Sppong 23 - Dr. Stegs Diary. March - June 2001.

Over the last few weeks I have been the fortunate recipient of not one, but two Dr. Steg packages. Both arrived unannounced. Both were enough to raise me from my cups. The first was an assemblage. A picture if you like. An assemblage that had glued upon it golden things that Dr. Steg’s dog had chewed. More on this later. The second package contained Dr Steg’s diary, various comics and sheets of A4 that show the existence of various other forms of SPON. More on these later too. I sat and read the diary on Friday night and knew that I couldn’t put it away without further comment. I gave it to Mrs. Fisher and she read it with the same degree of amusement and delight. After consultation with Dr. Steg he was quite happy for me to reprint here.

The diary covers three months of 2001 and shows not only how Dr. Steg’s passes his days but his wit and eye for the absurd. In it the mundane sits cheek by arse with Dr. Steg’s surreal dreams. Cats stare into space and dogs lick the inside of cats mouths. Steg himself sits and stares at empty washing lines. He builds dog kennels out of Twiglets. He makes pointless lists of ‘different things’.  All recorded for posterity in Steg’s instantly recognisable mix of made up words and phrases [Foot & Mouse], ampersands and jumble of capital and lower case letters within the same word. There’s the odd bit of instant art, CD price stickers [remember the days when the likes of HMV and Virgin got away with charging £16.99 for a CD?] and parking tickets too. At its end we see Steg’s more philosophical side, something that doesn’t come as a surprise at all, ‘When I said art is dead I really meant that modern society had killed art but art can only ressurect itself when modern society is dead. We will continue!’

Barring a few edits to make for easier reading I’ve left the spelling and syntax as is.

Er ...That's it? Watched a cat sitting very quietly on the driveway. World on verge of imminent collapse. Cut toe nails & fed clippings to dog. Welsh farmer committed suicide due to Foot & Mouse disaster. Blew nose.

16th March
Watched washing line blowing gently in the wind. Mass killing of healthy animals. Also available in Brian Cant flavour.

17th March
Woke up - went to toilet. Made cup of tea. Listened to  the Cocteau Twins. Watched dog going to the toilet and wiping his feet on the grass. Run away from all your Kwik-Save trolleys.

18th March
Woke up early & had a hearty breakfast of Jelly Babies, Digestive biscuits and Mr. Kipling apple pies. Proceeded to spend morning painting all the dirt and dust in the garage white so that it looks clean. Dry roasted peanuts for dinner. Spent afternoon studying dirt on window panes in strangers houses. Evening spent sitting in a darkened room, not easy to read. Went to bed.

18th March
Spent entire weekend listening to 'Slave to the Wage' by Placebo and now its Monday morning & it still makes no sense. I will write to them and ask what it means? Nothing sounds very well today? Where are we going? What a confusing world we live in!

20th March
Woke up after a lovely dream about death & murder. Day 28 of Foot & Mouse disease. Watched dog lick the inside of a cats mouth [as the cat yawned - Eric]. Thought today was Friday but it is only Tuesday. Picked scabs from dogs nose.

21st March
The day after 20th March 2001. It snowed all day today, but the snow didn't contain any snow adhesive so it didn't stick.

22nd March
Nothing happened yet. Tried to saw dog in half. Nothing?

23rd March
Breakfast. Nothing - a bit more nothing. Nothing for tea - some more nothing. Went to bed. The future is furtive.

24th March
Spent all day today painting all the dirt & dust in the garage its original dirt & dust colour. Painted all the coloured cats white [they were not happy about this so I had to nail their paws to the floor & paint them with a lavatory cleaning brush].

25th March
Rudely awoken from an interesting dream about being suffocated in a giant plastic bag prison type thing, chair, box, cling-film, cardboard death chamber coma dream suffocation thing! Rather nice while it lasted? Fuck!

26th March
Spent the afternoon studying the waterflow of sink and baths in empty houses. Plucked all the dogs fur out with tweezers. Here is some of it that was plucked from around its penis.

27th March
Huge mass killing of cattle and sheep and then putting them in huge fucking hole. On a brighter note they have re-opened  B&M Bargains. It has new electric doors & new shelves  stocked  with the same crappy rubbish as before. Jelly Babies & Dr. Pepper for lunch. Wore clean socks for the first time in four weeks.

28th March
Dull day but enlivened at tea time by watching police deal with an armed holed-up in some shitty drug flats. Bought 2 tins of cat food. Sunny evening, watched shadows of tree on the wall at the bottom of the garden.

29th March
Realised today how utterly pointless & boring keeping a diary really is if you were to do it properly! Never got round to writing to Placebo? Or man from crisp factory. Six letters to post but couldn't be arsed to buy stamps in Post Office.

30th March
Tried to make pen work. Created artificial rain. Nice dream, but can't remember what it was?

31st March
Awoke at midday. Fruitcake for dinner. Watched television for 3 seconds. Walked past a rotting kebab on a traffic island.

1st April
Dog farted. Did something pointless. Dog farted again. Watched washing blowing slowly on washing line.

2nd April
Read book about the Pre-Raphaelites. Tape re-corded dog singing. Tape re-corded cat sneezing whilst an aeroplane passed over head and one passenger vomited, another picked his nose and flicked it at a stewardesses arse. Someone ate a banana and an old man choked to death on his false teeth. Bought some broccoli & something that looked like spit. Out of date food for tea.

3rd April
Moist interesting nights dreaming about mutilation, radioactive waste disease death, memories & general carnage. Must have been something I eight. Visited a rather unpleasant place, nothing unusual happened, remember something important while walking across a zebra crossing! Evening spent deep in thought thinking about the depth of thought [probably as deep as any of the deepest holes in existence]. Cats never gamble & they have no concept of money.

4th April
Sixth week of Foot & Mouse disease. Can't think of one interesting observation yet! Pistachio nuts for tea. Spent evening listening to various kettles boiling inside the garage. All the steam caused the garage to evaporate. Very unfortunate!

5th April
Dream fragment - Angry Hotel comissionaires crucifying a tiny Jesus in a giant metal crucifix/coffin type thing under a pier [possibly Brighton]. Jesus was either Les Dennis or Rik Mayall?

6th April
Saw a very unhappy wet pigeon sitting or huddling next to a used orange condom.

7th April. We exist in a place that has been replaced with ABBATOIRS built from the rotting remains of disease ridden lying bastard politicians. No one can deny this fact.

8th April
Saw a squirrel looking furtively at a sheep whilst it rained heavily and we listened to an old fur-encrusted T-Rex tape. Visited a house with no shelves, very messy! I had to leave a record shop & a book shop due to some unpleasant sounding people who I had the misfortune to be standing next to.

9th April
Dog sicked up tiny remains of human fingers all over hand brake as we went round Around-About on our way to Curries. They now rest in a tiny plastic bag in the bureau along with other solid things that disagree with his tiny dog stomach and he sicked up several hours later along with foul smelling grean bile! Tried to avoid watching the shiny new television. Spent evening listening to shiny new-old Fall CDs. [Plasma Screen TV ￡7-8000 if ordered from Comet]

10th April
8.16 am saw a lollipopman dashing by on his bicycle. Watched two pigeons fighting. Read enormous book about Benjamin West, the first artist born in America to achieive international stature.

11th April
Read a very thin narrow book about radiators. Saw two very old midgets shopping

12th April
Breakfast - small squares of cheese with a peanut on top.

13th April
Can't remember anything interesting happening  today - maybe I am dead?

14th April
Breakfast - went over the top - small squares of cheese with 'two' peanuts on top.

