Hear Here

Before I start proper: I forgot some of the performer's names from last night. When you see a _______, it's not a mistake.

What an insane night. The beatniks of lore would be proud. Approaching the gallery, you could smell the warm tang of buttery popcorn. A comfy set up of chairs and bean bags, and bring - your - own - beer. It had all the makings of an interesting event, as indeed for many reasons it was.
Michael Hesp was in full effect, doing what he does best - loud social pariahdom, with a streak of fear thrown in. Infact, he surpassed his usual antics, screaming down his megaphone in people's faces; falling over; abusing people and eventually being thrown out of the gallery only to come in and disrupt another performance (which was beautifully read by ________). I was surprised by how quickly the dude reacted, leaving his laptop and bottle behind to bring the appalingly drunk Hesp down, taking out a portion of the audience and spilling beer. 'He got me, he got me' blabbed Mike. It was almost funny.
Sliding back to the start of the performances: Ana Benloch was superb, intimating the cool (as in temp, not kudos) and plummy tones of her select automated voice recording. Fritz gave an amazingly concise and crisply dry anecdote about catfish and cyanide (a true story! - and talk about German efficiency); _________ strummed his ukelele and told a hilarious tale about learning said instrument, somehow incorporating Audrey Hepburn, cleavers and black eggs speckled with stars; Caitlin's short stories were bolstered by the addition of a very loveable dog whose barks complimented the applause at the end of each performance. Special mention to Stuart Tait, who never fails to surprise me. This time he told a wonderfully brief and hilarious faux naive story about a summer holiday. And Matt Westbrook, yeah man, very good indeed. Not forgetting Ben Neal's Bye / Buy performance which hypnotized me like Terry Riley's 'In C'.
As for David and I, let's just say I was well pleased with the reading. It's always a good sign when someone can suck on a lozenge and still speak with a tongue wrested in silver. My sincere thanks to Mr David for collaborating with me again.
But a super big up to Steve, Liz, Naomi and Jamie for yet another successful Crowd 6 event. As for Mike...yep, you guessed it: GROW UP!

Tara a bit.

Post Wunderkammer

It's not just your general public that are idiotic. Within Brum, we also have a select idiotic art public. The mind boggles. More about this later. I don't want to taint this blog with grumpiness; nevertheless - some things have to be said.
My nerves were ringing about quarter of an hour before I was to get in my cabinet. David was resplendent in his gimp suit, atop a silky mattress, his supine body tied down with delicate strands of ribbon. Presentness is grace as I recall the line from an essay. I, on the other hand felt like a clumsy oaf, with my entourage of ridiculous objects, which would not stay in place. The volume on my amp was wrong, and needed speedy adjustment before the performance began proper. Even so, as I was later told, you could barely hear the sound. No matter.
I adopted the mummy pose which I was to hold (supposedly) for the duration of the private view. Once the lid had been put down I understood immediately the painful position I had put myself in. The pressure was distributed on the tips of my skinny elbows, maybe the funny bones. Within ten minutes my arms were fizzing with pins and needles: as I was supposed to be lying 'in state'; any movements I needed to make to alleviate the pain had to be tiny. Same went for my feet - though I had a little bit more leeway because I was wearing my boots.
Then there was the breathing. This was the weirdest part and required the most concentration. At times I felt like I was suffocating - at others I was breathing regularly and unusually focused. The music I had used in my sound piece got me hyper at some points - though anyone observing me would have been at a loss to see this, obscured by a cheese face mask as I was.
This was my first attempt at a durational performance and it took me to many different, unexpected places. Pain was evident, though not foremost in the piece. Second was the awareness of myself in relation to the people around me. I felt twice removed. Hidden by my mask, then segregated by the cabinet. This was where the problems began. I can allow for people being naive, but there comes a point where sheer ignorance kicks in. For those who really should know a lot better. On more than one occasion, someone left a drink on the cabinet - and in the crucial moment which made me decide I wanted to get out, someone (not mentioning who - needless to say I think you're a CUNT) left a can of Strongbow right above my head. It was left there for about two minutes, which is a cunting long time when you're trying to concentrate and not move; incredulous and really really angry, I wanted to scream. Then my breathing became really difficult: it was time to get out. This spoiled the experience for me. Otherwise, the performance, however successful others deemed it - was rich, giving me time to reflect and think hard about future performances of a like ilk. Still I am baffled by certain individuals behaviour. People in glass houses don't throw boulders. I have only to think of when I scattered Greg Cox's sculpture with a kick at Candice's show at Moor St station. I don't want to come across as a pedant, I am amongst the ignorant: but on Wednesday someone wore the crown of foolishness so well you'd have thought they were born wearing it!

