this is a plug. I’m Being Good are playing at the freebutt in brighton this sunday, november 21st, supported by Raised By Wolves and Projections (ex Cat On Form).. i believe we will get away with it.

Posted by Andrew Clare on Friday, November 19th, 2004
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They said it was their last ever gig, but as I recall they were always saying that. It was 1.30am and I was still deciding whether or not to go and see the last ever gig by my first ever band. A few glasses of wine and one midnight-blue vintage frock later I decided that to miss this would be probably the biggest example of gaying out known to woman. So it was that not many minutes later I was in the warm, glowy, smoky noisebox that is Hugo’s Speaker Palace, hugging hello to all and sundry and bouncing with excitement. And smiling. And watching my first ever band play their last ever gig.

I could write a whole volume about the good vibes in the place that night. The people I hadn’t seen for a long time; the new friends to catch up with; the boy who danced so beautifully while shouting Serge Gainsbourg facts in my direction. The amazing little coversations that reminded me just how lucky I’d been to come across such fine, eccentric and scintillating people over the last however many years, and the unhinged dancing to Fela and Kraftwerk and, um, Gold Chains. But whatever. The reason I’m posting this is to remind those of you who know - and to tell those of you who don’t - what a fine band They Came From The Stars (I Saw Them) were, and are, and always will be.

Here’s my version of the story. It will be contested by others, no doubt, but this is how it seemed to me. The Stars were formed in early 1999 by three of us. Two genuis men filled with righteous anger and twisted humour, and one very naive young lady given to cooing over analogue synthesisers. A drummer who centred us all with Liebezeit zen precision, and a succession of bassists. And a revolving cast of thousands: stylophone owners, horn sections, girls whose function seemed solely to play bad xylophones and look good (never sure about that one), friends and neighbours - as many as we could cram onto the little stages we played on. There was a lot of bad post-rock around at the time; a lot of one-word band names and tasteful minimalism and sensible jumpers. We were prog-punks, then, given to enlightenment through ridiculousness and incredibly untidy finesse. Our aim was to excite. Taste was, we said in one song, pointless. Which is easy to say, but to then back it up by your clothes, actions and sound really means business. Sigil-embroidered cloaks, sandals with socks, rain wear, hats with radios in, a stonewashed denim dress (worn by the boys of the band, of course), a selection of head jewellery and sparkly snoods were all involved, at various points, before we settled on the white robes thing. Likewise, in among the crafted pop and kosmische freakouts you’d hear reminders of things you’d rather forget. I guess the point was to ask why you wanted to forget them in the first place. Or something like that.

We played a lot that first year, and argued constantly. Gigs were performed with strict costume rules: this time we’re all in blue; the next it’s Special Sports Day. Next to where Herbal is now on Kingsland Road, some friends of ours had a ’space’. There was a hole in the floor and some very dark corners, but for me it was all my Warhol dreams made real. A memory flashes into my head of me trying to play the bontempi dancehall refrain of ‘Work it for Bob’ while next to me a speaker bursts, literally, into flames. Other memories mostly consist of things Not Working. This isn’t surprising, considering the amount of stuff (Atari, violin, that box that made noises, whatever) we’d bring onstage - after that, playing in a band with guitar-bass-drums-singing would never do it for me. Multitasking for the good of the universe, we’d struggle gamely and hit some incredible highs. And we made people happy.

In 2000, we got our shit together a bit more, and toured the UK and began to record. After a show in Bristol, we drove to Avebury and watched the sun come up, still in our white stage costumes. And then it got sticky. Personal lives got twisted. I hit 23 and all chaos, inevitably, broke loose. Hearts got mashed and the remainder of the recording sessions played out in an atmosphere fraught with sorrow and invention - despite which, reviewers often remark on how much fun it sounds like we’re having. I was asked to leave, and, completely crazy in love with someone to the point that I didn’t really care about music anymore (a mistake I won’t make again), I did.

But it was after that, let’s be honest, that the Stars came into their own. This shit was serious. While the records that subsequently came out featured my playing, singing and writing, and while I sulked like all hell as a result, this was a labour of love just as intense than me following my heart. It was interesting to read people’s opinions of ‘our’ stuff: they picked up so much on the playfulness and the eccentricity, but few explored the manifestos therein. I guess this wasn’t helped much by the Stars’ live shows, which would feature white-clad testifiers Horton and Alex out-proclaiming each other over a barrage of saxes and trumpets and polyrhythms. This was a fun band, sure, but they were in earnest, and it took a bit of work to pick up on that. You’d be forgiven for not caring, and just smiling along with the songs.

