Is it really 

All an act, Alexander? A great attempt
At creation, or some sort of F for Art installation
Centred around a Pultroon? You represent
A fouled time. And look at what you presented. 

Unpriti Patel. Dark Dom Cummings, and now
You have knighted Rees-Mogg! While sacrificing
Your Dad, who seems to be a bigger bugger
Than you are; chortling through the chaos 

Of racist cant. Change one letter and we have
Both of you bound: bad bull-dogs. An observation
Which no doubt pleases you, with your Churchilling
Pretensions, not to mention the Shakespeare 

That your gargle and swill and have spat
Onto the screen, over us. Branagh could not
Dignify it. So, step down and fall further.
Exit, pursued and stripped bare, prick and prat!

And something more insidious, too. Yes.
Of that I am certain. But then I say to the readers
And listeners of the frustrated lines I have spent;
Should he return to TV, or to print, 

Then immediately take up knitting. Go for long walks.
Learn a language, or master a musical instrument.
But do not entertain and do not permit him
Forgiveness. The image is empty.  

He is what we must not be. Sight can sour.
How much can you take or taste?
My verse vomits. But for him kind milk is madness
And even custard congeals. Nothing’s meant.

 

 

                                      David Erdos 10/6/23

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SAUSAGE Life 273

 

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column that thinks tired, worn-out cliché is the elephant in the room 

READER: Football’s coming home! And on top of a glorious heatwave to boot!
MYSELF:  I assume you’re referring to plucky little Manchester City’s collaboration with the headchoppers of Saudi Arabia in a bid to win the Champion’s League?
READER: Precisely – a victory which will be accomplished with a display of British decency and fair play in the face of fiendishly foul behaviour by the desperate spaghetti-munching boot boys of Inter Milan.
MYSELF:  Speaking of desperate behaviour, our bloated ex PM has resigned his seat after accusing some kangeroos of ousting him.
READER: Kangeroos? Why?
MYSELF: They were apparently furious at not being elevated to the House of Lords.
READER: Kangeroos can sit in the Lords? Really?
MYSELF:  On the contrary, its very difficult to get them to sit anywhere at all. Once they’ve picked up their expenses they have a tendency to rush off into the bush.
READER:  I seem to remember Rolf Harris saying something about that.

UNFAIR DINKUM
Residents of Upper Dicker  are up in arms at the announcement that
the walk-in Medical Centre at Station Plaza is to be closed. News that the 24 hour
service is to be relocated to Alice Springs in the Northern Territory of Australia, and renamed The Walkabout Centre has dismayed many users.
Australian born local counciller Bruce Gallah claimed that the move was unavoidable because of stringent government cuts which have already curtailed many essential social services. Next to go, according to the ex wombat breeder, will
be some of his own innovations such as gluten-free yoga classes for under fives,
homeopathic loft insulation and spiritual hangover wellfullness. “Jeez mate, I mean
fair suck of the sauce bottle,” he told us, “Alice Springs may be a bonzer place for jumbucks, but if a bloke just wants to throw a sickie ‘cos he’s feeling a bit crook after a night on the grog, a trip to the outback is the last thing I’d recommend”.
Glove restorer Wilf Strindberg of Cockmarlin agreed, “It’s bad enough having to go to the local A&E, never mind all the way to Australia.” he said, “For starters I can’t
afford the time off work, which, when you take into account getting to the
airport, 27 hours each way on a plane plus the inevitable jet lag, would mean each visit would take over a week. I could practically get an appointment with my own GP in that time! Even though I can’t really afford it, I’m now seriously considering going private and consulting an astrological soothsayer”.

MORRISON DANCING
The Upper Dicker branch of Morrisons supermarket wishes to apologise for the slight kink in the fabric of space and time which occurred during May and wishes to assure customers that things will soon be back to normal. For the moment, bacon has been temporarily moved to the shelf marked ‘shoe polish’ on aisle 23. Mushrooms have been relocated from the pharmaceutical section and can now be found next to countersunk screws in the aisle labelled ‘halloween costumes’. Milk, you will be pleased to note, is still in the same place (eggs), except for semi-skimmed which is in the same section as frozen fish, and Jersey full cream which is now next to cat litter on the cheese island. Happy Shopping!”

TAT TOO?
Is there anyone, anywhere, anymore who doesn’t have a tattoo? The public reacted with horror after it was recently revealed that footballer Nobby Balaclava, Hastings & St Leonards Warriors’ ruthless midfield enforcer, has had a questionable image inked on his calf. A picture (which went predictably viral), of Nobby rolling down his sock and displaying a vivid tattoo of Attilla the Hun torturing a kitten, has opened up a can of worms which ironically, is what David Beckham has allegedly had tattooed on his penis.

LOVE IRELAND
The latest series which has been haemorrhaging viewers has now reached the halfway stage. Padroig and Molly, having agreed to share the barrel of poteen they have brewed from donkey-urine and wood-chip wallpaper, are now in the middle of a massive row because Brendan got drunk and kissed Molly under the mullberry bush. New arrival Kerry has hearts aflutter as he demonstrates his potato-juggling skills wearing only a yoga thong. Darragh’s bicycle tyres have been let down during the night and his pump has been stolen, the chief suspect being ex-girlfriend Kaitlyn, whose jealous fits of rage send her fragile temper into overdrive at the drop of a hat. Now that the boys have been tasked with cycling to Donegal and bringing home a cow, which the girls must slaughter, skin and barbecue to make sandwiches, how will Darragh cope with flat tyres and no pump? Will Kaitlyn have her full-face tattoo of Darrah’s arse removed in a fit of pique?? Watch this space.

DICTIONARY CORNER
Bojo (n)  A self-confessed liar.  A serial adulterer. One who expresses strong opinions swayed entirely by self-interest. A cowardly avoider of responsibility. An especially fat clown

SELFIE SERVICE
Trying to balance a busy social life with the endless quest for self-publicity?
Say goodbye to selfie misery and hire Alexis, our professionally-trained photographer who specialises in fake selfies.
His consummate skill will ensure that no-one will know you didn’t take it yourself. Our unique post-production cheekbone enhancing service is available as an optional extra, taking all the stress out of trying not to look like a corpulent arse licking slug.

#selfieservice #corpulentslug
#doesmytonguelookbiginthis?

 

 

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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Vase with Flowers


 
To start with what it rests upon.
To end with colors. Become air, beneath
 
and over petals. Words for colors lie
 
like sheaths without their knives.

 

 

John Levy
 

 

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The Wall


Photo: Sam Burcher

 

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All I could hear was the voice saying to me:

Your fear is a wall you must overcome and ultimately bring down. To tear down this wall is your calling –
to challenge the fear instilled in you by others, and not to let terror overwhelm you, no matter how small you feel.

This wall was sent to test you, but you must prevail
to scale it and break it down
brick by brick,
and rebuild your house.

 

 

 

 

Sam Burcher

http://www.samburcher.com/home.html

 

 

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changing of the guard 


 
paparazzi-hounded crash victims are  
garnering support from the electorate  
once again your majesty as the  
extermination of an ideology is 
soundlessly finalised in the warrens  
around threadneedle street and the  
return of world war is re-imagined  
as part of a huge showcase of live  
entertainment third-largest by some  
assessments and what will become  
known as the peacemaker is used to  
restore order and a medley of peculiar  
attractions becomes a pre-match  
tradition and junior officers will  
decide who will be shot who were  
created for that purpose pamphlets  
are issued and made required reading  
and suspects are brought in to the  
psychological war laboratory oh to  
rank our writers in such new ways to  
prevent their usage spread to include  
our values on the bench so make the  
most of your close-up and pocket the  
proceedings as you stroke recycled  
cat hairs on the roof of your  
outhouse in all seriousness though  
the liquidation of the consigliere  
was surely an honest mistake as  
every quarter uses just one inch  
of its intention and the great history  
highlights are shown again and  
again and at last the glory seekers  
welcome back the household  
cavalry and get to meet some of  
the horses despite the unfortunate  
mix-up to bring a fitting end  
to the biggest week of the year 
for live broadcast on terrestrial  
tv on either side of the cup final  
as the very prestigious and  
impeccably precise one hundredth  
anniversary of gratification on the  
western front is deloused  
respectfully for those attending  
this year to witness the judicious  
manifestation that will include fine  
dining and the inevitable foxtrot    

 

 

Eddie Heaton

 

 

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DREAM IT NOW II FROM NOWHERE JUNCTION

Hi good afternoon everyone what’s the situation today? Fresh talent – fun free and friendly. You gonna go for it? Heck yeah! Yeah absolutely! What are you hearing there? More hoity-toity arty-farty nonsense OK!  3, 2, 1… Let’s go! You saw me I saw you early bird angel face sweeping chalk plateau dream rotation A powerful geyser – Oh how ridiculous! An oscillating sprinkler –

shoots high into the night sky: but appearances are deceptive turning out a lot more… you know… 

bit like a no-go break-glass-to-open thing remind us how we got here, darling live show one-to-one co-ordinating lace trim head to the fairground change the narrative: narrow winding alleys colourful piazzas virtual museum piece radio-controlled real gone electronics whizz hat-check girl reveals all the stories hidden within us as she moves slowly away seawards here we go again! Facing tough decisions sandy beaches coco-de-mer palms wool rags subwoofers and strobes. C’mon! It’s a moment of celebration of solutions without boundaries of dance-floor sunsets to banish memories of stylish bedrooms and oh yes sooo much more. C’mon! Never be shy to say ‘hi’ so yeah! c’mon!

Know what? Listen up everybody! Seismic shuffle deranged and estranged something of a pincer movement or even a dynamic take on what really matters: do something amazing today and tonight will be a defining moment but I tell ya don’t mess with me! Ha! Well that’s it for now bye! Hello to all of you along the way traffic noise ‘off stage’ music revolver shots civic functions and ceremonies the outputs of which are combined and subjected to experiments by a scatter-brained socialite life doesn’t get much better than this! She called him Strange Rover – where’s he going? Where did he come from? Who the hell is he anyway? Scene-stealing hot jockey dab hand with piping bag masked by rotating shutter twitching movement of limbs upper right hand corner of picture (ooh kinky!) what’s the mood there? Wooaaa! YeeeOUCH! Giggles uncontrollably: so now what?

She rocked slogan knickers like Please Hug Me Naughty Nice Kiss My Ass Dirty Girl No Hot Ashes

Wi-Fi Here Watch Your Step hey! What are the chances? Tsk! Tsk! Oh behave! Elaborate forms of life carried out in style of recent trends – over to you it speaks volumes oh yes it does: viewers wore coloured spectacles right eye green left eye red had to undergo another drastic change well there’s plenty of reaction. Oh no! What do I do now? A torrid nail-biter that’s the way to do it I think we’re good to go! Ok that’s about it from me so do have a lovely afternoon ‘bye ‘bye. Hi there! Hello you lovely lot! Seen everything? Yesss! It’s game on! Woof! Woof! Wiggle! Wiggle! Oh! My goodness! Remember?

And then… the Big Reveal: ticks a lot of boxes – so who needs fireworks? And just what does that mean in practice? Stunning reflections somewhat hit and miss hoping for a festive bounce?  Bring it on! Hazy skies – the very spirit of the open road: band carriages gilded cages triumphal cars shouty brats razzmatazz rumbas monster hats scary head-warmers to blow your socks off puppets performing animals strolling players a lot of pinch-me moments – just magic! Then we saw a tent of card-sharpers the house manager wore a dinner jacket just how significant is that? You may well ask! The countdown is on for our much-loved Jessie-Belle – a door-to-door-stripper her groovy synchronous winders need to be seen to be believed – ooh aaah! Look at ‘em go! Yeah look at that! Wow! Forward backward and side to side makes a splash! Ooooweee!  A life-changing encounter: we won it as good as it gets under huge pressure thrill-seekers cause public outcry yet the vital evidence has been lost why does that matter? And where does it go from here? We’re all buzzing local sources say test the limits to the edge-of-your seat let’s keep it straight let’s keep it raw! Violence swearing nudity all that stuff and oh yeah an emotional night for us all an absolute gem! Let’s pick up with that: dream it now! Well why not? That’s a very big ask good riddance that’s what I say I don’t think so – whoever you are it has touched all our lives just like that forward flash welcome to my world that’s it! Back to you!

Hello good afternoon a warm welcome back to this region of unbelievers we went to take a look but we all have our demons applicable only to lighter elements under glass hoods it all gets very messy quite quickly and you might think something pretty odd is going on – compulsive repetition of snatches of rhyme but also there’s an interesting subplot flesh and spirit singing for the purposes of enchantment to ensure in certain circumstances you flip your vibe get it while it’s hot high voltage next day see for yourself. Cirrus and cirro-stratus clouds haloes round sun and moon you better be on your way this could be a goofy movie egos in suits tuned as drones scenery somewhat similar

to the Surrey hills with visible traces of ancient roadworks from whence are discharged a shower of invectives denunciations and satires with a somewhat ungainly appearance a blast of fresh air swearing like a sailor no half measures yet the bar of the storm or spin of the nucleus won’t sass me

remarkable true tale where the course of external events brought about a decisive change direct return of icicles and the use of accidental poetry: an emotional night for all.

Worried about the danger of image-worship? You would see history being made with a little bit of push and slide good day for chasing rainbows of diversified texture fine-grained arrangements of intrusive dykes vertical fissures of luminous appearance – with scenes of a distressing nature this jaw-dropping offering has people spooked strong stuff it gets to move through the gears really how did that fly? There’s a big ceremonial crescendo of screamin’ habdabs but sceptics have suggested it was all a mere hallucination rapidly deepened to somehow form a wild uncanny valley effect. Oh my! Sparkling mad! Have a good day yeah? Well Hellooo there! What’s the latest? Why not spook the intelligentsia? Indeed why not it’s a good question is poetry an accident waiting to happen? Whoah! Well, the search is already on – what do you make of it? Hysterical! Snap it up! Let’s do it! Don’t get your panties in a bunch just think of normal everyday things like a red aurora vortex or notes between the keys sure – try to blend in – smooth with no bits be like everyone else– hang on in there! Hey dudes! What’s the scene where you are? Uh oh! Lazy boring and irrelevant expect delays that’s the most exciting thing you’ve said all day hazy skies round the corner it’s a toss-up power on! A step too far but it’s fighting talk I like it! Waaaay out! It’s the very latest! Oh Dios Mio! Game for a fling? – Crazy offer – Ha! Ha! Ha! What else do we know? What happened next? Cunningly disguised as one of the lads our poete maudit slipped into an Espresso Bar: lost in a shopping mall? Yes! Yes! Yes! A palace of screaming glass scorching hot looks hands-free boobtastic bikini-busting cutie-pies

open-mouthed onlookers terrified bystanders photo-special harmonic of desire secret fantasies – all makes all models electric multi-surface razor sharp edges manic grins deranged laughter fish and chips burgers hot wraps a twisted circus – open ‘til late.

It’s just wicked! And never a dull moment: now here’s a thing melt with joy behind every curtain gilded trees jaw-dropping angels of mystery strange signals – distant Suptopian neo-nihilist blues diverted traffic – a long tailback to Nowhere Junction. Well that’s it for now have a very good afternoon.

 

 

 

AC  Evans

 

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RED REVOLUTION

In my early adolescence it dawned on me that I might not reach my 21st birthday – a feeling I guess shared by many readers of IT. The threat of nuclear annihilation appropriately known in East and West as MAD (‘Mutually Assured
Destruction’ came to a head in October 1962 when the 13 day Cuban Missile Crisis anticipated my dread. I spent those days camped outside the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square as MAD appeared about to become a reality.

The Cuban Revolution (26 July 1953) had overthrown the Batista dictatorship (effectively a vassal state of the USA) and from thereon its economy was propped-up by Soviet Russia. That October, however, the Island suddenly became a missile base as 43,000 Russian troops and 60 nuclear missiles were moved in and the USA now became within striking distance of the USSR. My sons (born 1998 and 1999 ) know nothing of the crisis but I recommend that they – and readers of IT in general – re-visit those times in Cuba ’62 – published last year by the splendidly radical Five Leaves Publications based, together with its bookshop, in Nottingham. 

This book brings it all back home to me. A year after The Cuban Missile Crisis (I was a quantity surveyor in my previous life) I was seconded to the architectural practice ACP (Architects Co-Partnership) many of whose staff’ as well as the seven founding partners, had strong links to the Communist Party. That was how I eventually came to see French director Chris Marker’s film Cuba Si (1961) in London. The Cuban revolution attracted artists poets novelists playwrights and film makers (among them Agnes Varda) to visit the island and there was a deal of anti-capitalist goodwill towards Fidel Castro and Che Guevara et al. – and above all to the Cuban people. 

Eventually JF Kennedy and Khrushchev did a deal – without consulting the Cuban Government – and armageddon was averted. The co-authors of Cuba ’62 have produced a riveting and properly confusing melange of those thirteen days and I’ve learned lots I didn’t know or understand before. Not least that fake news isn’t the love-child of Trump but simply a confirmation of the truism we all know: the first casualty of war is the truth. And what a casualty it was in Cuba.

The journalist /designer/photographer Richard Hollis (now nearly 90) chanced to be in Cuba as the Thirteen Days That Shook The World kicked off and his notebook entries letters and black and white photographs enliven the text as do those of the writer/photographer JS Tennant. He visited Cuba 50 years later and stayed for 10 months to conduct interviews and to colour photograph the surviving missile sites. Hollis asks: What prompted me to go to Cuba? Simply that news of an attempt to build a new society made me curious. My politics in retrospect were late-19th century: not Marxist but Tolstoyan; a William Morris-infused, woolly Kropotkin-esque anarcho-socialism. Sounds just like my politics now.

JFK’s younger brother Robert Kennedy was gung-ho to nuclear bomb Cuba but fortunately JFK’s caution prevailed and maybe in the end, the Cuban Missile Crisis helped bring Khrushchev down rather than Fidel Castro. Cuba ’62 in its depiction of the idealism and optimism of those early days reminds me of how well Orwell captures this same feeling of Republican Spain in his Homage to Catalonia. In 2000 Putin visited Cuba and lifted 90% of the debt Cuba owed the USSR – or was it to Putin’s reborn Russia? 

As we live through our days in the shadow The Triumph of Capitalism this elegantly designed book is a welcome shot in the arm.

Jeff Cloves

Cuba ’62. preludes to a world crisis (Five Leaves Publications 2022). Illustrated paperback in black and white and and colour £11.99)

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The Art of Being

When the trick is all done
We search for the reality.

When all that is left
Is the email,
We search for an address.

I looked for a home
To relive my childhood dreams

When the fallen leaves
Scattered all around my home
I fell for your missing beauty.

When the orange sun kissed me goodbye
I romanticized with the glowing moon.

I have your handwriting
While I look for your signature
Inscribed in my heart.

The letters of yesterdays,
The spontaneity of future
All wandering between my recollections.

The river flows same
No joy to hide,
No pain to show.

 

 

 

 

Copyright Sushant Thapa
Picture Nick Victor

 

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Shush 

I see my weakness, most unseemly
the emptiness between four walls, and
my culpability. Have mercy on me,
humble door, where humanity 

has passed like smoke. Hello, yellow bird.
I raise my face to the sky. It seems it is
singing to me. My days will change. I’ve lost
my regrets and complicated desires.

There’s a hole here. Who am I? There’s
little left except a grown man in a dark
suit crying in public. The idea of death.
I don’t know what these people think. Come on,

I’m not afraid, but I would like something
to come to me from the infinite
where I can multiply. I have no mission
left to fulfil. One by one the mouths will close.

 

 

  
Ian Seed
Picture Rupert Loydell

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May, 2023

some days it was so warm
we sat outside
looking up into the sky
at the transient architecture of the clouds
or for anything that might appear
out of the blue
                        nothing did although
the dandelions all sprang up
when no-one was looking
their flowers morphing into clocks
sometimes we went down to the sea
stood on the shingle
waves lapping at our feet

I sit now with my back
to the dove that’s built its nest
on a ledge beneath this upstairs window
we maintain a companionable silence she and I
she incubates her eggs while I
write this and other things sometimes
I still walk round the fields
seeking chaos though more often
ruminating on the void

 

 

 

Dominic Rivron
Picture Nick Victor

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Blue Orchids, The Furrowed Brow and Autocamper

 

Another live ‘threesome’ night out … with Alan Dearling

This was a mad, frolicsome night. Rammed venue and an extremely eclectic musical mix. If this was fifty years ago it would have been dubbed, ‘Variety Night’!

Autocamper were up first. Young, keen to plough their own personal musical furrows. They looked as though they enjoy working together, and each member of the Autocamper ‘team’ contributed to the overall jangling soundtrack that they made sound just a bit off-kilter, but nicely so. Three of the band took turns on vocals, not just frontman Jack on guitar. Collectively, this added to the spicy ‘variety’. Niamh’s xylophone provided a hypnotic tubular bells-type edge to the proceedings. I thought that the drummer’s vocal was particularly individual. Overall, a modern take on the garage band with an added little bit of Byrds-like psychedelia.

From their FB page it tells us: “introducing… YOU LOOK FABULOUS! our debut cassette release! featuring ‘bonfire night’, ‘never end’ and a cassette only exclusive ‘Ken Hom’ recorded by John Harkins at the mill in Plungington and put out by discontinuous innovation inc!”

They  didn’t seem to have any cassettes left. A shame for them, they might have sold a few.

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/automaticcamperband/

The Furrowed Brow

I own up. I had been watching the vids of The Furrowed Brow quite a lot in advance of the gig. They sparked my imagination. “Would I be getting the opportunity to watch a new major band at the beginning of their journey to star-studded Musical Heaven?”

Visually they are very imaginative. A potpourri of Bowie psych Ziggy, androgynous, playful, theatrical. A veritable circus of talent. Strong songs, dodgy, edgy lyrics, inventive performances. Plenty to watch and The Furrowed Brow are real crowd-pleasers.   They exude oodles of their own brand of mischievous fun and are obviously enjoying themselves thoroughly on their adventures into post-punk/glam Wonderlands in search of Alice and the White Rabbit! Masses of vital energy. Individual and thoroughly entertaining. Nice mixes of shadows and light. Darkness and Day-Glo. Scuzzy. It’s good to bear witness to some quality catchy pop music. Ear-worms to the fore!  They should soon be in the forefront of the new Manchester wave of young bands. Check them out!

https://www.facebook.com/furrowedbrowband

Single: ‘Jill’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BIfO1vm6SjI

‘I threw the bathwater out’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9OT49iUeS84

Furrowed Brow tell us: “We’ve been working on our next single: OUTDOORS MAN – we’ve cobbled together everything we need to record ourselves properly at Brow Towers so the entire thing – recording, mixing and mastering – is now 100% us. Fear not, we’ve still recorded everything live but it means we’ve also had as much time as we like to chuck in loads of weird and wonderful effects and it’s sounding really fucked up and amazing – just like the good Lord intended. Release date looking to be mid- June.”

Blue Orchids have been around a long, long time. Since 1979 in fact. They originally formed out of the proverbial ashes, when Martin Bramah left the Fall, after playing on the band’s debut album ‘Live at the Witch Trials’. They are often spoken in reverential, hushed tones as Nico’s backing band.

This live performance commenced with Martin complaining about the ‘smoke’ rolling onto the darkened stage and then telling the audience: “You won’t know any of the songs tonight, we are premiering our next album.”

I suspect, or guess, that the Blue Orchids like a bit of organic confrontation. Moody music, moody atmosphere.  They claim on their Facebook page: “…we speak with the tongues of men and of angels we have the gift of prophecy and can understand all…”

Here’s what was said about the band in advance of the show: “First conceived in 1979 after he walked out on Mark E Smith, the group has been through many changes. This year’s line-up is a wild mix of psych, post-punk and a strange kind of ‘city-folk’.

Pounding beats, pulsing bass, a maelstrom of melody and discordant lead-breaks, powers this beast that Bramah has created and nurtured through the years.

Follow them down a shady back-alley, if you dare, and watch as they reveal the dark, psychedelic mysteries at the heart of their music. Not to be missed!”

Online I can see that Blue Orchids have been critically acclaimed by some notable music writers. From Wikipedia:  “The NME’s Barney Hoskyns commented about them, “There is an economy of love and yearning in every chord, vocal or instrumental that breaks from the aching heart of the Blue Orchids’ sound” while the writer Paul Morley, reviewing their second single ‘Work’ said, ‘They rave but they are not mad’.”

‘Lucky Speaks’ (2021): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VvgU3unB5T8

‘What thing is man?’ (2022): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6FzA4y1yzaA

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BOBBY WOMACK: ‘THE POET’S STORY…’

 

Book Review of:

‘MIDNIGHT MOVER: MY AUTOBOGRAPHY’

by BOBBY WOMACK

(John Blake Virgin Books, 2007, £17.99, ISBN 1-84454-148-7)

 

Bobby Womack: 4 March 1944-27 June 2014

The cover-sticker proclaims ‘The True Story Of The Greatest Soul Singer In The World’. Well… yes, since by then Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, and James Brown were all gone, that was probably true. Bobby Womack was the last of the muscular old-style gritty blue-collar R&B shouters, from an era before the genre sophisticated into insipid vacuous gloss. But he was always more than just that. Sure, he had hits. And they were superb hits. But he was also a hugely prolific session musician and accomplished songwriter who played on so many super-cool records, and wrote more classic tracks than you could shake a funky tail-feather at.

The Rolling Stones first ever no.1 UK single “It’s All Over Now” was his, check the credits in brackets beneath the title. And “Midnight Mover” – which titles this playful autobiography, is another – a defining smash for Wilson ‘The Wicked Wicked’ Pickett. And it’s a great great story related with wit and humour, rich with highly entertaining anecdote and a wealth of insightful pen-portraits of the giants of Soul. Try the passage about the brothers catching a dose of clap from a white whore, and Solomon Burke’s terrifying fatherly advice about how to cure it!

Bobby was born 4 March 1944, a Pisces in Cleveland Ohio, one of five brothers so poor they grubbed through garbage cans for discarded pig’s tails, pigs’ snouts, ears and ox-tails, his father – Friendly Womack, even declared ‘fasting days’ when they had no food at all. The Womack brothers began singing by mimicking their father’s inept ‘Voices of Love’ vocal group behind their backs. Until his father bartered a guitar in exchange for giving four free haircuts. Risking a beating, while Friendly was out, Bobby learned to play it left-handed, with the guitar upside-down, learning his style by listening to Floyd Cramer – a piano-player! Soon, the results of his first-ever recording sessions with his brothers were ‘stolen’ and released under a bogus name – ‘the record business started screwing me then and hasn’t stopped screwing me since’ he adds ruefully.

Their next singles were done for Sam Cooke’s SAR indie-label, the second – “Lookin’ For A Love” as the Valentinos sold two million, rewritten by Bobby around an old gospel tune. His father promptly disowned them for selling out to the devil’s music. Schmoozing his way into playing a Dean Martin session – and getting thrown out for his pains, Bobby wound up playing on Sam Cooke’s 1962 hit “Twisting The Night Away” instead. Nevertheless, this burgeoning career ran aground when the man he called ‘my mentor, a second father’ was shot dead in a Motel 11 December 1964, and within three months Bobby married Sam’s widow. He was just turned twenty-one, she was ten years older. The troubled marriage, entered more out of loyalty to Cooke, was violently resented by both families, by fans and record industry insiders. Bobby began using coke to escape the pain.

He got a call from Ray Charles, and toured with his band, but quit because he was terrified by Ray’s habit of piloting the tour-plane himself! He did session-work at Chip Moman’s ‘American Studio’ which brought him into contact with the greatest artists of the era, Joe Tex and Jackie Wilson. He played on Aretha’s ‘Lady Soul’ (1968) and ‘Dusty In Memphis’ (1969). Previously unimpressed by Elvis, he found himself overawed by the King’s charisma when he played the “Suspicious Minds” sessions. Then, dubious about the white boy Jerry Wexler called in for another recording date, he found that Eric Clapton played more authentic Blues guitar than he did! Bobby toured with the violently confrontational Wilson Pickett, but had to fill his own debut solo album – August 1968s ‘Fly Me To The Moon’, with covers because he’d given all his own songs to Pickett.

He went through the coke-fuelled madness of Sly Stone’s ‘There’s A Riot Goin’ On’ (1971), emerging ‘too broke up to work’. He even faked blindness as an avoidance strategy to get out of playing live. Stevie Wonder called round to offer his sympathies. Bobby watched him through the fraying strands of his fake eye-bandages. His next record project was to be a C&W album he titled ‘Step Aside Charley Pride Give Another Nigger A Try’, until the distraught label changed it, and then dropped him.

To Bobby, ‘my view was, I wasn’t a guy you could put in a bracket.’ Yet despite much hilarious absurdity, the music flowed, he toured and recorded with the Faces and the Rolling Stones. Until his album ‘The Poet’ (January 1982) provided his major break-through into the big-time, and it’s classic defining Soul, even though record company politics ensured he would never receive his just rewards from its success. ‘I’m a legend’ he acknowledges wryly ‘not a rich legend’. For anyone with a passion for sixties music, for Soul and R&B, there’s a wealth of it here. Even if you don’t like Soul music and never heard of Bobby Womack, this book is still a wonderful trip.

