Sunday, 14 September 2014


Barbican Theatre, London, Sat 13th Sept

The selling point of this gig was that John Cale, pioneer of drone music from his early days in the Theatre of Eternal Music, would be playing alongside actual drones - buzzing round the auditorium. Something like Stockhausen's 'Helicopter Quartet', where a string quartet played inside four helicopters, and alongside their whirring rotors. Only with scaled-down helicopters.

My natural assumption that he was returning to those drone roots seemed confirmed by speed-reading the programme beforehand. The piece was titled the catchy 'LOOP>>60Hz: Transmissions from The Drone Orchestra', while Cale's sojourn in the legendary Velvet Underground somewhat downplayed. Liam Young it seemed was not a musician but “a speculative architect who operates in the spaces between design, fiction and futures”, in charge of the overall concept.

And indeed things started with Cale strumming an acoustic guitar as a lead-in to a mounting drone-fest. Stage lights stabbed straight upwards, like London was expecting another Blitz. The promised drones then took off, their rotor blades adding to the sound but ebbing and flowing in and out of your ears as they traversed the auditorium. As a drone aficionado, I settled warmly into my seat.

Yet after that initial track, things turned into a much more conventional set-list gig. Ah well, let's focus on what we got rather than what we didn't...

As the set focused heavily on Cale's more recent albums, I kept mentally comparing it to the last time I'd seen him. So surprised I was to get home, read that previous write-up and find that in my ways my reaction was the polar opposite of before.

Cale chose to stack the ballads early. Now my two favourite albums of his are both effectively ballad-led, 'Paris 1919' and 'Music For A New Society'. Yet I found this a bit of a formatting error, with the result something of a slog. They songs were also mixed in quality, with a rather lacklustre version of 'Half Past France'. If buses are supposed to all come at once, this became like all your waiting-for-a-buses at once, and I started to yearn for some scrapes of the viola.

Plus, though the drones kept diligently taking off and landing again, they added little to this more song-based material. They were superfluous or at times actively intrusive, like an over-sized mosquito had buzzed in the window and now couldn't get out. It might have been wiser to hold them in reserve until that section was over.

Later, things picked up and we were treated to a set quite similarly sourced to the earlier one from Brighton. Though many of the newer songs were quite splendid, best of all were the radical reworkings of classic old tracks – a distorted 'Mercenaries' and 'Sanities' set to a lurching heigh-ho Tom Waits beat. Several tracks I only recognised some way in, 'Sanities' I only picked up through the words. Then, after not having played a single Velvets song all night, he closed with an extended 'Sister Ray', as if rewritten for a disco in hell which neither closed nor played any other number.

Despite the common assumption that we fans like to hear old albums intact and in full, what we actually want is something we couldn't have heard by simply staying home. It's more interesting to hear their creators come at them from some new angle.

Though of course too young for their actual era, I first got into the Velvets before they were inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame – when they were still a cult act. I can remember when putting on one of their records was a guaranteed way to clear the room. And 'Sister Ray' seemed the most extreme track by the most extreme of bands. It seemed less challenging than disruptive, it seemed to melt down every assumption you had made about music in order to re-use the materials in something new.

But of course it can't keep that shock in perpetuity. It's only by reworking it, by making it simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar, that it can reignite. It reminds you of the stunning moment when you first heard it, while at the same time it's something totally new. That's what we want. More stuff like that.

So... the drone-fest didn't happen and the drones themselves were ultimately not much more than a gimmick. And the gig was uneven. Well, Cale's career has been uneven. (It's only comparison to Lou Reed's wildly oscillating musical fortunes which obscures that.) But the high points flew higher than those drones. If now in his Seventies, Cale isn't content to lay on his laurels. His brain seems as active as ever at trying out new things and at reworking old.

The Haunt, Brighton, Sat 30th Aug

No, your eyes do not deceive you. That is an acoustic guitar. And it is in the hands of one of the most recognisable haircuts this side of Sid Vicious – Buzz Osborne of the Melvins. (As enthused over here, after their earlier visit to Brighton.) In a not altogether expected development, the man whose spent the last thirty years presiding over a shotgun marriage between punk and metal has undertaken a solo acoustic tour.

However, don't go getting any notions he's decided to show us his sensitive side. Nick Drake this isn't. He's titled the new album 'This Machine Kills Artists', in a twist on the Woody Guthrie quote. And the twist is important. He strikes chords rather than plucks melodies, while vocals are fulsome and full-throated – often quite theatrically delivered. There can be quite long instrumental sections. You could call it 'mighty acoustic' if you had a mind to.

If anything, it seems more rooted in rock history than the parent band which spawned it. I took to thinking about how the Black Sabbath/ Led Zeppelin influence is more apparant on these new songs, just as he back-announces the last tracks as Melvins numbers. Maybe it's the new sound which more greatly exposes those influences, like different chassis being placed over the same engine. It reminds you how all that music was rooted in the acoustic to start with, though not always through a chronological journey back to the acoustic blues. There's all the bombast and swagger here too, and that can be a good thing. A large part of the appeal of rock music, when you first start listening to it in your teenage bedroom, is that it seems a means to finally get the world listening to you.

It's ambiguous which is in the driving seat - necessity or invention? Did Buzzo hit upon this new sound and run with it, or was the most cost-effective way to set up a solo vehicle to make the new combo a one-man band? He often employs a technique of playing overlaid bass and lead parts, and a habit of striding the stage like he's trying to fill the boots of a band. Which might suggest the latter. Then again, this is a guy whose collaborated at one time or another with pretty much everybody from the heavier end of music, so volunteers shouldn't have been that hard to come by.

The Melvins are of course a band known for their sound. Its like they built that sound up thirty years ago and have been inhabiting it ever since. But this new mighty acoustic business, that might be a narrower base. If the Melvins were a fortress this is more a bedsit. It works well for each and every track. No numbers come across as filler. But as the gig goes on it lacks for something in sonic variety, and each new number starts to feel like another slice of the same. Its a bit like visiting an art exhibition to find its all of pencil drawings. You can admire each and every drawing, but part-way through start to long for the odd splash of colour. In many ways it marks an adventurous break from business as usual. But maybe its a sound to visit rather than move into.

Some edited-together clips, with much audience chat about his wife for some reason...

