Started off the day by listening to the Greatest Song Ever, no questions broked, ‘Oh Happy Day’ by the Edwin Hawkins Singers (Nick Cave knows it: ‘Deanna’ is taken straight from the source)…a song that never fails to leave me tingling and shivering and tears prickling my eyes, pure inspiration.

Then, on the way back from the nursery (beautiful sunny day, as ever mourn all the sheep bleating along in the long line of motorik hum clogging up Dyke Rd), a Wedding Present song came onto my iPod - thought I’d listen to it, why not, I’m rather fond of Gedge, get more fond of him the older I become actually, song called ‘Shivers’ from their reccent album Search For Paradise, well knock me down and call me ragged but the song is gorgeous, beautiful, swamped in sumptious analogue keyboards, beautiful old organ sound, the kind of organs Steve Fisk cherishes and collects, exactly like his organs actually…hey, wait a minute, didn’t Steve produce the last Wedding Present album - these are his keyboards! Whoa.

And then straight into The Legend! (’I'm Not Like That’) and a wonderful Camera Obscura song (’If Looks Could Kill’) that I stood on the doorstep and listened to until those thunderous drums had faded into the distance.

Nice.

Posted by Everett True on Wednesday, June 28th, 2006
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Sunday night’s Zorn fest at the Barbican confused, confounded and astounded in not-quite-equal parts, and left me with a semi-rhetorical question - why, and how, did John Zorn come to be using as his latest musical starting point the life and/or works of Aleister Crowley, and was this at all an effective starting point?

I know this is a disingenuous question that I could answer with a few Google searches and conversations with more well-informed friends, probably, but I’m choosing not to, because the ‘why?’ was my first response to the music itself. Therefore I’d rather try to answer it myself, as a listener with a small working knowledge of both Zorn and Crowley.

To backtrack a little, Sunday saw the live premiere of two new Zorn compositions. One was Moonchild, a sort of noise/rock song cycle performed by Joey Baron, Trevor Dunn and Mike Patton. The other was the lengthily titled Evocation of a Neophyte and How the Black Arts were Revealed unto Her by the Demon Baphomet, which was performed by a group of singers plus harp, percussion and bassoon. Inbetween the two performances we were shown a Kenneth Anger film of Crowley’s paintings, shot lingeringly in the style of Tony Hart’s Gallery, while Zorn mixed a live soundtrack (heavy on the atmospherics) over the top. Man, he was bad at noses, that Crowley guy. And eyes. And hands. And breasts.

The film - and, unfortunately, its soundtrack - are a bit of a come-down after Moonchild, which is a dizzying, brilliant piece of art. At first, sitting neatly in my comfortable seat with maximum leg-room, I’m a million miles away from any kind of ritual, transcendent space and - more importantly - even further away from any chance of participation in the music that’s unfolding. This is wholly OK, because there’s a lot to process musically, but I do keep thinking that I should be feeling more involved, what with the Crowley thing and all - what with the notion that this performance constitutes a ritual, or, at the very least, some kind of acting out of the conflict in the novel itself, which deals with a battle between different facets of magic. This is the problem already with using a concept like Crowleyian magic(k) for a piece of music like this. Whatever your knowledge of the novel, or of Crowley himself, you’re likely to be making some kind of word associations at this point; expecting something; holding out for some maximum effect.

Luckily, my preconceptions tend towards the following tags when it comes to Crowleyian doings: camp, hierarchical, delusional, destructive, funny. A sense of sick fun that holds within it the power to get inexplicably out of hand, to the point where its protagonists are not sure how it got so, and have to invent something on the spot to explain themselves. All of the above apply to the music, but because it’s music and not impenetrable writings or bad paintings it’s much more oblique, powerful and timeless than its source material. It’s also much more reasonably ordered - Moonchild is (flexibly) scored - and offers more of a taste of (a short-term immersion in) a system than full adherence to the system itself.