15th April
Thought cat was going to write a novel but it couldn't get the top off the pen.

16th April
More very odd dreams due to massive cheese intake. Too strange to write down but can remember the vastness and immense bizarre details of a hell on earth camping trip inside something dead & rotting. Knee deep in blood & entrails of something?

17th April
Thought I saw a nun with a step ladder! Saw a very old thing and a very narrow kitchen with cookers. Dream about flying and imaginary photographs of things that never existed except in the minds of imaginary people who existed in a non-existent place. [v.good]

18th April
Cat tried to assassinate the Queen. Unluckily he forgot to put bullets in gun.

19th April
Considered buying nail scissors.

20th April
Made a dog kennel out of Twiglets.

21st April
Opened a door. Mowed the lawn for the first time in 6 months.

22nd April
Opened a new packet of soap. Suicide bombers in Israel. Health risk of cancer from burning cows.

23rd SPON
Watched 23 different things that included the following:-

1. Drainpipes
2. Grass
3. The dogs eyebrows
4. Checkout womans teeth in Safeways.
5. Envelopes
6. Walls
7. Snot
8. Sky at different times of the day & night
9. Road signs
10. Bruises & cuts
11. Hair & stubble
12. Bricks
13. Tree stumps
14. Toothpaste
15. Skin
16. Ink in pens
17. Trouser & shoes
18. Car head lights & aerials.
19. Dirt on rims of cups & wine glasses
20. Jumpers & shirts
21. Rubber ducks
22. Books & old records in charity shops.
23. Blossom on trees & bushes.

23rd Spon
Spent day watching grass grow a tiny amount in the back garden.

23rd Spon
Strange dream concerning a mail order body parts operation that sent me a new body part each day. Eventually I had an 8 or 9 foot body in the kitchen. I was then sent all the intestines and inside body parts. For some reason they did not look like normal inside body parts? Woke up and listened to 'Songs for Drella' by Lou Reed & John Cale.

23rd Spon [Brown day].
Posted a large [brown] envelope filled with six year old memories & ideas that I still [and will never] understand. Painted something [brown] - am glad that I have no more [brown] paint, I loathe & hate [brown] paint, I loathe & hate [brown]. I am very glad that grass is green & it covers horrid [brown] soil. II suppose I must be grateful for this one small gift in life. It could have been the other way around! Horrible thought. Also, pity about the colour of tree bark! Glad I am not called [brown] as well.

23rd Spon
Saw a priest carrying a staple gun. But it was in fact a yellow helicopter. Sunny day that became very wet. Saw many strange & weird things today! Listened to something very old that actually sounded very new.

23rd Spon
The difference between a pencil and a pen is this. Spent the day & evening watching clouds drift by. Dream - some one sent me a very sharp sword in order to kill all plasterers in the world. Bought some new type of shoes!

3rd May
Watched cat have a big piss.

4th May
Wet.

5th May
On the road to Monets garden. Saw many very irritating Americans discussing religion with their sons. Sat next to a man with hairy nostrils.

12th May
I don't care. You don't care. We don't care. Nobody cares?

17th May
Some people I vaguely know - house burnt down very quickly.

18th May
Spent evening painting in the rain - unfortunately notebook got so wet it nearly fell apart!

19th May
Saw 4 ducks going for a walk near a very busy main road. Dead mouse on doorstep this morning. Bought book about David Sylvian and I read it very quickly.

20th May
Visited the Tate in Liverpool and saw some lovely pictures by Picasso, Bonnard, Hockney, Mark Boyle, Peter Blake, Derek Boshier, David [?]. Spent several hours studying their surfaces & colours.Splendid afternoon! And also Miro, Dubuffet & Frank Auerbach as well! Caught dog trying to shag grey cat.

21st May
Woke up, fell asleep and then woke up again. Strange dreams about things that aren't very nice. Placed dead mouse in jam jar in garage.

22nd May
Woke up and listened to 'Pied Piper' by Crispian St. Peter and watched an empty black bin liner blow around the garden. Then listened to 'Just Like Eddie' by Heinz and then 'Sea of Heartbreak' by Don Gibson and finally 'He Kissed Me' by the Crystals. Came home to find dead mouse in jam jar completely maggott ridden. So threw it in neighbours garden that I do not like. Saw odd man having a really good pick of his left nostril whilst stareing into a shop window - possibly a jewelers or shoe shop? Avoided neighbour who I do not like as I saw him find jam jar with maggot ridden mouse corpse inside, he didn't look very impressed - think he threw it in his dustbin! Listened to 'Let it Bleed' by the Rolling Stones.

23rd Spon
Saw a well dressed elderly gentleman riding a Harley Davidson. Listened to bees pollinating flowers and dried blossoms blowing against walls and pavements.

24th Spon
Cut grass with tiny pair of scissors. Very, very odd dream last night - vague & weird people with severe mental problems turning into shops, cows & dogs! People crying tears that turned into churches & cathedrals - an overall sense of religious doom & surreal heaven? Don't know! A strange sense of ridiculous hope & not hope? Things expanding turning in to unexpanded things drifting & bright! Then returning to darkness & dreadfulness - no hope in this place - only fear and certain death after an initial baptism of enlightenment. Took dog for walk.

25th Spon
Things overheard on the way back from Monets garden -
1: Where is there a public toilet I can take hostage! [No public toilet was taken hostage].
2: I always sleep better with a hand grenade stuffed up my arse! [No way to disprove this statement]. Actually heard evening of 6th May 2001.

26th Spon
Very old 'Fall' songs played on the only CD player that works in the house. Flower petals from Monets garden dry silently in a chest of drawers. Changed one Rolling Stones CD for this one.

27th Spon
Nothing Day - Read funny story about a man who killed his wife & four step-children. Working on pictures of people who have been stabbed to death. Mainly children

28th Spon
Visited the David Hockney exhibition at Saltaire Mill. Jolly splendid day. Big spaces full of pictures, books, furniture, chairs, photographs & pianos. Bought book about David Cronenberg. Saw large plastic dinosaur.

29th Spon
Wet day spent standing in rain. Got wet.

30th Spon
Day of blood and blooded animal carcasses. Blood on carpet. Blood on wall of toilet, blood and flesh on garage floor, blood on sink! Spent afternoon reading book that is covered in spots and fingerprints of blood. Small traces of blood on cats whiskers. Blood on bed sheets! Changed them for ones not covered in blood but flowers.

31st May
Saw graffiti on wall that says - Why police.

1st June
Saw graffiti on the side of an electric generator building next to a shit smelling park that just said - orgasm! Further on down a scummy back alley, written on the wall of an old rock factory where the words - hits from the bong - in bright red letters. Saw midget, with very long large head, nearly knocked over by elderly man in large cow or car? Walking in to the gents toilets in the casino I heard an old New Order song playing as I took a piss but couldn't remember the name of it? And the entire room shimmered in the wind as if all the wallpaper and furniture was nailed to the washing drying on the line outside.

2nd June
Talked to Eric about the meaning of life, but unfortunately, being only a cat he had no idea what he was talking about. Read interesting article on Jamaican graffiti. Primitive thoughts about fire, death, very real feelings about our past and future, if it's going to happen it'll happen and we mean nothing - dragged along without asking. We don't care - we have lost our feeling for any form of compassion or genuine careing. People die in front of the television. We need to be 'shocked' in a real sense to jolt us from the television, work place apathy [general life] cruel, cold, asleep, destiny no feelings nothing - no - thing. Create a new religion or pigeon. Watched good film called 'Boys Don't Cry'.