Just while we're on this sort of subject... this is a pretty awesome full-length clip of the Melvins/Fantomas Big Band in full assault mode. See how long it takes you to recognise the opening number. I swear I didn't get it until the first line (which happens some way in), whereupon a great big “of course” expression filled my face…

Saturday, 6 September 2014


“Comics have always had the potential to be a radical medium, because they edge around the mainstream, because they are collaborative, because they play with time and form, and because they’re so much bloody fun.”

“The effect of these pulp paper nightmares is that of a violent stimulant.”
- Sterling North

Noise in the Library

Of course only the most clueless straight would look at the poster to a show called 'Comics Unmasked' (above), and be surprised to see a mask. I mean, get like post-ironical, dude. Check out the nonchalant slouch of the pose, the diffident expression. Above all, check out the alley setting, chosen in contrast to some expansive, panoramic rooftop. 'Comics Unmasked' is a slack way of saying 'Superheroes Got Slack'.

Now for once in my life I may be using so dated an expression as 'slack' deliberately. The image is by Tank Girl creator Jamie Hewlett, and does reflect the Nineties era in which he chiefly found fame. It draws its frisson from presenting superheroes not in the heroic poses we're used to. And yet there's now nothing particularly unusual in this image. It's not impossible to imagine, say, the Black Widow from the Marvel Universe films pulling that pose. It could be taken to suggest comics have been frozen at their seeming moment of triumph, hands reached out for but never quite grasping that elusive mainstream acceptance.

But it also suggests comics have a cumulative history. They're not some cultural equivalent of a social climber desperate to hush up their lowly lineage, but amending their history for their own ends. It's not just that superhero comics, despite everything, could sometimes be cool. It's that what once seemed a firewall between alternative and superhero comics is now a porous border. Superheroes are part of the lexicon, for us to pick up and mould should they seem useful. We don't need to mask anything off.

In fact the word I most seized on in the title wasn't even 'anarchy' but 'comics'. In recent years people have taken to the term 'graphic novel' much in the way they say 'bathroom' when what they really want is a toilet, as a polite euphemism. Milligan and McCarthy's splendid 'Skin' is even applauded for “opposing the gentrification of comics”. Which it did.

But perhaps the most cheering factor of all is the choice of venue. There's an inherent problem with trying to fit comics into art galleries, whose essential purpose is to display original works of art. Even if at times they might venture into posters, they're still dealing with objects designed for public display. Whereas with comics the existence of original art is merely a means to an end (in these digital days often having no physical existence at all), with the finished product that's designed to be read. And things that you read belong in a library. It's a basic point, but an important one.

'Comics Unmasked' reverses this almost to a fault – well, actually to a fault. It was often hard to actually read those comics, given the combination of glass cabinets, low lighting and my middle-aged eyesight. It having already been established we're not looking at original artefacts, they could have done more to blow sections up on walls. (Plus you can often learn as least as much about an artist by seeing their work enlarged as you can by studying the original art.)

But of course they didn't just stick some old comics under glass. The earlier 'Propaganda' exhibition had proven the British Library able and willing to do inventive, irreverent and audacious things with display. And, despite all the jokes about patrician Librarians shushing the punters, it may be the venue feels enabled to take more liberties. After all, you go to a Klee or Matisse exhibition to see Klee or Matisse, and the curators don't want to distract from that too much. They strain to make their efforts almost invisible, like roadies at a concert. 'Propaganda' was almost the reverse, a demonstration of concepts and ideas with works chosen to illustrate them, like walking inside some virtual reality essay. I tend to use the terms 'show' and 'exhibition' interchangeably. But 'Propaganda' was quite definitely a show.

I'd hoped this would follow in the same vein, and in many ways it did. It states early “comics can be a playground for the imagination”, and then does much to provide an adventure playground for the eyes. A giant Moebius strip stretches round the gallery, with projections played upon it (below). You realise this motif is becoming a visual analogue for comics history - twisting, multi-sided, subject to be rewritten, yet stretching through time.

You have of course to see such shows as aimed at newbies and innocent bystanders, rather than us obsessive insiders. And the associated unlearning isn't always easy. It's not just that they can't hope to include all the artists we'd like to see. (A subject which has set sections of the net's comics neighbourhood a-buzzing.) It's that we cannot help but see the gaps and so things inevitably appear to us as scattershot. Of course the premise is in many ways a hopeless one, a case of setting yourself up to fail. Its not like the next British Library show will be on the history or the novel, while the Tate will counter with the history of painting and the British Museum weigh in with the history of history. We pretty much have to just accept the picture will be partial, or else stay home.

Anyway, the show finds nuggets to reward us fans for our attendance, for example the trial 'Dan Dare' strip (1949, above) when he was still the originally intended dog-collared Chaplain, or the Judge Dredd strip 'Battle of the Burger Barons' (1978, below) never reprinted after satirising actual burger chains by name. (They state here through publisher jitters rather than actual legal threats.)

It was perhaps less a lure to the average comics fan, and hear me out on this one, but I was also interested to see for the first time 'Bulldog' (1981). Given this was published by the far-right National Front to lure in young members, you may understand my earlier reluctance to hand over cash for a copy. And it looks pretty much what you'd expect. In many ways the far right have no identity of their own, but are just a bizarre looking-glass-world inversion of the left - no matter how absurd a place that takes them to. It includes a graphic of a cop searching a white kid, a copycat image of one originally used by the Motherfuckers, above the sentence “the police have declared war on the white youth of Britain”. Course they have mate...

Perhaps most enticing of all, the show knows when not to confine itself to comics. In something I'd never heard before, we're told the hard-drinking wastrel Ally Sloper was not just one of the first comic characters but first comics brands, also appearing on stage, screen and here as a somewhat disturbing ventriloquist puppet (below). There's similar examples from later eras.

Black-hearted Brigands Abroad (Reclaiming the Colonies)

A whole room is given to heroes, and it’s interesting how this inevitably slips into the story of the British invasion of America. (Characterised as “extraordinary” and “radical”.) And of course there’s a Stan-Lee-style prize for spotting what links the two. Our mark was made on the most hero-centric genre of all, superheroes, precisely because heroes were what we didn’t deal in. What we had that was saleable was what the show describes as “a heritage of rebelliousness”, a rich history of anti-heroes, even when they weren’t out-and-out black-hearted brigands. (The show includes, for example, a Dick Turpin comic from 1948 next to a penny dreadful featuring him from eighty years earlier.) For the American superhero publishers, we were sexy because we were bad. Centuries after the colonial era, we were still offloading our trouble-makers abroad.

