eMMplekz - 'Your Crate Has Changed' (Mordant Music)

Baron Mordant as blank verse bard - 'in for the long haul, butter ohm my back...'. Kerouac had Zoot Sims, Ian Hicks has Nick 'Ekoplekz' Edwards for a bout of interStella underdrive anti-poetry.

'I'm hassled and tired...close to the wire...bad acid crawls thru me...slowly reduce me...'.

Spontaneous, or previously scrawled on napkins & notebooks, what does it matter? The Baron prefers to be elusive (he's withdrawn from Facebook!).

Except that Queer Vibe does tell a tale, of sorts, about sordid accommodation - 'just the sight of the room made our skin crawl'.

MMorose...

Sounds like it was made in a 'pale ale haze', Edwards' radiophonics enhancing the drugged deadpan atmosphere and occasionally anchoring the words to regular rhythms. But mostly, it's an inner space broadcast from from a man trapped in a tin can, his own mind.

There are no 'well-intentioned, badly realised, poorly executed synth pads' on this record...

VG plus.

Painted Caves - Surveillance (Shelter Press)

Evan Caminiti 's album possibly reflects a dystopian future more accurately than those who do so by shattering our ears with Noisy sonic visions of doom. It is, after all, an easy listen, with it's lush production values and ultra-clean sound. But therein lies the rub. The future nightmare may not be Orwell's idea of boot stamping on a human face forever, but a rebooted digital penthouse prison with padded walls and 24/7 connectivity.

Tomorrow's hell may almost be here since we're all dependent on the machine that governs our minds. Caminiti's world as conjured up by modular synths is an unnervingly seductive one. Each beat is a softened blow and every added colour serves to hypnotise, as on Event Boundary, which is insistent in it's bid to capture our ears and minds. To call a track Stalkers may be very imaginative, but are they the kind who search for a mysterious alien artefact, or those simply obsessed with following? That's what I'm wondering.

Talking of Tarkovsky, Surveillance is, in cinematic terms, more akin to Kubrik's 2001: A Space Odyssey than the former's damp, rusty future. It's all pristine, modernist interiors, albeit in tones of blue, black and grey. Part Artemiev, part Vangelis, Caminiti strives for the best of both approaches to tomorrow's world and largely succeeds.

As I suggested at the start, it's the seductive nature of all this that worries me. It is self-conscious futurism perfectly rendered in sound...and I like it...

Collage: Hair Transplant

Booma Collective - Booma Compilation Vol​.​1

As you can imagine, my inbox is bursting with music from folk who are desperate to receive the blessing of this internationally-renowned blog.  They know that a few words from me is guaranteed to not only boost sales but also gain them the kind of credibility that underground music-makers crave.

The only kind of House music I listen to these days is Daphne's special Oast blend, but Lorenzo Belli's Untitled7 has me dancing in my head, being the deep variety that I used to hear a lot (and even play as a DJ) back in the 90s, before I had these slippers surgically attached. It has that warm, spacey sound, and refuses to become cluttered, or prostitute itself to the 'floor in the name of a cheap bang. There are minimal, artfully applied bleeps, the kind which suggest a computer springing into life, before the Jazzy drums kick in around the halfway mark to elevate with added kick. Lovely.

Valentin Stip's La Mesure is all cool finger-snapping percussion with a few piano flourishes, typifying the mostly restrained, classy feel of the whole comp, as Hugo Bocca' Rhodos Haus also demonstrates. This tune threatens to unleash some noise, but is all the better for not doing so. SolPara's Soil (Short Mix) has more bounce to the ounce than the average blow-up castle, putting a glide in your stride and a dip in your hip courtesy of brilliantly produced percussion. Oren Ratowsky's Oakland eschews beats aside from the distant, gradually decreasing background metronome chopper blade effect, the mood reliant on sparse but highly effective piano.

The intro seems to promise an avant-garde glitch collection but whilst what follows is not that kind of thing I certainly wasn't disappointed.



                                       

Esquire's What Every Young Man Should Know (Frederick Muller Ltd 1963)

A compendium of essential information for young men from Esquire magazine. These are my favourite cartoons from many. Naturally, it had to include jokes related to the space race and bohemian life. The old riff about bohemian offsprings turning out 'square' still amuses me. I've been to a few places where the key unspoken question was 'Are you anybody?' You probably have too.

Skeleton Attack!