3rd June
Wiped dust from the surface of something dusty.

4th June
Watched excellent film called 'All the Little Animals' with John Hurt in it. Dog exploded. Watched 2 ginger cats staring at each other in a funny way?

5th June
Morning - attacked by wild dog then walked in to lamppost. Afternoon - lovely and wet - sat in a darkened room listening to 'Everything and Nothing' by David Sylvian and reading biography of William Burroughs by Ted Morgan. Drinking French red wine that cost 89p a bottle. Evening - nothing but wind and rain.

6th June
Spent evening watching clouds.

7th June
Graffiti on wall of Liberal Democrat party HQ in big black letters 'VOTE ELVIS'

8th June
Hollow empty feeling this morning. Listened to 'The Smiths' in an attempt to cheer myself up a bit. Cats have left half a mouse in the garage.

9th June
Watched '2001 A Space Odyssey' this evening. Why doesn't now look like that? Saw graffiti on old falling down building that said 'danger keep out'. Nearly got knocked over by a bycycle.

10th June
Bought copy of 'Less Than Zero' fromme book fair. Visited nice shop & bought very expensive salt & pepper pots.

11th June
Dry bread for dinner. Discussed the possibility of plastic surgery on the dogs head to remove his saggy eyes & wobbly chin bits. I seem to be absorbing music & writing at an enormous rate. Also appear to be less dark than last year. Thinking more about nature and clouds, trees, leaves, insects, grass etc ... rocks, earth, dirt, flowers.

12th June
Met some body who wasn't very happy.

13th June
Read books about Picasso, Throbbing Gristle and extracts of Cities of the Red Night by William Burroughs. Listened endlessly to Black Water by David Sylvian. V beautiful & haunting song!

14th June
Listened to The Smiths 'singles' especially No. 11 Panic and No.15 Girlfriend in a Coma. Line from an old Psychic T.V . song came to mind - dreams less sweet became more real whilst I thought about a world of human piss plants? Watched 'meet the parents'.

15th June
Wet with thunder & lightning. Reading Kenneth Williams diaries. Watched Call Me Joe? Picture fell off wall due to '1964' string.

16th June
Slept very late. Watched 'American Werewolf'.

17th June
Slept very late again - took dog on beach - kite convention - dog had fight with another dog. Watched 'Ronin'. Listened to old Cabaret Voltaire album 'Voice of America'. Watched documentary about Picasso - repaired and re-hung picture that fell off wall on Friday - only three pages of this diary left - eric not very happy today. Dream about a world covered entirely in dead animals and pavements made from dead mice. When I said art is dead I really meant that modern society had killed art but art can only ressurect itself when modern society is dead. We will continue!

18th June
Dream about a civilisation of cancerous flys living in a decaying city made from wombs, scabs, ear wax & human dog farting machines roam the city & vomit acidic beans & sausages over the flies to try & kill their maggot offspring buried deep inside rotten human organs & dead babies that drowned in ancient poisonous spinal fluids. My mother was today diagnosed with Spon disease.

19th June
Wet. Thought about the space between spaces in a very spatial but initially flat way. Had bath. Read 'The Bell Jar' by Sylvia Plath & listened to 'Concert' The Cure Live. Due to lack of people going to country during Foot & Mouse epidemic there is a strain of mutant plants that have taken over near streams and can give off skin infections if touched. Sounds like fun! When leaving no entry is permitted. Maybe to some death is a lovely dream whilst the world itself [reality] is a bad dream - last line inspired and stolen from Sylvia Plath. Also KleenPane windows cleaned today. Free quotes Tel 01253 or 7500411. Took to looking at book about Pre Raphaelites whilst listening to The Smiths*. Particular favourite plates include page 85. Girlfriend in a Coma. William Dyce - Pigwell Bay, Kent -a recollection of October 5th 1858 and whilst listening to Placebo* page 107 - William Holman Hunts - The Shadow of Death 1870-73. Whilst thinking about my own father who was a carpenter! And my own date of birth 23-06-66. Black-eyed*.




http://www.batcow.co.uk/steg/contact.htm

TIME

Time  - Guillaume Belhomme, Guillaume Tarche
Published by Lenka Lente

78 pp
10 x 15 CM
100 copies
ISBN :  978-2-9545845-7-7



I’m a sucker for art gallery bookshops and those books that you just don’t find anywhere else except in art gallery bookshops. Books full of the work of an artists you’ve never heard of before delight me no end. Books chock full of images that are immediately inspiring. You buy them. I buy them. I shouldn’t because they’re expensive but I can’t help myself. I take them home, look at them and put them on a shelf where, years later, I take them down and marvel at them once more.

I dare say I shall take down ‘Time’ sometime in the future but more in bafflement than amazement. Time contains nothing but black and white images and is, I think, themed around improvisation and the difference between improvisation and composition

‘In fifteen seconds, the difference between composition and improvisation is that in composition you have all the time you want to think about what to say in fifteen seconds, while in improvisation you have only fifteen seconds.’

Theres a picture of Ornette Coleman’s ‘Something Else!!!’ LP cover and beside it a card with the words ‘Et maintenant’ printed on it. There’s a picture of Japanese tape manipulator Aki Onda and sound artist Akio Suzuki, pictures of rocks, Japanese art, abstract snapshots, John Coltrane CD’s, mushrooms, some grainy images of a woman giving birth, some pictures show an album sleeve sharing the frame with something else such as the reverse of Kraftwerk’s Radioactivity LP sat atop some dusty analogue equipment, a CD sits atop a cactus and so it goes.

The back cover lists the people you can find in this book. People such as Sun Ra, WG Sebald, Guy Debord, Samuel Beckett, Orson Welles, Lol Coxhill, Sonic Youth and for some reason, highlighted, Steve Lacy.

And so it goes.

At a time when you can download a copy of Proust’s ‘À la Recherche du Temps Perdu’ to your Kindle for two quid I quite like the fact that publishers such as Lenka Lente exist. Long may they do so.

Their other publications include a tome on the outsider artist Adolf Wölfli which contains a three inch CD by Nurse With Wound, something that appears to have lots of John Coltrane album artwork and the Futurists manifesto as written by Francesco Balilla Pratella. There’s other goodies too including EVP searcher outer Michael Esposito. All in French mind.


http://www.lenkalente.com/

Ian Middleton

Ian Middleton - Untitled [casio, etc.]
Self released CDR [1994 - 1996]

Ian Middleton - Untitled II
Self released CDR [1996 - 1997]

Ian Middleton - Untitled III
Self released CDR [1997 - 2001]

Ian Middleton - Aural Spaces
Self released CDR [2004]

Ian Middleton - Moire Music
Self released CDR [2007 - 2014]

Ian Middleton - Mobiles
Self released CDR [2007 - 2009]

Ian Middleton - Time Building
Self released CDR [Recorded 2007 - 2008 - Mixed 2014]

Ian Middleton - Tape Tapes
Self released CDR [1999 - 2007]

Ian Middleton & Mark Vernon - Desire Lines
Self released CDR [2014]

Ian Middleton - Music for the Survivor
Self released CDR [?]

Ian Middleton - Well of Sorrows
Skire LP. SKR02 [2009]

Ian Middleton - Aural Spaces
Swill Radio LP. Swill 029 [2009]

Ian Middleton - Time Building
Entr’acte LP. E66 [2009]




It was Campbell who mentioned Ian Middleton. Another hitherto barely heard of, off the radar, under the radar, no buggers ever heard of him, obscure beyond words, outsider drone artist. I mentioned his name to Simon Morris in Dirty Dicks only to be reminded that it was Middleton who made a fleeting appearance on the Ceramic Hobs sprawling late 90’s supermad Psychiatric Underground release. This was in days when Middleton was Remora and tape noise ruled the world and nobody was really that fussed if all you did was offer up two sides of C90 fluff and stuck it to a paper plate with ‘play loud’ written on it in fibre tipped pen. Not that this was what Middleton was doing but you get my drift.