But then, at least up until the arrival of the infamous Comics Code Authority, weren't American comics gaudier and wilder, with all the salacious crime and horror titles? Or even after then. Didn't Marvel essentially invent flawed and anti-heroes, such as the Hulk or the Thing? Didn't underground comics export from America to Britain?

To which the short answer is yes. But remember the stories of the Beatles first arriving in America, the source of the music which had so inspired them, and finding the place strangely straight-laced. And that music had been made in America. But it was made by currents which didn't make it to the surface of society, which either never had or which had by that point been buried again. It took someone from elsewhere to take up that music and return it to America before the home-grown variants could arise. And the British comics invasion worked much like that, re-introducing stuff which seemed obvious to us but at home had been forgotten. Alan Moore, such a spearhead of that invasion, later commented “I couldn't have done that if I hadn't been a traditionalist”.

Talking About Sex

If you want something to truly date the Sixties/ Seventies underground, and don't really want to bring up their infamous uncritical support for the Viet Cong, your best choice is their sexual politics. Or lack of them. A telling example is John Kent's 'Varoomshka' (1972, above), it's cover-girl heroine obligingly disrobing while she cries cheerily “this strip is purely political”. Politicians of the day look on in shock and disgust.

Of course we see such an image with hindsight. But its almost absurdly easy to see the chain between it and Conrad Frost's 'The Life of George and Lynn', (scathingly dubbed 'The Perpetually Naked Middle Class Bastards' by Brendan McCarthy), which debuted in 'The Sun' a mere five years later. (A task made easier by them both being in the same show, of course.) Perhaps the only difference between Varoomshka's “purely political” gesture and the cover of last week's 'Zoo' magazine is that one is a drawing and the other a photo.

And yet if you're interested in cultural or sub-cultural history, this is just what makes porn such a useful barometer. As the show says “there is something about the lens of desire that is particularly revealing about a culture”. Its precisely because sex and sexuality are defined as something natural and unmediated, that leads to its cultural content rises to the surface more openly. After all, what is there to be guarded about? It's all just innate and biological, isn't it? And this is strongest in Sixties/Seventies subculture, which often blithely assumed we could revert to some 'true' nature outside the norms of society. This hopeless simplemindedness is more flagrantly on show than Varoomshka's nipples.

Then again, at the other end of the scale... Underground and alternative comics worked better as negative and disrupting forces, upending popular assumptions - and sexuality may be no exception. 'Sourcream' (1979) was a women's comic who depicted sexual matters in a simple, de-eroticised child-like style which matched their frankness of content. A strip like 'Which Contraceptive?' could scarcely be any more demystifying. (Matching many punk songs of the era, such as the Snivelling Shits' 'I Can't Come' or the Dead Kennedy's 'Too Drunk to Fuck'.)

However, let's back up a little. That distinction between picture and photo that separates 'Varomooshka' from 'Zoo', is it actually so trivial? The prevalent trend in pornography has been towards photography, with perhaps only technological limitations ever holding it back. But I've never been sure why people are always so keen for porn to be 'real' when it's a genre that couldn't be any more about fantasy. Doesn't it work better when combining sensual thrill with aesthetic buzz, like a cocktail drug? Take Ron Embletons 'Oh, Wicked Wanda' (1983, below), with what the show describes as “colours so lavish and sensual that you could almost taste them”. (Disclaimers: Whether this strip would have progressive sexual politics is of course another thing. It was published by 'Penthouse', after all. Also, to spare the blushes of gentle readers, I have also chosen a more family-friendly sample than the one from the show.)

Can Comics Be Magic?

There being a room devoted to magic, that's not something I would necessarily have bet money on before entering. When they state “some of Britain's key comics talents are practising magicians” you are tempted to ask if by “some” they actually mean “two”. And the phrase “magic is hugely important in British culture” feels little like one of those statements you make hoping no-one actually calls you on it.

However, the show may be on stronger ground when it states “comics have lent themselves so well to dreamlike and transcendental states”. In fact, in my youth I dimly conceived of British comics existing in some schizo state. At times they'd seem populated entirely by square-jawed chaps winning the war by not showing any emotion, or footballers who strangely didn't seem to share the working class origins of footballers on the telly. But seconds later they seemed to flip, and would suddenly be brimming with enticing strangeness, with characters such as the positively deranged Adam Eterno or the sinister Black Sapper. Yet there never seemed a way of separating them, of getting one without being saddled with the other. It seems explicable enough how they could be so staid. The real question is – how could they simultaneously be so mad?

Perhaps there is something innately strange about the world of comics, rather than it being a mnaifestation of British culture. Think of the old DC Comics, ostensibly the upright goody-goody imprint which got upended by the hipper Marvel. And how downright bonkers they could become, with villains who could control anything or anyone provided it was coloured blue, with robot duplicates which turned out to be robot duplicates of robot duplicates and such like.

Perhaps the show has it upside down. When comics were really strange was before they were made by drug-crazed hippies, Northampton maguses or students of chaos magic but by hacks on scale pay and instant coffee. Take for example the pages by DC Thompson artist Dudley Watkins, who worked on both 'Desperate Dan' and 'Lord Snooty'. Devoutly religious and teetotal, he was still a source of some of the most left-field images and ideas you're ever likely to encounter.

In other words, it all happened when it normally does – when no-one was really watching. The act of observing normalises what is observed, suddenly it feels self-conscious and starts to follow rules. Clearly, speed of production had much to do with it. Surrealist techniques such as stream-of-consciousness were emulated almost by accident, because dream logic and the association of ideas assembled faster than a coherent plotline.

But there's something bigger. In the quote up top, Laurie Penny comments on the way comics “play with time and form” as something which makes them a radical medium. There's an inherent formalism to comics, which lies latent even in the comics which don't actively try to exploit it. The form is there on the paper, inextricably interwoven with the content. Comics are composed of language, while film or theatre merely use it. The naturalistic illusion becomes a bit of a non-starter, so things head in the opposite direction. And that direction is the association of ideas. Surrealism's spark came from juxtapositions. There is nothing very odd about telephones, and nothing particularly unusual about lobsters – yet a lobster telephone becomes a surreal object. And those formal qualities of comics make them inherently juxtapositional, lining up images alongside one another. (Think for example of the way Jeff Keen's paintings combined the two.)