 

www.blake.co.uk

BY ANDREW DARLINGTON

 

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Derive

As he had nothing specific to do that day Erik decided he would go out and simply wander around. He’d never done this before, and he felt a little self-conscious, but the idea of sauntering along observing things others missed, of simply drifting, appealed to him. Out on the street he found it harder than he had expected. His normal walking pace was quite brisk and slowing his stride to a dawdle took some practice. He got behind a couple who were ambling gently along and adjusted his speed to their leisurely step, though not without difficulty. So preoccupied was he with the problem of velocity that he barely noticed anything around him. People were looking at him oddly, he thought, though this may have been his imagination. He needed a place from which he could observe so he sat down at a table outside a café, where he ordered a coffee and, for additional emotional fortification, a slice of apple strudel with cream. The pavement was busy with shoppers and tourists. They were the usual people he’d expect to see, similarly dressed and generally doing much the same thing. The tourists posed for selfies in all the predictable places – the display of bedding plants in front of the municipal library across the street was a popular spot. He tried to remember what famous flanêurs had described in their writing. There were no beggars in sight, though there was a busker further up the street singing country and western, which was mildly annoying. The architecture around him was mostly modern, the history of the few older buildings unknown to him. He took out his notebook and scribbled down a few observations, then crossed them out. The coffee and pastry arrived and were excellent. He made them last as long as he could, watching people pass, customers enter and leave the café, a couple of scrawny pigeons foraging under the tables. He felt rather bored. Perhaps he should visit the Museum of Fine Art instead. There was an excellent restaurant there where he might have lunch.

 

 

 

Simon Collings
Picture Nick Victor

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In the lost

In the lost
but not found
couloirs
some treasures
are chasing out
the temptation.
And the arbor
of lucky bounds
has reached out reflection.
Please, let me
keep on searching…
You are lost
but I still hope
some day
some remedy
will be touching,
and you may glow,
you may shine
again in my line …

 

 

 

Dessy Tsvetkova
Picture Nick  Victor
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March

Pleasurable mid-morning as afterthought: the rained down dreams swish brushless from night-fevered mind. Wind once cleared abbreviates what seeded the advance toward forming memory to beseech potential held in stillness. One breath then feed of others’ energy within the virtual or imagined room. Palm sifts light, then light approaches the bonsai plant gifted me. One side, greening; the other, a gray-brown impasse. Foster living past intention once easy prior to the years that polish or erode what was seen ahead. Now calmer than before, surprising beauty even in weeds unnamed and accepted.

Faultline, reverence, tamped-down colors limber against a nest of sky

 

 

Sheila E Murphy

 

.

 

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The poem that changed the world 

 

On Friday night I had a blowout

I drank a six pack of beer and smoked two single skinned up joints

The beer was fresh from the local shop

But the weed was nearly a year old

 

It was my attempt at suicide

 

After the joints and downing the last of the sixth beer

I was feeling sick as I smoked on a conventional cigarette

As I lay my head on the toilet bowl waiting for it to come out

My head was being dragged down by an invisible force

I thought I was going to die like some of the greats

 

Local and global

 

I suddenly realised I didn’t want to die like that

As I got myself out of this vortex and walked back into my bedroom

I was starting to sweat in cold air

While taking off my cardigan and boots

I could only see the only daughter I will ever have

 

My dog Candy

 

And all I could think and say to her was I’m so sorry honey I have let you down

I dropped down on the bed like death

I was certain I was going to die from this ordeal

A little while later I made another trip to the bathroom

 

There was still no sick

 

And I even thought I would shit myself at one point

Once again I made it back into the bedroom with my dogs tail wagging

I still thought and said I’m sorry darling I have let you down so bad

 

There was one thing for certain as I went through these half-drunk and stoned visions

 

I didn’t care about my writing

 

What I did care about was leaving my beautiful Candy behind

It really put everything into perspective for me

 

No writing

Just love to live for

 

That’s pretty funny for any dedicated artist

As I lay there swimming through the universe I knew it was about to happen

I didn’t have the energy to get up again so I puked on my already dirty bedroom floor

From there and having puke in my hair I passed out for an hour

 

When I awoke from those forty winks I felt rejuvenated but I needed food

And something to watch as a distraction

I made a chicken sandwich with crisps and some chocolate

And I put on some Podge and Rodge

 

A scare at bedtime

What a classic

 

As I finished off my food and listening to those Irish puppets

I didn’t know if I was going to get any sleep again

But as the DVD was coming to an end I passed out

 

Of course the next day I was as hungover as fuck

And I had a hint of paranoia from the weed

 

I needed coffee and water all morning

I also knew I needed a bath so I put on the water heater

 

And I knew there was no way I was going to be able to face the world

So I text my mum to see if she could go to the shop for me and she said yes

 

I had my bath and dried myself off 

Don’t worry I got the dog walked okay

 

I lay on the bed for a while with nothing but a towel on

I eventually got dressed and then my mum entered

 

I didn’t really want to talk about what I tried to do

So I told her a little fib

 

I told her I had a few too many beers

Nothing about the weed or the suicide attempt

 

We ate our food and had a pleasant chat as I downed half a litre of orange Lucozade

 

She left and I didn’t feel too bad at that point

I knew I needed to watch something to take my mind away from things

 

But I sat talking to my own god

And I even took a wank

 

After a while I started feeling like shite again and took a diazepam

I would feel like this for the rest of the night

And even feeling like I was going to take a heart attack

 

I just didn’t want those hot sweats again

 

I would fall asleep eventually and wake up to the next dawning morning

And again I felt like shite

 

But I did my usual routine without the help of my mother

That was a Sunday and this feeling would continue into Monday

 

As today came

This is a Tuesday

 

This is the first day I felt alive and healthy again

 

Now I’m sitting writing down all this bullshit

In order to move like the machine I am with words

 

And of course love

 

With all the talking I did from being unhealthy

I could have written a dozen poems or a story or a screenplay or even an article

 

But something really stood out to me today as the sun shines through the blinded moon

 

When I was a youngster I felt nobody cared what I had to say

Like when all the adults were talking shite

Or when I was skating with my friends

Or past girlfriends I had

Or even fucking counsellors I’ve talked to

 

I always felt like they dismissed important shit I was trying to say

Like a pop up on your computer telling you they are keeping you safe and you click dismiss

 

It always seemed like they blanked that stuff coming out of my mouth

Until someone else said something better

They became more interested in what they had to say over yours

 

So when this writing and poetry bullshit came into my life

I took it because I felt like I could voice my opinions

And if they were interested in what you had to say

 

They would read it

They would listen to it

They would watch it

They would even come out to hear it

 

I guess this is why I do this and why I am so fond of it

I am not in it like most to be a genius

 

I am in it to have a voice in the world

When I felt like people didn’t want to listen

 

I know every writer thinks what they write is great

But you’re just another scribbler

 

Just like me and most of the world

 

I believe every writer has one good piece of writing in them

One that will make their career

Some will make millions from it

Fans and the money

But I know myself that I will only speak to the underground

 

Maybe I’ve already written my one good piece

Or maybe not yet

But either way it will come

Or maybe it already has

 

But what I realised after three days of paranoia and ill health is

 

That love is more important than being a cynical artist

 

I know the ending is the best part of any writing

As I leave it here and walk away to feed my dog

Maybe drink another coffee and smoke another cigarette

Wishing only the best for you out there in this world

 

& hoping for no more death

 

 

Paul Butterfield Jr

 

.

 

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Alan’s New and Old Music Reviews

 

Early Summer 2023 – Alan Dearling

 

Fred Again and Brian Eno: ‘Secret Life’

There’s sometimes an element of ‘London buses’ with Eno’s recordings. Many seem to appear almost simultaneously, often collaborative efforts, as is this one. On his ambient records, soundscapes take centre stage more than words or vocal performances.  That was true of 2022’s ‘Foreverandevermore’ with its whooshing sonic blips and swirling, pulsating rhythms. Vocals are an ethereal dream – and that is even more so on ‘Secret life’ his team effort with Fred Again (actually Fred Gibson of dance music fame for his widely acclaimed ‘Actual Life’ trilogy). There’s a lot of disembodied vocals and glacial stutterings and whispers. Many loops, repetitions and samples from across many genres and artists apparently including Lola Young, and John Prine. There’s a courtly elegance too in quasi-classical sounds on such tracks as ‘Follow’. There’s a beauty and sense of love and loss in Eno’s recent music. Likewise, Fred Again.  Oodles of vulnerability.  Stark beauty.  At times it is perhaps a tad too impersonally-personal, but if you like Eno, and possibly Penguin Café Orchestra, it’s definitely worth a listen.

‘Enough’ track video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lpw6I11xj4M

Marianne Faithfull: (re-release/mixed) 1995/2023 ‘Secret Life’

Re-mastered for Record Store Day 2023. Marianne’s album working with Italian composer/arranger, Angelo Badalamenti, famed for the soundtrack for David Lynch in ‘Twin Peaks’. It’s not that similar to the Eno album despite sharing the same title, but it is darkly ambient, based on an orchestral score, and is lush with powerful vocals (and words) from Marianne. Released on vinyl, but with 3 additional tracks on the CD version including ‘You’re not in London anymore’. It’s worth checking out, especially as you will perhaps realise that you actually already know a number of the tracks.

Here is Marianne with Jools Holland in 1995 talking ‘…disembodied poets’ and music, poets and much more: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uFERiQzPWNA

The Church: ‘Hypnogogue’

Not really so much a futurist Sci-Fi story epic – more a return to the prog rock bombast of the mid to late ‘70s and beyond. This is the 26th album from The Church, Sydney’s psychedelic rockers. There’s definitely a cinematic energy to the whole affair. Pomp, majesty, melodic charm and strong vocals from Steve Kilbey. The album evokes dreamscapes, as the track, ‘Thorn’ suggests, a compute-generated “solace in a forest of dreams”. Likewise, there’s ‘Flickering Lights’ with an insistent background ethereal vibe. I couldn’t help but muse on ‘Wish you were here’, and the idea, slightly mockingly of being transported to the ‘Other side of the Moon’! The Church have a lot of self-belief and ultimately it’s contagious. The layered sounds (rather than the story-line about North Korean occultist, Sun Kim Jong and his dystopian future controlled in the Hypnogogue machine, that captures and distils dreams), crept up on me and almost despite some excesses, it conjures up a spectacle that can be imagined in a massive auditorium or festi with lights and sounds bombarding the brain-cells. Old Skool prog…

‘Thorn’ from ‘Hypnogogue’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xtZp-Ljppc4

David Bowie: (film soundtrack) Moonage Daydream

Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2y9ttNYwzg0

This was released last year. It’s a double CD – a remarkable collage of highlights from the Bowie lifetime: words, songs, performances from across David’s richly varied career. As the film director, Brett Morgan says: “Bowie cannot be explained, but he can be experienced.”

Playing the collection at home on a decent sound-system is indeed an ‘experience’. A deeply personal one, one that is almost spiritual and offers sublime glimpses of the Bowie genius. So many aspects of music and art from the sing-along anthems of ‘Changes’ and the Ziggy Stardust era through the ambient and subterranean, labyrinthine music that Brian Eno produced with Bowie in the loosely connected Berlin trilogy, which includes ‘V-2Schneider’, ‘Sound and Vision’ and ‘Heroes’.

It’s a great memorial to the ever changing, ever-evolving artist that was David Bowie. Even if you already own all or most of his albums, this is a celebratory collection. Great stuff!

Elli De Mon: ‘Pagan Blues’

Blues Grunge. Heavy. As Elli informs us all: “I am troubled…Stay out of my way!” Elli is a one-woman blues sensation. I loved her last album, ‘Countin’ The Blues’, which was filled with highly original dark-renderings of blues classics.  This new collection is very much what it says on the label: ‘PAGAN BLUES’. ‘The Fall’ opens proceedings with a saturated sound and ‘I can see you’ spits venom. All but one track, ‘Catfish Blues’ are Elli’s original compositions. It places her in a space between a one-woman White Stripes,  Dr John the Night-tripper at his voodoo swampiest and possibly Tom Waits’ singing songs by Nico!

By the time you listen to ‘Desert Song’ you may be troubled with a temporary lobotomy!  It’s a musical equivalent of meeting up with Charles Manson and his Family out at the Spandau Ranch. ‘Star’ has Elli playing the Spiderwoman, witchy with fuzzed-up slide guitar before ‘Ticking’ which is a spectral, darkly sacrificial pentagram of sounds.  ‘Siren’s Call’ presents  a sitar-driven dance track. She hails from the north-eastern Italian town of Vicenza, but one hopes to see her at gigs and festies in the UK and beyond. Salutations to Her Dark Pagan Majesty!

The final album track, ‘Troubled’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rSOO1sgYmpY

 

 

 

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Back to being

 



Listen! Listen!

To the soft vibrato
of the wasp’s wing,

to the bumble bee

pawing the pollen,

to the wandering woodlouse

clod-hopping, recyling,

to the butterflies

petalling and nectaring,

dancing out

their delicate days.

Listen! Listen!

To the multitude,
to the signature tunes on the wind,

to the refrain of the rock dove,

the wood pigeon, the choral of tits,

to the ladybirds and beetle bums,

free among the fern fronds.

Drop down!
Become small again!

Wander in WONDER!

The micro is COSMIC!

We are Earthlings! Earthlings: all.

Daisies don’t want to be in chains.
Dandelions are yellow suns,

feeding famished foragers:

pretty heads billowing

in a verdant hula hula forest!

Every branch is full of homes!
The leaves are veined and vibrant!

The slugs are in service!

Flies are fruitful, not fiends!

Spiders are spinning our future,

webbing the Oneness!

This breathing Beauty…

The squirrel is a selective gatherer!
The mole is magnificent:

it is we who have been blind!

Garden strimmers
are winnowing the wild ones!
Scything to silence

the Peaceable Kingdom

all around us!1

Silenzio! Silencio!

Banish the bodgers,
the mowers, the pruners,

the toxic sprayers,

the lopping tree ‘surgeons,’

the dead-headers,

the bull-dozers, brick layers, cement slurryers,

the crazy pavers!

And let it all BE.

Biophilia! Biophilia!

Live…and let live!

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Heidi Stephenson
Illustration: Claire Palmer



1 Since the 1950s Britain’s hedgehog population alone has been decimated from 36 million to less than 1 million, in large part because of garden strimmers, lawnmowers, forks, spades, chemicals, bonfires, netting and fencing which blocks hedgehog highways. Please see:

https://www.willowshedgehogrescue.co.uk/willows-hedgehog-rescue-strimmer-campaign.html

 
 
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Orpheus Crossing

Orpheus crosses the council estate
Returning home he hesitates   –
Best sidestep the limelight
And like the sky put on a hood of grey

This is no earthly paradise
This is England
A search for safety and survival manifest
In ready sombre-toned athleisure wear

John Clare crosses hard on foot from London
His fractured mind finds comfort
Passing through the villages of Harrold and Odell
Their mingled streams of birdsong and of water

Many cast-off by brief fame
London’s fickle favour and regard
Question they were born to be
More than an amusing passing moment

The ‘peasant poet’ on the road might ponder
‘Nature is a deep broad heart and never artificial   –
All I leave behind me are the games   –
Their fashion-plates disguised as poetry’

 

Bernard Saint
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

 

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5 years since Shell threatended to sue me

HELL ANNIVERSARY

Time flies when you’re in Hell

 

This month makes it five years since Shell sent me a cease and desist over my anti-Shell merch. And then, somehow, all it took was me replying with few sarcastic emails for them to back down and leave me alone. I can’t believe it worked and I cant believe this stuff is still in my shop

The legal threat happened in 2018 in retaliation to a subvertising campaign organised by Brandalism in which some of my, and other artists’ anti-Shell posters were put up around the country in response to Shell’s greenwashing festival: Make the Future.

A day or two after the posters went up I received an email from Shell’s lawyers regarding the Hell merch I was selling on my website to help fund my artwork. They gave me 7 days to take everything offline or they would begin legal proceedings.

I was kindly offered free legal advice which warned me that it could be hard to win in court and if I lost I could be saddled with £40k+ in fees, so reluctantly I intended to acquiesce to their demand. But in the meantime I thought I’d reply to their lawyer anyway and see if I could wind them up. You can see the email exchange here:

After that last email, they stopped replying altogether and appear to have dropped the claim. Someone higher up the chain of command must have realised it was backfiring as I was posting the correspondence online and it was getting shared all over the place.

Apparently sarcasm is an effective legal defence.

I was really struggling for cash at the time so the sales generated by the legal threat actually meant I could keep my studio open, so, er thanks?

To this day and I’m still selling anti-Shell merch and it’s helped fund several Shell-based projects including the Hell Bus and some new stuff that’s in the works, and to celebrate five years I’ve had some new badges made up!

You can order them here. All funds go towards pissing off Shell.

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Massive thanks to everyone who’s bought any of this or my other stuff, it really helps me keep doing what I’m doing.

 

FRESH HELL

 

I’m bringing the Hell Bus back to Glastonbury this year (come see it in Shangri-La!) with it expanded to be the Hell Bus in a Hell petrol station.

I’ll also be taking the bus to Lambeth Country Show in south London (free entry over two days 10th – 11th June)

I’m currently building an on-fire petrol pump for the Hell Bus to have crashed into, using water vapour to simulate the fire (see the video below). I’ve been posting work in progress updates of this on my instagram story.

 
 
 
 
THE POSTTRAUMATIC

     
 
   
 
 

I’m in the newspaper! Specifically I’m in The Posttraumatic from Spain, edited by the brilliant Octavi Serra who I met at Trashplant Festival last year. The photo of the Shell Green Emissions poster above is also from this issue. Copies or a subscription to the paper are available from The Posttraumatic website.

DOPE

A spread of my subvertising posters is in the current issue of the brilliant DOPE magazine from Dog Section Press. They have a mutual aid distribution model so they give away thousands of free copies to anyone who needs to make a few quid, who can then sell it on the street and keep everything they make. If you can’t find a street vendor you can also subscribe via their website which helps them get thousands more copies into the hands of people who can use them. It’s a fantastic mag and a worthwhile cause. Support them if you can!

 

 

BEHEADED KING STAMP T-SHIRTS

 

I put this shirt design in my shop for preorder last month but there’s been a delay at the printers so I’m reopening the preorder for this weekend only, closes on Monday at 11am and they’ll go into production. You can order yours here.

 

 

PRIDE MONTH

 

A few years ago I added some vinyl lettering to the bottom of this Sainsbury’s pinkwashing ad during Pride month. It stayed up for a day before they took the whole banner down, and as far as I can tell they’ve never put another ad in the same spot.⁠

The only thing a corporation can ever proudly support is their ability to make profit. To them, social issues are merely PR opportunities to drive sales and enrich investors.⁠

Sainsbury’s largest shareholder is the Qatari Royal Family, a country where homosexuality is punished with 3 years in prison and a fine. It is also illegal to change your birth-assigned gender.⁠

Apart from the ownership issue, what was particularly galling about this poster was the inclusion of Sainsbury’s “150 years” anniversary logo, making it appear like the supermarket had been at the forefront of supporting LGBT+ rights for that long, as opposed to deciding a few years ago to capitalise on the life-and-death struggle of LGBT people in order to sell more pasta and baked beans.⁠

See also:

 
 
 
GREAT WAR
 
 

Couple of posters installed in Southend-on-Sea this weekend after I spent a day talking to students on The Other MA about how subvertising is against the law and why no one should do it. Seems my advice was ignored.

In particular I implored them to never use a T30, H60 hex and four way utility keys to open bus stops and replace the ‘6 sheet’ advertising posters (dimensions 120 X 180cm) with artwork instead of ads.

 

UPCOMING EVENTS

Here’s everything I’ve got planned for the next two months:

10th-11th JuneLambeth Country Show
London
Hell Bus at a free two day festival in Brockwell Park, will be in the “Eco-Village”

21st-25th JuneGlastonbury Festival
Glastonbury, Somerset
The Hell Bus crashes into a Hell petrol station in Shangri-La, Glastonbury.

I’ll also be taking part in a panel at the Silver Hayes Information Stage on Saturday between 13:15-14:00. The panel is called “The Power of Publicity” and includes speakers from Liberty, Notes to Strangers, and Pregnant Then Screwed.

 

24th June – 8th JulySteal This Poster
Florence
I have work in this group exhibition at an art space called ZAP (Zona Aromatica Protetta) vicolo di Santa Maria Maggiore 1

Opening hours: Monday to Saturday 08:30 to 22:00

15th-16th JulyWhitecross Street Party
London
Bringing the Hell Bus back to London for a two day street art festival in Whitecross.

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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 I, Sisyphus


 
I wake to another morning
not to write a new poem,
but to start the same poem again.
I push my pen across the paper,
because it’s the object the gods put in my hand.
Each day the words find their places
in an endless game of musical chairs
and I’m supposed to call the music.
It’s hopeless, I know, but I persist,
prodding letters into place,
pulling punctuation in to order
the chaos of syllables struggling
against the rigors of reason.
Again and again I work against hope
only to start anew the next day
with the same cast of characters
still not knowing what they want to say.

 

 

 
Clif Ross

 

 

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Hunger

I prowl the canal,
sprawl like spilled oil.
Time is acid on my boots.

Thoughts blur and fail,
no longer words but sounds 
I haul into the night
as I go through the shuttered town,
shivering along damp gutters,
letting out yelps.

Need and want.
When one hollow fills, another howls.
The shadow in my gut is forever
sifting light from fire.                        

Women, who see me,
approach like wounded wolves
that have left bloodtrails for the moon.
Their heads are children
I hold in my lap.

Men close their ears, they take
their oxygen down into sleep
beyond the blue fingertips of the sun
where they think I don’t go.

Where stars’ teeth turn black, waiting. 

 

Peter Yovu

 

 

 

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Sliding into Chaos

It was getting late as we were circling
the backstreets and looking for a place
to hide away. The trouble with writing
biography is that it’s impossible as we

can never hope to decipher the code
and we have a situation that induces
panic. “This beetle is physiologically
adapted to stand on its head,” she said.

Where did that come from? We suspect
they are listening to the wind but much
of our marine life has been harried close
to extinction and there are certainly people

who try to steal or manage the emotional
lives of others. Size, of course, is not a virtue
in itself but modern states are obsessed with
demarcating their borders. At the end of this

film happiness for all may be just around the
corner. Put your paddle in the water and let’s go.

 

 

 

Steve Spence

 

 

 

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The Movement of the Whole I/The Movement of the Whole II


In explaining how the explicate,
manifest, sensual world
pours out of the plenitude of the void,
they called it a cup which is full, 
a concavity holding nothing,
from which everything flows,                    
you and me, trees and animals,
mountains and men, women and ribs,
flesh and feeling with all potential:
citizens of air, orderly principles,
as well as spite and murder orbiting
thought – wars black holes
something from nothing.

The Movement of the Whole II

In explaining how the explicate,                          
manifest, sensual world                             
pours refuse extraneous to humans                      
into the plenitude of the void,                       
we call it a cup which is full        
for some people,
a concavity holding nothing
for others,
a made up nothingness       
of things people don’t need,             
emptiness made out of the fullness
of self-interest – self-fulfilling        
prophecies                                         
from which everything flows,                                               
ozone and holes, forests and fires                                                                           
people looking to land, babies                     
bobbing the ocean with plastic
and fish, men of matter,
flesh without feeling, even the
paradox of all potential having
taken a wrong turning, as well as
the possibility of finding another.

 

 

Wendy Clayton

 

 

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The Paradox Tree

 

Now I see the bows and arrows, the catapults and vital purpose, the myriad possibilities.

Now the leaves have fallen,
revealing the curvatures and tangled complexities of the paradox tree.

Its nature is to bend
and bring buds and branches
into the service of animals and humanity.

A fine line between use and service,
love and peace, war and hate.
Between giving up and sacrifice. Between nest and shelter.

Dendrites make mathematical patterns, coaxing blue from pale
winter skies. They shield satellite-marked houses from each
other’s sight, blind eyes with lances and separate with fences.

Now gather in baskets the nodes of divine life,
and burn your weapons around campfires,
singing and strumming guitars, drumming up unity.

I see the hardening lignin,
the pulsating sap within,
the parts dividing and the wholeness,
in stages: a signpost, a railway sleeper,
a vision song, a messenger with open arms.

 

 

Sam Burcher
http://www.samburcher.com/home.html

Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

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The Black Cloud

When I sleep I dream
of sunny days,
only to wake and find it
waiting for me.
Sometimes I try to reason with it:
finally, in exasperation,
you’re a cliché, I say,
but it never rises to the bait,
leaving me to wonder if
the world I live in’s a cartoon
and everything about me, drawn.

I half-expect
someone inside it
(whoever’s behind it)
to let down a rope ladder and say
come on up, into the eye
of the storm, let’s talk? But no,
it just keeps following me around,
every now and again
unleashing a hailstorm,
stones the size of billiard-balls,
all bouncing around me
as I dive for shelter
under the coffee-table,
or heavy downpours
when I least expect them,
or, worst of all,
the lightning-bolts
which always just manage to miss me
(of course, I reason,
it’s toying with me.
All it would take
is one direct hit
and it would have to find
someone else to pick on).

Some of my friends try to help,
hustling me into their
spare rooms and cellars
when they think it’s not looking,
but it’s always there,
waiting for me
when I come out.
Others just don’t want to know.
I have to say to people things like:
Pardon my cloud, or
What have I done to deserve this, you say?
I’ve no idea but
Stay back or it might get you.

Let’s just say that
when you have a black cloud after you,
you get to know who your real friends are.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dominic Rivron
Photo Nick Victor

 

 

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Fire in the Wire (episode eleven)

 

Steam Stock

Tracklist:
The Mad Lads – Ten to One
Sound Dimension – Ten to Ten
The Spanishtonians – You Wish Me Bad
Johnny Osborne – Ice Cream Love
Barrington Levy – Sister Carol
Augustus Pablo – 555 Dub Street
Stranger and Patsy – Tell it to Me
Derrick Morgan and George Dekker – Hey Boy Hey Girl
The Wailing Wailers – I’m Still Waiting
I-Roy – Yamaha Ride
Black Uhuru – Sinsimelia
Slim Smith – Never Let Go
Carlton and the Shoes – Never Let Go
The Abyssinians – Satta Massa Gana
Jah Scotchie – Man of Creation
Cedric Im Brooks – Satta
One Blood – Be Thankful for What You’ve Got
Trinity meets Dillinger – Jesus Dread
Scorcher – Put on Me Clarks

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GOODBYE BARRY & TED

 – a fond farewell from Kevin Short

Since dipping in and out of such classic series as Hill Street Blues, The Sopranos, Murder One, and the like, I have to say I have never been a fan of the never-ending series format. Fawlty Towers, for me, had it right. Stop while you’re ahead, and let other stories be told. Only when I discovered that two highly praised series were coming to an end in series three, did I allow myself to forego my reservations and binge-watch seasons 1 & 2 of each, in order to enjoy the weekly release of episodes in Season 3. The two titles are ‘Ted Lasso’ and ‘Barry’.

First to TL, which concerns an American who, with little knowledge of football, becomes manager of England’s AFC Richmond and over the series, along with his cohorts, leads the team on a perilous journey to gain Premiership League status, and the possibility of reaching the European Champion’s League, but no spoilers here. This could be a fictionalized version of what American actor, Ryan Reynolds, has achieved with Wrexham AFC in reality. Yet, Ted Lasso did it first. Maybe Mr. Reynolds found inspiration from watching the first series of TL in 2020, who knows? Either way, the story of the underdogs who, through strength of will and self-belief, succeed in goals (!) beyond their wildest dreams, is an age-old tale that never fails to tug at the heart strings. No more so than it does here.

No space to name all writers, actors, contributors, suffice to say that the series was based around a character portrayed by Saturday Night Live’s Jason Sudeikis in an NBC Sports campaign a decade ago, so, major credit must go to him. Although, this was a true team (!) effort in every department, and though a few episodes are a little hit and miss, if you stay with it, you will be rewarded with a magnificent finale that will make you laugh, weep, and hanker for another series, perhaps! You don’t have to be a football fan to love it, there are plenty of human stories between the goal posts, and many real-life celebrities playing themselves for good measure. In short, have a weekend binge-watch!

Now, to ‘Barry’. Not exactly an awe-inspiring title. However, because it’s both a Christian and Surname, could that be a clue to the central character’s double identity? Barry is a hitman by day, and an aspiring actor by night. From this inspired premise, we are taken on the most unpredictable of journeys any series has dared to try. Barry is nothing like anything before. I only became aware of its existence before Season 4 began (Sorry, I lied, 4 not 3 series, but Barry has 32 episodes total, TL: 34), and as with TL, I binge-watched the first 3 seasons, then waited with bated breath for the final ‘wow!’

‘Wow’ was the title of the finale episode, and it lives up to the exclamation in spades. The series is comedy, drama, action-movie, horror, fantasy, gangster, you name it, Barry is it! Oh, not forgetting love-story, and existential nightmares and realities of the here and now. Again, no spoilers, this is a series, like TL, that is best viewed with as little foreknowledge as possible. Even avoid Trailers, if you can. Simply wallow in the mind-expanding trip Barry takes you on and feel the impact of each bullet-ridden turning. Many actors, directors and writers to credit, but as with TL, Bill Hader – another Saturday Night Live(r) – along with writer/producer Alec Berg (Seinfield, The Dictator) should take major credit. Great cast, with the wonderful Henry Winkler (The ‘Fonz’ of old) among them.

