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THE DIARY OF A GENTLEMAN-POET

Sunday, October 6th

I took Winnie out for a long walk this morning. It wasn’t the best of weather, but I felt like I needed the fresh air and leg work. Sometimes I think I’m too sedentary. Is that the right word? It sounds wrong, and a bit medical. But it’s of no consequence. Nobody’s going to check.

I like this:

Come and look at the happiness; trees in the cooling breezes

            Are tossing their branches

Like dancers’ hair and with sunshine and rain the sky

            Is playing on the earth

As though joy had hands and were raising a loud music

            And light and shadows,

Pass in succession and harmony over the hills

            Away like the myriad

Notes that swarm in a loving quarrel

            Over a lute.

A bit of me wishes I could write that sort of thing, but I can’t. The reason I can’t is, I think, because I would never see the world that way, even though I’d like to, all of which is (I’m pretty sure) stating the bleeding obvious.

Melissa telephoned. I forget why.

Tuesday, October 8th

Once a month we get a visit from a man in a van who sells fresh fish. I can never remember his name, but it’s of no consequence. I think Cook has a soft spot for him, because he always seems to spend an inordinate long time with her in the kitchen with a cup of tea and a cake and they’re always guffawing at something or other. But I’ll say this: he sells excellent fish, and Cook always makes some decent choices. On his van there’s a slogan. Under his name (whatever it is) it says “Not just a fish merchant.” I always think about asking him what else he is besides a fish merchant, but I don’t want to risk getting into a conversation where I might find myself out of my depth. He might be a contract killer. Or worse, he could be a poet. So I keep my distance.

Melissa telephoned. She wanted to know if I needed to buy any toys as gifts for Christmas, because she knows a man etc. Toys? Toys?

Wednesday, October 9th

I took Winnie with me and had lunch at The Crumpled Old Man – a ploughman’s and a pint of best bitter, quite traditional and old school. The landlord there likes Winnie, and always gives her a bowl of water and some kind of meaty treat, the big softie. It rained on us on the walk back, and we arrived home somewhat sodden.

Melissa telephoned. She was complaining about “the youth” in the neighbourhood. At least, that’s what Cook told me. She took the call. And Cook said that what Melissa said was of no consequence. That’s a turn up for the books!

Algernon Tenderloin stopped by to tell me he’d be stopping by again soon to let me have a copy of his new slim volume of verse. These slim  (and sometimes not so slim) volumes of his come along at quite a rate. He’s what they call ‘prolific’. Some also say “not very good”. But I keep my own counsel.

Thursday, October 10th

Today while browsing my bookshelves I stumbled upon a book I didn’t realize I had: a Penguin edition of Martial’s “The Epigrams”.  I must have picked it up second-hand, because it’s well-worn and someone has underlined all the dirty bits in it, and it wasn’t me, guv, honest. They are sometimes quite dirty:

Cocks like wet leather that won’t get a stand on
However hard your hand pumps.

They are also immensely readable, commentating on what the Introduction lists as Rome’s “shops, amphitheatres law, courts, lavatories, temples, schools, tenements, gardens, taverns and public baths. Its dusty or muddy streets filled with traffic, religious processions and never ending business, its slaves millionaires. prostitutes, philosophers, quacks, balls, touts, dinner-cadgers, fortune hunters, poetasters, politicians and layabouts.” I’m planning to steal some of that for a poem. Don’t tell anybody!

Melissa telephoned. I was reading at the time, one-handed.

I can’t think of anything else to write. Probably nothing of any consequence happened today.

Friday, October 11th

Melissa telephoned. Cook answered because I was in the middle of breakfast. She should know better than to phone before 11.

Dominic Borderline dropped by, but I’m not sure why. I think he must have been at a loose end, because he had nothing to say, no conversation, and spent most of his hour-long visit staring out of the window. I suspect there’s some kind of inconsequential anguish in his domestic life. Whatever may be going on in that arena may be of consequence to him but it’s of no consequence to me, and I was relieved when he heaved a great sigh and said he had to be going.

Saturday, October 12th

I’m not saying if it’s of any consequence or not, but the works of genius I sent in response to an invitation from a place that has always been good to me in the past, and whose people have always somewhat championed my work . . . well, they have been declined, with a note from the editors to say they’re wondering if I have anything else I could send. Well, I do, but I’m not going to, and they can bloody well wonder on. I sent them good stuff. I only have good stuff. I am affronted. (I think that’s the word.)

Melissa telephoned. The call went unanswered, because Cook was out and I couldn’t be bothered. Cook had said she needs a new chopping-board, and that she needed to go into town to find something suitable from a specialist store. Are there specialist chopping-board stores? Anyway, I think she might have mentioned this before when I wasn’t paying attention, but she started in on a long explanation of how a decent cook can’t use just any old chopping board and she was going on and on and  .  .  . Just go, I said. I wasn’t really in the mood to listen.

 

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James Henderson (Gentleman)

 

 

 

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BEFORE THE VOTES {are counted, verified accepted or contested}

Demolish Trump Tower (completely)

and sell the bits to visiting Russians
at ten dollars a brick with a signature
verified as similar (if not identical)

to the former President’s. Use the money raised
to welcome immigrants, especially women in
peasant blouses, who crossed the Rio Grande

laughing at absurdity, and loving Frida Kahlo

Give away the novels of Paco Ignacio Taibo

He’s one of my favourite authors. Fill the
void created by the fallen tower with nitrous
oxide and high-grade helium, so that Donald

will be always be remembered
for talking funny by giddy stoners

It’s what Melania would have wanted

 

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Steven Taylor

Picture

 

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ARGONAUTIC POEM

The coal black of the ship’s hull—
the powder blue of the water—
the canary yellow sky;
who the hell painted this picture?
The porthole slams shut.
The lights buzz on. The shadows
resume their archaic positions.

You move towards an outer world
with an inner world close behind
so that your feet are straddling both
while your mind is left to dwell
in some interstitial crucible
of blazing indeterminacy
and ultramarine coordinates.

 

 

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Mark Terrill
Collage ©Ruth Terrill

 

 

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Fear Visits The Ghost Town

One sees ghosts in this town
every now and then. You cross
the rusty metals, one saying,
‘Welcome’ and the other, ‘Hope
you had a buce stay’ you forget 
about the sightings. You cannot 
recall the cold touches and frosty glasses.
You become a non-believer again.
We attribute this to the magnetic fields. 
We know something about the attraction 
and a lot about repulsion, but nothing 
about the ghosts. We tried to name them.
They exchange those amongst themselves.
We don’t know them although they talk all the time.
It is not their murmuring that startles us.
Sometimes, like now, they pass through us
without paying heed to our greetings.
I call at the couple who passed through my ribs,
“Hey!” They turn. If my voice has conveyed 
mild contempt my irritation means nothing to them.
I am a stranger. They are an old book shop. 
I read the history of my kind. The dust 
makes me sneeze. The history doesn’t 
read me. It turns, the way they, the deceased couples
turns and smiles to something behind me,
and I turn to see who it is, but everything 
seems the usual, my mother gardening 
the way she used to before her death, walls made
with bricking the red, flower bed with a snake skin,
no one to make them nervous, and that smile
displays an endeavour to hide the hidden shivering.
I turn and turn again, and see the sky,  pigeons with necks
that makes them bloody. The ghosts watch 
someone even in this town I cannot see.
I feel the fear for the first time and may be the last.

 

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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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Morning Light

open your eyes to the wavy reddish shade
 the upturned branches, the dry leaves
your head whirls with countless new thoughts

and now close the bygone days and nights
the late blooming flowers acquire a new hue
the Simul tree tall enough, comes to say a halo.

a bridge over water and its reflection the 
whole circle of the morning sun glistening
the breeze, then and now, perfectly weightless.

silently slipping through the glass window
the aroma of the red and golden leaves
wafting in so many unspoken hopes and dreams.

 

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@ Gopa lLahiri
Picture Nick Victor

 

 
Short-Bio:
Gopal Lahiri is a Kolkata, India, based bilingual poet and critic and published in English and Bengali language. He has published 31 books to his credit and his works are translated in 16 languages. Recent credits: The Wise Owl, Cajun Mutt Press, Dissident Voice, Piker Press, Indian Literature, Kitaab, Setu, Undiscovered Journal, Poetry Breakfast, Shot Glass, The Best Asian Poetry, Converse, Cold Moon, Welsh Haiku Journal, Verse-Virtual journal, International Times and elsewhere. He has been nominated for Pushcart Prize for poetry in 2021.
 
Twitter@gopallahiri
 
 
 
 
 
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Flowerage

Flowerbeds are difficult.
They demand response
like poets who publish
a book or two.
The axis of the Earth belongs
to where the wind
carries your weight.
 
Air that emits
from the footprints
of the gone-by
settles on the staircase
of diction. My baton
rejoins the orchestration.
It turns me into a circumstellar.

 

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Sanjeev Sethi
Picture Nick Victor

 

Sanjeev Sethi has authored eight books of poetry, his latest being Legato without a Lisp (CLASSIX, an imprint of Hawakal, New Delhi, September 2024). His poetry has been published in over thirty-five countries and has appeared in more than 500 journals, anthologies, and online literary venues. He lives in Mumbai, India.

 

 

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Revelations in Sound

 

sweet factory sessions Volumes 1-3, Bark! (Scatter Archive, Bandcamp)
from tenderness, a revolution, George Garford / John Bisset (2:13 music, Bandcamp)

The trio Bark! began life in Manchester, back in the 1980s. Over the next ten years it underwent various transformations, the common factor always being the percussionist, Phillip Marks. Guitarist Rex Casswell joined in 1989, moving the band away from its free jazz origins into a sound-world more akin to SME and AMM. Ten years later, a chance encounter at a gig with Paul Obermayer led to him joining the band with almost immediate effect. Marks has said how he and Casswell ‘had been the constant through several changes of line-up and now for the first time in Paul we had someone who was able to fully participate as an equal in the velocity, rhythm and micro-detail of the music.’

The three albums being released here by Scatter Archive were all recorded in July 2023 at The Sweet Factory in Lincolnshire (see links, below). It was the first time Bark! had played together since before the pandemic. They recorded twenty-five sessions, seventeen of which were selected for release.

All three members have other irons in the fire: Obermayer is a member of the Evan Parker Electro-Acoustic Ensemble and Casswell, who is based in Denmark, works there in collaboration with choreographer Lene Boel. Marks has long-standing partnerships with other musicians and played for many years in the Alan Tomlinson Trio. However, when they come together as Bark! the musical result is quite unique. They radiate an uncannily strong sense of common purpose. Obermayer’s electronics can blend so seamlessly with Casswell’s guitar that it’s sometimes difficult to separate their contributions. Marks’ percussion enriches the mix while driving the music forward, though never undermining the subtleties that characterise the trio’s sound.

Everyone listening to these albums will discover their own favourite tracks. On first listen, I was quite taken with the enchanting world of Take 20. It would be wrong to make too much of this, though. There are no ‘duds’ here and on subsequent listens I’ve been drawn into other tracks: it’s the kind of music that offers something new each time you listen to it. One of the great things about improvised and experimental music is that, through making it and listening to it, one can discover new ways of being affected by sound. Take 11, for example will, I’m sure, appeal to anyone interested in autonomous sensory meridian response, or ASMR. (For those unfamiliar with the term, ASMR is, as Wikipedia puts it, ‘ a tingling sensation that usually begins on the scalp and moves down the back of the neck and upper spine. A pleasant form of paresthesia, it has been compared with auditory-tactile synaesthesia and may overlap with frisson’). And listening to Take 18, while making myself a coffee, I was struck by how permeable the music is. Sit in a concert hall listening to a string quartet, you’ll find yourself scowled at from all sides (or worse) if you start crinkling a boiled sweet wrapper. Crinkle the same wrapper (or like me, put down a spoon and switch on the kettle) during a Bark! track and you’ll find to your delight that you’ve inadvertently joined in. What better place for Bark! to make music than a sweet factory?

At time of writing, the third volume is yet to be released. I look forward to it.

The notes that go with George Garford and John Bisset’s new album, from tenderness, a revolution, are disarmingly personal. And why not. It’s a reminder that the roots of the roots of much contemporary improvised music are at least partly in the blues and that people over time make music for much the same reasons.

The end result is very different from the world of Bark!: this is music that is still, despite a significant noise-element, by and large, put together from pitched notes. Sax-player Garford, who runs a jazz residency series in Stoke Newington, describes himself as working in the ‘intersecting contemporary jazz, new music and free improvisation scene’. Bisset plays lap steel guitar and, listening to his work, I ‘d say he could be described in much the same way. His previous projects include collaborations with harpist Rhodri Davies and hurdy-gurdy player Jem Finer.

In the first track, Garford’s sax-lines unfold over a gamelan-like layer of sound created on Bisset’s (here, presumably prepared) lap steel. The lyricism of the second track, stepping stones, gives way to the noisier, raucous world of the title track. The final track takes us back to a more slow-moving world. The title, the boy from alsoa 12, is – for those who don’t know – a reference to Osamu Tezuka’s Astro Boy manga series. In it, the boy from Alsoa 12 warns Astro Boy of a coming invasion by robots from his own planet, which no longer exists. To cut a long story short, with Astro Boy’s help, he makes Earth his home and reveals himself to be a flower in disguise. To go back to George Garford’s notes, one presumes this reflects his observation that making the album left both musicians feeling ‘grounded and renewed’.

Self-therapy and healing can be an important reason for making – or listening to –  music. It can affect the way you think and feel as effectively as a psychotropic drug. However, the real test of any music performed for an audience  has not only to be the effect it has on the musicians who make it but also the effect it has on those listening. This album succeeds on this level, too. It’s a rewarding listen, with or without the backstory.

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Dominic Rivron

LINKS
sweet factory sessions Volume 1: https://scatterarchive.bandcamp.com/album/sweet-factory-sessions-volume-1
sweet factory sessions Volume 2: https://scatterarchive.bandcamp.com/album/sweet-factory-sessions-volume-2
Bark!: https://bark-trio.com/
The Sweet Factory: http://sweetfactorystudios.co.uk/
from tenderness, a revolution: https://johnbisset.bandcamp.com/album/from-tenderness-a-revolution

 

 

 

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Steampunk Surprise

Thunder City, Philip Reeve (£8.99, Scholastic)

Gladiatorial combat, kidnapping, cyberbeasts, political coups, secrets, surprises and killer robots: Thunder City has it all. As Philip Reeve recently revealed in an interview for IT he set himself the task of returning to his popular world of Mortal Engines a century before his other books. So, all new characters and some political, historical and social back stories feature in this mixed-up world of mobile cities and anti-computer beliefs.

One of the new characters, Tamzin Pook, is a star of the circus in the floating city of Margate, where she and other participants fight and kill whatever new beasts have been created by their evil master. He is a bit fed up with the attention she is getting, her success rate of kills, the fact she is still alive; she is on a guilt trip about the death of a colleague she failed to defend.

Meanwhile, in another part of the country, a violent political coup takes place in the small city of Thornbury and a previously retiring tutor, Miss Torpenhow, somehow finds the courage to escape and round up a somewhat ramshackle gang to put things right. The disinterested male heir of the dead Mayor of Thornbury, the aforementioned Ms. Pook, a retired solider who is more than partial to a drink or seven, and a somewhat pretentious and self-obsessed artist, gradually find the inclination and a way to recapture Thornbury and thwart Gabriel Stega’s dastardly plans.

Sometimes this is almost despite themselves. Miss Torpenhow takes a while to get her head around the fact that the rules of Social Darwinism are being broken and that cities are attacking and ‘eating’ other cities rather than combining and evolving by agreement. Max only reluctantly takes on any civic duties or responsibility and Tamzin learns to think and care as much as attack and overcome. They all learn about survival, sneakiness, co-operation and the wider world.

En route there are problems galore, usually presented in a cliffhanger way at the end of chapters. Plot is what drives this book, however, and as is often the case, solutions tend to arrive soon in the next few pages. There are self-sabotaging moments of stupidity too, sometimes told in a laugh-aloud manner; and a fantastic double act of a kind-of-friendly robot and its pet kitten.

This isn’t the best Mortal Engines book, but it is a pacy, exciting read that paves the way for a new series of adventures. This incarnation of Reeve’s strange steampunk world is vividly brought to life and inhabited, the baddies are truly dastardly, dishonest and deviant. Although there is – of course – a happy ending, with a sense of restored order and cafés re-opening, there is also the clear flagging-up of future possibilities, which is of course exactly what is wanted.

 

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Rupert Loydell 

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Heads Up

Disappointed with Gantt charts and SWOT matrices, the Executive have hired SWAT teams to break down silos and broaden the bandwidth. They’re drinking the Kool-Aid, upping the churn rate, and speaking to our core values and beliefs in lines copped from kick-ass movies. There’s enough bang to blow us all to Jesus, all our ducks are in a row, and they love the smell of corporate bullshit in the morning. We need to understand that it’s a high-risk situation, so they’re putting out fires at the pain point, locking and loading, identifying strengths, weaknesses, opportunities, and threats, and killing it at the hard stop. The data doesn’t lie, and it’s the only way to trim the fat, the only way to herd the cats at the bleeding edge, the only way to leverage synergies and futureproof impactful solutions in the current climate. So the Executive have employed an Interim Special Adviser with a very particular set of skills, skills they have acquired over a very long career. The SMART money’s on quiet firing, with an HK MP5 and body bags in the back of the Humvee, but at the end of the day, there will be a paradigm shift at the USP. Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker,

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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

 

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Anasazi Triptych


 
Earthbones
It takes a lifetime walking
between the ethnoid bone and the horizon.
Shadows peel away
from time, the sun balances
on the fibula that rests
along the edge of a mesa, and the ribs
of a canyon pull apart
 
to let migrations through to open land
where vertebrae have risen
through the emptiness
that makes of the ground
a sacred space.
 
Skyscape
There is a sky that won’t descend from high
in the eternal realm but
grows out from the earth
with its cargo of storms and blades of sunlight.
It mirrors the land
 
it dominates, pulls thunder out of the infinite nowheres
that float behind the clouds,
and spans
 
the spaces from ice with no heart
to the midsummer glare
of rocks that think of themselves
as fallen suns.
 
Shadowland
The Earth’s long cliffs sway in hallucination’s light
where it falls between what belongs to the Earth
and what the sun has claimed
as its own.

 

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David Chorlton

 

 

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EMBRACE MY SILENCE

Embrace my silence
With your arms of happiness
And wrap my heart
In threads of silk
And don’t let the southern wind
Erase a smile
Of the gifted hope
From the fallen.
Embrace my silence
And you shall hear
A heartbeat
And the clatter of longing
In the silence of my infinity.
Embrace my silence
And call me by my name
On this night of suspense
And I shall come
Like a fairy
All in white
To open your eyes,
Which shine
Like burning stars.
Your eyes
Are like white lighthouses
In the fear of my depths.
Your eyes are like eternal diamonds
In the colors
Of glorious life.

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Jasna Gugić

 

Jasna Gugi was born in Vinkovci, Croatia. She is the
Vice-President of the Association of Artists and Writers
of the World SAPS; P.L.O.T.S USA the Creative
Magazine Ambassador for Croatia, Ambassador in Elite Arab
Creative Union of The Royal House – Lebanon, Ambassador of Peace
and Peaceful Coexistence – Morooco, Global Ambassador
of Literacy and Culture for the Asih Sasami Indonesia
Global Writers, and a member of Angeena International,
a non-profit organization for peace, humanity,
literature, poetry, and culture. She is also co-editor
of the anthology, Compassion-Save the World,
one poem was written by 130 world poets.
Jasna has published three collections of poems. The first two collections are bilingual: one is Croatian-English and the other is Croatian-Polish. The third collection consists of a single poem translated into sixty languages of the world.

 

 

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Breakfast On The Terrace

The kittiwakes warble
And gulls synchronise swim 
And dive

As hi-vis garbage man mops leftover haggis up off the street

And the gulls draw a final breath
Before settling for life on death row

And Mendelssohn mangles some music
Tapping the bells in the tower with his
Acoustic hammer – a prelude to day

Whistling as well –
A discernibly deliberate attempt
To get in tune with the birds

Whilst the dawn,
Shiny, pink and layered
Above turquoise sea
Posts its musical stave masts
Slicing and pickling

The doleful smell of morning.

It is heaven assuredly
As it is meant to be

Delicately intertwined with the
Unavoidability of hell,

The thronging tourist confirms this
And cackles his “Not in the dark ages noo”

A taunting and final lament. 

 

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© Gary Boswell 2024

 

 

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Bees falling silent

in their own stiff ridge of fur
Who has left them here?
Somebody brought in the skull to hover
With a full soul
And now the bees are toxic corpses
Dipped in poisons for their cousins
They pile in flower fields like
The bodies of heroes
Who never went to start a war
Or fuel it’s energy

08.10.24

Helen Pletts

 

Chinese Translation by Ma Yongbo 2024

蜜蜂⽆声地坠落 ⻢永波 译

它们脊背上带着僵硬的绒⽑
是谁把它们留在了这⾥?
有⼈带来了这颗头⻣
盘旋,带着完整的灵魂。
⽽现在蜜蜂们成了有毒的⼫体,
浸染了毒药,为了它们的同类。
它们堆积在花⽥中,
像英雄的⼫体
它们从未发动过战争
或助⻓过它的⽓焰。

Dead Bee Portrait #4 2016, printed 2018, NOBLE, Anne – Creator

 

 

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Set the Controls for the Heart of the Strum


Joni Mitchell Archives Vol. 4: The Asylum Years(1976-1980), Joni Mitchell
Electric Lady Studios: A Jimi Hendrix Vision, Jimi Hendrix
Luck and Strange, David Gilmour
Trip the Witch, Trip the Witch

It’s been intriguing in the last couple of decades to not only see constant reissues and box sets but also the endless releases of ‘official bootlegs’, alternative versions, studio takes, demos and rehearsals as musicians realise they need different income streams now that the music business has fallen apart and we all have online access to just about everything ever released, including the most obscure bands we can choose to listen to.

There’s something strange about it really. Surely an album was the best version the band or artiste could play and produce at the time? Why would anyone go back and tweak it? Add new vocals, rearrange it, remix it or compile all the versions of songs that eventually resulted in the official album?

I can see the attraction of live versions, where songs often have a different dynamic approach or include different musicians, not to mention changing setlists offering different sequences and contexts. But there’s nothing worse than rehearsals that fall apart in the middle or endless jamming, however famous the participants. I like putting on an album and playing it through from start to finish, as intended at the time of release.

But Robert Fripp, Bob Dylan and Joni Mitchell – and many others – disagree. Although nothing compared to some of the huge King Crimson and Bob Dylan box sets, there have not only been four collections of remastered Mitchell albums issued, but also been four accompanying archive sets of material related to her albums. The fourth volume of archive Mitchell material from 1976-1980 strangely includes live music from 1975 but evidences that tracks from Hejira were being played well before the studio recordings and show that it was in the studio, and on later tours, that the music changed radically. In 1975 these songs sat comfortably with much older songs.

Although Mitchell had reversioned songs as jazz-lite with the L.A. Express for the Miles of Aisles live album, and Larry Carlton and Victor Feldman appear on The Hissing of Summer Lawns, it was Jaco Pastorius’ bass that seems to have been the most instrumental in changing the compositional structures and arrangements of Mitchell’s new stretched-out compositions. The live tracks and demos here also show a similar aesthetic at work for Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter, an album I find difficult to like, despite it seemingly emerging from the same pool of songs.

The next album, Mingus, was totally different though. Ostensibly a collaboration with the aged and dying jazz bassist Charles Mingus, Mitchell organised some research and development sessions with a wide range of jazz and electric jazz players, most of which were abandoned in favour of the returning Pastorius and percussionist Don Alias, a more prominent part for Wayne Shorter, and the arrival of Herbie Hancock and Peter Erskine in the line-up. It’s an awkward, difficult album to get in to, possibly too jazz for Mitchell’s fans, and too song-based for Mingus fans. Repeated listening revealed some wonderful tunes and music but it was in the main received in a fairly cool manner by critics and fans.

Archives Vol 4 includes some of those ‘early alternative’ versions from Mingus as well as tracks by the live band who were recorded for the film and double album Shadows and Light. Here, Pastorius was joined by whizzkid guitarist Pat Metheny, and it is their interplay and texturing, along with featured solos, that really brings songs from Mitchell’s last few albums to life. After that release, Mitchell would move labels, from Asylum to Geffen, and start her descent in to awkward overproduced attempts at pop, aided and abetted by the likes of Thomas Dolby.

This new box set is certainly the most interesting one so far (and is likely to stay that way as far as I am concerned) as Hejira and Shadows and Light remain – along with Hissing… – her best albums, and Mingus her most intriguing, but it also makes what many of us perceived as a ‘jump’ to Hejira less so, more part of a slowly changing musical and personal landscape. The box set feels like a repackaging of several unofficial live recordings that many will already own (especially the Bread and Roses benefit concert which has a couple of outstanding duets with Herbie Hancock and has seen several ‘semi-legitimate’ releases). I can’t help feeling a sense of being shown how a magic trick works, and whilst some of the embryonic versions and demos are interesting, they end up sending me back to the finished albums rather than wanting to listen to the works-in-progress again.

Electric Lady Studios: A Jimi Hendrix Vision is a 3CD set that includes almost 40 unreleased tracks recorded between June and August of 1970 by the new-look Jimi Hendrix Experience at Electric Lady Studios,  just before the bandleader’s tragic death a month later. They feature Billy Cox on bass and Mitch Mitchell on drums, and like the (Joni) Mitchell, lots of the music is demos or alternate versions of mixes from different studio sessions, with several songs repeated in different takes.

Hendrix was fascinated by the studio and how to use it as an instrument. He’d already explored using feedback as an instrument in its own right, used pyrotechnics, fashion and attitude as devices to entertain, and made some hard funk-rock live with Band of Gypsys. Now, he wanted to continue experimenting and refining…

Although the music is mostly (officially) unreleased, listeners will know the majority of these tracks from various posthumous albums. ‘Drifting’, ‘Freedom’, ‘In from the Storm’ and ‘Midnight Rider’ are all here, along with other snippets, rehearsals, alternative takes and – of course – a 26-minute jam medley. Hendrix is always good for a listen, but this is a tired and cynical promotional tie-in with a film of the same title which explores this period of Hendrix’s life and music.  It appears to exist solely to tempt hardcore fans to empty their wallets.

 

Luck and Strange, David Gilmour’s recent album, is all new however. The disappointment here is how tired and predictable it all is, especially the cliché lyrics throughout. We have ‘the theatre of my soul, ‘the promise of eternal youth’, ‘the road to hell is paved with gold’ [not a lot of people know that], ’empty skies’ and ‘dark and velvet nights’. I mean come on, surely somebody, indeed almost anybody, can do better than that?

In the main the songs plod or, if you prefer the terminology, move at a stately pace, with only occasional guitar solos to remind you who David Gilmour is and what he is or was capable of playing. Let’s face it, we are talking Pink Floyd. The very brilliant Pink Floyd, who produced Dark Side of the Moon, Wish You Were Here and Animals. It is the moments when keyboards echo, recalling the sonar effect of ‘Echoes’ and when the guitar goes into soaring overdrive that we want, not the half-arsed polite strumming and riffing evident elsewhere.

Even this new studio album on CD includes a ‘jam session’ with the same title as the album (the Blu-Ray apparently includes two more ‘orchestral version’ tracks). ‘Luck and Strange (original Barn jam)’ is exciting upon the first couple of listens, mostly because it wakes you up after boredom has set in. However, repeated listens reveal it to be a pretty bog-standard blues, simply retreading old familiar ground. I’m glad Gilmour is out there making new music (and have no time for Roger Waters or his music) but surely he could come up with something more interesting?

If, like me, you like Pink Floyd, you will enjoy Trip the Witch’s self-titled album from 2021 which I recently discovered. It kicks off with the best Yes sounding track by a non-Yes band, even to the point of including guest vocals from Jon Anderson, but quickly moves into Pink Floyd pastiche, all atmospheric synths, echoing guitars and busy drums. There’s an occasional diversion for one or two surf-prog tracks (no really; imagine Dick Dale in Yes or Pink Floyd) but in the main this is accomplished music that almost but not quite tips into actual Floyd chord changes or structures. It’s a great mix of atmospherics, surreal ambience, hard rock and new-wave psychedelia. And there’s no recycling, alternative versions, demos or bullshit, just rock solid sound.

 

.

Rupert Loydell

 

 

 

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Land of Grope and Tory/Fool Britannia

whither thou goest my lovely Albion in this
dark and unforgiving twenty-first century?
you tiptoe into a future European family
but lose your nerve and squirm out again,
you prefer a royal funeral and a new coronation
in antique ritual regalia and ludicrous claptrap
with buffoons and toad-eyed Trump-lickers
on the ballot boxes as the old empire DNA
comes home to roost on a flotilla of rafts,
you blunder into Iraq and Afghanistan
only to come home bruised and confused
when they despise you and shit on your gifts,
you barter your tomorrow for a fistful of McDollars,
thou pale and faded England of Celt and Angles,
Iceni and Norse, Boudica, sacred druids of the groves,
Pict and Brigante, Mary Shelley, and wiccan pagans
crushed beneath the wheels of industry, warfare,
ration-books, corruption, decay and reality-TV,
we are Mad Dogs & Englishmen, twisted and broken
in bone and muscle, clogged and mouldy with history,
England, are you even worthy of your socialists,
your trade unionists, your William Blake and Byron,
your HG Wells and ‘Dan Dare’, Clement Attlee,
Aleister Crowley, your Welfare State, Cable Street,
your Rolling Stones, Windrush, Anarchist Bookshop,
your Diggers, Ranters, Levellers and hippies?
I close my eyes and I think of England,
I love thee my ghost-sad Albion,
but you do so maketh me mad
with thy silliness, thy reverence and class
your tip your hat to Bridgerton docility and your
dusty house of lords strung with slumbering bishops,
and yet you dress up in holy fool guise
and idiot dance defiance on the village green,
we are English, we apologise and move on,
nothing to see here, nothing to see at all…

 

.

 

Andrew Darlington

Twitter: @darlingtonandy
Website: www.andrewdarlington.blogspot.com

 

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The Sanity of Nature (in an insane ‘world’)

“But ask the animals, and they will teach you; the birds of the air, and they will tell you; or the plants of the earth, and they will teach you; and the fish of the sea will declare to you.” (Job 12:7-8)

Morning Choral…
Busy squirrel freezes.

Bramble, bracken, fern
cock light-filled ear.

Broken pine stops
decomposing.

Green-haired rocks resign
volcanic pasts.

Oak tree turns dandelion clock,
ready to explode with pleasure:
arthritic limbs revivified –

as morning choral tumbles
through the verdant prism,
silencing all, but the warblers.

Steeped in this liquid sound,
reverent attempts to capture
are as futile as the sapling’s urge
to heal gnarled neighbours.

All pay homage
in the lime cathedral,
bask in the heavenly cacophony,
as redstart, thrush and wren
add their psalms.

 

 

Heidi Stephenson

 

 

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from Jazz Fingerings 3/


3/

Westerly humidity means jazz goes soft as transposed
roses in the nick of time, the pulse a measured bass 
upstaged by steel cut oat groat timeline clenched
then baked where rain lines silver close to waves
unmeasured unhesitating to feeble toss a frisbee 
into parallel chance slipped out of morning all usual
as preyed upon as open a testament bald glad 
declarative impulse spatched upon a plate with room
to transist past gramophone finesse. The charged paved
sitcom open to change with hasps of flight made whole
by way of speech stretched past the seeds the stalls 
the psyche of a small bird bathed open under window
swollen with reed smatterings first relished then 
released to define all surfaces from wool to yards 
to felony let go into the raucous night as plaid
as scree picked out of place the limbs stone by
until the wheels go golden in the moist overcast
thin wind polite as habitation near episodes we think 
we recollect to form some mountain forecast as improvised
on bass plucks that situate suggested limbs that play
to wind still changing in parsed engines that broadcast leisure.

 

.

Sheila E Murphy

 

 

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THE BALLAD OF PEGGY AND PEDRO

The ballad of Peggy and Pedro barked out by the punkbestials
of the Garibaldi Bridge, with a mixture of hatred and despair,
teaches us the intimate relationship between geometry and love,
to love as if we were maths surrounded by stray dogs.

Peggy you were drunk, normal mood,
in the slums along the bed of the Tiber
and alcohol, on August evenings, doesn’t warm you up,
clouding every sense in annihilating dreams,
transforming every chewed-up sentence into a gunfight in the back
on armour dissolved by the summer heat.
Lying on the edges of the bridge’s ledges,
among the drop-outs of the Rome open city,
you opened your heart to the gratuitous insult of Pedro,
your lover, and toppled over, falling into the void,
drawing gravitational trajectories from the sky to the cement.

Pedro wasn’t drunk, a day’s journey away,
you weren’t drunk, abnormal state of mind,
in the slums along the bed of the Tiber,
or in the empty parties of Milan’s movida,
with the intention of explaining to dogs and tramps
a curious lesson of non-Euclidean geometry.
Mounted on the edge of the bridge,
in the apathetic indifference of your distracted pupils,
you jumped, in the same trajectory of love,
along the same fatal path as your Peggy,
landing on the cement at the same instant.

The punkbestials of the Garibaldi Bridge, cleared by the local authority,
will spread a surreal lesson to every slum in the world
centred on the astonishing idea
that love is a matter of non-Euclidean geometry.

 

 

 

.

Ivan Pozzoni

 

Ivan Pozzoni was born in Monza in 1976. He introduced Law and Literature in Italy and the publication of essays on Italian philosophers and on the ethics and juridical theory of the ancient world; He collaborated with several Italian and international magazines. Between 2007 and 2018, different versions of the books were published: Underground and Riserva Indiana, with A&B Editrice, Versi Introversi, Mostri, Galata morente, Carmina non dant damen, Scarti di magazzino, Here the Austrians are more severe than the Bourbons, Cherchez the troika. et The Invective Disease with Limina Mentis,Lame da rasoi, with Joker, Il Guastatore, with Cleup, Patroclo non deve morire, with deComporre Edizioni. He was the founder and director of the literary magazine Il Guastatore – «neon»-avant-garde notebooks; he was the founder and director of the literary magazine L’Arrivista; he is the editor and chef of the international philosophical magazine Información Filosófica; he is, or has been, creator of the series Esprit (Limina Mentis), Nidaba (Gilgamesh Edizioni) and Fuzzy (deComporre). It contains a fortnight of autogérées socialistes edition houses. He wrote 150 volumes, wrote 1000 essays, founded an avant-garde movement (NéoN-avant-gardisme, approved by Zygmunt Bauman), with a millier of movements, and wrote an Anti-manifesto NéoN-Avant-gardiste. This is mentioned in the main university manuals of literature history, philosophical history and in the main volumes of literary criticism. His book La malattia invettiva wins Raduga, mention of the critique of Montano et Strega. He is included in the Atlas of contemporary Italian poets of the University of Bologne and figures à plusieurs reprized in the great international literature review of Gradiva. His verses are translated into French, English and Spanish. In 2024, after six years of total retrait of academic studies, he return to the Italian artistic world and melts the NSEAE Kolektivne (New socio/ethno/aesthetic anthropology).

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Sausage Life 308

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column that thinks narcissism is only modesty with mirrors

READER: I don’t know why you bother with all this when you could just press a button and get AI to do it.
MYSELF: How do you think I generated you?
READER: Very funny, but watch out, because artificial intelligence is the whey forward.
MYSELF: You really think so? Perhaps you should read this week’s Upper Dicker Examiner.

Google’s AI spokesbot Arnold, has angered locals by describing the massive radiation leak at the private nuclear reactor recently set up on the south coast for data-harvesting as “Nothing to worry either of your silly little heads about.” One local shopkeeper Beatrice Rasputin commented; “That’s all very well, but sightings of monkey-faced alligators near the concrete pressure vessel outlets, coupled with unconfirmed reports of an owl offering free saxophone lessons in Derek Jarman’s garden have done nothing for my passing trade.”