Anarchy Amid the Short Loan?

Let's go back to that image of the Moebius strip. It suggests comics have something of a through line, albeit a bendy and stretchy one. The show takes a take not just on comics history but on what comics are, and its to do with that word 'anarchy' up there in the title. That dummy of Ali Sloper, drunken and indolent, the leery antithesis of Victorian thrift and industry, becomes something of a totem.

Comics are either like 'Action' (above) - cheap, seditious pulps you kept under your schooldesk to stop your teacher confiscating them - or like 'Nasty Tales' (below), underground, inherently antagonistic to the Establishment, more likely to be found in the dock than at an awards ceremony. Comics are gaudy, disreputable and – above all – popular. The point isn't just that you can use comics to explore ideas outside of the political mainstream, but that comics as a medium are antithetical to the dusty shelf.

In a way it's an action replay of British creators being given American heroes precisely so they could mess with them. What's going to interest the British Library is precisely what makes comics unique or different, otherwise they may as well just stick to their books. And this can often be a useful filter. For the longest time comics were full of creators trying desperately to be 'mature', by which they tended to mean aspiring to the smart or sophisticated. But the smartypants stuff only ever worked on comics fans. A comics artist might – to pull an example right out of the blue – enthrall fans by aping the Pre-Raphaelite painters. But he's scarcely likely to pique the interest of a gallery curator, who could just go and book an exhibition of the real thing. Meanwhile, Dudley Watkins has something you won't find elsewhere.

And it's not merely a romanticism. When public information strips try to ape the comics form, they often betray themselves by looking stiff and staid, by lacking the dynamics that bring a comics page to life. They're like teachers trying to utilise playground slang, like vicars trying to rap their sermons. Some of these are on show in this exhibition, sticking out like thumbs.

But on the other hand its scarcely an eternal truth. As the saying goes, everyone loves you when you're dead. It only takes for someone to pop their clogs and all their positive features – until so recently taken for granted – start to stand out. And, from the Victorians who sought to collect and catalogue the folk culture their world was destroying, does anything get celebrated more than a dying culture? The answer is yes. A dead culture does.

And there's nothing more dead than the notion of a broad popular culture existing in perfect opposition to power. Except perhaps the idea of comics as a popular, accessible medium. Those massed mannequins in the 'V' masks with throng the show (below), they're not here for a celebration. They're here for a wake.

And a perfect illustration of the way comics just aren't cheap, cheery and popular any more could be found by sampling the wares at the Comiket independent comics fair organised in conjunction with this very show. Comics are now a craft industry, a personal statement, a labour of love. Let's be clear - there's absolutely nothing wrong with any of that. I was an active part of that scene for many years, and enjoyed being so. Its appeal lies in the way its so unlike the corporatised, commodified world we inhabit the rest of the time. It's a scene where people do the things they want when they want to, and if anyone else likes any of it that's a plus. But it's quite a different appeal to a comics at war with a narrowly defined Establishment. It's more like a pocket universe where things are nicer.

At points the show tries to pin these new comics to the same big Moebius strip, like they're the latest twist in this one long line. It uses the term “every day life in comics” but let's call them Real Life stories (a catch-all term to incorporate biography, autobiography, virtual autobiography where the author has a comics avatar with a different name, metafictional autobiography, and all the rest). These are at absolute odds with the broad sweeps by which the archetypal comics of old were drawn. It never mattered much if, say, musclebound-gent-in-loincloth Morgan the Mighty bore a suspicious resemblance to Tarzan. The point was that the gentleman savage was just the sort of character you expected to turn up in a comic. There was no formal relationship between the black-clad anti-hero the Black Sapper and the black-clad anti-hero Dick Turpin, but they seemed cousins somehow – branches from the same twisted tree.

Real Life stories, conversely, prize uniqueness by their very nature. Implicit in Real Life's commonly seem phrase “this happened to me” is “it didn't to you”. It's not just that these comics are less political, even though they often are. If you look at some of the contemporary political comics artists, such as Edd Baldry or Isy Morgenmuffel (neither represented in the exhibition) they write about their political activism, but only as a feature in their lives – among going on holiday and watching DVD box sets. Which is a quite different approach to, for example, the World War Three collective. Who operated as... well, as a collective, with a loose but definite house style.

There's a disconnect, a growing divergence between appearance and content. Just as comics have become more individualised, more 'arty' they've also become more associated in the public mind with the crowd, with all that is bawdy and rambunctious. Notably the recent Tate exhibition 'Rude Britannia', while not a dedicated comics exhibition, assumed comics quite naturally belonged under its populist header.

Because of course its not just a type of comics that's dying off. We now celebrate the virtual crowd precisely because any real crowd is so quickly kettled by police, so soon demonised on the evening news. If an actual gang of masked hoodies gathered outside the front of the British Library, they'd probably be served a disposal order. So the 'V'-mask figures in the show come to be as much figures of fantasy as schoolkids in shorts and stripy jumpers. The less the signified, the greater the need for the signifier.

Overall, two words out of three in the title are well-placed – even if 'anarchy' isn't really earned. Which perhaps isn't bad odds. Could things have been done differently? Of course! Could they have been done better? Possibly. Perhaps a chronological structure, highlighting how comics have changed over the years, might have both emphasised what a durable medium they are and – perhaps more importantly - mitigated against any tendency to universalise. Plus, as the British Library like to go to town on set design, they would have scope to give each area its own identifying style. To pursue the painting analogy, a catch-all exhibition of painting would be more likely to show how Impressionism led to Post-Impressionism then Fauvism, rather that sticking all the still lifes in one room and the sea scenes in another.

But of course, as said, a single one-stop show isn't going to get the span of it. It could be said what we really need we do sort of have. The London Cartoon Museum, with its varied permanent collection and rotating special exhibitions, is by its nature not stuck with trying to sum comics up in one shot. If its a somewhat 'Blue Peter'-ish venue, that's in equal parts charming and frustrating. It may just be looking a gift horse in the mouth to say but, if it was bigger, we could import some of those classic continental comics exhibitions.