The Next Great Invention

From the 20s project, which is in part a homage to Dada, a re-imagining of history, a reflection on society of the time...and some daft jokes...

Don't lower your mask until you have another mask prepared beneath

Dalglish - Niaiw Ot Vile (PAN)

Poor me. This isn't easy to review. I'll get no medal for doing it either...

Dalglish won six Football League First Divisions, two FA Cups, four League Cups, seven FA Charity Shields, three European Cups and one UEFA Super Cup, for which he did get medals, presumably. That's Kenny Dalglish, who is Scottish.

The Dalglish who made Niaiw Ot Vile was also born in Scotland. This cannot be a coincidence.
There's no record of him owning any medals, but he may have won some at school. His real name is Chris Douglas.

Kenny Dalglish once said: 'What is called for is dignity. We need to set an example.'

This Dalglish no doubt feels the same about music. So much of it is, as you know, most undignified, being the work of filthy whores with their legs spread wide for filthy lucre, twerking their way to success with devoted fans and label bosses firmly behind them.

This Dalglish once said this: 'I never imagine in such short time music would get so massive and so shallow in so many ways. Now, there’s global techno/house yuppies, new age regurgitates, noise hipsters, model DJs, wannabe witches and fashionable darkness. It’s disgracefully desperate in so many clichéd ways. I never thought back then that this is what we were fighting for, against all those established musics.' 

Oh, Chris, I know what you mean, not that I ever believed too strongly in 'the fight' after five minutes of thinking about it back in 1977 and realising that They will always win.

Here's a new one for his list of listening types: avant-garde hipster. They're bearded and skinny, or bald and big. They stand reverentially at gigs, hands clasped as if in prayer, or scream like maniacs at the sounds of machines being tortured at Wolf Eyes gigs. They can be seen lurking in the background at Boiler Room sessions trying not to look bored whilst someone manipulates machinery. They love the PAN label, I'm sure. Wire readers unite and fight for your right not to party!

PAN boss Bill Kouligas was featured in last week's Guardian Review magazine, now ain't that something? Perhaps it's a sign that the avant-garde hipster really does exist and lives with Mummy & Daddy in Hampstead. He sneers at common hipster icons such as Flying Lotus - 'Rhythm? Bah! So outmoded.'

Niaiw Ot Vile track titles:

Venpin
Noscrlu
Viochlm
Out_Kutzk
Ciaradh
Donsfe
Seit Nuin
Sclunt
Mothlitz
Oidhche

Google 'Noscrlu' and all you get are references to this album. It's a world unto itself. Is he speaking Elvish, or Klingon? Like Autechre, who he once supported, he's speaking his own language. It's probably best in the end because nobody can accuse you of being clichéd, or choosing the wrong words.

In my own language, this album is:

Werll fi doont, dufoumm ti gorr settaaal ppo sankeer. Brouf teeann leeif ojj. Mothlikk diar pirrf grunss alloooh te maaenir. Sqoiull ittor!

Now disagree with that.

This album doesn't start, continue or end happily. Which is not to say it's tragic. Neither it is all bleak, or particularly angry. Reading interviews with Douglas, I'd expect it to be one of those, since he sounds like a loner, of sorts, and definitely not about to twerk himself for The Man.

Is it art? Is is Abstract Sound Art? Perhaps. Perhaps it's Rothko in places, and Pollock elsewhere. There are harmonious colours in such tracks as Out_Kutzk, Seit Nuin and Oidhche, which is not to say it could sit alongside Morton Feldman's Rothko Chapel, quite. There are also drips and splashes that clunk, rattle, warble, click and groan. Noscrlu sounds just like a recording of an explosion in a firework factory, played backwards, with Terry Riley on electric harmonium in a nearby church. I know what that sounds like, so don't question me, please.

Viochlm reminds me of the time Alice Coltrane and Sun Ra transmitted a gig from Saturn (you missed it?). Strange strings, indeed, but it also brings to mind a Buddhist temple on Mars during an electric storm, which explains the discordant electronic interference during the otherwise Zen-like alien tranquillity.

Needless to say, it's really worth hearing, even if you're not an avant-garde hipster...

There are no tracks from the album online yet, so here's one he made earlier...

Robert Rauschenberg's Monk 'Round About Midnight

1955

1947

The Stranger - Watching Dead Empires In Decay (Modern Love)

Review by Bouncing Brinnington

'The journey of making the work may be unimportant to me, but the journey the work can take you on, if you're honest and have trust in yourself and are willing to make mistakes and take risks, can always take us to the stars. The endless struggle for survival has strange and incredible rewards.' - Leyland Kirby, 2011

And what a survivor Leyland Kirby is...