A very big thank you to Charlie and Cujo for curating such a good show, and for giving me a chance to reconstruct my badly ailing practice. There may still be time.

Pre-Wunderkammer

What is it about your general public that makes them so jaw droppingly idiotic? At first I believed my scorn to be born of egotism : look only to my withering 1997 comment 'Chimps ; all chimps' to describe almost everyone around me. Hermeticised in the belief neatly surmised by Dan Ashcroft in Nathan Barley: THE IDIOTS ARE WINNING! But I knew I wasn't the only one. The question is how far do you object without seeming pedantic?
They knock things over; they don't look where they're going; they ask ridiculous questions you don't need to answer; they lurk. Of all things I hate most it's loafers, lurkers and hangers on. They drift on the fringe of action and inertia - maddeningly poised. I wish you'd do something to break the tension.
Nowhere was this more evident than in Borders. The larger an institution the more it magnatizes the flotsam; induces the destitute hour. Perfect for loafers and non-buyers. I've seen people spend three hours just leafing through books, sullying the pages with their fingers.
If all this speaks of regimentation and haste; I assure you the opposite is true. Chill out is maximum priority at our house. But I dislike and mistrust sharing my time with passive, spectral hangers on. I insisit you give me something to do with our shared time. CHOP CHOP! Lest I become as you are.

Wunderkammer tomorrow. Maybe some pre show nerves are playing in my head.

Je suis headache

This morning I was watching Deadwood; one of the best shows on tv. In one of it's typical moments of casual and outrageous violence, two giants (Dan Dority & Captain Turner) have a royal rumble in Deadwood's thoroughfare. I was laughing at the sounds of porky fists mashing guts and blasting faces. Bone on bone! At the climax, the Captain smashed Dan's head into some rocks, but in an unexpected turn, Dan lifted his hand and clawed out Turner's eye. I was nearly sick on my cheese toastie. But then I thought: 'This is what great television's all about!' I watched it again and laughed.

Mort - Ibis : Part II

Reh! Roh! The dogs bark in binary code! When I went to dash Billy's brains in with a rock for disturbing my reading of Vurt...I though of telling you.
Too many reminiscences, but I'll try not to be remiss. I embellish and slobber over my words like a glutton: although thin. Brevity it should be, but I am prone to go on and on. With you I can't help it. All I want is to raise a famous Dan smile. Like Melville, in place of an explanation I offer a list (chronology alas falls victim to the elephantine foot of my memory, if I make mistakes feel free to amend them):

Chewing gum in Mouth Menace.
Spitting drinks in Revival.
Thomas!
It's like woah, man, yeah man, like nowhere you've ever been before man. Stalling so many times so as to cement my rep as a bad driver. I am.
Caged heat: 'I'm gonna spill a can of whup ass on ya.'
Tennis ball brain and Styrofoam vs briefcase neurotic.
Bartleby's : 'I would prefer not to' vs Bartlebooth's sculpted heel of David.
Grinding Dan Kelly's face into the back seat of the coach in Bilbao.
Crocodile vs shark.
Stinking dough.
Olbeter, of course.
Robin hood's bar.
Sack face.
Dave bladdy Pearson.
Ape etchings that made me jealous!
A crafty reef in the park.
Gandi's mania.
Peanut butter fold overs and Space Invaders music. Sock over the fire alarm.
Tudor John.
Your hilarious appearance, and surprisingly apt stint as a Dada Automaton.
'First we remove de anus': Gunter von hagens.
PI.
'Trouble!' 'What kind of trouble?' 'This kind!'
Fucking everything about Enemy Mine.
Django.
Reggae.
Jams.
Shiona.
Maeve.
Jude.
The meeting of your dad and mine underneath the Arndale.
Ibis.
Pavel & Ian.
Night and Day bar with our brown envelopes.
Er....dos san miguel, please.
Wakefield Apricot Jam.
The epic photo of you on a mountain crawling, facing a sheep.
A lyrical yarn about Cape hunting dogs and their intro to the Lake District.
Dali the horse.
DK in a lake wearing a mask of Chris, subsequently getting attacked by a swan.
The Ramblas.
POUND THE GROUND!
Dubism at Music Box.
Margaret Mitton - she's a fittun. She also wore the same boots as you, and made sure everyone knew about it, the git.
Dootson, the cyclops.
UMMMMF!
Magic Bucklers / Gwangi.
Mandolins and melodicas.
Liverpool voyages: 'Bitch! Don't you ever!' 100% blazer re-adjustment.
Catching grapes in your chops.
Betamax plateau.
Fishing hook in the mouth / lifting the fist of glory.
Electronic drum kits.... & 'needs a lick o paint'
Red King.
King Crimson.
Lemuel / Vincent / Rorschach.
Here at Lufthansa we have a certain philosophy...
KWIP!
Denterdogg.
Our encounter with Crazy Dave in his balaclava.
'Chimps...all chimps.'
'Do as I do.'