It all got exciting when the Christmas single came out. I heard there was proper airplay and all sorts. I was still sulking at this point, and contrived to miss it all. But I was proud just the same. The refrain of ‘it’s good to see you, good to see you’ seemed to be everywhere, and - when I wasn’t being cynical and envious - all our ur-pop intentions made real. It was inevitable that the Stars most people will remember will be this incarnation of them - their more light side, I guess - and not the blazing insanity of much of their other stuff, but that’s people for you.

And so there came to be this last gig. For the last year or so things had been odd with the band, with this weird excess of talent spiralling around with no clear destination, so I almost expected it to end at some point (although the amount of times I heard ‘this band’s fucked, I’m sacking everyone!’ from a certain member did make me used to such announcements of finality, and therefore believe that it would never really happen). And it ended with a fucking bang, let me tell you.

There was probably much to criticise about Friday’s gig. But what was more important than any technical perfection was the spirit of pure and frenzied joy that hung over everyone. Percussion breakdowns went on for hours, and horns shrieked into the night as Alex and Horton chanted the ‘people are subject to change’. Whether it was the last show or not, it felt like one, in the best possible way. All the years of complexity mixed with all their innate spontanaeity spun itself together and burst out into the ether like a huge peal of laughter, rumbling like thunder and funny like elephants.

If I was writing rock histories, bands like the Stars would get whole chapters. Their early almost-anti-music stance came from a deep, visceral love of what music could do and a hatred for what it seemed to settle for doing. They had the sound of all the best psychedelic music; that is, the sound of trying to get to that point, reach that light, see things as they really are. Whether any music succeeds in this is an argument in itself, and I’d say not. But it’s that sound a skewed leap for perfection, really striving for something outside of yourself; it gets me every time.

So I skipped out of my first band and caused no end of problems. I went off and started writing, which I know they’d see as a poor second in artistic terms. But I had some of the best, the worst and the most illuminating moments of my young life through my involvement with They Came From The Stars (I Saw Them), and guys - if you ever want your authorised biography written, you know where to find me.

It was good to see you. Good to see you. Just wish you’d played ‘Block Rock’ is all.

www.isawthem.com

Posted by Frances May Morgan on Tuesday, November 16th, 2004
(8 Comments)

I was sifting through the pile of receipts and old bus tickets and I found the credit note for Totem Records, left over from my last swapping-shopping expedition. The sun was shining and I wanted some new music that hadn’t arrived in a jiffy bag, so I jumped on my bike and headed off to N16, the part of town that was my manor for six years, with that happy, fizzy feeling in my stomach that anyone about to go and buy a bundle of old vinyl must surely recognise. I’d shackled the bike to the lamp-post and got almost to the door before I noticed all was not right. There were holes in the window display and boxes on the floor. There was a sign in the window that said CLOSING DOWN. And that everything was half-price. I wonder if there’s a word for the feeling of joy that the words ‘half-price’ on the window of a great record shop induces, when mixed with the sinking feeling generated by the words CLOSING DOWN. If there isn’t I will try and think of one.

I went in. They weren’t kidding. They really were closing down. I’d expected this for a while; when I went in over the summer to find some Gal Costa for my sister’s wedding do the shop had looked a little empty and the counter had moved forwards in a funny way. But I never expected it would really close. See, Totem Records is - and still is, because it’s not quite closed yet - one of the finest secondhand music shops in the whole of London.

When I first moved to the area, back in 1998, I found myself in another paradoxical situation I’d like to find a word for. Namely: being round the corner from one of the nicest shopping streets ever, one that was built with me in mind (there’s even a violin shop), and being completely penniless. I’m talking real bottom of the heap dole scum here, real skip-run poverty. It was a great time, one of my favourite times in many ways: I was 21 and in a band, being creative every day, dancing to Neu! by night, blagging everything I could get and partying the way you only can when you’re completely skint. It was pragmatism in action, and the sympathetic streets of east London resonated with centuries of making-do and DIY and manifestos for better living. And free parties. But there was this record shop round the corner, and it was like Tantalus with the goddamn grapes. I would just go in there and look at stuff, sighing. Eventually I gathered up a bunch of the ill-advised post-rock records I’d spent my student loan on and got swapping.