All this after Campbell had turned half of West Yorkshire and other environs on to that obscure Norwegian noise/drone project Taming Power and the talk turned to outsider artists and those who choose to work without the merits/demerits of social media and self promotion.

Middleton has been releasing material for years now with but a small handful of labels having the nous to give him a platform. The ten CDRs you see above have all been burned by the man himself and I dare say thats there’s more where they came from. The LP’s are things of utter joy and without Middleton’s kindness and Campbell’s prompting would have sadly passed me by.

But they didn’t and for the last few weeks I’ve been soaking up the drones and letting them cast their unearthly spell on me. For these are drones capable of casting you adrift from your earthly woes. These are drones capable of lifting you from your cups, capable of filling your lungs with air and head with swimming joy. Its what really good drones do.

Since 1996 Middleton has been creating them with a Korg MS10, a few effect pedals and the occasional field recording. Before 1996 it was mainly noise and Ceramic Hobs dalliances. Its what you did in 1996. ‘Untitled [casio, etc]’ is the organist at Cologne cathedral giving vent to his psychedelic noise drone side whilst channeling Brainticket through Nurse With Wound. Heavy duty full on pummeling drone throb with weasly tones and erupting novas. Raucous drones that penetrate your skull and leave you tripping like a nodding hippie gazing in to his Tangerine Dream fold out gatefold sleeves. You have to start somewhere. ‘Untitled II’ sees the appearance of Bohman-esque kitchen detritus and a prepared acoustic guitar. On ‘Untitled III’  the 22 minute opener ‘Catacombs’ has just the faintest whiff of industrial drone. Its a murky world but one heading in the direction of purer drones. And then, barring a few pure piano compositions, we move in that purer drone world.

A blow by bow account of all thirteen releases would test both your patience and mine but suffice to say that barring a few dodgy tracks on those three early releases the vast majority of what you can hear is both compelling and highly rewarding. I found myself listening and lost in a reverie and on many occasion wondering if I would ever pull myself from my Middleton musings. Opportunities to indulge to such a depth rarely arise and must be fully expoloited.

‘Mobiles’ contains analogue era Raymond Scott melodies, reversed tape drones and feather light drones. ‘Moire Music’ utilises the field recordings of Mark Vernon and is minimalist and austere with hedgerow birds adding depth to frosty morning walks. ‘Music for the Survivor’s’ is where we hear Middleton sit down at a piano, four short tracks that begin with a stark and sombre interlude before being joined by ever so gently plucked strings. Middleton’s piano feels as lonely and oblique as Harold Budd’s with the resonance holding on long enough to give us that real depth of loss. ‘Tape Tapes’ contains ten short works that barely rise above the five minute mark. ‘Time Building’ wanders into Forbidden Planet territory, this time with added squeaky gates and ‘out there’ added spacey-ness.

The three vinyl releases are were I found myself reaching swoon max. ‘Well of Sorrows’ is beautifully austere and melancholy. The four tracks on side A creating suitably bleak atmospheres of forlornness especially on the longer Lonely Highway. This is American road movie territory where a denim clad Martin Sheen sticks his thumb out at the side of a wide open road waiting for a battered convertible with Sissy Spacek in it to pull up - big sky drone moving through ever sadder and sadder phases, diminished chord loops soaring and dipping through each other. The side long Snowdrops is a series of shifting phases and beetling notes burbling out of a drone stream of analogue information. Bliss.   

The Entr’acte release Time Building and the Swill Radio release Aural Spaces share similar ground in which shimmering drones appear dominant. The two wide bands on each side of Time Building are each long enough to set your drift dials to nod and should be used as such.

I was rather worried that after receiving such a generous package [two packages] that I wouldn’t like what they contained or only half like them or be indifferent to them and have to explain to Campbell that his taste sensors had taken a kick to the gut. This obviously isn’t the case. Instead I have discovered another one of those rare human beings, one who eschew fame and fortune for the far more humble goal of creating genuinely beautiful music.




 
Incomplete Discogs page






iancmiddleton [AT] gmail.com










 

Crater Lake Festival 2015

Crater Lake Festival
Wharf Chambers, Leeds
March 7th, 2015

Rudolph. Eb.er
Evil Moisture
Culver
Stephen Cornford
Charles Dexter Ward
Dylan Nyoukis & Kieron Percy
Dale Cornish
Kay Hill
Stuart Chalmers
Yol & Posset
Mel O'Dubshlaine


Five pound entry for eight hours worth of Crater Lake was always going to be the best fiver spent all year. And so it proved. As the rest of Leeds' desperate late night thrill seekers parted with the same sum for a bottle of lager in a crap pub a knowing and not inconsiderably large crowd of people took the opportunity to soak up large amounts of sonic exploration for the same amount.

Arriving just after 3pm I was met with the sight of people wandering around clasping empty beer bottles with wires and batteries coming from them. Most of them were wearing idiotic grins, like they'd just discovered that there was a way of getting drunk on water. All this due to an Andy Bolus workshop in which objects of a personal and round nature could be turned into ghost detectors or something. I don't know what it was but it seemed to make half a dozen people sat around a table insanely happy. I half wished I'd joined in but I find things with wires terrifying and I'd have no doubt had to have drunk the bottle of beer first which, with the day ahead of me, would have been a mistake, with lunch time beers turning in to afternoon beers turning in to night time beers turning in to a review of the first three acts and nothing else. With such a great line up sobriety was for once to the fore.

Someone called Ted said I should incorporate more beer related content in to reviews and with the Wharf Chambers supplying a decent stock of vittles the opportunity was there and when I spied Rudolph Eb.er clutching a bottle of something looking good I asked him what it was and came back from the bar with a non alcoholic beer that tasted of Lapsang Souchong. Which actually wasn't that bad in the way that a generous mouth feel lager with no alcohol does. So I went back to the bar for another bottle of Club Mate and contented myself with the fact that whilst various bits of the Ceramic Hobs were rolling about on the floor in drunken dishabille I was able to retell to you in these words exactly what happened at the 2015 Crater Lake Festival.

Pete Cann's once a year all day festival of sonic exploration has become a firm favourite on the calendar. It ticks all the boxes in that the venue is perfect, the city is perfect, the sound is well, there’s no complaints and its cheap to get in. Did I mention that its only five pounds to get in? Five English pounds to see over dozen or so people get to grips with drone and noise and cassette improvisation and many things that lay in between. Well I never. Tell that to someone from that London and they wouldn't believe you.

At around 3.30pm Mel O'Dubshlaine began talking in to a small microphone manipulating her voice via god knows what so that what emerged from the speakers were broken fragments, not Norman Collier meets Jaap Blonk but disembodied voices, ghostly appearances. When Phil Todd joined in on something that looked like a futuristic tambourine the whole thing went kind of spacey. And off we go.

The original red tiled floor of the WC performance space has born the brunt of Yol's previous performances there especially with regard to a steel mop bucket. Along with the north east’s very own dictaphone merchant Posset they make for a match made in scratch heaven. Yol hits the floor with a steel rod and scrapes empty yoghurt pots across the tiles, Joe Posset screams into a variety of Dictaphones. Yol's head goes back and he screams about glass cathedrals [shopping centres?], Joe Posset screams into his Dictaphones and screams about what I’ve no idea. Voices appear through the murk only to disappear and there in its place but the faintest tinkle of metal on red tile.