Coming soon: Okay, I did rashly promise I'd catch up on all my exhibition reviews. But it then occurred to me there might be more than the standard two or three people who'd be interested in what I had to say about this one. At least I kept to time-honoured tradition, and didn't get a chance to post this till the show was over. Should an unexpected tranche of time come my way, I may follow up with something on the Tate's 'British Folk Art' show. The two make up a pair, at least in my mind...

Sunday, 31 August 2014


Yes, there's a new Doctor. Yes it's further proof, as if we needed any, that Peter Capaldi is a good actor. Yes, the Tardis has had one of its periodic refits. While the credit sequence has had it's biggest 'Changing Rooms' moment yet...

But beneath the hood - it's the same old same-old, isn't it?

When the show first came back, now nine years ago, we knew the most likely way it could fail. We didn't fear the Daleks or the Cybermen, or any other monster of the month. We feared it would spend too much time looking back over the old show, from the observation platform of hindsight. That it would become too obsessed with continuity. There'd be episodes which attempted to reconcile all the different theories as to the Cybermen's origins, and there wouldn't be any general viewers. After all, that was what the old show had itself started to slip into, before it was through.

But we needn't have worried. That never happened. Instead they went back to the Cybermen and just made a whole new origin up. The show may well have had other faults. But by leaping over the primary snare it became something people could actually watch.

Yet disaster finally befell from another direction. Instead of getting caught up in the minutiae of its own history, it became mired in its own cleverness. That whole 'missing Doctor' plotline epitomises everything from recent years. Rather than obsess over actual continuity, it chose to make some up and instead obsess over that.

Meanwhile, general viewers are rewarded by being served the show they didn't watch but always imagined it was. It's been chopped to fit their expectations. Take the Daleks. Even the old TV comic strip was called 'Doctor Who and the Daleks', like they were butter and toast. But that perception was always misconception. The Daleks were off air for five years of the old show. Through reasons beyond the show's control, true. But the show still carried on. Now they have to show up at least once per season. Because that's all part of the tradition we've just invented for ourselves. And the new Doctor has to run into them pretty double quick, just to prove he is the Doctor.

Or take the Victoriana fixation. There was never any sustained link between the show and the Victorian era. True, the Doctor himself could look Edwardian – which is tangentially connected to the Victorian. But that was to make him stand out from the settings, a deliberately counter-intuitive move for a science fiction show designed to make the lead character look - to coin a phrase – differently strange. Notably the most Edwardian Doctors, the First and the Third, had the least to do with Victorian times. Yet people always imagine some such connection. So here it is. The Doctor now has a bunch of mates, the Paternoster gang, waiting obligingly amid all that Victoriana for his next re-visit.

Further, the more the show becomes obsessed with its own faux-lineage, like an upstart nouveau rich family forging coats of arms, the more it struggle to intertwine itself with British cultural lineage. And of course the apex of British history, as far as such stuff is concerned, is the Victorian era. That's when Britain was at it's most Brit-tastic. And this reduction of British history to a theme park of course has a terribly mollifying effect on our perception of history. Just as if Niall Ferguson was the historical consultant, there turns out to have been nothing really wrong with any of it at all. A nation at ease with itself has retconned gay marriage back over a couple of centuries. Well, provided it was kinky.

But it does the most violence to the character of the Doctor. He was once the aristocrat who had chosen to forsake his lineage, and preferred to hang out with the little people. The first time he went to World War Two (ironically, in Moffat's first script), he met up with a gang of orphans and street kids. The very next time he showed up was because Churchill had him on speed-dial.

Of course, 'Who' historicals were never terribly... well, historical. They inevitably said more about the era that produced them than the one they were set in. But there's something insidiously post-modern in this theme-park history, where the past is not only reduced to a dressing-up box but celebrated as such. It suggests history doesn't really happen after all, it's relationship to the present is more a kind of variation on a theme. The way we live is a given. Time is just a production line where more of it gets made.

And that seems part of the mindset which has led to things getting so stuck. I wonder, for example, just who was supposed to be watching 'Into the Dalek'. Though 'Dalek' was never mentioned by name, there's specific dialogue references to it which might seem jarring if you didn't have that context. Yet for those of us who had seen 'Dalek' the whole thing seemed such a thematic rehash they might as well have just re-shot it. We might have guessed how 'Dalek' would end up. And we might have nursed a sneaking sense it wouldn't be with the big, bad Dalek destroying all life on Earth. But the jolt of surprise comes from the effects proceeding have on the characters. We watch the stone and at first we miss the ripples emerging.

This time round, we sat waiting for it all to happen and then it did. Whoever you were, old viewer or new, there would have been a feeling the episode was actually aimed at someone else. But of course that's not the point. The point is that there's more 'Doctor Who'. It's the most long-running SF show of all and there is already more of it.

This was a show which always prided itself on its ability to revitalise itself, something epitomised by the lead character reincarnating. Its secret weapon was a reset button bigger and more powerful than any other, which could be pressed at any point. Well now that button's been pressed. With absolutely no difference whatsoever. Unless you look at the furnishings.

If I was minded to review this show now, on an episode-by-episode basis, it would be more as a cultural barometer, as a signifier of modern Britain. Except Shabogan Jack is already doing all that, doubtlessly much more ably than me, so I don't have to. I shall inevitably be sad enough to watch it. If a particular episode here or there strikes me, I may even be minded to review it. But a blow-by-blow account? Reviewing this cyclic series of events as a TV series is starting to feel like a category error.

The new series of 'Walking Dead' is here. There's a fresh Nordic Noir drama in the celebrated BBC4 Saturday night slot. My recorder's full of stuff I never seem to get a chance to sit down and watch. I expect yours is too. I have a backlog of books to read like you wouldn't believe. That's before you even start on the things I've meant to post here. So do any of us really have to bother with some more of the same, just because of the trademark at the top of it?

Sunday, 17 August 2014


…and were there ever three more disparate gigs it would be hard for the mind of man to imagine...

The Old Market, Brighton, Tues 12th August

”Like swimming underwater in the darkness
Like walking through an empty house
Speaking to an imaginary audience
And being watched from outside by
Someone without a key”

Though I only belatedly discovered Slint and their 1991 album 'Spiderland', it's still possible to see how transformative they were to the hardcore scene they emerged from. It's not much of an exaggeration to compare them to the effect Joy Division had on British punk a decade earlier. (Though in terms of contemporary sales versus long-term influence they were more like the Velvets. If now acclaimed, the world of the time was not waiting for uncategorisable new music to emerge from Louisville, Kentucky and the line above about an “imaginary audience” - that was to prove prophetic.)