One time, having spent about half of one credit note, I lost the remainder. I went in and explained this to Tony, the wonderful proprietor, expecting him to laugh and send me on my way. How much was it for, he asked. I told him; he wrote me out another there and then. What a dude.

Totem’s selection was an odd mixture of the classic and the plain weird, a lot of which was priced beyond anyone’s idea of what was realistic, unless you were mad (as I often wondered I might be as I stroked some rare piece of experimental jazz and wondered what I could get away with not paying this month in order to have said item). Like there was this one record of the Incredible String Band playing a benefit concert for L Ron Hubbard that was going for £100. It was most likely awful. It is still there, after a few years, and I wouldn’t mind betting it will still be there when the doors finally close.

But between records like this and the standard secondhand fare were some amazing pieces of music, some of which hold very special places in my heart. The Sixties psych section was a wonderful delight, as was the selection of modern classical stuff. It was from this shop that I got into Fela Kuti, Pharaoh Sanders…and Magma’s soundtrack to Tristan and Iseult. It was here I found the Beach Boys 7″ with ‘Celebrate the News’ on the b-side.

And now it was all half price. I called Leee, told him the news. I often call Leee when I’m in a record shop. Not only does he get a vicarious thrill from hearing about your latest score, he also points you in other directions. This time he instructed me over to the Industrial section. They had some old Total stuff in there last time I looked, he said. And some Ramleh.
Sadly, all I could find was SPK. Next, my phone instructor and I headed to the Krautrock section (it was like some muso treasure hunt or supermarket sweep all of a sudden), but it was mostly Roedelius solo stuff. No matter.
Yes, a lot of the ‘good stuff’ had, I could tell, already gone. But there was a section that I knew the Stokey blokeys, with their Hornby-esque love for classic rock, wouldn’t have plundered, and I was right. The African section was mine, all fucking mine, and I got me an armful of juju and Ghanaian dance bands that will keep me happy for weeks to come, including the above rare King Sunny Ade record which is probably one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard in my life. Serious.

And some other stuff too. All you need to know is that Anthony Braxton and Royal Trux were involved

As I headed to the till, I finally got to do something I’d always wanted to do, which was to buy something from the wall. The wall was where all the special records lived. Finally, with the credit note and the half price both, I got to score a wall-worthy record. It is quite unlistenable free jazz and I love it. I handed over my money and I asked Tony what had happened. The rents on Church Street were going up and up, he said. I nodded; this I knew already. How else to explain the disappearance of everything good from this most lovely of streets, to be replaced by Fresh and Wild and shops selling over-priced cowboy boots? It was the way of the world, and one of the last bastions of good shopping was on its way out, soon to disappear into history the same way that naive 21 year old dole-ite with a head full of big plans that was me seems now like more and more of a distant memory.

I didn’t know what to say, so I thanked Tony for having such a lovely shop. He thanked me for being a lovely customer, and kissed my hand, all gentleman-like. I felt bad for having moved away from Stokey and not spending more money there, for only swapping stuff, for getting into downloading and for going to Vinyl Vault and the big Oxfam in Dalston instead. But there was no amount of rare vinyl I could have purchased that could have saved Totem, or the Vortex jazz club opposite, also closed. I just hope I can keep the violin shop going, and the bookshop where the owner plays Shirley Collins records to his customers. Or the other bookshop where I found that Edwardian book about a mongoose called Pig. With photos.

And there’s another thing there should be a word for: people who hate shopping in proper big shops, but love this kind of shopping. Although if things go on like this, there won’t be any righteous shops for us left, and we’ll have to go further and further afield to get our fix of hidden treasure.

I know that places have to change and rents have to go up. But in squeezing out all the independent traders on Church St., those who are doing so are squeezing out all the reasons why it’s such a ‘desirable’ street in the first place, and making it just like every other alterna-Babylon, full of whimsical kids’ clothes and expensive coffee. Yet the street’s as busy as it ever was, settling-down hipsters and couples with three-wheeled buggies promenading the narrow pavements every weekend, buying expensive cushions for their pretty homes. You can’t begrudge them that, but you can feel sad, and I do. Totem wasn’t just about buying old history too. It would stock records by and flyers for new local bands and events, and had a huge noticeboard where you could post anything music-related. I used to love reading it; it confirmed all my hopes that I lived in a part of London where people cared about music and wanted others to care about it too, whether they were offering piano lessons or trying to form a punk band. I was all set to ask if we could sell Plan B there too.