DICTIONARY CORNER:
Ratchet (n) the faeces of a rat.

ARTS KICKING
Tracy Eminem, the Margate Scrawler is set to make yet another fortune. She is about to market a T-shirt bearing the hand-written slogan VWLS SCK.The item, made from recycled Egyptian mummy linen and signed by her personal assistant, retails at £750 in a limited edition of 10,000 and is available in large, medium and non binary, while stocks last.

In contrast, DIY,the current exhibition at the Upper Dicker Pink Triangle Gallery by outspoken conceptual artist Bandy Sponk consisting of various power tools suspended in his own urine, failed to attract anyone at all. “If you read my manifesto, that was precisely my plan” said the controversial installation artist, “Success is a corporate delusion which, as an artist, it is my duty to avoid at all costs.”
Sponk has vowed to work in future “only in the medium of preserved fruit,” after complaining that the public is “too thick to understand my work.” Riot police were called out to MegaWhat?, the latest installation at The Gerbil Gallery by the self-styled Guru of Grot, where Chief of Police Hydra Gorgon described the scene as “drink-fuelled and out of control.” The show, which features a life-size Lego construction entitled Christ At The Last Supper Suggestively Eating a Sausage, provoked angry scenes when inebriated members of the Allied Pantomime Horse Operator’s Union of Silverhill clashed with rival organisation the Upper Dicker branch of The Associated Society of Pantomime Horse Operatives, shortly after disembarking from separate coaches.

 

FILMS ON TV
ITV2 7-30: My Big Fat Greek Milkman 2 (118min):
Turgid sequel in which Alexandra (Gwyneth Paltrow) is both shocked and delighted when Spyros (Claude Van Damme) delivers news of a grisly double murder at the dairy, along with two pints of full cream Jersey milk and a low-fat blueberry yoghurt. (dir: Hugh Jarce)


CHANNEL 5: 2am: 
SUCK! Dyson with Death (Silibilli Films)
Cult film director Erik Vondervonder has an exciting new project in the pipeline. The protagonist of his latest low-budget epic is a cordless Dyson V11 vacuum which mutates and goes on the rampage after being abused by a cleaner in a pregnancy testing laboratory.
SUCK! is about gender, climate change and diversity, like most of my work,” said Vondervonder during a speech at Sunderland’s Last Chance Independent Film Festival, where a retrospective of his work is being shown, “although with some of my earlier films, such as Tits Out for the Lads! or Moby’s Dick, I would respectfully leave it to the viewer to make up his, her or its own mind. Art, like truth, is subjective.”

FILM ON 4, 23-14: Holocaustic Soda (95min)
This, the seventh movie in the successful Inspector Twollet franchise shows Quarantino at his whodunnit best. In the down-at-heel district of Cowfart Alabama, an unidentified man is discovered in a seedy motel, crushed to death between the jaws of a Corby trouser press. Stanley Twollet, an unconventional detective inspector on the verge of retirement, is assigned to the case, and must put his complicated domestic arrangements behind him in the search for clues. A chance meeting with a former fiancée recently released from a secure psychiatric institution triggers unpleasant memories and Twollet (played as always by dependable Brian Yogamatte) struggles to suppress them as he pursues the case to its violent, unexpected conclusion. (dir: Tintin Quarantino)

CRICKET BOXING
Tom Googly, the opening batsman for Hastings Ten Sixty-Sixers XI was said by a club spokesman to be “comfortable” last night after reportedly being hit on the head by a bouncer.An air ambulance attended The Cat’s Pyjama nightclub in Upper Dicker, following an incident involving Mr Googly and Reg Headbutter, a doorman at the venue. Witnesses described “an argument about the leg before wicket rule” which apparently got out of hand, resulting in a fracas, which later developed into an affray, finally ending up as a skirmish, during which Mr Googly was knocked out cold.
After regaining consciousness, the cricketer, who was charged at his hospital bedside with possession of an offensive weapon, namely a reinforced jockstrap containing a billiard ball, declined to comment.

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Wristian Cock (poet),  “My Yorkie was aggressive and bad tempered, and would frequently attempt to copulate with people’s trouser legs, much to the wearer’s annoyance. I can’t tell you how popular Shelley is now he’s had a proper shave.”

 

FOOD: 
A branch of Bushmeet, the rare species restaurant chain which also caters for vegetarians, has opened in Beyondenden. The menu includes vegan white rhino sausages, quorn Bonobo heart and pan fried Bengal tiger penis which is made from Tofu. Frozen dessert specialists Ben & Jerry have released, exclusively for Bushmeet, a Marmite-flavoured ice cream for people without a sweet tooth.

 

Sausage Life!

 

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




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

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

 

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

CHEMTRAILS ON MY MIND
MORT J SPOONBENDER

On September 11th 1958, José Popacatapetl, a retired tree psychologist who’s father was head gardener for the CIA during the cold war, was hitchiking through the Alberqueque desert when he was picked up by a black sedan driven by J Edgar Hoover’s ex-boyfriend André Pfaff head of FBI underhand operations and extra-terrestrial banking who once worked as a quantum mechanic for the KGB under the direct orders of the zombie reincarnation of Josef Stalin whose mummified corpse was kept in a secret underhand bunker in the basement of the Vatican.

 



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SPONSORED ADVERTISEMENT
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SUPERCALIFUCKINGFRAGIFUCKINGLISTICEXPIALIFUCKINGDOCIOUS

 

 

By Colin Gibson

 

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Down on The Corner: Adventures in Busking and Street Music. Cary Baker

 

 

Jawbone Press:  ISBN: 978-1-916829-10-7

Alan Dearling shares some thoughts about this new and fascinating new book

As Cary Baker says on his website:

“Trust me: I realize better than anyone that the world is not clamoring for a new music journalist returning to the field at age 67. But that hasn’t stopped me. My forté has long been my grasp on music history, from the blues to bebop to the Beatles to Big Star and beyond. And music histories are what I’ll be writing.”

It’s not a bad way to preface this brief review.

This is a fun book. Informative, fly-on-the wall (or, the view from the punter on the tube, or, the street corner), and full of rather lovely vignette ‘stories’. It’s also a good introduction to many well-loved and less known blues artists, street musos and eccentrics. I especially found it interesting to find out more about the street performances of characters like Moondog, Peter Case, Wild Man Fischer, Ted Hawkins and even Lucinda Williams. There are also dozens of anecdotes from Cary Baker providing the back-stories about the lives of artists who not only sang and played on the streets, but in many instances slept in parks, movie theatres and on park benches.  Arvella Gray is one example, who was blind, shared many tall stories, and recorded tracks for just one album, ‘The Singing Drifter’ (1973). Baker tells us that the 2005 reissue was well-received both by ‘Rolling Stone’ and the ‘New York Times’.

‘Outsider’ status is quite frequently afforded to street performers. Larry ‘Wild Man’ Fischer was about as ‘out there’ as you can imagine. I personally followed his oddball releases with Frank Zappa and the duo, Barnes & Barnes. Wildman produced on-the-street rants rather than songs and was usually unaccompanied. He certainly often bad-mouthed Zappa, singing that “Frank’s got money in the bank”,  whilst Larry resented his lack of fame and fortune. His repertoire included ‘Fish Heads’ (“eat them up, yum”), ‘My name is Larry’ (“pronounced Normal”) and ‘Merry-Go-Round’ (with its monkey chanting chorus). Baker recounts some of the tales about Wild Larry’s ‘performances’, including Pamela Des Bares’ memory of an indoor show:

“He got up onstage and started singing his songs – warbling, shouting, really…singing wasn’t his specialty… At one point he jumped down off the stage and sang all around the perimeter…then outside the freaking venue…And then he came running back into the venue, got back on stage, and finished the song.”

Here’s another snapshot of the fundamental experience of busking early on in a famous career. Billy Bragg says,

“The significance of busking in my career is that I’m still basically a busker…at Bearded Theory (festival in Staffordshire) I probably played to twelve thousand people…and the whole time that I was onstage, I was more or less busking…you have to suss out what’s going on and adapt to this and that …I’m doing it by the seat of my pants.”

“This book allows us to hear the full story of feeding the street, as it has been done for over a century in the United States. It gives us a glimpse into the lives of the buskers who have enriched our daily existence with music and performance art. It’s a dollar in the hat, with the acknowledgment that the world is always a better place when busking is a part of the picture.” Dom Flemons tells us in his heartfelt foreword.

It’s actually that and more, since Part 5 provides six chapters from Europe including contributions from Elvis Costello (nicely titled: ‘Watching for detectives’) and Billy Bragg and Madeleine Peyroux.

I immersed myself in the tales, the stories included in the book, and it has led me into researching about a number of the artists, the buskers and street performers included. And you can’t say much better than that!

 

 

 

 

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Morocco July 1975

On the mountain I thought of hope.
And made a cathedral with tall grasses
But eventually it blew away and left 
only the congregation I made from stones.
I’ve seen it in the photographs
Hand over eyes.
Child.Death Prayer.
Making it’s way through tunnels and like
God trying to walk in oversized shoes
Now I’d like to see this God of yours
Stealing from his mother or hitting the 
black dog with a big stick
I saw  your floral patterned skirt grow 
fat with air.
After the wind
Before the rain 
Tapping the world with a pencil 
Unable to find the right words 
If you want to know the answers ask
those who beg from the beggars.
Because Moroccan sun will tear a doorway in the azure sky for us to flee into.

 

 

.

Malcolm Paul

 

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I drove to lin

The child is crying into europe’s oldest
lake as I enter his village. A donkey –

listless and drunk, puts his head through the car
window. It is clear from the scent of roads here, that

I am the first traveller since the end of a window-less
winter. The locals must think I have a

radish for a head. Did you
hear she sleeps in the boot of her car at

night? The child – now consoled, walks around
exclaiming his innocence, babbling as the world

around us turns cold and dark. I am worried I show
my age by how I fill up on bread not vegetables and

contemplate my fork under the fingernail moon,
announcing to the floor I am proud of who I have become.

 

 

.

Blossom Hibbert

 

 

.

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no time at all

Air France Air France
taking a chance on love
as an old song says
while Bonnie Tyler laments:
I was lost in France in love

Heathrow to Orly
in just one hour
depart London at noon
arrive Paris at noon
GMT and Euro-Time
bringing love together
as fast as instantly
for fifteen quid return
 
Air France Air France 
taking a chance on love
as an old song says
while Bonnie Tyler laments:
I was lost in France in love

in the incredible seventies
a ‘standby flight’
could be had for just that
if you didn’t book in advance
and took a chance 
on love finding a way
to bring Catherine Avignon
and yourself together 

Air France Air France
taking a chance on love
as an old songs says
while Bonnie Tyler laments:
I was lost in France in love

so that’s how we did it
for a brief time in our lives
Air France flying the channel
in no time at all
Catherine at Orly
as chic as can be
waiting for me waiting for me
our lives in a Tinseltown dream

Air France Air France
taking a chance on love
as an old song says
while Bonnie Tyler laments:
I was lost in France in love

.

 

Jeff Cloves
Picture Rupert Loydell

‘Taking a chance on love’ was written by Duke/La Touche/Fetter 1940

‘Lost in France’ was written by Scott/Wolfe for Bonnie Tyler 1976 

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If You Go Down to the Woods Today

The Haunted Wood. A History of Childhood Reading, Sam Leith (Oneworld)

This is an engaging and highly readable survey of books for children, but in the end I remain unclear about what Leith is actually trying to achieve. He rarely undertakes literary criticism as such, and is prone to endless summarising and a lot of biographical information. Although Leith can be witty and opinionated, he also slips up sometimes: having discussed representation, specifically with regard to race in Malorie Blackman’s novels, he then uses the phrase ‘digital natives’; when discussing Arthur Ransome’s Swallows and Amazons series he talks about the Lake District being the main setting and that later books use the Norfolk Broads as a location. In actual fact only four out of twelve books happen in the Lakes, two in the series in Norfolk (including the fifth in the series) with others being set in the China Seas, the Caribbean, Suffolk, Essex, the Outer Hebrides and in the fantasy world of Peter Duck.

I note this not to be difficult or show off but because it makes me wonder what other errors, assumptions and generalisations have been made on the long trawl through the centuries since Aesop’s Fables that Leith undertakes. Although the books under review or study are thematically clustered by genre[s] and socio-historical norms of the time, Leith is in the main fairly accepting of everything he discusses. This extends to his dismissal of (as far as I am concerned well-founded) accusations of J.K. Rowling’s unoriginality and bad writing as being besides the point; for Leith the remixing of boarding school stories and fantasy is justified by the huge audience engagement with the books. (His other contemporary example is Philip Pullman, whose His Dark Materials trilogy I find totally unreadable; earlier novellas are much more interesting and accomplished.)

Of course, Leith discusses the effects of nostalgia, the rise of books written specifically for children, the blurring of adult and child readerships, escapism, realism and issues-based books but apart from some negative remarks about Enid Blyton’s golliwogs, Little Black Sambo and the clearcut racist judgements that Biggles makes, he embraces it all, albeit occasionally with asides noting that they are a product of their time.

He’s at his best when he does respond and comment rather than simply summarise plots and characters, and when he finds something new to say. His discussion of the importance of food in books for children deserves a whole book to itself; the section on Late Victorian authors, ‘Man-Cubs and Naughty Bunnies’, makes interesting links between books by Rudyard Kipling, George MacDonald, Robert Louis Stevenson, Beatrix Potter and others, noting how the likes of Pinocchio lay the ground for fantasy; and it’s intriguing to see the homogenised Edwardian world evidenced by Peter Pan, The Wind in the Willows and the work of Frances Hodgson Burnett and E. Nesbit, especially the otherworldliness and occasional occult tendencies present in Neverland and the River Bank.

Elsewhere it’s strange to find ‘Our Friends in the North’ highlighting two imported writers (one is Tove Jansson, creator of The Moomins) or the pairing of T.H. White and Tolkien, whose books couldn’t be more different: one the overlong result of lumbering pseudo-historical myth- and language- driven self-importance, the other a deft reworking of the tales of King Arthur. It’s also queer (as Blyton would say) to find Blyton’s simplistic but engaging plot-driven books grouped with much more accomplished work by Lucy Boston and Philippa Pearce.

But then Leith compares and contrasts how different authors and different styles of writing arise from what is going on in the world, be that social change, world wars, feminism, perception of landscape, class, aspirations and expectations. His final chapter briefly but intelligently dips into the world of picture books and, once again, made me wish there was more of this astute, focussed writing.

This is an enjoyable and wide-ranging read. I hope it will pave the way for more books by Leith picking up on specifics and not afraid to discuss the dynamics, structures and styles of the actual texts he chooses. Oh, and please can Jennings and Rupert Bear be included next time?

 

 

.

Rupert Loydell

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Interview #26b: Mark Terrill

 
 
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Fight the Power

Yet our best trained, best educated, best equipped
Best prepared troops refuse to fight
As a matter of fact, it’s safe to say that they would rather switch
Than fight

1989 the number another summer (get down)
Sound of the funky drummer
Music hitting your heart ’cause I know you got soul
(Brothers and sisters, hey)
Listen if you’re missing y’all
Swinging while I’m singing
Giving whatcha getting
Knowing what I know
While the Black bands sweating
And the rhythm rhymes rolling
Got to give us what we want
Gotta give us what we need
Our freedom of speech is freedom or death
We got to fight the powers that be
Lemme hear you say

Fight the power
Fight the power
Fight the power
Fight the power
Fight the power
Fight the power
Fight the power
We’ve got to fight the powers that be

As the rhythm designed to bounce
What counts is that the rhymes
Designed to fill your mind
Now that you’ve realized the pride’s arrived
We got to pump the stuff to make us tough

From the heart
It’s a start, a work of art
To revolutionize make a change nothing’s strange
People, people we are the same
No we’re not the same
‘Cause we don’t know the game
What we need is awareness, we can’t get careless
You say what is this?
My beloved lets get down to business
Mental self defensive fitness
Don’t rush the show
You gotta go for what you know
Make everybody see, in order to fight the powers that be
Lemme hear you say

Fight the power
Fight the power
Fight the power
Fight the power
Fight the power
Fight the power
Fight the power
We’ve got to fight the powers that be

Fight the power
Fight the power
Fight the power
Fight the power
Fight the power
Fight the power
We’ve got to fight the powers that be

Elvis was a hero to most
Elvis was a hero to most
Elvis was a hero to most
But he never meant s- to me you see
Straight up racist that sucker was
Simple and plain
Mother f- him and John Wayne
‘Cause I’m Black and I’m proud
I’m ready and hyped plus I’m amped
Most of my heroes don’t appear on no stamps
Sample a look back you look and find
Nothing but rednecks for 400 years if you check

Don’t worry be happy
Was a number one jam
Damn if I say it you can slap me right here
(Get it) lets get this party started right
Right on, c’mon
What we got to say?
Power to the people no delay
Make everybody see
In order to fight the powers that be

Fight the power
Fight the power
Fight the power
Fight the power
We’ve got to fight the powers that be

What we got to say?
Fight the power
What we got to say?
Fight the power
What we got to say?
Fight the power
What we got to say?
Fight the power

Yo, check this out man
Ok talk to me ’bout the future of
Public Enemy
Future of Public Enemy gotta

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Abstract Movie


An experimental short film by Tom McPherson

List of Film Awards for Abstract Movie:
Cinema World Fest Award: 2023 Winner Award of Merit
Florence Film Awards: 2023 Winner Gold Award: First Time Director
Hollywood Gold Awards: 2023 Winner Gold Award: Best Experimental Film
Milan Gold Awards: 2023 Winner December Gold Award: Experimental Film
8&Halfilm Awards 2023: 2023 Winner 8 & HalFilm Award: Best Art House Short Film
International Network Film Festival: 2023 Winner Best Experimental Film
Cuba International Arthouse Film Festival: 2023 Winner Best Experimental Film Castle Film & Media Awards: 2023 Winner Festival Award: Best Experimental Short Film

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PETERBOROUGH RADICAL BOOK FAIR

Saturday 19th October 2024

Stalls

AK Press
Anarchist Communist Group
Anarcom Network
Cambridge Anarchist Assembly
Communist Workers Organisation
Critisticuffs
Freedom Press
Helen Gould
Little Red Bookstall
Peterborough Hunt Sabs
Peterborough People’s Assembly
Peterborough Radical History Group
PM Press
Seditionist Distribution
Sue Dockett Radical Pamphlets
Syntax Poetry Collective
Theory and Practice
Viva!

Also featuring Angry Pencil art jam!

Speakers to be confirmed

 

Peterborough Radical Bookfair
takes place on Saturday 19th October 2024.
11am to 5pm at the George Alcock Centre,
Whittlesey Rd, Stanground, Peterborough PE2 8QS.

 

 

MORE DETAILS AT https://peterboroughradicalbookfair.com/

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New Worlds issue 224



[cover illustration by Mark Reeve]

New Worlds Vol. 66 No. 224, edited by Michael Moorcock (to commemorate the sixtieth anniversary of his taking over editorship of the title) is a new full-colour A4 stapled outsized 72 page magazine, illustrated by John Coulthart, Mal Dean, Herbert Sydney Foxwell, Allan Kausch, Mark Reeve, Julius Stafford-Baker.

This fiction and non-fiction anthology includes contributions from John Clute, John Coulthart, John Davey, Thomas M. Disch, Kausch, Roz Kaveney, Michael Moorcock (a brand-new Jerry Cornelius story), Iain Sinclair, John Sladek and Pamela Zoline.

• New Worlds #224 is available to order here. •

Read the history of New Worlds magazine here.

Read John Coulthart on designing and illustrating the new issue here.

Many back issues of New Worlds can be downloaded here at Luminist Archives.


[Illustration by John Coulthart]

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Cool Concepts



Onomatopeyas,
Pablo Elinbaum and Pablo Díaz
Scatter Archive (Bandcamp)

Photo_Tone Live at MUMOK Vienna 29_09_2023

, Mia Zabelka
Nachtstück Records (Bandcamp)

Eight Studies for Copulating Blippoo Boxes, Richard Scott
Nachtstück Records (Bandcamp)

‘There is no cool concept or creative process behind this work, sorry… we just went to a studio and started to play.’ So say Pablo Elinbaum and Pablo Díaz in the notes to their album, Onomatopeyas. Of course, in a way, they’re contradicting themselves. They describe the actual concept behind the album as: ‘try[ing] not to play for the sake of playing: it’s a simple idea but not so easy to execute’. However, when it comes to music-making, I reckon that’s one of the coolest concepts going. So, no apology necessary.  Then there’s the album title. There’s no getting away from it: I’m sorry, but the idea that one’s instrument is an extension of one’s voice and the sounds it makes, words that describe themselves is another, er, pretty cool concept (and one which would’ve appealed to another South American artist, Jorge Luis Borges, and it doesn’t come much cooler than that).

I know what they mean though. There are no concepts at play that might plant preconceptions in the listener’s mind about the music. One of the great things about improvised music is its potential to make new discoveries, to take both performers and listeners into totally unexpected places. For it to do this, preconceptions need to be kept to a minimum. I have more than a soft spot for what one might call ‘absolute improvisation’: music made that leaves the door open for me to find whatever’s there for me to find. We’re going on an adventure. Don’t draw me a map!

So, having read the notes, I felt, as you can imagine, positively disposed towards these two guys even before I started listening. I was not disappointed. There are six untitled tracks, six wordless, musical conversations between Díaz’ prepared guitar and Elinbaum’s percussion. It’s no coincidence, I think, that in addition to their musical work,  Díaz has worked in dance and Elinbaum works as an architect. They both arrange sounds in time with the kind of sensibility one might bring to bear on placing gestures or objects in space.

When Stockhausen wrote, in May 1968, ‘Spiele eine Schwingung im Rhythmus Deiner kleinsten Bestandtelle’ (‘play a vibration in the rhythm of your smallest particles’) , he was, I think, intending his instruction to be understood intuitively, not literally. Mia Zabelka’s composition, Photo_Tone, aims to interpret the idea literally. A violinist who improvises, composes and uses electronics, she describes what she makes here as  ‘scientific music’. The album, she tells us in the notes, is based on subatomic processes, letting – as the notes put it – the ‘modulation, elimination and the oscillation of elementary particles tell their own mysterious stories’. Of course, there are different ways one might go about achieving this: one could work at a micro-level, representing sub-atomic processes as waveforms, so that even the timbre of the sounds used in the piece are a representation of the sub-atomic world. Alternatively, one could work at a macro-level, using the processes to order the sounds in the piece and perhaps their durations. Once could do both, or even devise another system for representing them (as Rob Hordijk did for chaos theory with his Blippoo Box – more below). What isn’t clear from the notes is exactly which option Zabelka takes. It would’ve been interesting to know! What is certain, though, is whatever approach you take, you end up taking at least a few executive decisions. What limits are you going set for the sound-world you create? You could use the processes you want to represent to create music resembling anything from Satie-like piano pieces to industrial music. You’ll have to decide, too, on the speed at which you want each process to unfold.

So much for my quibbles. However Zabelka goes about it, though, it works! The end result is a texture, often noisy, sometimes frenetic, at others almost lyrical, held together with drone-elements. It’s an absorbing listen. Stockhausen would’ve been intrigued, I think.

I must say I approached Richard Scott’s Eight Studies for Copulating Blippoo Boxes with a certain amount of unease and, I must say, listening to these tracks does leave one feeling a little like a voyeur, or more accurately, an écouteur. In his album notes, Scott explains how he thought it best to leave them to it: ‘I have tried to keep myself out of the way as far as possible; as the great Serge Tcherepnin once put it; to allow the machines to speak for themselves. I believe that what the Blippoos have to offer, as well as being a very special kind of audible liquid mathematics, is also in and of itself a musically interesting listening experience.’

The Blippoo Box (the ‘oo’ is pronounced ‘oh’ in Dutch) was invented by Dutch synth designer Rob Hordijk. He died in 2022, aged 64, and Eight Studies is dedicated to his memory. He’d set out to design ‘an electronic sound generator based on the principles of chaos theory’, as he put it, and the Blippoo Box was the end result. One can either leave the machine to produce soundscapes, or attempt to ‘play’ it, although it’s impossible for a player to control it the way one might a conventional instrument. As Hordijk has said, ‘to play a Blippoo Box means to anticipate what the box is doing and not vice versa, as the behaviour can only be predicted in a broad sense.’ (If this all sounds interesting, Dutch trombonist Koen Kaptijn has invented a VCV Rack version of the box. VCV Rack, for those who don’t know, is a downloadable virtual synth. I can’t vouch for it myself, but I’ve included a link below in case there are any VCV aficionados out there who want to check it out).

Eight Studies is definitely worth a listen. My only criticism would be that some of the tracks could be shorter. Of the eight, my favourites were probably DrmmrsDtRhthmcll and Strkng. Overall, a fitting tribute to an imaginative an innovative synth designer.

 

.

Dominic Rivron

LINKS

Onomatopeyas:
https://scatterarchive.bandcamp.com/album/onomatopeyas

Photo_Tone Live at MUMOK Vienna 29_09_2023:
https://nachtstuckrecords.bandcamp.com/album/photo-tone

Eight Studies for Copulating Blippoo Boxes:
https://nachtstuckrecords.bandcamp.com/album/eight-studies-for-copulating-blippoo-boxes

The Blippoo Box (background and VCV Rack version):
https://community.vcvrack.com/t/blippoo-box-by-rob-hordijk/19842

Jorge Luis Borges:
https://neilgreenberg.com/ao-quote-borges-on-exactitude-in-science/

 

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Sisters with Transistors

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A Philosophy for Anarchism




(Illustration from Federation of Anarchism Era by Aryanam)

Philosophy is nothing but a landscape of perspectives, worldviews, and paths, some meandering and some straightforward, some solitary and some crisscrossing with the neighboring paths, some long and some short, some trekked in multitude and some in solitude, some forgotten and some revered, some new and some ancient, all to understand and nourish the abilities and needs of self and a myriad of others. Being is becoming, the traveler and the path both change in the journey. Yet, even if the destination is all the same, not all paths are suitable for all. One needs to stay true to oneself and the path’s needs and abilities. To each according to their needs and from each according to their abilities.

This path depicts a self-differentiating world. There is only one voice, one origin, one source, with a myriad of ever-changing expressions. There is no hierarchy among the multitude of different expressions but ones distinguished based on our needs and abilities. In difference, all realize actualization, recognition, and existence. Humanity is no different. To make a difference, one must understand one’s and others’ needs and abilities and then act within those abilities to fulfill the needs. To change, one must be willing to change. To each according to their needs and from each according to their abilities.

Recognizing self and others, inspiring difference, and affecting change all necessitate interaction. Peering close, underneath the myriad of groups, communities, and societies, through the rich tapestry of minglings, collaborations, gossiping, camaraderie, and intimacy, when building genuine affinity, relations, and friendships, socialization is at the core of human interactions. We socialize to cultivate our commonalities as a seed to recognize and foster our differences through cooperation and collaboration. Socialization is the key to understanding our fellow abilities, needs, and desires, for making a difference. United in difference, this is the basis of human sociability. To each according to their needs and from each according to their abilities.

Groups, communities, and societies are nothing but a crisscrossing web of interconnected and interdependent associations and relationships to varying intensities and degrees based on individuals’ needs, desires, and abilities. Individuals are each integral to our socialization, its building blocks and foundation; The presence or absence, association or antagonism, contribution or withdrawal, fulfillment and disappointment, and happiness or anguish of each significant, as if each deliberate and attentive beating wings of butterflies inspiring a storm of change. Then, individuals are each the measure of difference, envoys of change, in unceasing flux as their perspectives, abilities, and needs grow and wane, eternally unfit, whether solitary or collective, to be arbiters and authority on each others’ needs and abilities. To each according to their needs and from each according to their abilities.

There is a countercurrent to immortalize the self, arresting the world from change and focusing solely on either similarities and differences, free from all undesired consequences, invulnerable from the differences made by self or others, no matter how unlikely, unsightly, and minuscule; a will dictating conformity and uniformity on the similar, and the othering and vilifying the different; a sterile, barren, rigid, and dead trend, ending only in domination and destruction. Change, repetition and difference, this is how the world reproduces itself. Life is no different. Humanity is no different. Each difference is a potential for new expressions, resulting in new needs and abilities, new associations and collaborations. To each according to their needs and from each according to their abilities.

Fruitful socialization begets trust and honesty. Deception is poison. Shrouded in falsehood, one can’t be understood or understand another, no flourishing socialization, no informed consent, ruined from making a genuine difference, ending with nothing but foolish relationships, fickle communities, and corrupt societies. Institutions like the state, religion, patriarchy, racism, capitalism, or concepts like debt, duty, honor, virtue, property, social hierarchy, paternalism, and self-sacrifice; Deception has many faces and many names, yet wears the husk of humanity, detracts from the cultivation of our commonalities and differences, sabotages, corrupts, appropriates, exploits, and dominates all the same, forcing and inciting us to deceive ourselves and others, all to compel each other into cycles of obedience, then claiming our ingenuity and resistance as their providence. No genuine needs and abilities could be expressed by the docile and subservient or acknowledged and reciprocated by the domineers and oppressors.

Different worldviews may prescribe different ways to move through and interact with the world. This path, unable and unwilling to present a flawless beacon of veracity, an everlasting belief, or a small island of assurance and conviction in the sea of uncertainty and change, offers nothing but a seedling growing with our personal experience and a tool to track to the trends; a compass. We are fellow nomads trekking through life without a predetermined destination, each with different values shaped by different ever-changing needs, abilities, and visions for self-actualization. Yet, we all recognize the necessity of freedom and autonomy to develop and collaborate to fulfill our own needs and desires. Then, in the absence of societal power, the absence of rulers and ruled, the absence of domination and exploitation, the absence of social hierarchies, the absence of obedience, we would have the sole reference-independent compass not centering anything in existence, no humans, no animals, no nature, no ancestors, no Gods, and not our current interpretations of reality: Anarchism. We need not put trust in the compass, ceaselessly evaluating and verifying its capability and efficacy, destroying the old and building anew to make a difference, to be different. To each according to their needs and from each according to their abilities.

by The Collective at anarchistnews.org

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Mabgate @ Sunday Easy at The Trades Club

Alan Dearling offers some images and thoughts about the set

Mabgate trio played a lively, even at times, incendiary set at Trades Club in Hebden Bridge for the Sunday Easy afternoon gig. They are from Leeds and specialise in quite aggressive music, experimental, creating a battle-like scenario between bass-lines, ethnic and complex drumming, blended with staccato world rhythms and tinkling keys from dual organ keyboards.

Is it jazz? Certainly it is fusion…cross-over…rock into jazz – a little like the risky and innovative sounds which Miles, Jimi and John McLaughlin might have collectively produced. Genre-bending with plenty of opportunities for experimentation and quirkiness.

It’s really quite hard to describe their range of sonics. It’s certainly quite heavy, sometimes mixing African, Eastern and Spanish/Mexican rhythms, classical influences, maybe a hint of Santana, and, err, the sound of the Wurlitzer! It’s frequently quite a choppy sound, reminiscent of a vessel at sea in a storm, tossing and turning, unsettled amongst the swell of the waves.  It’s often edgy, brooding  and uneasy. Mabgate have had plenty of plaudits, including critical support from Jamie Cullum, Gilles Peterson and Jazz FM for their debut record ‘From The Mabgate Basement’. Their music is still evolving and transition. They have said that they are, “Honing in on a sound inspired by analogue 70s funk, moody ethio-jazz and worldwide groove music.”

They performed as a trio at Sunday Easy afternoon, but on their latest record they have included Joel Stedman on bass clarinet. The trio line-up was:

Electric Guitar – Ed Allen; Keyboards – Nico Widdowson, and Drums and Percussion – Richard Moulton.

Their set introduced tracks from their recorded output including the 2023 recordings on ‘Mabgate’, such as ‘Club 45’and tunes like ‘KBD’ which featured on the earlier ‘From The Mabgate Basement’ ep, along with new music still in development stages. Drummer, Richard Moulton at one stage introduced a track-in-progress, saying, “Help us out with a title for it…we’re crap at titles…it’s currently called something like, ‘Stingray plus crabs’.”

On-line, Mabgate have given an Interview for Twisted Soul Music online. Here’s an extract:

“The trio started making music together while living in a converted pub that became their creative hub…Formerly known as The Mabgate Organ Trio they return with a new offering, ‘I Asked’. A slightly more imposing and brooding sound with a new sense of freedom in their work. Although it still manages to hold onto the warm sonics we’ve heard from the trio. The track’s theme is inspired by James Blake’s take on love on ‘Friends That Break Your Heart’. Through the tension and euphoric releases of the choruses, we can sense the push and pull of longing for reciprocated effort in friendships.

We chatted with MABGATE about their musical influences, their creative process and more.

If all of you had to choose just one influence on your music, who would it be?

‘El Michels Affair. They’re a New York outfit who make a lot of retro soul, hip hop, instrumental funk. Leon Michels is involved with so many great projects and runs Big Crown Records which put out a lot of music that has influenced this recent project’.”

On Youtube:  the single, ‘I Asked’:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yL7veX24OLs

You can find more of their music on Bandcamp, and from Mabgate at Bandcamp, we learn:

“This track nods to the ethio-jazz of Mulatu Astatke, pitting the verses ominous guitar tones, and driving, looped basslines against the euphoric, melodic pairing of organ and piano in the choruses. Aggressive yet beautiful, the trio set up the appearance of Joel Stedman on bass clarinet, whose dulcet tones develop into fluttering soundscapes that set up the songs’ emotional climax.”

Definitely Mabgate have created a multi-layered, cinematic quality to their music. Challenging at times, and sometimes a musical assault and battery to the senses. ‘Tell It How It Is’ is one of their current audience favourites.

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from Jazz Fingerings 2/

Lake light comforts woodwind mesh across the white keys
tossed with wrinkled glaze and flecks that meet the reed stretch
of intention. Prayer is that wan fraction putty in the hand 
made bold as an elbow in the ribs meant to nudge forth
a magnetic kind of melody within percussion always understated
as mild as summer in an intuitive clime and held constant
as a river lined with alert new flow. Are there still host flowers
left to sweeten the stern rhyme scheme and varied for a little fun,
a treasure treasured reverently with deceptive ease (why not)
made into something else, a southerly ring tone let loose to empty
winter bones along the surface mood of a restrained Coltrane
woven past the lasting lathe of making sandwiched between scope
and phases of a finish line. Improvisation curls around straight
lines called norms until the wheel of left-hand turns leading 
perhaps to memory complete unto itself in versions averse 
to bedding down with tangents rice-tossed like celebration 
strayed from progression to grownup nuptials and silhouettes
left in the margins of what lives on in polite society
craning favorite neck status to reach a vortex once considered
daybed frost of velveteen surrender brought to bear on forecast
broth one honey bear away from embouchure once cold.

 

.

Sheila E Murphy

 

 

 

 

.

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Liar! Liar!

with apologies to William Blake

Liar! Liar! orange bright,
Beacon for the ultra right,
What immodest boast or lie
Could TRUMP your own mendacity?

On what distant golf-course green
Did you learn to strut & preen?
Whence the bragging? Whence the bile?
Whence that vain & faux hairstyle?

And what migrant plea or groan,
Could hope to crack your heart of stone?
And when your tiny brain goes live
How can common sense survive?

Putin’s creature? Wall Street’s tool?
Or just a pussy-grabbing fool?
Will claiming it in every tweet
Ever make your shit smell sweet?

You put all heaven in a rage,
Keeping babies in a cage!
Sexist! Racist! Half-insane!
Führer of your country’s pain!

Off to Florida you go
With your Stepford wife in tow,
Shoot the breeze & play some holes,
Forget about the melting poles.

The seas may rise, the skies may drop,
To you, the pole’s a strip-joint prop.
You’ll rue the climate smarts you lack
When that breeze starts shooting back.

Is that a Bible in your paw?
Would you besmirch all faith & law?
Do you believe a prophet’s look
Can mask the profiteering crook?

Now thousands die & nations grieve,
Still you bluster & deceive,
Spouting twenty thousand lies
That bolster COVID’s deadly rise.