Except the influence only partly correlates. If, as Tony Wilson famously phrased it, Joy Division moved the conversation on from “fuck you” to “I'm fucked”, Slint shifted things from “I'm mad, as in really quite cross” to “I'm mad, as in not all here”. They took a music aimed outward, intent on expressing it's disgust with the world, and turned its focus around. However expansive their soundscapes were, they always sounded like they were really mindscapes.

While much hardcore music was great, that may be partly a factor of the fact there was so much hardcore music. With that much mud, some was always likely to stick to the wall. And at it's worst it did play up to the idealised self-image of the teenager – a noble, uncorrupted outsider, a raging visionary refusing any compromise with the system. Slint found the teenager adrift in a senseless world, fearful yet fascinated, both tempestuous and fragile. However much more 'arty' it was, however it seemed more indirect in expression, it was in it's way a more honest account.

Slint's role in music history has now become to plug the missing link between hardcore and what came to be called post-rock. And, formally at least, this can be borne out. While for example quiet/loud juxtapositions were a staple of music in that era (with the Pixies' Black Francis later complaining of “bozo dynamics”), no-one did it quite like Slint. Their music didn't just the volume so much as explode, like a pinhole camera view bursting into cinemascope. And you can hear that effect all over Mogwai.

But, unlike so much post-rock, Slint were never simply smart or clever. As Drew Daniel said, “one can still detect the malingering presence of metal and hardcore”. ('The Wire' 362, Apr '14) Slint weren't musical polymaths so much as sonic psychopaths. Their music tended to be made up of simple elements thrown into disorienting combinations. Hardcore wasn't the flat ground they left behind when they took off, it stayed part of them and they were happy to leave their roots showing. Listen, for example, to the chugging bassline of 'Nosferatu Man'. And this hardcore bedrock stopped things straying into the opposite teenage cliché – the mawkishness of the lovelorn, the self-pitying life of the trustafarian. The quote from 'Dom Aman up above continues with the lines “He laughed at himself/ He felt he knew what that was”. All identities seemed uncertain.

Two scenarios always come to mind when listening to 'Spiderland', both part-inspired by their preference for mumbled narrative over conventional vocals. Firstly there's the old private eye movies such as 'The Big Sleep', with their deadpan voice-overs as if such flat vocal inflections will somehow impose narrative coherence over a grotesque nightmare, line up the surreal chaos into an orderly set of clues. Those films were of course influenced by expressionism, whose crazily askew angles and sharp light/dark delineations always seem analogous to their music. (Perhaps needless to say 'Nosferatu Man' is named after Murnau's 1922 film.)

But they're also somehow reminiscent of a teenage diary, written not so much as an account of events as an attempt to make a map of the world. The mumbled narratives, as if made of words that can only barely be spoken aloud, make the Spiderland it's spidery handwriting. The sound evokes a still moonlit night, in an open yet private space, some sort of solitary refuge. (Like the quarry pool of the sleeve, only in darkness.) All sounds carry, even the most mumbled vocals or the clattering of the drums. Then, just when your ears are attuned to the small sounding big, the big stuff crashes in...

Some have questioned whether Slint are really a band to see live. Which is in some ways an illustrative question, throwing into relief the way their music is simultaneously expansive and intimate. Certainly there's no live show. The front of the stage is occupied by no-one at all; Brian McMahon narrates from the side of the stage, as though trying to describe the music rather than present it. He stands stiffly at the mike, like he's never got used to the posture. The few words they say to the audience, I was later told by more veteran fans, count as effusive.

And listening to Slint does feel very much like a one-on-one experience, pretty much like reading a diary would. It's reminiscent of Kurt Cobain's description of listening to the Raincoats – you feel like you're eavesdropping, and if they knew you were there it would ruin everything. But in many ways the fact that, seemingly against the odds, the music manages to overcome all that and reach across to everyone makes the gig more of an event. Even today, even after it's been taken up as an influence by so many, it's not really music which fits in anywhere. It's just music which works...

'Breadcrumb Trail', from London...

Sticky Mike's Frog Bar, Brighton, Wed 6th August

Last time I managed to catch Wolf Eyes live, four years ago, I called them “the Stooges of noise music”. (Perhaps partly because both hail from Michigan.) And if you thought the Stooges were the Stooges of noise music, then clearly you're yet to experience Wolf Eyes!

Their website states “there is no denying the homemade nuclear war Wolf Eyes has left on music”. And the boys aint' kidding! After rock music long became a corporate brand, something to stick over car ads, the old fuck-you attitude gloriously returns. The music's an eviscerating blast, like one of those ray guns in SF films that reduce you to a skeleton. Intense and exhilarating.

Previously they seemed perfectly pitched between out-there rock and noise music. This time it was like the venn diagrams flipped the other way – they'd lessened the experimental/impro leanings to become a rock band, but still with the sheer abandon of noise. While much noise music just sounds like rock without the tunes, Wolf Eyes throw in just enough structure to gain some traction. The combination becomes virtuous, like a cocktail drug. Brighton Noise exulted “they’ve started playing actual 'songs' and they’re really good at it!” (Though newbies may want to note those inverted commas. Wembley Arena is still some way away.)

As if by way of contrast, after three support acts all solo turns, they stride on almost as a parody of a band-as-gang – sporting cut-off denim and indoor shades. For the most part the drummer played what I'm reliably informed is called a “box of tricks”, some dial-sprouting gizmo slung at his hip, meaning they effectively line up and face the audience off. I think we probably blinked first.

A while ago I quoted Mark E Smith's classic line “R+R as primal scream”. It's not so much you can't hear the words in all the cacophony, as you imagine they must have somehow gone beyond words – broken through into primitive shards of sound. It was like a jigsaw in reverse - a picture getting chopped into bits then, instead of being boxed, getting slung in your face. As said over the very different Sigur Ros, the less you're able to make out the words the more significance they take on in your mind.

For all their recent discoveries of the rudiments of song structure, they're still savvy enough to keep it to a relatively short set. It becomes a sudden jolt to the senses, a short sharp shock. Certainly, after buying a CD from their last show I found I didn't really play it much. It's a visceral experience best undergone live. And they still punctuated proceedings with a longer, more lumbering piece. If you want to keep with the Stooges analogies, it would have been their 'We Will Fall'.