I think, without spoiling anything, I can say that there is a moment in ‘Barry’ when we are shown a fantasy account of all the reality we have witnessed on screen, and just as the fantasy of Ted Lasso’s AFC Richmond may have been a precursor to Wrexham AFC’s reality, Barry’s denouement, like both these series, might be closing the gap between fact and fiction, truth and lies, good and bad television. I must admit, even as a non-lover of the series format, ‘Barry’ and ‘Ted Lasso’ are two examples of exceptionally good television. Such a shame the licence payer can’t see them for free.

 

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Notes from the Bloodless Revolution

 

Waving flags and singing songs, crowds march, demanding more than reason. They’re dressed in their best bibs and tuckers, ready to dance and dine, with wine glasses raised in a toast to the hauntological frisson. The glasses are tuned to the exuberant trill of Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! and the whole throng high-kicks to its martial disco beat. The word on the street is Party, and although responses are complex – some think Marx and some think Magaluf – a good time’s guaranteed as soon as the statues are toppled and they’re passing out the vodka and Red Bull. It’s like the poll tax or the miners’ strike, like suffragettes or luddites, or like villagers torching the castle, but with a touch of May Day and Mardi Gras, and a hint of what-the-fuck. I’ve a flag with a dragon and I still fit my wedding suit, so I pick up my song sheet and a fistful of unreasonable demands, raise my D minor glass, and hit the street singing.

 

 

 

Oz Hardwick
Painting Nick Victor

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Love While Departing

You are all
That makes me complete.
My imagination
Renders a statue
Like a thought-god
That speaks about
The love-wind
That blows from being
A stranger to a known friend.
Let’s measure the path to our hearts.
Love happens in departing ways
When I had to leave.
The flowers have surrendered
To the twinkling nights.
Spring blows wildly,
No taming virtue.
The bathing moon
Is so shy
But still I can see your face
Outside my window,
Where you scatter
Like playful tunes of love.

 

 

Sushant Thapa
Photo Nick Victor

 

 

 

Bio: Sushant Thapa is a Nepalese poet from Biratnagar, Nepal who holds a Master’s degree in English literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India. He has published four books of poetry namely: The Poetic Burden and Other Poems (Authorspress, New Delhi, 2020), Abstraction and Other Poems (Impspired, UK, 2021), Minutes of Merit (Haoajan, Kolkata, 2021), and Love’s Cradle (World Inkers Printing and Publishing, USA and Africa, 2023). Sushant has been published in places like The Gorkha Times, The Kathmandu Post, The Poet Magazine, The Piker Press, Trouvaille Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Impspired, Harbinger Asylum, New York Parrot, Pratik Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Dope Fiend Daily, Atunis Poetry, EKL Review, The Kolkata Arts, Dissident Voice, Journal of Expressive Writing, As It Ought To Be Magazine and International Times among many. He has also been anthologized in national and International anthologies. His poem is also included in the Paragon English book for Grade 6 students in Nepal. He teaches Business English to Bachelor’s level students of BBA and BIT at Nepal Business College, Biratnagar, Nepal and he also teaches literature and Managerial Communication to students of BBA and MBS respectively at Degree Campus, Biratnagar, Nepal. Recently Sushant recited his poem “The Poetic Burden” in Kalinga Literary Festival, Kathmandu, Nepal. Sushant was recently awarded with Indology Best Poet Award 2022 from West Bengal, India for his debut poetry book “The Poetic Burden and Other Poems.”

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THE UNCORRECTED independent publishers’ fair

“The world’s smallest publisher fair.”

The Peckham Pelican is to host the fifth edition of The Uncorrected Independent Publishers’ Fair.

Seven of the UK’s best indie publishers under one roof: Flipped Eye Publishing, Les Fugitives, Prototype, Repeater Books, Rough Trade Books, Strange Attractor Press, Tangerine Press + L-13 Light Industrial Workshop “dishonesty box”

11-6, Saturday 11th June 2022

Readings start @ 2pm: (Flipped Eye Publishing) TBC; (Les Fugitives) ERICA VAN HORN; (Prototype) ASTRID ALBEN; (Repeater Books) OWEN HATHERLEY; (Rough Trade Books) ROSE BLAKE; (Strange Attractor Press) TBC; (Tangerine Press) ARIANNA REICHE

Unexplained podcast (live) 4pm

Lilies in my Brain (acoustic set) 4.30pm

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Punk: Rage & Revolution

 

Exhibition 27 May – 03 September 2023
Leicester Museum & Art Galleries + Soft Touch Arts

Punk: Rage & Revolution focuses on the UK punk scene through original objects, information panels and ephemera, including the first retrospective of original clothing from the late Dame Vivienne Westwood. Alongside origins and influences, the exhibition also looks at punk’s ideology, attitude, fashion, music, art and legacy.

A story of rebellion, creative energy and the political landscape that gave birth to the 1970’s UK Punk subculture.

The exhibition focuses on 1977, a key year. Influences, original objects, fashion, music, art and more brings the Punk ideology, attitude, DIY ethos and legacy to life in an exciting, immersive experience.

The exhibition has been co-curated with young people from Soft Touch Arts, contributing ideas and creative work reflecting what Punk means today. Local punks, alongside Leicester creatives, offer new perspectives on this influential youth subculture.

The Punk: Rage & Revolution project features exhibitions at Leicester Museum & Art Gallery, Northampton Museum & Art Gallery, Backlit in Nottingham, The Gallery at De Montfort University, Soft Touch Arts and the LCB Depot. Events and activities will take place throughout the duration of the exhibitions, including a Revive festival in Leicester in August 2023.

For more information, visit the Punk Rage & Revolution website: https://rageandrevolution.co.uk/

Punk Rage & Revolution Website Trailer from Arch Creative on Vimeo.

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Tiger, Baghdad, 2003

I never liked it here anyway.
Too sodding hot, and it
Was always a two star hotel;
Full of Saddam’s jeering and poking
Children, the poor bloody workers never had time
To come and see the likes of me.
I’d only been here for a couple of years,
Out of Bengal by way of those
Prick traders in Thailand
Who’d make their money
Out of their mothers’ fingernails
If there was nothing else.
At least I didn’t get to be
Some kind of imaginary aphrodisiac.
Always a bit of a loner, me.
It’s the way I liked it.
My ancestors were big game for the Brits and Rajahs; then
For a while the boots were on the other foot
Though the villagers didn’t taste so good
After nuclear power settled in.
I never touched the water myself,
Instincts too bloody strong.
Of course those fools weren’t afraid,
Too busy dreaming
Of dancing girls, bad disco music
and Toyota Landcruisers.
That’s where religion gets you.
Just what I could do with now,
A nice fat tasty priest…
But this is where we’re at:
Since the zoo went
I’m skulking in the alleys like a common mog.
The trigger happy Yanks
Are blowing everything away
Whether it moves or not;
There’s not much cover left.
The locals are locked in cellars
With the remains of the food
Getting their stories ready
For the inquisition
So they can be the next oppressors.
Where the fuck does that leave me?
It’ll be a long time
Before the zoo’s back in shape
And I’m not so sure
I could strut my stuff
With the Stars and Stripes
Hanging over me like a shroud.
Best thing is to leave town,
Follow the stink of death from the desert.
I could live off the odd goatherd
And even an unwary vulture
Or two, not to forget
The goats themselves.
Undoubtedly the Yanks have the city
In a theoretical ring of steel.
I have to find my way out
Without scaring too many brave
Soldiers, or it’s curtains.
Here goes…

 

© Pete Brown

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SAUSAGE Life 272

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column which knows exactly what 9% apr representative means, but refuses to tell you

MYSELF: What time do you call this?

READER: Sorry, the trains were on strike again. Why do they keep doing this?

MYSELF: Well, they want a pay rise.

READER: A pay rise? What for?

MYSELF: The usual, you know, food, rent, clothing, that type of thing.


READER:
How bloody inconsiderate! Who do they think they are?

MYSELF: Anyway I thought you were working from home?

READER:
Not since I got out of prison.

DEAD CATS SPOTTED IN CHANNEL
Semi-retired agent provocateur Nigel Farage, speaking from the top bunk of his air-conditioned Arron Banks-funded luxury motor home parked on the white cliffs of Dover, has reported a raft full of dead cats trying to cross the English Channel. “I was scanning the busy shipping lanes with my Arron Banks-funded Super Migrascope with radar-assisted cross hairs,” the weasel-faced stool pigeon told us, “when I spotted the flimsy inflatable vessel drifting dangerously near the wake of a P&O cross channel ferry bound for Dover. Being unable to spot any undesirable aliens, I assumed that the raft contained old, unused government proposals which had been cast adrift – that is until I noticed the cases of extra-virgin snake oil stacked in the stern, the pall of smoke and the tell-tale flash of mirrors. I immediately reported the dead cat sighting to Home Secretary Cruella de Braverman and the editor of The Daily Mail, who between them manufactured a jolly scary story with the headline DUNKIRK HEROES SPIN IN GRAVES AS FOREIGN INVASION CONTINUES “. My disciples (or as I refer to them on twitter, my ‘peeps’) were thus able to spread this manufactured crock of nonsense like well-rotted manure, over social media’s green unpleasant pastures.”

THE FAMOUS BRICK SHIP OF HASTINGS
In 1066AD, Hastings fishermen famously repelled Napoleon’s mighty armada with a ship made out of bricks. “England is a nation of bricklayers” Napoleon is said to have declared afterwards.
The following Spring, the one-armed French midget succeeded in attacking the English from the rear, this time with his navy concealed inside hollowed out wooden elephants. It was a strategy borrowed from his best friend Hannibal, which was to serve him well during his long and distinguished career as a ringmaster for Billy Smart’s Circus.

PICTURED: POSTCARD FEATURING A 1/5 SCALE REPLICA OF THE FAMOUS BRICK SHIP OF HASTINGS. BUILT IN 2002 BY THE PUPILS OF THE ST. LEONARD’S BRICKLAYING COLLEGE FOR THE VISUALLY CHALLENGED, IT SANK ON IT’S MAIDEN VOYAGE. 

 
 

KANGAROO CAUGHT
Mugabe the boxing kangaroo, (or as many journalists have dubbed him), Raabo, has finally been catured after almost three years on the run. He was tracked down at the Upper Dicker branch of Tuckerbag, the supermarket which caters for ex-pat Australians and confused Kiwis, where he was spotted buying cans of the popular antipodean soft drink Kookaburra Koala. A police helicopter arrived within minutes and after surrounding the store, tazered him and removed his boxing gloves. Trained members of the Upper Dicker Armed Kangaroo Squad expressed surprise after discovering that instead of the expected horseshoes, Mugabi’s mitts contained only Vegemite sandwiches.

The kangaroo escaped in 2020 from Strangeway’s holiday camp in nearby Herstmonceux, where he was employed to give small children rides in his pouch. He is now believed to have been staying at a Travelodge in Bexhill under an assumed name.
“Of course what the management of Strangeway’s hadn’t realised,” East Sussex Police Chief Hydra Gorgon told us. “is that the male kangaroo does not have a pouch. We think this gender confusion may have been a key factor in turning what was once a loveable, Disneyesque character into the rogue marsupial he subsequently became.”

 

MERGER MOST FOUL
It was reported in the financial section of The Fortean Times yesterday that The Knights Templars, The Illuminati, and The Elders of Zion are to be the subjects of an aggressive takeover bid by Lizard Empires, the misinformation company run by the track-suited guru of the gullible David Icke. In a recent interview with Bonkers magazine, Mr Icke suggested that it was about time all the bat-crazy theories of the world’s leading proponents of horseshit were brought together in one giant conspiracy.
“We now live in the tiktoking twittersphere of social media,” he told us from Lizard Empire’s headquarters in East Grinstead, “where the proliferation of so many differing theories such as 9/11, Pizzagate, Chemtrails, and QAnon, is sowing the wrong sort of confusion in the minds of the general population. In my opinion, the public would be much better served were they able to embrace one enormous all-inclusive nose-bag of Merde de Cheval.”
FAIR PLAY
Mr Edde, a spokesman for The Monopolies Commission however, had this to say:
“Existing legislation is quite clearly laid out in paragraph 447a of the 1949 Malicious Propaganda Act”:  
The spreading of total bollocks and the dissemination of horseshit shall be treated with the same consideration for proper competition as any other business. No pun intended.
“It is our view that this merger would simply narrow the public’s choice when it comes to deciding which particular pot pourri of half-witted balderdash they wish to swallow.”
On the same day, despite heavy rain, a well-behaved gaggle of around twenty anti-vaxxers and 5G conspirators added their high-pitched voices to the debate by converging on Parliament Square and marching up and down with banners proclaiming:
WAKE UP SHEEPLES! POLIO, MEASLES AND DIPTHERIA ARE A HOAX! and THE DEVIL MASTS OF DOOM ARE COMING TO EAT YOUR CHILDREN!

 

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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Natalie Merchant: Keep Your Courage (Nonesuch)

It’s been a while since Natalie Merchant made anything very exciting, and she’s never gotten near the early music of 10,000 Maniacs. Unfortunately hew new album sounds like hundreds of other AOR rock artists: overproduced, lots of brass oompahing away, lots of big backing vocals. Slick and deadly. Mostly gone is the open, awkward Natalie and in its place is smooth sophistication, with violins and careful arrangements undermining the whole thing. There’s just no oomph or energy or variety, even with all the listens I’ve given it. (The album came out over a month ago now.) Played loud or quiet, paying attention of half-hearing it doing something else, it’s passionless, careful and plodding. Whether it’s her guardian angel, the tower of babel (which she pronounces babble), Aphrodite or The Feast of Saint Valentine (which is the closing song) its all self-important and overblown, with nothing to say. And I don’t have much to say either. It’s a painful disappointment this one. I’m going back to listen to Human Conflict Number 5 and Secrets of the I Ching by 10,000 Maniacs as it’s been downhill ever since. Listen to those intertwining guitars, the fragile momentum.

Johnny Keep-It-Basic Brainstorm

Natalie Merchant – Tower of Babel

10,000 Manics – Grey Victory

 
There was light
And atomic fission
Swelling wind and
Rising ash
Tide of black rain
Cement seared shadow traces
Reminiscent of their
Last commands

Instantly one thousand
Flames arising
Ill scent of
Burning hides surrounding
A settlement
Debased entirely

Enola Gay had made a casual delivery

Please build a future darling
With our bomb
Cherish and love it
For the sake of
Earth bound kingdom come

The undersides of
Fallen metal trusses
Evil debris of
Human bodies
Each window’s glass
Shards pelted
Secure confines
Brittle collapse
Neighbors lay beside
Each other unknowing
Faces scorched
Of all familiar bearing
Too few hands
Wounds for closing
Marred by thirsting
Anguish
Fear
Lamenting

Here we stand
At the door to
Gold Atomic Age
Don’t spoil your faces with worry
Trust in earth bound kingdom come

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The Ear Eater

 

Dadda met this ear eater monster in the forest. It was once upon a time.
Dadda asked the monster what the ears tasted like. The ear eater fumbled for an answer. A few mockingbirds chirped in the chords of another species.
In the end the monster said that the ears taste like fish.
“Which fish? And what does that fish taste like?” Asked dadda.
” I, um, never ate one.” Confessed the ear eater.
” Are you serious? How can you say ears taste like fish?” Dadda’s voice echoed in the night. “There is a chippy outside this forest. My treat.”
Together they went to the shop. The monster had a second helping.
The savoury suited it. “I would not eat ears anymore” It said.

 

 

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Illustration Nick Victor

Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India

@amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
 Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/ 
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

 
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“Revolution” – Powering a Sustainable Future

 

 

a Multi-Fuel Rotary Engine Generator

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/paultownley/revolution-a-multi-fuel-rotary-engine-generator?fbclid=IwAR007uzNzjPJBB1i5T6MwBgG7rrTmXcDiKSdg7eKpgjTJfPFMk0qpiO4JH4

Project image

 

 

 

After proving supersonic rotational speeds (918mph) with our previous campaign success and distributing the supersonic capable miniature machines to 5 different countries, we are back with our next offering!

We are excited to introduce our innovative multi-fuel rotary engine generator, a groundbreaking technology designed to address the growing need for cleaner, more efficient energy solutions.

.

Our system can operate on a wide variety of fuels, offering unprecedented flexibility and adaptability, while delivering outstanding performance and reducing environmental impact.

The Problem:

Current engines and generators face significant challenges in terms of efficiency, fuel limitations, and environmental impact. Traditional combustion engines often operate at suboptimal efficiency levels, wasting energy and producing harmful emissions. Additionally, many engines are designed to run on a single fuel type, which can be problematic in times of fuel scarcity or fluctuating fuel prices.

The Solution:

Our multi-fuel rotary engine generator is a game changer in the energy landscape. By incorporating a unique rotor set and pulse jet engine that work in sequence, we have developed a highly efficient rotary engine capable of operating on multiple fuel types. This versatility reduces our reliance on a single fuel source and allows for more sustainable and cost effective energy production. Our engine’s innovative design not only increases efficiency but also minimizes emissions, contributing to a greener future.

Where Are We Now?

So far we have built several proof of concept machines such as a pulse jet engine with no moving parts. We have built and destruction tested many rotary engines beyond the speed of sound (768mph). We have developed an in house rotor balancing machine and various contact free bearings.

Kickstarter Aim:

We want to bring together all of our current development and understanding to build a new precision 5″ rotor set and a metal casing that combines the pulse jet engine and the rotary engine, based on 4.5 years of research and development. This is the perfect size to enable scalability and modular expansion. The data gathered from our Kickstarter proof of concept will provide the design and roadmap for a production model, which we plan to offer in Q1 2024.

What Are The Advantages Of Pulse Jet Engines?

  • Have a simpler design than piston engines, which makes them easier to manufacture, maintain and repair.
  • Lighter than piston engines of equivalent power output, which can be an advantage in applications where weight is a concern, such as aviation or portable power generation.
  • High power to weight ratio, which can be advantageous in applications where power density is important.
  • Fewer moving parts than piston engines, which means they have less friction and wear, resulting in longer lifespan and reduced maintenance costs.
  • High thermal efficiency, which means they can convert more of the fuel’s energy into useful work. This results in lower fuel consumption and lower emissions compared to piston engines.

Off Grid Solution:

  • An off grid generator allows you to be self sufficient and generate your own electricity without relying on the power grid. This can be especially beneficial in remote areas where grid access is limited or unreliable. 
  • Generating your own electricity provides energy independence. You will be less vulnerable to power outages or price fluctuations in the electricity market. This can give you a greater sense of empowerment and control over your life.
  • Our off grid generator will be more cost effective than relying on grid power, especially in areas with high electricity prices or where extending the grid infrastructure is expensive.
  • Using our off grid generator will benefit the environment by producing lower emissions than traditional grid power sources.
  • Our portable or static off grid generator can be used in a variety of applications, from powering an off grid vehicle to providing electrical power for a home or business.
  • Our off grid generators can be designed to meet your specific energy needs, whether you need a small generator for occasional use or a larger system for constant power generation.
  • Our off grid generators can be designed with redundancy systems and backup power sources to ensure reliable operation, even in extreme conditions.
  • By generating your own power, you will improve your resilience to natural disasters, blackouts and other disruptions.

Technology Overview:

At the heart of our multi-fuel rotary engine generator is a cutting-edge rotor set, which works in tandem with a pulse jet engine. These components operate in a precisely coordinated sequence, allowing our engine to achieve exceptional RPM and efficiency levels. While we cannot disclose all the technical details of our proprietary technology, we can assure you that our system represents a significant leap forward in energy generation.

Development Stage and Roadmap:

We are currently in the advanced stages of developing our system, and with your support, we will create a fully functional proof of concept. Our development roadmap includes the following milestones:

  • Finalizing the system design (Q3 2023)
  • Building the proof of concept machine (Q3 2023)
  • Conducting extensive testing and optimization (Q4 2023)
  • Preparing for next campaign stage / mass production (Q1 2024)

Funding Goals:

Our funding goal is £30,000, which will be allocated as follows:

  • Workshop Rent & Utilities: £4,545
  • Engineering / Fabrication Costs: £10,000
  • Labour: £10,000
  • Kickstarter Fee £1,500
  • Payment Processing Fee £1,500
  • Buffer to Cover Any Miscalculations £2,455

Team:

Our team consists of experienced engineers, CAD designers, and entrepreneurs with a passion for sustainable energy solutions. Our diverse skill set and industry experience will ensure the successful development and implementation of our multi-fuel rotary engine generator.

https://www.kickstarter.com/profile/paultownley

https://www.kickstarter.com/profile/simontowell

Conclusion:

We believe that our multi-fuel rotary engine generator has the capability to revolutionize the way we generate power, leading to a more sustainable and efficient energy future. By supporting our Kickstarter campaign, you are investing not only in our innovative technology but also in a cleaner, greener world.

Join us on this exciting journey, and together, let’s power a sustainable future! Pledge your support now, and help us bring our revolutionary multi-fuel rotary engine generator to life and take back control of your energy supply!

Remember to share our campaign with your friends, family, and networks to help us reach our funding goal and make a lasting impact on the energy industry. 

Thank you for your support!

© 2018 – 2023 Nikola Tesla Research & Development Centre – All Rights Reserved

Project budget

£30,000
 
Making
£24,545
 
Taxes & Fees
£5,454
 
Multiple/Other
£0
Last updated May 10, 2023
 
This is a projected budget provided by the creator and may be subject to change.
 

Risks and challenges

We are well aware of the potential risks and challenges our project may face, including technical hurdles, regulatory compliance, and manufacturing complexities. To mitigate these risks, we have assembled a team of experienced professionals with diverse backgrounds in engineering, design, and business. Our team is committed to addressing any obstacles head-on and finding innovative solutions to ensure the successful development and launch of our multi-fuel rotary engine generator. Some specific challenges we anticipate are: Technical difficulties: As with any cutting-edge technology, we may encounter unforeseen technical challenges during the development and testing phases. We will work diligently to troubleshoot and resolve any issues that arise to maintain our project timeline.

Learn about accountability on Kickstarter

 

Environmental commitments

Visit our Environmental Resources Center to learn how Kickstarter encourages sustainable practices.

Long-lasting design

We don’t follow the corporate planned obsolescence path. Our designs are aiming towards products that last a lifetime, are modular, require no lubricating oil and little to no servicing. Any rotors will be dynamically balanced to a very high tolerance which will ensure no vibration. Unwanted vibration is the killer of mechanical machines.

Reusability and recyclability

All the materials that will be used are recyclable. We have a minimalistic design approach to ensure less material waste.

Environmentally friendly factories

We work with trusted engineering companies with a proven track record, who manufacture high quality components.

Kickstarter website
https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/paultownley/revolution-a-multi-fuel-rotary-engine-generator?fbclid=IwAR007uzNzjPJBB1i5T6MwBgG7rrTmXcDiKSdg7eKpgjTJfPFMk0qpiO4JH4

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burying

magnitude 7.8
dead nerves piling up
beneath the rubble
my shaking quandary
disposes hundreds
trapped in hundreds
below the aftershocks
i cannot recall
the damage of it all
nor begin to relay
the damage to a nation
swift in mourning
& hell’s damnation
no words reverse
from an angry god
whose senseless burst
neurons detect
the hurling out of
whatever’s next.

Clive Gresswell

 

.

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Swedish Mystery on a Stormy Night


 
                “Death is very popular in Sweden.”
                                Tomas Transtromer answering a question
                                during a 1988 reading in Tucson
 
There’s fog across the train yards.
The golden lights of bedtime
glow beside a canal. While a cold case smoulders
in the archives a girl is found face down
on a grassy patch that breathes for the city.
It feels voyeuristic to watch the detective drink
away his private life as the call comes in
for him to start work. Ignition. He’s driving
through the dark. Paces around the body while
he turns the shade of the moon.
Low pressure on screen
and a plot becoming difficult
to follow through all
the flashbacks and twists while the soundtrack outside
blows rain and self doubt
against the window. Insecurity never asks
to be let in; it breaks down
the door and settles on the sofa
between fact and fiction. Here and now begins
to feel like Stockholm on a blood-stained night.
Murder as entertainment. A tangle
of loose ends. It becomes painful to watch
the detective’s indecision. He has
a knife-blade in his soul
and appears inadequate
in the task of bringing equilibrium back
to the world. The storm blunders through the neighborhood
turning over every leaf
and tipping trash bins
to look for the truth. It’s no use: the sky
is shaking. The perpetrator’s on the run and can’t decide
which way to turn. Say goodnight
to the mirror with no face.
 

 

 

 

David Chorlton

 

 

.

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Extinction Rebellion’s The Big One Part 2 – What Next?

Thousands marched to the Home Office: “Climate Justice is Migrant Justice”: pink origami boats for MPs and Home Secretary Suella Braverman, 23rd April 2023[i]

 

The route to Parliament Square on Sunday, the third day of The Big One, was fraught with delays. Forget the *%$+£^g London Marathon! was my working title, not because in Greenwich I got stuck on the wrong side of it, but rather because, despite heavy drizzle and worse, as far out as Woolwich, spectators lined both sides of the course two or three deep. What a pity that all those people, after an hour or two of cheering for their friends – I’ve nothing against that – couldn’t move on to do something we all need far more desperately! With that amount of support for the environment and our common future, a better direction might have been forced upon our lickspittle cabinet in the very limited time available[ii]. Wake up and cut their strings!

Outside the Home Office in Marsham Street, 23rd April 2023

Several people I spoke to over the four days of The Big One, charitably believe that it is grief which prevents people taking action: that resignation has taken over, or that grieving for the gradual death of the Earth, they are in denial. Others, that the understandable fear of being arrested is a major deterrent to participation – a fear that, as intended, has been increased by the undemocratic powers enshrined in the Policing[iii] and the Public Order[iv] Bills. These bills have little concern for law and order – in fact their introduction is inciting the very reverse. They are purely about officious state control[v].

A protest[vi]supporting the Hong Kong 47[vii] under Waterloo Bridge, 23rd April. With the advent of the Policing Bill, is the democratic situation in disastrously Brexited Britain[viii] set to follow such examples?

 

But as well as grief and fear, our widespread complacency, I believe, largely arises from a combination of lack of awareness, of misinformation and of distraction . . . and yes, it’s that old cracked record I’ve been playing since I was 13: if religion was supposed to be the opium of the people, then consumer materialism with all its affiliated gifts and entertainments (rubbish films and television, spectator sport, cheap flights abroad – to give just a few examples) are its hallucinogen. In short, we have been cushioned into silence. Even in the current social crisis, rather than take action, the human tendency is to fall back on distraction.

The Marathon arrives in Parliament Square and XR keeps its promise, 23rd April 2023


XR promised (and stuck to their assurance) that the Marathon would not be disrupted and XR newsletters and updates urged us to give the runners – many of whom were running in support of environmental causes – our full support as they passed. As an ex cross-country runner myself – albeit one who identified with Tom Courtenay in The Loneliness of the Long-distance Runner[ix] – I can see the joy or challenge of running itself . . . at least through the countryside on your own. But long-distance running as a spectator sport? The London Marathon has clearly become another of those traditional national distractions, which like assorted ‘royal’ events[x], have become more an excuse for a party than anything else. And perhaps, as we likely enter the last days of human society – and certainly the death of the careless myth of progress – consciously or subconsciously, perhaps distractions are all that many can face?

Funeral for the myth of progress, 4 minutes to 5, 24th April 2023


At London Bridge, no longer able to bear the crush of extra passengers literally jammed into the train, I thankfully broke out onto the platform and struggling through the crowded platforms and concourse was eventually relieved to be back in the rain. It was obviously going to be better to walk to Parliament Square along the south bank.

The second Anti Fossil Fuel March crosses Waterloo Bridge – towards where tourism used to end, back in the 70s . . .  24th April 2023

 

Back in the mid-1980s, long before the new Globe Theatre (or Shakespeare’s Globe)[xi] opened, Southwark cathedral used to be a very quiet backwater. Borough market also was a real – if possibly declining – place. At certain points between these areas and the National Theatre, there was no river access, no almost continuous riverside path. Basically, tourism ended just east of Waterloo Bridge with small enclaves for The Tower of London and Tower Bridge and the very isolated HMS Belfast. Further back in the mid-70s, this area still had an air of wartime bomb damage and many of the warehouses were abandoned. Who could have foreseen the crowds of tourists and weekenders ramming through 50 years later – warehouses poshed into swish shops, eating parlours or luxury apartments?