And more, so much more as you well know.


Happy Birthday mate. I love you.

Mort - Ibis

You'll see him there in the salt lagoons, balding withered parchment skin; black as deep wells. Beady eyed and wise, but prone to a preen when he remains unseen.

Zuki - proof. The sky is a burst sack of luminous krill which he hungers to gobble up and soak his beak.

A shout from his gullet,

is more than you bargain for.

Its peals are as a drowned bell, turned green by rust.

A kick from his claw can rend hills. His poise says:

I can turn you inside out and not drop a bead of sweat.


Mort - Ibis, Ibis Lagoon. Zuki proof, dipped in simoom.

Wunderkammer

I'm excited about the up and coming Wunderkammer show at Margaret St, dans le foyer. The joint curatorial genius of Charlie & Kate should make this a good event. David Miller, a.k.a The Dandy a.k.a The Merman (from our own bevvy of collaborations) and I will be performing on the night. Last time we performed together for the Crowd 6 Mingling & Mistletoe show. It was a rad blend of modern myth making and Marshall mini amps for voice projection. This time we will (hopefully) be appearing in separate exhibition cabinets; I can't account for David's performance as yet; as for my own it's in its infancy.
A recent discovery of some old cassette tapes has informed my decision to do an extended sound piece called Kasegesicht. Thanks to Babel fish for this one: roughly 'Cheese face'. So named for the character I will be appearing as on the night. Anyway, back to the tapes.
I wrote a short synopsis for the press release and that's when I remembered the 5 or so tapes I'd made between 2001-2. These combined (and in order): learned ramblings; the Pleistocene epoch; newspaper readings of shark attacks; music; typewriter recordings; dense, multi layered voices and manipulations: whistling, breathing slowed down and sped up; eating; hiding in cupboards and screaming down cardboard tubes. Hilarious! However my aims were deadly serious, and the way I come across is urgently earnest and excitable. It's embarrassing! However these are important qualities I lack in my practice now. I want that feeling back. Like the art is the most important and cathartic, sometimes maddening but always uber relevant means of my self expression and self awareness. The means of becoming engaged with an idea, no matter how frivolous it seems.
In the Chronicles of Edward Winter I took that to it's extreme. Edward Winter was my main alter ego for the duration of 2001. I went to some significant lengths to explore the colour white (my then monomaniac pursuit): shaving off my eyebrows and bleaching my hair then pasting myself white all over for a photo shoot. Then came the tape - which was a culmination of all my discoveries and ideas surrounding the colour / non - colour. This was a piece by piece dissemination, my crazy attempt to categorise (like Melville in Moby Dick) the vast implications of whiteness. Like Melville I didn't come up with a definition, just a list. But the feeling was one of: 'Wicked, at least I've tried and come up with some good shit into the bargain.'
The rugged charm of these tapes - the very rugged charm; still exerts an influence on me. Admittedly I haven't had a practice since 2006. With Wunderkammer, and like performances I hope to build something up again. Sound pieces will very much have a part to play in this.

Wunderkammer, 9th April, 6pm - 8pm at Margaret St!