Through all this sonic assault, some guy still managed to take notes as they were playing. Mate, that's even nerdier than me!

Doing their stuff in Rome...

Ropetackle Centre, Shoreham, Fri 25th July

Martin Simpson's guitar-playing and songwriting has given him one of those impeccable English folk pedigrees, a CV spattered with names like June Tabor and the Albion Band. A reliable source of gossip claims he's been nominated for the Radio Two Folk Awards a record-breaking twenty-three times.

But as if all that wasn't enough, he also led a kind of double life. For the folk-tuned Englishman is part dude, having spent many years in America soaking up the traditional music that lies State-side. Indeed his own website emphasises how his career has “combined the diverse elements of British, Afro-American and old-timey music”.

Which of course is what you might expect. After all, what's in that term 'pedigree'? People talk about folk styles as if they're putting dogs in for Crufts, proud of how they've preserved their uncontaminated breed. And that's nothing but nonsense. Folk has always lived in the cross-breeds, in the inter-changes. Folk purists can almost end up spouting the old right-wing saw about migration destroying culture. While what migration actually does is vitalise culture. Popular culture works like water. It always tries to reach the lowest level, and cover the widest area it possibly can. it doesn't take to being siloed up. Try to pen it and it will respond by trying to burst those banks. Seriously, how many folk songs are there about itinerants and restless wanderers? Compared to the number about those who stood in one place and refused to move? And the mass migration from Europe to America is a classic case in point. Think of the way English folk tunes resurfaced reworked in Bob Dylan tracks.

And as if to prove this point, Simpson is this night performing with Dom Flemons of American string band the Carolina Chocolate Drops. Sporting braces and a boater hat like he's just stepped from some sheet music illo, broad of shoulder and still broader of smile, Flemons plays off American influences against Simpson's English like the great tradition of call-and-response. He casually yet significantly calls the Atlantic “the pond”. The opening number, a cheery crowd-warmer on the popular subject of death by syphillis, segues from Simpson' English version to Flemon's American.

What follows is a whistlestop tour of cross-Atlantic folk history including - but not limited to - black performers performing in blackface, the effects of the American Civil War on the Manchester garment industry and vowel habits among southern Americans. While Simpson largely sticks to guitar and banjo, Flemons plays everything including - but not limited to - the electric kettle. (At which point Simpson instigates the crowd to cry “Judas!” at him. But it wasn't plugged in, so technically it's still okay.) For all this instrumental eclecticism, however, I may well have enjoyed most the point where they both played banjo. The banjo has a surprisingly spiky sound, given its hokey reputation.

At times you feel like they have stored in their heads not so much a great old songbook as a whole era where music was protean, before the rulebook had been written and you could pull a song together out of anything you chose. Which leads to a night of great highlights.

However... I take the point, of course I do, that authenticity in this music is naught but fool's gold, and that humour was a perpetual element. The harder that people's lives were in those times, the less they wanted songs that simply rubbed those hardships in. And Flemon's adoption of the role of Simpson's comic foil was often effective, like they were the Chuck D and Flavour Flav of folk. But for my taste there was perhaps just a little too much leaning towards music hall and show tunes. It became like a meal more composed of entrees and desserts than the actual meal part.

Yet even if that caveat preventing me from finding this a great gig, it was still well worth attending.

Given the double-act nature, we really need both a Simpson and a Flemons clip. And before you ask whether the Ropetackle has been enlarged recently, these are from Womad...

Saturday, 9 August 2014


This time, stencils found while wandering my home town of Brighton. All the news they found unfit to print makes it onto the walls. As ever, for the full set go to Flickr.

More to come. (Albeit mixed in with the usual sort of stuff…)

Saturday, 2 August 2014

Saturday, 26 July 2014


Lucky is the reader who clicks on this link to find another of my celebrated Spotify playlists.

While previous examples have almost exulted in the eclectic this one seems to stick on post-punk for most of its running time. Even if it doesn't start that way. And ends in a squall of feedback, like being caught out without a mac. But then post-punk was pretty eclectic in and of itself. I'd tell you why any of this was if I knew myself...

Beth Gibbons & Rustin Man: Resolve
Tunng: Sweet William
Morgan Fisher (aka RW Atom, aka Hybrid Kids): You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling
The Flying Lizards: Summertime Blues
The Pop Group: Thief Of Fire
The Slits: So Tough (John Peel BBC Radio 1 Session)
Blurt: The Fish Needs a Bike
The Drones: The Minotaur
The Fall: Craigness
The Tiger Lillies: The Story of the Man Who Went Out Shooting
Alternative TV: Nasty Little Lonely
Can: Deadly Doris
The Jesus And Mary Chain: Head (Single Version)
Kyuss: Writhe
Mission Of Burma: Einstein's Day
Fugazi: 23 Beats Off
Gang Of Four: Love Like Anthrax
Cannibal Ox: Ox Out the Cage

”Writer in bed insane
Clutches pen in hand
The scrawl he wrote...”

As ever some tracks remain unspotified. I wanted to use this New Age Steppers track and what I would think of as one of Throbbing Gristle's best-known numbers. Imagine them embedded in there somehow, if you've a will to.

Friday, 18 July 2014


A sequel of sorts to these posts on the scenes in Germany, the UK and the USA.

Never heard of the radical underground music scene going on in Sixties France? Well that's probably because there wasn't much of one. If, as I keep suggesting, the music was tied with the social and political upheavals of the time, then France should have been a contender of Brandoesque proportions – it had more upheavals than any other developed nation. Yet, while these did tie in to artistic movements, such as New Wave cinema, music made for something of an exception to the rule. (Check out Italy from the same era and you might come away with a similar story.)

Opinion remains divided whether France produces popular music which simply doesn't export, or whether it simply doesn't bother with the stuff at all. But that matters little here, for both point us in the same direction.

On the other hand, of course, there never was a rule that wasn't made to break. So let's home in on a couple of notable exceptions...


Reader, please indluge a personal digression...

When you're young, you can be very sure of yourself. The two or three things you know line up neatly in your head, free of tangles. So, to my mid-teen mind, music was a pretty clear-cut affair. Hawkwind were quite clearly the highpoint of everything which had happened since the onset of recorded sound. Which left Gong (pictured up top) to pick up the silver. Simples.