Just a fraction of his CV reads thus:
                                                     Chris De Burgh's roadie 1996
                                                     Aphex Twin's technical assistant (1996-7)
                                                     caretaker of the Holiday Inn, Stockport (1998-2000)
                                                     Help The Aged radio DJ (2002-3). It is said that during an in-house appearance at the Manchester branch he found the 78s which formed the basis of his music as The Caretaker.
                                                 
As few names he has recorded under:
                                                       corKscrEWhair disIntegraTion
                                                       vPL
                                                       fukRdJ
                                                       mateybubblebath
                                                     
It pays to create as many pseudonyms as possible because if some of the music is crap the chances are that very few people will have heard it.  Not that Kirby has produced any crap; it's all brilliant. All of it. Even the 600 tracks he made and gave away every day of the year 2006, which few have heard, but as a conceptual piece of sound art, it knocks spots off Christian Marclay's puny efforts to curry favour with the hedge fund Art collectors, eh?

Kirby lives in Berlin, on the 43rd floor of a Commie-built tower block, where the furniture consists of old crates, one of which is featured on the cover of Sadly, The Future Is No Longer What It Was. He lives mainly on mouldy Blutwurst and spends all day, every day, making music (with monthly breaks to get his hair permed). Compared to life in Manchester, it is a joyful experience.

Kirby has made a complete cult of himself and that is not easy. You try.
Try recording and releasing music every day for a whole year and see where it gets you.
Try adopting a million monikers and making a mess of If I Were A Rich Man. Go on. I dare you.

No-one starts with a view to achieving cult status. If they did, they would fail. True cult status is the result of a certain attitude, character, vision and intent. It is more than merely failing to reach the attention of the sheeple. The ideal cult collector is the bespectacled curator of avant-garde electronica who thrives on limited edition cassette-only releases, as well as suitcase-sized metal box sets such as The Complete Conrad Schnitzler.

To be 'unknown' is certainly not good enough. Look at all those poor souls who record and release on Bandcamp only but never get reviewed at Resident Advisor. They are having to endure permanent obscurity, the kind they languish (as opposed to revel) in because they remain unknown by Influential People. These are crucial to worthwhile cult status because they are label-owners (cool labels, that is), journalists, and musicians with a large enough fan base to render their word significant. Having a crazy hairstyle helps, as does leading the kind of life which makes J. D. Salinger look like a social whore. 

Leyland Kirby is a genius. Not because he dares to have hair like Roger Daltrey in the 70s (although that's admirably brave), but because he really does take risks and take us to the stars, albeit sometimes mangled, fucked-up ones that prove virtually uninhabitable unless you wear especially protective helmets. He delights in making music which ranges from the sublimely soporific (as The Caretaker) to the gnarled headfuck of V/VM and all shades in-between under various monikers.

Now this album on the painfully hip Modern Love label. It almost looks like Kirby has brushed his hair (I don't know how you brush a perm, and thinking about it, he has probably shaved it all off by now for fear of being mistaken for The Gaslmap Killer), donned his most up-to-date gear and walked out into the light of mainstream (underground) cool.

And this title? Watching Dead Empires In Decay? It sounds like something one of those Bandcamp unknowns would come up with. Yet once true cult status is achieved, it's possible to get away with any title one fancies. He could have called it Hauntology Volume One, or Ghost In The VHS Machine, or Blue Oyster Occult, Don't Fear The Bleeper. Because he is Leyland Kirby and people will pay attention regardless of the title.

Thankfully, it is a work of greatness, even though I suspect he spent several months recording it on a tropical island in studios owned by Andy Votel. Where Are Our Monsters Now, Where Are Our Friends? has all the woozy atmosphere of cross-channel ferry trip during rough seas whilst an inebriated Gary Numan tribute band entertain you with instrumental versions of his repertoire.

Grey Day Drift even has a very conventional, minimalist beat, conjured up, no doubt, from knackered old gear. It's as if Modern Love said 'Make us an album, but we want some beats' so he produced these, thus creating the sonic equivalent of Godard's leering lens lingering over Bardot's butt to appease executives. Not that I suspect for one minute that ML made such demands.