“Extinction Beckons” – as a result of consumerism, obviously. Appropriate billboard glimpsed from the Fossil Fuel March as we crossed Waterloo Bridge on the 24th April 2023

 

Not far from Southwark, following the riverside path, a rumble of percussion could be heard gradually building. At first, I assumed it was on the north bank of the river, part of the route of the Marathon, but rather from across the Thames it came from ahead, rapidly becoming distinct – an exhilarating battering ram for use against a corrupt establishment: 

XR drummers from around the country drumming on one of the Thames tidal beaches, 23rd April 2023

 

For a while in the rain, I sat alongside the band with its changing players and conductor[xii], down on the beach as the tide came in. Then we headed off in groups towards Westminster Bridge. I talked to a group from Nottingham and other individuals from Cardiff, Norwich, Bristol and of course, London itself. I had assumed the band all knew each other, but many had only just met. Back beyond Parliament Square in Abingdon Street another workshop demonstrating Citizen’s Assemblies, which I’d explored the previous day, was winding down towards the start of the march to the Home Office to demand justice rather than persecution, for refugees and migrants. The densely-packed march, ended with an emotive rally below the raised shallow moat which fronts the government building, giving amongst others, an Algerian refugee the opportunity to share his feelings about a nightmare journey in a small boat. Shouldn’t trying to seek happiness be a human right? he implored.

Outside the Home Office, 23rd April 2023

After a long walk across Central and South East London, I caught a train to Woolwich and walking uphill was taking a photograph of Plumstead Radical Club when a very friendly man invited me in, despite that he had to pay £2 to register me as a guest. These days it is a social club and probably quite reactionary – though nobody complained about my badges, XR symbols and general get-up, so I could be wrong. Its cosy time-warp interior and welcoming family atmosphere certainly provided a very atmospheric end to the day . . .

Inside Plumstead Radical Club – here almost like a cosy railway carriage, 23rd April 2023

My granddaughters outside the Plumstead Radical Club on Monday the 24th April,with their own placards and ready for marching

 

Monday began with me wrapping duct tape around my disintegrating left boot. Amazingly, this still holds. After protesting all the way downhill to Plumstead station with few spectators to speak of – “Don’t let the world die!” – and on the train to London Bridge – “My Future is in Your Hands” – followed by the Underground to Westminster – “We Will Become Extinct, The Dinosaurs Did!” – my three granddaughters were still not lacking energy. Westminster Underground[xiii] with its Brutalist, totalitarian, inner style – let the bones show, no façade – was a welcome relief to a claustrophobic . . . all that S P A C E.  Yet there are undertones of Orwell’s 1984 in the place, very appropriate in proximity to the hypocrisy and wilful blindness of Westminster – as double-spoken by forked tongue, nit-brained, Tory world-scalpers, liars and criminals.

“My Future is in Your Hands” “We Will Become Extinct, The Dinosaurs Did!”, 24th April 2023

24th April 2023

 

Emerging from the station to be immediately swept into an unforeseen protest and the energy of a hammering, street band beat, felt through the pavement – an anti-fossil fuel precursor to the bigger afternoon version – was exhilarating. This morning route was short but very sweet, and being almost directly behind the band, my two elder granddaughters went into manic dancing patterns, waving their flag and placard respectively, occasionally joined by their more observational younger sister. Excelling themselves inventively, they had an enlivening effect on the crowd around them, being treated with delight – even rapture – despite the danger caused by their jabbing signs. Many asked if it was OK to take their photograph. It was of course. An XR journalist was keen to interview them along with my daughter-in-law, about the “impact of the day so far.”  A couple of hours later this might’ve worked, but at the time they were far too involved in the protest.

Houses of Parliament, 24th April 2023


Marching up Whitehall . . .

 

That afternoon’s Anti Fossil Fuel march was probably the climactic one in terms of buzzing energy. There was more anger here than elegy – if it is possible to judge a half-mile long procession from the one section you are in. As with all demonstrations, it makes such a difference depending on where you are in the column. 

 

. . . to Trafalgar Square . . .

 

 . . . and The Strand.  24th April 2023

 

My section of the march for the latter part of the distance, was comprised mostly of younger people from 16 to 18 up into their twenties – very friendly, yet justifiably filled with rage. Of all the marches, this one followed the best, most populous route, a route with plenty of engaged and cheering bystanders: up Whitehall to Trafalgar Square, then past Charing Cross along the Strand to cross Waterloo Bridge, around the IMAX cinema, past planet destroying Shell’s[xiv] global headquarters and into the Jubilee Gardens by the London Eye.

Near Charing Cross, 24th April 2023


The Strand, 24th April 2023

What Next?

4 years ago, the UK Parliament declared a climate emergency… then did nothing.

Together, we did something. We got organised. We created an unprecedented     coalition working across divides and differences. Tens of thousands of people joined The Big One. And for four days, we picketed and marched and rallied.

We gave the Government until 5pm on the fourth day of The Big One to respond to us. They didn’t.

Tens of thousands of people sharing a single concern, gathering together peacefully,  not a single law broken – and they didn’t even acknowledge us.

We can’t wait another 4 years or 4 days. The time is now. Choose your future:

  1. Picket | 2. Organise Locally | 3. Disobey

 

So begins the statement which appeared on Extinction Rebellion’s Global Website[xv] a few days after The Big One, by which time both XR and Just Stop Oil had a multitude of actions planned. In fact, on Saturday May 13, I joined a Just Stop Oil slow march which temporarily brought traffic to a near standstill on Lancaster city centre’s one-way system. Naturally this creates a lot of ire, some of which is selfish and half-witted, some, more justified. Nobody likes being stuck in a traffic jam and the extra traffic fumes and waste of fuel are not good. So, considering that nobody carrying out these confrontational actions – potentially dangerous to themselves – is happy about having to do it, what is the point?

 The Strand, 24th April 2023


Firstly, as has just been illustrated by governmental silence and an almost total lack of media interest regarding The Big One, it seems that only actions create publicity[xvi]. While the media crave violence and confrontation for ratings and drama, the government simply wish demonstrators would go away – leaving them to pillage and prioritise their rich pals and paymasters in secret. Yet can this whole corrupt elite, really be stupid enough to believe that with profits made from destroying the Earth, they can isolate themselves in some fantasy bubble or luxury security compound indefinitely?

Waterloo Bridge Road, London, 24th April 2023

At present, the other chief reason for protest – one that everyone, without exception, should be standing up to support – is the very right to protest itself. Democracy in England is already tenuous enough with its outdated first-past-the-post voting system[xvii] and increasing rich-poor divide. Clearly the underlying aim of the Policing[xviii] and the Public Order[xix] Bills is to protect this status quo, to fortify the rift between the haves and the have-nots. Unfortunately, all too many of the have-nots, like loyal dogs, still identify with their owners.

Waterloo Bridge, London, 24th April 2023

Waterloo Bridge, London, 24th April 2023


In Lancaster on May the 13th, we gave way to an ambulance, a police riot van, (which looked at first as though it was there to take us all away), and two buses, but obviously had to re-block the road fast while walking backwards. I didn’t realise we would be blocking both carriageways of the one-way system as other city marches confine themselves to one lane. The two police liaison officers with us were very thoughtful, which was fortunate as several cars tried to get past us by mounting the pavement or revving, surging forward and tooting aggressively. A mere 17 or 18 of us holding them back, felt like too few[xx].

Waterloo Bridge, London, 24th April 2023


Climate change allied with the current social crisis you’d think, could and should form a consensus issue strong enough to force system change. Yet as was obvious in Lancaster on Saturday 13th May, with the engine-revving morons in 4-wheel drives and SUVs, plus other knee-jerks strolling the streets, all too many people just “don’t give a stuff” – as one particularly gormless man openly declared. It’s sunny, we have our shiny cars and new haircuts . . . all’s well with the world[xxi]They obviously haven’t heard or understood the IPCC’s[xxii] final warning that if we don’t take drastic action on the climate crisis now, it will be too late[xxiii].



What Next: The Lancaster slow march, 13th May 2023    (image, Just Stop Oil)


It is the mindless, grasping attitude of the neoliberal privileged elites which has forced us into slow marches and other actions. Those accused of disruption have no other option, no choice but to keep the issue of environmental collapse in constant view, nationally and locally. The government and global corporations and their trickle-down[xxiv] influence on the super-rich[xxv] are the root cause. That is the message everyone must learn if we are to survive. Which side are you on?[xxvi] Most of those inconvenienced by actions just haven’t realised which side they need to be on, nor how clearly destructive our consumerist attitude has become. Such aspirational “getting on” cannot (mistakenly) be seen as it was in the 50s and 60s, as ‘improving’ any longer. And no matter how big and shiny your car is (or how sharp your haircut), the other side will not let you join!

What Next: Slow march in Lancaster, 13th May 2023 – the road clear ahead. Holding the back banner, I could only grab this photo over my shoulder


Unfortunately, unlike briefly in the Lancaster photo above, the road ahead is not clear . . . and my personal impressions of the last five years are very mixed. The pre-covid London Rebellion of 2019[xxvii] lasted much longer, but was it bigger? I have no intention of analysing statistics on this, being wary of the quote attributed to Disraeli about “lies, damned lies and statistics”[xxviii] and well aware that everyone is inclined to believe the statistics which suit them best[xxix]. I only know that although I was at The London Rebellion of 2019 for about the same amount of time as this year’s The Big One, the news coverage in 2019, of an event based around unexpected actions, was vast by comparison. Long after I’d returned home, I kept hearing reverberations from 300 miles away. This is not a criticism of The Big One, the non-disruptive approach was worth trying and perhaps, alternating more family-based, everyone-welcome, non-disruptive events, with civil disobedience would form a good double-pronged offensive? Otherwise, the dilemma of choosing which way to go is clearly illustrated by the photograph below. News itself may not be important, but raising and maintaining public awareness and understanding is.

Rebel scientists state the tactical quandary facing XR UK.  Image from XR’s Global Newsletter 76.

 Waterloo Bridge Road, London, 24th April 2023


Just yesterday I overheard a ‘normal’ middle-aged person (he justified his comments thus: “I’m no activist, I’d rather be at home tending the roses”) on the bus to Morecambe telling a friend, how obvious it was now that all branches of the media “are suppressing news about serious weather events abroad”. No wonder the obliviously disenfranchised in Lancaster can believe in a nice sunny day!

 

IMAX roundabout, London, 24th April 2023


What still annoys me intensely about the whole covid era, despite the tragedy of it for so many, was that partying governments found the will to persuade or order everybody to stop their lives and yet have little or no inclination to act upon the infinitely greater dangers of climate change, simply by encouraging a slowing down. Within a few days of the first lockdown the positive effects on the environment were startling. Later on, as the period of lockdowns came towards an end, there was such a consensus for a better world when covid was over (or when governments decided it was over), yet it was obvious to me, that the power of global corporations and the temptation of acquisition in humanity, would be too strong for this new leaf to last.

Best flyer of all?  “We pay 1.7 million in subsidies every day to burn trees while the support for onshore wind and solar has been slashed . . .” [xxx]


The way in which covid temporarily killed the momentum of environmental action will also likely prove fatal to us in the long run, far more fatal than covid itself – which is why it is easy to see why those who go for conspiracy theories view the pandemic as part of a conspiracy. It was certainly very handy for our ever-derisory government, getting them off the hook just when they might easily have been dispensed with. Why could we all be bothered to make so much effort for something of infinitely less significance than climate change?

Waterloo Road, 24thApril 2023

York Road, 24thApril 2023

 

From my inevitably limited impressions of last month, many people – especially middle-aged and upwards, feel there is no chance of changing things fast enough now, but that we still have to try. The younger generation appeared more optimistic. How could they cope otherwise? Several older people said to me they were glad to be old and felt lucky (or guilty) to have lived most of their lives in a period of relative stability – to live in that post war period in which we could still believe the myth of progress and rising living standards for all.

 


Passing Shell’s global headquarters[xxxi] 24thApril 202324thApril 2023

24thApril 2023

But in the cheerful crowd at the end, underneath Big Ben, there were people both older and younger than me who were filled with optimism. Nearby, one of the bands raised the morale of anyone flagging – against the rain as well as the end of the four-day peaceful rebellion. Spontaneously drawn into conversation with a man I’d guess was a decade older than me as well as student Ally from Brighton, the latter raised my morale still further: “Wow man! I compliment you on the grandchildren – you don’t look a day over 30!” (I had a hat on and she must have had a lot of rain in her eyes) “That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me all week,” was my reply as I got ready to leave for the walk to Euston in the gathering dusk.

24thApril 2023

24thApril 2023

 

Much later that evening, crossing Lancaster with the XR flag held high in the dark, three teenagers hailed me from across Market Street: “What’s that symbol?” “Extinction Rebellion!” I shouted back. All three punched the air with upraised fists “EXTINCTION REBELLION” they chorused.

We Will Not Be Bystanders, 24th April 2023

 

Just as I reached the end of this report feeling depressed that in almost four years since The London Rebellion, nothing has changed – four years since the UK declared a Climate Emergency[xxxii] and nothing been done – I had an uplifting email from a friend in Just Stop Oil “our northern teams are out on the road in London NOW! looking amazing and purposeful”. These teams are having an impact at three different locations in London, and being cheered from the roadside. They will be marching every week as an indefinite act of civil resistance. The next week for the northern teams is the week commencing July 2nd. Every single person matters!

What next: Slow march in London, 22nd May 2023 (image, Just Stop Oil)

 

Forget your inconvenience! If Just Stop Oil and Extinction Rebellion can’t force change, we are all doomed. Get behind them now! juststopoil.org/get-involved/

 

© Lawrence Freiesleben,

London and Morecambe, April-May 2023

[email protected]

                       

NOTES – accessed up to May the 24th 2023

[i]       extinctionrebellion.uk/2023/04/23/day-3-running-out-of-time-the-big-one-continues

[ii]     So little time now, that this government needs to be got rid of as soon as possible – not difficult, if all their opponents could forget their other distractions awhile and join together.

[iii]     libertyhumanrights.org.uk/issue/the-policing-bill-what-happened-and-what-now/

[iv]     gov.uk/government/publications/public-order-bill-overarching-documents/public-order-bill-factsheet

[v]     theguardian.com/commentisfree/2021/aug/09/police-bill-not-law-order-state-control-erosion-freedom

[vi]      hongkongwatch.org/pol-prisoners

       hongkongfp.com/hong-kongs-47-democrats-national-security-trial/

[vii]     theguardian.com/world/2023/feb/04/hong-kong-47-trial-of-dozens-in-pro-democracy-movement-set-to-begin-under-national-security-laws

[viii]     foreignpolicy.com/2023/02/01/brexit-britain-recession-economy/#

[ix]      imdb.com/title/tt0056194/ – though I was never in a reform school myself!

[x]       internationaltimes.it/in-her-kingdom-by-the-sea-part-5-the-platinum-jubilee-distraction/

[xi]       shakespearesglobe.com/discover/about-us/globe-theatre/#

[xii]      Sambista? Or have these bands with their clear political focus, moved too far from Samba to come under that title?

[xiii]      waltoncreative.com/portfolio-item/london-westminster-underground-tube-station/#

[xiv]     bbc.co.uk/news/business-65609795

[xv]     extinctionrebellion.uk/the%20big-one/what-next/

[xvi]    Chris Price, a friend of mine who also took part in the Lancaster Just Stop Oil slow march mentioned in this report, pointed out the following regarding non-disruptive protests versus actions:

 “Firstly, we are now in an era where the media are in lock step with the government, so if the government don’t want it being profiled, the press oblige.

 Secondly, if the government don’t acknowledge it, they don’t have to answer any of the              questions raised. This doesn’t quite look like the dystopia Orwell described but it has all the            trademarks.

Thirdly, disruption forces the government to comment. It still doesn’t address the questions but it cannot avoid the consequences of the activists’ actions.”

[xvii]   makevotesmatter.org.uk/first-past-the-post  Voter ID added to the essential unfairness of first past the post. “In a startling admission Jacob Rees-Mogg – who until recently was a government minister defending this policy – shared his views on what he thought Voter ID was meant to achieve versus his concerns at what actually happened”: youtube.com/watch?v=BWjJkzig35I&ab_channel=ElectoralReformSociety

[xviii]    greenpeace.org.uk/news/why-you-should-be-worried-about-the-new-policing-bill/

[xix]    Ibid: gov.uk/government/publications/public-order-bill-overarching-documents/public-order-bill-factsheet

[xx]    Cycling back from Dalton Square with this badly lettered placard protruding from my backpack: generated a few horn blasts, some blaring, others cheerful – with once a thumbs up. A red light halted me near the open door to a pub where some tough-looking types were hanging about. To my amazement they cheered, inviting me in for a “Just Stop Oil party”. Not sure if this was a wind-up, a ploy to get me off the street for unfriendly purposes or entirely genuine, but as I was running late, the situation was avoided for good or ill . . .


[xxi]    It’s hard to believe that anyone either supports or is tacitly prepared to put up with the current government – until you carry out an action like the Just Stop Oil slow march on Saturday 13th May and realise just how unthinking, ignorant or misinformed much of the electorate is. Coming from a working class council estate myself, working class Tory voters have always been one of my bête noirs, but to attack such people (whose situation is hardly of their own making in a world of little opportunity where most of the underclass is drip-fed a diet of right-wing tabloid trash) has always felt like class betrayal – despite that it is they who are betraying themselves. . .

[xxii]     Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change  see: ipcc.ch/

[xxiii]    theguardian.com/environment/2023/mar/20/ipcc-climate-crisis-report-delivers-final-warning-on-15c?link

[xxiv]    en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trickle-down_economics

[xxv]     fairnessfoundation.com/national-wealth-surplus?link_

[xxvi]     en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Which_Side_Are_You_On%3F

Personally, my favourite version is Billy Bragg’s: youtube.com/watch?v=vbddqXib814&ab_channel=dprkspacemarine

[xxvii]      internationaltimes.it/the-london-rebellion-digression/

[xxviii]     york.ac.uk/depts/maths/histstat/lies.htm

[xxix]     en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Expectation_confirmation_theory

[xxx]     biofuelwatch.org.uk/

[xxxi]     en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shell_Centre

[xxxii]    en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Climate_emergency_declarations_in_the_United_Kingdom#

 

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Pete Brown

Pete Brown, a cult figure on the British poetry and music scene, has died, aged 82, after a courageous battle with cancer. He’s perhaps best-known for the lyrics he wrote for Cream, but he was also a leading poet and performer in his own right.

Brown’s parents were Jewish immigrants. His father changed his name to Brown to avoid anti-semitism. Driven out of London by the Blitz, the couple settled in Surrey. Brown was born there on Christmas Day, 1940. When he was 11, his parents moved back to London, where he was sent to a traditional Jewish school. He had a difficult time there and the experience left him with a negative view of religion in general. As he recounted in his memoir, White Rooms and Imaginary Westerns, ‘At that point I was a fully-fledged anarchist in so many ways. In so many ways I hated authority. There was a few of us at that school that kind of gravitated to each other. We were the outsiders.’ He started reading poetry (at first, Dylan Thomas and Gerard Manley Hopkins, later, the Beats) and, when he was 14, had his poetry published for the first time, in a US poetry journal.

Brown’s career as a poet began in the late 1950s. He soon found himself taking part in live poetry and jazz events with Michael Horovitz. He was one of the British poets who read at the landmark 1965 International Poetry Incarnation at the Albert Hall, alongside Ferlinghetti, Corso and Ginsberg. He also, around that time, formed a band, the First Real Poetry Band, in which he recited and improvised poetry to jazz. The jazz scene brought him into contact with Ginger Baker and Jack Bruce, who were, at that time, putting together the band that became Cream. He wanted to write some lyrics for them and went on to form a long-lasting songwriting relationship with Bruce. Together, they wrote several Cream hits, among the best known being ‘White Room’ and ‘Sunshine of Your Love’.

When Cream broke up in 1968, Brown continued to work with Bruce, writing many of the lyrics for Bruce’s solo albums. He also formed a band of his own, Pete Brown and His Battered Ornaments. He found himself not only writing the lyrics but having to sing them. The first album they made, A Meal You Can Shake Hands With In the Dark (1969), is arguably one of the high-points in Brown’s career. Sadly, the band he’d formed went on to sack him on the grounds that they wanted a better singer. Listening to the band now, one has to wish they hadn’t. The amalgam of psychedelic jazz, folk and blues they’d come up with was quite unique. Combined with Brown’s voice (yes, voice) and lyrics, the result was, in many ways, years ahead of its time.

Brown then formed a new band, Piblokto! (the Inuit word for Arctic Hysteria). The jazz and blues elements were still there, but the sound was more rock-based than the Battered Ornaments. It went on to produce two albums. The first of these, Things May Come and Things May Go But the Art School Dance Goes On Forever (1970), met with considerable critical success. When Piblokto! broke up in 1971, he continued to be involved in a number of other musical projects. In 1973, he put out a mainly spoken-word album of himself reciting his poetry, The Not Forgotten Association.

Brown backed off from the music scene for a while in 1977 with the rise of punk, which is a shame, in a way. He was very scathing about punk. In this, I think, he was wrong: reading what he had to say about it, it’s easy to imagine poetry traditionalists talking in a similar way about the poetry he himself was writing in the 1960s. I can see there was a clash of sensibilities, but there was a raw energy to much of his poetry which was not a million miles away from the world of punk and the cultural changes that grew out of it. Fifteen of Brown’s poems found their way into Michael Horovitz’ 1969 anthology, Children of Albion: Poetry of the Underground in Britain. The spoof ad in one of these poems, ‘Slam (for Spike Hawkins)’, could’ve come straight out of an Alexei Sayle set:

RENT A CHOCOLATE BISCUIT
FOR ONLY £30 A DAY,
THEYRE SLIMY AND COMFORTABLE!

In the late seventies, Brown turned his attention to script-writing. He achieved some success in this, writing the screenplay for Felix the Cat: The Movie. He also co-wrote material for the Rolling Stones video, Rewind. Musically, he continued to collaborate with Jack Bruce and got back together with Phil Ryan, a former member of the Welsh band, Man, who Brown had performed with in Piblokto! (Brown had also put some percussion on a couple of Man albums). Brown and Ryan worked together up until Ryan’s death in 2015, issuing four albums: Ardours Of The Lost Rake, Coals To Jerusalem, Road of Cobras and Perils of Wisdom. They were great friends as well as collaborators. They were both on the left and many of their songs had a political edge to them.  During that time, they co-managed two bands, first the Interoceters and, later, Psoulchedelia, to record and perform their work.

A lot of the work Brown did with Ryan has a soul/blues feel to it. (Listening to it, one is often reminded of something Brown said, that 85% of the musicians he liked were black). It’s easy to find oneself listening to Brown’s work over time, looking for some development of music style, when, in fact, what Brown was about was writing lyrics. He worked hard at his singing but it was always about the words and the collaborations he forged with musicians were always about the song-writing chemistry. The sound, the style, was an end product. That said, jazz (or, at the very least, blues) always had to be in there somewhere. How did he go about it? When he was working with Bruce, he generally produced words to fit the music, with Bruce throwing in the odd line or word. The result could be surreal and psychedelic or sometimes direct, as in ‘Politician’, written in response to the Profumo scandal:

 

Hey now baby, get into my big black car.
Hey now baby, get into my big black car.
I want to just show you what my politics are.

I’m a political man and I practice what I preach.
I’m a political man and I practice what I preach.
So don’t deny me baby, not while you’re in my reach.

I support the left, though I’m leaning, leaning to the right.
I support the left, though I’m leaning to the right.
But I’m just not there when it’s coming to a fight.

 

Brown recorded this song himself, with the Battered Ornaments. It might’ve been about the Profumo scandal, but it’s impossible not to listen to it without thinking of Westminster politicians today.

As the press release issued on his death states, Brown ‘lived the life of a warrior poet. He was proudly anti-establishment, and dedicated his life to his creative endeavours, in an uncompromising way’.  He was involved in so many projects in the course of his working life, it’s impossible to mention them all. Some were very successful, others less so (he was always keen to give things a go to see where they led). In 2010, he wrote a memoir, White Rooms and Imaginary Westerns and in 2016, he brought out a collection of poetry, Mundane Tuesday and Freudian Saturday, his first since 1968.

Brown kept working to the end, co-writing a song for Joe Bonamassa’s recent album Royal Tea and with John Donaldson on their new album, Shadow Club. Earlier this year, talking to his biographer, Marc Shapiro, he said: ‘It’s been a busy year. So long as we can all stay alive that’s the main thing. I’m still here and I still have much to say.’ It’s a tragedy that he never got to say it but, I think, for a man with a creative drive like Brown’s, that never dimmed, never slowed down and which was forever adapting to circumstances, it was always going to end like that.

Pete Brown is survived by his wife Sheridan, his daughter, the writer and singer Jessica Walker and his musician and restaurateur son, Tad.

 

 

 

Dominic Rivron

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Accidental Movements

Words are spilling, flipping onto the floor, bouncing around while the light pours in unchecked, someone hit the sun today, cracked the plasma without thinking about what could happen. Words are spilling, tumbling along the floor, following the pattern of the tiles, removing grass stains and mud, but you haven’t heard them, have you? They don’t make any sound, they have lost their extensions, lost their core, shifting and spilling on the once grassy, muddy floor.

 

Andrea Moorhead

 

 

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the man and the boy and the fish

 

the man holds a fish
and this small boy

swims on a floor
in a sea of purulence /

the man does not
see or hear the fish

speaking; he cannot feel
how it flapped and gasped /

the boy can only hear
his breathing as it

struggles in the cold
and hard waves lapping

like a pummelling, like
a punishment /
 
the fish is empty inside
and this boy survives /

the man still holds his
dead fish, but doesn’t

look it in the eye / he did
not understand anything

 

 

 

Mike Ferguson

 

 

 

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Template for a Transformation of Human Society

 

There are many thousands of groups that have formed themselves around the need to stand against the globalist attack on life on earth. There are thousands more presenting alternative vision/suggestions for a better future. And there are a small number who are doing both; declaring that one must commit to stopping the worst while simultaneously nurturing into life a new template for human and ecological emancipation.

It is the latter action which I subscribe to, because it strikes me that we have no choice other than to fight-off the most immediate threats to our fundamental life values; yet equally have no choice other than to recognise the obvious shortcomings of the day to day way of life that constitutes the accepted norm of most post industrial societies today.

Given this state of affairs, one finds oneself committed to taking a deeper look into both the causal factors behind the degradation of human values and what will form the key ingredients of a new society. That which emerges out of the darkness and leads the way beyond repetitions of the divisive trends destroying humanity’s integrity.

Quite recently I came across the term ‘Truth Movement’ and discovered that it stands for a broadly connected body of individuals all having a similar goal: the defeat of the globalists. This seemed to hark back to the term ‘truthers’ as applied to those ready to expose the 9/11 fraud.

What, I asked myself, would this ‘Truth Movement’ do if it were to actually succeed in fulfilling its ambition?

What would ensure that such a movement did not implode once faced by the responsibility for building a future purged of the ‘rotten apple’ factors that so often bring-down otherwise promising movements and visions?

By ‘rotten apple’ factor, I mean the tendency for jealousy, excessive ego, lack of importance given to trust, power complexes, political ambition and – I would add – the group psychology of demanding ‘consensus’ in decision making, thereby pulling down individual aspirations and ending-up with abdication to the lowest common denominator as the only way ‘to keep the peace’.

Within socio-economic structures which largely reject the notion of ‘leadership by the wise’, a palpable void opens-up when important/controversial decisions have to be taken which require more than a superficial five sense appraisal of the way forward.

When our Truth Movement is confronted by the need to decide the composition of ‘the new template for the new society’ it is to usher into reality, many different convictions are likely to be put forward.

For example: an end to racial discrimination; the common ownership of land; the dissolution of the banking industry and widespread redistribution of wealth; no more ‘government’; the rise of ‘rule by the people’; free green energy for all; organic food and farming being adopted as the prime means of food production.

So as to bring the dilemma presented by this situation to life in a ‘real time’ way, I’m going to paint my envisioned picture of how events might unfold.

As ideas pour in, a committee is established to find a pragmatic way to turn these ideals into political reality. A reality which reflects the broad banner heading ‘Truth Movement’, whose idealistic rhetoric has finally garnered enough support to overcome the long dominant globalist control system.

On this committee are the leading proponents of the various ideals deemed most essential for laying the foundation of the promised New Society.

However, the daunting task of turning this pool of individual potential into a unified body of pragmatic ground-breakers, leads to the realisation that some critically important ingredients have been neglected. Internal frictions start to come to the surface causing fractures in the once seeming unity.

Disagreements eventually come to a head and in a highly revealing and heated exchange, it emerges that the deeper significance of the word ‘truth’ has never been explored or even debated. Never understood as primarily a spiritual value, an inner commitment to the evolution of higher values, not just to outer changes in the functioning of society.

In an attempt to prevent the situation deteriorating into chaos, a respected analyst is brought to the table to put a few fundamental questions to the committee leaders:

How aligned are you in your personal lives with what you call upon others to do in order to solve the crisis in values you see around you?

How truthful are you to yourselves and to others, if you don’t consider it important to lead by example – but nevertheless expect others to live the changes you claim must be brought-about?

How committed are you to raising your own levels of consciousness? To gaining a higher level of awareness concerning your own ambitions and shortcomings?

Are you actually committed to ‘a path of truth’ in your own lives? To following disciplines that quieten the ego and develop your relationship with the deeper spiritual values that are, in practice, the only real expression of truth?

How determined are you not to be a hypocrite? To avoid turning-out like the very politicians you so readily condemn?

As leaders of ‘the truth movement’ can you honestly say that you are committed to uphold the highest standards of responsibility, integrity and trust in your dealings with others?