Totem’s website is down for now, but I’m hoping that it’ll come back again soon, once the records have a new home, and it can continue trading as mail order. In the meantime, I urge you to get over to Totem Records, Stoke Newington Church Street, London N16, and buy what you can over the next few days or so. There’s a Pierre Henry with your name on it, and piles of twelves that I didn’t have time to wade through.

Just don’t go and have your coffee at Fresh and Wild afterwards.

Posted by Frances May Morgan on Friday, November 12th, 2004
(21 Comments)

It’s one of the enduring mysteries of so-called Party Shuffle (the esoteric implications of which have been discussed previously on this very blog) that it pretty much always throws up a Heldon track, and pretty much always this one - despite me having but one Heldon album, Electronic Guerilla, on there (one being quite enough, thanks).

I’m not complaining, mind, I just wonder why it is that my computer has such a thing for French synth-prog. Maybe it’s trying to tell me something. Maybe Heldon are trying to tell me something. Maybe Richard Pinhas is affronted at being left off that weird prog thread that’s trundling away on the Plan B forum. I heard those French prog groups were big on psychic warfare - or maybe that was just Magma….but I’m taking no chances. Here’s to the French Fripp. And Magma. Now leave me alone.

Posted by Frances May Morgan on Thursday, November 11th, 2004
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Amazing what you can discover while fact-checking the albums section: Futile Hurling

Posted by Everett True on Wednesday, November 10th, 2004
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Another EMI punk compilation. This one’s called ‘Gary Crowley’s Punk Rock Jukebox’. More Jam, Saints, Damned, Blondie, Motors, Wire. More lettering designed to look like Jamie Reid’s cut-and-paste newspaper jobs. More fucking PINK and YELLOW. Jesus. Do graphic designers have no ideas of their own at all? Stand up and be counted, Alex Creedy, the man responsible. The man with no ideas beyond copying someone else. The man so bereft of imagination he isn’t afraid to parade it.

I love ‘punk’ collections. Will play each and every one. Can’t fault the songs.

Can definitely fault the lack of imagination on the part of the designers, compilers and researchers, however.
——————-
Three nights ago, saw Nick Cave at Hastings Pier: wrote a report for my column in the new Artrocker weekly music paper. David McNamee’s also written an ace review for the new issue of Plan B, and our driver Chris from La Momo has posted his own account, here.

So I think that’s that covered, then.

Posted by Everett True on Saturday, November 6th, 2004
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Man, it’s grey. So grey it makes me think of Seattle, of the winter I spent there where it rained every single day for 93 days, and if you weren’t drunk you were sad and if you weren’t sad you were deliriously happy and if you weren’t deliriously happy you were lying flat out on your back in the snow. I’m going back there soon, to write my book. Everything’s prepared. Except me. I’m not sure I want to go.

Someone’s just offered to fly Plan B to Libya in January.

Posted by Everett True on Tuesday, November 2nd, 2004
(4 Comments)

Tom Artrocker speaks with characteristic candour about Peel in his latest newsletter. He also misses the point, Yes, he’s right there’s an awful lot of humbug about a man that “none of us have listened to for 15 years” (his words). Of course you haven’t listened to him for 15 years, Tom. You’ve grown up, moved on, discovered fresh sources and routes for yourself. The reason Peel is so cherished is he helped so many of us along that path of discovery when help is most required - at the start. You’re older, Tom. I’m older too. I never really listened to Peel, didn’t need to. His influence was palpable everywhere I looked.

Posted by Everett True on Tuesday, November 2nd, 2004
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Played a show as The Legend! last Thursday. It was incredible. Danya and Ollie added a storm of noise and feedback and gentle Sixties shoegazing chords: we played three songs, 10 minutes each. Each one entirely improvised, although we discussed the entry - Ollie searing on a note of feedback, I singing ‘Baby I Love You’ deadpan, Danya joining in on harmonies. The second song was my favourite - people had warned me that I was coming across as too violent on stage, so I decided to do a ‘noise about love’ set, and sang the entire second song at my wife, lyrics improvised to suit. It was the enflamed three-part harmonies that really got me. For the third song - Danya’s, mainly - when I stepped up to the mic, D and O began making out while still playing guitar, ending up horizontal behind me.

The Pipettes were their customary coy sweetness: Electric Bull were exceedingly quiet. More like Acoustic Bull.