The drum sounds (supplied by samples from old zombie B-movies, probably) are reminiscent of those created by Demdike Stare early in their career. But Kirby is not about to wear that influence on his sleeve, should it even exist (the ML connection?). No, sir. He does more than enough to undermine the notion of a rhythm-tracks-plus-cheap FX by sprinkling everything with dust gathered from behind those wooden crates. No matter how simple the spectral melodies, he works his magical trick of supplying top quality sound degradation (if that's not a misnomer) to virtually everything. About To Enter A Strange New Period is a good example. We Scarcely See Sunlight ticks all h*untological boxes, complete with horror moans and drones, but made special by sparse percussion which sound like a half-asleep Jazz drummer who can barely manage to brush the cymbal.

Being on Modern Love, Kirby will no doubt gain new listeners with this release. Should any then dig deeper they'll find that the seemingly endless struggle to hear it all provides strange and incredible rewards.

Abba Zaba - Eduardo Paolozzi (1970)

Print run of 500.

Made at Watford School of Art. 

As he did for Ambit magazine from '67 to '80, Paolozzi juxtaposes images with plundered texts, frequently resisting the temptation to create obvious connections. Disconnection, more like. 

Onward to the Jet Age...

                                               

Vessel - Misery Is a Communicable Disease (Liberation Technologies)

This is Seb Gainsborough of Young Echo recording as Vessel.
Unlike Serge, I don't think he adopted that surname because he loves the painter.
But he may have done.

A damned good E.P.

Atomic dog disco stomp - woof!

Theo van Doesburg and A Dog Called Dada

Yes, the dog is called Dada.
The woman is called Nelly (van Doesburg).
And the dancer is Kamares.
The time is 1925.

Collage by Theo van Doesburg, La matière denaturalisée. Destruction 2, 1923

Info

Soldier’s Requiem - Gabriel Saloman (Miasmah)

Oh such melancholic beauty. It has no place in the modern musical world, does it?

What is the function of this album?

To express the sorrow of all who have known dead soldiers? 

To reflect the sorrow of the world every time a war is fought?

Mine Field builds to such a level of intensity that it seems to contain all the blood-soaked fields and deserts that have ever been created. And all the crosses around the world which mark the places where victims of war lay buried.

With a sound akin to fighter planes swooping in for the kill.

Even the piano sounds as if it's gasping for breath in the final moments...

Marching Time consists only of military percussion, cut as if to signal the relentless march of a badly-drilled army whose men have been programmed but refuse to obey, crashing into each other at every turn.

Finally, the Cold Haunt of the fallen and it's relentless melody folding in on itself, replayed again and again just like the terrible game of war.

Warning: this album will not make you:

                                                         happy

                                                         want to dance

                                                         thrill to the (non-existent) bass

                                                         or bask in the post-New Age ambient calming of your nerves.                                                         

Coming Soon: eMMplekz - Your Crate Is Empty

I don't normally pre-hype albums but Baron Mordant & Ekoplekz as eMMplekz have made one worth plugging. The Baron's blank verse backed by Nick Edwards' radiophonics is a fascinating audio experience. 

'It's really sad when women go bald.'

'eMMplekz return server after 'IZOD Days' semi-beguiled local sorting offices…'Your Crate Has Changed' takes up that diarised baton & legs it to Rymans for future remnants…take a dose of plagued Pepys, a demijohn of Ekoplekz's masterly live voltage and siMMer…switch to classic...BM/EZ'

Tracklist:

The Quarry

Raining With Piss

AsspuMMel (Must Try Ader)

Tethered To My Hotspot

Abacabacus

Alby's Riddim

Sorry For Your Lossy

Queer Vibe

Your Crate Has Changed

Invoices In My Head

The Arc of Trapeze

Ireman

End Of

GaMMy GuMMy

Release date: 4th Nov 2013

A Page From The 20s Project: Boring Bar

From something I'm creating now which has the working title of The 20s Project. 

It'll be released as a PDF.

Bet you can't wait...

Bowie's Top 100 Books And 50 Of Mine

The recently revealed list of David Bowie's Top 100 Books surprised me. Much of it was not what I expected from the thin white wizard of hazy cosmic jive. Sarah Waters? Martin Amis? Ian McEwan? David, you boring ol' fart! Well, he is 66-years-old, so perhaps the list reflects the fact that he's way past his intergalactic golden years and wishes to project a more Earthly image.