What specific qualities are necessary in order to lead your supporters wisely, honestly and effectively?

Faced by this penetrating examination, the room became strangely quiet.

Being asked to address an inner commitment to truth, as opposed to its relatively surface oriented outer manifestation, has led to the need for a traumatic reappraisal of ‘the order of values’. And has called for a new level of consciousness to be put at the very top of the agenda of what is most essential for the building of the new society.

I tell this tale so as to highlight the task which stands in front of all of us, as ‘activists’ and campaigners for a better world. For should the neo-liberal control system collapse or even be finally defeated, we will find ourselves at the forefront of a global situation in which the great majority are subjected to an uncharted sense of insecurity and loss of direction.

A life of slavery to task masters carries with it a kind of insurance policy of not having to deal with – or be responsible to – the wider world or one’s own inner quest for liberation.

Suddenly, or relatively suddenly, being placed in a position where the expectation of the majority is for those most vocal in exposing the wrong – to now step forward and establish ‘the right’- presents a formidable challenge.

At the centre of this challenge is a burning question which we should all be addressing now rather than waiting until the hour of need is thrust upon us.

The question centres around a very fundamental precept: is the decision making process – essential to establishing the new desired template – to be based on ‘leadership by the wise’ or by ‘group consensus’?

By a ‘committee of the wise and the good’ or by a continuation of ‘democratic representative governance’ and quasi-consensus decision making?

To put it a little more bluntly: a benign, wise dictatorship or an elected common denominator form of governance which has no base in wisdom or vision and which is very easily exploited by the power hungry?

Within the constitution of the British Isles and many other countries, there exists something called Natural Law/Common Law, which goes back a long way.

It states that there is only one indomitable law and that is the law of God. God’s law. A form of decree based upon universal truth and justice, founded upon the supreme wisdom of our Creator.

In a world overcome by rank injustice, the complete absence of truth, and no sign of wisdom, Common/Natural Law shines out as the light at the end of a very dark tunnel.

The emergence of an earthly law that reflects universal law can only be brought forward by a committee of the wise and true. Indeed, God’s laws can be described as emanating from ‘the Supreme Benign Dictator.’

At the most basic level, they are reflected in the laws of nature and the predilection for an ever expanding biodiversity of plant, animal and insect life.

At the human level, they represent the (age old) quest for truth, love and full emancipation of the soul of man. Even when individuals do not consciously know it, this is what all are longing for – and now is the time to go public about it.

We have passed the point of no return for ‘democracy’ or anything resembling it, so we may choose to call what will really open our minds and hearts: a ‘Veritocracy’.

Veritocracy from ‘veritas’ the Latin for truth. ‘Way of Truth’.

Going face to face with a cult regime based on darkness and division, demands a steadfast commitment to the opposite. Truth, as the unrestrained manifestation of the call of our souls.

This is the one force that will disintegrate the forces of darkness and disempower the globalist control system, once and for all.

It is the one force that can unite all of humanity and provide the dynamic foundation for true leadership and true trusteeship of the planet.

Let us commit now. Let us be properly prepared to lead the world beyond ruination and into rebirth.

 

Julian Rose

Julian Rose is an early pioneer of UK organic farming, a writer and international activist.
He is President of the International Coalition to Protect the Polish Countryside and author of four books, of which ‘Overcoming the Robotic Mind’ is the most recent. See www.julianrose.info

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Something Went Wrong

The fenced off estate:
     deer and land as property
wealth as a tourist destination
     and a view from the train

Who owns the mudflats
     and abandoned boats?
The seaside and
     the harbour walls?

Stop the sky going dark

Stop the world exploding

     Make the summer come

Who would holiday
     in a caravan park
or collect animal carcasses
     from the side of the road?

Stop the world starving

Stop the world going dark

     Let tomorrow come

 

   Rupert M Loydell

 

 

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Notes from a Makeshift Utopia

 

Rents being astronomical and ownership out of the question, we’re living on borrowed time, where third-rate architects and fantasists live out their impractical utopias, where picket-fence suburban idylls squat cheek-by-jowl with impractical futurist pods and other failed machines for living. We dress accordingly: there’s a lot of gingham and a lot of nylon, though some of us like to improvise, and I like to rock a Dan Dare/News From Nowhere hybrid, with tinfoil robes in a cut straight from Chaucer or Dante. I’ve a matching costume for the cat but he’s not keen. We’re living on borrowed food that we’ll somehow have to give back later, and on borrowed air that we can’t keep in our lungs. I used to have a borrowed wife, but a coach and horses came to repossess her one storm-bruised night that was borrowed from Wuthering Heights. It broke my borrowed heart, but I haven’t told the owner. You see, the thing about borrowed time is that you can never erase all traces of all those who have lived in it before. I wander gleaming skywalks above chalets and bright caravans, and I wonder who it all belongs to, who’s keeping the tally? I suspect it might be the cat.

 

 

 

Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

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Rupert M Loydell – The Age of Destruction and Lies

 
 
£12.95
In stock

Published 2023. Paperback, 104pp, 9 x 6ins, £12.95 / $18
ISBN 9781848618893 [Download a sample PDF from this book here.]

In this new book of poems Rupert Loydell writes about the world he now finds himself living in, questioning the damage caused by time, memory, lockdown, aging, politics, lies, neglect and disinformation. Whether grappling with social history, corrupt data, roadbuilding, Grenfell Tower, urban graffiti, faith and fine art, or ‘the fickleness of language’, these damaged prayers and disbelieving explorations are ‘configured for maximum twitch’. And despite the resigned conclusion that ‘we are only ever likely to have a clear backwards view’, and even though ‘it is totally absurd to expect answers that might help explain our world’, Loydell clings to the way that ‘memory is all about being able to change the past’, and notes that ‘the future is here right now’.

Rupert Loydell is the editor of Stride, a contributing editor to International Times and a Senior Lecturer at Falmouth University. He has many books of poetry in print, including Dear Mary, The Return of the Man Who Has Everything, Wildlife and Ballads of the Alone, all published by Shearsman, who also produced Encouraging Signs, a book of essays, articles and interviews. He has co-authored many collaborative works, and edited anthologies for Knives Forks & Spoons Press, Shearsman, and Salt. He also writes about post-punk music, pedagogy, poetry and film for academic journals and books.

‘At times hard-hitting, at times biting, Loydell’s poems pull beauty from the broken contexts of a rudderless society. It is poetry of rebellion and of urgency that underscores the need for poetry, art, conversation, and friendship in what is rapidly becoming an alienating, contextless world.’ —Andrea Moorhead

‘Rupert Loydell’s world is strangely beautiful, or beautifully strange, but it’s also strangely familiar. What I like about Loydell’s work is his commitment to a kind of truth, not to experience so much as to language.’ —Magma

‘Loydell explored how we navigate the world around us, seen and unseen; how we might wonder, explain, and start to understand.’ —Between

‘[…] brilliantly surreal, acutely observed and funny.’ —Ambit

https://www.shearsman.com/store/Rupert-M-Loydell-The-Age-of-Destruction-and-Lies-p542423549

Also available from:

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BROWN, THEN BLUE

(i.m Peter Ronald Brown, 25/12/1940 – 19/5/2023)

 

His words will resound for as long as there are films
And Rock music, for just as Scorsese savours
Sunshine Of Your Love in his films, so do the fans

Of Clapton, Baker, Bruce, Procol Harum, and his own
Unique oeuvre rejoice in the voicings that spumed
Words of fire from within Pete’s poem kiln.

Pete Brown was the original English Beatnik, and more,
A North London Bluesman. Psychedelicist, Progster,
And one part West Coast by the sea. He was like all

Of those bright jewish boys, who spilled out of London,
From Pinter and Wesker, to Berkoff and Kops,
Each dreamt free, and each of them shaped their own

Special corner.  Pete with his jew-fro in 1969
Could dare rooms. He told me that he learnt to sing
Later on, and crooned, after his Broken Ornaments

Shattered, before raising Piblokto! to a cultish peak
Where songs loom over all other art through what
They engender in others, and Pete’s energy and invention

Sustained and remained despite cancer’s pain.
It was only a few weeks ago he talked of the plans
He had on a phonecall, our friendship having flowered

After meeting on a Hastings bound train. Born in Surrey,
Soho was his stamping ground in the 60s. And before
That, in the 50s, in polo-neck and waistcoat,

He was part of the new poetry and with Michael
Horovitz, New Departures, defining British voices
To capture and let each line float. He sent me plays

Of his from that time; free associations on Alice,
With each moment more playful and in some ways
More charged than even Lewis Caroll’s chorale

Of disguised desire; Pete’s work was more carnal
And more open, always to art’s cards. But imagine
A man who elevated the poem and who then did

The same for the lyric practically the next year.
Starting and stirring for Cream the linguistic mix
In their menu, moving from bright blues to near metal

The White Room becoming a place to defeat each dark fear
With majestic music and words bound to both the heart
And the bedpost, and to the streets beyond, as evolution

In verses and lines became aim, and Pete always scored.
Those Thousands On a Raft sailed beside him as each word
Released oceans from which even those on dry land

Could still gain. But unlike Reid, or Sinfield, Pete became
A performer; a vanguardian using the avant-garde,
Rock and blues to conjure fresh colours from Brown,

Whether with Graham Bond, or Phil Ryan, whose death
Left Pete decimated and yet in counting the ways,
He stayed true. For as each partner passed, from Jack Bruce

To Ginger, this brightly bound Beatnik knocked on the door
Of intent; whether that was in Hollywood, or in an A&R
Office. Pete gave his time sweetly; short and adorable,

Shuffling, he was song’s soldier patrolling the poem
Parade to invent new ways to be, and fresh ground
To conquer. He was always on tour; Europe had him,

At nearly 80 years old on the stage. I saw him in ‘18
At the Cream 50th Anniversary concert, as Malcom Bruce,
Kofi Baker and Will Johns played their Uncle and Dads,

While Pete in his prime sang, singed and blazed beside them,
Restoring at once that explosion. To quote the Cream song:
‘I’m so Glad,’ Pete was the designated mourner also,

For that whole generation. A BBC Four commentator
On all manner of albums and styles. A documentarian, too
And Scrosese subject, a Go-to for the info on the high

Beyond those eight miles. He found lasting love
With his wife Sheridan and seemed to have the largest
Garden in England. His home in Hastings was both

Country seat and Sea view. Where we once talked
All night about films and politics, music, Leonora
Carrington and Viv Stanshall who he also knew

And helped: Noble Jew. Who while being born on
Christmas day was as in Jonathan Miller’s old joke,
‘Not really a jew, just jewish.’ Pete was for Palestine,

Peace and freedom, and for each life and line
His thoughts flew. So, read his books, hear the songs
And listen well to those lyrics. ‘Íts getting near dawn,’

Pete. We miss you. The colours are running. 
Its stunning, this sudden loss. Friends, fans, kids
And family kiss you, and we will always keep asking,

Where are you, Brownyboots?

Look:

                       we’re blue. 

 

  

   

                                                                   David Erdos 24/5/23

 

 

 

 

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The Dry Spell

It hasn’t been raining since it had.
I sound vague? You haven’t stared at
the spearhead of a midday road.
You haven’t tried to track rain and heard
the summer roar.

Everything set for the rain – that cup of tea,
those books and music, social media posts,
bad mood, sudden sex, uprooted sadness
that breathes on and perishes at the same time –
all hold a bowl.

No noise, tune, ting – the bowl remains
an arch of aching. It waits.
Nothing is nothingness; even a dry spell
gets wet with our sweating.
….

 

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Illustration Nick Victor

Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India

@amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
 Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/ 
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

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SINCLAIR’S SECRET SWAN

 

On Iain Sinclair’s Agents of Oblivion  (Swan River Press, 2023)

 

Iain Sinclair’s secret store can be found at source
In his stories; a semi-selective trove; buried treasure
Subject to chocolate-rich autopsies, peeled slow.

For as you prise past the taste of the slabs
Of the sweet meat he always serves, you see
Such succulence sat: prose dripped stanzas,

Sigils and signs, vision flows, as he stops to detail
These oblivion set secret agents; Algernon Blackwood,
JG Ballard, Arthur Machen, and HP Lovecraft

In his unique, sinewed style. For no-one can write
Like Iain Sinclair on this planet, and indeed,
While reading one detects an empirically alien view

And wry smile as he pinpoints light-shafts
Directed at the particular ghosts who surround him,
As these chosen heroes perform divine missions,

Cavorting for him and complicit in every dream dare
As diary, as if hallucination itself were work task.
Having set off for Peru to chase his Grandad’s expeditions,

Sinclair now swims back to London, snorkelling down
Paper rivers, where the among the supporting cast
Playing for him are Graham Greene, Moorcock, Driffield,

And even old Bill Blake through death’s mask. The return trip
Through these tales has a watery feel which seems fitting.
Dublin’s Swan River Press’s slim but strong hardback is a gift

To the eye and the hand, as it holds the delights
Of some of Sinclair’s founding forces, from his reverence
Of Roeg and Cammell’s Performance, to his own city-set

Celebrations for a time and a place where each writer
Could with the flick of the wrist create lands
Beyond all common ken, be that in Kensal Green,

Or some other stone palace; locations guarded now
By these agents whom Sinclair revives with his pen.
Blackwood begins, Sinclair follows the lure of his creation

John Silence to rip through star-fabric as he roams around
Shooters Hill, ‘unearthing’ Steve Moore, mentor and magus
To Alan, who if Blake had started in comics,

Would have had him easily equalled, if not bested still.
Sinclair is now in league and business with ghosts.
His bookseller past has been traded for love of the essence

And not just the substance therein. He is fixing his rhythm
Around the pulse and stamp of strange angels,
Such as Steve’s Artemis-Selene, his moon goddess,

Who appeared to both Moores on a sofa, straddling
Steve’s lap, child-like, naked and in line with such visions,
Clad from tip to toe in blue skin. When read again,

Sinclair’s lost London books are intrepid trawls
Through what’s living, and of what lingers, as all his reports
From Rodinsky’s room on Brick Lane, to John Clare’s Orison

And on, are now undercored by these ectoplasmic
Transfusions of people and place, duly written over
As each page sparks stark word-flame.

All of his phrases astound. Pick any page and you’ll
See them. Sinclair’s words burst like flowers,
Or have the exact same sting as a thorn,

With images stacked up like tomes in a mysterious
Westway book cellar, acting as cinema of invention,
Where Sinclair’s poetic prose is projecting on and into

The corners where both madness and myth can be born.
Books are births for Sinclair, and he has had many children.
As mid-wife and parent his potency is profound.

He can consider a point and conjure up a black-hole density
Volume. He can traipse through Beckettian bogs,
As well as Bosche-like forests, and compose

Sparked Sonatas from even the M25’s common ground.
And so Machen, his mystical antecedent breaks through
In this book’s second story.  House of Flies talks of boxes,

Pandora primed by Nick Lane, unleashing Crowley,
Jimmy Page, Stewart Lee (acknowledged Laureate
of the tin foil tray and Premier Inn), among others,

Including Stoke Newington’s Simon Toate, poet
Of the podcast, who becomes the day’s Virgil,
Leading Lee and Iain, and by inference Arthur,

From Abney Park back to Hackney in this Dante-esque
Ghost-fed game. It would seem that the Balls Pond
Road subsumes hope but at the very least grants adventure.

Sinclair as both guide and apostle is a Prospero-in-transit
Here, content to summon up sprites as he reviews
The magical island in motion upon which his work has settled.

The people he meets are wave-motion, but Sinclair is the sea.
This seems clear. ‘The scent of violets drowned in milk bottles’
Surrounds, another one of his phrases. Each tale transfigures.

At a gender fluid time, streets are Bi, changing both aspect
And shape as Sinclair treks along them. After over fifty years
Writing, he walks every word and line as thoughts fly.

For make no mistake, his books are birds.
They soar strangely, as if each carrying craft were creating
The skies and horizons to cross. Sinclair can both follow

And fly, as once more here, he is Norton. As seen
In Alan Moore and Kevin O Neill’s The Black Dossier volume,
The still on the throne London Magus, ruling by report

On time’s textures, while checking that each spell
Has it’s order as he pulls both forest and flare from kerb moss.
In London Spirit, Ballard returns, as Chief Cartographer

Charting chaos. Sinclair and Chris Petit, his comrade
In motorised charm fall instep, with all dead Jim knew
And with all he predicted; ‘beneath the elfin gardens  

of Tolkein Colonists,’ and under John Latham’s
Book towers, Sinclair’s regal visit to his past terrain
Can’t forget the pure poetics of place,

Be they in his own writing room, or the ghosted
Restaurant table, where Roeg and Ballard try to blend in,
And where on reflection it is as if Archimedes and Odin

Had stopped for sweet and sour pork, and escape.
It occurs as one reads that Angels of Oblivion is a memoir
Of things thought, done and essayed across this

And no doubt other worlds. Popular poets of the time
And of what is possible for the crowd, fall in line
With ordinary expectation. These are the performance poets

And slammers and the resistors to a book’s special sheets.
But Sinclair and co, his siblings in writing and film,
Breach such spaces to evoke centuries, even aeons

In under two hundred pages, on streets. And with every
Step and heartbeat an entire civilisation is captured,
Beyond how we are living now. And for me, this completes

And extends Iain Sinclair’s special mission. Surpassing
Shatner and akin to Kirk, his log entries have been sent
To the stars, a chased fleece. For these stories

Become odysseys, as in the last Lovecraft infused tale, 
At the Mountains of Madness. In taking Howard Phillips’
Title, Sinclair spots the point at which we all slip
Past the illusion of freedom, and recognise on re-entry
That cities are cages bound by the sigils and signs
Mentioned first. It took the eventual use

Of his freedom pass to expose that fact for us.
And so, Iain in his anec-dotage can fully unfurl flag
And curse. The writers and artists he admires,

And those with whom he walks are true poets,
Especially those unbound by verses, for poetry is prophecy.
And Sinclair and Catling and co., Kotting, Moore, Machen,

Ballard are the poets and prophets who give reason
And rhyme tenancy. They are travelling well known roads
To reveal the unknown underneath them. Oblivion’s ink

Is Time’s Tippex. We can thank the Monkee Michael
Nesmith’s Mum for all that. And yet here in this book,
A handsome, limited and thereby elusive edition,

We have a grail for the gaining; housed perhaps
In a tower hidden behind London flats. For in holding
This time-whipped tome, the book becomes

It’s own Babel, containing a High-Rise of heroes
Awaiting within, breathlessly. Dave McKean’s drawings invite,
As seen by the front cover’s branch entranched ladder,

Another of Sinclair’s bookish brothers, McKean in pen
And Ink transmutes form. As does this book, and the work
Of those featured in it; from angels and agents

To Alan, oblivion is enchanting. As with Harold Budd’s
Pavilion of Dreams, strange air shapes us. We feel
And peel for it. And in doing just that, stars are worn.

        

 

                                                                     David Erdos 22/5/23

 

http://www.swanriverpress.ie
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https://twitter.com/SwanRiverPress
https://www.instagram.com/swanriverpress

 

 

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Different soundz!!!

 

3 live bands. “Lively and diverse” suggests Alan Dearling who took the pics

Dead Raze

An impressive duo. They look good and sound even better! Formed in 2022 in Liverpool, they have been kicking up sandstorms – dark, rumbustious clouds of garage punk noise across the North-West of England. 

They describe themselves as , “…a two-piece punk/blues outfit.” Fronted by Irishman, Matthew Cawe with Ollie Fontaine on drums. Adding that, “The band takes influence from swamp blues and old school punk rock, playing slide guitar through a mudslide of distortion.”

I believe that Dead Raze have already recorded an album in Iceland, and are now gigging across the UK, and in the Czech Republic and Germany.

There are quite a few singer-guitarist/drummer duos on the go around the music circuit at the moment including the Pretenders’ James Walbourne’s ‘other’ band,  His Lordship, and from Halifax, the Hazy Janes. Dead Raze are great proponents of this genre. The Dead Raze sound, and particularly their attitude, reminded me of Dr Feelgood – rock ‘n’ roll melded onto punk. As I’ve already said, ‘Impressive’, and I gather they are very swiftly learning their stagecraft, added to which they have some powerful, edgy songs. A stonking set despite Matthew having to put one of his guitars aside with power problems. I look forward to seeing them again. Check them out…

Their latest video for ‘In the House’ is online: https://www.facebook.com/Deadraze/videos/5684734028298594

And here’s their track ‘Horrors’: https://youtu.be/HSbh2GKLRlQ

Freya Beer

Here’s some of what I read about Freya in advance of the gig.

“Upcoming Gothic-Disco Queen”

“Freya Beer is the newest leader of the dark goth pack” – Manchester’s Finest

“Freya Beer is the future pop diva, the 21st-century post-punk torch singer you will all fall in love with” – John Robb, Louder Than War

“…a voice as haunting and stunning as Lana Del Rey’s is, she is an incredible package stood before you” – RGM Magazine

Headlining the three-band night at the Golden Lion, Freya is certainly living an ‘image’. One of the ‘Queen Goth’, who is a mix of fashion icon and a member of the Literati. Live, the band offered a fairly poppy mix of material with plenty of opportunities to work as a polished unit. But, ultimately it is Freya who captures the spotlight. The audience was perhaps smaller than she is getting used to, partly perhaps, because it came immediately after a couple of days of rail strikes. But, the band played on, and there were glimpses of the ‘raw and thrilling new talent’ that has earned her on-going support from BBC6 Music.

‘Beast’ was her debut album in 2021 and ‘The Siren’ represents more than a slice of glam rock. She quickly followed ‘Siren’ with ‘The Calm Before The Storm’, a massed wall of grunge guitars and Owain Hanford’s thrashing drums.

From the online PR info, I believe that the album produced five singles including what they describe as, “the mesmerising crowd favourite, ‘To The Heavens and all its Work’ and the very different ‘Pure’.”

The band listing tells us that the Freya Beer Band features  Pete Hobbs (the Boy Least Likely To ) on guitar, Owain Hanford on drums and Arnoldas Daunys on bass. Freya also plays guitar in addition to front of house vocal duties.

Here’s the video for the darkly chilling, ‘Love Child’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DuGF6aErYso

Freya has recently released two new singles: ‘Fantasy’ and ‘Galore’ to coincide with her short-ish UK tour.

Here’s the video for ‘Fantasy’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BBIuZkocoTs

 

 

Wax-Tree-Cast

 

Wax-Tree-Cast hail from Halifax. They were formed in mid-2020, and consist of lead vocalist and bassist, Oolagh Hodgson, James Newsome on drums, and songwriter Blair Murray on lead guitar. Strong on glam image and matching stage clothes.  They’ve recently been out on tour with Steve Mason and are scheduled to be on the bill at the prestigious Piece Hall in Halifax in August supporting  The Charlatans and Johnny Marr.

Live – their sound is quite grungy. Much more so than on their videos and record. Theirs is a lively brand of jangling, noisesome guitar pop with an undertow of Germanic-styled vocals. ‘She’ which was a central feature of their live show is the latest single: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kZGtZ_30yvg

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Impossible Worlds

The Shell Game, David Toop & Lawrence English (Room 40)
Impossible Worlds, Kevin Daniel Cahill (False Walls)
Halcyon Days, Michael Byron (Cold Blue Music)
Tiny Thunder, Nicholas Chase (Cold Blue Music)
The Basketweave Elegies, Peter Garland (Cold Blue Music)

David Toop & Lawrence English’s album starts with ethereal atmospherics, a whistling noise hovering over keyboards and drones, in an almost Tangerine Dream like manner, before slowly shifting into a denser, darker place. The rest of the album inhabits similar territory: this is a resonant, echoing place, full of disjointed textures, distant voices, field recordings and unfathomable details. Call it soundscapes, call it improvisation, call it noise (quiet and careful noise) or perhaps resurrect the abandoned term Isolationism which has now fallen out of current usage. Whatever you call it, this is a intriguing collection of careful and engaging, abstract, visceral music.

I must offer a shout out to artist Brian McHenry, whose surreal and disjunctive drawings adorn the fold out digipack, inner sleeve and booklet of Impossible Worlds. I’ve also just noticed the False Walls website says that this album is ‘initially ambient and isolationist’, so maybe the term is already back in use. The website details are also how I realised this is a guitar album, although once informed it’s easier to hear the guitar and perhaps place Kevin Daniel Cahill in a loose grouping of other guitarists such as Robert Hampson (recording as Main), even perhaps Richard Pinhas and Robert Fripp,  who mostly use guitar as a sound source. (Of course, I could have read the sleeve notes properly…)

Cahill’s album consists a long piece divided into 3 parts, and a briefer second piece. The long first piece is astonishing, a mostly timeless drift with an almost non-existent pulse underpinning it, an ebb and flow of echo and sustain. At times it almost collapses into stasis, just about stands still, before – like the tide turning – the lull ends and new waves of sound gently shimmer and combine together again. ‘Lamentation’ which occupies a larger slab of the long track is, as you might expect, langorous and sad, but it is never completely dark or hopeless. Trails of notes spiral and fade across an emptiness that is full of overtones and expiring sound. I’m less enamoured by the second track which has a kind of choral presence behind itself, diverging, accompanying, and offering sonic variations. I find similar voicings too present in much of today’s ambient work, but you might like it; and the album’s first track is simply stunning.

Michael Byron is a mainstay of Cold Blue Music’s wonderful output, and Halcyon Days is a wonderfully slow and meditative collection of music written back in the 1970s but only now recorded and released. ‘Drifting Music’ is a piece for tubular bells, which focusses on the sustain and decay of the bells’ ringing tones for six minutes, whilst the following ‘Music of Every Night’ sees percussionist William Winant move to maracas and marimbas for a piece which starts with the gentle swish and rustle of the former until a couple of minutes in, the marimba’s deep wooden tones arrive, gently meandering and sustaining the piece until it again fades out to reveal the soft shaking percussion beneath.

‘Music of Steady Light’ is a longer piece, with Winant playing an array of percussion. The first part is reminiscent of Philip Glass’ Uakti in tone and minimalist rhythmic interplay (that’s not a complaint), whilst part two goes all metallic and twinkling. The final part seems to reinvent the first but with clearer separation and a sonic clarity that builds in slow tension then slurs and slows to a close. The final two tracks are a four-handed piano piece which sets crashing chords beneath a lighter, higher pitched, faster and slowly evolving part; and a limpid, laconic piano solo, ‘Tender, Infinitely Tender’ which strays into Harold Budd territory. It is a beautiful piece to end this wonderful album.

Winant is also the percussionist on Peter Garland’s The Basketweave Elegies, but here he is confined to vibraphone. I have to admit I found the nine short tracks or parts here dynamically and sonically similar, and the album the least interesting of the three new Cold Blue releases. It is too self-absorbed and ‘pure’ for my taste, and mostly reminded me of the sounds of bell ringing, the variation and organization in evidence when a peal is played.

Bryan Pezzone is the pianist on Nicholas Chase’s Tiny Thunder album, which is almost an EP: its two tracks just clock in at over 30 minutes total. ‘Zubwang’ is even sparser than Byron’s ‘Tender, Infinitely Tender’ and perhaps a little warmer in tone, with tiny flurries of activity within its contemplative meander. ‘Tiny Thunder’, the longer piece, is no faster or busier but uses the lower end of the instrument to offer the odd rumble and musical shading. It’s an exquisite release.

 

 

 

Rupert Loydell

 

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The Ascension

 

Winter gives way to spring
The bullets in your chest will be replaced with love and hope
From Tehran to the Persian Gulf
Kurdistan to the dusty streets of Baluchistan,
The bloodshed, will be replaced with the blown tulips 

 O fellow tribe of valorous 
 O co-believer
 The echo of freedom
 Whisper, fellow traveller

The day of the ascension of the Phoenix, from the ashes of this dream
The day of the end of this nightmare, our arrival at the sea.
   
  You and I will not be captured by the night
   
  You and I cannot be separated from each other
    
You and I will build our home,
..together again…together again…

 

 

 

Milan Tajmiri

 

 

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DREAM IT NOW I: THIS PERFECT STORM

But look! Displacement of spectral lines Awww! How about that! Apart from the difficulties discussed, this is the maximum so you proceed to the Centre. Whoa! It’s been rubbish hasn’t it?

Characterised by the fact that a spherical surface – now what? Hiya kid! Yeah, really… so-so… waiting very anxiously certain considerations suggest this is not over yet, we need a bit of a drum-roll – don’t go anywhere! The continuum is everything – so let’s ride! Hello everyone what a nail-biter that was! We’re having a frank conversation – interested? Wacky moments, hell’s bells and whistles (serious stuff) fast-forward to now and the journey of a lifetime. So let’s get to it and keep it fun! First I looked into those pale blue pools: beyond the winged eyeliner I saw high altitude vapour trails and scattered fair-weather clouds. Now take us off-grid and to the very edge. Oh! Wow! This is gorgeous! I mean it’s been amazing! Totally bonkers! A five-star experience! Well, that’s about it from me. Ok, interesting. The name is found nowhere else dense tangled thicket evolving in various directions, but out on the high street nothing unusual was going on girls dancing men throwing things diverted traffic They can’t be wrong can they?

Meanwhile the world is watching for some full-on fun a frantic operation new research suggests.