Cassettes feature prominently in several acts including Stuart Chalmers who kneels in front of two lit candles and dons a long black wig which he lets fall over his face as he performs his own private ritual. Playing a Walkman in each hand he fast forwards and reverses over the capstans before hitting a pebble with a stick and eventually strumming a very small zither. I've been waiting a long time to see Chalmers play live and the wait proves to be worth it. Like Nyoukis and Percy he creates atmospheres in which impossible to identify sounds appear. Sounds that are being created by the manipulation of a never ending supply of cassettes. At its start Chalmers moves from received pronunciation spoken word 50's BBC female announcer to atonal classical compositions before blending everything into noise. Nyoukis and Percy become so involved in their composition that beads of sweat appear, each adjustment to their ongoing work morphing into disturbing atmospheres. You can almost smell the cassette cases.

Dale Cornish plugs in a lap top plays thirty seconds of something and then gets involved with an audience member after being sarcastically applauded. He then gets involved in a discussion about the merits of merch before delivering some low end frequency beats in a Panasonic kind of way. When he rips out the link to the PA loud cheering can be heard and he has a grin from ear to ear suggesting that he's just enjoyed himself very much thank you. We are all enjoying ourselves very much thank you very much.

Everybody gets a loud cheer. Its an enthusiastic audience. After Lee Stokoe's sublime two mini keyboard drone set I'm given the best ever eulogy about how the man is a giant amongst drone makers. And who am I to argue? Stokoe has the nous to let his relentless waves of crashing drone play out its finale on his own amp leaving the PA to lick its wounds. Charles Dexter Wards drone set is, I think made from electric guitar, but I'm sat on the reclaimed pew at the back of venue and all I can see are peoples backs, but its loud. Easily the loudest thing so far and with my head back and my eyes shut I soak it all in.

I see five minutes of Kay Hil’s set but he seems to be having problems with his equipment causing unwanted feedback and equipment chatter to leak in. Its the only set I miss.

Stephen Cornford has four TV's stacked up with a contact mic on each screen. The two TV's in the middle of the stack are side on and when they are brought to life they show interference and static from which Cornford mixes the results relaying them to us. I'm stood about three feet in front of his TV's trying not to remember what my mother told me about sitting too close to the telly because this is the best place to be to take full effect of those ever changing flickering screens and the drones they''re making. I now know I’m not epileptic. If you were sat at the back on those reclaimed church pews I dare say the impact may be lessened but being that close and with the volume getting louder it was the perfect place to be. When he begins to turn the TV's off one by one there's an almighty jump in volume as the last one dies, a noise so shocking and unexpected in its volume that it brings audible gasps.

When Andy Bolus takes to the stage he tells us all to turn our phones off or get out of the room as their signals interfere with his sensitive equipment. Which seems to contain a butchered tape machine that has a crinkled length of cassette tape looping out of it and into another home made machine. This is now the loudest set of the night and the longest set I've seen Bolus play [this from a man whom I once saw play the Kirkstall Lights for all of about thirty seconds after falling off the stage dressed as a rabbit or a dog and injuring his back].  There are people getting carried away after eight hours of steady drinking and they begin shoving each other about and waving their fists in Phillip Best homage. When Bolus releases huge thunderclaps of noise this only goes to induce further jostling but there's only about four of them and they look like they come from good homes.

The days entertainment ends with Rudolph Eb.er sat behind a mixer delivering a series of his trademark sounds, my favourite being the fly trapped in a bottle. At one stage he sticks two brain activity sensors covered in black boot polish on to his head, an act which  makes his eyeballs swivel. There's a change in frequency and a change in Eb.er's appearance as he now has black dots all over his head. A completely different performance from the last time I saw him at the Extreme Rituals in Bristol which was bare chested and crossed legged with the added sense destroying stench of burning vinegar for accompaniment. If we'd have had the burning vinegar in the confines of the Wharf Chambers there’d have been a stampede for the door. As it is the feisty crowd down the front make the most of Eb.er's brief forays into all out noise but for the most part this is a short stray in to Eb.er's own sound world.

Outside and on the way to a taxi the streets are clogged with £5 bottle of beer merchants. I could tell them about Club Mate and the Wharf Chambers but somehow I don't think they'd be interested. Roll on next year.

Panelak, Core of the Coalman, Bongoleeros, Ceramic Hobs WC 27th 2015

Panelak, Core of the Coalman, Bongoleeros, Ceramic Hobs
Wharf Chambers 27th February 2015

It started badly when the glass of the drivers side mirror fell out and shattered all over the tarmac in Tesco’s car park. I’m off to Leeds tonight I thought and need to get it replaced otherwise I’m in danger of ending up in the side of a wind up rocket I mean taxi.

So I got the glass and fitted it and set off to Leeds where the Wharf Chambers is heaving with young things with beard growth. In the venue part its not so heaving but  still quite busy and still plenty of beard growth and the laughing woman.

Panelak Pascal doesn’t strip naked but he does sing songs in various homemade dresses. His equipment is old and battered, a Korg covered in tape, an iPod that gets dropped on the floor, various pedals and wires everywhere, some of it works and when it does he introduces a song and then sort of sings it getting carried away in the moment head back eyes shut running on the spot in his bare feet where his jeans have landed mic in hand knocking over the lamp stand. Its Dada meets Donna Summer. Pascal picks up scraps of tatty paper in-between songs either in a bid for inspiration or to check out his lyrics. He gets carried away and opens two bottles of beer, one with the other which explode into life splattering everybody. Its now Whitehouse meets Dada meets Donna Summer. He douses himself with one of the bottles, drinks half the other before singing a bit more, barefoot in the beer puddles.

Core of the Coalman does battle with his equipment. Knelt on the floor he gets everyones attention by laying on a violin drone riff and once he’s got it he introduces various effects, kneeling on pedals, standing up to pluck said violin, flicking cables, kneeling on gadgets, messing with a dusty laptop. At its peak its a huge noisedrone but the earthing problems rob him of his chance to really get going. But its still sounds pretty good.

The Bongoleeros are scattering various detritus around the WC floor; bits of metal bar, tin cans, trumpets, tambourines with skulls drawn on them, a length of blue rope, battered Yorkshire pudding trays, flattened cymbals, guitars with horse brasses nailed to them, the top of a composting bin. They don hand painted jackets, pull ladies stockings over their heads and disappear out in to the street to begin their set. One Bongoleero has a pair of purple ladies tights over his head with bells in each foot thus making a jangling sound as he walks, falls, rolls, crawls around the WC floor. They sing of the strongman and dirty drawers and the laughing woman. There’s mention of the mythical Yorkshire town of Pitchley before thy start in to the best version ever of Alvin Stardusts. My Coo Ca Choo with one Bongoleero showing the leather Alvin glove that must be adored. They lift tiny metal bars in to the air, intone strange mutterings and it all feels like a revivalist meeting invaded by drunken lunatics. At one stage a bottle of Bogo Juice is handed out to the audience and they drink deeply of the draught. Bongoleeros go missing in the audience but there’s three of them tonight so theres always two up front waving their arms around singing songs of madness, deep rock and roll as it should be, stripped bare of excess and refined to rawness. They all kneel down and pray to Carl Perkins before a Bongoleero takes off one of his silver boots and holds it aloft for the audience to pay their respects. A blue suede show of sorts. It’ll do. When not twanging and banging they sing a capella side by side before disappearing out the door to mess with the young beards heads and out in to the street and gone forever.