Shockingly, no William Burroughs. Then again, he hadn't read much of him in 1974 when a two-way interview between them took place for Rolling Stone magazine. Intermediary journalist Craig Copetas states in the intro: 'I had brought Bowie all of Burroughs' novels: Naked Lunch, Nova Express, The Ticket That Exploded and the rest. He'd only had time to read Nova Express.' That boggles my mind; to think that he hadn't even read The Naked Lunch. Add to that Bowie's admission that he hadn't read T. S. Eliot at the time and I'm getting another picture of our David. Perhaps he caught up quickly with Burroughs afterwards because in the BBC's film Cracked Actor from the same year he cites the cut-up technique as an influence and is seen demonstrating it.

Science-fiction doesn't feature much except for A Clockwork Orange and Nineteen Eighty-Four. No Philip K. Dick or J. G. Ballard. This is the cracked actor who starred in Nicolas Roeg's The Man Who Fell to Earth and more to the point wrote the space-age textbook for cosmic Rock lyrics! Ziggy Stardust was reading Muriel Spark? 'Why not?' you ask. Why not indeed, for who am I to say what Bowie should be reading, or has read? The picture I get from the list, however, is of a pretty ordinary guy. OK, not your regular white-collar ordinary, but all the same, far more ordinary than I expected. All that craziness in the 70s and 80s, drug-taking aside, was just...what? A result of all those drugs, perhaps.

Still, I can't rid myself of the impression given by the classic run of albums that began with The Man Who Sold The World and ended with Diamond Dogs (ignoring Pin Ups). But since we're dealing with a man of many recorded personas, I know that's my very subjective take. I once heard someone say that they preferred Bowie's Berlin phase to those earlier albums - shocking, I know. It may be a generational thing. If you first got into Bowie in the 80s it makes sense, but for many of us older folk he is still standing in that 'phone box in a parallel universe, where he is also part dog and always Aladdin Sane. As such, I can't help but think the list is a bit dull.

'What would your list look like?' you ask (I know you do). Many have wondered which books have shaped my life (if I can make such bold claims for literature and, to some extent in my case, it's true). As an internationally famous blogger, writer and artist, I get asked this kind of thing all the time. Well, since David's done it, I've made my own list, but only 50, 'cause time ('He flexes like a whore / Falls wanking to the floor', eh David?) is running out.

Some exist only as memories now, whilst others still reside on the shelf. Either way, they've all entertained, amazed or inspired me over the years...


With Revolvers Aimed... Finger Bowls - Claude Pelieu
The Ginger Man - J. P. Donleavy
Last Exit to Brooklyn - Hubert Selby Jr
The Outsider - Albert Camus
Iron in the Soul - Jean-Paul Sartre
The Complete Cosmicomics - Italo Calvino
The Tenant - Roland Topor
The Hustler - Walter Tevis
The New York Trilogy - Paul Auster
The Medium is The Massage - Marshall McLuhan
I Seem to Be a Verb - R. Buckminster Fuller
Reality Hunger - David Shields
The Waste Land and Other Poems - T.S. Eliot
A Whore Just Like The Rest - Richard Meltzer
Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung - Lester Bangs
Ocean of Sound - David Toop
Lipstick Traces - Greil Marcus
More Brilliant Than the Sun - Kodwo Eshun
Space Is the Place - John F Swzed
Tropic of Cancer - Henry Miller
The Thief's Journal - Jean Genet 
Hangover Square - Patrick Hamilton
The Atrocity Exhibition - J.G. Ballard
The Third Mind - William Burroughs & Brion Gysin
The Naked Lunch - William Burroughs
Nova Express - William Burroughs
Shoot the Piano Player - David Goodis
Pop. 1280 - Jim Thompson
They Shoot Horses, Don't They? - Horace McCoy
The Postman Always Rings Twice - James M. Cain
Farewell, My Lovely - Raymond Chandler
The Prone Gunman - Jean-Patrick Manchette
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? - Philip K. Dick 
We - Yevgeny Zamyatin
No Country for Old Men - Cormac McCarthy
A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
On The Road - Jack Kerouac
Brighton Rock - Graham Greene
Moby-Dick - Herman Melville
Don Quixote - Miguel De Cervantes
The Engagement - Georges Simenon
Bartleby & Co. - Enrique Vila-Matas
CivilWarLand in Bad Decline - George Saunders
The Book of Disquiet - Fernando Pessoa
Ask the Dust - John Fante
Dispatches - Michael Herr
The Street of Crocodiles - Bruno Schulz
Absolute Beginners - Colin MacInnes
Hunger - Knut Hamsun
A Clockwork Orange - Anthony Burgess

Radio Problem

Daphne Oram At Home

Watching BBC4's Britain On Film last night, as we often do 'cause we love colour footage of the 60s (who doesn't?), when who should turn up but Daphne Oram - oh yes! There she was showing this fellow her home studio - I could hardly believe my eyes. The programme's here for UK residents. The footage of Daphne starts around the 13-minute mark. For the rest of you, here are some stills.