There’s a bit of a buzz here now. We reflect on a day like no other, the emotional roller coaster we’ve been on elegant chic and affordable not so off-the-grid, but some quite treacherous conditions. Exactly what? Find out why find out how. The list is not exhaustive but strangely this frontier district is sometimes haunted by a mysterious stranger, a rookie agent.

From where?  

The other side?

Urgent calls for more action, new challenges, a new and better life: crises shockwaves dramas transit custom plug-in hybrids with street value and kerb appeal; we couldn’t rule out the odd rumble! That’s one to watch – actually we’re really very excited.

Pressure? Well, plenty. (Ouch!). Grab your popcorn! The action starts here!

And we can bring you the latest! Oh right – how are things? It’s been called a perfect storm it’s been called a dream story or whatever it’s so shocking as to impress at first glance; a very alarming incident with flashing images an absolute howler with distressing details, and there’s a big buzz around a day filled with confusion and horror. So, we’ll be going on a journey to find out why chasing down answers, hearing about the challenges: and we’ll be asking why a lot more needs to be done. Yeah that is amazing! Stay with it? Heck, yes. And you know what? They did. The question now arises: what does this all mean for us? Even if the mood music is more positive many scenes will shock some and dismay others. We’ll examine the impact on low-budget whodunits on poetry-in-motion, on fancy-free dough-balls and on choosing the right path in life – or whatever. But, look – for the crème de la crème – for the speed freaks and for gym managers it’s a game of who blinks first. How does that make you feel? It’s just so exciting I’m nervous already! Impossible to tell from the body language, yet it’s striking to see weird concrete forms emerge as spooky icebound spirits – all mist and murk and ill fog – it’s a jaw-dropping entrance – or whatever. Hello! Hellooo! How’s that for a cheeky little bonus? When life gets messy press firmly to activate, yeah, absolutely!

Crack open the fizz! Take it forward and slowly get a wriggle on hit the groove and what else? Game on! Weeee! And you know what? You didn’t cry, so well done. Yep, next question – or whatever: will lessons be learned? Absolutely! Yes absolutely! One hundred percent! Well let’s try – this is where it’s at – or whatever no worries! One! Two! Three! Be seeing you! What are you talking about? How serious do you think this is? All together now! One! Two! Three! Sorry we have to leave it there but do join us next time. Stay cool. Ding! She was zesty – gorgeous – original One of the must-haves of the season bo-ho chic smart-dolly crochet hat foot-stomping go-go power razor laugh free range legs in-yer-face gags and gaiety.

What’s the mood there? Powerful conflicting emotions far out and way up: talk us through that really that performance was the edge of freedom hit the dance floor, take stock, test the limits Intercept our suspect – kiss and run an out-of-this-world experience. Tell us a little more Ding! I don’t think so how much more do we know? Well… let’s be clear yhe indicators at this time show it’s still a challenge no doubt about it we’ll be giving it our best shot Look! See! Nice! (canned laughter). So profoundly moving, our darkest secret well let’s face it; what happens next? Ziiip! Twang! Whoosh! Searing scenes and candid comments, continuous flashing images and – Pow! Yes! What a moment! Exciting! Exciting! This is really hard to watch. You get my drift? Ding! So perverse and bewildering a very difficult balancing act nut still the hot favourite posing with a retro arcade machine They’re watching and they’re waiting and it’s not over yet make it magical an absolute gem! A life-changing encounter for all so we couldn’t be more excited than that. We’re on it! Let’s do it! Yeah how? Have a great evening, bye bye. On the go? Yeah! Always! So back to the here and now: we’ve highlighted the pressure right? Re-tune your no-holds spin-off drama Get off my toe you idiot! We were a couple of stylish geezers Skirt-crazy thrill-seekers melting hearts chasing down answers and – oh yeah! Looking for Pom Pom Club clubbers nubiles on the razzle – phwoah! Time to splash the cash right? Thought you’d never ask! Doncha love that Pina colada chill-out experience?

Ha! Ha! So what’s going on? I’m good! You? Laugh or cry? Smarten up your day no visible lines here’s the latest pop-up production sort of orbiting space junk unintentionally weird a big bold move – yet it’s more of the same oohs and aahs, hugs and tears, flounces – crikey!

Bring it on! Cummin’ up! Voila! Tres bien! It’s a people thing – how about that? Well that’s when the magic happens and it’s spine-tingling stuff! You gotta feel it to believe it right? Quite a pivotal moment – yeah well hi there! Cheesy grin thanks very much! It’s a day of mixed emotions almost amusing let’s take a look: lot of nerves jangling here Very tense situation – what more do we know?

A space storm warning from left-field I know this is a big ask just bring yourself to tell a surprising and untold story or whatever tempting? Just talk us through on stilts that was quite bizarre but we are where we are right? If you squint you can see from those crazy pictures roots branches knockout shapes and shadows night has fallen so just go with the flow no let-up in pressure on those regular updates Nu Disco invisible mending and a cuddly toy it’s the way of the world doncha know Technicolour Vista Vision opens every day human drama dodgy cigs shocking blue films to flip your vibe more sizzle makes it easy! Hurry! Hurry! Where’s the pause button? See you in court ducky – oh right ok ok ok this demands a moment of celebration an up-to-the-minute snappy-clappy chat well I said to them I said it’s what we do! That’s it! Back to you!

 

 

 

AC Evans

 

 

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What’s Ike Got To Do With It … In praise of Ike Turner

Rock n’ roll is often a thankless task.  Accolades commonly bring mental illness and self-destruction (from Elvis Presley to Tom Petty).  One can form indisputably the greatest rock band ever, (Brian Jones), or write and record the first rock n roll record ever, only get paid $20, have no technical credit on the disc and later choose a fantastic lead singer to front your band and model her image after your fantasy of the film character Nyoka in the jungle thus creating the Queen of Rock n roll, (Ike Turner), and be left as a shadow in the Pantheons. 

Like many people the world over, I was enthralled with the Johnny Depp trial last year.  I was proud and shocked at myself that I was participating in such a mainstream cultural phenomenon.  As someone who belongs more in the 19th century, or the future (I hope – y’know ‘common sense,’ an intrinsic distrust of authority, etc..), what most people find appealing nowadays, or do, I don’t.  You won’t even catch me looking down at a phone.  Anyway, caveat, I was on what was called, “Team Amber.”  And not because I am a woman. 

I pretty much watched the whole debacle, and very carefully, reading things into everything:  who’s telling the truth and who is full of shit (pun not intended).  And at the very ending, during the Ruling, when it was decreed that both, with or without validity, were guilty of trashing each other’s public persona, I started thinking about Ike Turner.

I am an Ike and Tina Turner fanatic.  I loved the ‘hit’ when I was a kid, and if it wasn’t for my racist father always making me turn off Soul Train when it was on American TV, I’d have been in way deep.  It wasn’t until I married, my young(er) husband (oddly enough), musician Mat Treiber, that I became immersed in the musical merit of Ike and Tina.  I love both Ike and Tina together, the magic they made, the records – my fave being the early 1970s stuff, a few years before it all nuked itself out of existence.  I must say, I am not at all a fan of Tina post-Ike, and I am not alone in that.  I could put it down to the 1980s, a decade of such disappointment culturally and especially music and records.  I did my own first gig at CBGB in June 1981.  I grew up dying to be music, and when I did, the era was a shit pie to the face.  No wonder I’m more popular these days where everyone’s psych is cleaned, emptied and circumspect, instead of trendy (usually anyway).   

Yes I saw Tina at the Ritz (in NYC), which was the pivotal show for her ‘comeback’.   Yes it was very good, but it wasn’t anything compared to the 1960s and 70s.  Luckily we have so much on youtube which can be enjoyed.  I download these clips, and a personal goal is to learn every Ikette move via my TV screen.  Did you know all that fantastic dancing for the girls was choreographed by Tina Turner herself?  Incredible!  Hat’s off!  The ‘Playboy After Dark’ concert blows my mind.  The interview is fab too, with the lovely Ike who, I’m sorry, does not appear to be anything like the way he has been painted.  A man painted, smeared and destroyed by his ex-wife. 

In Tina’s recent documentary, ‘Tina,’ released in Spring 2021, there was a scene that stunned me, an admission that floored me.  This is what came back to me as I pondered the Depp legal Judgement, watching the end of the trial.  The film tells the story of Tina trying in vain to get interest in her post the Ike and Tina days; trying to get a record deal, and any interest.  Her agents concluded that it was hopeless and that she HAD to tell ‘the story’.  She had to have a gimmick, (nothing wrong with that), and the gimmick was being a victim of domestic abuse.  The film goes on to state that at that point, the gates opened for her, and she was on and in; back in the music business and bigger than ever.  How absolutely vile to be ok with that as a gimmick.  I guess that is conveniently ‘allowed’ in Buddhism?  It wouldn’t be allowed in Christianity as both Ike and Tina were raised, where the act of forgiveness promises rewards, and closure.  Tina knew everything about Ike and his history more than anyone, until he wrote a book, in defence. 

‘Takin’ Back My Name,’ is an amazing tome put out by Virgin Books in 1999, with a forward written by a King of Rock n Roll, Little Richard, praising the founder of rock n roll, Ike Turner.  A book that reveals a man raped four times by different women before he was aged 12.  A man who saw the kind of racism up front and as close as seeing blood run, yet still never had a racist bone in his body towards whites.  Despite his personal trauma, he swam through it and developed his talents on piano, guitar, music arranging and producing, and became a star.  A man who designed the clothes for Tina and the Ikettes.  Ike rose above every horror that life threw at him enough to focus on music and becoming a star for himself and his wife. He was a man obsessed with his artAnd sex and love.  Yet unlike Tina who is dubbed a ‘survivor’ of Ike, Ike didn’t survive the trauma of Tina’s cast stigma.  Is annihilating revenge really admirable? 

The image Ike Turner was left with, as a wife beater and madman, an easy shingle to hang on a black man, is abhorrent in light of his musical accomplishments, and moral ones.  He was married to about six women before Tina, and had many lovers and married afterward, as well, yet during the time before and after his reputation was smeared, I cannot find any arrests or anything such as that would be expected of a man whom society paints in such a drastic horrific manner.  Ike’s autobiography also reveals that even Elvis was in awe of Ike. Elvis would sneak into some show in the deep south, as a kid, and watch Ike from behind and under the piano, watching his legs, and everything.  Elvis revealed this story years later to Ike and Tina themselves in Las Vegas. 

I had my own positive experience regarding Ike Turner directly.  My husband covered one of his songs, and we were living in LA.  Shortly before Ike’s death of which those close to him call a suicide, we went to see him play in Malibu one evening.  The grand man sat down, did his whole set sitting down, but it rocked.  We wanted to meet him and there was the inevitable crowd and security around the backstage door.  I went up to the security guard and told him, “You see that guy over there?  He is a musician and he just covered one of Ike’s songs.  He’d love so much to meet Ike.”  When it was time to let some folks backstage, the security guard came out the backstage door and headed straight for Mat Treiber, and escorted him in, (not me unfortunately).  Clearly what mattered most to Ike was music.  It was always his blood, his medicine.  Ike didn’t remember the song at the first second when Mat told him which one it was.  Then he did, and started saying the lyrics. He gave Mat his business card which Mat still keeps in the very pocket of the jacket he wore.  Magic.  Love!  

It was the day after the Depp trial ended, and with all this drifting back into my head, that I wrote to Ike Turner’s daughter.  I told her what I thought, and how I felt.  I told her that in considering the Depp precedent, in regards to the destruction of persona and career, with or without evidence that Tina was telling the truth about everything, that she could take Tina to the cleaners in the name of her father.  The evidence being the most recent documentary where they are admitting to this scheme, for profit!  For self-promotion – hell this makes what the two present-day Hollywood kookoos did to each other, nothing – even with evidence it is absolutely clear that Tina Turner destroyed Ike Turner’s reputation, and career.

A legal proceeding as such would be the grandest moral circus of all, and the redemption of a man who went to his grave with a ruined name.  Ike’s daughter Twanna wrote back to me. 

            “It is amazing that you thought that. The thought crossed my mind, but there is a lot to consider. My father NEVER spoke ill of Tina although all of that negativity was placed out there to build Tina. My father saw what was going on and chose to take the higher ground. As you had to experience when you and Mat met him. My father was a magnificent human being. He loved people and he loved Tina. Being he did not pursue that avenue and he could have, I am going to follow his lead.” 

 What a classy response.  What a wonderful confirmation that was to me, beyond my own intuitions on the man and evidential influence he would undoubtedly have on his family.  I thought, this response is a story in itself, this is an essay.  Which is why I decided to write about it.  Tina till her death was still in the public eye today, riding on what began as a singer for a the man who created rock n roll (with his single Rocket 88), and still wagged her time with him as a way to legitimately stay ‘interesting,’ and find her a title as “survivor”.   I don’t really believe she had to do any of that.  We’re all tested in life.  Was the music business that closed to her?  Perhaps she just needed some patience and the assistance of an astrologer to pass that moral test.  I’m not a psychologist, but choosing that route assured no closure.  A fan base of women identified with Tina as a battered woman, women battered by brutes.  Ike’s genius surely set him apart from the archtype wife-beater, yet it was the archtype victim that identified with Tina, painting her ex-husband as their own.  A monumental, world-wide  psychic attack parallel to black magic, for profit and success. 

In the seeds of writing this article I began by wondering if there was any real technical evidence in all the abuse claimed.  Tina walked into a police department one day, with a bruised eye, and split?  People knew they were volatile; Keith Richards joked in the press that Tina beat Ike up too.  Then on the heels of my plans to write this essay, there was a new book out by former Ikette, and friend of mine, PP Arnold.  In this book Pat (PP Arnold), states that Ike raped her.  That was the most outrageous accusation of Ike Turner I’d ever learned of!  It blew my whole Ike-is-a-saint image.  What a shame!  I told Pat I was writing this article and I wanted to talk to her about Ike.  “I don’t wanna talk about Ike,” she told me in her dressing room recently in London.  I said, well the article I’m writing is in praise of Ike.  I thought maybe that could get a rise out of her.  She repeated what I said, as a question.  And then followed with her offering, “Ike was a tremendous musical talent”.  End of.  Forgiveness I guess, isn’t it beautiful? 

RIP Tina Turner, the music lives on.

This article was (finally) written on Monday 22 May and completed Thursday 25 May, the day after Tina Turner’s death, who passed a year exactly to the era of the Johnny Depp trial when the seeds of this essay took place.


 

Roxanne Fontana

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COLIN GIBSON: AT HOME WITH PETE BROWN (1940-2023)

English performance poet, lyricist, and singer best known for his collaborations with Cream and Jack Bruce. Brown formed the bands Pete Brown & His Battered Ornaments and Pete Brown & Piblokto! and worked with Graham Bond and Phil Ryan.
Pete sadly passed away on May 19. This interview first appeared in The Hastings Independent Press September 2015

In the big comfy kitchen of his newly moved-into house, Pete and I fell to discussing how odd it was that our paths had never crossed during our music careers, and that we were only introduced last year (2014) by my old friend the Newcastle poet Tom Pickard. Tom was reading at Hasting’s Black Huts Festival of Writing, Music & Film, and I was intrigued to learn that not only had he and Pete hung out together in Newcastle in the early sixties, but Pete had been the first reader at the legendary Morden Tower, the poetry venue set up by Tom and his then wife Connie Pickard, which attracted poetry luminaries such as Allen Ginsberg, and Basil Bunting. I knew I had to start at the beginning.

CG: I was going to ask you a bit about the pre Cream days.

PB: Well, that was really my first professional experience. I had this mad notion, inspired by reading about The Beat Poets in America, (which I got wrong. They weren’t actually doing hundreds of gigs and hitchiking everywhere), nevertheless I ended up doing just that. Sometimes it was ten shillings (50p) and a girl….if you were lucky. There was no “performance poetry circuit” to speak of, so we kind of created one, starting around 1960 when I met Michael Horowitz (founder of  New Departures and publisher of William Burroughs and Samual Beckett). Previous to that meeting I’d been published in America but never in Britain, and Michael wanted some of my stuff for New Departures.

CG: So who was publishing you in America?

PB: Evergreen Review, which was the bible of The Beats and the alternative culture, so I was very happy. I always had this relationship with America – and obviously it was America that really went for Cream, in a big way. Before that I would be sending out reams of poems to British magazines and nobody wanted to know because it wasn’t anything like the stuff people were doing currently. Then suddenly I’m in Evergreen Review, which everyone thinks is the best culture magazine in the world at the time……

CG:  So what kind of circulation did the Evergreen Review have?

PB: …….Big, big. It sold in all the hip bookshops in London, and was very successful in America, so suddenly there was this kind of confirmation that what I was doing was not complete nonsense. (laughs). It was just a nice little thing that told me, maybe I’m on the right track.

CG: So this was like an early CV, a message to reluctant publishers; Pete Brown has appeared in the Evergreen Review!

PB: Yes quite. You have to remember that at this point the British poetry scene was in the grip of the establishment, which was the very thing that Horowitz and I were fighting against; for instance you couldn’t get on radio poetry programmes, few and far between though they were, if you were from Newcastle or Liverpool, or, like me, had an accent bearing traces of the East End. You’d  have actors reading your poetry! And they all had posh voices which belonged to the kind of class you just didnt figure in. But gradually – particularly via the Liverpool scene and because we were now starting to get around a lot – things began to change. Suddenly you heard these great regional voices on radio and people began to accept them as having an authenticity that seemed to be heralding significant cultural change.

CG: And then bands like the Beatles came through, riding the wave of this huge cultural shift.

PB: Absolutely – and interestingly I remember this disagreement with Ginsberg, at the time, who says to me “The Beatles are going to change the world.” – at that point I was a bit of a musical snob because I was in love with jazz – and so I’m saying to him “its just about jazz…I don’t hear the other thing”… I could hear the blues of course, because blues lyrics were always an inspiration to me, right from the early stuff. Mamie Smith and Victoria Spivey in particular wrote some fantastic lyrics. Then there were the country blues people…..obviously Robert Johnson who I loved, and particularly Sleepy John Estes who I still, to this day, find absolutely amazing. Blind Willie McTell is another one  – imaginative, incredible lyrics that always turned me on. On another level, I started to listen to Waynone Harris. She featured great lyrics – Dont Roll Your Bloodshot Eyes at Me – I’m Scared To Smell Your Breath – You’d Better Shut Your Peepers Before You Bleed to Death. I mean those lines are so fucking good! I grew up listening to all that.
When the poetry thing took off, after the big Albert hall reading in 1965, we were sort of making a living, some of us anyway…. it was like 5 gigs for £20 a week, but it was growing. A year after that, Cream asked me to write and of course because of my knowledge of all that blues stuff, I was ready…almost..(laughs)..I didnt quite know what I was doing to start with, but I got into it fairly quickly.

CG: Was it an instinctive thing?

PB: Yes, as the lyricist in most of the songwriting partnerships I’ve had, I found a facility there.

CG: Where do you suppose that comes from ?

PB: Its because you listened to all that stuff…..whatever was playing in my house. Rock ‘n Roll from my older brother and sister, Nat Cole & Glenn Miller from my parents. And I would be hearing these great lyricists like Cole Porter And Irving Berlin

CG: Tin Pan Alley!

PB: Well that’s another thing, some of the great standard repertoire is incomparable, and of course I grew up with that too. My particular favourite though was E.Y. Harburg, one of the true american socialists. They called him Yip Harburg, and he wrote “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” “April in Paris” “Buddy Can You spare a Dime?” –  He was at that unique place in American history, and a man who influenced many of his great successors, notably Mose Allison, one of my idols, whose songs, like Middle Class White Boy and Your Mind Is on Vacation but Your Mouth is Working Overtime are just some of the best. I had Mose round for tea once, and we were just talking about stuff that had influenced him and I said “What’s your favourite book?” and he said “Well I guess my favourite book is The Journal of Albion Moonlight by Kenneth Patchem.” Patchem predessor of the beats and basically a poet, he was another honest socialist who genuinely wanted to change the world and make things better for people. Of his longer prose books ,this was the one I really liked, because it was articulated it in what I considered to be a great way. I found it heartening that Mose was into him as well, because at that time most Americans struck you as being, well terrible capitalists, (laughs), and you know, sometimes you despair. I mean…I won’t mention a name…. but one of my managers got me a writing job with a famous guitar player in America. a stadium-type guitarist and a very good musician which is why I wanted to work with him.

CG: So he wanted you as a lyricist?

PB: Yes, but in fact he had hardly anything, so I ended up writing half the tunes as well, because he just had a kind of collection of riffs and chords. Anyway, I won’t mention his name, but I was staying in San Francisco, while I was doing the job, and the US Marines Air Display Team were flying outside – I could almost lean out of my hotel room and touch these bloody planes, it was really frightening.
CG: You were in a high rise building?

PB: Well no it was only about ten floors, since they don’t do tall buildings in San Francisco.

CG: Of course – in case they fall down!

PB: Exactly (laughs), and these planes were so low, with all this horrible kind of macho flying, I just couldn’t bear it. And you know one of the things I had in common with Alex Harvey was we were both strong pacifists yet fascinated by war…….and I mentioned the story to this guy I was working with, and he said “Oh yeah,  I’ve just written an anthem for them” and I thought waaaah? (big laughs).  It reminded me that we once had a request from the Band Of The Finnish Air Force who wanted to do a version of I Feel Free… 
(Interviewer collapses with laughter),

PB: …where…..seriously….they had rewritten all the lyrics, so they were something like; I feel really free because I’m flying over my enemy and bombing the shit out of them…

(Sound of tea being expelled from interviewer’s nose),

PB: …and we went; “Oh no. Fuck no. Definitely not. Thank you very much. Not for us no. Thank you”

CG:  I so want to hear that!  Not a lot of people are aware that the Finns’ inherent sense of surrealism, goes way back, despite our notion that it was invented in the 1920s by André Breton.

PB: I know, I know. Somewhere, in a box, I have the lyric they sent me. It was frightening. It was like the 1933 Nazi manifesto you know? I mean, unbelievable. You could certainly say the Finns are off-beat. Those films of Kaurismäki, they were great, but also incredibly miserable too.

CG: Ah yes, but off-beat misery. As a touring band, it can be so easy to get a bad introduction to a beautiful country like Finland, no?

PB: True. I remember our first visit. We went there after being diverted from another gig. they said, “You’re not playing in High Wycombe tomorrow, you’re playing in Finland. OK right…so we get on a flight to Copenhagen for the first leg, but then get put on standby, and we’re thinking we might not make it, so when we finally get there – its been a difficult trip you know – no sleep,  we say, “Where’s the hotel?” “Oh no,” they say,  “you’re onstage in 20 minutes.” (laughter) so we go “OK, how many people are there?” – “Oh around 20,000.” And we get there and play, and the audience are throwing beer cans and other stuff on stage! So we ask the promoter “Why were they throwing stuff?”, and he says “Oh that means they like you” and I say “Oh really? What if they dont like you?” and he goes “Well, then they will throw knives.”

CG: It’s in those situations, where you’re really not sure what’s happening, you recite to yourself that old showbiz cliché, the show must go on. when in reality you should probably have done a runner.

PB: I know, you have to learn! (laughter)

CG: To change the subject, I was intrigued to learn recently that when you first got the invitation from Cream, it was with a view to writing with Ginger Baker, is that so?

PB: Yes sort of. He was the one who made the call, and I did try to write with Ginger. Part of our upcoming documentary is concerned with the controversy about all that. Ginger was not easy to write with, but he did have some very interesting ideas. I did write lyrics for a couple of his things and then he sort of claimed to have “lost them on a plane” and things like that, you know? He wanted to do it all himself really.

CG: I remember we did a couple of his numbers with Airforce (Baker’s post-Cream band) , and they were OK.

 

PB: Yes, obviously I loved Pressed Rat and Warthog, and all that.

CG: I remember a particular favourite of Ginger’s was My Baby Has Gorn Down the Plughole which we recorded, and he wanted to put that on the album Airforce 2 .

PB: I know, that was an old music hall song. But  Ginger is a terrific drummer. I loved Airforce, and he could do that whole jazz, rock, R n’ B thing like no-one else – as a musician I had no problem with him at all, but he’s a horrible person – I mean you know what he’s like, and we’ve all seen the film (Beware of Mr. Baker).

CG: Oddly enough, myself and Kenny Craddock, (Hammond organist & guitarist 1950-2001, who joined Ginger Baker’s Airforce at the same time as me) never really encountered any of that, perhaps because being only 20, we came with no baggage. I certainly get the impression, with hindsight, that Ginger is a man with deep grudges, some of them going back to the 1950s! (laughter)

PB:  He enjoys his grudges. He still enjoys them! He doesn’t let them go. Kenny was a terrific musician wasn’t he?

CG: Extraordinary, and very sadly missed. Of course you had a long association with Graham Bond (Hammond organist and seminal figure in the history of British R ‘n B, member of Airforce and leader of The legendary Graham Bond Organisation), whose drummer was Ginger Baker.

PB:  Ah Graham. A couple of years ago I produced a four CD set of all the old Organisation stuff including some unreleased tracks, and I’ve just finished another one, Volume 2, based on all the BBC stuff plus other tracks I’ve acquired which is coming out at probably the end of October.

CG:What about Live At Klook’s Cleek?  I had that album as a teenager.

PB: I still have it, it’s in storage with the rest of my vinyl. It was recorded by Georgio Gomelsky (see link below), who occasionally releases it and nobody gets paid at all. Apart from that one, the four CD set was fairly definitive, and then we began discovering some other stuff from the BBC sessions and ended up with another 4 CD boxed set. I have a good relationship with Repertoire Records, who are putting these out, and I do some archive things for them. I still have a toe in the archive thing, especially when I find it’s a worthwhile subject which I think ought to be out there. The first Graham Bond set sold incredibly well and at £40 a pop, we all made money out of it, so we’re hoping the next one will be just as good.

CG: You’ve produced a lot of stuff since Cream

PB: I got to producing quite a lot of records, and then I didn’t do it for a bit, just bits and pieces. Then a couple of years ago I was doing a gig in Germany with The Hamburg Blues Band, who I was a guest singer with alongside Maggie Bell and Miller Anderson, and the support act was this guy called Chrissy Matthews – an incredible guitar player, really gives a hundred percent – and he approached me with a view to doing some work together so I said I’d take a look at it, see what he’d got. Anyway I ended up producing his album, and co-writing all the songs except for one Blind Willie McTell cover. And I had a great time doing it because he’s such a great guy. I’d been a little bit apprehensive because every now and then you come across things you get asked to do – and people are very precious, they won’t move, and they don’t listen to you. You’ve been there, of course you have – and you think “why am I doing this? What the fuck do I need this for? But this was such a nice experience I thought I’d quite like to do a bit more, so I’ve been doing some bits and pieces, with young acts this time, and they’ve been going well. But when I do gigs with Chrissy’s band or The Hamburg Blues Band, I like doing a few Cream numbers you know?

CG:  That repertoire is yours!

PB:  I’ve always liked doing the live stuff, and of course yes, I wrote the stuff. There was a time, of course, because Jack was such a great singer, for a long time thought I shouldn’t be doing this. But after  I had six years of singing lessons, I felt comfortable with it.

CG: We were talking earlier about the Hammond organist and alto saxophonist Graham Bond, and how much he was willing to encourage younger players such as my (then) self.

PB: The great thing about being friends with Graham, and eventually having a band with him for a year was that he would always encourage you. Unlike a lot of the old jazzers who would go “oh you don’t want to do that” blah blah, you know, that attitude. Graham was never like that. He would always go “do it man…try that” That was the thing, especially about Graham, that he never had that sort of modern jazz attitude although he was a more than capable modern jazz musician, but you knew when you played with him that you would give more than your best, that you would go beyond, you would give it that extra few inches you know? Because whatever you thought of all those guys – Jack, Ginger, Dick (Heckstall Smith) and Graham in particular – they always gave one hundred percent. There was never a time when they wouldn’t do that. They were not coasting – never –they always hit it. Yes sometimes it was a bit wild and ragged, whatever, but most of the time it was right on and always delivered with tremendous power, enthusiasm and passion.

CG: They’re not all like that unfortunately.

PB: Unfortunately not, its like you were saying earlier, it’s not always good meeting your heroes. Van Morrison and Hastings favourite John Martyn, both seem to have suffered from it. Goes with the territory, I guess.

CG: It seems so unneccessary to be a shit, just because you are a great artist.

PB: John Martyn, what a madman. I opened for him in Edinburgh, we were doing the soundcheck and there’s this spiral staircase coming down on to the stage. Suddenly there’s this tremendous crash and he and his brother in law, or his cousin who was his tour manager, the two of them came rolling down the stairs on to the stage, fighting. Two Scots, proper fighting you know…..kill. Blood all over the place, and we’re just trying to get out of the way. (laughter)- Jack (Bruce) hated him. He was playing- again in Edinburgh- with his band, and John Martyn comes staggering onstage out of his mind, and tries to jam with him, and you can’t really do that with Jack’s songs unless you know them, you know? Complex structures and twists and turns. So he tries to play with Jack, Jack wants to kill him and it all kicks off.

CG: Two more angry Scotsmen.