So I prefer music to magic - but that’s not really what I’m trying to say. What I am trying to say is that as Moonchild progresses, I find myself genuinely lost within it, to the point where my sense of time doubles back on itself and I feel like I’ve lost some minutes somewhere in another era. There is nothing intrinsically unfamiliar about the performance itself. Patton crouches, bounces, gargles and screams; Dunn plays heavy, queasy bass; Barron pounds the drums with a quicksilver menace, managing to be simultaneously mammoth-sounding and avain - a kind of inverse Boredoms-music, dedicated to dark rather than light. Each movement follows a trajectory of creeping menace followed by thundering tantrums, or vice versa, and includes at least one sonic peak, a kind of noise-gasp where everything sparks together, the circuit is closed, there’s triumph for a moment before the questioning begins again.

But these limitations make for fascinating listening, as you find yourself navigating the piece’s vocabulary with more and more ease, and finding within what are essentially avant-rock/hardcore ’songs’ some genuine moments of warped reality. Talking of reality, it could be argued that this performance of Moonchild is as realistic a picture of (my idea of) magic as I could have hoped for: 99 per cent devising ways of calling into the void and hoping for some answer that there’s something beyond, and 1 per cent hearing it calling very occasionally back at you - and being shit scared when it does. All kinds of rock music, with its aura of scattershot testosterone, are well known as vehicles for boys wishing to dive into the dark side, but tonight’s reading of the subject matter was weirdly inspired. I started off the set sitting up straight, hands neatly folded, and ended it knocked almost backwards in my seat. Had I not been at the Barbican I might well have rolled upon the floor in excitement or set fire to myself by accident like I did that time at the Lovecraftian chaos ritual.

The Bpahomet thing – while set for an enticing grouping of singers and musicians – had almost the inverse effect, to the point where I wondered if it was perhaps intentional. Was Zorn now trying to show us the flipside of Crowley’s influence: his preciousness, his not-very-weird-at-all weird Englishness, his ridiculousness? Was he trying to create a set-piece that could in fact have come from some upper class 1920s ritual by way of 1970s TV terror (ie the age of the extended vocal technique and microtones being used in scores for BBC teatime programmes: those were the days, eh) and am-dram horror? I guess probably not, but as the white-frocked soprano uncertainly aah-ed and whispered (“I summon theeee”), and the choir did likewise, and the big drums and bells went boom and clang, it was hard not to shake the fustiness and mustiness from my head. It was music to hear behind heavy velvet curtains, echoing around heirloom furniture. It was as dilettantish as any posh sorts messing with Satan are likely to be. As summoning of demons go, it was one of the least terrifying I have ever witnessed.

Which brings me back to the question I started with, which is why Crowley? Have I answered that yet? In my own head, yes: the rococo terror of the second piece coupled with the primal intricacy and energy of the first sums up to me both the awful silliness of Crowleyian magic and the undertow of genuine force (I resist here the tendency to say force of ‘evil’ because that’s a whole ‘nother can of chaos – let’s just say ‘force of force’, because that’s more accurate) that characterises both what I know of Crowley and what I know he means to others of the generations that came after him. However, I’ve no way of knowing at this stage whether this is Zorn’s intention at any point. There’s part of me that feels he’s almost taken Crowley at face value here, which is shocking because I thought only weirdoes in the early Eighties did that, but also really beautifully audacious and funny. There’s also part of me that senses the fascination with a home-made belief system, and the translation of that into musical form. I’m also reminded (by the paintings) that Crowley’s own artistic output was so impenetrably amateurish and wrong, but also so singular and idiosyncratic and obvious, that he can serve as a good jumping off point for better, more accomplished art. The awful music committed in his name, of course, devalues that point somewhat, but I think it works in relation to Zorn. Fundamentally silly, or fundamental? The composer’s devil salute to the audience after the obligatory classical congratulatory love-in at the end leaves me none the wiser.

Posted by Frances May Morgan on Thursday, June 22nd, 2006
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so i had a guitar clearout on ebay here
and a couple of days later i found these:
the audition guitar lovingly restored to its former glory.
the red avenger stripped of all its dignity.
the other shitty guitar which was actually quite playable reduced to this and this and a few leftover bits amongst these bits.
it’s kind of amusing (especially his disdain for some of the parts) but also kinda sad.

Posted by Andrew Clare on Monday, June 19th, 2006
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Just finishing filing the 130 or so applications for the two Plan B jobs advertised a couple of weeks back…slightly overwhelmed by people’s enthusiasm and obvious passion for music and disgust at the way it’s treated within the media in this country.