Your mother groan’d! Your father wept!
To raise a leader so inept!
Who stokes white hate & stirs white fear,
Who treats Black lives as just small beer.

Now the stars in horror shrink
From the depths to which you sink.
Your white supremacy appalls,
And runs in blood down White House walls.

So re-election’s all you craved,
With COVID filling every grave?
And now you’ve lost, you sulk & flounce,
As if your ego’s all that counts?

Sack him! Sack her! Take no blame!
Throw a tantrum, stare down shame.
Raving as you lose your grip,
Like Ahab on his sinking ship.

And now you’re desperate for Plan B,
Let loose the dogs of anarchy—
Civil war? Or nuke Iran?
Apocalypse – is that your plan?

You’d rain down chaos to escape
Standing trial for fraud & rape?
Afraid some youthful porn star’s curse
Might further blight your marriage hearse?

You’ve tainted and defiled so much,
Democracy shrinks from your touch.
Now your fate looks less than swell —
To rot in gaol, then burn in Hell!

 

 

.

© Graham Lock

 

 

.

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GAZA REDUX 

This time there is no honey left in the lion
and there are no brass shackles on Samson.
Arise, mace and chariot of Dagon! 

Trouble began when mythical brothers
confused their identities as others’
shadows and mirrors, instead of doubles. 

Dagon resented the enemy’s reign.
Injustice and neglect made him insane.
“They’ve laid waste our land and multiplied our slain.” 

Nova morning burst and then exploded.
Nova dancers flared up and then went dead.
The sun worshipers fled while others bled. 

Samson was ordered to regrow his mane
and to resume his judgment, now unchained,
and yet remain blind to the others’ pain. 

The jawbone of an ass – heartless orders –
Samson deploys 30-cubit shoulders –
the heaps upon heaps of children smolder. 

Samson expands an eye for an eye
to peacock’s tails and needles’ eyes.
Gaza is as flax that was burnt with fire. 

Burn all the wells! Keep the corpses hostage!
Grind up humanity into sausage:
tabulate but don’t value the lossage. 

Samson/Dagon said: “Though you have done this,”
(each said) “yet of you will I be avenged
and after that” (they promised) “I will cease.” 

Samson said, “Now shall I be more blameless,
though” (Dagon said) “I do them displeasure
to do to him as he hath done to me.” 

Soldiers and martyrs measure their service
on the basis of duties, not mercies.
Each world regards the world as its world is.

 

.

Duane Vorhees

 

 

 

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You’ve Been Away A Long Time


                                               

                                                  WHY DID YOU COME BACK?

I’m at the bus depot to meet a once upon a time
and always love from way back

The stagecoach pulls in and they’re not on it
So I go to a bar, scribble some stuff
I think I can maybe turn it into an autobiography

Call me from the station when your plane gets in
I’ll be in the snacketeria having tea and a tart
and looking at travel brochures
Why is the port so far from the ocean?

In the restroom I look in the mirror
to see if I’m who I think I am
Never was I as handsome as I imagined
while you were always a beauty

You’ve been away a long time
                                      Why did you come back?

All decent people are tucked up in their beds
You can put your bags over there

I’m all sweetness and light
but not at all happy about the cab fare
Make mental note: tart good, go back for more

 

 

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Martin Stannard

 

 

 

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Check-out

 
Capitalism doesn’t make you feel better about yourself

Its dynamic relies on your dissatisfaction, your unhappiness
and the desire to satiate an impossible longing. With me
it’s Ava Gardner. An expression from one of the early films

She’d stop towards me, her blouse unbuttoned and her lips
slightly parted, and then we’d kiss. If not Ava (I know she’s

dead, dead and buried. I think Sinatra paid for her funeral)

then someone else from that era. Not Joan Crawford or Bette
Davis. Not Deitrich. People say that Liv Tyler resembles Ava
But I don’t see it. Maybe Anjelica Huston (for the smirk and

the raised eyebrow). I get distracted from the revolution
by falling in love too easily, but this doesn’t contradict
my main assertion. It’s based on solid evidence

Capitalism doesn’t make you feel better about yourself
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Steven Taylor
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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In search of a Newfound life


I cannot hear anything
I cannot speak, my look is vacant,
I pray every night, alone and broken,

Maybe, I believe in miracles,
Maybe it’s easier this way.
My laughter, my tears go for a killing.
My folded palms then dissolve at the end
in the disappearing lines,

There is nothing much to say now,
A stillness hangs over, 
a heart ice-covered within inclusiveness.

Come tomorrow and someone 
will sift the ashes, 
of my frail bones 
and immerse them in water,

Elsewhere, it may nourish 
the roots of the future plants,

I flow in the currents in search of self,
in search of a Newfound life.

 

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©Gopal Lahiri

 

 

 
Short-Bio:
Gopal Lahiri is a Kolkata, India, based bilingual poet and critic and published in English and Bengali language. He has published 31 books to his credit and his works are translated in 16 languages. Recent credits: The Wise Owl, Cajun Mutt Press, Dissident Voice, Piker Press, Indian Literature, Kitaab, Setu, Undiscovered Journal, Poetry Breakfast, Shot Glass, The Best Asian Poetry, Converse, Cold Moon, Welsh Haiku Journal, Verse-Virtual journal, International Times and elsewhere. He has been nominated for Pushcart Prize for poetry in 2021.
 
Twitter@gopallahiri
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Check-out

When I returned to my room to pack, my keycard no longer worked. ‘Check out was 10.00 this morning,’ the maid in the corridor said. ‘Your stuff has been moved. You need to see reception.’ I headed back across the university campus to the administration building, where a long line of new arrivals had already formed. Worried about missing my flight, I pushed my way to the head of the line but was told by the staff I would have to wait. ‘But my tickets and passport…’ I protested. The reception staff ignored me. An American woman queuing to check in told me to ‘shift my ass’. At the far end of the reception hall was a curtained-off area. I sneaked through the heavy drapes in the hope of finding my possessions. A large mound of luggage lay heaped on the floor, but a security guard appeared before I could search for my bags. ‘Guests are not allowed in here,’ he said. Two more guards arrived, dragging a goat with its horns painted blue. They escorted me to the basement, where half a dozen people were sorting piles of clothes and travel items into coloured bins. ‘You forget to check out on time too?’ said a young Asian woman holding a surfboard. ‘I’ve been here two days now. No one will explain what I have to do to get released.’

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Simon Collings
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

 

 

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This Big Moment In Our Brief Life

Light erases a dab of the soft pastel
blue-grey. I don’t remember the shade.
I do, how our first grade’s Miss Jane
taught us to flare our fingers and form
a make-belief tree. I unleash the fist.
Its dark branches render some character
to light’s endeavour. Wind brings the news
from the waves, and some dues we must pay
this season when a hard gale will audit our stays.

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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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THE DIARY OF A GENTLEMAN-POET

Tuesday, October 1st

‘Tis the first of October, the first day of what I suspect might be the first of several miserable grey and chilly months in this God-forsaken country, and it’s still raining. Never mind your “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness”: October is when I begin to batten down the metaphorical hatches.

As an antidote to reading John Bunyan I’ve started in on a crime stroke police procedural novel, the first in the Martin Beck series, which is Swedish and written by a husband and wife team whose names escape me because they’re Swedish and who can remember Swedish names other than other Swedes? My buddy Brett recommended it to me, and he said that once I’ve read this one I’ll be hooked and have to read the entire series, which is ten books. They seem to be the kind of thing one can read in a day or two if one has the time. I have the time.

Melissa telephoned. It was a weather warning, very late and so of no consequence, since it’d been tipping down all day and was tipping down as we spoke, and who cares what the weather’s like when it’s the evening and you’re tucked up cosily on the sofa with a Famous Grouse?

Wednesday, October 2nd

It’s been decidedly chilly lately, a definite seasonal change, and I’ve dug out my winter underthings to check what the moths have been up to. Fortunately I don’t mind a few holes here and there. Moths have to eat, just like the rest of us.

I had to go into town this morning for an influenza vaccination. The nurse said I would have a sore arm later. She wasn’t wrong . . .

In the afternoon Algernon Tenderloin dropped by with the latest update on his versifier career. I can’t remember the details because I wasn’t really listening, although I vaguely recall his saying something about his intention to hold a poetry soiree at his Nook in the near future. I’m going to claim to be ill. It’s of no consequence, though I realize he might by this time be starting to think I’m very unhealthy, since every time he proposes I go to something poetic I fall ill.

Melissa telephoned. She said she’d started to listen to the wireless a lot, and recommended I do the same: she says she’s become hooked on “The Archers”, and talked about it like it’s the latest new thing to hit the scene.

To bed. My arm hurts.

Thursday, October 3rd

The Martin Beck book was alright, though the translation left a little to be desired in places. It strikes me as strange how often an English person who gets the job of translating something into English can’t write decent English. I suppose it’s their knowledge of the other language that swings it for them. But notwithstanding that I shall try another.

Melissa telephoned. I was about to tuck into lunch, so I had to hurry her along. She’d just been to the dry cleaner with a winter coat and she said the cleaning is so expensive these days it would be cheaper to go the charity shop to find a replacement coat. Lunch was salmon, and very nice, as was the sun, which decided to come out just for a change.

I’ve received an invitation to contribute items of genius to a revived journal who have always championed my work, as if I need championing. Of course, I’ve duly obliged with a few gems, and await their gobbling them up with glee. I’m happy to make people happy even when I’m not especially happy myself. I’m tending to feeling a little low-to-middling at the moment, but it’s normal service, more or less, and so of little consequence.

Saturday, October 5th

Awoke with a crick in the neck this morning, and a vague recollection of a rather active dream life. It would be of no consequence, but instead of the crick going away it’s got worse, and it’s been quite uncomfortable. Cook suggested I go and have a massage, but I’ve never been very keen on massages, and once had a rather painful experience with a masseuse who I swear was a former heavyweight boxer. I shall never forget her. Her name was Freda. At least, that’s what she said. I shall live with the crick. It will go. They always do.

I started in on a reading of Herman Melville’s “Pierre” – God knows why, because I’ve tried to read it once before and gave up, so quite why I felt like giving it another go I really don’t know. Unsurprisingly, I haven’t made it to page 50, and I’ve given up again. To be fair, the introduction in my Penguin edition does say, at some length, that it’s a very flawed work, but I don’t think it goes as far as to say it’s unreadable. It says something about the prose style mocking the style of many novels of its time, but 40-odd pages of this kind of thing:

            How wide, how strong these roots must spread! Sure, this pine-tree
            takes powerful hold of this fair earth! Yon bright flower hath not so
            deep a root. This tree hath outlived a century of that gay flower’s
            generations, and will outlive a century of them yet to come. This is most
            sad. Hark, now I hear the pyramidical and numberless, flame-like
            complainings of this Eolian pine;—the wind breathes now upon it,—
            the wind—that is God’s breath!

Well, no thank you. Frankly, the chap’s just sat down by a tree, and he “thinks” another page and a half of this stuff, and I’m not in the mood. “Pierre” ain’t no “Moby Dick”, that’s for sure. P. G. Wodehouse, here I come!

Melissa telephoned. She says she knows a chap who’s offering a great deal on draught excluder. She knows this old house is a bit draughty. But I have my own draught excluder dealer, and we have a private arrangement and he’s not let me down yet. Every Autumn we meet up, it’s cash in hand, out the back of his van, and we don’t use our real names. To me, he’s Jez. To him, I’m Mr. Eliot, and it’s best we leave it that way.

 

 

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James Henderson (Gentleman)

 

 

 

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Exposure

Keenness of rain’s perspiration
to rush into my pores
suggests boundary issues.
Pandemic caution
holds me from arguing
menu of mishaps,
I bow out.
Dry as a bone
wetness glues me
to its bear hug.
Not habituated to it
I wonder what else
have I been missing?

 

 

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Sanjeev Sethi
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

Sanjeev Sethi has authored eight books of poetry, his latest being Legato without a Lisp (CLASSIX, an imprint of Hawakal, New Delhi, September 2024). His poetry has been published in over thirty-five countries and has appeared in more than 500 journals, anthologies, and online literary venues. He lives in Mumbai, India.

 

 

 

 

 

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MY KNEE

My knee hurts. It’s been stiff and hurting a few days now and it’s no fun. No fun at all. The rooms of our house are on different levels, it’s not just two floors, but there are steps down into the kitchen, up to the bathroom, from the landing to a bedroom – so if I walk around from room to room, which I like to do when I’m confronting the big questions and thinking and ruminating and considering, I have to go up and down several flights of stairs. They may only be two or three steps, but they’re still steps up and down, and my knee hurts when I go up or down them. Sometimes it’s stiff, and sometimes it hurts, and sometimes it’s stiff and hurts all at the same time. My wife says it’s my age but I tell her I’m not old, not by today’s standards.

Is it the right or the left? I hear you ask as you read this and leak a few drops of what passes for sympathy in our social circle, or would if you weren’t at home being fed grapes by your latest concubine. Well, it’s my right, but from your viewpoint it would be on the left. Everything of any importance tends to depend upon one’s point of view, and on where one stands when considering the issue at hand. I say that to all my chattering friends when they chatter about an important topic, like, for instance, a war in a poor country, or the price of Prosecco. But in this case I’m not at all sure it’s relevant. Pain knows nothing and cares less about relative positions, and neither does stiffness in the joints – they both simply concentrate on the job in hand, which is to inflict a degree of misery, which degree is itself relative, of course.

When did this knee trouble begin? I hear you ask as you read this and prepare to dribble platitudes out of the corners of your mouth. I’m thankful we’re not in the same room. The last time we were together in the same room it was all I could do not to give you a good kicking. It was only my wife dissuaded me, with a very cogent argument regarding constraint and legal considerations that drew upon her years as a typist with a highly respectable firm of solicitors. Well, to answer your question, I think it was Sunday, or perhaps Saturday. I had climbed on to a chair to try to destroy a cobweb that had established itself in an upper reach of the bedroom, and I felt a twinge as I climbed down – the cobweb stayed where it was; I needed to get a broom, for Christ’s sake, I couldn’t reach it with the brush – and after that things began to go headlong downhill, because I managed also to stumble into a shelf and knock the photograph of my wife’s parents to the floor, breaking the frame, and my wife’s not happy, and an hour or so later my knee began to really hurt. The next day it was stiff and hurting, and here we are now, with one eye on conflict in the Middle East, another on Ukraine, and the world’s burning up, and I’m complaining about my knee.

Oh, I just got a text from my friend Stephen. He wants to know if I’m up for playing on the left wing on Saturday. He’s a bit of a jester is Gavin. It’s code for ‘Do I want to go out for a beer?’ We used both to play for West Town Rangers in our younger days, and he likes to hold on to those times, even though they’re long gone and will never return. I send him a text back, saying I won’t be able to make it because we’re off to the wife’s sister’s for the weekend. The brother-in-law is a GP, so I can ask him about my knee if it’s still playing me up.

 

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Conrad Titmuss

 

 

 

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Fairground Attraction: The Next Million Kisses

 

Mark E Nevin, self-branded ‘insensitive songwriter’, has black-rim glasses and big headphones. He sits by the window with bookshelves behind and to his right, and a painting hung on the wall to the left. ‘It is a French educational poster depicting a typical English house’ Mark explains (Masson & Co, Paris). Eddi ‘Sadenia’ Reader plays a squeezebox concertina in the video for the new album’s first single, ‘What’s Wrong With The World?’ But we know what she looks like from ‘Top Of The Pops’. But on the screenshot now she stands on the seafront with heaving waves behind her, and grey mountains along the far shore.

Mark: Hello Andy, nice to meet you, man. Hello Eddi, I can hear you, I can’t see you.

Eddi: I’m on my little phone, hang on. I don’t know where my computer is. I’ve come home and the place is just turned upside down. Let me figure it out. There I am. I can see me. Change settings – no. We’ll just continue. Where is your accent from?

Andrew: I’m from West Yorkshire. Are you doing a lot of press at the moment? Am I crammed in after Mojo?

Mark: No. Not today. We have been doing quite a bit. We’ve just come back from Japan where we did quite a bit so – you know, we’ve been busy.

Andrew: The Japanese connection was quite instrumental in Fairground Attraction reforming.

Mark: Yes. The place that we played thirty-five years ago – a place called ‘Club Quattro’, the Nagoya one (there are four ‘Club Quattro’ live music venues, the first in Shibuya, Tokyo, the one in Nagoya is the second, opening 29 June 1989), we were the first people to play there thirty-five years ago on their opening night, so when they had a thirty-fifth anniversary they asked Eddi if she’d do it, and she said ‘why don’t we do it all together, as Fairground Attraction?’ and they were absolutely delighted, very surprised and delighted by that, and that’s what we did.

Andrew: Congratulations on a fine album in Beautiful Happening, is this the second of a Million Kisses?

Mark: It is, yes. Taken as a slow seduction, y’know, you don’t want to rush things.

Eddi: Ha-Ha-Ha.

Andrew: A lot of history has happened since your hit single ‘Perfect’, as you sing it – ‘civilisations rise and fall…’, we’ve had Covid, 911, Tony Blair, an eclipse, the millennium.

Mark: It wasn’t our fault!

Eddi: I’m still trying to figure this camera out. It’s annoying me now!

Andrew: One of the benefits of such longevity, of living through those decades, is that we gain a sense of perspective, we can draw certain conclusions.

Mark: I don’t know about conclusions – but hanging in there, really, yeah, keeping a sense of humour, taking care of the people that you care about, and all that sort of thing, just trying to remain a human being in a world that’s increasingly – y’know, technology-heavy. I don’t have a secret. Have you got a secret, Eddi?

Eddi: I think, live in the moment. And do whatever the moment offers you. Figure it out, what your instinct wants. Basically, it was just so lovely to be reconnecting with Mark – he has a beautiful family, and I saw Roy and Simon and I felt kind-of in their company, very much like we were brothers and sister that have not seen each other for a long time (her voice softens with emotion). Mark has written some amazing new songs – so, it was like – let’s try this, it’ll be great, it’ll be wonderful ‘cos everybody’s ALIVE!!!

Mark: It makes it a lot easier!

Eddi: Yeah. We’re still here. And – why not?, before the end of our time, to get to the point where we’re all going ‘you know what, it was really great to play with you, and it was great to achieve what we achieved, and also still be able to reconcile and sit round the table, or sit and play guitar together and jam together. So that was the miracle for me, and then the other miracle was these amazing songs that Mark kind-of – I don’t know, I’ve had issues with how long do you have the athletic ability, well, that’s waning like a footballer, but a voice has still got sensibilities that are more about the emotional connection to the song, so I have to really actually love it before I can do something with it. And Mark’s just written quite a few themes that I think are absolutely for me, right now, at this age, and I think it’s… I think I was dribbling with anticipation getting to sing, getting to have a go at things like ‘Learning To Swim’…Haw!

Mark: Dribbling in a good way. A few more years before you begin dribbling generally. Haw-Haw-Haw.

Eddi: The songs are like biscuits, you know. They’re like delicious biscuits, you get them and you go Yum-Ahhhh!

Mark: I just had some Rich Tea Biscuits (he holds up an opened blue pack of biscuits). One of the things I was really looking forward to getting home from Japan was having some tea, dunking my Rich Tea Biscuit in it. I’ve just had some…

Eddi: Definitely. A good cup of tea. That’s what I wanted.

Andrew: I prefer good Scottish Shortbread.

Eddi: Oh yeah, nice. Aran-Milis in the Gaelic. And you guys have lots of good Yorkshire shortbread up there, don’t you?

Andrew: Are all the songs on Beautiful Happening written by Mark?

Eddi: Aye.

Mark: Yes. There’s a couple that I co-wrote, but they’re all – largely, mine.

Andrew: Roy Dodds played drums on several of the solo albums that you subsequently recorded, Eddi. He also owns London’s Driftwood Studios where Eddi has recorded.

Eddi: Roy Dodds. Yes, he has, definitely. I think – before I did the Robert Burns album (Eddi Reader Sings The Songs Of Robert Burns, 2003, Rough Trade RTRADECD097, which includes ‘Ae Fond Kiss’), which was a while back now, but yeah – I would always call on Roy, he’s irreplaceable as a drummer. I’ve tried other drummers. And there are some good ones, but Roy’s got this… amazing technique, his brushes, the way he hits the brush, the way he hits a snare with a brush, it sounds in-between a brush and a stick, so it’s like… nobody else I’ve heard can do that. Someone else will play with a brush and it sounds like a brush.

Mark: You said he’s got a ‘Steptoe & Son’ sort-of feel.

Eddi: (laughs) Yeah.

Mark: Which I think is true, in a really lovely way. And there’s a chemistry between the four of us, that you just can’t force. You play with other people, and no matter how good they are, there’s a kind-of chemistry that we stumbled on way back then when we locked together. I know that when I play guitar (his fingers play air guitar), Roy and Simon and me, we just become one unit, without trying to be, it’s just like that… and then Eddi just skates over it like a ballerina… a dribbling ballerina! (extended laughter).

Andrew: Simon Edwards plays the guitarrón which is a large Mexican bass guitar. Has he used exactly the same guitarrón throughout? If not, where would he go to obtain a replacement? I can’t imagine that E-Bay do it…? (he also plays, with Roy Dodds, on Eddi’s solo album Simple Soul, 2001, Rough Trade RTRADECD011)

Mark: He bought his original one from the classified ads in the back of a newspaper for £90. He then got a second one sent from Mexico after our sound man snapped the neck off the first one, after a gig in Denmark. Since we reformed he has bought another, better one, flown over from California. It is the poshest and most accurate one yet. He has started a bit of a trend in Japan, when we went over recently, we were met at the airport by a fan who had one with him! It is a very important part of the Fairground Attraction sound.

Andrew: Fairground Attraction is timeless in the proper sense of the word, in that you were never part of a trend or fashion. You are unique in that you sound as different now as you did back then.

Mark: (he sways from side to side in his revolving office chair)That was very conscious, y’know, back in the day when the people were sort-of programming Linn-drums and buying their DX7’s, we were completely at odds with that. Eddi and I were going around London with acoustic guitars, singing songs, and we had this purist kind of thing about songs and about performance, and so we put a band together that was against the zeitgeist, not in any sort of heavy sort way, but just kind-of like doing what we wanted, and we made sure that there were no signs on the record that were going to be dated, so that you can listen to The First Of A Million Kisses now and you don’t know if it was made yesterday or thirty-five years ago, because there’s nothing to put a time-stamp on it.

Andrew: There is a continuity there.

Eddi: There’s definitely a sound that’s created by the individuals, and I think these guys are much better than I remember them as well, I mean – they were always good, but they’re better now.

Mark: We have had a bit of practise.

Eddi: There’s definitely a bravery kick there, and a bit more kind-of spontaneity going on. I like that. That’s where I live – you know, in that world. Have a solo in the middle there, right in the minute that you’re in it.

Andrew: A Fairground is something that comes to town for a week of fun and excitement. Then it leaves. It’s not meant to last forever. Will this reunion persist?

Eddi: This one does. We’ve not fallen out, y’know. We’ve decided to do some shows together, and I think a lot of that is about – listen, we’re still around, this is who we were, and here’s some new ideas as well, and did you all make it through the Nineties – how was it for you? We’re just going with whatever is presented to us. If somebody says to us ‘do you want to go and tour Brazil?’ or whatever, and it makes sense and we can do it then we’ll have a go, you know?

Mark: I think a lot of… the thing is, in the music business, people get a band together with their mates, and the next thing is, they find themselves running some sort of huge business that they were never ever cut out to do or wanted to do. And it becomes a curse. Certainly, we felt kind-of like, it’s very difficult dealing with all that side of things the first time round, and it’s not something we want to be bogged down with now, particularly at this time of our lives, we want to take the most enjoyable aspects of playing together and then – that’s it. That’s what we’re doing. There are no expectations.

Eddi: Yeah, we’re going to do the tour. I’m really looking forward to it. It’s going to be emotional. It was emotional in Japan. I couldn’t even get… never mind trying to sing, for god’s sake. Those guys were playing the song, Mark was playing the opening chords, and I’m – like, blubbering like a wreck. That dribbling stuff is just uncontrollable…

Mark: It’s a lot of the theme!

Eddi: Because I’m pretty emotional anyway. I’m an emotional person. Things can take my mind and I’m in that spiral for ages. Yesterday it’s my son who has an issue so I’m with that all day. So then it’s my husband’s got something to do, so I just get kind-of lost in whatever’s happening in the moment. So that when we were on stage in Japan, and Mark was playing the chords of ‘A Hundred Years Of Heartache’ – and, by the way, a lot of these songs seem to be talking to us, rather than us performing them, they seem to be saying to us, there’s a homecoming, there’s beauty in forgiveness, there’s a light in the darkness – you know? It seems to be that whatever comes through Mark is hitting me that way, and I’m feeling like it’s a conversation that we’re having musically. So when I’m standing onstage and he’s playing the chords of ‘A Hundred Years Of Heartache… are over now’, I’m like, ‘Oh my god!’

Mark: (he leans back in his swivel chair, his hands behind his head) Yes, I think it’s the same for the audience, a few people in Japan were sending us things saying ‘I saw you back then and I’m seeing you now, and I think of all the time that’s gone between, and all the ups and downs of my life, the happy moments and the sad, the losses and all that, and it’s such a huge moment to see you together,’ and I think – in a way, particularly because people know that we fell out badly, that to see us being friends again now, it’s important to them, and it’s a bit like, yeah, your parents who got divorced thirty-five years ago, getting remarried. And it’s really really as great a moment for certain members of the audience as it is for us. So, it’s incredibly emotional.

Andrew: I like the optimism of the title-track. There’s so much doom and gloom around, it’s good to hear that positivism. Yes, life can be beautiful. While the song ‘A Hundred Years Of Heartache’ seems to be referencing Fairground Attraction ‘coming home’ in the line ‘some things are never over, some things just come round and round again.’

Mark: Yeah. And the second part of that is that sometimes, sometimes something really ends. And I remember that because I had the first part of that song, those lines, for quite a while, and then when I came up with the second bit I remember having a feeling of really physical reaction. Sometimes, some things REALLY end! Agh! ‘Cos they do, of course. That is the nature of life. Things repeat, and sometimes they end, then they are reborn and Turn Turn Turn and everything… so, yeah, that song is a really… we opened the set with it out there, and it was very powerful for us, and for the audience…

Eddi: Definitely. The other thing is – I’m learning the songs quite quickly, so we only had – what? Since maybe January was it, that we were told…? I don’t remember, but whenever it was, these songs came tumbling into my life, so I don’t have any connection with how Mark found them or where they’ve come from, or how or when they happened to him. But the conversation that’s happening to him internally, he externalises it in song, and then people like me have an opportunity to express it… so I’m not really clear about how connected the theme is to what’s happening to us, but I do know that I can make it connect in my head, with what’s happening to us. And so it feels like a little advice from someone far away, but it’s coming out of me, so it seems like I’m soothing myself with them too, and hopefully whoever is listening gets off on it. It’s the same as anything, when you’re singing a song at a party you just want to fill the room with the joy that you feel about it. And anybody can do that. It’s kinda easy to do that if you feel joy about something. So, finding my way into these songs has been interesting because my friendship with these guys seemed cauterised, and I didn’t have any say in that, so I was determined to say ‘I’m open, the door is open, let’s be what we are to each other, which is important characters in our story. When we came out – in 1988, nobody else was playing acoustic guitars at that time, everybody had electronica – and that was great, there was lots of invention, but there was something about me and Mark that we liked the immediacy of a song, you know? I like the fact that you could tell a story through a song. And Mark likes the fact that you could… I mean, he wasn’t writing ‘Ooo-Ooo-Baby Baby’ and adapting it to a drumbeat – do you know what I mean?  He was writing stories. And the stories were incredibly attached to the human condition. And I think that’s why it spoke to quite a few people. In fact – in the UK, double-platinum’s worth of people bought it on that level!

Andrew: The Fairground Attraction single ‘Perfect’ knocked S-Express off the number one position (14 May 1988).

Eddi: I thought it was Yazz! I was pretty sure it was Yazz. I’m prepared to have a bet about that!

Mark: No. It was S-Express. I remember it so clearly. Because I was watching the TV chart countdown with my Mum & Dad, and the DJ announced, ‘and down from last week’s number one, S-Express,’ and then the second part was that my Dad said ‘I was wrong when I said you should’ve got a proper job, son.’ So I remember the S-Express as part of that statement.

Eddi: What is the S-Express song?

Andrew: A track made up out of samples.

Mark: ‘Theme From S-Express’. It’s the antithesis of us. We were the opposite of it, really. In Australia when ‘Perfect’ went to number one, it knocked off that song (‘You’re The Voice’ by John Farnham) – ‘you’re the voice, we’re the voice’ (he sings), what’s that song? Do-do-do-do-do, John somebody, he was Australian, and it was a massive Australian number one for weeks – sixteen weeks or something. And he was ‘Australian Of The Year’, and we knocked him off number one! We were both on the RCA label so it was quite embarrassing for the people at RCA in Australia because we’d knocked this sort-of untouchable icon off number one – much to their horror!

Eddi: And there Mark has revealed a little window into the kind of insanity that is the music business. It becomes a competition, a competition against yourself so that when you’re number one, anything after or below that is useless. It was a traumatic event, you know. Quite a tsunami. You’re suddenly in competition in this fearful kind of environment which, well ‘you gotta do this or else you’ll…, you’ve got a hit, strike the iron while the iron’s hot,’ and all that. And it became absolutely a loud noise which probably infected every aspect of… why you would choose to do something like this. Why would you choose to actually sit down and write a beautiful story about people meeting in a Council Estate and falling in love like a Romeo & Juliet when all around them was disastrous, and there it was, the jewellery in the junkshop of life, and it was to do with love, and it was to do with finding a truth in that, that there is… like Mark has just written with ‘Beautiful Happening’, in the darkness there is light. There is something in it, there’s something in it that’s much more sublime than you realise. And I think that we were doing… I was certainly singing those songs because I… I, I, I loved to spread that word. I’m not an evangelical person, but, well – maybe I am, I don’t know? But I do enjoy letting people know how good something is. I certainly couldn’t do it with my own writing, or I couldn’t at that time, I was far too insecure about that, but somebody standing in front of me that’s just written an amazing song! I mean, it’s like, imagine Cole Porter standing in front of you with ‘Every Time We Say Goodbye I Die A Little’, and him going ‘I can’t get a deal’, I’m like ‘GIMMIE THAT SONG!!!’ I want to tell the world. That’s the way it was. Then it became a bit more pressurising for us – maybe we were a bit too sensitive for it?

Mark: As I’ve said before, it’s like we went out for a drive in a Morris Minor and we accidentally took a left turn onto a Formula One Racetrack! ‘Ooo-ooh! What’re we doing on ‘ere?’ That’s what it was really like.

Eddi: There is that, although I would never feel as though I was a Morris Minor, I was feeling more like a Zeppelin balloon flying high above all of it…

Mark: A Ford Zephyr Six then, metallic blue?

Eddi: Zephyr? No, they’re good. I like Zephyrs. We were that. No, but the point is too, how we see ourselves. We were a little bit at odds with the competition that was set up. So you’re doomed to failure. If you go to number sixteen, that wasn’t as good as number eight, if you go to number thirty-two that’s even worse. It doesn’t matter that you sold three-million copies, and at that time people did buy records! – now you can be number one with sixteen sales. But then it was more about actual physical sales. They had an industry wrapped around it, with distributors and shopkeepers and promotion-people so there was a whole thing that had to be… the musicians, and what they needed, would be on the bottom of food-chain. We are kinda seeing it turned around a bit now, that the musicians own their own work, the musicians talk directly to…

Mark: The bloke from Spotify owns everybody’s work! But anyway… we’ll let Andy get a word in edgewise. He’s waiting here. Go on, Andy, ask us a question.

Eddi: Hang on a minute. Just to conclude and finish. I think it is turning around, so that – yeah, there are people like Spotify, they will be regulated eventually – they will be, it’s the Gold Rush, y’know, it’s lawless at the minute, but the deal is, musicians will always be born and writers will always be born, and they will always create, and there will always be people ready to exploit it, so we have to protect them – and we will, and I think it’s got better now, ‘cos we can play our music and directly speak to an audience, and have the audience directly communicate with us. That is good. Spotify is an anomaly.

Andrew: On the new album, Beautiful Happening, the track ‘Sing Anyway’ is about the power of music as a healing force.

Mark: Absolutely, however bad, keep on keeping on, really.

Andrew: And the track ‘Learning To Swim’ is not about swimming, but about overcoming your hesitation and having self-confidence in your own ability.

Mark: Yes. In a way, I’ve always had that thing with songwriting. My Mum used to read me the parables from the bible when I was a boy and I used to love the feeling you got when a little story had a nugget of wisdom in there, and I’ve always tried to write songs that had something like that.

Eddi: It’s great to meet a songwriter who is that conscientious about writing songs. Just from my perspective, it’s wonderful to see that.

Andrew: Another of the changes that have taken place during the intervening years is that there are no longer B-sides, a single is just a stream. Whereas your interim album, Ay Fond Kiss (1990), was made up of earlier B-side covers. Patsy Cline’s ‘Walking After Midnight’, Sam Cooke’s ‘You Send Me’ with a tasteful bass, a samba sway to Lennon-McCartney’s ‘Do You Want To Know A Secret’, and a near-acapella take on ‘Mystery Train’ from the Elvis ‘Sun’ years. The selection an artist makes of songs they cover, betrays their roots and influences.

Mark: We used to like doing the B-sides.

Eddi: Yes, that’s the way it is now. You can hear a song. I can say I want to hear ‘Dinah’ by Louis Armstrong from 1930 on Okeh Records, and I can go online and see it, get it, hear it, experience it. I can get the Boswell Sisters, I can get Paul McCartney. I can get everything that I want, and I can get it just at the touch of a button. But there’s something about playing live that you can’t replicate – even with the Abba AI. You can’t actually replicate what it’s like to sing a song directly at somebody, or to sit in the middle of an auditorium with an orchestra playing at you. A computer cannot do that, there’s nothing like it… I just don’t believe it. There’s something really wonderful about… I don’t know, an eighty-year-old woman singing a song that she learned at her granny’s knee, those things are vital, and telling stories is vital in song.

Mark: When we did the B-sides, we’d say ‘let’s do a B-side,’ and Eddi had lots of songs, things like ‘Jock O’Hazeldean’ or ‘Ay Fond Kiss’, those lovely Scottish songs I’d never heard of before, and it was great for us to discover them and find some way of playing them, it was interesting, and then there was the version of ‘Do You Want To Know A Secret?’ – the Beatles song, that seems to be one of the most popular songs on Spotify that we did, strangely. But that was good fun. It was a good opportunity to have a bit… to play a bit, and be a little less… to take some risks, you know.

Eddi: I think that was quite a good charge, the three-&-a-half minute and two-&-a-half minute song, and then the colouration at the back, you would turn the record over and there would be a little kind-of package, really – a little opener for us through music, and I think – yeah, we can still do that…

Mark: We will. I’m sure we will. One of the things as well about the B-sides – I don’t know if you remember this, Eddi, we had this kind of thing where we had one song on each of the singles that was just you and one of us. We had ‘Mystery Train’ on the first, which was just you and Roy…

Eddi: Oh yeah, that’s right!

Mark: And then there was ‘Trying Times’ with just you and Simon. And ‘Ay Fond Kiss’ was just you and me. And each of those three records were first takes – the only time we ever played them were on those records.

Eddi: Well, you’ve got a great memory, Mark. I’m telling ya! That’s fantastic. I do remember that, I do remember something about that. Wow! I don’t think I’ve heard ‘Trying Times’ for years.

Andrew: Was the Patsy Cline cover your choice, Eddi?

Mark: We did ‘Walking After Midnight’ which was one of Eddi’s favourites, wasn’t it? That you used to sing.

Eddi: At the time, yes (she sings the opening lines of the song).

Andrew: And you did Sam Cooke.