PB: If you’re making a decent living why have a king size chip on your shoulder? If doing what you like makes you so miserable go get a job in a bank, or try digging up the roads, you know?

CG: It all seems a bit counter-productive. I wouldn’t particularly want to go for a pint with Van Morrison either.

PB: Zoot Money has a great story. It was when Georgie Fame was playing with Morrison, and he’s invited Zoot over to a reheasal, thinking that Zoot would be able to cover for him when he wasn’t available. So they go down to Van’s house in Bath or wherever to rehearse. Van’s manager is there, and Zoot sits down at the piano and starts playing with the band. Van’s standing there, and they all seem to be enjoying Zoot’s playing, and he’s singing a bit you know? Suddenly Van rushes out into the garden. Everyone can see him pacing up and down, poking his phone and the manager is still in there with the band. Then the manager’s phone rings, he picks it up and……

CG: No, Is it Van?

PB: It’s Van! From the garden! Apparently he’s saying “I want him out of here, he’s gonna upstage me.” He’s getting paranoid because Zoot is getting on really well with the rest of the band. As you know Zoot is extroverted, outgoing, pleasant, humerous, in other words everything that Van is not, so Van can’t bear it. He can’t bear it that everything’s going so well.

CG: (unsuccessful ulster accent) “You come round here, cheering my band up. Do you know how long it’s taken me to get them that miserable?”

PB: Ha ha! Ridiculous but true.

CG: I see you are featured in the upcoming doc, Psychedelic Brittania. I suspect Zoot’s psychedelic band Dantalian’s Chariot are in there somewhere?

PB: Oh I loved that band. And I’ve always said this, because I’ve worked with Zoot quite a bit over the years here and there, that Dantalion’s Chariot was my favourite psychedelic band. But the reason it didn’t work was because the psych audience didn’t really understand the humor. And for me…I remember watching them at Middle Earth whenever I could, and apart from being really great musically, the humor went way above everyone heads. I fucking loved it. I thought the combination of psych and humor was really great.

CG: You’re saying the psych crowd had no sense of irony?

PB: Not much. Not usually. They were too out of it to get their heads around humour.

The conversation drifted to the days when a “demo” was regarded as de rigeur in the recording process, and was always insisted upon by record labels. There was small independent studio in Islington called “Pathway” where we had both recorded many times.

PB: Pathway studios! Mike Finesilver and engineer Pete Kerr – I did all my demos there. They co-wrote Arthur Brown’s hit Fire and set up the studio with the money from that. I did several albums there, and hundreds of sessions as artist and producer, as well as the demos of course.

CG: Demo syndrome! The tracks would never sound as good in a “proper” studio and you spent half the time trying to recreate that “demo” feel.

PB: Very true, but Pathway later became known for its sound, and people like Dire Straits recorded their first album there, Elvis Costello too – it was a magic studio. 

 

LINKS

https://thestrangebrew.co.uk/remembering-pete-brown/

White Rooms and Imaginary Westerns, the documentary by Mark Waters featuring Pete. Featuring Martin Scorcese, Fay Weldon, Robert, Wyatt, Eric Clapton, Jack Bruce and Ginger Baker, it will be broadcast in spring 2016, and later released on DVD.

23rd October, before this issue, Psychedelic Brittannia, Mark AJ Waters’ documentary about Pete’s career went out on BBC 3. Catch it on iplayer.
/
11th October saw the broadcast from London’s Roundhouse of The 50th anniversary reunion of 1965’s First International Poetry Incarnation, where over seven thousand people packed the Royal Albert Hall to hear such luminaries of the beat scene as William Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso, Lawrence Felinghetti and of course Pete Brown. Catch it on iPlayer.

Arthur Brown.

Zoot Money

The Roundhouse

Colin Gibson & Kenny Craddock were members of Ginger Baker’s Airforce 1970-71 – useful links:

Kenny Craddock

Lindisfarne

Graham Bond

Giorgio Gomelsky

Klook’s Kleek

Ginger Bakers Airforce

useful links:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Horovitz
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yip_Harburg
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Evergreen_Review
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morden_Tower
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mamie_Smith
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Victoria_Spivey
http://www.stmichaelshospice.org/get-involved/events/event-calendar/view/609/barefacedblues-festival

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A Playful Child

A school going child
Desires to play with
Her grandmother’s hair
After she comes home
Back from school.
She carefully plaits
The locks of hair;
Believes in herself with the intention
To caress
Smooth fall of hair
That reaches down
Her grandmother’s waist.
Time ticks by
The child grows daily in
The playground
That has also been
Her grandma’s identity
Of owning the long hair
From her youthful days;
Like the peaceful gushing
Stream of waterfall.
The homemade beauty salon
Has become the child’s playful abode.
The child is a craftsperson
A measure of free play
Long like the falling hair.
No school bell rings
That tells the child
To leave her playful salon.

 

 

 

Copyright Sushant Thapa
Biratnagar- Nepal

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SAUSAGE Life 271

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column which believes that a laughing stock is only the prelude to a laughing gravy.

MYSELF: You’re looking a bit stressed
READER: I’m going to have to stop watching football on TV.
MYSELF: Is it the poor quality? Is your team doing badly?
READER: No, it’s the bloody row. The boot boys, sponge-men, assorted ground staff, the pot-bellied fans in full kit, all of them bellowing at the players in some kind of made-up language. It’s giving me disturbing childhood flashbacks.
MYSELF: Goodness. Can you be more specific?
READER: Yes. Imagine if all the members of the DUP came round to your your house at once.
MYSELF: A terrifying thought upon which I would prefer not to dwell. Would some curious facts from around the world of items sooth your infantile Freudian soccer-angst perhaps?
READER: Bravo! That’s more like it! I feel better already!

BLIMEY! CURIOUS FACTS FROM AROUND THE WORLD OF ITEMS

Did you know that the spider is not an insect, but a mammal, which can break a man’s arm with any one of its eight wings? 

Did you know that the Montezuma Quail is witheringly sarcastic, and is not to be trusted with money? 

Did you know that the late Ginger Baker, ex drummer of The Cream, recently turned down the role of Dr Who? 

Did you know that Nigel Farage, the Caribbean white supremacist has his own miniature one-man submarine? 

READER:  I have a feeling that one of those “facts” is not true. 

MYSELF:  Well spotted, which one do you think is false? 

READER:  Let me see…. I know Nigel Farage owns a miniature submarine and is definitely from the Caribbean, because I saw a video of him limbo dancing under a horse in St Kitt’s. As for number 2, I myself was once grossly insulted by a Montezuma Quail after I rashly lent it £10. 

MYSELF:  So, could it be the late Ginger Baker as a potential Dr Who perhaps? 

READER:  Well, that definitely has the ring of truth about it, even though he is dead, which just leaves the limb-fracturing arachnid. Can I phone a friend?

MYSELF:  You don’t have any 

READER:  I’m just going to have to guess.  Is it the spider? 

MYSELF:  You are going to kick yourself. The odd one out is the Montezuma Quail, a polite, charming and trustworthy bird with whom you would happily go into business. I can only suppose that the Quail you lent money to was suffering from stress. 

READER:  I recall it having the cool demeanor of a practiced confidence trickster. 

MYSELF:  Perhaps it was another type of bird altogether, wearing a Quail costume? 

READER: Ah….  Now you come to mention it… it may have been a Hoopoe.

IRISH STEW
We are obliged by the Press Council to publish the following letter
Dear Mr so-called Guano,
in these more enlightened times, must we, the ordinary folk of Ireland, still have to put up with cheap stereotypical so-called “irish jokes” like the example on display in in last week’s Sausage Life? Contrary to (un)popular opinion, we are not a nation of potato-eating bumkins, permanently fluthered on too many jars of the black stuff. Nor are we rib-ticklingly amused by ridiculous cod-Irish names, like Toby Shaw which your ‘reader’ claimed to have changed his moniker to in honour of St Patrick’s DayThis type of puerile humour may well appeal to your low-level Jackeens, your banjaxed Bosthoons or certain classes of eejit – but I feel sure that the loyal readership of your respected and venerable organ would be better served were you to rise above this type of thing.
Sue Atiz, B. Gobb, Mahogoney Gaspipe (Mrs)
Poltroon, Limerick

YOU CUN’T FUCKING MAKE IT UP
Ever since Chef-Swear, Gordon Ramsay’s chain of upmarket kitchen utensil stores posted a severe profit warning, it has been rumoured he has been looking for a way back into TV. The potty mouthed hash-slinger is rumoured to have agreed a deal with Channel 5 to present Ramsay’s Council Nightmares, a new series in which Gordon will go into borough councils around the UK and try to improve their efficiency.
“This is going to lift the lid on the fucking appalling state of UK local councils,” he is alleged to have shouted during an interview with Stan Wok, a journalist from the catering magazine Shock Chef, “you wouldn’t fucking believe the state of some of the fucking town halls I’ve been in!” he screamed, “One, which I won’t name, had a dis-fuckinggustingly filthy agenda cupboard containing the rotting remains of hair-brained policies covered in fucking mould!” Punching Wok hard in the solar plexus he continued:  “Some of the fuckers were well past their fucking sell-by date and stored next to rafts of raw proposals and dirty plastic trays containing fucking pre-cooked processed plans. All this obnoxious shit was lying there waiting to be zapped in a twatting micro fucking wave and served up to the poor unsuspecting locals as fresh.”
Asked to comment, Douglas Pancake of Upper Dicker, an official spokesman for the unnamed council, told us: “We welcome Gordon’s intervention. This may be just the breath of fresh air this council has been looking for. Let’s face it, if Chef Ramsay can turn around a corrupt, anachronistic, run down organisation as grossly inefficient as ours and at the same time secure massive TV coverage, it’s got to be worth a little bit of public humiliation. I for one am perfectly comfortable with being called a “worthless fucking slug” or indeed the more comprehensive “a totally fucking unqualified fuckwit of a wanker who couldn’t organise a fucking shit in a fucking bucket”

WENDY WRITES
Your favourite Agony aunt is back, rehabbed, replenished and refreshed, with non-confidential, unqualified advice for the needy, the lovelorn or the just plain confused. Sponsored this issue by Wurlitzer Organs UK.

Dear Wendy,
I’m frantic. My husband Harry’s 50th birthday is three weeks away and he has all the gadgets a man could ever wish for (including a mechanical device he keeps in his shed but refuses to say what it’s for). He’s very musical, but recently returned from a business trip in the Far East with chronic incontinence which has sadly prevented him from continuing with his part-time job as church organist. Wendy – what can I buy him for his special day?
Mia Tryfel (Mrs),
Rumpelstiltskin, Kent

Dear Mrs Tryfel,
Let me assure you, there is no such thing as the man who has everything. I can think of no more appropriate a gift for your musically talented yet cruelly afflicted spouse, than the Pump ‘n Dump Commodium by Wurlitzer. With the aid of this medically-approved portable self-flushing combination reed organ and commode stool, your husband can safely resume his part-time occupation. His musical doodling will no longer be curtailed by the ominous rumble of nature calling unannounced. As your husband’s errant bowel is gently regulated, the pneumatic foot pedals pump pressurized air into the Commodium’s unique U-Pipe disposal pistons. Once the system is plumbed in to an external septic tank, any unpleasant waste is efficiently dealt with by the chaise percée-themed hygienic mahogony commode stool.
The Wurlitzer Pump ‘n Dump Commodium comes with a free starter pack of ‘sheet music’ toilet paper, featuring organ maestro Gottfried Schtumm’s moving selection of ‘relaxative’ melodies including Exodus, I Shall Be Released, The Old Log Cabin and many more.

 

 

 

 

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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Ithaka: The fight to free Julian Assange, this Sunday


All credit to ITV and Dartmouth Films in London for an ITV showing this Sunday, 21 May, of Ithaka, the moving story of Julian Assange’s family’s struggle to get freedom for Julian.

When I last saw Julian in Belmarsh prison, where he is held awaiting extradition to the US, it was clear he survived on hope that the public in sane societies would see through the grotesque charade of his persecution and come to his aid.

Julian is a political prisoner.

That is not a rhetorical term; his extraordinary story is the collapse of justice for those who dissent against the state in declared democracies. It signals the demise of truth-telling in public life and of independent journalism.

Please support Julian by watching on Sunday: ITV at 22.20. Then speak out for his freedom. It could be yours.

Follow John Pilger on Twitter @johnpilger

 

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Lunch/Sky…..

LUNCH

I have been invited
to somebody’s
“Book Lunch”

It might be a misprint
but
I hope it’s not

SKY

The sky
is like a painting
of the sea

only upside down

STRIKE

Half the country
is on strike today

so

No poetry writing for me today!

MEDITATION

My mind
wanders

Must buy
cheese!

LADDER

There is a man
over the way
on a ladder

I hope he doesn’t –

oh, he did

 

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Eric Eric 2023

 

 

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Irony


                                

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                             for John Phillips
 
 
I think you’re probably right that I don’t
do or get irony very well, if at all some
 
times, but I question whether it’s because
I’m an American. Is it? You’d know, over there,
 
being an Englishman living in the Slovenian
countryside. I’d write this poem if I could.

 

 

  

John Levy

 

 

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ORPHEUS  SON OF APOLLO

 

Roman Orpheus
Bear your lamb from harm   –
Protector of the lost and newly-born
The tender creature draped upon
Your adolescent shoulder
The only princely mantle you lay down

To frolic with the nightingales and fishes
Concordant yet transcending nature’s power   –
Your simple tunic boasts
No purple trim   –   authority
Lives only in the grace-notes of your lyre

One naked foot is pierced
By time’s narcotic thorn
But your eyes see all too clear   –
And so the ikon-makers shall suggest
Your candid poet’s face
A pattern of harmonic countenance
Beneath the un-recorded face of Christ

‘The Good Shepherd’ you become   – also
‘The Harrower of Hell’

Where hides that wounded fawn Eurydice
Your shy Byzantine princess?
‘Don’t look back’   –   she has become
In semblance of her bridal fresco
The numinous white flame of the Holy Virgin   –

South of Tiber’s sage-green trailing ribbon
Fountains   groves of olives   lemon gardens
Are her veil

 

 

Bernard Saint  
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

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Memory

Close to the church doorway

St. Mary’s, Harrow-on-the-Hill

Graves dot the steep hillside

Souls we never knew

If only they could stand

Look out beyond where they lay

To the vistas of Harrow Weald

For 1000 years from this citadel

If only they could hear each other

And dance in memorial shadows

Bluebells and forget-me-nots

Gathered around their stones

Robins, finches and sparrows sang

 As the sun crept over the horizon

A tethered cross leans by the chapel wall

Where stained glass figures look on.

Remembering, in the early morning light

A man stands quietly, cups an ear, listens

Says, ‘spread your wings, the angels call’

Places precious flowers on the new grave

  
 © Christopher 2023 

 
 
The young Byron sat on a tomb at St. Mary’s to write his poetry.
 
 
 
 
 
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Hospice Nurse

Her way of comforting plashed the grief that sprawled in syllables along pathways not woven fallen falling across once keepsake leaves on acres felt. Each footfall dotting a horizontal plane destined to reach unwanted locus imperfectly alone. Fragility resists insight while needing one fresh day unequal to escape. There is no living past what remains unfinished joy. Devotion interrupted shifts compass away from chanted true north as though a real concerto resisting what finality is imagined to achieve. 

Predicate, predictor, sheaths of color dimming toward transparency

 

 

Sheila E Murphy

 

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If every


If every moment is made of moments does every one of those moments require an explanation? Propagandists sniff at the perfumed corpse of the past to carry their own stink into what’s left of the future: Those were the days when… But this most recent was a summer of tipping points, flowers abundant on roadside verges here while north and south polar ice sheets were melting. Can it matter to a nearly blind mole and his black velvet hide that he has all this while been tunnelling through coal spoil? With these out-of-season weathers how am I now to read the rain?

 

 

Sam Smith

 

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COLOUR OF PAIN

When I see your rage
at fate’s vandalism
ripping the stitches
from your life,
I imagine your mind
holds a silence of red.
 
When I see the envy
as the world enjoys
its same old shams
you can`t now reach,
I imagine your mind
as a riot of green.
 
Yet I can`t tell the colour
that invades your mind
due to the depth of pain
your eyes aren’t hiding,
spreading its education
across your face.
 
But it must be
darker than black.

 

 

 
 Gordon Scapens

 

 

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INVENTING LEMMY {from Motorhead}


From the open platform of Hyde Central

The modern absence of chimneys
Would have overwhelmed the Victorians

What do people do
Without mills and factories
How do they pay the rent
Afford new hats

Perhaps they all work in Woolworths
Weighing sweets and selling
Just the Top Twenty singles, nothing

Wild or esoteric, nothing
By Motorhead

Did I mention that Lemmy
Lived (briefly) on Hattersley?

He was seeing a girl

I never met her
But I’ve no reason to doubt
The accuracy of the story

Why would you invent it?

 

 

 

Steven Taylor

 

 

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Don’t Say Nowt

     

Don’t Say Nowt

 

Jumble Hole Clough’s creator, Colin Robinson, describes it as ‘music influenced by the landscape, industrial remains and experiences around Hebden Bridge in West Yorkshire. Forgotten things half-hidden beneath the undergrowth.’ Robinson has now created forty-three albums under the Jumble Hole Clough name, the latest three being a trilogy based on written-down dreams (‘the minor transient documents of everyday life’, as he describes them). Over the previous forty, Robinson had moved gradually away from his self-imposed local brief. This trilogy, however, brings the world around Hebden Bridge back into focus: the calls of the curlews the crows and the sound of the church bells rising up from the valley (everyday experiences for anyone living around Hebden Bridge) mingle with more exotic, surreal dream-images. For example, someone – in one of the catchiest songs in the trilogy – has mysteriously filled the back of his car with riot-shields. I can’t explain why I like that song as much as I do any more than I suspect Colin Robinson can explain why he dreamt it.

The first album of the trilogy, with its ambiguous double-negative title, Don’t Say Nowt (and other dreams), contains conventional songs. Correction: conventional JHC songs, which is not quite the same thing. Conventional in JHC terms means short, sonically diverse and full of tongue-in-cheek surrealism. These are the dreams you were dreaming the moment you woke up: brief, vivid narratives with a logic of their own, which seemed perfectly reasonable while you were dreaming them.

Check it out on
https://asithappens55.blogspot.com/2023/05/dont-say-nowt.html

 

Dominic Rivron

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Steam’s Groove – (episode 24)

Steam Stock

Tracklist:
Galt MacDermot – Hair
Foxy – Madamoiselle
Ronnie Laws – Tidal Wave
Roy Ayers – I Like the Way You do it to Me
Ohio Players – Smoke
Soft Touch – Plenty Action
Betty Davis – Shoo-B-Doop and Cop Him
The Gaturs – Gator Bait
The Undisputed – Truth Ball of Confusion
Barry White – Playing Your Game Baby
Vaughan Mason and Crew – Rock, Skate, Roll, Bounce Pt.1
Vaughan Mason and Crew – Rock, Skate, Roll, Bounce Pt.2
Odyssey – Our Lives are Shaped by What We Love
Dionne Warwick – You’re Gonna Need Me

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DIRTY DIANA


Fluttering her eyeleashes at Kings, Billionaires,
Doctors, Soldiers, she flirted further
Than Cleopatra’s appeal.

There seemed to be no end to her need
To embroil every man; from rejection,
She still founded a kingdom from the walls

Of want most men feel. Today there was news
Of her saucy postcard sent to a former King
Of Greece. Her cum-punning, showed a low

But high sense of humour, and yet,
One can also discern the zones of danger
She courted; often indiscreet, her distemper

And that little girl blush cast a net
Snagging her as she snogged, promised more,
Or gave gladly. She could have played grandly

Into the studied hands of the dark
Who shaped restraint and the dire demand
For order, outdated now, but back then,

In the 90s, tradition could still stain and mark.
Of course, it was just a postcard. So this
Is little more than conjecture. Diana’s rule

Has grown greater than if she had made it
To Queen.She had a virtual army of men,
as did Margaret Thatcher. She could well have wrought

a republic from how high
She chose to raise her skirt seam. And God knows,
She had the divine right to do so; taking the pip

And piss is the province of those who are free.
And yet this piece of paper I saw, this tranche
Through tree makes me wonder; just how do we

Rouse the rebel if we are to sustain anarchy?
Women know best. But then they always do.
There’s no question.. Now, in the dream-world,

Diana is, while perhaps playfully posing,
Laughing with abandon as she teaches
Love itself how to be.

 

 

David Erdos 16/5/23

 

 

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Andrew Weatherall: AW60 – aka The Guv’nor

Some words and pics from Alan Dearling

A weekend of live music, DJs and mixers. Co-ordinated by Todmorden’s Golden Lion crew. A celebration of what would have been music producer, musician and DJ, Andrew Weatherall’s 60th birthday.

Eager crowds of dancers, plenty of May Bank Holiday high spirits immersed themselves amongst lots of memorabilia of Andrew’s life and musical careers, plus the presence of many members of the Weatherall family. Andrew W was last at the Golden Lion with his many world-wide 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 56 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 of Acid House and as the producer of Primal Scream’s ‘Loaded’ and ‘Screamadelica’ and My Bloody Valentine’s ‘Soon’. His own electronica trio, The Sabres of Paradise released three cult albums.

And so the 2023 ‘AW60’ event was a thoroughly mixed musical bag. It physically and sonically overlapped with the Todmorden Folk Festival weekend – Morris Men, clog dancers, fiddles and bagpipes were melded into the fabric of the local area, down by the Rochdale Canal and inside and outside venues, pubs and bars, cafes and eateries throughout Tod’s market streets and gunnels.

Sunday night at AW60, a variety of DJ sets and live, Andy Bell and Chris Rotter. Two guitarists…a relaxed, improvising-style set. More of a jam than a show, but delightfully intimate. Andy Bell is something akin to rock-royalty having been the co-founder of the band, Ride, often named as the creators of the ‘shoe-gazing’ style of music. But, Andy was also in Oasis for nearly ten years and in Liam Gallagher’s Beady Eye. He’s an innovator in electronic music, but is primarily a guitarist and bass-player, but most definitely with ‘added loops, pedals and effects’.  He’s also been working on his solo work (most recently the double album ‘Flicker’ 2022), new compositions with Chris Rotter and in Glok, plus occasional reunions with Ride. The sound of this duo gigging was strangely ethereal, jangling guitars and interweaving of soundscapes. Strange, but overall entrancing and enveloping. And a fitting tribute to Andrew Weatherall, who Andy Bell had worked alongside in many musical conflagrations. All in all, a magnificent party for the Guv’nor! Live Video: https://vimeo.com/822933811

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Revelation

My mind is a river bank my friend
The water keeps touching it.
It is a sentiment my friend
The memories keep recalling.
The wide sky
Paints its canvas;
It leaves
The caricature of togetherness.
Only the living code is the color of life
Under the blue sky.
Find me in a grain of sand
The horoscope of my working palm
Shows my fateful lines.
I create my meaning
Inside the deep cave
Of felt affection.
All abstract,
The weight of meaninglessness
Is like plucking the flowers
Without planting the seeds,
Aware of appreciation
Without knowing about the flower.
The cool water again,
Keeps touching the woods,
And time keeps reaching
The banks.
A revelation shows its face
In the morning mirror.

 

 

 

Copyright Sushant Thapa
Biratnagar-13, Nepal
Picture Nick Victor

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The Guilt Directory

 

It takes a long time for the threads of Empire to fray, and you still find them caught on your jewellery after you’ve pushed through the narrow library, with all its mythical heroes and unused telephone directories. You wonder which, death for death, was the most pernicious empire; but more than that you wonder what mythical heroes would make of telephone directories, being more used to scrolls and Roman numerals. Imagine Icarus running his waxy finger down the page as he searched for a cab to the airport, or Medusa checking for a local hair salon, both confused by these strange symbols that you take for granted. You read somewhere that Britain transported over three million Africans to its colonies between the mid-seventeenth century and 1807, but these numbers are too big to mean anything to you, and you feel like Pandora, face pressed into an empty jewellery box from somewhere your grandfather called The Orient, desperate for the residual scent of hope.

 

 

 

Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

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Cease & Resist – Sonic Subversion & Anarcho Punk In The UK 1979​-​86

This is the sound of attitude, argument, resistance and revolt, birthed long after the first punks came into view, owing as much to DIY bedroom experiment as ‘punk’ music. Anarcho Punk was more to do with politics than music, and if it at times it became simplistic propaganda, it never failed to provoke discussion and encourage the alternative networks of concerts, fanzines and music that existed at the time, pre-internet of course.

If at times the scene was reduced to slogans painted on knackered leather jackets, ripped jeans and spiked hair, it also produced surprisingly poppy music at times, and also the ‘sonic subversion’ or Crass and their associates like Annie Anxiety, both featured here. Anxiety’s track here, ‘Hello Horror’ is a still shocking aural collage, in total contrast to the accessible pop punk of Zounds, who kick off the compilation.

Elsewhere most of the music on here, even the Crass track, is more simplistic thrash, although synthesizer sounds beam into The Hit Parade’s contribution, Andy T declaims his poetry over abstract feedback and random radio, Alternative TV are just plain weird as usual, and the alternative version of The Mob’s classic ‘No Doves Fly Here’ is still achingly despairing and nihilist.

Whilst it’s disappointing that this compilation ignores the more experimental stuff Crass, Flux of Pink Indians (called Flux by then) and the Poison Girls released, this is neverthless a great double album, which is available from THE Optimo Records Bandcamp for just £10, with all profits being donated to Faslane Peace Camp and the Scottish Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament.

BUY HERE: LINK   https://optimomusic.bandcamp.com/album/cease-resist-sonic-subversion-anarcho-punk-in-the-uk-1979-86?from=search&search_item_id=1078696940&search_item_type=a&search_match_part=%3F&search_page_id=2602140370&search_page_no=1&search_rank=5&search_sig=7e3bc17f7e0e711faecd93105cae7cc4

Andy T – Death is Big Business

Chumbawamba – Revolution (Liberation/Stagnation)

‘Don’t sit back, it’s time to act
This life is ours, let’s snatch it back
Even though we disagree
we share a common enemy
Our methods may not be the same
But together we can break the chain
Different aims, different means,
with common ground in between
Don’t sit back, it’s time to act
This life is ours, let’s snatch it back
The time has come to make a choice
Stop taking orders from His Master’s Voice!’

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All About Love

 

O Sun O Moon, Bruce Cockburn (True North)

There was talk a little while ago, of Bruce Cockburn’s new album being like some of his (much) earlier work. For some of us that hopefully meant a resurrection of the Tom Verlaine-esque guitars on parts of 1978’s Further Adventures of, or the acidic despair and social observation of divorce album Humans and its follow up, the even grittier Inner City Front. But actually what it turns out to be is a return to the kind of music Cockburn made even before those: O Sun O Moon is a laid back singer-songwriter album, exquisitely arranged and produced, with vocals and acoustic guitars to the fore.

Cockburn is 78 and still going strong. He’s been making albums since 1970, I’ve been seeing him in concert since the late 70s; I even wrote my undergraduate dissertation on his work. Every time I think I might not worry about listening to new Cockburn albums any more he releases one that tries something different and re-energises my interest. At times that has been a renewed political engagement, at others a change in his band line-up, producer or just the fact he manages to succinctly capture the moment.

O Sun O Moon is a surprise turn away from political and social satire or commentary to a more personal, and also seemingly more straightforward, blues and folk based music, where texture and arrangement are the focus. It’s subtle, enticing music that isn’t afraid to remain stripped back but also welcomes clarinet, upright bass, accordion, glockenspiel, saxophones and marimba into the mix as and when required.

Cockburn sounds relaxed and slightly gruff vocally throughout, quiet and contemplative, whilst the album sounds as though it was recorded next door. It’s warm and enticing, with love – be that romantic, spiritual or sexual – often posed as not only the answer but a command from above:

   The pastor preaching shades of hate
   The self-inflating head of state
   The black and blue, the starved for bread
   The dread, the red, the better dead
   The sweet, the vile, the small, the tall
   The one who rises to the call
   The list is long — as I recall

   Our orders said to love them all
   The one who lets his demons win
   The one we think we’re better than
   A challenge great — as I recall
   Our orders said to love them all
          (‘Orders’)

There’s also what reads as more zen acceptance than despairing resignation, as long as his lover is there:

   What will go wrong will go wrong
   What will go right will go right
   Push come to shove

   It’s all about love
    The sight of your smile fills my heart with light
          (‘Push Come to Shove’)

Overall there’s sense of what-will-be-will-be and contentment. Wars and politics aren’t bothering Cockburn much at the moment, he’s not angry but more concerned with domestic routine (he has moved from Canada to San Francisco, and has a teenage daughter) and ageing gracefully. In fact dying gracefully. ‘O Sun O Moon By Night’ is a reflective song that looks backwards in time and forwards in hope:

   Pain brings understanding
   Your mistakes will set you free
   To sink into the spirit

   To clear your eyes to see

   O sun by day o moon by night

   Light my way so I get this right

   And if that sun and moon don’t shine
   Heaven guide these feet of mine

   To Glory

whilst the final song, ‘When You Arrive’ starts with the lovely lines ‘Breakfast is Mahler and coffee
 / Dinner’s Lightnin’ Hopkins and rye’, but notes that

   You’re limping like a three-legged canine
   Backbone creaking like a cheap shoe
   Dragging the accretions of a lifetime

   But you ought to make another mile or two

before optimistically suggesting that the dead will welcome him in the end. (Yes, I know it says ‘you’re limping’ but I read it as poetic license.):

   And the dead shall sing

   To the living and the semi-alive
   Bells will ring when you arrive

Cockburn is an astonishing musician, performer, songwriter and political activist. Over the course of 38 studio albums he’s charted the ups and down of life, relationships and friendships, faith and doubt, embraced the urban and rural, pointed out political lies and encouraged revolutionary fervour. He’s visited and documented refugee camps, war zones and tropical paradises, campaigned for various causes and charities, turned nature into mystical visions and kept making great albums. This is one of them.