Warehouse

I've recently heard that the warehouse in which I lived for two years has been demolished. We all expected it, but didn't know when it would face it's inevitable demise. Leaving there was less emotional than I anticipated. Which surprised me. That place had drawn it's share of tears and roars of laughter - mine being amongst the most copious and loudest.
It felt like there was no time for cheery reflection as we were onset with the devastating prospect of a $10k bill for unpaid business rates. This, all of us faced with the determination and grim realisation that there was no way out. However one clown, and clown is the word - for this boy was a fool, an oaf in surfers clothing, who abused his position and his privileges - thought he could do away with the significant portion he owed. Month followed month, and as most of us were forking up preposterous amounts of money to keep the venom'd tongue of the council off our backs, Mr Dan Lindsell kept a monkish silence up in Northamptonshire, in between jobs, a pikey toss pot living with his mum. Once or twice we had ventured to let him know his position, that time was wearing thin. Silence. There is nothing worse than sending a messenger pigeon out to never hear it's wings beat on the homeward passage. Whether it's that phone call you've been promised, that letter or even a fucking text. Silence. Immutable as law.
Then, late as you like, late late late in the day when we had a mere wedge of Franlin$ to hand over; though enough to constitute a months wage from hard graft : this pikey dickhead has the unmitigated audacity to send us an email saying he won't pay his way because he's filing for bankruptcy! What's more he wangles out of the stranglehold by saying he wasn't on the tenancy agreement. Jesus wept.
So, it followed that after many angry words we had to hatch a plan to get the money together. We wanted to take legal action against the bastard, but eventually realised the extra time and money was going to work against us. So the bastard leaped.
You paid cheap rent for a place that would define you for years to come and would offer you the sweetest, craziest memories of hedonism and collective energy, the brilliant art, the videos, the table with a thousand tea cup stains - that housed meetings with Reactor, Ayling & Conroy, Franko B (!), AAS, Springhill Institute; the warehouse parties which attracted throngs of 300+ people each and every time; bands like SHIT, Greg now going on to greener pastures with Battle for Prague; whereas your pastures are brown for all the shit you've spoken, spilling from your mouth, surrounding you.

Disbelief at someone who could so flagrantly eschew his responsibility at the last hurdle, has overtaken my anger. Now it's a tried and tested lesson of be careful of who you choose to live with. We made a mistake in trusting this idiot. Whereas we lost Franklin$ over the affair, Dan lost his friends and much more besides. That should remain his lesson.

Casanova

I've been reading History of my Life by Giacomo Casanova for the last few weeks. It's a beautiful Everyman's edition; weighty; with it's own ribbon bookmark (always a nice touch). The content is no less beautiful. Here was one extraordinary man: a priest; a thief; magician; gambler; traveller, ultimately a wicked diarist, whose confessions read like a more lurid Pepys, with an equal eye for detail. I've already lost count of all the women he's fallen in love with. Can't remember who sang the song, maybe Ultimate Kaos - whoever they were they were shit, but the line sticks: 'I am not your Casanova.' True enough, he did sleep with scores of women (and maybe even some men) but that doesn't make him the uber libertine some would make him out to be. Unlike the Ron Jeremys, the Simon Cowells and Wilt Chamberlains* and countless others we all know and love (or despise); Casanova elevates his encounters to the level of genius. He has an affinity and a genuine adoration for the whole personality of his mistresses. He isn't a sexual predator or a fiend - and I suspect he was a lot better looking than Michael Douglas, to boot. His joy is infectious, and his intrepid pursuits of his ultimately all - too - willing darlings, will raise a universal smile for those of either sex. SEXY TIME!




* 'Wilt the Stilt' allegedly bedded 10,000 women!

First Outing

As the eponymous title suggests, this is my first foray into blogging. After a small chat with Ana B, (herself a blogger of many years), on Friday; I decided to pick up sticks. It's taken a while. Although I have been keeping diaries for eleven years. The first one - a blue bound, gilt edged puppy with an incongrous gold Reebok design stencilled on the front, resides with E, in Bearwood. It was one of my proudest moments to exchange this book for two, maybe three of her memoirs. She was sixteen at the time of writing. I was seventeen.
I continue writing. Not every day, as I used to back then. In fact I've decided to do away with a dated diary for a year, instead using a blank ruled notebook : plain and unassuming, functional. The result is perhaps closer to one of the many areas of writing I've been exploring in my formative years as a diarist: recording thoughts without interruption. I mistrust the term stream of conciousness - the watery element I like, the adaptability of it. But it sounds wishy washy. Automatic writing sounds like you're just feeding words into a gun and letting rip. I don't know. At a guess, my writing falls somewhere in between; perhaps as a means of excusing my awful grammar or avoiding the self imposed regimentation that diary keeping can fall into. Either way, here's to't.