Its now ten thirty and I have a decision to make. The car park I’m in shuts at 11pm and by the way the Ceramic Hobs are shuffling about it hardly looks as if their going to get going by then never mind finished. I spy the street outside and theres room for one car right at the end. I dash off to the NCP and drive the short way back to find the space still free. I roll it in and reverse back not noticing the telegraph pole near the kerb edge and smash my wing mirror clean off. I then get mad and reverse back too far and hit the car behind me. At least its free parking at this time of night. So when I get back inside my mood has soured and I feel as if the Hobs aren’t doing it for me. The last time I saw them here they were on top form, with Morris screaming his lungs off, the band gelling and the songs sounding like they meant something. They were tight and coherent and lunatic in all the best ways. A guitarist new to me in tatty England shirt knocking out the riffs. Tonight they seem as if they’re going through the motions and with Hob stage right playing the baby head gadget being charged at by guitarist stage left. The pair of them like rutting stags rolling about on a beer swilled floor. Morris is waving around a pair of angels wings made from white bird feathers that are either on his head or up his back or on the floor, his snake skin skirt hangs below his beer belly and they all seem like they want to be in different rooms. But maybe thats just me and my bad mood.

Its the Crater Lake Festival next week. I’m going on the bus.

More Yol and the never ending death of the underground.

YOL - This Item Has No Scrap Value
Beartown Records. Cassette

YOL - Extraction
Self Released. CDR


So is the underground dead or not? Dave Keenan says it is and the only thing that can save us is the work of an internet hating sociopath with a suitcase full of mind blowing noise.  For Keenan, the ubiquity of social media and too many rounds of jolly old back slapping has left the underground in a perilous, if not dead, state. He has a point. Circle jerking your mates latest 80 minute noise CD only serves a very limited purpose. Mr. Keenan says that what the world needs now are critics unafraid to say it how it is, point people in the right direction preferably using a direct language that everybody can understand without the need to check out eight obscure bands on Youtube before proceeding to their bandcamp page and downloading something that you listen to just the once before duly forgetting about it forever until one day it pops up on shuffle play while you’re on the train back from London.  And still its shit. How true.

Keenan takes to task static performers, artists and noisemakers who sit behind tables staring into laptops, stacking up cassette tapes, mixing eight track doodles into a mixer as tea lights gutter around their feet. Where all the jumpers and screechers sayeth he? Lets see somebody break sweat.

Let us not forget though that it was only a few years ago that Mr Keenan was thrusting Hypnogogic Pop upon us. A genre whose very definition gave the impression that this was either falling asleep or waking up music. An insipid style of muzak usually played by those purveyors of bum crack drone, west coast muddle heads and vintage synth bores whose whimsical nonsense born from 80’s Yawn Rock now exists mainly on rarely played Youtube videos and once enthused, now forgotten releases.

The thing that annoys me about the whole ‘is the underground dead’ argument is that its a redundant one. Unless you’re a music journalist looking for ‘new music’. The music press is constantly looking for new things to write about. Its one of the reasons the music press is virtually dead and why in its place we have monthly magazines dedicated to Prog and Classic Rock. Mainstream press music journalists now find themselves farmed out to other departments and file copy relating to the new Nissan Leaf or the Conservative Party Conference. Off you go lad and don’t forget those thousand words on the new Prince album by Friday, cheers. There isn’t enough happening to keep a music journalist in full time employment. Unless they want to sit down with the latest 27 disc King Crimson box set. Thats the Wire’s job. Or Prog’s. The boundaries blur.

The ‘underground music scene’ is both music you haven’t heard yet and something thats never been done before. The latter is becoming harder to define. As the future spreads out inexorably before us so the past stretches out ever further behind. The past is just as exciting a place as the present. In America in 2014 and for the first time, iTunes sales of ‘old’ releases outsold new releases. For the entire year. Not just a bit of it. All of it.  The past has never looked so rosy and the music industry knows it. Hence the 27 disc King Crimson box set and no sign or sight of anything that even smells of originality unless you’re Yol.

Because after tens of years of listening to all kinds of muck I’ve found Yol to be that rare thing; refreshing, exhilarating, noisy and capable of making me wince in pain during playback of his releases and cheer out loud enthusiastic during his live performances. And unless anybody can point me in the direction of some obscure Fluxus artist thats treading the boards in a similar manner then Yol is, for me anyway, the most exciting thing to have emerged from the non existent underground in donkeys years.

Yol’s live deliveries appear to be born from a dysfunctional ability to express rage at planet Fuck Up. Part Tourettes sufferers spastic squawks, part scraped fork tine on rusty pipe, part mop bucket clatter. To see him live is to see his neck tendons stretch to Deirdre Barlow proportions whilst screaming seemingly stream of consciousness words at a 90 degree angle to the floor.  Bent double he attacks bits of tin and kitchen utensils with a rabid intensity that makes you wonder if he is indeed in the midst of a convulsive fit.

This Item Has Little or no Scrap Value captures that intensity with four short live outings and a longer studio cut. At each turn I found myself with finger hovering over the stop button finding the intensity of the performance hard to bear. On Bird Feathers he snarls and gurgles, tries to spit out words, pants like a dog before eventually the words ‘bird feathers’ emerge stuttering from his tortured frame. He moans, sounds like he’s in pain, drops stainless dog bowls to the floor, shakes chains, clatters pots and pans with sharp boings heading off into the distance. Its like The New Blockaders finally found themselves a vocalist.

A Medium Experience has Yol intoning ‘this    item    has   little    or    no    scrap      value’ over a ‘bring out yer dead’ muted bell dong and a cow horn, something lifted straight out of the opening sequences of a Hammer Horror film with the mist clearing off a muddy turnip field as the opening credits run.

‘Trapped in Portland Works’ finds Yol doing battle with party blowers, something that squeals like a mouse and a band playing rock and roll numbers bleeding in from somewhere within the same building. Here his utterances are nonsense garbles, the party blower adding an absurdist element to it all.

And then there’s the distinctive black shaped skeletal forms and crows and hands and ladders that cover all YOLs work and bring to mind Saul Bass and his Hitchcock posters. For Yol exhibits too. He may offer up the odd tweet but not for him a constant logorrhea of trivialities but finely crafted messages of edification.

Whether Yol can maintain this level of intensity remains to be seen. A sign of things to come arrives in the shape of ‘Extraction’. Which is basically a tongue in cheek riposte to Rob Hayler’s championing of ‘Extraction Music’. In which Yol records the sound of an extraction fan, [naturlich] twice, the first track being fifteen minutes of said extraction fan gently humming over washes of feedback, the second being a much shorter three minutes  of the same with Yol retching his way through the word ‘extraction’ in an excruciating fashion until a kitchen timer sounds and the thing fades out.

This isn’t just me circle jerking. This is here and now and relevant and, if you care for such things, the underground.


 www.yolnoise.bandcamp.com


http://www.beartownrecords.com/















  

DinahBird - A Box of 78's

DinahBird - A Box of 78’s
Gruenrekorder LP. Gruen 148.
300 copies.


'This is the story of a box …'

A leather box containing over fifty 78rpm records of opera and classical music that belonged to DinahBird’s grandmother. Who was born in British Columbia in 1910 and grew up on a small island off its west coast, a place called Salt Spring. When she moved from Salt Spring to various other homes during her life she took the box with her until her death in 2000 whereupon the box became Birds.