One hundred and thirty! There are only two jobs going, y’know - which means 128 disappointed people. And some of these emails are just genius.

Posted by Everett True on Thursday, June 15th, 2006
(2 Comments)

there’s a new pine forest album free to download at infinite chug, it sounds like this.

also, i’m not sure if i mentioned this before but i also play in a band called i’m being good who sound like this and are playing some shows this weekend and then again in july. Come see us, it’s unlikely you’ll read much about us in magazines.

Friday, June 16th - Free Butt, Brighton, with sincabeza and project venhell
Saturday, June 17th - Cube Cinema, Bristol.
Thursday, July 13th - Battersea Barge, London
Friday, July 14th - Labour Club, Northampton
Saturday, July 15th - Leeds, TBC
Sunday, July 16th - Derby, TBC

Posted by Andrew Clare on Thursday, June 15th, 2006
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So we’re down the Marlborough, right - main support to Tim’s touching, lovelorn and understated guitar craftmanship - and we’re kicking up a fine storm, halfway between improvisation and jamming. There’s me: glasses, songs about the last days of Kurt Cobain, ‘where is my beautiful son?’, chance numbers, streetlife, counting down destruction and the odd burst of melody. There’s Chris (Crayola Lecturn) blowing up a dissonant squall on sax, ably complimented by Alistair from Hamilton Yarns on crooner’s trumpet. There’s Andrew Clare, biting back the urge to let rip with a sudden frenzy of sound. There’s Noah Taylor, tattooed and lean, folding back into his array of strange effects pedals. No one’s watching, not really - Jack Sargeant and partner, chortling occasionally, wondering if I’m reading from notes (no) - tables dimly-lit, when suddenly there’s a hen party walks in.

Whoa! The Legend! live in front of a hen party (they were on their way to a ‘house’ club). Nice work.

……and later, I’m sat next to Nick Cave…..

Posted by Everett True on Friday, June 2nd, 2006
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Found this while cruising the web a few minutes ago. Thought I’d share it with you.

A REAL TURKEY
Some people like THE CRANBERRIES. EVERETT TRUE and TAYLOR PARKES don’t.

THE CRANBERRIES
TO THE FAITHFUL DEPARTED

Reasons to hate The Cranberries.

1) Dolores O’Riordan. Her arrogance. Her petty small-mindedness. Her redneck worldview. Her incessant preaching. The fact you can actually see the mean-spiritedness of her thoughts imprinted on her pinched little face. Those American flag jumpsuits. Her cold love of money. The way she’s Sinead O’Connor for people who can’t confront even elementary contradictions. Her anti-abortion stance. Her absolute lack of self-irony. The way she makes even the most fundamental and wonderful emotions sound trite. The way America loves her cliched, stereotypical take on Ireland. Her reduction of serious political issues to 10-second sound-nibbles. Her dress sense. The obscene way she made legions of students slow-dance to the most crushingly banal political lyric (“And their tanks and their bombs and their tanks and their guns…”) since Paul McCartney’s “Give Ireland Back To The Irish”. That wedding.

2) Dolores O’Riordan. Her smug conceit masquerading as concern for all mankind.

3) Dolores O’Riordan. Her lyrics. The fact that no one in her obviously highly technological camp has bothered to buy her anything more than a Second Year rhyming dictionary. The fact that she sees fit to write a song about John Lennon – a bigoted, misogynistic, self-loathing, tantrum-prone asshole who also happened to write some great songs – 15 years after the event, and gloss over all his faults. The fact that she does so by writing the infantile lines, “It was a fearful night of December 8th/He was returning home from the studio late/He had perceptively known that it wouldn’t be nice/Because in 1980 he paid the price…With a Smith & Wesson 38/John Lennon’s life was no longer a debate.” The fact that every person in her camp is clearly so in awe of her (temper? Power? Capacity for retribution? Fragile ego?) that they didn’t take her gently to one side and go, “Er, Dolores, perhaps it’d be better if someone else wrote the lyrics…”

4) Dolores O’Riordan. Her videos. You know how much Dolores hates to be typecast as a “thick Paddy”? Has she actually watched any of her own videos? The way they reinforce received notions of Ireland as a backwards country populated entirely by broken-toothed, bowl-headed, crying schoolkids in grey V-neck jumpers dancing around streets lit by the occasional Armalite flare? And the odd horse – y’know.