Not that my schoolmates were always easy to convince of this, and sometimes pearls fell before swine. I remember showing the colourful, handwritten cover from 'Live Floating Anarchy' (below) to one of my few remaining associates. He stood looking at it in some bemusement, before finally handing it back. “Is it music?” he asked hesitantly, “or is it just messing about?” “I'm really not sure,” I beamed back. But he seemed unaware that this was actually an advantage.

Yet, while I love Hawkwind to this day, over time I lost a lot of interest in Gong. It was partly hearing the later albums (from 'Shamal'), after instigators Daveid Allen and Gilli Smyth had left, which were quite definitely music without the messing about. While the old Gong had been the soundtrack to patching your jeans, things had turned to swish Euro-prog. They even had... I can barely manage to type the words... proper covers. Ugh!

But somehow, like capillary action, such sheer competent awfulness seemed creep back into the earlier stuff. Concept album trilogies on the theme of hippies getting stoned? It stopped sounded appealing. With Hawkwind aiming squarely for the systematic derangement of the senses, Gong seemed by comparison mere blissed-out whimsey.

Yet, as this clip demonstrates so perfectly, sometimes they really could go off. It makes an advantage of the very thing that would later rip apart Gong, that the French never really took to being hippies. Allen and Smyth blow in among those neat beards and button-up shirts like foreign weeds. But here the two sides blend so perfectly and effortlessly it creates a whole new thing – for which I'm not sure we even have a name yet.

Their “just messing about” is grounded and given shape by the more skilful and disciplined playing of the musicians; while the free-form zaniness gives the players a focus and an edge which keeps them away from their more noodly tendencies. It's really not so far away from how the Magic Band worked with the Captain. Plus I also love the way the backdrop isn't some lava-lamp effect but Vertov-style silhouettes of the band setting up. C'est superbe!


These young people of today. With their I-pods, their apps and that Spotify business on their mobiles. Just try telling them this, and they won't believe you...

...but in my school library there were precisely two books on rock music. Given the absence of anything similar on the shelves at home, they represented the sum total of knowledge on the subject in my world. There was the one with words in it and the one with pictures in it. Ever the English whizz, I went for the one with words in, the 'NME Book of Rock'. Then, in what seemed the logical next move, I read it.

But of course the school library was expecting that book back. In fact, from previous experience they were likely to show a strange vociferousness on that sort of subject. And another of the many things lacking in my world was a photocopier. But, in an unusual modernist gesture, I had been permitted access to my Mum's manual typewriter. So if I came across an interesting-sounding entry, I'd preserve it for posterity by copying it out verbatim.

I kept the resultant sheets of A4 in a battered red binder. My typewriter permissions didn't extend as far as being allowed to change the ribbon, a piece of maintenance now some years overdue. But provided you squinted hard at the increasingly greying text from under bright light, you could make out most of the words. Well, most of most of them.

That red binder was like my lo-fi, Babbage engine version of Wikipedia. Only with less sound files and edit wars.

It was a bit like a hungry man copying out menus from restaurants he couldn't get to. Or afford to eat there even if he could. I dreamt... I dreamt of the day when I would track down the musical sources of those sacred entries. Those strange and enthralling names – Captain Beefheart, King Crimson, the Velvet Underground – so different to the day-world of school, where things had names like Dr. Neville, Mr. Murgatroyd and Further Maths. That voyage of discovery, it would be my mission, even if it took me a lifetime.

Which is pretty much the way it worked out.

Now one of the most enticing names contained in that red folder was Magma. They were French. Which was pretty strange to start off with. Music was English. Or American. Except for the Germans who liked heavy metal. But French?

For some reason the book didn't even mention what's normally considered Magma's killer app, singing in an imaginary language that supposedly came from another planet. But it did say this:

“Formed to perform enormous, megalomaniac oratorios concerning Earth's future... Magma fall by their humourless and irredeemably pretentious concept.”

Well, naturally I was desperate to hear more.

Which required some exertion of patience. In time I'd come to hear Captain Beefheart, I'd come to hear King Crimson, I'd come to hear the Velvet Underground - and yet Magma remained elusive. Of course I'd continue to hear their name, scattered like breadcrumbs along a young music aficionado's path. The people who liked the maddest stuff, who got interested in a band just at the point everybody else was giving up on them, they always seemed to rate them. John Lydon was rumoured a fan. There was a brief rush of excitement when they played London some years ago. But all the while without my ears ever striking pay-dirt.

Today of course the instant hit of the interweb means I can hear them any time I want, without having to get up out of this chair. And of course it's correspondingly harder to find that time. So I've pretty much just dabbled in the odd YouTube link.

Added to which, they're not particularly YouTubeable. Listening to Magma clearly isn't an instant hit. You're supposed to get into them the old way, the way I got into Captain Beefheart or Pere Ubu, slowly and piecemeal, gradual acclimatisation. It's like the way LPs had a natural pause between sides, where they'd wait for you to come and turn them over. While CDs just run.

Their videos can look like you'd stumbled across the rituals of some strange cult, with no clue what it all means to initiates. For which I suppose the word is “apt”. It's not like Frank Zappa in any particular, but it is like Frank Zappa in terms of breadth and scope. Dip into two bits of Zappa from two different eras and you'd have no idea how those dots joined up – it's like that. In terms of what they do, what sort of music they make, it seems bewildering. In, you know, a good way.

Their whole other-language schtick, however grandiosely absurd, is actually kind of fitting. Discovering a new band like thisis like hearing a strange new language. At first all you could hear was the sheer otherness of it. But after a while you could pick out phrases, and even start putting them together...

But one thing I have found and do enjoy is the way they'll blend rock and classical styles so unselfconsciously, unlike the self-important look-at-me ostentation that so beset their era. And the way they don't use classical elements for ornamentation, sporting string sections like bling, but instead take up the power and force of classical music. Their name, I would guess, was chosen to combine monumentality with fluidity. And just like the magma layer oozes on with no heed paid to time and tide, they remain active to this day!

If anyone reading this is an initiate, who can speak that other-world language and could suggest a good starting point for full-album immersion, I'd be grateful for any pointers. Which wouldn't necessarily have to come on typewritten sheets in battered red binders. Just preferably.

Coming soon! The Sixties underground in Luxembourg. (Only kidding…)