Eddi: I love Sam Cooke, yeah. ‘You Send Me’. Actually, a lot of that was to do with the movie Sweet Dreams (the 1985 Patsy Cline biopic) with Jessica Lange and Ed Harris, doing the Patsy Cline story. They played ‘You Send Me’ in that a lot ‘cos Patsy Cline loved it, and then I fell in love with listening to Sam Cooke’s Greatest Hits. Because I got it after watching the movie. And then…

Mark: I like that song because Aretha Franklin did a great version of ‘You Send Me’. That’s when I first knew it.

Eddi: Ah, lovely. And I think Brian (Kennedy), the Irish singer, was included, wasn’t he, Mark?

Mark: What it was, during encores we often used to do ‘You Send Me’, and Brian would come on – ‘cos he’d be our support act, and he’d sing it with you. And it was very nice.

Andrew: Mark, you co-wrote songs with Morrissey for his Kill Uncle album (March 1991). Was he difficult to work with?

Mark: Yeah, he’s quite a strange character, and it was kind-of awkward… a lot of… he never quite – he was very shy, and he’d turn up at my house sometimes, unannounced, and say ‘hello’ (in faint voice), and just come in for a cup of tea and sit there and hardly say anything, and you’d just be sort-of chatting away to fill up the awkward silence. And it was kind-of like that. He’s less like that now – as far as I know, I’ve not seen him for years. It was quite an odd thing. But at the time – really, I was so wounded from the break-up of Fairground Attraction, and though everyone was going ‘isn’t it great, you’re doing this with Morrissey’, and I was lucky to have got that chance, I wasn’t so… I was aching at the time, particularly because we recorded that album at Hook End Manor (in Oxfordshire), which was where we’d broken up. So really, when I think back to those days, it was quite a painful time.

Andrew: What kind of biscuits does Morrissey prefer with his cup of tea?

Mark: I can’t remember. I’m sure he was a Rich Tea man as well. Why wouldn’t he be? You know, I actually wrote a letter to Rich Tea Biscuits once, ‘cos I enjoy them so much that I wrote them a letter, I said ‘Dear Rich Tea Biscuits, I’d like to congratulate you on the continued excellence of your fine biscuits,’ and I described exactly the way I like to dunk them, and they wrote a letter back that said ‘Dear Mr Nevin, thank you for your kind comments, and please find a voucher for 50p.’ So, I got some free ones.

Andrew: I would draw the line at dunking a Chocolate Digestive though.

Mark: Oh no no, you don’t want chocolate ones! No – that’s weird, c’mon.

Andrew: Eddi, why did you choose to do an album of Robert Burns’ work, and not a more contemporary Scottish poet?

Eddi: Well, the thing about Robert Burns… I wasn’t aware of what he’d actually contributed. When I started doing that album I just really wanted to make a Folk album with my Folkie friends back in Scotland, and I kinda wanted to have that same beauty that somebody like Kate Rusby has, so I asked Kate’s man at the time – John McCusker, and John McCusker just had a whole bag of musicians like Ian Carr and Andy Seward, and Ewen Vernal got involved – he was in Deacon Blue so I knew him from the past, and these were all kind-of new people to me, but they were from a scene that I was in when I was seventeen-eighteen, so I was kind-of surprised that there was such vibrancy in it. Then I just started to pick out songs that I remembered, and realised that practically every one was a Burns song. And then the Royal Scottish National Orchestra here were doing a Burns Festival down at Plane Castle in Ayrshire, and they asked me if I knew any Burns songs ‘cos they were doing this Burns festival – and I said ‘well, actually, I’ve got these six that I’ve been working with.’ I’d tuned my guitar to kind-of Bert Jansch and John Martyn tunings and I was trying to find my way through the melodies that I knew – probably getting them wrong, whatever. But my experience of Robert Burns is that he was something that posh people and Bankers celebrated, not the likes of me and my family! Burns Suppers seemed to be the place where quite wealthy Scottish people hung out, and I didn’t remember one Burns Supper when I was growing up or anything like that – nor anybody being that bothered. So I assumed he was some kind of rich dude from the past, and I didn’t really learn about him until I started doing the songs, but then I realised that he was exactly like me. He was the eldest of seven, he was born in 1759 – I was born in 1959. His Dad died at sixty. My Dad died at sixty, there was hard work involved, there was working for the family all the time involved, and I kinda GOT him in a different way, and when I read his poetry and then translated them – because some of it’s archaic, I realised that he was an absolute genius. The way he could describe people, their foibles, their daftness and their ego eccentricities, and I just fell in love with the guy. I was in London and I remember having a dream, and he was on the brow of a bridge in Ayrshire or maybe the borders of England and Scotland, and he was going ‘Come home, just come home. You’ll be alright, come home.’ So I left and took my six or eight songs, did the Culzean Castle and then the Orchestra said ‘look, if you’ve got another six songs we can make an album,’ and they gave me a deal. So I found six more and recorded that album.

Andrew: So you had a vision of Robert Burns, just like Allen Ginsberg had a vision of William Blake.

Eddi: Maybe, I don’t know. But yes – mostly. Cheeky he was. He was really cheeky. He’s a cheeky boy. I don’t know if it’s the same, but I do remember feeling very close to Robert Burns. Not before – but just as I was doing the album, I suddenly started to defend him against other people’s accusations. People were going ‘wasn’t he a bit of a shagger?’ ‘Oh Fuck Off!!!’ It was like, go fucking tell that to Mick Jagger, for fucks sake. Shakespeare. Who the fuck cares whether he was a shagger or not? What matters is that he’s fucking brilliant!

Mark: I’ve never heard that Shakespeare was a bit of a lad? Anyway…

Eddi: He might not have been. I don’t know.

Andrew: Mark, do you really know where Ray Davies lives, as you claim in the song on your 2011 solo album Stand Beside Me In The Sun (Raresong Recordings MARKNCD3).

Mark: I do. He lives very close to me, just round the corner.

Andrew: Muswell Hill, it’s gotta be?

Mark: No. Highgate. He lives just around the corner from me in Highgate.

Eddi: He’s not. He’s lying right here next to me on this double bed. Hey Ray! You can’t see me. I can’t seem to change the picture, I’m really sorry about that.

Mark: A few weeks ago they had the Highgate Village sort-of Square thing here, and I saw my wife was talking to this guy, and I thought ‘who’s that bloke she’s talking to? He seems familiar.’ I walked over. She said ‘Oh, this is Ray Cooper.’ And it was the percussionist who plays with Elton John (Mark plays air-drums to illustrate). And he said ‘do you know who lives there?’ And I said ‘yeah, Ray Davies,’ ‘cos we were standing right next to Ray’s house. He said ‘yeah, I used to go there years ago. He still lives there?’ I thought, this is a really surreal moment. But yes, we see Ray Davies around a lot. And sometimes Dave. I saw Dave Davies in the cheese department of Marks & Spencer the other day.

Andrew: So at least we know what kind of biscuit Dave Davies prefers. He likes Cheese Crackers! To close, is there something else you want to say about the new album that we’ve not already talked about?

Mark: Well, we just really hope people will enjoy Beautiful Happening. We are very proud of it. We… obviously, making an album, the first… we only really made one proper album, so – this was our difficult second album that took us thirty-five difficult years to make. But we think we’ve done it. We are very pleased that… we listen back, we think it sounds like an album from start to finish. It’s cohesive, it’s got lyrics, it’s got melodies, it’s got great musicianship, and it’s got the incredible best singer in the country.

Eddi: Awwwwww

Mark: What’s not to like? So we are utterly delighted, and if other people like it too, that’d be a great club to be in, you know?

 

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BY ANDREW DARLINGTON

 

THE FIRST OF A MILLION KISSES

(1988, RCA PD71696)
All songs written by Mark E Nevin, except ‘Whispers’

(1) A Smile In A Whisper (3:30), with ‘tiny harp’ played by Kim Burton
(2) Perfect (3:37)
(3) Moon On The Rain (3:53) with Steve Forster on mandolin
(4) Find My Love (3:45) with Anthony Thistlethwaite on mandolin
(5) Fairground Attraction (2:17)
(6) The Wind Knows My Name (4:12)
(7) Clare (3:15)
(8) Comedy Waltz (3:30)
(9) The Moon Is Mine (2:41)
(10) Station Street (3:01)
(11) Whispers (3:50), written by Eddie Reader
(12) Allelujah (3:26)
(13) Falling Backwards (2:29)
(14) Mythology (4:38)

 

‘Perfect’ c/w ‘Falling Backwards’, ‘Mythology’, ‘Mystery Train’ (March 1988, RCA PD41846)

‘Find My Love’ c/w ‘Watching The Party’, ‘You Send Me’, ‘Ay Fond Kiss’ (July 1988, RCA PT42080), no.7 on the UK chart

‘A Smile In A Whisper’ c/w ‘Walking After Midnight’, ‘Winter Rose’, ‘Trying Times’ (October 1988, RCA PT42250)

‘Clare’ c/w ‘Do You Want To Know A Secret?’, ‘The Game Of Love’, ‘Jock O’Hazeldean’ (1989, RCA PT42608)

AY FOND KISS
(June 1990, RCA PL74596)
(1) Jock O’Hazeldean (3:06), traditional song adapted by Walter Scott
(2) The Game Of Lovel (3:25), written by Mark E Nevin
(3) Walking After Midnight (2:49), a Patsy Cline hit written by Alan Block & Don Hecht, Frances Knight plays accordion
(4) You Send Me (4:43), written by Sam Cooke
(5) Trying Times (3:53), written by Donny Hathaway & Leroy Hutson
(6) Mystery Train (1:59), Elvis Presley ‘Sun’ single written by Parker & Phillips
(7) Winter Rose (3:31), written by Mark E Nevin, accordion by Frances Knight, mandolin by Anthony Thistlethwaite
(8) Do You Want To Know A Secret? (2:32), written by Lennon & McCartney
(9) Allelujah (Live) (3:32), written by Mark E Nevin
(10) Cajun Band (3:01), written by Anthony Thistlethwaite
(11) Watching The Party (3:30), written by Mark E Nevin
(12) Ay Fond Kiss (3:19), traditional song adapted by Robbie Burns

 

‘Walking After Midnight’ c/w ‘Comedy Waltz (Live)’, ‘Clare (Live)’ (1990, RCA PT43654)

‘What’s Wrong With The World?’ (March 2024)

BEAUTIFUL HAPPENING (EP)
(June 2024, Sony Records Int SIJP 1098)
(1) Beautiful Happening
(2) Uncertainty
(3) How Far A Little Candle Throws Its Might
(4) Lullaby For Irish Triplets

BEAUTIFUL HAPPENING
(20 September 2024, Raresong Recordings)
Guest players, Roger Beaujolais (vibraphone), Graham Henderson (accordion)
Nigel Hopkins (piano and string arrangement ‘The Simple Truth’), Melvin Duffy (pedal steel guitar)

Arranged by Simon Clarke and Tim Sanders

Recorded at Master Chord Studio in North London from 27 January 2024

(1) Beautiful Happening 4:43 (Mark E Nevin), written for Italian tenor Andrea Bocelli, who turned it down!
‘There’s something beautiful in this darkness
Something beautiful is going on
There’s something happening in this silence
Some kind of sweet and wordless song
Some kind of beautiful
Some kind of beautiful
Some kind of beautiful happening…’

(2) Sing Anyway 4:02, previously featured on Mark’s solo album My Unfashionable Opinion, now recorded with pedal-steel player Melvin Duffy

(3) What’s Wrong With The World? (Mark E Nevin), first single  ‘You can change the mirror, but not the reflection’

(4) A Hundred Years Of Heartache 3:58, first song to be recorded
‘Every time the clock strikes midnight, I can count another day
Every time I see the sunlight, I know I’m one less night away
One less night of counting midnights, all alone in my lonely bed
I’m coming home, the end is in sight, I’m coming home
I’m gonna rest my head, rest my head
And a hundred years of heartache are over now
A hundred years of heartache, I made it somehow…’

(5) Learning To Swim 3:10, ukelele strum, about overcoming hesitations and being certain of your own decisions. ‘When it’s cold, you gotta be bold.’

(6) Gatecrashing Heaven 3:38 All access denied to a sinner like me

(7) Sun And Moon 3:25, features the Kick Horns Brass, Simon Clarke (baritone sax),  Tim Sanders (tenor sax), David Liddell (trombone), Ryan Quigley (trumpet & flugel horn)

(8) The Simple Truth 3:10, something different for Fairground Attraction and is the first of two songs on the album co-written by Nevin and other songwriters – in this case Nashville veteran Kimmie Rhodes and Mystery Jets vocalist Blaine Harrison. Graham Henderson exchanges his accordion for a glorious performance on the chromatic harmonica and string arranger Nigel Hopkins brings a touch of class to the proceedings with his understated score.

(9) Hey Little Brother 3:52 written for former tour manager Vance Anderson who died prior to the recording

(10) Last Night (Was A Sweet One) 3:51, again augmented by the Kick Horns, sweetly romantic ‘under a spell, and over the moon’

(11) Miracles 3:14

(12) Lullaby For Irish Triplets 4:28, a waltzy lullaby written by Nevin, Grace Pettis and Robbie Cavanaugh

Eddi says ‘I thank whatever brought me here, in gratitude to the universe and all who sails in her.’ Simon would like to thank Gin, Grace, Jimmy and Ash for their love and support. Roy says ‘I’d like to thank my beautiful family for all their love, support and encouragement.’ Mark says, to Louise, Gabriel, Stanley and Rufus ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you – every single thing about you shows me how to love you.’ In loving memory of our big brother, Vance Anderson

 

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A Legal Matter

 

When I arrived for the meeting, the manager was a horse, his mouth dropping hay and his eyes swimming with that emotion that equine artists always try to capture but never understand. His hooves were shod in iron. To his left was another horse, taking notes on a battered laptop, stamping horse language with all the frenzy of anger or need. To his right was an armoured steed, straight out of a 30s epic, whose presence was never explained. Their backs were to a picture window displaying the wasteland, and their manes shimmered with sweat or worse. The manager waved his leg – cannon, fetlock, pastern – gesturing me to sit, though there was no chair. He tipped his head – poll, forelock – commanding me to dance, though there was no music. The air swam with the sweet stink of warm shit. Six unreadable eyes. Sooner or later, someone would have to draw conclusions.

 

 

Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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The Mind Controlled Road to Hell

The proponents of a transhuman AI future are a clinically insane, anti-life demonic cult. With this at the forefront of your mind, ask yourself: do I still want to do business with them?

If the answer is ‘No’, then take immediate steps to adopt a life style as diametrically opposite as possible from the one that makes one dependent on both the tools and mindset of their trade.

I stress ‘mindset’ because the state of mind behind the push to turn human beings into biocomputers is not sufficiently rejected by the majority of those using the cult’s tech.

There is almost no concentrated thought being applied to this already advanced enslavement process, therefore those not questioning their attachment to the EMF (Electro Magnetic Frequency) digital tech, lack the ability to resist the insidious capture of their best energies.

One can only put an end to something by first recognising its existence and one’s reliance on it.

This is the first phase of release from slavery and in taking control of one’s destiny.

So, what could such a diametrically opposite lifestyle to one of toxic IT dependency be?

Firstly, a re-earthing. A rational process that taps into common sense and frees one from blind acceptance of an ever more dominant digital control system.

This could, in practice, take many different forms and go in many different directions, but all would be about getting out of jail while one still can.

ELECTRICITY is being pushed centre stage as the key tool for both ‘convenience’ and 24/7 invasive surveillance and control.

Consider the fact that all commercial alternative energy sources are about generating electricity. Electricity for public transportation, private cars, cooking, heat pumps (home heating), metering systems, telephone chargers, just about all communication tools, a plethora of household items, street lights, air conditioning, ventilation systems…the list goes on and on.

So, why is the Net Zero by 2045 scam so determined to replace carbon fuel sources with non carbon based electric energy? Anything to do with climate amelioration issues?

No, of course not.

Electricity is the energy choice most obviously connected with the ability to control. The perfect medium for a fully centralised energy surveillance grid.

Now, consider the ever increasing percentage of communication systems and household items that are moving, or have already moved, from cable based distribution to WiFi.

Around 90% of all domestic utility gismos (within the post industrial Northern World) are likely to be WiFi based within the next four to five years. Not because we want that, most of us don’t – but because our protagonists see wireless as the most seamless medium for our ‘management’.

Add to this terrestrial monopolisation process, ‘the cloud’ EMF powered grid, designed to act as a global surveillance, communications and zapping weapon – all in one. Operating out of tens of thousands of satellites – a significant number of which have already been launched into low orbit by Elon Musk’s Starlink program and other related enterprises.

The ‘hive mind internet of everything’ is planned to operate out of this grid of low vibrating EMF microwaves linked-up to 5G towers – and all combining to cover the entire earth’s surface.

Whatever WiFi receiving systems one has will be both a recipient of – and a transmitter into – this highly toxic ‘smart cloud’.

Furthermore, metallic nanoparticles found to be present in chemtrail operations and ‘vaccination’ ingredients, will render human beings energetic conductors/receptors of electronic pulses. An open target of mind control extending into physical body organ manipulation and gene modification.

However, the order of importance in taking steps to guard against becoming an open target of such destruction, must start with WiFi based electronic items that are carried on one’s body on a daily basis.

This is a massive stumbling block for almost all current holders of mobile phones, the great majority of whom cannot even imagine detaching themselves from these ultimate tools of control.
Mobiles are called ‘cell’ phones in America – a very apt description.

In fact, it appears to be the case that there is a subconscious, and in some cases conscious belief that these wireless gadgets are a symbol of ‘progress’ for the human race as a whole. Some, like followers of Yuval Noah Harari, see them as a godly tech; ‘Deus ex machina’, bringing one closer to the omega point of life itself.

Whereas all they actually do – aside from changing one’s genetic and cellular disposition – is embroil one ever deeper in the stifling and soulless virtual agenda of ‘the tech’. The road to hell.

And, as you will surely know by now, this is where the dark architects of control want us to be.

Take undisciplined fascination in – and reliance upon – the tech far enough and one becomes submerged into it.

“Where attention goes energy flows” is not just a nice little parable, it is an observational truth that has been opened-up to the world by the pioneers of quantum physics.

It could be added that where ‘inattention’ goes, slavery follows.

The architects of control are working at reducing living, sentient, emotional beings to biological computers programmed into the matrix of the hive mind, and a large portion of the population are presenting themselves as a blank canvas for this operation.

It is this largely unconscious mindset which must be broken in order for humanity to rescue itself from life in a permanently programmed ‘smart’ prison.

A life in which no possibility of spontaneous creative expression remains and only crumbs are offered as sustenance for mind, body and soul.

The trap has been set, but its motive and end ambition are at least now exposed.

That means that those who can still act with discernment and right brain motivation can take the decisive steps necessary to change their circumstances in accordance with their intention not to be victims.

There are two key steps to be taken. One is material and the other is mental/spiritual.

The material one involves paring down one’s life to an uncluttered, simple and essentially rudimentary way of life in a non urban location in which one has the ability to take some controlling influence over one’s basic needs.

Pure water, living food, fresh (as possible) air and reasonable shelter. None of these will be 100% uncontaminated, but will nevertheless offer the foundation for a healthy and active existence, within the relative calm of a landscape still influenced by and reflecting the rejuvenating powers of nature.

Cities and large towns are the chosen epicentres of electromagnetic frequency targeting and low quality environmental health hazards. Avoid them if you can.

The second step is mental/spiritual. But ‘second’ is an inappropriate description. It is a need that should be attended to simultaneously with the material. Body, mind and spirit are not disconnected phenomena.

Those wishing to free themselves from the architects of control must recognise that the world is in the grip of a demonic mass indoctrination process which can only be truly counteracted by a properly developed psychic (mental) attitude coupled with a determined raising of spiritual energies.

The Masonic/Luciferian insentient and psychopathic condition survives by feeding on negative energies emanating from those it imprisons. Shift one’s energetic point of focus to the realisation of those higher powers that patiently await one’s attention on the other side if the veil – and one becomes out of reach to the dark forces. Out of reach of low vibrational attacks on one’s psyche.

Not only that, one starts experiencing the rising of a power one may never have thought one possessed; or which one though was only an external phenomenon.

Contrary to what many believe, this sense of inner awakening is not progressed by exclusive adoption of a reclusive inward centred form of contemplation, but by stepping out into the world and taking strong actions that confront injustice and oppression. What in spiritual terms is called ‘service to humanity.’

It is only when an inner nurturing of one’s true power is matched by making use of that power to bring positive change into the world, that true personal growth and awakening gain proper traction and one’s deeper being starts to blossom into a powerful energetic force for good.

It’s vital to understand that it is only when both inner nurturing (i.e. meditation) and outer action for social, mental, physical, economic, political, animal and environmental planetary amelioration are combined – that the key to unlock the door to a metamorphosis of our divided and war torn world is finally achieved.
A true mental and spiritual dynamic empowers us to face the reality of the world courageously, with a burning desire to transform stagnant and degraded life forces into fountains of deeply uplifting energy.

This is the true human dynamic. This is the state available to all of us once we grasp the fact that we are here on this earth to make actual the extraordinary potential we are born with. That which is latent in every one of the thirteen million cells of our body.

We are on earth, but we are from the cosmos. We are universal sparks of the Supreme Nucleus that brought all life into being.

We are not here to be plodding along in slavish lockstep with some top down death wish.

It is only because we have accepted the authority of that which deceives us into believing that we are lesser mortals, fit only for a three dimensional prison camp, that a great victory for life over death still remains a chimera.

It’s more than time to break free. Being the self indoctrinated victim of a delusion is no way to spend our brief manifestation on planet earth.

There’s work to be done – lot’s of it – and the urge to accomplish this work is the most insistent message of our deepest calling. We ignore it at our peril.

By embracing the call to action we set in motion the realisation of both our individual and collective emancipation – and that of all living beings with whom we share this planet.

So go to it – immediately – and never look back.

 

 

Julian Rose

 

Julian Rose is an early pioneer of UK organic farming, a writer, broadcaster and international activist. He is author of the acclaimed title ‘Overcoming the Robotic Mind’. Do visit his website www.julianrose.info for further information.

 

 

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Promise

The courtesy of ever brimming love
The fountain of lost promises
Of lands and antique mountain heroes
They sung a different lullaby
To keep the vigil intact of broken dreams
A dream is a moving wish for penchant hope
I stand at the gate of eternity
Of heavenly shadows and rainbow dreams
A penmanship of an author lost and found
As the river ran a thousand depths
For the feeling of innumerable grief
As if my heart string was tied to a shadow.

 

 

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Sayani Mukherjee
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

 

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Marcus Aurelius Celebrity Squares

 

Observe the kind of mind that chases fame  
A ship cannot sustain on one small sail
Self-serving man survives a little while
Before a sea of arrogance subsumes him

Envy may outlive all happiness
Of those whom you believe are held above you  
But court dissatisfaction with your life  
Many form of this well-paid professions   –

Cynical psychologists who claim
‘Everything is what you think it is’
Carving up the words of Epictetus
To suit their busy bromides
Reducing to banality
His vision in the unity of all things

The world is filled with Nature’s refugees
In exile from the heart as from the soul
Yet dedicate a little time
To those few things you need
For independent dignity  
Considering the cosmos
A single living being

Your life is but a moment
Do not set your happiness to waver
On flattery or censure from some other   –
Only seek the company of those
With whom your capabilities expand

This narrow ledge we walk some call ‘alive’  
Enticed by promises of pleasure
Constrained by alternating fears of pain   –  
How frail and how corruptible
Whose judgements and opinions
Confer renown on a harried rock?

One who sets his sights on fame
And while obscure endures the dream
Of posthumous recognition   –
The praise of all the world
Means nothing to the dead
The living who remember him
One by one resume oblivion

Memory and fame are this   –
A rock-pool between tides
While ceaselessly the river meets the sea

 

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Bernard Saint
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

 

 

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World Animal Day Oct 4th

June 10, 2017 Four powerhouse activists take the stage to talk about their advocacy ideas and campaigns! This panel features Eugene Cooke, Casey Taft, Ashley Capps, and Wayne Hsiung. Each offer unique ways of engaging others about the critical issues surrounding veganism, food justice, and social justice. Our inspiring panelists have disrupted oppressive industries, changed hearts and minds, and provided support for those bearing systemic injustice. Watch to up your advocacy game.

 

 

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Poem (across the north macedonian border)



Wondering if I still look like a quiet
port at midnight or if I am perhaps a little

more dangerous now. The fence, humming his
own tuneless melody and some travelling girl’s

belly full up on vegetables and fish. How much
for a room tonight, can you make beer flow

from the taps? I see the lampshade over
the moon, his cigarette dangling. I do not

understand why they put us on a world that can
not stop turning and expects us to stay so very

still. The children of the village are taking a hot
bath; their shoulder blades wet knowing

mother will be here soon. I cannot reach my own;
damp from the journey, and this is how it gets

being so old and so alone, nothing but a car of
unwritten poetry and sunflower seeds for company.

 

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Blossom Hibbert
Picture Rupert Loydell

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Cover-Up

 


 
A colubrine turned vein
is akin to our attention
bristling with bothers.
Familiarity with forbearance
directs us towards withdrawing
from certain urges and their appulse.
 
The actor knows post the ‘hanging’ shot
he is on the roster for the next scene:
The audience, too, is aware of it
but the sway of the sequence betrays them.
Finis is the final port:
We sail like the sea is ceaseless.

 

 

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Sanjeev Sethi
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

 

Sanjeev Sethi has authored eight books of poetry, his latest being Legato without a Lisp (CLASSIX, an imprint of Hawakal, New Delhi, September 2024). His poems have been published in over thirty-five countries and have appeared in more than 500 journals, anthologies, and online literary venues. He lives in Mumbai, India.

 X/ Twitter @sanjeevpoems3 || Instagram sanjeevsethipoems  

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SPIRITUAL AESTHETICISM

 

 

Some Occult Connections in France, 1870-1939

A C EVANS

 

 

 

A new cult launched in the period after 1870 was Theosophy.

Founded in New York in 1875 by Helena Blavatsky, who enshrined Theosophical  doctrine and precepts in her two books:  Isis Unveiled (1877) and The Secret Doctrine (1888). Blavatsky based her doctrine on eastern philosophy and was opposed to both Christianity and Spiritualism.

However, her first French devotee, Rene Caillé’, founder of the magazine L’Antimaterialiste (1884) tried to combine all these spiritual orientations. The French Theosophical Society was also founded in 1884 – the year of A Rebours and Les Poetes Maudits – under the aegis of Lady Caithness, Duchesse de Pomar. The organization was consolidated in 1887 as Le Societe d’Isis under the leadership of Felix-Krishna Gaboriau, editor of the magazine Le Lotus. In that same year, 1884, Theosophy claimed another new convert in the person of Gerard Encausse, a young medical student. His academic researches had lead him to the Bib1thothque Nationale but he spent his time there studying medieval grimoires and treatises on alchemy and Paracelcist healing.

After his conversion to occultism Encausse took the name ‘Papus’, derived from a work by the semi-legendary ancient Greek mage Apollonius of Tyana. He was to become the most energetic publicist and entrepreneur of the occult during the entire period. In 1887 he published his first book, L’Occultisme Contempraine and published his second work, Traite elementaire des Sciences Occultes, in 1888. By this time he had also been elected to the General Council of the Theosophical society by Gaboriau and Colonel Olcott. He later rejected Theosophy and formed his own organization – the first of many – called Le Society Hermes.

 

As early as 1886, Papus, with his disciple Chamuel, had founded the bookshop Librarie du Merveilleux, one of three similar establishments in Paris at the time. The others were run by Henri Charconac (Librarie Generale des sciences occultes) and Edmond Bailly who owned the Librarie de l’Art Independent . These shops became the focal points of connections between the occultists and the poetes maudits of the Decadent Movement. The first ‘decadent’ poems by Paul Verlaine had appeared in the periodical Paris Moderne in 1882, among them the influential ‘Art Poetique’ which became the basic theoretical statement of the new movement – initially the terms ‘decadence’ and ‘impressionism’ were interchangeable. Both terms symbolized outrage and radical syntactic disruption.

To those who were shocked by their pictures the Impressionist painters seemed to work in a style which demanded the disintegration of the image in the same way that the Decadents, following Verlaine’s dictum ‘Take eloquence and wring his neck!’ required the ‘decomposition’ of language. Both the Impressionists and the Decadents appeared to be out to destroy meaning itself; both schools were opposed to Academic Art, and were, therefore, anti-establishment. Some Decadents, like the Quintessent Anatole Baju evolved a philosophy of transformation influenced by occult theories. Their objective was to create a style which would express the unique subtleties of the modern world as perceived by the unique perceptions of the decadent poet – the  precursor of a new species of man, the ‘outrider’ of a ‘latent transformation’ which would undermine the cultural clutter of Classicism, Romanticism and Naturalism. ‘Society,’ said Baju, ‘is disintegrating, corroded by a deliquescent civilisation.’

The leading Decadents soon allied themselves with the outsiders of the occult. To the bookshops came Huysmans, Villiers de l’Isle Adam, Victor-Emile Michelet, and many others seeking enlightenment. Papus himself was keenly aware of the common interests between the Decadents, Symbolists and Occultists. Many of his books such as Le Tarot Des Bohemians (1889), Traite’methodique de Science Occulte (1891) and hi Traite Elementaire de magie pratique (1893) were read by poets who found in their pages corroboration of their own speculations and theories of sensations associees, reciprocal analogy, the supersensible world and sensory derangement. As Charles Morice was to remark: ‘Every true poet is by instinct an initiate.’ This statement pointed to a poetic tradition which stretched back via Rimbaud to Baudelaire and Gerard de Nerval, with roots in the late eighteenth century, the period of the very first occult revival that accompanied the emergence of Romanticism. However the writings of a poet like Mallarme remained infinitely more subtle than the outpourings of the esoteric fraternity, and while he may have found some inspiration in the Nuctmeron of Apollonius he took pains to distance himself from ‘les pauvres kabbalistes’. Likewise Huysmans, whilst he found himself attracted to the nightmare grotesqueries of Satanism, which he depicted in his book La-Bas, eventually admitted himself repelled by the ‘verbiage’ uttered by self-styled initiates.

Despite the success of Theosophy there existed a mainstream of European occultism, expounded by Alephs Levi, Charles Nodier and Paul Christian, as powerful as Blavatsky’s pseudo-oriental myth of the Mahatmas. This tradition was enshrined in Rosicrucianism and the Kabbala.

So it was, that in 1888 the morphinomaniac Marquis Stanislas de Guaita founded the Ordre Kabbalistique de la Rose Croix. A number of prominent figures joined this group: Papus (of course), and Oswald Wirth. Wirth was Swiss ‘magnetic healer’ and a Freemason who became Guatia’s secretary and also wrote a book called Les Vingt-deux Clues Kabbalistiques du Tarot. A number of literary figures also joined including the poets Edouard Dubus, Michelet and Laurent Tailhade, and the novelists, Maurice Barres and Paul Adam.

Of these the most famous was undoubtedly Maurice Barres (1862-1923). In the 1880s he aligned himself with the Decadent Movement and had written the first serious analysis of the movement’s aims in an article entitled La Sensation en Literature (1884) he discussed the work of Verlaine, Mallarme and the poet-musician Maurice Rollinat as exponents of a technique called sensations associees. This was the Decadent version of Baudelaire’s Correspondences, the doctrine of reciprocal analogy, which Baudelaire had in turn derived from the occult tradition of Swedenborg and Bohme. Barres perpetuated his own version of Decadence called the Culte du Moi, a scheme of nihilist individualism which he later renounced in favour of right wing nationalist politics influenced by the philosopher and former anarcho-syndicalist, Georges Sorel. Joining the extreme monarchist, Catholic, anti-Semitic organization L’Action Francaise and the revanchiste Ligue des Patriots, Barres became an icon of the right. In 1921 he was to be denounced by Andre Breton and the Paris Dadaists who declared that he had ‘renounced what may be unique in himself’. Paul Adam (1862-1920) had created a scandal with hi novel Chair Molle, a product of Decadent Naturalism taking as its subject the life and experiences of a prostitute. Both these personalities – Barres and Adam – illustrate the various tendencies that, in the France of 1888, led them to join Guaita’s occult organization. Adam shows how the materialist conceptions of Emile Zola’s Naturalism derived from a nihilist skepticism which rendered the occult more attractive than orthodoxy, while Barres illustrates a trajectory from ultra-individualist Decadence, via occultism, to right wing authoritarianism. The philosophy of Sorel as embodied in his influential Reflexions sur la Violence (1908) was to have far-reaching effects, being one of the ideological sources of Fascism, although ideas such as ‘structural violence’ and the politics of the ‘general strike’ also resonated with movements on the Left.

According to occult historian Francis King, Guaita’s objective was the study of kabalistic philosophy and to thereby aid the spread of occult knowledge. Guaita also had mystical leanings and attempted to achieve ‘divine union’ through meditation and other methods. The marquis was a typical maudit. He lived like an occult des Esseintes, rarely emerging in daylight hours except to purchase some grimoire from one of the occult bookshops. He came from an established Lombardy family and went to school at Nancy where he met Maurice Barres. Later he moved to Paris, supposedly to take a law degree, but he soon chose a literary career instead. In 1881 he published his first book of poems, Oiseaux de Passage, to be followed by La Muse Noir (1883) and Rosa Mystica (1885). According to Mario Praz La Muse Noir dealt with the whole gamut of sensationalist decadent themes: orgies, paganism, tortures, harlots, drugs, vampires and the ‘ecstatic vertigo’ of crime. His perversity found a more constructive outlet in 1881 when he started to read the works of Eliphas Levi. His subsequent occult writings – influential at the time – were merely surveys of earlier literature. He wrote Au Seuil du Mystere, Le Temple de Satan (1891) and La Clef de la magie Noir (1897).

The main significance of Guaita’s order lay in it’s mixed membership of occultists like Wirth and Papus and poets like Michelet and Barres, signifying an attempt to fuse artistic enterprise and. occultism in a formal manner. It was, perhaps, symptomatic of a growing nostalgia, an atavistic desire to resurrect the primordial sources of art in ritual. Paul Adam, like Huysmans, rejected Naturalism and the modernity of Decadence in favour of myth, legend, romance and the fantastic. Writers and artists, in reaction against the spiritual negation of their age indulged their imaginations in various directions. They cultivated the sadistic cruelties of Flaubert’s Carthaginian bloodbath novel, Salammbo, or the vast, encrusted, legendary, erotic paintings of Gustave Moreau (hailed by Huysmans as uniquely ‘modern’). They exemplified an immersion in pseudo-historic fantasy typical of great numbers of Decadent/Symbolist writers and painters who produced large numbers of works using legendary themes, the lives of the saints, or the Norse epics in imitation of Wagner’s Ring.

Guaita’s Kabbalistic Rosicrucian order was the first of many such groups which were to proliferate in England and Europe during the subsequent decades. In 1888 a group of Rosicrucian adepti with similar preoccupations emerged in England when the Hermetic Society of the Golden Dawn (GD) established its Isis-Urania Temple. Among its members were the Celtic Symbolist W. B. Yeats and the pioneer of cosmic horror fiction Arthur Machen. In 1894 the GD set up a temple in Paris (called the Ahathoor) and by 1895 the indefatigable Papus had been made an honourary member. An intriguing aspect of this convergence of art and occultism is the suggestion that many esoteric ideas were mediated into mass culture from the cultural underground of magical fraternities by artists and writers who came to specialize in various genres of the fantastic.

An early precedent had been set by the English author Edward Bulwer Lytton (1803-1873), a founder member of the semi-Masonic Societas Rosicruciana in Anglia (1866) and author of numerous works of fantasy dealing with occult-magical themes, notably Zanoni (1842) and ‘The Haunted and the Haunters’ (1857). Zanoni was taken very seriously by subsequent generations and the English magus Francis Barrett initiated Lytton himself into the occult arts, it was claimed.