Bird decided to take the box of records back to Salt Spring and using her great grandfathers diary and daily weather notes as a guide she played them on a portable gramophone player in the places where her grandmother and her family would have picnics or played tennis or danced. Bird recorded the results, mixing in conversations with a whispering distant relative, old friends of the family and people she came across. Extracts from the diary are read out, wind chimes and crunchy footsteps are heard as are the scratchy impossibly high wavering falsetto of long forgotten opera singers.

The results are a gentle account of a life now passed, an island, its people, the outdoors, the sea and a pile of old 78’s but the projects raison d’etre reveals itself when a stranger, upon finding Bird playing her records and hearing her story, tells her that she’s gone to all this trouble to hear these records as her grandmother would. 

The flip contains 12 locked grooves that are short loops of some of the sounds heard on the ‘Trackside’, these being pieces of wood being knocked together, a ships horn, water being poured, a musical box and various other hard to define oddities together with samples of some of those 78’s. The last loop recounts Bird talking about the man she met who added an ‘s’ to the word ‘always’ and thus ends the record with the word ‘always’s’ looping into infinity.  

Bird takes the concept a step further by sending an LP of radio sounds [pressed by Gruenrekorder] on what she calls a ‘Radio Relay’, in which radio station A [this being KunstRadio in Vienna] plays the record and then passes it on to radio station B until after 22 radio stations down the line Bird gets back a presumably dog eared, worn and hopefully scratched record [and seeing as how there are two radio stations in England on the list I’m sure the Royal Mail will do its bit in helping the process along]. You are encouraged to do the same thing with your own copy should you wish and a ‘Listening Log’ is provided for those wishing to participate, though how many people will be willing to part with such a delightful record is hard to tell.

What we need now is for the the project to continue with A Box of 78’s being played on Salt Spring by further generations of the Bird family, thus ensuring that Bird’s grandmother and her favourite records are never to be forgotten.      



Gruenrekorder

Andy Tom-Fox

Andy Tom-Fox - Copulation Music [2003]
CD. ANDY02

Andy Tom-Fox - Vessels for the Infinite [2003]
CD. ANDY01




These two Andy Tom-Fox releases were found over ten years ago by a Finnish cartoonist in a skip round the back of a record shop in Finland. Being an inquisitive type he looked in the skip and there lay boxes, yes boxes, of Andy Tom-Fox CD’s all of them unsold, unloved and awaiting the day they went to landfill.

He sent me them to me because he knows I like the quirky and the strange and the unclassifiable which are three attributes all applicable to Andy Tom-Fox. You could also add sex obsessed, bonkers and surreal. I played them, thought them suitably strange in a ‘he can’t even sing’ kind of way and put them on a shelf where for the last ten years they have laid undisturbed.

And then last week I dug them out again. I have no idea why. Perhaps my curiosity was peaked by seeing them once more. The first time I heard them I don’t remember them having any particular effect on me other than for the fact that Tom-Fox’s singing voice wasn’t really a singing voice, more of a singing/talking voice that came across like John Lydon channeling Dot Wiggins from The Shaggs and that some of the track titles were a little odd, ‘Jesus Wants to Know the Women’, ‘Date Rape Pill’, ‘Hymen and the Scanty Panty’. And that he seemed to be obsessed with sex. Did I mention the sex?

My interest once again piqued I played Copulation Music and while it was playing I decided to visit his website fully expecting to see a ‘not found' error message which is where things started to get weird. To my utter amazement Andy Tom-Fox’s website is alive and kicking but only in a very basic way. The only thing it shows is his latest January 2014 release ‘Soulmating’ [with the ‘O’ being made up of the medical symbols used for distinguishing the sexes] and that's it barring five images of Andy Tom-Fox, four of which are similar to what you see above and one of which is a blurry image of him in a shower cap holding a cat with a guitar on his lap. No contact info, no back catalogue, no links to Bandcamp, Facebook, Twitter, Soundcloud, nothing. All we have is each of the five pages showing an image of his new album which you cant even get because theres no contact info.
So I Googled Andy Tom-Fox and I got two returns, one which is his website and one which is a youtube video showing the sleeve for ‘Vessels of the Infinite’ as the last track from the album ‘The Fifth Apostol’ [sic] plays, a video that has had but seven plays since being posted in November 2014. There is a Facebook page for the musician Andy Tom-Fox but it’s absolutely dead apart from one like and no Discogs entries. Go figure.
 
So far so weird. But what makes it really, really, really weird is the music itself. His band can certainly play, of that there is no doubt, think Devo, The Desperate Bicycles and run of the mill commercial radio pop and rock all jumbled up in to a generic mush, a mish-mash of styles all played competently but over everything, stamped with the words AWFUL is Tom-Fox’s caterwauling out of tune, painful to the ears vocals.

His voice is strained. Its more than strained. He sounds like he’s dying. Play this to your mum and she’s tell you that this man simply can not sing but then some people lay that on Bob Dylan, Neil Young and Leonard Cohen and it hasn’t done their careers any harm. No, Andy Tom-Fox really cant sing. His voice is flat and tuneless, he holds notes for too long until they waver and ultimately grate. When he’s half singing, half talking he gets away with it but when he opens up its painful and after a while its nothing less than terrible and unlistenable.

And then there’s the lyrics which for the most part are sex obsessed and surreal. There’s no lyric sheet for Copulation Music which is a pity as its the best album of the two but here’s a sample of what you can expect on Vessels for the Infinite [all spelling mistakes left as is]:

Will Y be a last one of the only one? Y will turn back time full nine years turn them into nine hours on compact discs [Full Nine Years],

Others have some of that coce, some of that speed,
But these girls, they are stranger, they grow much taller,
Very much bolder. They are the getamine girls,
Get me some, get me some, get me some, get me some,
Get me some getamine girls,
And they landed on my face like a true atomic race.
If Y don’t get me some fast, the shakes’ll tahe all over, Oh yesh! [Getamine Girls]

And Jesus sais: Fanny desperate pink hole like steaming hot jungle under the eyes portraiting watercolour paintings, breathes salmon and seachells with coconut coating. Seven sigarettes and a modest dring; your sex organs float in the air, lips thick like oversize concrete doors.’ [Jesus Wants to Know the Women]

I see London I see France Totally ta-di-da Low-riders it’s butts not breasts I remember Sunset and Wine. I have been there, but I can’t remember a thing. I’m the one who mede European women rude and lame. Liberating shapeds. Bebroom adventure. Sexy singles. What x shoes should I wear with pastel dress. The wine opener would have been that voluptuous sport girl’s from the pool. A little white lie to keep me alive. [Hymen and the Scanty Panty].

‘Hymen and the Scanty Panty’ also carries the sound of breathless bedroom fumbling in the nearest Tom-Fox gets to sounding like Roky Erickson. On ‘God of Hollywood’ there’s the constant sound of a yapping and howling dog thats obviously not a dog and is obviously someone from the band pretending to be a dog. Tom-Fox has obviously soaked up some punk in his time too which is best heard on ‘Date-Rape Pill’, a four minute bar chord thrash on an unaccompanied electric guitar over which he sings ‘I don’t leave no aftertaste, I don’t need no aftermath’. And check out those album dedications; ‘This album is dedicated to everybody who always died too soon’ and ‘This album is dedicated to all new mothers’.