Three nights later at the Hanbury, Mudlow were about the scariest damn local band I’ve seen since the demise of Crawl Limbo: gritty, absolutely un-PC pub blues sung with a low rasp and roar, guitar as nasty and swampy as you want. Two saxophones - or was one a sousaphone? - thrust stage-front, showing exactly why the electric guitar is such a poor sax substitute (in the words of Lydia Lunch). Songs were lewd, deliciously so. Like Dr Feelgood given an injection of Detroit soul. Ow.

The X-Osettes rocked, too. Of course they did. As do any band that mix the sheer emotional power of early Saints to Sixties girl group covers - particularly (as ever) on the versions of ‘River Deep, Mountain High’ and ‘Chapel Of Love’, Paul belligerent and shouting between numbers, and rightly so.

Posted by Everett True on Tuesday, November 2nd, 2004
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If you see a woman in a black hoodie crying at Brighton station, snuffling into her sleeves unashamed, take a look and make sure she has headphones on under the hood. If so, it’s probably me, listening to Josephine Foster and her band Born Heller. And if so, then I am fine, and please don’t be embarrassed or concerned. I am not sad. I’m just overfuckingwhelmed by this song. And a little tired, admittedly, and probably a bit hungry, but mostly just happy. I’ve been spending all day helping pull a magazine into shape that I think is one of the prettiest looking and finest reading magazines I ever saw. And if that isn’t enough, I get to listen to Josephine Foster as I find my way back to London in the new winter dark. While some more sane part of me recognises the danger of seeing too much of yourself in any art, this is music I know, simple as that. I read Everett’s sleevenotes for the Daniel Johnston compilation, and understand exactly what he means, as I swap the Born Heller for my other favourite song of the day, Johnston’s Walking The Cow, a song which, despite repeated plays over the years, never stops haunting me. Then I play M Ward’s cover of Story Of An Artist, which sets me off again; tears at East Croydon making the station lights go blurry and sparkle-edged. Again, I’m not sad, I’m not blue, I’m just in love with a song. If you asked me if I was OK I’d just hand you the headphones so you could hear for yourself.

Stop by at Grace’s, to hand over a minidisc and talk ideas and tell tales. Finally get home, to the sound of Feist, which I decide is my new least favourite record of the day, if not the week, but my wife is cooking to it, and she is cooking me a big dinner, and she thinks it’s a great record. We compromise with an airing of Big Star’s Radio City, and then I play her Daniel Johnston. She’s never heard him before. I hold my breath, in case she tells me to turn off that depressing shit. But instead, I think she really likes it. And then I’m on my own again, and if you think listening to Jandek right now makes me depressed or depressing you’re very, very wrong.

I’m thinking about my weekend, of the gig I played in Colchester, of all places, of the drive there in the bright autumn afternoon across the badlands of my East Anglian youth, looking strangely romantic and bleak and lovely now that I didn’t have to live there. Of the arts centre, where people sat and listened to our music; of my incipient cold that disappeared the minute I got on stage, or at least subsumed itself into my violin and bass until every note had the tinge and shake of fever and sorrow about it, and I almost toppled over at the end of one song. [Note to self: do not wear kitten heels next time you play a gig with a slight temperature. You are not used to it. Stick to the sneakers] Of the spaces and silences and the long notes and bursts of loudness. and of the way we were so pleased afterwards we all smiled and hugged, and chatted all the way back in the car, a time that I’d earmarked for sleep.

I’m thinking of the Sunday when I had to do some casual labour in a bookshop, selling Isabel Allende and yoga books to the mums of N16 and being sighed at for having sold out of the new Trinny and Susannah book already (God, I am so sorry; look, why don’t you buy a real fucking book instead, lady?) and awarding the Morgan award for most pointless book of the day to the Barefoot Doctor’s latest offering. Thinking of how I got through it my usual way - balancing on the edge of the thing you stand on to put books on the shelves, trying to get as close to falling off as you can without falling off. this is fun, honest - making myself feel good and sick with a few chapters of chick-lit - rearranging the popular science section - listening to Bert Jansch - reading Frank O’Hara behind the counter - and thinking, soon I’m not gonna be doing this anymore. Thinking of arriving for work an hour early (no-one TOLD me about the clocks! My gran used to remind us every year but now no-one bothers) and having a walk in the cemetery, thinking ‘Wheat’ would be, like, a totally cool surname to have.

It occurs to me that I can only listen to this music when I’m tired; that the detuned guitar only rings the right way around a very sleepy head.

Posted by Frances May Morgan on Tuesday, November 2nd, 2004
(8 Comments)