Later examples of the link between fantasy or horror fiction and the occult would include the novelists Arthur Machen (1863-1947) and Algernon Blackwood (1869-1959). Machen’s book The Hill of Dreams (1907) has been called ‘the most decadent book in the English language’. But he is more well known for his horror stories such as The Great God Pan (1895) and The Three Imposters (1896) evoking the occult world of cosmic evil revealed by satanic practices and the atmosphere of Decadence in the literary circles of London in the 1890s. Machen’s work had some influence over the writings of the later American writer of ‘pulp’ horror, H. P. Lovecraft (1890-1937) who continued to explore worlds of cosmic evil in tales like ‘The Call of Cthulhu’ (1928). The period between 1880 and 1914 witnessed a flowering of occult, and thinly disguised occult, fantasy fiction and pictorial illustration. There were fantasies of Alternative Worlds as described by Lord Dunsany in The Gods of Pegana (1905) or William Morris in The Glittering Plain (1891).

Stories of world catastrophe perpetuated the myth of the fin-de-siecle as a period of cultural breakdown as exemplified by the gruesome racial warfare of M. P. Shiel’s The Yellow Danger (1898) and his novel of total destruction called The Purple Cloud (1901). These works were allied to the pioneer Science Fiction of the time as exemplified by H. G. Wells’ The War of the Worlds (1897) and Le Peril Bleu (1910) by Maurice Renard. The apocalypse of 1914-1918 was mirrored in the works of German writers like Oskar Panizza (Visionen der Dammerung, 1914), Hanns Heinz Ewers, and the Austrian Expressionist Alfred Kubin whose novel depicting a parallel universe, The Other Side was published in 1909. The Austrian author of Der Golem (1915), Gustav Meyrink (1868-1932) was an ardent occultist and alchemist from Prague who belonged to an organization called The Theosophical Lodge of the Blue Star. Meyrink’s work was said to have exerted some influence over the Gnostic psychology of C. G. Jung.

Considering Oscar Wilde’s Gothic-Decadent tale of moral degeneracy and magical transformation, The Picture of Dorian Gray (1891), David Punter has said:

 

Dorian Gray incorporates the problems of the 1890s in a jeweled nutshell. We have a burgeoning awareness of the existence of the unconscious, of that fountain from which spring desires and needs of a thousand times stronger that those to which we can admit; a sense of dire situations which result from the liberation of those passions…

David Punter, The Literature Of Terror, Longman, 1980

 

 

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The Anarchist Bookfair in London 2024

A celebration of all things anarchist.
The Bookfair exists to support radical struggles against capitalism, patriarchy, colonialism and ecological destruction – and especially those fighting for a liberated London based on mutual aid and freedom for all. 

This year we have discussions, music, films, workshops, merch, skill-shares, food, campaign stalls, a kids space, and of course lots and lots of lovely books! It’s not just for anarchists either, everyone* is welcome to come and have a nose around. Who knows, you might even leave an anarchist!   (*Not cops, transphobes, etc.)

The Anarchist Bookfair in London 2024 will take place across several venues listed below. The Bookfair stalls and ‘Zinefair will all be located at Rich Mix.

The workshops will to be split between various venues and we will update this website accordingly. Please take time to check out the schedule and plan accordingly. If you have mobility needs and require extra assistance travelleing between venues get in contact and let us know.

RICH MIX
35-47 Bethnal Green Road E1 6LA
www.richmix.org.uk

FREEDOM BOOKSHOP
84B Whitechapel High St E1 7QX
www.freedompress.org.uk

WHITECHAPEL GALLERY
77-82 Whitechapel High Street, London, GB E1 7QX
www.whitechapelgallery.org

COMMON PRESS BOOKSHOP
118 The Verge Bar, Bethnal Green Road, London, E2 6DG
https://www.commonpress.co.uk/

MORE DETAILS AT https://anarchistbookfair.london/

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Rythmetic


Norman McLaren and Evelyn Lambart

Animated short film from 1956, directed by Norman McLaren and Evelyn Lambart.
Original soundtrack by Norman McLaren.
Version for percussion quintet: Florian Goltz

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An album for everyone

(or Nick Kent was right on the ball)



Marquee Moon
review by Nick Kent (NME Feb 1977)

Cut the crap, junior, he sez and put the hyperbole on ice.

I concur thus. Sometimes it takes but one record – one cocksure magical statement – to cold-cock all the crapola and all-purpose wheatchaff mix ‘n’ match, to set the whole schmear straight and get the current state of play down down down to stand or fall in one, dignified granite-hard focus. Such statements, are precious indeed.

Marquee Moon, the first legitimate album release from Manhattan combo Television however, is one: a 24-carat inspired and totally individualist creation which calls the shots on all the glib media pigeon-holing that’s taken place predating its appearance; a work that at once makes a laughing stock of those ignorant clowns, who have filed the band’s work under the cretinous banner of ‘Punk-rock’ or ‘Velvet Underground off-shoot freneticism’ or even (closer to home, maybe, but still way off the bulls-eye) ‘teeth-grinding psychotic rock’ (‘Sister Ray’ and assorted sonic in-laws).

First things first. This, Television’s first album is a record most adamantly, not fashioned merely for the N.Y. avant-garde rock cognoscenti. It is a record for everyone who boasts a taste for a new exciting music expertly executed, finely in tune, sublimely arranged with a whole new slant on dynamics, chord structures centred around a totally invigorating passionate application to the vision of centre-pin mastermind Tom Verlaine.

Two years have now elapsed since the first rave notices drifted over the hotline from down in the Bowery. Photos, principally those snapped when the mighty Richard Hell was in the band, backed up the gobbledegook but the music – well, somehow no-one really got to grips with defining that side of things so that each report carried with it a thumbnail sketch of what the listener could divine from the maelstrom. Influences were flung at the reader, most omni-touted being guitarist mastermind Verlaine’s supposed immense debt to one Louis Reed circa White Heat/White Light which meant teeth-gnashing ostrich gee-tar glissando and whining hyena vocals. You get the picture.

Above all, one presumed Television to be the aural epitome of junk-sick boys straight off the E.S.T. funny farm – psychotic reactions/narcotic contractions. Hell split the scene mid-75 taking his black widow spider physique and blue-print anthem for the Blank Generation, leaving ex-buddy-boy Tom Verlaine to call all dem shots, abetted by fellow guitarist and all purpose West Coast pin-up boy Richard Lloyd, a most unconventional new wave jazz-orientated drummer, name of Billy Ficca – plus Hell’s replacement, the less visually imposing but more musically adept Fred Smith.

It’s been a good two years now since Television got those first drooling raves – two long years which led one at times to believe that Verlaine’s musical visions would never truly find solace encased within the glinting sheen of black vinyl. The situation wasn’t helped in the slightest by Island Records sending over Brian Eno and Richard Williams to invigilate over a premature session back in ‘75, the combination of the band’s possible immaturity and Eno and Williams’ understanding of what was needed to flesh out the songs recorded, resulting in the taping of four or five horrendously flat skeletal performances which gave absolutely no indication regarding the band’s potential.

Following that snafu, Verlaine became, how you say, more than a little high-handed and downright eccentric in his dealings with other record companies and potential middle-man adversaries to the point where even those who quite desperately wished to sign him threw up their arms in despair of ever achieving such an end.

Reports filtering through the grapevine made Verlaine’s behaviour seem like that of a madman. Even when the ink had dried on the contract Joe Smith signed with the band for Elektra Records late last year; Verlaine was apparently still so overwhelmed with paranoia that he activated a policy of never properly enunciating the lyrics to unrecorded songs in performance for fear that plagiarists might steal his lyrics before they’d been set to wax.

The only number he dared to sing close to the microphone at this point was ‘Little Johnny Jewel’, the one-off cult single of ‘76, a bizarre morsel of highly sinister nonsense verse shaped around a quite remarkably lop-sided riff/dynamic which set off visions (at least to this listener’s ears) of an aural equivalent to the visuals used in the German impressionist cinema meisterwerk Dr Caligari’s Cabinet, spliced in half (the track took up both sides of a 45 – labelled Parts 1 and 2) by a guitar solo which bore a distinct resemblance to, well, yes to Country Joe and The Fish. Their first album you know. The guitar pitch was exactly the same as that utilized by Barry Melton; fluid, mercury-like.

That’s the thing about Television you’ve first got to come to terms with. Forget all that ‘New York sound’ stuff. For starters, this music is the total antithesis of the Ramones, say, and all those minimalist aggregates. To call it Punk Rock is rather like describing Dostoevsky as a short-story writer. This music itself is remarkably sophisticated, unworthy of even being paralleled to that of the original Velvet Underground whose combined instrumental finesse was practically a joke compared to what Verlaine and co. are cooking up here. Each song is tirelessly conceived and arranged for maximum impact – the point where decent parallels really need to be made with the best West Coast groups. Early Love spring to mind, The Byrds’ cataclysmic ‘Eight Miles High’ period, a soupcon even of the Doors’ mondo predilections plus the very cream of a whole plethora of those psychedelic-punk bands that only Lenny Kaye knows about. Above all though the sound belongs most indubitably to Television, and the appearance of Marquee Moon at a time when rock is so hopelessly lost within the labyrinth of its own basic inconsequentiality that actual musical content has come to take a firm back-seat to ‘attitude’ and all that word is supposed to signify is to these ears little short of revolutionary.

My opening gambit about the album providing a real focus for the current state of rock bears a relevance simply because here at last is a band whose vision is centred quite rigidly within their music – not, say, in some half-baked notion of political manifesto-mongery with that trusty, thoroughly reactionary three chord back-drop to keep the whole scam buoyant. Verlaine’s appearance is simply as exciting as any other major innovator’s to the sphere of rock – like Hendrix, Barrett, Dylan – and, yeah, Christ knows I’m tossing up some true-blue heavies here but Goddammit I refuse to repent right now because this record just damn excites me so much.

To the facts then – recorded in A & R Studios, New York, produced by Verlaine himself, with engineer Andy Johns keeping a watchful eye on the board and gaining co-production credits, the album lasts roughly three quarters of an hour and contains eight songs, most of which have been recorded in demo form at least twice (the Eno debacle to begin with, followed a year later by a reported superbly produced demo tape courtesy of the Blue Oyster Cult’s Alan Lanier, which, at a guess, clinched the band’s Elektra deal) and have been performed live innumerable times. The wait was been worthwhile because the refining process instigated by those hesitant years has sculpted the songs into the masterpieces that are here present for all to peruse.

Side one makes no bones about making its presence felt, kicking off with the full-bodied thrust of ‘See No Evil’. Guitars, bass and drums are strung together fitting tight as a glove clenched into a fist punching metal rivets of sound with the same manic abandon that typified the elegant ferocity of Love’s early drive. There is a real passion here – no half-baked metal cut and thrust – each beat reverberates to the base of the skull, with Verlaine’s voice a unique ostrich-like pitch that might just start to grate on the senses (a la his ex-sweetheart one P. Smith) were it not so perfectly mixed into the grain of the rhythm. The chorus / climax is irresistible anyway – Verlaine crooning ‘I understand destructive urges / They seem so imperfect … I see … I see no e-v-i-i-l-l.’

The next song is truly something else. ‘(The arms of) Venus De Milo’ is already a classic among those who’ve heard it even though it has only now been recorded. It’s simply one of the most beautiful songs I’ve ever heard; the only other known work I can think of to parallel it with is Dylan’s ‘Mr Tambourine Man’ – yup, it’s that exceptional. Only with Television’s twin guitar filigree weaving round the melody it sounds like some dream synthesis of Dylan himself backed by the Byrds circa ‘65. It’s really damn hard to convey just how gorgeous this song is – the performance, – all these incredible touches like the call-and-response Lou Reed parody. The song itself is like Dylan’s ‘Tambourine’, a vignette of a sort dealing wiih a dream-like quasi-hallucigenic state of ephiphany. ‘You know it’s all like some new kind of drug / My senses are hot and my hands are like gloves! … Broadway looks so medieval like a flap from so many pages … As I fell sideways laughing with a friend from many stages.’

‘Friction’ is probably the most readily accessible track from this album simply because, with its fairly anarchic, quasi-Velvets feel plus (all important) Verlaine’s most pungent methedrine guitar fret-board slaughter, here it’ll represent the kind of thing all those weaned on the hype and legend without hearing one note from Television will be expecting. It’s good, no more, no less – bearing distinct cross-breeding with the manic slant sited on ‘Johnny Jewel’ without the latter’s insidiousness. ‘Friction’ is just that – throwaway lyrics – ‘diction/Friction’ etc. – those kind of throwaway rhymes, vicious instrumentation and a perfect climax which has Verlaine Vengefully spelling out the title ‘F-R-I-C-T-I-O-N’ slashing his guitar for punctuation.

It’s down to the album’s title track to provide the side’s twin feat with ‘Venus De Milo’. Conceived at a time when rock tracks lasting over ten minutes are somewhere sunk deep below the subterranean depths of contempt, ‘Marquee Moon’ is as riveting a piece of music as I’ve heard since the halcyon days of… oh, God knows too many years have elapsed.

Everything about this piece is startling, from what can only be described as a kind of futuristic on-beat (i.e. reggae though you’d have to listen damn hard to catch it) built on Verlaine’s steely rhythm chopping against Lloyd’s intoxicating counterpoint. Slowly a story unfurls – a typically surreal Verlaine ghost story – involving Cadillacs pulling up in graveyards and disembodied arms beckoning the singer to get in while ‘lightning struck itself’ and various twilight loony rejects from King Lear (that last bit’s my own fight of fancy, by the way) babbling crazy retorts to equally crazy questions. The lyrics mean little, I would guess by themselves, but as a scenario for the music here they become utterly compelling.

The song’s structure is practically unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. It transforms from a strident two chord construction to a breathtakingly beautiful chord progression which acts as a motif/climax for the narrative until the music takes over altogether. The band build on some weird Eastern modal scales not unlike those used in the extended improvised break of Fairport Convention’s ‘A Sailor’s Life’ on Unhalfbricking. The guitar solo – either Lloyd or Verlaine – even bears exactly the same tone as Richard Thompson’s. The instrumentation reaches a dazzling frenzied peak before dispersing into tiny droplets of electricity and Verlaine concludes his ghostly narrative as the song ends with that majestic minor chord motif.

‘Marquee Moon’ is the perfect place to draw attention to the band’s musical assets. Individually each player is superb – not in the stereotyped sense of one who has spent hour upon hour over the record player dutifully apeing solo, riffs, embellishments but in that of only a precious few units – Can is the only band that spring to mind here at the moment. Each player has striven to create his own style. Verlaine’s guitar solos take the feed-back sonic ‘accidents’ that Lou Reed fell upon in his most fruitful period and has fashioned a whole style utilizing also, if I’m not mistaken, the staggeringly innovative Jim McGuinn staccato free-form runs spotlit on the hideously underrated Fifth Dimension album (which no one, McGuinn included, has ever bothered to develop).

He takes these potentially cataclysmic ideas and rigorously shapes them into a potential total redefinition of the electric guitar. As far as I’m concerned, as of this moment, Verlaine is probably the most exciting electric lead guitar player barring only Neil Young. As it is, Verlaine’s solo constructions are always unconventional, forever delving into new areas, never satisfied with referring back to formulas. Patti Smith once told me, by the way, that Verlaine religiously spends 12 hours a day practising his guitar playing in his room to Pablo Casals records.

Richard Lloyd is the perfect foil for Verlaine. Another fine musician, his more fluid conventional pitching and manic rhythm work is the perfect complimentary force and his contribution demands to be recognised for the power it possesses. Bassist Smith is always in there holding down the undertow of the music. He emerges only when his presence is required – yet again, a superb player but next to Verlaine, it’s drummer Billy Ficca, visually the least impressive of all members standing – aside the likes of cherub-faced Lloyd and super-aesthetic Verlaine, who truly astonishes. Basically a jazz drummer, Ficca’s adoption of Television’s majestic musical mutations as flesh-to-be-pulsed-out makes his pyrotechnics quite unique. Delicate but firm, he seems to be using every portion of his kit most of the time without ever being over-bearing. As one who knows little or nothing, about drumming, I can only express a quiet awe at the inventiveness behind his technique

Individual accolades apart, the band’s main clout lays in their ability to function as one and perhaps the best demonstration of this can be found in ‘Elevation’, side two’s opening gambit and, with ‘Venus’, probably this record’s most immediately suitable choice for a single. Layer upon layer of gentle boulevard guitar makes itself manifest until Lloyd holds the finger-picked melody together and Verlaine sings in that by now well accustomed hyena croon. The song again is beautiful, proudly contagious with a chorus that lodges itself in your subconscious like a bullet in the skull – ‘Elevation don’t go to my head’ repeated thrice until on the third line a latent ghost-like voice transmutes ‘Elevation’ into ‘Television’. Guitars cascade in and out of the mix so perfectly.

‘Guiding Light’ is reflective, stridently poetic – a hymn for aesthetes – which, complete with piano, reminds me slightly of Procol Harum in excelsis. ‘Prove It’, the following track, is another potential single. Verlaine as an asthmatic ostrich-voice Sam Spade “This case … this case I’ve been working on so long” and of course that chorus which I still can’t hesitate quoting – ‘Prove it/Just the facts/Confidential’. From Chandler, Television move to Hitchcock – at least for the title of the last song on this album: ‘Torn Curtain’ is one of Verlaine’s most recent creations – a most melancholy composition again reminiscent in part of a Procol Harum song although the timbre of Verlaine’s voice is the very antithesis of Gary Booker’s world weary tones. A song of grievous circumstances (as with so many of Verlaine’s lyrics); the facts – cause and effect – remain enigmatically sheltered from the listener. The structure is indeed strange, like some Bavarian funeral march with Verlaine’s vocals at their most yearning. The song is compelling though I couldn’t think of a single number written in the rock idiom I could possibly compare it to.

So that’s it. Marquee Moon, released mid-February in America and probably the beginning of March here. I think it’s a work of genius and had Charlie Murray not done that whole number about ‘first albums this good being pretty damn hard to come across with Patti Smith’s Horses last year then I would have pulled the same stunt for this one. Suffice to say – oh listen, it’s released on Elektra, right, and it reminded me, just how great that label used to be. I mean, this is Elektra’s best record since… Strange Days. And (apres moi, le deluge, kiddo) I reckon Tom Verlaine’s probably the single most important rock singer/songwriter/guitarist of his kind since Syd Barrett, which is my credibility probably blown for the rest of the year. But still…

If this review needs to state anything in big bold, black type it’s simply this. Marquee Moon is an album for everyone whatever their musical creeds and/or quirks. Don’t let any other critic put you off with jive turkey terms like ‘avant-garde’ or ‘New York psycho-rock’. This music is passionate, full-blooded, dazzlingly well crafted, brilliantly conceived and totally accessible to anyone who (like myself) has been yearning for a band with the vision to break on through into new dimensions of sonic overdrive and the sheer ability to back it up. Listening to this album reminds me of the ecstatic passion I received when I first heard ‘Eight Miles High’ and ‘Happenings Ten Years Ago’ – before terms like progressive/art rock became synonymous with baulking pretensions and clumsy, crude syntheses of opposite forms.

In a year’s time, when all the current three-chord golden boys have fallen from grace right into the pit to become a parody of Private Eye’s apeing of moron rock bands – Spiggy Topes and The Turds Live at the Roxy – Tom Verlaine and Television will be out there hanging fire, cruising meteorite-like with their fretboards pointed directly at the music of the spheres. Prove it? They’ve already done it right here with this their first album. All you’ve got to do is listen and levitate along with it.

© Nick Kent

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Tales from the Crumhorn Crusade


A Sonic Tonic
, Gryphon Live (Talking Elephant Records)
Bold Reynold Too, David Carroll and Friends (Taking Elephant Records)

Transatlantic announced the arrival of the first Gryphon album in 1973 with adverts asking readers to ‘Imagine a rock band at the Court of King Henry VIII’ and the band playing music entirely appropriate to that concept: medieval jigs and suchlike reinvented and rearranged with a backbeat for the 20th Century. Over the next few years the band would move towards longer instrumental compositions, including the sidelong ‘Midnight Mushrumps’ (from the album of the same name) for a theatre production, and then back to songs, before – after a tour supporting Yes – going full progrock with Treason. Now I liked and still like progrock but at the time Treason didn’t sit well with fans or what was happening in music back in 1977 and the band called it a day.

Jump to 2007 and the band reformed, as bands are wont to do. They have recorded two new studio albums (I reviewed Reinvention here), gathered up and reissued their Transatlantic recordings as box set along with an anthology from that period, and played a few gigs. And now we finally get a live double album from specialist folk rock, folk and rock label Talking Elephant. It’s well overdue and very wonderful.

Recorded back in 2023, the album features a six-piece line-up containing three original members. Half the band play a wide range of instruments, which means the texture of the music is always changing, although the band mostly stick to tracks from their first album (often traditional songs rearranged) and similar-sounding work, including their last two albums. The exception is ‘The Red Queen Muddle’, a medley of themes from Red Queen to Gryphon Three, a loosely themed folk-prog concept album based upon chess moves. I confess that it’s one of my favourites here!

But that’s not to belittle the rest. The album starts with a stonking version of ‘Kemp’s Jig’ before we get the story of fortune-telling, lust and blackmail that is ‘The Astrologer’ and then a newer instrumental, ‘Dumbe Dum Chit’ from Reinvention, the reformed band’s first album. The lyrical instrumental ‘A Bit of Music by Me’ follows and then ‘The Brief History of a Bassoon’, narrated by the tree it was made from! (It also has a branch made into a crumhorn.)

And so it goes on, seamlessly moving from robust renaissance (or renaissance-sounding) stomps to gentler instrumentals via rearranged and new songs. On the second CD the band spread out a bit, with longer songs that include settings of poems by Christina Rosetti and Lewis Carroll and aforementioned ‘Red Queen Muddle’. These are punctuated by briefer tracks, including what is described as a tip of the hat to the Bonzos, who started using crumhorns in their act after seeing Gryphon, a gentle jazzy number, and a superb version of ‘The Unquiet Grave’. The album closes with the appropriately named ‘Parting Shot’, a heartfelt love song, and then returns to the eponymous first album for ‘Estampie’ which, as the title indicates, is full on medieval dance music, an endlessly repeatable set of musical phrases which can and do endure all sorts of variation and mutation.

The three original Gryphon chaps are also in the big ensemble that David Carroll has gathered up to play on his second album, Bold Reynold Too. The musicians also include a couple of Fairport Convention alumni (including the very wonderful Dave Pegg) and the banjo player from The Men They Couldn’t Hang.

This octet, along with backing singers and a special guest cornet player, offer up ten tracks + 2 bonus tracks (why are they a bonus?) which are mostly versions of traditional songs, including a wonderful version of ‘Sheath and Knife’ (Child Ballad no 16). Here, electric guitar, crumhorn and violin all feature and Carroll’s vocals are more laid back and suited to his range. I’m afraid elsewhere this isn’t always the case, some tracks feel a little awkward in the vocals department.

Although the blurb for the original Bold Reynold album says it is ‘putting the rock back into folk rock’ for the most part, this is firmly in the folk department. ‘Sheath and Knife’ definitely rocks, in a very 1970s way, and the closing vocal quintet take of ‘Adieu, Sweet Lovely Nancy’ is haunting and quite lovely, but in the main this is definitely what I would call a folk album. Cleverly and intricately arranged, wide-ranging and varied, but in the main not really to my taste. You, of course, might love it!

 

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Rupert Loydell

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Steam’s Groove – (episode 31)

Steam Stock

Tracklist:
Jonathan Klemmer – Third Stone from the Sun
Rick James – Fire it Up
The Vibrettes – Humpty Dump
Ray Barretto – Pastime Paradise
King Floyd – Groove Me
Ronnie Foster – Mystic Brew
Grover Washington Jr. – Knucklehead
Marvin Gaye – Let’s Get it On
The Soul Stirrers – Why Am I Treated so Bad
Jean Carn – Don’t Let it Go to Your Head
The Pointer Sisters – How Long (Betcha Got a Chick)
The Meters – Just Kissed My Baby
Prof James Benson – Compared to What

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Andy Sharrocks is Living the Blues

 

https://andysharrocks.net/

Live with ‘Where’s all the love gone? With the Incurable Romantics at the Narrowboat Sessions: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G-lnoGct7-o

Alan Dearling enjoyed listening to, then chatting with Andy at a live UK Americana gig at the 3 Wise Monkeys bar and Thai restaurant

Andy really looks the part. A genuine Outlaw Blues kind of look. His gravelly voice is particularly suited for what has been described as, “Alternative Country with Menaces!”

On this occasion Andy was joined by Danny Bourassa on guitar and Michelle Turnbull on vocals and percussion. They were promoting the triple volume: Country Rock ‘n’ Roll ‘n’ Durty Blues albums. The evening started mellow and then, in the second set, it got lively and rockin’.

Andy was extremely kind and he spent a while telling me about his life in music, starting way back when in punk times and then bringing his story up to date. He’s previously released , ‘Walking in Familiar Footsteps, featuring Mick Taylor and Paul Jones (2004), and ‘Dirt’ (2009) with the Smokin’ Jackets.

Alan: Hi Andy, I believe you started out in the days of punk, around 1976. Tell me a bit about those early days…

Andy: Hi Alan, well my ground zero for punk was Patti Smith, I absolutely loved ‘Horses’. I was living in a commune in Rochdale at the time, quite a bit younger than the other inhabitants, and I had ‘Horses’ on heavy rotation. I lived in an attic room which was accessed by stairs, and suddenly my good buddy, Dave Edwards, appeared at the top of the stairs and screamed, “… if you don’t take that off now, I’ll come over there and throw it out of the window.”  I thought, “Wow, what a response” to this amazing powerful music. So when the punk scene exploded proper with The Sex Pistols on The Bill Grundy show I was in the front line. I was still in my teens at the time, so I cut my waist length hair, shaved my beard off, made all my jeans drainpipes and embraced it full on. I had a disco called Andy Sharrocks’ No Crap Disco – If you want it straight don’t book me. I played mainly Punk and reggae, and because reggae was fairly new at the time I turned a lot of people on to it. I saw all the new bands coming through at The Electric Circus in Manchester, The Clash, The Damned, The Stranglers, The Jam, all of them except The Sex Pistols, although I did have a ticket to see them at The Champness Hall Rochdale before the whole tour was cancelled.

There was a common conception in those days that hippies hated punks and punks hated hippies but it wasn’t like that in the north, they lived in harmony, all of them sticking it to the Man, just with a different dress code. I don’t think it was like that anywhere, all the tribes were just a part of the large umbrella called the counter-culture, it was just a story for the media to get their teeth into.

For me personally it was great because it introduced the whole DIY ethos of putting out your own music, without having the say so of an A & R man. My first single was ‘We Want It Legalised’, which opens with the line: “It’s been fifty years since the prohibition.”  Well almost another fifty years have passed since then, so although I don’t smoke anymore, I truly stand behind my words.

I put out another single on my own label, Roach Records, then in 2004 I released ‘Walking in Familiar Footsteps’ on my own label and again in 2009 with ‘Dirt’, and recently with my triple vinyl album, so I am carrying on the punk legacy to this day. None of them have been commercially successful, but to me, getting them out in the universe was my number one priority.

Alan: Later you are on record as saying you got into Americana via Steve Earle’s music and others, and wanted only to work with your own songs. Has that been a good decision?

Andy: That’s right, Steve Earle was my ground zero for my love of Alt-country, or New country, as it was called in the mid-80s. I had got turned onto country via The Stones, Dead Flowers, Wild Horses, Sweet Virginia etc, but Steve had a rawness which really appealed to me, and it was only three chords which resonates with me.  I love raw passionate music, hence my love for Iggy and The Stooges, The New York Dolls and Patti Smith.

To only do my own material hasn’t been a good decision commercially, and continues not to be easy. When I said that about cover songs, what I meant was I didn’t want to be in a covers band, I didn’t want to be a cabaret artist or a pub singer, playing music just to get paid. I am and always have been a song-writer, and that is so important to me. I have been writing poetry since I was twelve and that developed into lyrics in my late teens. It’s not something I want to do, it’s something I have to do. I write a lot about people I have known or crossed paths with, and events in my life. Not all the time, but a lot of the time. I make people immortal by writing a song about them, and most of them were such tragic figures that they are no longer with us.

Alan: I believe that you played at the new Traveller festival at Deeply Vale. What are your memories of that?

Andy: I was one of the first organisers of The Deeply Vale festival. It all came out of the commune I talked about earlier. Various members spent the summer of ‘75 and ‘76 just travelling from one free festival to another, one of them was in Rhayader in Wales, but someone had put a poster up in Stonehenge saying it was Rhyd-Ddu also in Wales. Dave Edwards drove us to Rhyd-Ddu in his brother’s van, and of course it was deserted. Dave Edwards said to Dave Smith, put your own festival on, and that thought germinated in his head, until we came back from Rivington Pike festival near Bolton, and he galvanised us into action (Dave Smith and Dave Edwards were residents in the commune). He then got Chris Hewitt on board who ran the Tractor Music shop in Rochdale and had a PA system. I was the DJ on the first festival playing sounds from morning till night in between bands. It was a great place for a festival, completely off the beaten track and once you got to the site it was a natural amphitheatre.

Alan: On your first solo album, ‘Walking in Familiar Footsteps’, you were joined by Mick Taylor who played with the Stones and Paul Jones from the Manfreds and the Blues Band. How did that come about?

Andy: I used to be a tour manager. The last tour I did was with Errol Brown. He had as support Ray Minhinnett, who used to play with Frankie Miller. Ray had a partner Hilly Briggs on keyboards. After the tour finished I got offered a job as production manager for the company in London, but was living in Manchester at the time, so I spent three months crashing on the floor of Errol Brown’s rigger in Watford. Hilly Briggs rang me randomly one night and he lived just round the corner. He had a studio in his house and we started working together on what would be ‘Walking In Familiar Footsteps’. What I didn’t know was he had just produced Mick Taylor’s album, ‘A Stone’s Throw’. Half-way through the project Hilly said why don’t you ask Mick to play on the album, and I was like “Don’t be silly, why  would Mick Taylor want to play on my album?” The upshot was I plucked up courage to phone him and he agreed to play on four tracks. I had worked with Manfreds through the company I worked for, we toured them many times on The Maximum R n B Show. That was them with three or four guests, like Long John Baldry, Colin Blunstone, Chris Farlowe, and they would back them too, so I had got to know Paul Jones very well. From the positive result of my call with Mick, I thought why not ask Paul, and he readily agreed. I played many gigs with Mick Taylor as support, and he also played in the band at the launch gig for the album and at The Harelbeke Blues Festival in Belgium. I have haven’t seen him for a while now, he doesn’t really gig anymore

Alan: You’ve just released a triple vinyl set, ‘Country Rock ‘n’ Roll ‘n’ Durty Blues’. How’s that going?

Andy: How is that going artistically? Great. How’s it going spiritually? Great. How’s it going commercially? Not so great. The drawback of putting your own product in the market place is that you don’t have a marketing budget, or at least I don’t and never did have. But I am very proud of the album, 36 tracks, recorded live in the studio as a band in 8 days with a couple of days overdubbing, but it’s about as live and fresh as you can get, which is exactly as I wanted. The reviews I got for the album were phenomenal, with many comparisons to people like The Band, Ronnie Lane’s Slim Chance, Steve Earle, even Eddie and The Hotrods for the rockier numbers, and even Bob Dylan, which is going a bit far really, but I couldn’t ask for better reviews.

I just hope some kid in fifty years’ time picks up a copy of the album, plays it, and thinks wow these songs are great… I’m going to form a band and cover these songs. A bit like the Stones and Cream did with Robert Johnson.

Alan: Recently I’ve written articles about two unusual musical enterprises. One is the Narrowboat Sessions and the other is Mr Wilson’s Second Liners. What has been your involvement?

Andy: I came across The Narrowboat Sessions though another Americana band, West On Colfax, who posted their session on Facebook, so I asked them about it. I contacted Mark Van Juggler last year and recorded my first session solo in Glasson Docks near Lancaster on a rainy night after just returning from The Magpies Festival near York. This was very lucky as he had a cancellation, and asked me if I would like to do it. I saw his post this year just after Easter saying he starting the sessions again in May, so I contacted him immediately and got the whole band down to Chirk in Wales where we recorded three more songs, ‘Where’s All The Love Gone’, ‘What Did You Say’ and ‘Country Rock ‘n’ Roll ‘n’ Durty Blues’.

Mr Wilson’s Second Liners played on four tracks on the album. What a gas playing with those guys. They came through Danny my guitarist, he worked at Johnny Roadhouse for 23 years and met most musicians in and around Manchester. Will Lenton, one of Mr Wilson’s and the guys who put the section together for the album plays Johnny Roadhouse’s old bass sax, it’s a monster. So Danny rang Will who was on board immediately. It amazes me how totally brilliant musicians say yes without hesitation. Victor Brox was also due to play on the album, I knew Victor from when he played Deeply Vale. I was thinking of keyboard players and I thought of course Victor, so I rang him and he was on board straight away, but the recording kept getting put back for various reasons and unfortunately Victor left us on the day he was due in the studio to lay his tracks down.

Alan: Folk have had a good lively night of rock ‘n’ blues in the company of you and your band. What are your current musical plans?

Andy: Thanks Alan, they did seem to enjoy it didn’t they? My next musical plans are getting as many gigs as possible, playing at The Big Tree in Todmorden on November 2nd for an Alzheimer’s charity event, I think that will be solo.

 HMV Manchester with the whole band at 2pm on October 26th.

I am just starting to apply for the festivals next year, hopefully we get a few, and I am forever writing new songs. That will never stop. So will be demo-ing those with Danny before long. Getting my songs out is of prime importance to me, what good are 400 songs sat in various books. There’s only me who knows the melody, so if I pop my clogs I will have spent my life writing songs only to have less than a quarter released.

Alan: Many thanks for your time and company!

Andy: Many thanks to you Alan, great to meet you, and hope to do so again in the future.

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Lou Terry: Calcium


 
Lou Terry’s new single ‘Calcium‘ offers a taste of his new album, Building A Case, which is released on November 13th by Divine Schism. Following recent singles ‘Canyon‘ and ‘Rollercoaster Therapy‘, ‘Calcium’ finds Lou cultivating meticulous soundscapes that ebb and flow, bounding with energy, jumping between motorik grooves, cathartic cries and moments of delicate refrain.

Lou says that ‘Calcium’ is ‘a song about childhood and how the impacts of making mistakes in your life change as you grow up. Remembering childhood conjures up images of nature, boats, fish, algae, calcifying rocks, digging tunnels, animals burrowing, growing up with anxiety and breaking things in the process. This is reflected by the seemingly disparate parts of the song (e-bow, modular synth beats/textures/melodies, watery/pulsing guitars, weighty drums) locking together in a heavy unexpected climax.’
 
‘Calcium’ is accompanied by a beautifully animated video [above], directed by Toby Evans-Jesra and Ethan Evans-Jesra, that takes Lou’s childhood images and reimagines them in a melancholic world of striking blues, blacks and whites, building gradual metamorphoses akin to those at-times painful lessons learned from growing up.

Through quirky vocals and meticulously crafted folk soundscape, Lou’s music paints a picture of the people, events, feelings, doubts and misgivings of the everyday, often finding beauty in the mundane. In his own words, ‘If I’ve got the story at hand, the way in is just to tell it, the very specific situations that happened and how they are related to things that are bigger.’ Lou guides the listener through episodic stories with honesty and poignant lyricism, speaking for a generation that feels at odds with its surroundings. 

Based in Deptford, Lou once won the heart of John Cooper Clarke who stumbled upon him performing in a pub and was so entranced he missed his train home. Last year, found Lou playing shows with Black Country, New Road and Piglet and he recently supported Porridge Radio on a run of dates. Early singles from the album have won praise from the likes of So Young, DIY, Far Out Magazine, Dazed, Loud and Quiet, and been featured on BBC Radio 2, Radio X, New York Village Radio, and BBC Introducing.

Lou Terry’s albums and merchandise are available here.

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Are you listening?