 

Rupert Loydell

                        Bruce Cockburn • August 2023 UK Tour

                        Thursday 24        Oxford           02 Academy
                        Friday 25              London          02 Shepherd’s Bush Empire
                        Saturday 26         Kettering       Greenbelt Festival


Photo by Daniel Keebler

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Restoration, Repair, Regeneration

Broken, Katie Treggiden (Ludion)

I confess that this book’s subtitle ‘Mending and repair in a throwaway world’ but mostly the fact that the Foreword is written by Jay Blades put me off reading this book for a while. Both are in many ways irrelevant to what this book is actually about; it certainly has very little to do with the tearful nostalgia peddled by TV’s Repair Shop (which Blades presents) as they return mended items to their grateful owners. It is also not about ‘making do’ or ‘patching things up’ but much more radical and interesting topics such as ‘Repair as storytelling’, ‘Repair as activism’, ‘Repair as healing’ and ‘Regeneration as repair’.

These are the titles of the book’s individual sections, the first of which is to do with the seemingly more ordinary ‘Restoration of function’, which talks to makers who have skills such as chair caning, and to the inventor of Sugru – a plastic I have never heard of but looks absolutely fantastic. It is a ‘mouldable glue’, made in a number of vibrant colours, which has the ability to be wrapped around or between all manner of previously difficult-to-repair items such as cables, zip tags and, if you don’t mind a crazy paving look, ceramics. Some of those featured here talk about resisting a throwaway society but also more importantly of the fact that ‘Fixing objects is a way of taking ownership’. Disappointingly, Vincent Dassi who I have just quoted, along with Jude Dennis & Hannah Stanton, who ‘use furniture as a medium for the exploration of ideas’, create objects that most people, myself included, will probably not want in their home. That’s actually unfair to Dennis & Stanton, as they use their chairs as sculptural props in performances designed to provoke their audiences to ‘think differently about their furniture, what’s in it, where it comes from, and who has made it.’

‘Repair as storytelling’ is about the history that objects we own sometimes contain, and that we perhaps need more than we think as humans living in a throwaway society where built-in obsolescence is the norm. Whilst we find it hard to manage our clutter and possessions (let alone digital information) we all too often end up rootless and unable to position ourselves within familial, communal or social histories and geographies. Keiko Matsui notes that ‘People will not repair a broken object if it is not personal, valuable or historical… it must have a story, a connection to the heart, in some way.’ Re-animating, discovering or perhaps even inventing such stories seems to be what the artists in this section are doing. Celia Pym highlights the darns and repairs she makes in bright colours to construct fashion items which map ‘where holes happen’, but also makes sculptures or reliefs from stitching wool into paper bags, emphasising the crumpled textures and darning interventions.

Bouke de Vries reassembles broken ceramics in a deconstructed manner, sometimes highlighting the repaired cracks with gold leaf, at other times placing the pieces in a glass version of the original pot. Matsui at times does something similar, drawing on the art of kingtsugi, which embraces damage and repair, but she is also exploring yobtisugi, where missing fragments are replaced with pieces from other ceramics. In her case this often involves using ‘old shards if blue and white Japanese porcelain, in a way that integrates [her] identity with the cultural connection to my new home in Australia.’

Raewyn Harrison explores similar ideas of cultural connection by curating and assembling found objects, often from mudlarking expeditions by the Thames, into handmade porcelain boxes or thrown pots. Hans Tan initiated a design project in Singapore to challenge design students to repair objects for an exhibition he curated, R for Repair. The students also had to produce a little ‘repair kit’ which would enable others to do something similar. This wasn’t simply about ‘mending’ but totally rethinking and recontextualising the object. So a watch became a clock by being set in a wooden block; a tote bag was turned inside out, with elastic rope netting added to the (now) outside as extra storage; a precious cup with its handle broken off was smoothed down to make a usable drinking vessel for its owner, whilst the handle was given a small wooden box to rest in.

In the next section some makers appear to work in similar ways but frame their practice as political resistance, not only to capitalism’s demands for endless production and purchasing but also the way it ignores poverty, environmental issues, and our broken community and society. It is craft as a form of protest. Sometimes this is in-your-face sloganeering, for instance Bridget Harvey’s giant jumper with the slogan MEND MORE BUY LESS on, carried on the Global Protest March back in 2015, other times it is a more subtle highlighting of the beauty of wear and tear, the inbuilt stories in what we wear. Aya Haidar produces witty installations of used clothing hung on washing lines, with each item’s particular history annotated in stitch: ‘Produced Milk’ declaims a slip, ‘scrubbed poo off pants’ announces a pair of pants, ‘Painted fence’ states an old rag; whilst in other works she highlights stains and marks and tears by stitching colours around them. Other works here may be political acts but once again, you’d have to like them a lot to want Paulo Goldstein’s anarchically DIY repaired furniture in your house or the naively painted, smashed and awkwardly reassembled pots which Claudia Clare sees as a metaphorical representation of sexualised violence against women.

Perhaps more subtle and interesting is the work in the next section, which considers ‘Repair as healing’, referring to personal healing, not the objects concerned. Ekta Kaul’s embroidered textile work explores lost connections, with an early piece mapping out her grandmother’s Indian neighbourhood as a way of exploring her cultural and family past. Later pieces such as ‘Portrait of Place’ were co-created with community groups who learnt traditional Indian stitching techniques in addition to being able to produce a map of their West London, where the workshops took place. (It also happens to be my West London!) I was surprised and delighted to see artist Lucy Willow’s work showcased here, particularly because the work discussed is from an exhibition I saw in 2022. Drawn from the Well was an exploration of grief in response to Willow’s almost 16 year old son dying back in 2006. The work included charcoal drawing and porcelain ceramics, some broken and exhibited as pieces on the floor, others organic yet abstract shapes containing textiles made from her son’s clothes. Deeply personal symbolism, and the artist’s acts of creating by ‘tearing, ripping, stabbing, breaking’ re-present a raw, personal response to loss, and offer a space for others to remember, mourn and think; perhaps to even be healed.

Aono Fumiaki makes sculptural assemblages from what others have discarded, but it is perhaps his reinvention, which he calls ‘restoration’, of items from the great East Japan earthquake and tsunami that is the most striking. Here, original damaged items are seamlessly combined with other items as sculpture or objects: a TV remote is cradled in shaped driftwood, a section of a wrecked boat merges with two occasional tables and rests on chests of drawers. They are strange and alluring, unsettling even, in stark contrast to the more traditional (but beautiful) tables and chairs made by Marie Cudennec Carlisle & Daniel Barco which follow. These craftspeople share woodworking skills through an academy teaching schoolchildren and young offenders, offer free workshops to members of the public on low income, and run a joinery where they make and sell bespoke furniture from donated and rescued wood. They are also active in their community running The People’s Kitchen, which uses surplus food to make restaurant quality meals and offers a space for meeting and eating. They somehow bridge the extreme gap between poverty and affluence the Borough of Kensington and Chelsea offers. Bachor and Linda Brothwell are also hands-on artists in different communities. The former fills in potholes and often tops them with mosaic images, whilst the latter uses skills to intervene, decorate and repair in public spaces: wood inlays in benches, missing letters in old signs replaced using beautiful brass. These are all parts of her Acts of Care project, which she documents as she goes along.

The final section is mostly about sourcing material, being aware of where stuff comes from, and helping to sustain the Earth. It is about makers who choose to build a relationship with not only the materials they use but those who provide it. Artist and designer Fernando Laposse returned to Mexico, where he grew up, and was appalled by the environmental and social changes. He now provides a market for those who grow agave – a resilient self-sufficient plant which helps create good soil that corn can then be grown on – because sisil which is used to make rope is a by-product, and has also invented a veneer material made from the waste products of corn. Sarah Grady and Alice Robinson have established ‘a new network for producing leather in the UK, utilising hides from the farms whose regenerative practices they want to support’. As part of that they ‘maintain traceability through all stages of production’ and give other ‘designers and brands a choice when it comes to the leather they use.’ Sebastian Cox manages his own woodland and uses only coppiced wood in the making of his furniture. He remembers being amazed as a child just how quickly a deforested landscape grows back. Gavin Christman is more of an interventionist: he produces blocks, bricks and posts which offer homes for bees, bats, swifts and sparrows, all of which re made to standard sizes and can be included within otherwise normal construction practices

I don’t like all of the work showcased in this volume, and there are questions to be asked about how fine art or crafts can change the world beyond highlighting or showcasing issues; especially when they remain part of the capitalist marketplace. But many of the projects here which also intervene to mend, repair and change attitudes, communities and skillsets are provocative and fascinating to read about. I also remain drawn towards Willow’s exploration of grief (something our society does not cope with very well), Harrison’s recontextualisations of what the Thames offers up to her and us, along with Haidar’s subtle evocation and highlighting of personal histories embedded in clothing.

As I implied at the start of this review, this book isn’t really what I expected it to be. It’s much wider, more thoughtful, more diverse and much better in its content, contextualisation and considerations. I can’t summarise it better than this quote which prefaces Katie Tregidden’s own Introduction:

    … other things can be repaired. Objects, of course.
     Traditions can be. Hope can be. Emotions eventually.
     But it requires cautious handling, patience and care.
     Old hope can age beautifully.
          – Otto von Busch

 

           

Rupert Loydell

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LOVE!

Love……

A place where dreams and hopes take flight,
A vision that fills with delight.

It requires patience, trust and respect,
And gives us wings to fly and perfect.

A seed that blossoms and grows,
An affection that overflows.

A force that moves the world,
A flame that burns eternal and unfurled.

A gift that is given and received,
A bond that cannot be deceived.

A light that guides in the night,
A beacon that shines bright.

A mystery that can’t be defined,
It’s an emotion that transcends time.

A depth of feeling that runs so true,
A love that will refresh brew.

 

 

 

Monalisa Parida
Picture Nick Victor

 

Bio:- Monalisa Parida is a post graduate student of English literature from India, Odisha and a prolific poetess. She is very active in social media platforms and her poems have also been translated into different languages and publish in various e-journals.
She has got 100 international award for writing poetry. Her poems have been publishing international e-journals “New York parrot”, “The Writers Club” (USA), “Suriyadoya literary foundation”, “kabita Minar”, “Indian Periodical” (India) and “Offline Thinker “, “The Gorkha Times “ ( Nepal), “The Light House”(Portugal), “Bharatvision”(Romania), “International cultural forum for humanity and creativity”(Aleppo, Syria), “Atunispoetry.com”(Singapore) etc. And also published in various newspapers like “The Punjabi Writer Weekly(USA)”, “News Kashmir (J&K, India)”, Republic of Sungurlu (Turkey)” etc.
One of her poem published an American anthology named “The Literary Parrot Series-1 and series-2 respectively (New York, USA)”. Her poems have been translated in various languages like Hindi, Bengali, Turkish, Persian, Romanian etc. And she is the author of the book “Search For Serenity”, “My Favourite Grammar”, “Paradigm”, “Beyond Gorgeous”.

 

 

 

 

 

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A Mirror At The Base of A Third World Store

Even before the infusion of the dark
roasted beans and the water,
even before I wake up
and realise that I am awake, I stroll
amidst the empty market
towards its lone magazine stall.

I pass one makeshift shop
on the pavement, built
with the junkyard jewels.
It has a mirror fitted granite top
of some washbasin as its base.
The store depends on the top’s sturdiness.

I stop every morning, stare at what
my old tutor would have described as
juxtaposition and I gaze
at my feet reflected in the glass.
There they are – floating, baseless.
I walk my ghost through the playground
of clouds, thin air, standstillness, stupor.

 

 

Photo and words Kushal Poddar

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Unicorn

 

 

Sophie was asleep, curled up on the settee, the head of her favourite unicorn pressed close to her face. I didn’t want to disturb her, so I went into the bedroom as soon as my mobile started to ring. It was Sam. He asked me, had I noticed anything strange about Sophie recently? It was a strange question for an absent father like Sam to ask, I thought, but I didn’t say so. I just said no, which was the truth. Run your fingers across her forehead, he said. I can’t right now, I said. She’s asleep on the settee, curled up with Roxie. I don’t want to wake her up. Who on earth’s Roxie? he said. Her favourite unicorn, I said. You should know that, you’re her father. Well, do it when she wakes up, he said. Check if it’s smooth. What are you going on about? I said. This unicorn thing, he said. She could be turning into a unicorn. See if you can feel a horn growing in the middle of her forehead. I jabbed the phone, cut him off. I can do without him phoning me up, taking the piss.

A few minutes later, the phone rang again. It was Sam. I thought, should I or shouldn’t I, then answered it. I wanted someone to talk to and arguing with Sam was better than nothing. It passed the time. He carried on where he’d left off. I’m being serious, he said. Kids are turning into unicorns. Yes, whatever you say, Sam, I said, in my tired, fuck-you voice. Goodnight.

I didn’t believe a word of it, but I googled it nevertheless. It turned out, of course, that he hadn’t made it up. There were stories out there. There were pictures, video clips even. It’s so easy to fake stuff, though: to take it all at face value you’d have to be as stoned as Sam was most of the time. It was all just too stupid for words.

By the following morning, though, it’d hit the headlines. It wasn’t just an internet rumour: it was official. Children were turning into unicorns. Nobody knew quite what to do about it. We were told not to panic. A journalist with a microphone standing outside Number 10 said he understood the government COBRA committee were meeting later that morning. Plans would be made. Guidance would be issued. Days went by. Advice sheets came in the post and posters appeared on school gates. It told you what you could do to reduce the risk (not a lot, at that time) and what to do if your child turned into a unicorn. Otherwise, life went on as normal, at least round our way.

About a week later, the government started publishing a graph on the internet every day, telling you how many children had turned into unicorns. There was even a map of Britain, too, with unicorn hot-spots shown in red. Manchester, Newcastle and London were the worst hit back then. Leeds was blue, which was worse than green but better than red. We were dark green, which was just slightly worse than light green.

Everyone remembers those first few weeks. The government called in the army and got them to erect emergency stable blocks. It quickly became clear too that, within days, Britain would run out of hay. There was talk of imports, although other countries in Europe were facing the same problem. Unicorns need space to graze. Sheep farms were requisitioned for grazing and farmers compensated. It didn’t come to much, though. A few people were found grazing for their offspring-turned-unicorns, but many more weren’t. And then, even well-provided for unicorns often ran away. Most of them ended up grazing in parks or on the grass verges of ring roads and suchlike places. Many got knocked down (like they still do). One Tory MP found herself ridiculed for suggesting the government was doing too much: horses were less bother than children, she said, and surely everyone had space to graze a unicorn. Another suggested that if there were too many unicorns, and as they weren’t human beings anymore, perhaps the best thing would be to cull them. This, on the whole, was accepted with a shrug by older people, but greeted angrily by young people with families. Fresh advice was issued: if your child turns into a unicorn, don’t give it too many sweet treats like sugar lumps because it’ll rot their teeth.

I remember the first time I saw a unicorn (doesn’t everyone?). It was in the small play-area at the end of our street. It’s all grass, with a swing and a slide in the middle. There’s a privet hedge and a fence all the way round it, so the children can’t run out into the road. The poor thing was about waist-height, bright pink and glittery. It looked confused and agitated. It kept cantering from one side of the area to the other. Every now and again it stopped in the middle and tried climbing sometimes onto on the swing, sometimes the slide. It’s hooves kept slipping off the equipment and it kept almost falling over. Then it would whinny and start cantering around again. I kept my distance and kept walking. Everyone takes them for granted now, but it was frightening back then. I felt so sorry for it, though. It was obviously still a child on the inside and couldn’t understand why it didn’t have arms and legs like a human. That’s what it’s like for them, they say, straight after they turn. It takes them time to adjust. Luckily, Sophie never turned, but I heard other parents at school say how, when they do, if you can get close enough to them to look into their eyes, you can still see the child in there. I’m not quite sure what they meant by it, but that’s what they said. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking.

I suppose the unicorn cults started up about then. They claimed the children who turned into unicorns were special children. They went out looking for unicorns and started venerating them. They claimed the whole thing was nothing to worry about. We were privileged to be living through a very special time, they said.

As the weeks went by, the scientists began to find out more about what was going on. Children with unicorn toys, they decided, were the ones most prone to becoming unicorns. Parents were told to confiscate and destroy them. There was much talk about a batch that had been imported from the Philippines but, as we all now know, it was all unicorns. Worryingly, they discovered that once a child began to turn, but before the changes became visible, they could pass the condition on to other children.

Of course, I was worried about Sophie. One night, as she slept, I carefully withdrew Roxie from her grasp. I cut him up into tiny shreds and put him in the bin. The next morning I told her that unicorns were magical animals and you never know when a unicorn might be called away to the magic unicorn land and that, however much they love you and want to stay with you, when they’re called they have to go. I remember thinking it sounded a bit lame and I should’ve come up with a better story, but she seemed to accept it.

As time went on, scientists discovered that the condition only affected children under twelve. The sense of relief when Sophie’s twelfth birthday came round was palpable. It was around that time she told me that of course she knew I’d taken Roxie and thrown him in the dustbin. She never lost her love of unicorns, though. When she left school she was lucky enough to gain an internship at the local unicorn sanctuary. She still helps out there.

After a few years, the unicorns started having baby unicorns. Foals grazing on the roadside became a common sight. Talk about cute. There was talk in parliament about birth control for unicorns, but it never got very far. The scientists, though, finally managed to come up with a vaccine for humans. The unicorn cults were against it, but most people were all for it. When it was rolled out, parents queued round the block with their children at the vaccination centres. You still get the odd one – usually, kids whose whose parents refused to get them vaccinated – but, generally, children don’t turn into unicorns anymore. Politicians began to talk about ‘living with unicorns’.

As everyone knows, unicorns have magic powers. It’s said that a unicorn’s tears have healing properties. The unicorn cultists bottle them and sell them. The same goes for unicorn horns. At first, unscrupulous people took to sawing the horns off roadkill but as time went on, a black market for powdered horn developed, fed by sinister poaching gangs. And not only that, but, as unicorn numbers increased, people began to notice a change in the weather. There’s a great deal more in the way of fine drizzle than there used to be. Whenever you look up into the sky these days, the chances are somewhere you’ll see a rainbow.

 

 

 

Dominic Rivron
Picture amalgamation Nick Victor

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HOW TO SHINE

 

On Insight’s Lost in a Summer (2023)


With a Lotus Eaters still sheen, Insight’s Lost in a Summer

Song-shimmers; a piece of more than perfect pop pressing
Spectacular sun through the rain
                                                               of an Essex recording day

Where Nathan Wacey produces, summoning George Martin,
And Glyn Johns and Leckie, as he steers young musicians
From first stumbling steps to sound fame.

And this should be a band on the rise as this song sounds ecstatic;
Full of joy and the struggle of the eager heart’s wanting way.
For there are tears in the eye bred by the waters of yearning

As singer, songwriter and bassist, Ben Brocklebank’s mind
Has its say. From the first few seconds we know
That this is a quality product. Jake Doy and Callum Pitt’s

Guitars are a chorus singing for us through the strings.
Dan Doy’s drums keep us fixed to the pulse of love
Passing through it, as Wacey weaves each part wisely

Following the thread as Ben sings. This first song
Elevates and escalates past perfection. In sound, it brothers
Reference and reminders, but is original, fresh, and a friend,

Ushering in former songs without being like them.
It has Lotuses, La’s, Cast, Kubb, others, while showing that
Wacey’s own House of Love has no end.

There is a trace of the Cocteau’s Robin Guthrie here too, 
As dreampop meets Shoegaze, as I feel the years washing
From me, rinsed by the sound Nathan’s caught.

There are so many groups in so many corners
But unlike every small spider, or insect these beatling
Brothers in flesh and faith have now taught

How youth in its climb can claim the stars quickly.
Each chord they play glistens courtesy of the desk.
At 2.56 there’s a pause as the message sounds redelivered.

Brocklebank’s voice climbs the star-steps as we can’t wait
To hear what comes next. At 4.36 this one song for me
Restores visions. Times, too and feelings that I went through

At their age. When Pop did not pass, and yet also meant
Transportation, from the slow world of men barely stirring
To the faster States of becoming. Songs were spells.

I remember. And so here with this magic I, in one listen
Predict a bright future in which these small stars start
Shining, in either Essex, or Eden. They are not lost.

They hold summer. Dream as they dare.
Seek their stage.

 

                                                                    David Erdos 7/5/23

 

 

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Well I didn’t vote for you

Monty Python’s Constitutional Peasants


Repression is Nine Tenths of the Law

ARTHUR: I am your king!

WOMAN: Well, I didn’t vote for you.

ARTHUR: You don’t vote for kings.

WOMAN: Well, how did you become King, then?

ARTHUR: The Lady of the Lake,…

   [angels sing]

…her arm clad in the purest shimmering samite, held aloft Excalibur from the bosom of the water signifying by Divine Providence that I, Arthur, was to carry Excalibur.

   [singing stops]

That is why I am your king!

DENNIS: Listen. Strange women lying in ponds distributing swords is no basis for a system of government. Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some farcical aquatic ceremony.

ARTHUR: Be quiet!

DENNIS: Well, but you can’t expect to wield supreme executive power just ’cause some watery tart threw a sword at you!

ARTHUR: Shut up!

DENNIS: I mean, if I went ’round saying I was an emperor just because some moistened bint had lobbed a scimitar at me, they’d put me away!

ARTHUR: Shut up, will you? Shut up!

DENNIS: Ah, now we see the violence inherent in the system.

ARTHUR: Shut up!

DENNIS: Oh! Come and see the violence inherent in the system! Help! Help! I’m being repressed!

ARTHUR: Bloody peasant!

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The Good Luck of Your Bad Luck

Marcus Aurelius on the Stoic strategy for weathering life’s waves and turning suffering into strength.

The Marginalian (formerly Brain Pickings)

  • Maria Popova

marcus aurelius portrait, side profile

Most people live with a great deal more suffering than is visible to even the most proximate and sensitive onlooker. Many have survived things both unimaginable and invisible to the outside world. This has been the case since the dawn of our species, for human nature has hardly changed beneath the continually repainted façade of our social sanctions — human beings have always been capable of inflicting tremendous pain on each other and capable of triumphal healing.

There is, however, a peculiar modern phenomenon that might best be described as a culture of competitive trauma. In recent times, the touching human longing for sympathy, that impulse to have our suffering recognized and validated, has grown distorted by a troubling compulsion for broadcast-suffering and comparative validity. Personhoods are staked on the cards dealt and not the hands played, as if we evolved the opposable thumbs of our agency for nothing. In memoirs and reality shows, across infinite Alexandrian scrolls of social media feeds, the unlucky events of life have become the currency of attention and identification.

There is a way, with moderate moral imagination and considerable countercultural courage, to subvert this tendency without turning away from the reality and magnitude of suffering that we do live with — a way to esteem in attention and admiration not the unluckiness of what has happened to us but the luckiness that, despite it, we have become the people we are and have the lives we have by the sheer unwillingness to stay in that small dark place, which is at heart a willingness to be larger than our hurt selves.

It is not a new way of reframing personal narrative (which, after all, is the neuropsychological pillar of identity). It is a very old way, common to many of the world’s ancient traditions but most clearly and creatively articulated by the Stoic philosopher Marcus Aurelius (April 26, 121–March 17, 180).

Because the modern mind calculates validity of vantage point by estimating the comparative value of suffering, it must be observed that, later in life, Marcus Aurelius had it easier than most of his contemporaries, being Emperor; it must also be observed that, earlier in life, he had it harder than most, being a fatherless child and a queer teenager in Roman antiquity, epochs before the notion of LGBTQ rights, or for that matter most human rights. It is hardly surprising that he turned to Stoicism for succor and training in living with the uncertainty of events and the certainty of loss.

His timeless Meditations (public library), newly translated and annotated by the British classics scholar Robin Waterfield, were the original self-help — Marcus wrote these notebooks primarily as notes to himself while learning how to live: how to live with more agency, equanimity, and even joy in a world violently unpredictable at all times and especially so in his time.

In one of those self-counsels, Marcus Aurelius considers the key to regarding one’s own life, and living it, with positive realism:

Be like a headland: the waves beat against it continuously, but it stands fast and around it the boiling water dies down. “It’s my rotten luck that this has happened to me.” On the contrary, “It’s my good luck that, although this has happened to me, I still feel no distress, since I’m unbruised by the present and unconcerned about the future.” What happened could have happened to anyone, but not everyone could have carried on without letting it distress him. So why regard the incident as a piece of bad luck rather than seeing your avoidance of distress as a piece of good luck? Do you generally describe a person as unlucky when his nature worked well? Or do you count it as a malfunction of a person’s nature when it succeeds in securing the outcome it wanted?

With an eye to “what human nature wants” — what life ultimately demands as it lives itself through us, and what our highest answer is — he concludes:

Can what happened to you stop you from being fair, high-minded, moderate, conscientious, unhasty, honest, moral, self-reliant, and so on — from possessing all the qualities that, when present, enable a man’s* nature to be fulfilled? So then, whenever something happens that might cause you distress, remember to rely on this principle: this is not bad luck, but bearing it valiantly is good luck.

Complement with an equally counterintuitive and perspective-broadening modern case for the luckiness of death and Alan Watts on the ambiguity of good and bad luck, then revisit other highlights from the indispensable Meditations: Marcus Aurelius on how to handle disappointing people, the key to living with presence, the most potent motivation for work, and how to begin each day for maximum serenity of mind.

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In Memoriam Gordon Lightfoot

 

Gordon Meredith Lightfoot Jr. CC OOnt (November 17, 1938 – May 1, 2023) was a Canadian singer-songwriter and guitarist who achieved international success in folk, folk-rock, and country music. He is credited with helping to define the folk-pop sound of the 1960s and 1970s.[1] He has been referred to as Canada’s greatest songwriter[2] and his songs have been recorded by some of the world’s most renowned musical artists.[3] Lightfoot’s biographer Nicholas Jennings said, “His name is synonymous with timeless songs about trains and shipwrecks, rivers and highways, lovers and loneliness.”[4]

Lightfoot’s songs, including “For Lovin’ Me”, “Early Morning Rain“, “Steel Rail Blues”, “Ribbon of Darkness“—a number one hit on the U.S. country chart[5] with Marty Robbins‘s cover in 1965—and “Black Day in July”, about the 1967 Detroit riot, brought him wide recognition in the 1960s. Canadian chart success with his own recordings began in 1962 with the No. 3 hit “(Remember Me) I’m the One”, followed by recognition and charting abroad in the 1970s. He topped the US Hot 100 or Adult Contemporary (AC) chart with the hits “If You Could Read My Mind” (1970), “Sundown” (1974); “Carefree Highway” (1974), “Rainy Day People” (1975), and “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” (1976), and had many other hits that appeared in the top 40.[6]

Several of Lightfoot’s albums achieved gold and multi-platinum status internationally. His songs have been recorded by many notable artists.[7] The Guess Who recorded a song called “Lightfoot” on their 1968 album Wheatfield Soul; the lyrics contain many Lightfoot song titles.

Robbie Robertson of the Band described Lightfoot as “a national treasure”.[8] Bob Dylan, also a Lightfoot fan, called him one of his favourite songwriters and said, “I can’t think of any Gordon Lightfoot song I don’t like. Every time I hear a song of his, it’s like I wish it would last forever…. “.[9] Lightfoot was a featured musical performer at the opening ceremonies of the 1988 Winter Olympic Games in Calgary, Alberta and has received numerous honours and awards.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gordon_Lightfoot

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FRED CONRAD PETER

 

FRED
 
Fred had some worrying appetites
A couple of which kept him awake most nights.
 
He wanted to see beyond all seeing,
To pierce the veil that engulfs all Being;
 
In Fred’s family this kind of thing was typical:
Ma and Pa and sister Flo were also metaphysical.
 
 
 

CONRAD
 
Conrad was often approached by tramps
who wanted to know if his head was held on by clamps.
 
Disconnectedness of mind from body
might prompt him to share his giant rum toddy.
 
But Conrad had no intention of sharing his booze
and what happened next made the 11 o’clock News.
  

 
PETER
 
Peter the Poetess advertised themself on Twitter
as available for readings and workshops, and as a babysitter
 
but readers and parents are mostly inclined
to think gender is real and not just a state of mind.
 
Be that as it may, their rates are quite reasonable
but, at a push, they are also negotiable.
 

 

 

Copyright © Mark Halliday & Martin Stannard, 2023

 

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