5) Dolores O’Riordan. Her lyrics. Guess whose only contact with “real life” has been MTV news and the occasional venture onto the street outside the Four Seasons? Check “War Child”: “I spent last winter in New York and came upon a man/He was sleeping in the streets and homeless, he said ‘I fought in Vietnam’…” You fucking patronising, prematurely middle-aged cow.

6) Dolores O’Riordan. Her music. The opening song here (“Hollywood”) starts like Stiltskin. Only not as good. Then we’re onto Foreigner territory. With the odd mandolin thrown in, for “local” colour.

7) Dolores O’Riordan. Her lyrics. Check “I’m Still Remembering”: “They say the cream will always rise to the top/They say that good people are always the first to drop/What of Kurt Cobain, will his presence still remain?/Remember JFK, ever saintly in a way….” (Yeah, and an adulterous ego-maniac who started the Cuban Missile Crisis and the Vietnam War, in another way.) Check: “Bosnia” (no, seriously, folks) – “Bosnia was so unkind, Sarajevo changed my mind…Rummmpatitum, rummmpatitum/Traboo, traboo, traboo…” (We’re quoting from the official lyric sheet.) The theremin and musical box used (spookily!) to spice up the music have the unfortunate effect of making the song sound like something from “The Twilight Zone”.
The situation in the former Yugoslavia seems to have particularly troubled Dolores while she was writing the songs for this album (what’s wrong, dearie? Nothing better on TV?). After all, as she helpfully points out in the heady, emotive (all right: we’re lying) “Free To Decide”, “You must have nothing more with your time to do/There’s a war in Russia and Sarajevo too.” This is, incidentally, the most perceptive insight she offers throughout. (Who are the people who take this woman seriously? Where do they live? Where do they go to at night? Please don’t invite us.)

8) Dolores O’Riordan. Her voice. The way she turned what was a dazzling, intoxicating gift into an atonal cornkrake skree by infusing it with her personality. Now it emparts no emotion of any kind, save for pettiness, bitterness, self-righteousness. She tries to suggest such broad sweeps of emotion with her songs but, somehow, they always end up sounding so fucking small.

Not that we’d want to belittle her.

-Melody Maker, April 27, 1996

Posted by Everett True on Friday, June 2nd, 2006
(3 Comments)

Dear PR who sent me the album by Mikaela’s Fiend,

I can’t remember which PR you are, but I think you’re one I trust, and that your CDs come in foreign-stamped packages, and I like those. Anyway, you sent this through in good time for last issue, and I put it on the albums list and no one picked up on it or reviewed it, the fools! I should have done it myself, but I was super busy and I thought maybe someone else would do it. I described it as: “Two teenage boys who are like some kind of baby Lightning Bolt from Seattle. Sick riffs and fake-jazz-metal drumming and some occasional samples and an audience of shy noise kids with their arms folded.”

I think that last bit of the sentence put people off, so maybe it should have continued “…watching while the band fling themselves around and go nuts and bounce off stuff!!!!” Anyway, my fault either way, but now I’m doing a ritual cleansing of all the music from my desk, and the best things I’ve found/refound so far are a new album by Metalux, and this Mikaela’s Fiend release (We Can Driving Machine on SAF records. It is definitely the most fun of the two. It’s one of the most truly playful albums I’ve heard in ages - pretty much every song works on the premise of “OK, so what happens if we…?” and then the premise of “YAY!!! That’s what happens!”, and it doesn’t matter that much if other people have made that discovery already, because it’s so fun trying stuff out, and it sounds great.

Mikaela’s Fiend are basically a pretty good guitar-and-drums-and-ring-modulator representation of the sound of how it feels when you’re in a moshpit and you fall over but it’s OK, times a million, in a few different time signatures, at full volume, wildly distorted and all sped up. Thank you for sending me their album, it is loads of fun.

FMMxx

Posted by Frances May Morgan on Thursday, June 1st, 2006
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