We have not abandoned hope       in the power
of language to conserve
              and to set things right,
this nondual awareness in the face of
                                                impending
ecological destruction,

this nonduality a forceful
              world without centre
                          or edge
that includes everything.

Enter and unmute,
                          break down borders
              between sound
and non-sound,

              never abandon the importance
of allowing space for strangeness in intimacy,
                          in which
beings can be their strange selves,
                                    strange strangers.

 

 

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Patrick Williamson

 

 

 

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Interruptions

 

The narrative was interrupted. The sequences out of order. Someone took the beginning out, flipped the middle, abandoned the end. Film images reformatted. The voice line continued, louder and louder, hitting the ceiling, bouncing around the room. Someone opened the door. Put the broom against the wall. If the beginning were restored, it would make more sense. Trees lining the sidewalks, empty storefronts, troops moving rapidly. Windows shattered, burning tires. The middle is upside-down, there is no response to the cacophonous ringing that dominates the space. No end in sight. More shattered windows, doors off their frames. Trail of incendiary powder along the sidewalks. Tanks sway when hit by drones. Walking away from the end, cinders tucked under arms, howling in unison. As if a name made a difference. Or a place. Someone put the end first and everyone settled down in the atomized metal, the blackened crust of a distant life.

 

 

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Andrea Moorhead

 

 

 

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The Last Tram In A City That Needs Speed

An evening tram ate a poet’s 
absent heart, years before this 
last ride I stumble in, my legs and feet
shivering from a consuming sprint,
toes ringing. I sit on tattered melancholy.

The clouds profound. A zing if bolt, city rushes by,
votes once more to wrench out the rails,
harvest the electric thin reflections 
of the running sky. The authority erases
tomorrow. The tram stops here tonight.
They’ll chop the lines, albeit in this light 
the tram looks like a crawler, the one 
whose limbs regenerate if violated.

 

 

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Kolkata’s tram was the city’s icon; if one were to vlose his eyes and imagine Kolkata the trams would appear from nowhere. The government decided to discontinue with it. It was a loss making concern and might have caused accidents.

After 151 tears tram ends its journey.

Kushal Poddar

 

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

 

 

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from Jazz Fingerings


1/

He’s speaking right to me, and I have proof
the handfuls of notes connect to the tamp drum
reasonable as flight unreasonable as my stretch exercise
to guide back transposition as petaled as moonlit fragments
confirming it is all right to tepid my way through my day
of rest the wrists on piano so intimate I shore up even
gravity free of gravitas, just promise me my view of time
is rippled like pond glass better to know from distance 
free of noise that conversation tiptoes on and moves
at cat speed gently toward what I think he’s thinking now
the dust of brush against a cymbal any day now warm 
as this sipped broth of composition urging forward parsed
magnetic still restrained will home ever be this simple ample
grasped without reaching will we traverse the shadow
of a world supposed as muffled grace we’re sure is there
and here intended tended tendered smooth as utter sculpt 
and window near the dear feeling so much space between 
beautiful as a gasp as fresh as silence and what is 
decided on remade and wedged between two places 
that might make a road not yet redeemed 
by thought of an arrival in the precious sun

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Sheila E Murphy

 

 

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The Words Fight Back

“I know words. I have the best words.” – D. Trump

Dictionary says:

trumpery, n & a
          1. n.  worthless finery;
                    rubbish; nonsense.
          2.  a. showy but worthless,
                    delusive, shallow
           pl. trumperies, practices or beliefs that are superficially or visually appealing but have little real value or worth
          From Old French, tromperie;
                    tromper, to deceive

Thesaurus says:

trumpery adj
          rubbishy, trashy, worthless, useless, valueless, tawdry,
                    shabby, shoddy, flashy, showy, cheap, grotty,
                              nasty, meretricious, trivial, trifling.

                                        OPPOSITE: valuable

 

 

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© Graham Lock

 

 

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Open Mike Poetry – 6th October

 

 

Meetings take place at The Town & Gown Pub & Theatre,
8 Market Passage, Cambridge, CB2 3PF

 

Website:

home

 

 

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Dancing daisy

Dancing daisy
in the meadow
where the river goes.
Almost lazy,
with no shadow
as it is a drop of sun across..
Dancing daisy
in the echo of the bells,
so amazing,
where the wind song dwells.

 

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Dessy Tsvetkova
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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CADENCE

 
I heard Zarah Sultana on the radio
She was brilliant
And then the weather. Mostly
cloudy

Sometimes
The best you can do is listen

The sound of missiles
The woosh of rockets
I was going to say
The screams of children
But genocide abhors a cliché

After the weather, a religious
thought
 
 
 
 
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Steven Taylor
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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     Far Out in Suburbia

   

 

           where the locals are wary of

                                                                anything different   just as well

                                                                they don’t know that I’m tuned

                                                                to Don Van Vliet’s Shiny Beast  

         Bat Chain Puller

                                                                which is also kinda telling me

                                                                that I’m not as safe as milk

                                                                that here is not where I belong.

 

                                                                 guess it’s time

                                                                 to trust the captain

                                                                 turn round and head for home

 

 

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                                                                                                                                    G.N. Deans

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Threshold

 
 
 
Where to go isn’t a question but
going somewhere is imperative.
 
Lakeside is where I escape from
noise and clamor.
 
Under the starless sky,
I pluck petals from the constellation.
 
The trees map the dark shadows,
ghosts sail on the rusted rafts.
 
At night, I sleep there watching the stars
wandering off the blurred margins.
 
Water cleanses my body on my own shore,
huff and puff; flow and pause,
 
I see only the threshold, fingers searching weeds,
their roots deep, unseen.
 
 
 
 
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©Gopal Lahiri
Picture Nick Victor
 
 
 
 
Short-Bio:
Gopal Lahiri is a Kolkata, India, based bilingual poet and critic and published in English and Bengali language. He has published 31 books to his credit and his works are translated in 16 languages. Recent credits: The Wise Owl, Cajun Mutt Press, Dissident Voice, Piker Press, Indian Literature, Kitaab, Setu, Undiscovered Journal, Poetry Breakfast, Shot Glass, The Best Asian Poetry, Converse, Cold Moon, Welsh Haiku Journal, Verse-Virtual journal, International Times and elsewhere. He has been nominated for Pushcart Prize for poetry in 2021.
 
Twitter@gopallahiri
 
 
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GET YOUR FUCK IN FIRST

THE TAXIDERMIST DAMIEN HIRST
IS RATHER CROSS
YOU FEAR THE WORST
HE’S POINTING TO A SHARK THAT’S DIED
AND FLOATING IN FORMALDEHYDE
THE SHARK’S GONE OFF
THE TANK HAS BURST
UNLESS YOU WANT YOUR FACE IMMERSED
YOU BETTER GET YOUR FUCK IN FIRST

BEWARE THE ANGRY TV CHEF
WHO’S EVERY WORD BEGINS WITH F
HIS FRIDGE IS WANG
HIS OVEN’S NEFF
HIS POOR MAMA PRETENDS SHE’S DEAF
SO WATCH YOUR BACK, HE’S COMIN THROUGH
HE’S GOT SOME DOGSHIT ON HIS SHOE
I’M SURE HE’LL SOON BE BLAMING YOU
SO GET YOUR FUCK IN FIRST

I’D REALLY RATHER RUN A MILE
THAN SPEND AN HOUR WITH JEREMY KYLE
WHOSE BOTTOMLESS RESERVE OF BILE’S
DEVOID OF SUBSTANCE WIT OR STYLE

HIS LIPS, TOO CRUEL TO BE UNPURSED
WILL SNEER AND FROWN
THE MORE HE’S CURSED
IF YOU DON’T WANT YOUR BUBBLE BURST
I’D GET YOUR FUCKING
FUCK IN FIRST

 

 

 

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Colin Gibson
Picture Alice Platt 

 

 

 

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PUTTING UP A PICTURE

 
Dad showed me how to hammer in a nail
Without busting your thumb or splitting the wall
Firm taps, not big smashes. I didn’t listen

I was too busy thinking of where I was going
As part of a procession, starting up in Gee Cross
At the Grapes Hotel, and working my way down

Into the centre of Hyde on New Year’s Eve
Where there was a tradition of fancy dress

Girls kissing men they’d never met. If I’d listened

I wouldn’t have lost a lump of plaster, needed
To find myself a bigger picture. An erotic print
By Hokusai or Hiroshige. After all these years

I still confuse them. I’m an idiot

Actually, it’s by Utamaro

The best kisser that New Year was a girl
Who lived in Romiley dressed as Mayumi Aoki

The Japanese gold medal winner
For the 100m butterfly at the Munich Olympics

Wearing goggles and a swimsuit
 
 
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Steven Taylor
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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THE DIARY OF A GENTLEMAN-POET

Monday, September 23rd

Jethro has asked if we (we!! Is he offering to contribute? I think not!) – if we can purchase a leaf blower, what with autumn well and truly here and its abundance of leaf. I’ve refused. I’ve heard those bloody leaf blowers. They make an infernal racket you can hear from miles away, and the last thing I want is one blaring away every time Jethro feels like having a blow. He can use a rake and a broom, which he’s made do with for years. Let’s keep up the tradition of hard(ish) manual labour, especially when it’s someone else doing the work and not me.

Melissa telephoned. I was in the middle of breakfast. Cook had to deal with the call, because kidneys and kippers and all the trimmings wait for no man.

I had occasion, for reasons not worth going into, to go through some old files today and look at some poems from around 14 or 15 years ago. I found several dedicated to a  girlfriend with whom I was quite engrossed. The poems are pretty good, and for a while there I was tempted to resurrect them, but decided against it for reasons I’m not quite able to explain, except that the past is the past. She was a good girl. I forget her name. It’s of little consequence.

Tuesday, September 24th

I really don’t know why I’m waking up at 5 o’clock these mornings. Fortunately today I managed to go back to sleep and re-awoke just before 8, but I’m pretty sure I’d feel a whole lot better in the mornings if I could avoid that break in play. I think I miss out on some important deep rejuvenating sleep, and pay the price the next day. Is something waking me up? Perhaps there’s some kind of wildlife out in the grounds making a row that disturbs me. Or perhaps Cook has taken to snoring very loudly. If that’s the case, it’s of some consequence, and she may have to be put down.

Melissa telephoned. I sometimes wish it was to share a joke or two, but she doesn’t know any jokes at all, and doesn’t really have much in the way of a sense of humour. It’s why she and Cook get on so well. It’s one of the reasons, anyway.

Wednesday, September 25th

To be sort of sociable I had lunch with Algernon Tenderloin at The Disgruntled Antiquarian. He talks rather a lot about his cottage, which he’s apparently officially named “The Poet’s Nook”. He should probably be shot, but generally he’s not a bad bloke, and I like to be on reasonably friendly terms with those around me, even if at the end of all things it will be of little or no consequence.

Melissa telephoned. I had the dubious pleasure of hearing her agog and excited by her having discovered a new nail salon. I don’t know what a nail salon is. Some kind of exotic hardware store? I didn’t bother to ask, but smiled politely, an unnecessary and pointless act of gentlemanliness since we were on the telephone.

Thursday, September 26th

I’ve been reading “The Pilgrim’s Progress”, and it has a lot to say about sin, unsurprisingly. For example:

            “. . . I delighted much in rioting, revelling, drinking, swearing, lying,    uncleanness, sabbath-breaking, and what not, that tended to destroy the soul. . .          if I look narrowly into the best of what I do now, I still see sin, new sin, mixing        itself with the best that I do. . . I have committed sin enough in one duty to send    me to Hell though my former life had been faultless.”

What larks! I’m a lost soul, evidently. It’s of bugger all consequence.

Melissa telephoned. She wanted to know if I could recommend a good fitness and exercise regime. I think she was mixing me up with someone else, a someone else who is interested or fit, and so I passed her on to Cook, a true athlete.

Friday, September 27th

I have to say that Mrs. Jennings is doing a splendid and generally unacknowledged wonderful job at keeping the house clean. Today she informed me she was intending to do a complete turn the place upside down clean as preparation for the coming winter months, and I should be ready for some disruption during her next couple of visits. She said to be prepared for a lot of washing and sploshing and polishing and tidying and . . . Great! I’m really looking forward to that, albeit with a load of irony. I hope she doesn’t try to give me a bath, but she can have a crack at Jethro if she wants to.

A chap knocked on the door today and asked me if I would be interested in having the property surveyed with the prospect of having new windows fitted. I sent him packing. The windows here are fine. I have no problem seeing out of them, especially these days thanks to Mrs. Jennings and her Windowlene™.

The Countess has emailed to announce she has a poem in an upcoming volume called “The Greatest Poetry of The Year”, or something along those lines. It’s of little consequence. Those books are meaningless volumes aimed at people who don’t understand what they’re buying, or what they’re reading, plus they massage the egos of the people in them. They all deserve one another.

Melissa telephoned. Thrice. Actually it was only twice, but I do like that word: THRICE. It doesn’t get used enough, I think.

Sunday, September 29th

Finished “The Pilgrim’s Progress” – and I’ve had enough religion for a while. I do find it interesting to think about faith and belief and whatnot, even though I have none of either. But it’s Sunday, I’m only half awake, and all that spiritual stuff was of negligible consequence when all I could think about was what Cook might be planning for Sunday dinner. It turned out to be pheasant. I don’t know where she got it from – I know better than to ask – but it was superb.

Melissa telephoned. Cook took a note down in the book for me to have a look at later in a nook. (I made some of that up, “nook” being this week’s “Word of the Week”.)

 

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James Henderson (Gentleman)

 

 

 

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In A Rain Defined House

The wall thickens with green outside,
and inside, dark velvet. The blind palm, my uncle’s 
left one, seeks a path, the middle ground amidst 
everything. The sound of prayers and worship
would have told him what the time is, albeit 
the war with time is lost. The temple bares 
a bundle of bricks to any wayward tourist.

My uncle allows me to help him with the progression 
once he moves too near to the black hole.
Today I extend my guidance early. Today rain 
crafts this house. Shadows play 
with reality. 

 

 

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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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Mauvaise Foi

a pantoum

It all happened
one thing after another,
not quite how he expected,
but then not that different either.

One thing after another:
he had to make choices, but then
could things have turned out differently?
The options were limited.

The choices he made
were variations on the conventional,
but the options were limited
most of the time

to variations on the conventional;
and even when they weren’t,
most of the time,
he played it safe.

Even when they weren’t
he still wanted to fit in.
He played it safe
although it got him nowhere.

He wanted to fit in and
then it all happened:
it came out of nowhere,
not quite how he expected.

It all happened
one thing after another,
not quite how he expected,
but then not that different either.

 

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Dominic Rivron
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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Rampant

A dream of flower ridden blossom
The wavering chaos of the river run high
I escaped the drugged wish
Of melancholic numbness around me
The slit throated sky high buildings
Of consumer care and globalized madness
The sip of soma is adjacent
Life’s little brittle mystery of strange alteration
A camphor of village ridden blush
The boat ride of everyday coming port
A slush for the modesty of eavesdropping sickness
Till the city learners the indoors of passion
The burning ghat still flames high
As the coming and going to this world is rampant
As poetic reverie bemused in silence.

 

 

 

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Sayani Mukherjee
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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Reservations

 

In a half-remembered homage to Polanski’s Repulsion, there are tight fists punching through walls, and faces floating in the spillage on the bathroom floor. I’m in the kind of hotel that dead people write short stories about, with neither clear beginnings nor satisfactory conclusions, but only poorly sketched protagonists wearing my old shoes, stumbling down corridors that all look the same. The drains smell of old-school arty cinemas, and I recall that the best way to ruin date night with an aspiring ceramicist is to book tickets for Belle de Jour instead of Jour de Fête. The horror, the horror, and pardon my French indeed. The taps run rust that looks like blood, and room service offers nothing but vinegar and raw nettles. I’ve been here 120 days, and I’ve a feeling the meals won’t improve. I’ve a suspicion that more people have died in these lift shafts than can be accounted for by sheer misfortune, and I’ve the nagging sensation that this isn’t a hotel at all. Perhaps it’s a hospital of some kind or another. Perhaps it’s a home, whatever that means.

 

 

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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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The Surprises of Suburbia

I Love Suburbia, Simon Pollock (Hutchinson Heinemann)

Scattered throughout the dirt and peeling paint of London’s suburbs are thousands of wonderful buildings, be they gleaming white modernist houses, art deco factories, stunning tube stations or crazy artist’s residencies. Mostly ignored or unknown, certainly ignored by most commuters and tourists, Simon Pollock set out a few years ago to set that to rights by starting an Instagram account @londonsuburbia.

He quickly learnt that what interested people and attracted followers wasn’t simply the architecture, design and decor of what he had photographed, but a sense of story, a narrative gloss on his images, be that personal or about where the places are, what they are like, or why these buildings were built and how they have survived (or sometimes not).

I grew up in West London, so have always been aware of the wonderful Hoover building on the Western Avenue as it heads West, but I have never stood at the top of Hammersmith Road by Shepherd’s Bush and taken in the sheer elegance of The Grampians block of flats. In a similar manner, Park Royal was a local tube station for me, but although I have passed through the platforms of the other architectural marvels here in the ‘Here Come the Trains’ section of this book, I haven’t walked in or out.
 

In a similar fashion, I’ve never taken any notice of the cinema in Acton that was the Granada when I was growing up, except as a venue to see films. My youngest daughter is delighted to know that it now houses a climbing centre. And I didn’t know about The Mosaic House in Chiswick, an artistic psychedelic fantasy that opens the book’s ‘Suburban Oddities’ section. I shall have to make a pilgrimage next time I go to see my mother; I might even take her along.

The real stars of the show in this book, however, are all the glorious modernist houses and factories, be they gleaming white boxes or curved brick minimalist fantasies. I had no idea that the Gillette Building on the A4 had so many wonderful neighbours, nor that East Sheen’s filling station was so historically important. I’m sure my friend who rented a house round the corner for a few years didn’t either.

Pollock is a generous and chatty tour guide, although he avoids making comments when some might be required – is it only me that thinks Greenwich Town Hall is somewhat akin to Italian Futurist/Fascist architecture? – but he does the reader proud as he promotes ‘The Joys of Life on London’s Outskirts’, which is his book’s subtitle.

If, at times, I longed for more information, and am suspicious of the need to include locations from day trips out of the suburbs – the likes of Margate, Southend, Worthing and Brighton – Pollock can be forgiven and thanked for assembling this wonderful collection of churches, housing, stations, cafés, cinemas, factories, civic buildings and architectural oddities. Not least the Purley Way Diving Board, now separated from its Lido (and therefore any sense of purpose) and living out its retirement in an abandoned garden centre in Croydon.

If you have any love for good design, architectural quirks or hidden gems, not to mention the outer regions of our capital city, you will enjoy this book as much as I did. I might even have to take an unnecessary trip to Hatfield so I can see the model of a de Havilland plane stuck on a pole outside the Comet Hotel again, something I remember from when I was a kid.

 

 

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Rupert Loydell
(All photos by Simon Pollock)

 

 

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Daily Nightly. The Monkees

An underrated psychedelic classic from the band’s fourth album, Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn & Jones Ltd. ‘Daily Nightly’ is widely considered the first use of the Moog on a rock recording, or at least the first one that most people heard, because it was broadcast on a national TV show. The experimental track helped the Monkees move from their Pre-fab Four status into the latter, trippy part of the decade on an album that showed that they offered more musical resonance than reruns.

DAILY NIGHTLY

Darkened rolling figures move
Through prisms of no color
Hand-in-hand, they walk the night
But never know each other
Passioned pastel neon lights
Light up the jeweled traveler
Who, lost in scenes of smoke filled dreams
Find questions, but no answers

Startled eyes that sometimes see
Phantasmagoric splendor
Pirouette down palsied paths
With pennies for the vendor
Salvation’s yours for just the time
It takes to pay the dancer
And once again such anxious men
Find questions, but no answers

The night has gone and taken its infractions
While reddened eyes hope there will be a next one

Sahara signs look down upon
A world that glitters glibly
And mountain sides put arms around
The unsuspecting city
Second hands that minds have slowed
Are moving even faster
Toward bringing down someone who’s found
The questions but no answers

 

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© Michael Nesmith

 

 

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Lessons Learned

I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget!
The headmaster stroked his worn leather strap
I trembled inside, he’s going to mess with me here

We found the drugs in your protractor set
I know, Sorry Sir. Yes Sir. Mournful eyes in my lap
Pull your trousers down! With his moist-eyed leer

And smoking with friends by the bicycle shed?
And twice before.  We caught you
You think you can do as you like?

Thwack, he stung me.  I want to be dead
Thwack, once again, remember what you do
Thwack, a searing. His dug-in spike

Thwack , the foot-long belt.  I bled
The message from the many to the few
This is your world in black and white

These lessons from my youth, suffering today
Thank my lucky stars I still listen and obey.
It’s what I deserve because it’s what you say

And still, and still, and still

Holy bosses preach from the horizon at the Post Office
The fallen bleachers at Hillsborough, still not resolved
Death masked Covid victims, hearts on the wailing wall
We don’t hear the Windrush or tainted blood from criminals
Both began over fifty years ago, no proper recompense
We still dismiss what Grenfell burned, their justice denied

This war of words binds, puts me in my place
I listen. You say Justice has and will be done

And yet, and yet, and yet

Ashen-faced, as you smother like a flood
Dreams washed away, like my brothers’ blood
Drones everywhere, hovering just above me
Lessons learned.  This is how you love me?
Whose land is my land, whose land is your land
These killing fields, desert fight, your ashes in the sand

Justice creeps so slowly, become the lessons learned
Fools and villains rule, we suffer, is this what we’ve earned?

 

 

 

©Christopher 2024

 

 

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BORIS, BESTELLER OF SOULS

So Boris burps back with his book and a 26 minute programme
In which friend to fiends like Harry and Megan, Tom Bradby
Does a high speed Torquemada before slipping back easily,
Asking the questions we want, and certainly riling the rotter

Who, hair awry as an avalanche blusters and bridles to plug
His torpid tome with abandon, spending and smearing,
As if just saying the title was repaying a debt to the Devil
For allowing his putrid pomp tenancy. Bradby bridles, too,

Voice scaling pitch, finger pointing, before quickly chastened
And no doubt, edited, as this bearlike Caliban bores,
Eyebrows raised, accent arching; at one moment near snarling
Before slipping back to bluff humour, dodging the bullets

For crimes that his aim and ardour had previously credited.
Why was the programme so short? So he could offer token
Confession? Not that he confessed, seeking pity for self-recrimination
And loathing that only the worst of us ever know. There will be

More shows, of course. Expect him on The One Show and Good
Morning. Newsnight, Laura Kuenessberg, this will be a Wild haired
West wagon show. As he lasooes and blowjobs himself,  sucking in All;
slaps, successes, as this will doubtless be a best seller, if only 

Out of prurient interest stirred by bile. But you will learn nothing New. 
For even former other cartoons made for chaos, be they Tom
And Jerry, Bugs Bunny, or the Roadrunner of course, saw truth
Filed about who we are, Unleashed or not. But this shows us

How the beast broke out of the cage and then pawed us;
Leasing us loose from Europe as it locked us all in to run wild.
Now he lives in blameless obscurity. Christ. We could call that
Death now, or Dorset. But it isn’t just about actions. This is about

What we are. And what we allow to both represent us 
And happen. These days they rule to write Memoirs. 
they sell their souls and ours with it. So, if you read him,
Remember: we get the leaders we deserve, so do better. 
Do not follow, or falter. Our life is but bad television, 
Watched across Aether by something wiser than us.

Its so far. 

 

David Erdos 4/10/24

 

 

 

 

 

 

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When A Child Is Storm

We live in an Old Testament age. Christ’s New one acts as sigil,
But these last months in Gaza God’s badge is blood smeared
And not just from the street but from the hearts beneath
Its frail cover, protecting above beds, the known monsters
Who send screaming children to their deaths, doused in fear.

On January 29th the five year old Hind Rajab was attempting
With her family to escape Gaza City. Israeli troops fired,
Killing the protective hands this child held. She and her cousin
Layan survived before a tank like plague came to claim them,
Their distress call was recorded by the Palestinian Red Crescent

Society, as these precious saplings saw the forest of life
Duly felled. Now, ten months on, there are countless more
Tales for the telling. Owen Jones has the story in his Guardian
Article. But that is no longer the point, as papers now cancel
Scripture and the name of God and need for it has been split

Like the atom to make so many more damned and defamed
Particles. We talk of faith, do we not, in whatever religion
We practice. Not that practice makes perfect, as what it makes
Now falls maligned into the mired space between so called
Man and his maker, who redrafted life to start over, after ice

And flood, to make this; Eden’s garden ransacked,
And as full of Serpents as ever; be they Prime Ministers,
Soldiers, or Presidents seeking babies on which to plant
That old Judas kiss. Israel defames both sanctity
And the sacred, for the profane. It kills children,

And willingly it would seem. As its were killed once;
Isaac’s lucky sweat falling on them; and yet just
As he feared his father, so Nazi, or even historical Egyptian
Revenge sours dreams and abuses day, as this broken
Homeland fails and features more horror than Herod

And yet another spear on Christ’s side. Water still flows,
But this is not restorative rivers. It is spit and tears,
Tears and torment across the fabric of so called faith.
Its divide. And in a way that separates all, when a blameless
Child howls while hurting. And so in those streets a storm

Gathers and ruins the world. The trees twisted, and the apple
And Eve now lay splattered. Your Paradise is in pieces. God
Seeks a new star to start over. The future needs suture.
Hind Rajab and so many, Abraham, Isaac, Jesus and Jude,
                                                                          Adam…died.

 

 

David Erdos 4/10/24

 

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/article/2024/aug/18/hind-rajab-israeli-state-atrocity

 

 

 

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Interview #26: Mark Terrill

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THE JOKER Folie à Deux

Director: Todd Phillips

Starring: Joaquin Phoenix, Lady Gaga, Brendan Gleeson.

Selected Cinemas Now

Running time: 138mins

 

Folie à Deux – a delusional state shared by two people. In this case, a writer/director and co-writer. (Todd Phillips and Scott Silver). A third, opted out of a writing credit, after suggesting a Broadway-style musical idea. What a mishmash of an idea it all became.

I loved ‘The Joker’, even though I’m no fan of DC film adaptations. Joaquin Phoenix’s Oscar-winning performance was electrifying, and it seemed a real departure from the run-of-the -mill franchises. So, when I saw there was a matinee showing of the sequel on at my local, I shot down there in excited anticipation.

It was showing in the main auditorium, to only a handful of people. But, okay, I had my popcorn and Pepsi max, and plenty of room to spread out. I sat centre, and relished the thought of what was to come. I’d avoided reading reviews, so my mind was open to anything and everything the screen could throw at me.

It began with a Joker cartoon. Not great, but a fair tribute to the genre. Then, the boxed screen widened, beckoning us in, to the prison home of our anti-hero Joker. Here he was again. Looking broken yet mysteriously calm. “You got a joke for us today?” asks the warden. Trying to goad him out of his silent world. No, he’s not in the mood. His internal struggles with reality are what we see. Phoenix giving a masterclass again.

The Joker (Arthur Fleck) meets Lady Gaga’s Lee Quinzel at a prison therapy singing session. The delusional love story begins. As does the musical. Of sorts. She whispers and croaks a version of ‘Get Happy’ – Judy Garland must be revolving in her resting place! Shortly afterwards, he croaks his way through ‘For Once in My Life’. Both Phoenix and Gaga get away with their first renditions on a novelty level but, sadly, there’s a lot more off-key singing to come.

Still, at this point, their characters are strong, so I am still engrossed. Then, Steve Coogan appears. Looking like Steve Coogan. Playing a smarmy TV host cum journalist, with a dodgy American accent. Here’s where credibility lines are broken. Along with the endless broken croaking voices of our two protagonists. Song after song (I counted 16), they sing in excruciatingly sincere tuneless squawks. This is no Moulin Rouge. Perhaps, it was decided that the anti hero and his love would make an anti musical. If so, they succeeded.

From this point, the plot, the characters, despite some beautiful cinematography, and the occasional sequence reminiscent of the original, the whole jumble is thwarted by the musical content. Joaquin destroying Jaques Brel’s ‘If You Go Away’ towards the end was indeed the end. So many great songs did they do disservice to. It’s a good job many of the writers are long gone, or lawyers would be knocking on the producer’s door. Goes to show, no matter how beautiful a movie may look, if the sound hitting your ears is unbearable, it doesn’t work.

One thing, for sure, without giving too much away, Joaquin Phoenix, one of my favourite actors, will not be doing a third Joker film. But it is left open for a possible continuation. God help us!

 

Reviewer: Kevin Short 04/10/2024

 

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Sausage Life 307

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column which is nasty, British and short

MYSELF: A friend of mine told me a very good joke the other night.
READER: A joke! Excellent! I love jokes.
MYSELF: I know you do and you’ll love this one. A bloke walks into a cake shop …
READER: Love it already! A cake shop! Ha ha!
MYSELF: Look, please, I’d rather you didn’t interrupt my flow. Telling a joke is all about timing.Timing is everything. I’ll start again: A bloke walks into a cake shop …
READER: Sorry! I didn’t mean to …
MYSELF: Really, you don’t have to apologise. Just shut up until I’ve finished the joke.
READER: OK. Mum’s the word from now on.
MYSELF: Thank you, now where was I? Cake shop. Bloke. Right. This bloke walks in to a cake shop and says to the lady assistant, “Do you have any Gattox?” She replies, “Gattox? What’s that?” “It’s a type of cake.” says the bloke. “Oh,” says the shop assistant, “Perhaps you mean Gateaux?” “Gatto?” says the bloke with a quizzical look, “Yes,” she says, “Gateaux, that is how it’s pronounced.”
READER: Is that it? Call that a joke? It’s rubbish!
MYSELF:  No that is not it! I left a pause in order to get maximum laughs on the punch line. Have you no patience? You’ve ruined the joke.
READER: Pardon my faux pas! Well, you may as well get to the punch line now, if it’s that good.
MYSELF: Are you ready? OK … so the bloke turns to the shop assistant and says … “Oh, bolleaux.”
READER: On reflection, it’s probably funnier without the pause.
MYSELF: Maybe you’re right.

CHAINSNORE
Hastings’ most prolific inventor, professor Gordon Thinktank has been hard at work in his secret underground laboratory in the basement of The Horse & Nightmare in Cockmarlin, on what has been hailed as a breakthrough for sufferers of sleep apnoea, now widely recognised as a major cause of snoring. The process, according to Thinktank’s press release, involves the amputation under local anaesthetic of the entire nasal area, replacing the nose and its accompanying cavities with a realistic prosthetic made from sustainable recycled plastic waste.
“Lest we forget”, The professor told us, “nocturnal trumpeting is a major contributing factor to the UK’s rising divorce rate. My device, which I call The Chainsnore, is the first genuine breakthrough. The prosthetic nose looks and smells just like a real one, but is fitted with a set of 12 nylon strings of varying length, tuned to the mixolydian scale and vibrated by the aeolian motion of expelled nasal wind. The prototype currently plays either Ramaswami Dikshitar’s contemplative Raga Rageshri or Got My Mojo Working by blues legend Blind Lemon Vibraphone, but a more comprehensive selection will be available by the time The Chainsnore reaches the shops.”
Work has been suspended on another of the inventor’s patent applications, a pyramid-shaped tupperware box, which keeps soup hot even in the fridge, and also sharpens razor blades. The launch of the Cheops has been postponed until unspecified “safety issues” have been resolved.

DICTIONARY KORNER
Gender fluid (n) non-binary lubricating oil
Expanse (n) trousers which have reached the end of their useful life

CULTURE SECTION
Opera
Upper Dicker Amateur Operatic Society’s production of Lamentabili’s La Signora Grossa Corpulenta Canta at The Hastings Angling Club was “a resounding success”, according to director Silvio “Lucky” Fuctivano, an opinion with which I would beg to differ. Whilst it is all very well describing one’s production as “sparse” or “post modern” there can be no excuse for a set (whose sole function is to transport the audience to a 17th century Sicilian wine-press) constructed entirely from discarded bicycle accessories. Similarly, the costume worn by sylph-like soprano Rita Miomiomio, stuffed as it was with inflated, patched inner tubes, could not disguise the fact that she was far from Corpulenta
During the third act, after an enforced intermission due to a faulty fire alarm, tenor Malcolm Swarfega, clearly inebriated, was forced to grasp the backdrop (painted by the pupils of Upper Dicker Remedial School for Wayward Girls) in order to remain upright. This caused the entire thing to tumble down, enveloping the chorus in a pastoral Phoenician landscape, some of which was still wet.

4/10

Film – Friday Ad, the Musical
Residents of towns the length and breadth of East Sussex are still mourning the loss of one the county’s most enduring publications, Friday Ad, whose typo-ridden weekly classified list livened up many a dull car journey with bizarre items of this type:
Cuddly, vivacious non smoker, GSOH, adores the theatre, especially Cats – loves people-watching, walking in the rain and sunsets – wishes to meet leather-clad tattooed biker (gender fluid) who likes being tied up for a bit of how’s-your -father during Strictly Come Dancing.

But what enthusiasts will miss most is Friday Ad’s speciality; the long, tempting description under a picture of a luxury item for sale at a bargain price, which suddenly and without warning just………
Anyway, fans will be delighted to learn that the West End hit Friday Ad-The Musical has now been filmed and will be released to coincide with the Christmas holiday. The mega-budget production, now transplanted to the mean streets of Des Moines, Iowa, is directed by Tintin Quarantino with music and lyrics by Lars Öngar and Rita Brevis. This magical adaptation from the pen of Hollywood’s hottest screenwriter Daphne Pangolini has been described as “a tragicomic triumph” by The Upper Dicker Megaphone. Having had the privilege of attending the press preview, I can tell you that of the featured songs, the stand outs for me were the opening tune No Time Wasters (sung a capella by The Upper Dicker Gay Men’s Choir) and the tearjerking Buyer Collects performed by the entire cast during the film’s extravagant tap-dancing grand finalé (superbly choreographed by Rupert Semolina), set in the heart of Des Moines’ famous garment district.
5 tsars (sic)

 

Sausage Life!

 

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




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

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

 

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

CHEMTRAILS ON MY MIND
MORT J SPOONBENDER

On September 11th 1958, José Popacatapetl, a retired tree psychologist who’s father was head gardener for the CIA during the cold war, was hitchiking through the Alberqueque desert when he was picked up by a black sedan driven by J Edgar Hoover’s ex-boyfriend André Pfaff head of FBI underhand operations and extra-terrestrial banking who once worked as a quantum mechanic for the KGB under the direct orders of the zombie reincarnation of Josef Stalin whose mummified corpse was kept in a secret underhand bunker in the basement of the Vatican.

 



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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SUPERCALIFUCKINGFRAGIFUCKINGLISTICEXPIALIFUCKINGDOCIOUS

 

 

By Colin Gibson

 

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Alan’s New and Old Music Autumn 2024

 

Another eclectic round-up for your delectation from Alan Dearling

Beth Gibbons – Lives OutGrown

Intimate and intense. Beth is still breathy, gloriously dark, sometimes melodic. An aural overload of an album. You need quite a hi-fi music set-up to handle the fidelity of the loud parts. The photos of the album cover, like the music itself are often too-far-out, too-far-out of focus. But challenging and fuzzy!

‘Too afraid to be free’ is dense and apocalyptic, an example of Beth’s essential fragility. In terms of the overall impression, the outlook that this album offers, think Nick Drake fronting Portishead and Massive Attack. ‘Floating on a moment’ provides shadows of Nico along with thundering drum-beats. Defiantly tribal, with more than a hint of sacrifice. It’s often a heavy musical trip, with the track titles offering a sense of the foreboding: ‘Burden of Life’, ‘Lost Changes’, ‘Beyond the Sun’ – darkness, loss and disembodiment. Beth’s vocals on ‘Lost Changes’ echo the backing vocals, layer upon layer of sounds, with a touch of Pink Floyd’s more melancholic moments… “Hey you, over there.”  The dark abyss at the edge of Floyd’s ‘Heart of the Sun’. Enter into the ‘Heart of Darkness’, it is disturbing, hauntological, a tad frightening, with Beth, harmoniums, violins and field recordings cataloguing the loss of faith…and a sense of searing loss and regret.