What this leaves us with is one big unanswered questions; Is Andy Tom-Fox a real person playing in a real band or is this all some kind of wind up? Does that butter wouldn’t melt fizog hide a beast with a ten inch todger? And if he is a real person why doesn’t he want us to hear his music? Why keep a website going and leave no contact info or any indication as to a back catalogue? And whats with all those ‘Y’s’. Is that the Prince influence or is he deep down a Genesis P-Orridge fan and all this is the work of some Industrial pranksters who for ten years have been perpetuating the Andy Tom-Fox myth in the hope that one day some damn fool writer would pick up on him and write about him?

There is an email address. Its on the back of Copulation Music. I’m writing him now.

Andy Tom-Fox, available in skips in Finland and, it would seem, nowhere else.






http://andytomfox.com/2014/01/

Eye For Detail

Eye For Detail - Midwich Remixed




The end of 2014 finds me and Mrs Fisher in Scarborough's old town. Where for a week, with no internet, in a three storied 'Fisherman’s Cottage' that looks suitably narrow and Georgian from the outside but holds all manner of hideous idiosyncrasies once inside, we do little else but read books and take long walks in the winter sunshine. The views across the south bay and the spectacular winter sunrises will live with us for years but to see that sunrise you have to kneel down in front of the top floor window first. To get to the top floor you have to climb two sets of narrow stairs while clinging to bannisters and railings for fear of falling backwards and to certain A&E. For this is the biggest problem with our ‘Fisherman’s Cottage’, it hasn't got one level surface anywhere. The kitchen slopes slowly down towards the sea from the front door. The bathroom drops two foot on one axis and one foot on another. Going to the shower from the toilet you have to actually lean forward and swing your arms to generate a modicum of inertia that will allow you to make the journey in one go. Of the twin beds available I foolishly pick the one in the corner of the room and discover on the first night that its has a left to right list of around 15 degrees meaning I spend most nights with my right leg flung over the top edge of the bed in a bid to stop me ending up on the floor. Now take in to account the fact that I have a cold that comes complete not only with a runny nose but a fuzzy head and a blood/alcohol level thats more alcohol than blood and you have some idea of the difficulties in navigating this residence. For seven days me and Mrs Fisher move around like passengers on a listing ship, clinging to each other as we pass on the landings or passing tips on the location of loose floorboards or sections of spongy lino. Its like being trapped in an Escher diagram with a view of Scarborough in the background. But hey! at least it wasn't cheap what with this being Christmas an all.

And lets not forget the boiler that releases a deathly rattle from its locked cupboard every five minutes or the fixtures that fall apart if you touch them or the shelves that you cant actually put things on for fear of them dropping to the floor and ending up at your feet or whichever corner of the room happens to have the lowest point. Or the doors that swing open of their own accord or the patches of damp that inhabit most corners or the TV that has a screen that’s about the same size as the new iPhone. But at least its warm and it needs to be because outside its absolutely fucking freezing.

On New Years Eve we wobbled down from the Alma to the Leeds Arms where at midnight we locked arms with the locals in a drunken bout of bon honomie. When new years day came around I found that I hadn’t got a hangover. No, instead I discovered I’d been poisoned. I guess its much the same thing. When I did lift my weary frame form the wonky bed it was past midday and the chance of seeing the local lunatics jump in the North Sea for their new years day swim had gone. After a brief visit with the outside world where freezing cold horizontal rain lashed into our faces we hunkered down for the rest of the day in front of the fire.

It was here that I decided now would be the time to give Eye For Detail a spin. I’d listened to bits of it before but the delicate nature of some of what I’d heard told me I needed to give it my fullest attention. Such was my mental and physical distress that I was able to listen to all three hours and forty minutes of it with but one break, that being the time I got up to put the kettle on to replace vital body fluids.

Eye For Detail finds 27 artists/projects/people remixing Rob Hayler’s Midwich material and, this is the best bit, its all for charidee. If you pay the five pounds thats been asked for this three hours and forty minutes worth of wonderment [you can give more of course should you so wish] it will all go to the Red Cross. When Rob hit the £100 mark a while back he made one of those huge cardboard cheques that you see being handed over to lottery winners and sent it off in an extra big envelope. Eye For Detail has since gone on to make even more money [I’m not sure how much but its more] and gathered praise by those who’ve heard it.

During that three hours and forty minutes I was lifted from my cups by the calming sounds of Clive Henry doing his best not to get too noisy. Eye For Detail as morphine for hangovers. Highlights abound; Foldhead surprised me, and no doubt a few others, by resisting the temptation to go nuclear and delivering instead a sci-fi wasteland where desert winds on distant planets blow to no one. I was happy to see someone revisit Tiny Muscle, an early Midwich work thats long been a favourite, it being that perfect cycling head bobber, here its given a wonderful ear panning lift and added granulation courtesy of Piss Superstition. Under the Weather [or a variant thereof] is a chill out anthem gone wonky in the best possible way twisting the thing into shapes that it shouldn’t go but does. YOL shows he’s capable of delivering on the remit by retching and stuttering the word Stoma [a Midwich track of course] into a dictaphone. Quite stunning. And not only a stunning collection of work but a benchmark of some of those known to work within the ‘No Audience Underground’. A starting block for some, me included, with quite a few names being unfamiliar to me.

Those names being:

Dale Cornish
Aqua Dentata
In Fog
dsic
Clive Henry
Brian Lavelle
Van Appears
ap martlet
Foldhead
Chrissie Caulfield
DR:WR
Hardworking Families
John Tuffen and Orlando Ferguson
Panelak
Simon Aulman
Paul Watson
possett
the piss superstition
Michael Clough
Neil Campbell
Devotionalhallucinatic
Michael Gillham
Daniel Thomas
Breather
YOL
ZN
Andrew Jarvis

My go to hangover album, as they say somewhere.  


https://midwich.bandcamp.com/album/eye-for-detail

Phil Julian - Trace

Phil Julian - Trace
Harbinger Sound LP. Harbinger 80.

Courtesy of the Sleaford Mods sightings of the words ‘Harbinger Sound’ are now common place within certain sections of the mainstream media. Whodathunk that one? This leads us to the sight of the Guardian's Alex Petridish pointing out that the Sleaford Mods also share a label with the likes of Olympic Shit Man and Cremation Lily. That’s a short lived noise band and a Power Electronics act that once upon a time wouldn’t have got a mention in anything more exalted than a messy copy and paste zine now on show in the Guardian’s Friday culture section. The times they are a-changing.

As far as I'm aware Phil Julian has yet to grace the pages of this nations daily press, but he does share a label with Olympic Shit Man, Cremation Lily and now the Sleaford Mods. He’s shared it since his days as Cheapmachines. Cheapmachines being, from what I’ve heard, work that troubles the noisier end of the spectrum.

Under his own name on ‘Trace’ he creates held in check high frequency feedback, tortured drones and rummaging sounds that could only be contact mics attached to stubborn cutlery drawers. There’s three compositions with ‘Arrival’, the track that takes up the biggest chunk of side two, being a drone capable of causing a vacuum. Its the standout track. Heres where the tension thats apparent on the entirety of this release reaches its peak as two straining analogue fog horns, a tone apart, become ever more complex as the thing evolves into its final exhaled breath.

The side long opener ‘Open Form’ although not as immediate is equally as intense seeing analogue effervescent insect chatter giving way to ghostly whines and those clattering spoons. The five minute ‘Corona’ is tempered synth buzz and an oscillating drone that spirals out of natural hearing range.

Recorded at EMS Elektromusikstudio, Stockholm during 2013 we can only wonder if something Scandinavian rubbed off on Julian such is the sparse nature of his work here. Chuck in the equally matching Eddie Nutall cover art and you have a quality release. Just don’t expect a review in the Guardian any time soon.   

http://cmx.org.uk/