Album Round-Up: If, Bwana, These Hidden Hands and Emptyset

The world's population, excluding roughly 7,183,485,360 of them (that figure's already out of date...I mean, have you been here and watched the counter? It's frightening) are intrigued to know what I think of the latest music releases. So I thought I'd round a few up...and say what I...think...

This, for starters, They Call Me "Bwana" by If, Bwana is outstanding. Originally released as cassette in 1987 on Sound Of Pig (SOP100), it proves what a genius of tapeological collage Al Margolis is, or was in '87, at least. I'm not familiar with his work but will be checking it all out for sure.

I'm not familiar with Franz Ferdinand's work either, but since seeing them on Jools Holland's Later this week, I'm determined to remain ignorant. They weren't awful, just mediocre, and as we watched, I couldn't help wondering why people still listen to the archaic sound of blokes strumming guitars and singing.

I'd say 'Al Margolis should be on Later', but what the hell's the point? His artistry in tape manipulation and creation of moods akin to Pierre Schaeffer on a downer is too sophisticated for the average Later viewer. He combines many instruments (concrete and played?) with synths and vocal samples at a heightened level of creativity. If you're overwhelmed by the glut of fashionable Industrial DIY tapes revived and blogged, If, Bwana deserves your attention. You can listen over here. Top Marks to Forced Nostalgia.

I'm generally underwhelmed by the school of post-Industrial Hardcore Techno Klang (to give the genre it's full title), but These Hidden Hands by These Hidden Hands is impressive, not because it's a stunningly original take on the sound, but because...er...well, it works, for me. It should work for you if you like your brains caved in by hammers to the pounding rhythms of hydraulic pistons. Yes. Amazingly, there's a vocal on When Told that I find most agreeable, and that's rare because vocals on techno albums frequently feature some bird warbling meaninglessly in an effort to create an elegiac mood aimed at past-it ravers, or something. Blame Burial. All the chap here does is repeat the title, or something like the title. And shackled to a first-rate rhythm, it works. If Regis was actually Jimi Hendrix reincarnated, he'd make music like Diesel. Fact. But he isn't, sadly. Lots of These Hidden Hands will make you think your earplugs have blown and that's a good thing.

Emptyset (James Ginzburg and Paul Purgas) are back to scare the horses with Recur on Raster-Noton. So lock up your horses, and your daughters whilst your at it. Which is not to suggest that the duo are like some heavy metal band relishing in the image of hotel-wrecking and womanising but, come to think of it, they are kind of heavy metal...the kind forged in outer space by robomechanics hell-bent on enslaving humans by demolishing them with bass. Public Enemy once asked 'Bass, How Low Can You Go?' and Emptyset have made it their mission to find out. Yes, bass is the place and the spaces these boys create around it once again provide aural thrills. How much longer they can continue in this fashion is another matter. They've been reducing bass 'n' space for some time now and it could finally dissolve to nothing. Meanwhile, they're a joy to behold.

Forthcoming: Gabriel Saloman's Soldier’s Requiem on Miasmah is every bit as good as the preview track here suggests and I'll be saying what I think of that in more detail soon. If I can summon the words. Trust me, it's one of the Albums of the Year. Likewise, on PAN, Dalglish's Niaiw Ot Vile beggars belief in it's complex qualities and if I can find words to describe that you'll read those too. TTFN

Mix: Back On The Planet

Way Out music for the Way In crowd. Electronic old and new.

Back On The Planet by Timewriter on Mixcloud

Attention All Would-Be Artists

I copied a puppy for a correspondence course in Art when I was 11 years old.

They wrote back saying 12 was the minimum age.

I applied again when I was 12 and was accepted.

I thought they accepted me because I was talented,

not because they just wanted the money.

So a man came to our house and told my parents what it would cost.

A few days later I went with my sister to the telephone box where

she called to tell them that I wouldn't be joining.

I remember crying as I stood outside that 'phone box...

1951

1957

1938

1963

1950