Beth Gibbons ‘Lost Changes’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sXRJWVvSGIs

Philip Glass – songs from Liquid Days

Totally missed this when it was released, but discovered it through a trawl of music connecting Phil Glass with film and music scores, and music initially linked to Laurie Anderson. Philip says of it: “I had not until this last year worked with the song form as such. Writing the song cycle ‘Songs from Liquid Days’ became for me truly a voyage of discovery…the words come first…the people I asked – Paul Simon, Suzanne Vega , David Byrne  and Laurie Anderson – are, I feel, not only outstanding songwriters on their own but also lyricists whose poetry reflects individual styles and approaches to songwriting.”

It’s redolent of the musical repetitions which Glass and Michael Nyman often employ, but being a strange mix of choral, classical and opera work, with the likes of Linda Ronstadt, Douglas Perry, The Roches and Bernard Fowler taking centre stage. Weird and beguiling with plenty of swirling, soaring and memorable themes.  It was conceived in 1983 and recorded in 1985. Freddy Stidean for AllMusic, wrote that, “‘Songs From Liquid Days’ became Philip Glass’s most popular and successful recording,” and concluded that, “Songs From Liquid Days may be their [the minimalist composers’] single greatest achievement.”  Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=63jdHUsK1Ro

Laurie Anderson – Amelia

This, to my mind, is a remarkable piece of musical historical art.  Apparently the words used in ‘Amelia’ are, according to Laurie Anderson, “… inspired by her pilot diaries, the telegrams she wrote to her husband, and my idea of what a woman flying around the world might think about.”  It was first premiered at Carnegie Hall in 2000, but the updated piece has only just been released. It’s really breath-taking. Sonic story-telling at its finest.

“I am hungry, I am hot”, Laurie intones with Amelia’s inner voice. It’s a musical diary of a sky-trip into immortality. “Flying at night…” Laurie whispers elegiacally… “I always knew I wanted to fly.”

“Stopped in a village for a dictionary…did you know that the word for woman is Mary? Imagine a whole country of Marys.”

Anohni joins Laurie on many of the writing and vocal duties.  Overall, this album picks up on some of the themes and sounds and zeitgeist of Laurie’s best known work, ‘Big Science’. It’s transcendent as well as sad. Celebratory too with the foreboding of Amelia’s disappearance:

In ‘The Wrong Way’: “Wind blowing the wrong way…25 hundred miles of open ocean… July 2nd 1937: …50/50 chances of finding Howland Island…” Bleakly, gloriously, beautiful. “Can’t hear you…My plane was shiny like a lucky dime.”

 From Laurie Anderson’s official site: “ ‘Amelia’ is Laurie Anderson’s first new album since 2018’s Grammy-winning ‘Landfall.’ It comprises twenty-two tracks about renowned female aviator Amelia Earhart’s tragic last flight. She is joined on the album by Filharmonie Brno, conducted by Dennis Russell Davies, and Anohni, Gabriel Cabezas, Rob Moose, Ryan Kelly, Martha Mooke, Marc Ribot, Tony Scherr, Nadia Sirota, and Kenny Wolleson.”

‘Fly into the Sun’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4jBCI_LT1fI
 

Steve Kilbey – Bespoke Wheels and Winged Heels

The image on the cover says a lot: the gambler, the well-turned out, yet slightly dishevelled pale rider, the outsider. It’s yet another testament to the prolific output of Australian Kilbey. It’s an anthology of 20 songs from his solo career. He is also the front-man, writer with The Church. It’s for you if you like well-crafted songs, with plenty of nice time-changes, easy to sing along choruses. His voice moves through light to dark. From Americana to Floyd-mode, which he does very well indeed in the track, ‘Keeper’.  In ‘Limbo’, “Lucifer does not want your soul” presents Eastern-sounds, great percussion and prophetic vocal ramblings.  In ‘Wolfe’ and ‘A Love Letter from Sydney’, we have Steve in his delightful ‘softer’ mode.  The latter is a pleasant instrumental, which moves into a collision course with the next track, ‘Lorelei’, which is much darker. The album brings together songs from a 40 year career, Kilbey having recorded over 100 albums. It won’t change your life, but it is well worth checking out. For nothing else to experience the incredibly diverse range of sounds that he has experimented with. ‘Heliotrope’, a kaleidoscope offering some memorable sounds and musical ideas.

At his prodigious best, Steve Kilbey is a masterful musical magus.

‘Wolfe’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MeXVw2qRKsU

Lines of Silence – The Long Way Home

This new album from Lines of Silence offers a next chapter, a new excursion in the evolution of this electronica outfit. The current line-up is David Little on guitars, keyboards and synths; Dave Clarkson with more synths and loops, drum programming and bass guitar, together with Amaury Cambuzat on percussion and more. It’s a powerful ‘trip’, exploring the possibilities offered by 2024 musical combustibles: dance, space-rock, kosmiche electronica. At times this provides its audience opportunities to jump-up-and down, to sway to pounding drums, insistent beats and echoes of Kraftwerk. That’s how ‘The Long Way Home’ kicks off and book-ends with a brief reprise of the dance-style in ‘Back Home’. In between, ‘Tzip Tzap’ continues the Hi NRG, then ‘Phantom Galaxy’ moves off into more spacey, mysterious psychedelic realms. Plenty of guitar wow-wah and sustain with a drum insertion dividing up the tune. ‘Coastliner’ is something of an inter-stellar interlude with added harmonium sounds.

 ‘A Stranger Shore’ picks up the tempo, and the beats – more reminiscent of Tangerine Dream, with circular rhythms – imagine a new ‘Apocalypse Now’ helicopter ride!  And then it’s time for the long almost symphonic piece, ‘Withens Clough’. Slowly developing drones, contemplative trippy sounds, we are going deeper and deeper into the cosmos. It could easily be a new soundtrack for the ‘2001, Space Odyssey’ film. Great sonics, piano plinkings, tinklings, loops and repetitions, guitar wow-wows and even a bit of Spaghetti western thrown into the mix. Overall, I imagine the title and album, ‘The Long Way Home’, as one long(ish) Space Adventure Trip! The Long Way Home’: https://www.analoguetrash.com/video/lines-of-silence-the-long-way-home-amaury-cambuzats-la-route-des-choux-edit

Electric Hero – Another Time

The promo info tells us that, “Electric Hero is the nom de plume of bass player and producer, Chris Clarke”, perhaps best-known for ‘Champion of the World’. Chris says: “With the intention of a fresh start, I assembled a group of younger musicians to come along for the ride including my nephew, Elliott, on drums, guitar maestro, Jamie Alex Pope, with Celina Liesegang and Steve Huddleston on backing vocal duties.”

The result offers lots of very wordy songs in styles ranging from Stealers Wheel through The Smiths to, and perhaps especially, Nick Lowe and Dave Edmunds.  Chis is a regular host at London’s Betsey Trotwood music venue pub.  Much of it sounds very Cockney, very English indeed, with plenty of catchy songs and harks back to the early to mid-1970s pub rock scene, before punk caused its erosion and in many ways, destruction. ‘Brother O Brother’ offers some nice time changes and is a rockier enterprise and is almost a US chain-gang works’ song. Solid and workman-like. Probably it will sell a fair few copies when Chris performs and hosts at the Betsey. Website:   https://electrichero.co.uk/

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds – Wild God

The ecstatic waves of adulation and adoration for this new Nick Cave offering have been resonating across the internet and media. The publicity included worldwide ‘Listening Parties’. I’ve now organised myself and listened to the entire album through a couple of times. My initial reaction still remains – there is too much bombast, it’s full of a lot of pomp, even a bit twee at times – as in the opening track: ‘Never Mind’, “All the king’s horses…couldn’t put him together again.”  Thankfully there are examples of better lyrics and more darkness, and wry humour. As in ‘Wild God’ with its, “…rape and pillage in the retirement village.” It’s better, but much of the Bad Seeds’ playing seems to have been swamped with a gospel choir of ladies and many layers of production symphonies.

The old dark Nick of murder ballads infamy is still in there too, and the frantic, impassioned, frenetic vocals. ‘Frogs in the Sunday Rain’ is a good tune, but seems to have borrowed heavily from ‘Morning Dew’ with an added dash of ‘Hey Joe’. ‘Joy’ is more sparse and it’s something of a relief to move into more sombre territories with Nick’s talking songs which offer a greater degree of Cave’s ethereal ‘weirdness’ on ‘Conversion’ and ‘Final Rescue Attempt’. ‘Cinnamon Horses’ is obliquely sad and mournful, and ‘Long Dark Night’ brings a touch of Springsteen balladry to the proceedings.  ‘Wild God’ as an album is a tad messy, with some strong, powerful moments.  

Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pPGdLRI95N4

Gandalf Murphy and The Slambovian Circus of Dreams – A Good Thief Tips His Hat

Described pretty accurately as the ‘Hillbilly Pink Floyd’. This album has only recently received its first ever release in the UK, 25 years after its original release in America. Much of it has Gandalf singing in a gruff American voice. But it’s the songs as well as the supremely crafted arrangements that are the real stars. Complete ear-worms. ‘Silent Revolution’ cites Jimi, Kurt and Janis and their shared dreams. They epitomise and eulogise the real “some kind of loony” in the song. This is just so well-crafted and crafty, melodic, reminiscent of the finest musical products from Jim Croce, the Beatles and David Bowie. In fact, ‘Alice in Space’ could easily be a lost outtake from the Beatles’ White Album. ‘Good Thief’ channels their inner Bowie.

“We never fit in, anyway” they sing on ‘Never Fit’, and Gandalf and the Circus is a kaleidoscope melange of much of the best of all musical styles: punk, classical, pop, rock, hillbilly, psychedelia. Earlier in 2024 they completed a hugely successful tour in the UK. Wonderful stuff!   Live in 2024: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yYpzRhqNq70

 

 

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Ätherstrophen   Stanzas in the Ether / Ether(eal) Stanzas / Either Strophes

 

Selected Poems by Emmy Hennings

A transl/mit/mut/a/tion by

David Annwn and John Goodby

 

HYPNOSE

(Für Siurlai)

 

Mein Leib schmerzt, irgendwo in einem fremden Land, 

Ich fühle meinen Körper längst nicht mehr, 

Die Füße sind wie Blei so schwer, 

Die Brust ist hohl und ausgebrannt. 

Mir tut nichts weh und bin doch voller Schmerzen, 

Ich seh in deine Augen wie gebannt. 

Ich fall in Schlaf, es flammen Kerzen, 

Sie leuchten mir ins unbekannte Land. 

 

 

 

HYPNOSIS

For Siurlai

 

My limbs ache somewhere in a foreign land, 

I don’t feel my body any more. 

My feet are as heavy as lead, 

My breast is hollow and burned out. 

I’m not in pain, yet I’m full of sorrow, 

I look into your eyes as if I’m spellbound. 

I fall asleep, the candles burn on, 

They light me into the unfamiliar land. 

 

 

HYPNOSIS

Irgendwo after caesura

Somewhere anywhere between ache and fremden outlander

foreigner

zone

lead-heavy feet

become

dolled hollow or fetish-faced

immobility

in this out-burnt parabola

 of double-binds

enchanted eyes

means sleepfall’s

way out

isn’t really;

sleep is candles

and now:

                  the we who’re

                  out of it are in

               enchanted

 

falling in Schlaf, es flammen Kerzen

They light me, they shine me

reciprocally

flare -burnt out,

ex-fausted drawn to blaze

is Möbius strip-spiel consciousness

looped both conscious

and un– in one

Ich kann halt lieben nur

recurring

 

DA

 

 

EINSAM IRR ICH DURCH DIE NÄCHTE …

(Ferdinand Hardekopf gewidmet)

 

Einsam irr ich durch die Nächte und denke an dich. 

Manchmal sehe ich einen Mantel, der deinem gleicht. 

Und dann rufe ich dich leise beim Namen. 

Mein Herz steht still vor Trauer. 

Müde lehne ich mich an die Mauer und schließe die Augen. 

Langsam rinnen viele Tränen zur Erde. 

Die Welt bleibt weit zurück. 

Ich wehe durch weiße Wolken in offene Arme. 

Ein Rosenregen fällt mir nach und kühlt meine kranken Augen. 

Alles ist so weiß und zart. 

Ach so süß. 

 

 

 

ALONE, I WANDER THROUGH THE NIGHTS …

 (dedicated to Ferdinand Hardekopf) 

 

Alone, I wander through the nights and think of you. 

Sometimes I see a coat that reminds me of yours. 

And then I call you softly by your name. 

My heart stands still for sorrow. 

Exhausted, I lean against the wall and close my eyes. 

Slowly, tear after tear runs down to the ground. 

The world is left far behind. 

In open arms I drift through white clouds. 

A rose-rain falls after me and cools my sick eyes. 

Everything is so white and delicate. 

Ach so sweet. 

 

 ALL LONELY I AM ERR/OR/ANT  …

 

All lonely     I am err/or/ant I wander the nights think       of you

 

& may see someone wearing a coat it resembles dissembles yours

 

trembling & I will call you softly by       name heart

 

in mouth still it is arrested in sorrow

 

exhausted mewed up lean / that mood up against the wall // & shut my eyes let go

 

O lowly, slowly the tears run sadness to earth

 

my griefs sie greifen mich sehr as my grip los loss & it loosens

 

at last & tear after tear falls tears the welted World’s fabric abandons it

 

I in an open embrace Y   

 

unArmered enter into welkin’s drift-white fleece

 

          rose-rain gently follows my & lies it cools sick eyes’ auguries

 

candid                             delicated                         everything

 

 

          Achesosweet

 

 

 

 

JG

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LINCOLN ZINE FEST 2024

Saturday 5 October


On Saturday 15th October 2016, the Cathedral city of Lincoln held the first annual zine fest at the Central Library.

Since then, Lincoln Zine Fest has returned each year to welcome zinesters from Lincoln, Lincolnshire and beyond in celebration the DIY publishing community.

“A zine (/ˈziːn/ ZEEN; an abbreviation of fanzine or magazine) is most commonly a small circulation self-published work of original or appropriated texts and images usually reproduced via photocopier.

A popular definition includes that circulation must be 1,000 or fewer, although in practice the majority are produced in editions of fewer than 100, and profit is not the primary intent of publication”

A zine fest or fair is where zine makers and readers come together to sell, trade and share their DIY wares.

Saturday 5 October 2024 11am – 4pm. Free entry.

Lincoln Museum, Danes Terrace, Lincoln LN2 1LP

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museum of neoliberalism closing/demolition party this week

Quick update: Found new studio / having a party at the old one.
Also hello to new subscribers from the Hell Bus!

 

MUSEUM CLOSING PARTY

Due to high demand I’m going to open the Museum of Neoliberalism for three final days this week before I’m finally kicked out of my studio, ending with a closing party on Saturday night.

Museum open this week Thurs-Sat, 26th-28th Sept. 11am-7pm

Party on Saturday from 8.30pm til late. All welcome. BYOB.

Also on Saturday from 7-8.30 is a small event where I’ll be interviewing Ralph Billington, a local 88 year-old self-described revolutionary socialist, and artist, and showing an exhibition of his artwork. The exhibition of his work should also be up on Friday.

Spaces for the Audience with Ralph are limited due to seating capacity. Tickets: https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/an-audience-with-ralph-museum-of-neoliberalism-closing-event-tickets-1025005919297

But it will also be recorded if you can’t make that. After the panel I’ll get Ralph home and then we’ll have a party. No ticket required to come to the party or to visit the museum 11am-7pm Thurs-Sat.

Ralph has been calling into the museum and the space’s former iteration as WAR Gallery since I moved here 9 years ago. A former teacher, he was kicked out of the Labour party for his opposition to the Suez invasion of 1956 and fought fascists at the Battle of Lewisham in 1977.

I’ve had many funny, fascinating conversations with Ralph in that time & we’ve become good friends. Due to his hearing he finds it hard to find people to converse with, so I thought I’d arrange a room full of them. As he says, “I’m deaf. I’ll do the talking, you do the listening”

As for what’s next, I’ve started moving into my new studio in Sydenham but the museum is still without a home and will need to go into storage. If you can help with storage (or a new home) for the exhibits please get in touch. But Gavin Grindon and myself do intend to reopen the museum at some point in the near future, hopefully an expanded one filled with even worse stuff.

 

THAT’S IT FOR NOW

Not much else to tell you about, since all I’ve been doing for two weeks has been moving endless boxes and bits of wood, which is exhausting, but it is tempered by the incredible relief that I actually found a studio to move it all to, and not a storage unit (or worse). I’m so happy with the new space, even though it can’t fit the museum in, I think I probably needed a break from running a museum every weekend. I’m thinking that this somewhere to regroup and for me, and museum co-curator Gavin Grindon, to plan for a museum that can run by itself without me having to be there most of the time.

Here you can see the first part of me settling into the new space. It has tons of daylight which is going to be a new experience for me, having been hermited away in the back of a windowless museum for the last five years.

I might try and document the process of setting up the new studio and stick it on my youtube, but then again I might forget to do that! Let’s find out…

NEW WORK COMING NEXT MONTH!

 

 

PATREON

 

Thanks to everyone who has backed my work on Patreon so far, it’s been a massive help.

If you’re able to support my work via Patreon I’ll send you a copy of this zine documenting all the work I made last year. This is the only way you can get a copy, it’s not for sale anywhere else.

I’ll be making a new zine for 2024 too.


Back me on Patreon here!

 

 

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

Thanks for reading!

 

 

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BLACK AND WHITE

Jackson Browne


Studio recording, 1986

 


Live, 2021

Long before you ever saw your chances
You were gonna burn this city down
Tired of the fashions and the dances
Tired of the people standing around
Ticking like a bomb in the night
And you knew you were right
Black and white

Blame it on the time it took to leave here
Blame it on the ones who slowed you down
Blame it on the kind of friends you knew here
Blame it on the sickness going ’round
Going round and round in the night
With your heart out of sight
With your world burning bright
Like a moth ’round a light

Black and white
The pictures of a life in flames
Black and white
The picture of a life remains
And the search you half remember
Setting out on at the start
Is burning like an ember in your heart

Time running out, time running out
For the fool still asking what his life is about
Time running out, time running out
Time running out, time running out
Yeah, beyond a shadow of a doubt
Time running out, time running out

Tell them that you’ve gone to find a person
Someone you lost track of long ago
Tell them that it’s someone you need worse than
Anybody else you’ll ever know
Ticking like a bomb in the night
You were strong, you were light
You were fast, you were bright
Then you were gone in the light

Black and white
The pictures of a life in flames
Black and white
The picture of a life remains
And the high ideals and the promise
You once dressed the future in
Are dancing in the embers with the wind

Time running out, time running out
For the fool still asking what his life is about
Time running out, time running out
Time running out, time running out
Yeah, beyond a shadow of a doubt
Time running out, time running out
And you know it’s true

Time running out, time running out
Time running out, time running out
Time running out, time running out
Time running out, time running out
Time running out, time running out
Time running out, time running out
Time running out, time running out

Lyrics © Jackson Browne

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Cutting-Edge Art at the Wellcome Collection

Alan Dearling travels with his camera to see Jason and the Adventure of 254 and Being Human

Visually stunning, and superbly and lovingly curated with plenty of humorous, thought-provoking diary-boards from artist, Jason Wilsher-Mills. Jason and the Adventure of 254 is an extraordinary and joyous personal journey of one man’s childhood illnesses, disability and creativity as a response to adversity. It’s tongue-in-cheek – playful. Magical and life-affirming. Since the walls of Jason’s Gallery literally share his personal journey through his models, cartoon illustrations and diary words,  I will let them tell Jason’s ‘story’. And, it’s a really great one, even though it feels odd and paradoxical to be ‘enjoying’ tales of a body losing its immune system whilst being attacked by measles and more, leaving poor Jason debilitated. But his spirit of fun and humour grew even stronger. The Jason Gallery has been transformed into a hospital ward with the dominant, massive central figure of Jason in bed, with his body being attacked by toy soldiers. Absolutely surreal!

“The work is like a form of time-travel where you can still experience something you felt as a child. For me the hospital is not just about trauma, if it is at all. It’s about the opportunity which was afforded to me through education and support from my family. The show is about childhood, family, but it’s also about how creativity works and where it comes from.”  Jason Wilsher-Mills, 2024

Adjoining the show gallery of Jason’s artworks, is a separate exhibition, which also features images, sculptures and artworks about ‘Being Human’. Once again, plenty to cogitate on…

The Wellcome Collection is located at 186 Euston Road in London, opposite Euston Station.

There are many stimulating and informative exhibitions throughout the extensive building about health and body-related issues of all kinds. At their heart is how ‘cultures’ fashion and create different perspectives to our bodies, beliefs, medicine, drugs and their uses. Meaning, essentially that drug use and responses to it, are socially and culturally situated.

All the shows and events are free.  And, the core show changes usually a couple of times each year.

wellcomecollection.org

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The speech of the trees

Shaking leaves under the magic wind,
right before the sunset,
trees are sending wishes to eternity.
Messages of roots and past,
history and rituals,
passing through time
like endless legends.
Trees are staying stable, 
witnesses of battles,
pain, and screams,
and death… 
Guardians of secrets, love stories and epic spectacles of life.
The oldest creatures on Earth,
some like sequoias
a century old…
Today trees whisper,
like every other day,
to whom who can listen…

 

 

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Dessy Tsvetkova
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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Persist… suffer …Create

They grow stronger 
With the cold momentum of time
The sparks on the heel
The wings on the shoe
When the glacier accelerates 
We resist with words
Songs, poems and pamphlets
Then we make soup 
Dream carefree dreams 
And slowly with our scorched bodies 
Persist..suffer ..create
And government fists 
Drive us from our sleep 
And force us into waiting trucks
Where there was truth 
There is now pain 
Where there was freedom 
There is now fear and pain.

 

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Malcolm Paul
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

 

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EXCEPTING POMEGRANATES

One should never overstay
One’s welcome at a dinner party
Eat all the pomegranates
Discuss politics or matters appertaining
Attempt to kiss the hostess
Or (worse) her pretty daughter. Fail
To compliment the paintings
In the dining room
Ask if the pudding served
Came frozen or from a packet

Light a cigarette between courses

Tread on the family dog, a yappy
Yorkshire terrier with foul breath
And high expectancy. Roll a joint

And wonder dreamily
If anyone smoked opium

I’ll done all these thing
Excepting pomegranates

 

 

 

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Steven Taylor
Photo 
David Bailey

 

 

 

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Novelty Violin 

The hidden violin within 
a novelty glass paperweight 
I see years after you bought it 
for me as if I do so for the first time, 
and this time feel it with my skin, 
read the notes freed during an accident 
that also spills hot coffee on the keyboard,
bleeds my feet opened up with 
its tiny diamonds, makes me panic call
you this evening. You listen and when
I finish end the call without saying a word.
My grandfather played violin at the local theatre.
It plays Bach in G Major inside my temple

 

 

 

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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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from THE ADVENTURES OF TARQUIN

Chapter 29 – The Elephant in the Room

Having fallen into a very deep fiscal black hole, Tarquin had been forced to make difficult decisions and take stringent economic measures, as a result of which he was renting a small – a very small – bedsitting room whose one window overlooked a main thoroughfare into a city for which he had only loathing and disgust, and from which he could, had he so wished, have reached out to salute, wave, insult or blow kisses to the passengers on the top deck of the Number 17 bus that passed by on its way into the town centre once every 15 minutes or so. But these things he rarely did, preferring to keep the window and the curtains closed in a desperate and futile effort to convince himself that the outside world was not there.

The room, as has been noted, was very small. In one corner, in a strange cupboard-like arrangement, lurked what passed for a kitchenette. A single bed, one not especially large two-seater settee, an old and disturbingly rickety table and two plastic chairs comprised the room’s furnishings. The landlord did not allow tenants to own a pet, but had Tarquin owned a cat there would only barely have been room enough within which to swing it. Bathroom and toilet facilities were, rather appallingly, shared with other tenants in the building, the remnants of whose personal habits sometimes made Tarquin physically ill.

Although the landlord’s rules stipulated “No Pets”, Tarquin – generous to a fault, as always – had no hesitation in saying “Yes” when his pal Sebastian asked if he would take care of his pet elephant for a few days while he was out of town. It was, after all, only a baby elephant, and while he realized it would still be a bit of a squeeze, the elephant could sleep on the settee, and anyway the landlord would never find out because he never showed his face anywhere near the place.

When Sebastian came by with the elephant, whose name was Nelly, Tarquin could not help but notice that the baby had grown somewhat since last he had seen her. But no matter, they managed to squeeze her through the front door of the building, and coax her up the stairs to the room, and through that door, and after having had a cursory look around Nelly settled down on the settee and began to leaf through a magazine.

It did not take long for Tarquin to realize he had not thought enough about what it meant to have an elephant living with you. It was not only a matter of Nelly’s size. He had shared accommodation with one or two sturdy girlfriends in the past, but he was now faced with issues of a different order. He very soon ran out of buns which which to feed her, and Nelly, for her part, very soon demonstrated that a litter tray may be adequate for the average cat but did not make a dent on the consciousness of an elephant. But the main thing Tarquin had failed to take into account was that his pal Sebastian was a lying bastard. His “few days” was actually a three-month sojourn with his fiancée’s family and friends in the South of France. And what with the bun supply issue, the toilet arrangements, and the fact that a bit of a squeeze is alright for a short time but after a few weeks it can start to get on the nerves of even a saint, Tarquin was driven increasingly to spend time out of the house, and was often to be found nursing a half pint of ale in a nearby hostelry, muttering in his cups about the despicability of so-called friends.

But whenever anyone asked him what was wrong, all he would say was “I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

 

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Conrad Titmuss

 

 

 

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GULL THE OTHER ONE

 
  • OWLING MAD
    This is just one of the many letters we received after Hastings’ inventor Professor Gordon Thinktank outlined his controversial plan to curb the creeping seagull menace. Thinktank has proposed that the entire population of the town’s aggressive herring gulls be replaced with owls. “Daytrippers”, he argues, “so vital to Hastings’ economy, are rightly fed up with having their hard-earned breaks ruined by voracious dive-bombing seabirds as their fish ‘n chips are cruelly whipped away and gobbled up. Replacing these flying fast-food predators with owls, who have a completely different diet, means that the whole problem can be resolved at a stroke.”

  • Sirs,
  • In my opinion, besides a few good inventions like the ecologically sound Panting Dog Hair Dryer and the Good Luck Ladder which automatically folds up when anyone tries to walk under it, the ideas of so-called “professor” Gordon Thinktank are the meanderings of a deluded sociopath. In the event of an apocalyptic planetary catastrophe, most people agree that a dystopian society ruled by owls and seagulls would be the inevitable result. But who would dominate? Seagulls are beefy and tough, like Tongan rugby players, whereas owls are wise and organised, like accountants. To put it simply; owls know stuff and seagulls are thick.
  • Furthermore, in an owl-dominated society, the thinned-out human population would be forced to survive on a trickledown economy based on the leftovers of regurgitated mice, voles and small birds. Eggs would be beyond ordinary families’ budgets because of the difficulty of rearing battery owls. Free range owl eggs, would cost upwards of £2,000 per dozen. Seagull eggs would be far more plentiful, but unfortunately taste like curdled rat vomit. To sum up for the couch potato generation; seagulls are jocks, owls are nerds.
    Trappiste (mrs),
  • Beyondenden Owl Sanctuary
    Sussex
 
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Colin Gibson
 
 
 
 
 
 
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THE DIARY OF A GENTLEMAN-POET

Monday, September 16th

I wish it was of no consequence, but actually it is. I’m being urged by Algernon Tenderloin to go into town to attend a poetry reading later in the week. But it’s someone whose poems I loathe – I name no names. Tenderloin’s only been in the area a few days and already he’s being annoying. I’ll have to be ill on Thursday, because I’m not bloody going.

Jethro has been busy today, doing a big seasonal cleaning of the stables and outbuildings ready for the autumn and winter. I let him get on with it, even though he seems to make an extraordinary amount of noise when, as far as I can see, all that’s needed is some hefty sweeping. As if to complement his work and noise, Cook decided to do the same with the kitchen. I think these people just wanted to stop me having a quiet day. I had to get away from them so I went out, and spent a couple of hours in The Pigeon and Pie, a hostelry that does a decent lunch. (It’s not very popular with vegetarians for some reason.) They were still at it when I got back. Perhaps it’s National Kick-Up-A-Racket Day, and nobody told me.

Melissa telephoned. I was out.

At the end of a rather disjointed and disrupted day, albeit with a decent lunch, I indulged in Mahler and red wine after dinner this evening, the music loud and loud. Cook hates Mahler, but she got earfuls. I don’t care. This is my house.

Tuesday, September 17th

I haven’t been writing much lately, and can’t help feeling that my genius is on the verge of being unleashed again, with fresh strategies, renewed weaponry, and enhanced wit. But it’s no good trying to force it. It’ll come when it’s ready, or not at all if it doesn’t want to. And sometimes you have to go back to the great stuff to recharge the batteries, and make the everyday world go away for a bit so you can get back to the important work, to which end I’ve been wandering around yet again in Quiller-Couch’s “Oxford Book of English Poetry”, and today landed at random on 

            I have a mistress, for perfections rare

In every eye, but in my thoughts most fair,

Like tapers on the altar shine her eyes;

Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice .  . .

It’s of little consequence, but actually I don’t like that one much. I should probably have a more open mind, but if my mistress’s breath smelled like that I’d not be too pleased. I generally like my paramours to smell of flowers, or very expensive fragrances from quality perfumiers.

Cook came back from shopping in town full of herself, because she’d found a cookbook by Delia Smith in the Oxfam that has recipes in it for boar. Good ol’ Delia. She could probably cook Cook and make her delicious.

Melissa telephoned. She’s been known to smell good and bad over the years. Haven’t we all?

Thursday, September 19th

Tenderloin phoned to remind me about this evening’s poetry reading in town. I regretted to inform him that, sadly, unfortunately, regrettably, I was suffering from a sudden upset stomach and was having to spend a lot of time in the toilet.

Jethro says the carriage needs two new wheels before Winter arrives. I feigned interest and told him to attend to whatever is necessary. It’s of little consequence, but probably of appalling expense.

Melissa telephoned. She said she’d found some of my old letters that were very interesting, but had then burnt them.  I’ve never been much of a letter writer, so I don’t really know what she’s referring to. Quite often I don’t understand what’s going on around me, and wonder if I might actually be someone else.

Friday, September 20th

Awoke in the night from a dream where a team of international researchers were examining my secret parts without my written consent. It took me ages to go back to sleep. I know dreams are not really of consequence, but they are, aren’t they, if you spend half the next day thinking about the one that woke you up in the night.

And I was thinking about it a lot, and felt below par all day. I know some so-called poets use their dreams in their poems, but mainly that’s because they don’t have enough imagination to think up stuff for themselves. Anyway, I just couldn’t really get going, and felt in my bones that a decent sleep would do me the world of good, but I didn’t feel sleepy, just weary. But I perked up later thanks to a decent dose of alcohol.

Melissa telephoned. She said she had just booked her annual flu jab. I wonder if life can be any more interesting . . .

Saturday, September 21st

A very long walk with Winnie this morning, which rather exhausted me, and I had a long nap after lunch as a result.

Cook concocted a boar pie for dinner. The recipe was out of the newly-acquired Delia book. It was interesting, but as a consequence we may not be having it again, because somehow I think she can’t count it as one of her successes, although neither of us could quite put our finger on exactly why, given that of late I ‘ve become rather fond of a bit of boar.

Melissa telephoned. She spoke with Cook, and what I overheard of their conversation was mainly about Tupperware. It appears that the Tupperware company is gone down the pan – or should I say “someone didn’t close the lid properly and now it’s all gone rotten”? Sometimes life is almost too much, don’t you think?

 

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James Henderson (Gentleman)

 

 

 

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Proof That the Moon Landing Didn’t Happen

for Andy Darlington

‘I’ve met three of the twelve men who walked on the moon.
They had one important thing in common when I looked
into their eyes: they were all bonkers.’
   – Rich Cohen, ‘How Stanley Kubrick Staged the Moon Landing’

 

Were you there?
At what point did
the fabrication begin?

There was a press reception
where one of the reporters
pointed out various inaccuracies.

Collateral damage was tracked around the world.

I had a dialogue with a man
high up in the overhead tangles:
maximum stretch, disintegrated will.

Was he real? Are you real? Am I real?
Or are we parts of each other’s fantasy,
stumbling through a NASA replication?

No alien nonsense.

We live in an Einsteinian Relativistic world.
I fill my Tupperware container multiple times,
reach ever higher, watch everything happen.

Sometimes we must suffer.

Truth is fiction.
Truth is malleable.
Truth is open to negotiation.

Lost in winding lanes where rumours grow.

 

 

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Rupert M Loydell

 

 

 

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The First Art

Our daughter emerged with a cry,
the confusion and the expression
every creator shares, and she had
crafted two people after all – one, her
mother, reclined on a platform of sweat,
dazed and proud, and the other
pacing outside at that moment
dialing the people who he thought
mattered most.

Her first cry fluttered, settled, flew
around seeking for the world
where the hospital’s white walls
and tiled floors could create no
delusion of control.

There used to be a pond
a minutes North to this building.
They muted it. Its ghost-ripples
shadowed her father’s profile.
He startled, moved away
from the glass wall and strode inside
to greet her mother.

 

 

 

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Kushal Poddar

 

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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In Britain Now

There are people who have never worked
and people who are so rich they don’t need to.
There are people who own twelve houses or more
and people who have no home to shelter them.

There are people on benefits, facing sanctions
and people who evade the taxes that could help.
There are people waiting for operations on the NHS
while the purse-strings are pulled tight.

There are people who want to rejoin the EU
people who are adamant we won’t or can’t.
There are people trying to come here to live
for they don’t feel safe where they are.

The ghost of Margaret Thatcher haunts the streets,
smiling at the industries she closed, applauding
herself for making the word society lose meaning.
Democracy will be next to go.

 

 

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Angela Topping

 

 

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Odds On

Late season in a racing town
packed lunchtime bar –

familiarity enough
excess of bonhomie.

The slight framed, bow-legged
faces like wizened apples.

standing out among the jostle
of shaved heads, broken noses

women who know
how to make themselves heard.

You’re either family
or just another punter.

Given the talk of bobs and bills,
the bucks who wash through here

monkeys and ponies, it would be
easy to assume an arcane knowledge

supposing these alone are party
to whatever certainties come round.

 

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Tony Lucas

 

 

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more from Eric’s Journal

One of my friends (I have five) has told me he thinks my poetry is not as interesting as my tatting. I like and indeed I admire honesty in a person, but am currently considering their friendship status.

I have just sent some poems to a magazine, and it took me longer to read their submissions guidelines than it did to write the actual poems. That can’t be write, can it?

I was going to try my hand at some concrete poetry but the bag of cement in the cellar has gone hard and I can’t lift it. I shan’t worry, and shall stick to the usual stuff. Experiment is hugely overrated.

I am thinking about publishing all my poems in a book – “The Collected Poems” – but I don’t know if there will be the demand in the marketplace to tempt any prospective publisher. I have never really understood the marketplace. The only market place I ever understood is only there on Wednesdays, and is a car park every other day of the week.

 

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Eric Eric

 

 

 

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Wreck

The night wind blows the mail boat ashore, spilling sacks of yesterdays. Pictures of babies, postcards of piers and donkeys, and all those things that no one sends anymore, now that connection’s just a click away. The boat itself is webbed with rigging and wreathed in an ecstasy of shredded sails, its deck awash with sailors’ tall tales that storms have clawed from the deep. The crew is old and tired, with starfish eyes and hands ripped raw by a lifetime of rope and waves, and hearts which are constant flames wrapped in rimed glass. The captain stands stiff at the wheel, shoulders strong against the descending sky. He knows he should go down with his ship, but it will take a million years for these rocks to swallow them. The wind’s awash with thanks and promises, contracts and congratulations, prognostications of imminent disaster, and rows of figures that will never add up.

 

 

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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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Compost


 
How was I supposed to know
that every onionskin and turned tomato,
carrottop and unfinished plate of rice—
not to mention by now a mountain’s worth
of coffee grounds—dumped into the sink
or heaved out with the trash to rot 
in some stinking landfill 
was gold? Who knew those sliced-off 
strawberry crowns and scraps of wasted salad 
shrouded unappreciated alchemical talents 
waiting to be released?
 
Okay, I’ll admit I was a biology major.
Learned all about the carbon cycle.
Collected beetles and bugs identified
to family, many of them well known
for the magic of converting dead and dying
vegetation into vibrant nutrients for life.
Detritovores. A word to memorize
for the mid-term, sure, but never a bit
of practical advice on how to apply
such lessons to everyday life.
 
Like most people I know
living within three miles of a Costco,
I’ve filled my fridge with more than I need.
Adopted a lifetime practice
of scraping plates into the trash.
I’m not even a gardener! Just another
consumer cringing at the climate news,
considering solar or a fancy new electric car
while all along nonchalantly shoveling
the secret of carbon sequestration
and a better way of life into plastic bags.
Schlepping them with unsoiled hands 
out to the curb.

 

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Al Fournier

(First published in Hald and One)

 

 

 

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Concert


 
Moving in and out of fences is the privilege
of peregrinators. Change in regime ensues
ill-gotten gains are parked in brand-new
strongrooms. Television news anchors
daily shower in front of the hoi polloi:
Errors in anatomy and erogenous zones
are scrutinized. Mimetic expressions
don’t shy away from the hydra of work-
aday routines. That’s their fete. Arête
thrives where heartsease is homed. Its
beat knows when to be strident or silent.
Control sets in quittance.

 

 

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Sanjeev Sethi
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

Sanjeev Sethi has authored eight books of poetry, his latest being Legato without a Lisp (CLASSIX, an imprint of Hawakal, New Delhi, September 2024). His poems have been published in over thirty-five countries and have appeared in more than 500 journals, anthologies, and online literary venues. He lives in Mumbai, India.

 X/ Twitter @sanjeevpoems3 || Instagram sanjeevsethipoems  

 

 

 

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Spellcheck

a pantoum

this is my
            place of refuge
                        hidden words
                                    the spells I live by

place of refuge
            all I have
                        the spells I live by
                                    doors and windows

all I have
            beyond the
                        doors and windows
                                    earth and sky

beyond all this
            the starlight
                        earth and sky
                                    a fragment of

the starlight
            everything
                        a fragment of
                                    the whole

everything
            what else is there to tell
                        the whole
                                    repository of

all else there is to tell
            this is my
                        repository of
                                    hidden words

this is my
            place of refuge
                        hidden words
                                    the spells I live by

 

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Dominic Rivron
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

 

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With the Bard

Bardcode, Gregory Betts (Penteract Press)

Are the grids of coloured squares in this hardback book visual art, conceptual writing, asemic writing, concrete poetry or a Shakespearean joke? In his Preface Philip Terry uses the phrase data poem, which is technically correct and a useful description but does nothing to convey the sheer beauty and complexity of the work.

Greg Betts has translated the sounds in Shakespeare’s sonnets into colours and each of the 154 poems into grids, highlighting not only the syllabic count and Shakespeare’s playful disruption of it at times, but also the numerous rhymes throughout all the poems. Terry notes that ‘the music in Shakespeare’s Sonnets is not confined to end-rhymes, but is there in every syllable of every poem, demonstrating how the sounds of the poems are literally orchestrated, making liberal use of internal rhyme and repetitive sound patternings and modulations of form and colour to weave their complex music.’

‘So what?’ you might say, or ‘I knew that’, but Terry quite rightly points out that Betts’ unusual ‘translations’ are a form of original research, a methodology that could be used with other texts to understand and evidence the complexities of structure and form.

Betts has previous for this kind of slippage between text and art, unexpected sideways movements as the result of intelligent and playful lateral thinking and cross-curricular activity. One of my favourites, an early work from 2006, is the haikube, a Rubik’s cube (or a beautiful handmade wooden version of it) with words on that can generate small, imagistic poems when rotated. I use the book version which documents this work with my students – it’s simplicity and outcomes are a good way to introduce and discuss visual texts, processual writing and to move their understanding or poetry away from ‘self-expression’, the dead weight that many writers drag behind them.

What is hard to convey in a review is simply how exquisite these visual poems are. The various blurb writers use words such as ‘jewelled’, ‘heatmap’, ‘glow & shimmer’, ‘chromatic’ and ‘rainbow’s tune’, not to mention ideas of synesthesia, colour-coding and stained glass. Flick through the pages and the poems seem hypnotically repetitive yet each one is utterly different, similar but never duplicate; the colours constantly change and, here and there, extra syllables stray into the right hand margin, disrupting the grid, unbalancing the page.

The block of only 12 lines that comprise Sonnet 126 is visually shocking when it appears, the three extra syllables of the fifth line of Sonnet 118 creep almost to the very edge of the page, and at first glance Sonnet 154 appears to have less syllables in its final line, although closer inspection reveals two pale squares representing unusual and gentle sounds.

There is a colour code at the back for those inclined to understand more and follow the process further, no doubt with Shakespeare’s original poems to hand, but I prefer to luxuriate in the deconstructed versions Betts presents us with, their singleminded focus on pattern and repetition, rhythm, rhyme and frequency, Bett’s clever and original mapping of language.

 

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Rupert Loydell

Find out more about the BardCode project at https://apothecaryarchive.com/bardcode-projects

(first published at Tears in the Fence)

 

 

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A Distant Shore

Alistair Fitchett on A Distant Shore by Tracey Thorn, reissued in expanded form by Cherry Red records.

In the film Grosse Pointe Blank there is a scene where two old high school friends meet for the first time in ten years. The dialogue is simply one character repeating the phrase ‘ten years’ in a variety of different infections as if in disbelief. The disbelief is of course a mixture of surprise at seeing his friend again and at the realisation of time’s passing. It goes like that, doesn’t it? We blink and suddenly time has escaped from us. Where did it go? Heaven only knows.

If you are familiar with Grosse Pointe Blank you will appreciate that it is the greatest high-school reunion/hired killer movie ever made, with a fabulous line for every occasion. I’m looking forward to trying some of them out next week at my own 40-year high school reunion, particularly the one about everyone still being the same only having swelled. This may be harsh, yet a glance in the mirror assures me it is nevertheless true. Naturally we will temper the realisation that we have all ‘swelled’ by saying to each other ‘oh, you haven’t changed a bit,’ yet as time passes, the first part of the line spoken by Joan Cusack’s character seems to become less and less accurate. These exchanges seem to me to be charming and interesting because perhaps they capture the idea that we see people from our pasts as if we are all still in that distant moment, time doing strange slips and slithers around our perception and manipulating memory. And even as we tell ourselves that we recognise ourselves and others held in fragments of amber we simultaneously feel bewildered by it all. Threads may straggle through the fractures in time, but they often seem barely attached to our present selves. Gossamer thin, they waft in the breath of a half-remembered embrace, an illusory once-wished-for kiss. Where did it go? Heaven only knows.

It is now forty-two years since the release of Tracey Thorn’s A Distant Shore LP but it remains the record that, more than any other perhaps, contains the essence of my own 1983 into 1984 experiences. I wrote about it just twelve years later for my e-zine Tangents and re-visiting that piece now I feel the same kind of curious feeling described above. Everything oscillates between recognition and ignorance, a peculiar fluctuation between embarrassment and pride. Interestingly, Tracey Thorn writes something similar about her own feelings on revisiting the record for this expanded Cherry Red reissue, noting in her sleeve notes that: ‘I’m not sure if I’m still that same girl, or if I totally remember what it felt like to be her, but she slightly breaks my heart, and I’m proud of her.’

It would be overstating the truth to suggest that Thorn’s sleeve notes may be the most appealing thing about this reissue, but not by much, for they really are extraordinary. Carefully avoiding the trap that so many artists seem to fall into of disowning their earlier, less mature works, Thorn instead holds her nerve and admits to the success of these songs and recordings. ‘There is passion here,’ she writes, ‘and a kind of romanticism, which is tempered by an awareness of the riskiness of being romantic. I can hear a complicated mix of self-revelation and self-preservation. And what an extraordinary kind of unearned confidence it takes to write a lyric like “I’m old enough now to know there’s no such thing” at the age of 19.’ There is something about this last observation that, I think, cuts to the heart of what makes the songs on A Distant Shore just so remarkably, elegantly classic Pop mementoes. They capture, I think, that sense of peculiar self-assuredness (hovering in an awkward manner so perilously close to arrogance that it can be misconstrued by those who fail to spot an inherent vulnerability) of artists in their late-teenage years. Something of the sense of rejecting the ‘wisdom’ of one’s elders whilst having cherry-picked just enough knowledge to assume an air of fragile adulthood; simultaneously seeing and being ignorant of the complexities in situations and being blessed with the ability to cut through everything and to express simple truths in the bold, bare, romantic language of youth.

Thorn then is rightly proud of the record her 19-year-old self made for the grand sum of £138, and the songs continue to reverberate with the brittle romantic confidence (the ‘steely toughness’ as Thorn herself describes it) that made them so appealing forty years ago. Are they of their time? From an objective perspective I suspect they are, for there is something in the connections out to the likes of contemporary music by the likes of Young Marble Giants, Vic Godard and Durutti Column (all of whose records Thorn admits to having in her bedsit collection at the time) that root the recordings to 1982, if such historical contextualisation is your bag. Objectively too I suspect there is a strong case for adding that as well as being of their time they are also timeless, (not so) simply because they do such a remarkable job of capturing the nature of being that particular, peculiar age, regardless of any arbitrary dot dropped on the linear narrative of time.

The bonus materials on the CD reissue are every bit as good. ‘Lucky Day’, recorded at the same time as the rest of the album did not make it onto the original release but would certainly have made a terrific flip-side to the ‘Plain Sailing’ single in place of the (admittedly great) cover of Monochrome Set’s ‘Goodbye Joe’ (which does not feature as an extra on this reissue, incidentally). The remaining four songs, meanwhile, will be familiar to any fan of Everything But The Girl for they all appeared on the group’s debut Eden set in 1984. These unadorned versions, recorded at some point after the release of A Distant Shore are still (delightfully) very much in the vein of that album, whilst hindsight and familiarity with the more polished Eden recordings lends them too a sense of being bridging elements through a period of remarkable artistic development.

Forty years, then. Forty YEARS. FORTY years. FORTY YEARS. Where did it go? Heaven only knows. For Tracey Thorn of course we know that it went to a string of remarkable records both by herself and with Ben Watt in Everything But The Girl. It went into eloquent books full of astute observations and poignant reflections, plus a lot more besides. For the rest of us? Maybe something less visibly memorable, but no-less valuable in our ways. And whilst there are surely more pleasures in store for all of us (some of them, one hopes, in the form of more work from Tracey Thorn) it can occasionally be worthwhile opening those portals into the past and enjoying the surreal envelopment of memory. There are certainly few finer portals than A Distant Shore.

 

 

 

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the poet’s collar as a black razor, for Ma Yongbo


Ma Yongbo, black and white image, Beijing, 1999
 
 
under the jacket
there is a vault of black,
but it’s not a cliché
(not his heart)
only it is sharp, a sharpness
 
the razor is only the edge of it
that a man dressed this smart
might be both black and grey
and the black might not be as dark,
 
so says his hair, speaking with a darker voice
to the side of his face in the sun
 
 
 
 
 
 
Helen Pletts
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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FILM NOIR

Flip day for night then lose the glossy crooner
Let the trumpet solo drain the oil from showbiz lake
Cruise a lowdown hungry blues
Along the Great White Way
To citizens’ arrest on Lower Broadway
Baste two broken hearts
In Creole sauce and burn them

Candy canes on Christmas trees
No longer swing nor taste as sweet
Cowboy chords cannot investigate
Certain commission of crime
In these disunited States

But come next chocolate Easter
Bunny-Hop and following a lead
Someone may Arise
To hold a blow-torch to the truth
Who makes an omelette unafraid
Of breaking eggs.

 

 

Bernard Saint
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

 

 

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Village of Idiots

Tamim Hassani

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Sausage Life 306

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column that thinks French is analogue and German is digital.

READER: I think I may have italics
MYSELF: Italics! Stay well away from me! I can’t afford to have italics, I have a lot of work this week.
READER: Don’t worry, its well past the contagious stage.
MYSELF: Well if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not take any chances.

GULL THE OTHER ONE
This is just one of the many letters received following Professor Thinktank’s controversial plan to curb Hastings’ seagull menace by replacing herring gulls with owls.

Sir,
The ideas of so-called “professor” Thinktank are the meanderings of a deluded sociopath. In the event of an apocalyptic planetary catastrophe, most people agree that a dystopian society ruled by owls and seagulls would be the inevitable result. But who would dominate? Seagulls are beefy and tough, like Tongan rugby players, whereas owls are wise and organised, like accountants. To put it simply; owls know stuff and seagulls are thick.
Furthermore, in an owl-dominated society, the thinned-out human population would have to survive on a trickledown economy, based on the leftovers of regurgitated mice, voles and small birds. Eggs would be beyond ordinary families’ budgets because of the difficulty of rearing battery owls. Free range owl eggs, would cost upwards of £2,000 per dozen. Seagull eggs would be far more plentiful, but unfortunately taste like curdled rat vomit. To sum up for the couch potato generation; seagulls are jocks, owls are nerds.
Constantine Trappiste (mrs), Beyondenden Owl Sanctuary

BOOK OF THE MONTH
THE NEW BABEL
The Elevation of Common Sense into Deep Incisive Wisdom, by Candida Beverage
(Frakov & Windfarm £15.99)
This book is an invaluable addition to the great lexical canon, and examines how cruelly we treat language. In Chapter 1-The Mangling, Beverage examines why a big ask came to be more efficient than a question, the reason birthing replaced being born, and how going forward came to mean anything you want it to. www.booksyouwishactuallyexisted.com

NO-BRIANER
I’m getting fed up with people telling me they are “blessed”. They are not. They may have been lucky to be in the right place at the right time or to be the random, fortunate victims of chance. They may even have recently acquired a delightful kitten, but they are not “blessed”. Only Brian is Blessed.

VATICAN THE MATTER BE?
Pope Francis has declared Madonna to be ex communicato after her blasphemous remarks about His Holiness at a recent concert, during which she referred to the pontiff as OoPopey-Doo. Speaking outside Rancho Molesto, Nevada’s biggest legal brothel, a spokesman for The Holy Father told Fox News: “Ms Madonna, who in the past has claimed to be “like a virgin” has no right to refer to Catholicism’s capo dei capi, in this demeaning way. I would like to remind Little Miss Pottymouth that The Roman Catholic Church has been providing absolution for the innocent and guilt to the unburdened for over 2,000 years.”

Dick’s Ornery Korner
Monkey Wrench (n) Swiss Army Knife accessory for getting monkeys out of horses hooves
Cabnav (n)  Device for calculating the longest route between two points
Policy (adj) Full of policemen

 

POETRY NOW
Pheasant Plucking
By Andrea Litesocket 

Plucking pheasants
Is fucking unpleasant
Which is why pheasant pluckers
Are such unpleasant fuckers
 

WENDY WRITES
Dear Wendy,
Why do you insist upon printing rambling, boring letters not dissimilar to this one, which only serve to reinforce the generally held opinion that the majority of your readers are solely interested in the absurd views of a cretinous minority of people who, like myself, have been abducted by ants; tiny extra-terrestrial ants which gained entrance to my house disguised as currents in some Dundee Cake (a type of cake of which I am particularly fond), and after I had innocently eaten the cake (which was delicious by the way, moist and fruity), burst forth from my abdomen on the one afternoon when I had forgotten to take my medication and beamed me aboard their huge atomic-powered ant spacepod which they had parked in my front garden completely flattening my hydrangea and demolishing the fence which separates me from my neighbour Sammy Davis Jnr who is trying to gaslight me by magnetising my cutlery using a sophisticated short wave cutlery magnetiser which he got from his friends in the CIA who want to have me rubbed out because of what I know about the Kennedy assassination?
R.Sheets
Scalliwag Ward
Pfaff Secure Institutions Inc
The Netherlands 

WENDY WRITES: Are any other readers being inconvenienced by short wave cutlery magnetiser-wielding dead celebrity neighbours? Your letters, and any other new Kennedy assassination evidence please! 

BEAR FACTS
Dear Wendy,
Now that the royal sport of fox-hunting has been banned and the reactionary Marxist-Leninist Labour Party now wants to proscribe even the humane non-lethal version, Ru Paul’s Drag Racing, might I suggest, perhaps controversially, the re-introduction of bear-baiting? Over the past two years, a total of eleven people in my village have been chewed to death. The culprits? A gang of escaped grizzly bears who, after consuming alcohol, rampage through our sleepy hamlet whenever they fancy biting a face off. Quite frankly, many people are beginning to get fed up.
Tighter security on bear farms has been called for, but in my view this would be yet another case of bolting the horses long after the door has been allowed to escape. Most of my long suffering neighbours have been forced to surround their homes with lethal bear traps, which to date have caused the agonising deaths of seven innocent postmen going about the Queen’s business. The solution is staring us all in the face. Properly licensed bear-baiting pits would serve a dual purpose as they would keep the rampaging bear population down, whilst at the same time providing simple, honest entertainment for the bloodthirsty masses.
Bob Hayseed (faarmer)
Hassock-in-the-Wurne
Gridlock

WENDY WRITES: Should men on horses who chase cuddly little foxes, encourage packs of savage dogs to tear them apart, then smear their bloody tails on children’s faces be unbanned? Readers are invited to send in their angry marauding bear stories, either made up or true
JOKEBOX 
I heard three rib-cracking jokes this week, but the editor says that due to lack of space, I can only print the punch lines. (I said lack of taste -ed)
1. I would, but I can’t get it to keep still.
2. Not if you don’t eat the curly ones.
3. How do you expect a man with a wooden leg to catch a kangaroo?

 

Sausage Life

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




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

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

 

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

CHEMTRAILS ON MY MIND
MORT J SPOONBENDER

On September 11th 1958, José Popacatapetl, a retired tree psychologist who’s father was head gardener for the CIA during the cold war, was hitchiking through the Alberqueque desert when he was picked up by a black sedan driven by J Edgar Hoover’s ex-boyfriend André Pfaff head of FBI underhand operations and extra-terrestrial banking who once worked as a quantum mechanic for the KGB under the direct orders of the zombie reincarnation of Josef Stalin whose mummified corpse was kept in a secret underhand bunker in the basement of the Vatican.

 



SAY GOODBYE TO IRONING MISERY!
When added to your weekly wash, new formula Botoxydol, with Botulinim Toxin A, will guarantee youthful, wrinkle-free clothes.
Take years off your smalls with Botoxydol!
CAUTION
MAY CAUSE SMILEY FACE T-SHIRTS TO LOOK
INSINCERE

 

SPONSORED ADVERTISEMENT
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SUPERCALIFUCKINGFRAGIFUCKINGLISTICEXPIALIFUCKINGDOCIOUS

 

 

By Colin Gibson

 

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Going to the Dogs

 

We’re going to the dogs, and must dress accordingly, so we’re brushing off our cheesecutter caps, and waxing our boots and jackets. We need to exercise, or to exorcise – the edict was unclear – so we dust off both canes and crucifixes, and pack our pockets with mint cake and salt. The precise location of the dogs – no, let’s call them hounds, for that frisson of gothic anticipation – is yet to be determined, but we’ve a pre-Beck map of the London Underground and a portfolio of predictions relating to possible geomorphological futures, and a compass and sextant reputedly salvaged from the Mary Celeste. The hounds themselves are an unknown quantity, but artists’ impressions, based on psychic visions and unreliable witness statements, suggest something akin to either Bolonka or Barghest, the fine distinctions depending on estimates of distance. Some of us hear their voices in our sleep, others while we’re awake, but we all agree that they never bark, speaking instead in plummy RP tones of hard choices and unfortunate unavoidable outcomes. We don leather gloves and wrap scarves around our faces, though we know there will still be cuts and cold. And we of course carry bones and other treats, and biodegradable bags for all the inevitable shit.

 

 

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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

 

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in starry numbers fitly orderd

Selections from William Blake, processed through word frequency software, edited by Robert Mapson

 

 

 

Hell cast words new mortal mind bound

Genius gave delight alone

Else dread desires descend

Raging precious philosophy oft noble

He goes fourfold fortune form’d.

 

Time throughout tells sure steps, sits singing sincere sighs.

Thyself thunderous then surrounding Surrey,

Jerusalem intended indignation indefinite,

Dim demons defend darkning crystal,

Avoid authority.

 

Washington wandring walk’d wailing,

Solitary soldiers slay,

Lords loose look’d lonely.

 

Sensible senses seldom see

Infinitely inclosed incessantly.

 

Conception completed compell’d compassion,

Textual terror tears,

Revolution reviving revive return!

Existence exalted eternity escaped.

 

Caesars cadences burn’d,

Three-fold threatening thoughts,

Prophetic propensity pronounced.

 

Orc! Orator opression oppressive opposes.

Blaspheming Blake

Infinities infinite!

Immensity immeasurable

Adulterate adrift adorned adoring.

 

 

.

Robert Mapson

 

Image of tiger by Sayantan Kundu (https://www.pexels.com/photo/wildlife-photography-of-tiger-951007/)

Image of William Blake by Thomas Phillips (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Blake)

 

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Desert Breaking


 
The sleeping land awakens
as a trembling underneath pulls rocks
apart and opens up
a space for the emergence
of a formation destined to mark its place
on Earth. Needle, spire,
fire wrapped in shadow, compass for a soul
to find its way toward the sun
and in the seconds
before stillness preserves it for the ages there
is disruption to order, a subterranean
roar, mystery putting on
its eternal disguise.
Such pain the land endures to bring
a sacred form to light.

 

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David Chorlton

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Your Families Have Finished The Dinner

Have you ever whispered 
to your friend while watching 
your daughter asleep 
on the couch within the circle 
she has formed with her flesh, 
“Wish, I could sleep like that.”? 

The night strengthens its meat outside.
If you two stand on the porch,
ignite a cigarette you both have quitted 
years ago the redolence 
of the moon fermenting 
will perturb your lungs.
Wish is the word you will recite, reiterate.
The frogs will commence a rematch.
The breeze will leave one set of leaves
for another, and the rain will pour soon.

 

 

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Words and picture
Kushal Poddar

 

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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DECADENCE AND THE YELLOW NINETIES

 

Style and Sensation

 

 

Decadence is an extreme form of Aestheticism, the cultivation of a type of ‘artistic’ sensibility in conflict with traditional values: a sensibility outside the framework of respectable ‘culture’. To some decadence may appear as a form of hedonism, to others this hedonism, this ‘art for art’s sake’, has the sinister aspect of relativism, materialism, subversion, even nihilism.

In a letter from prison (known as De Profundis), Oscar Wilde referred to a book: ‘that book which has had such a strange influence over my life.’ The book in question was The Renaissance (1873) by Walter Pater the ‘Conclusion’ to which had caused a minor scandal on its first publication. George Eliot, among others, rushed to condemn as ‘quite poisonous’ its ‘false principles of criticism’ and its ‘false conception of life’. This literary scandal gained the author a notoriety that damaged his career, but it also ensured his writings became a cuase celebre, the object of a cult for all those who, like Wilde, aspired to a radical artistic outlook suitable for new skeptical age. It seemed that Pater was advocating, in the most poetic prose, a form of rarified ‘impressionism’ of sensations. For art, he wrote, ‘comes to you proposing frankly to give nothing but the highest quality to your moments as they pass, and simply for those moment’s sake.’ In the same essay he referred to ‘a quickened and multiplied consciousness’ and to the ‘ecstasy’ of the soul that burns always with a ‘hard gem like flame’.

Like Wilde, many of the subsequent generation, the generation of the fin-de-siecle era, seemed to assimilate this refined form of aesthetic outlook. They molded this ‘strange influence’ into a characteristic sub-culture; an informal ‘movement’, or international tendency, that might legitimately be termed ‘decadent’ – the synthesis of style and sensation. Generally the movement was closely identified with various other trends called Naturalism, Impress­ionism, Symbolism, Expressionism or, in the decorative and applied arts, the national variants of ‘modern style’ Art Nouveau.

In England the decadent movement was at the centre of a tangle of trends including Aestheticism, Naturalism and Impressionism. The Celtic Twilight displayed links with magical-hermetic occultism (The Order of the Golden Dawn) and pioneered an interest in folklore and mythology. Decadent religiosity and neo-Catholicism rubbed shoulders with an enthusiasm for certain authors of ancient Rome: Catullus, Horace, Propertius and Petronius (The Satyricon). Oscar Wilde, Arthur Symons and Aubrey Beardsley established a cult of modernity and ephemerality. George Moore and Hubert Crackenthorpe promoted Naturalism in the manner of Zola and Maupassant. This in turn was complemented by Nietzschean atheism espoused by the poet John Davidson.

Wilde moved from Aestheticism to Decadence with his novel The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890) and his ‘Byzantine’ play, Salome (1892) the London production of which (starring Sarah Berhardt) was banned while in rehearsal. Wilde, as is well known, became the centre of a nationwide scandal when his homosexuality was exposed in 1895. However, after his release from jail he continued to be a focal figure for European writers, living in France and Italy under the pseudonym Sebastian Melmoth (the eponymous anti-hero of Maturin’s Gothic novel Melmoth the Wanderer) until his death in Paris in 1900.

The Rhymers Club (active 1891-1894) included among its members W. B. Yeats, Ernest Rhys, Lionel Johnson, Ernest Dowson, Arthur Symons, John Davidson, John Gray, Oscar Wilde, Richard Le Galliene and Francis Thompson. These formed the nucleus of the ‘Tragic Generation’ of the English ‘Yellow Nineties’ – the first wave of ‘decadent’ Francophile modernism in English art and literature. The name of the period refers to the magazine The Yellow Book (1894) which showcased the work of Decadent poets and artists. Edited by Aubrey Beardsley and Henry Harland, The Yellow Book was an instants controversial success, cocking a snook at the pro-establishment ‘muscular’ imperialism of late Victorian England.

The critic and poet Arthur Symons was a typical representative of the progressive Decadent trend. Literary journalist and member of the Rhymer’s club Symons was born in Pembrokeshire in 1865. From about 1890 he was based in London and wrote criticism and poems of modernistic, urban, impressionism. Several of his poems, like ‘Stella Maris’ which appeared in The Yellow Book I in January 1894 caused some controversy. Elsewhere, he once claimed his life was ‘like a Music Hall’ and often wrote about the various dancers he saw and admired in both London and Paris. For example he eulogized the iconic Jane Avril (known as La Melinite) and Nini Patte-en-l’Air of the Casino de Paris who he dubbed ‘The Maenad of the Decadence’ in a poem written in 1892. For him Nini exemplified ‘The art of knowing how to be/ Part lewd, aesthetical in part/ And fin de siècle essentially.’

His survey The Symbolist Movement in Literature (1899), preceded by the essay The Decadent Movement in Literature (1893) was one of the first English language surveys of current French literature introducing Nerval, Laforgue, Huysmans and Mallarme to those of his contemporary colleagues who looked the Continent for inspiration. The English writers demanded more freedom of choice in artistic subject matter. They cultivated the short ‘musical’ poem inspired by Verlaine.

In the visual arts Aubrey Beardsley (1872-1898) developed his inimitable iconography of depraved Elizabethan Arcadias, ‘Japonesque’ linearism (Salome illustrations, 1894) and Eighteen-the century libertinism which evoked the atmosphere of Laclos. He produced an erotic novel called Under the Hill (1896, unfinished) and died of tuberculosis in Menton in March 1898. His influence in the graphic arts both in Europe and America has been immense. Together with Edward Burne-Jones and the artists of The Glasgow School (Charles Rennie Mackintosh, Margaret MacDonald, Jessie M King) he counts as one of the great originators and stylists of Art Nouveau.

 

The horror of life is a reaction to the basic instability and uncertainty of existence.

This horror, translated into anxiety in all its manifestations and forms, pervaded the fin-de-siecle Yellow Nineties era and its culture. One has only to read the strictures of Xenophanes and Plato against the extravagance and immorality of ancient poets to come to the conclusion that ‘decadence’ is nothing new – yet, in the late nineteenth century, this ubiquitous malaise was amplified by wider social trends.

These trends included a massive expansion of the mass media, a far reaching extension of systems of transportation, and the growth of urban life in vast metropolitan cities like London (a modern Babylon according to Disraeli), Berlin and Paris. Many commentators identified urbanization as the common cause of numerous pathological tendencies including effeminacy and the neurotic ‘genius’ of artists whose degraded eyesight was the clinical basis of Impressionist imagery. By locating the causes of human volition and motivation in subsurface structures, in unconscious impulses, or in primal biological phenomena beyond the grasp of conscious awareness, intellectual and scientific currents, such as those represented by Darwin, Marx, Nietzsche, Freud and Durkheim, provoked hostility from the guardians of tradition.

Naturally the new art of the time, from the fluid brush strokes of the Impressionists, to the ‘unhealthy’ subject matter and expressionistic linearity of Edvard Munch, seemed to encapsulate this state of disruption and decline; a breakdown of traditional modes of representation. Such artists fused the principles of style and sensation in subversive works – literary, theatrical, musical and visual – causing a sequence of scandals and controversies among those who saw any departure from bland academic conventions as a threat to the established order.

The prototype of the modern literary-artistic scandal was the prosecution, in 1857 of  Baudelaire for his ‘decadent’ collection of poems Les Fleurs du Mal, but numerous other cases emerged throughout the period. These included attacks on the writings of Walter Pater, Whistler, the Impressionists and the Pre-Raphaelites in the 1870s, the furore over Klimt’s Vienna University Paintings in 1893 and the arrest of Egon Schiele in 1912. This kind of moral panic directed at shocking ‘yellow’ novels, at plays such as Ibsen’s Ghosts or Wilde’s Salome, or at paintings such as L’Absinthe by Degas, become symptomatic of a perceived moral crisis of decline, extrapolated to engulf the entire West. This notion may well appear vindicated by the cataclysmic political events of 1914, although subsequent decades have seen a continuation of the same perennial mythology of depravity, decline and terminal collapse.

Such reactions disclose the anxiety that underlies all moralistic diatribes against ‘decadence’ in the arts of any age. However, in the fin-de-siecle era (a period no longer dominated by the clergy or the aristocracy) the fusion of style and sensation in pursuit of a radical new aesthetic exposed many to a particularly modern form of unease – a disquiet that still haunts the modern world.

 

 

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A C Evans

illustration: Beardsley ‘The Peacock Skirt’ from Salome (1894)

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Greenslade at the BBC

Greenslade at the BBC, Greenslade (Repertoire Records)

In 1972 Greenslade arose out of the ashes of Colosseum, adopting an unusual line-up of two keyboard players (one of whom, Dave Lawson, was also the vocalist), bassist and drummer. By 1973 the band had recorded and released their eponymous album, complete with regulation progrock Roger Dean art work and a gatefold sleeve, and saw in the new year by recording a session for BBC 1’s Sounds of the 70s programme early in January, returning in April for In Concert.

Later that year they released a second album, Bedside Manners Are Extra, and were welcomed back that autumn by Bob Harris for another Sounds of the 70s session. These three recordings comprise the first CD of this new double album, with the second comprising a 1973 Old Grey Whistle Test session, a 1974 In Concert and a Radio 1 session for Bob Harris, who clearly liked the band. The tracks are mostly from the first two albums, with a few selections from Spyglass Guest, their third album, which means quite a lot of repeat tracks.

I knew about Greenslade because one of my school friends had an older sister who had bought the first album, and he delighted in copying out – in Deanesque script – excerpts of  the lyrics of ‘The Drowning Man’. I didn’t know anything more about them until 1975 when I heard my favourite Greenslade track, ‘Catalan’, from their fourth and final album Time & Tide, on Nicky Horne’s Capital Radio show.
   

Soon after of course, punk arrived, and secondhand copies of old progrock albums could be picked up cheap, and were by me, including the four Greenslade offerings. They, of course, became collectable, had CD reissues and the band briefly reformed in 2000, although I think only Dave Greenslade and bass player Tony Reeves were original members. Some of the band’s CD reissues included bonus BBC tracks which are reissued here, and there was also a legitimate CD of a complete concert from Stockholm in 1975, although it was one of easily available bootlegs in circulation, and an anthology of live tracks from 1973-75.

 

So what do we get here? Well, kind of what you’d expect, although the keyboards are leaner and bluesier than the likes of Yes or ELP. There is little sense of self-indulgence and no symphonic rock to be found. The band definitely rock, even when keyboards are to the fore. This is pretty much due to the combination of Reeves and drummer Andrew McCulloch, both superb players, and thanks to remastering now much higher in the mix. (A big thumbs up too for Martin Briley  – who replaced Reeves for the final three tracks here as well as the original band’s final album – and his soaring guitar parts.)

One of the problems Greenslade faced were that many people couldn’t cope with Lawson’s vocals, which were often quite extreme in the studio recordings. Here, it has to be said, his voice is lower in the mix, and suits the live environment far more. It also feels like he has settled in to the songs, bringing a surprisingly warm and mellow tone to proceedings. Even ‘Red Light’, a forerunner in subject matter to The Police’s ‘Roxanne’ is not the strangled rocker it is on Spyglass Guest.

For the most part, it is the instrumental songs and song sections that rock out, with the latter taken at a less frantic pace. All three versions of ‘Bedside Manners Are Extra’ here are almost seductively melancholic, as are the two versions of proto-eco song ‘Feathered Friends’ with its prophetic questions about the chosen few who have poisoned the planet. Even the vocals on ‘The Drowning Man’, which is quite a hard song to listen to on the debut album, are in tune and sung not squealed.

Downside for me is ‘An English Western’, a track I’ve always disliked, as well as two versions of ‘Pilgrim’s Progress’, an instrumental I have always found overlong and full of twiddly-widdly keyboards; and the BBC introductions are a bit grating too and could have been edited out. I’d liked to have heard more from Time and Tide, which I think is a much better album than Spyglass Guest, but the Beeb obviously had other bands in their sights by 1975.

The upside is, of course, finally having clean, remastered, legitimate copies of all this stuff, especially – as noted above – with regard to drums and bass. I can’t of course, and wouldn’t wish to, overlook the magical interplay and occasional sonic duelling of the two Daves – Lawson and Greenslade – with their different choices of keyboards and very different playing styles. This is a welcome and well overdue release, which has been on repeat play since it came through the letterbox.

 

 

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Rupert Loydell

 

 

 

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Refugees: Van de Graaf Generator

 

North was somewhere years ago and cold:
Ice locked the people’s hearts and made them old.
South was birth to pleasant lands, but dry…
I walked the waters’ depths and played my mind.

East was dawn, coming alive in the golden sun:
the winds came gently, several heads became one
in the summertime, though august people sneered;
we were at peace, and we cheered.

We walked along, sometimes hand in hand,
between the thin lines marking sea and sand;
smiling very peacefully,
we began to notice that we could be free,
and we moved together to the West.

West is where all days will someday end,
where the colours turn from grey to gold,
and you can be with the friends.
And light flakes the golden clouds above;
West is Mike and Susie,
West is where I love.

There we shall spend our final days of our lives,
tell the same old stories… yeah well, at least we tried.
So into the West, smiles on our faces, we’ll go;
oh, yes, and our apologies to those
who’ll never really know the way.

We’re refugees, walking away from the life
that we’ve known and loved;
nothing to do nor say, nowhere to stay;
now we are alone.
We’re refugees, carrying all we own
in brown bags, tied up with string;
nothing to think, it doesn’t mean a thing,
but we can be happy on our own.
West is Mike and Susie,
West is Mike and Susie.
West is where I love,
West is refugees’ home.

 

 

Lyrics © Peter Hammill

 

 

 

 

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