5 Years of Mind on Fire

Allen Ginsberg saw the best minds of his generation destroyed by madness. We've had the distinct displeasure of watching our's nullified by sanity. Aspiring musicians spend more time learning about the industry than improvising, while shoes and haircuts have become the defining characteristics of punk. The spirit of adventure is becoming a rarity in music these days, as typified by the corporate circus of the mundane which graces the venues of Manchester each year- I'm far too tactful to name this annual alter to Moloch, which under the guises of showcasing what's “In” in “The City”, opens its doors to Southern Oligarchs who, for a small fee, can take their pick of our prettiest young bands, all nicely lined up- bare asses splayed ready for the big time. Through the hideous echoes of hollow laughter, jargon pierces the skull. Beneath the nauseating odour of overweight balding men - all dowsed in the same cologne- the smell of bullshit is always there, demoniacally clawing at our spiritual nostrils.

As I walked into Islington Mill on Saturday night, I was immediately reminded why I've been proud to be associated with Mind on Fire for the last five years. As others have sold out, MOF have, somehow, retained that sense of adventure- somewhat akin to sticking your balls in a rats nest and trying to pull them out while you still have something left. There's another word for it... Fun. As the Mind on Fire House Band bounced from Dub to Hip-hop to Afro-Beat to just about any rhythm they cared to conjure, I entered the time machine of my mind. Suddenly, I'm much younger staggering around Po Na Na on a Tuesday night dancing like mad, with a mouth full of love hearts and acidic sweat soaking through a cheap Hawaiian shirt. Handshakes. Sick tunes. Now we're in the Garrett skinning up while Wols (not yet the International sensation of modern days) is on the decks laughing and Loga's vomiting into a pint glass. Gigs and gurning, the twisted wreckage of God knows how many coach trips. Who was the last man standing?

And back to the start. When I first met Joe and the crew five years ago, it was in the Music Box. Or maybe it wasn't, but for the purpose of this story it must have been. I was a student, lacking any academic ambition, but hoping to find a city full of musicians, poets and artists. Now, I know all too well that this was a naivety which a thousand comedowns and Manchester winters would soon kick out of me. But that's exactly what I found. Before long the few jazz chords I could barely pry out of my guitar had been transformed by a band of musical wizards into something I could never have hoped for. Next thing you know Go Lebanon are playing in Marbella's Cafe, cops crowding the room and demanding that we shut the night down. The GMP hates music. The trick is not to let them get to you, but if, somehow, they do, NEVER let them stop you. Even if they stop you.

Five years on, and some of the faces have sprouted a bit more hair but nothing changes. We're still sucking from the tits of the chronic mammal. We're still straight from the M16, with rhythms so potent they might just set absent minds on fire. There's no use fighting it, even if I can't think of a way to name check Making Faces. And I'm still in the Mill and the House Band is tearing the place a new asshole. The hypnotic Cycloptic visuals that have been a staple of Mind on Fire, are on full display tonight and party hats are bouncing across the floor. This is what it's always been about, putting on parties for people who like to party with people who like to party. Bullshit free entertainment, leave your ego at the door. Mind on Fire is all about creating a Mecca for people who recoil in disgust at cheesy tag lines like “Home of Forward thinking music”- no wait, sorry, I got carried away for a second. But I guess you can't have everything.

Rocks

Man sits on cliff edge, watches the devouring jaws of Poseidon grind against sharp black stone. Three nights without sleep, made manifest in body bag eyes and trembling hands. The prodigal son can not return home. Even if he did, the lock's changed.

Smokes endless cigarette while trying to patch the fractured thoughts into one. The lock has changed. Pulls age old watch, gold engraved, from a torn jacket pocket. Time. The crippled second hand limps in Saturnine circles, each dying click followed by an hour of silence. He smiles for the first time in weeks. Time, an elusive phantom hidden from those who need it, refuses to move when no longer required- a drunken buddha, eyes locked on an unworthy disciple.

Man tosses watch, the relic of a father's father- strangers both- over the edge. Generations lost, history forgotten and hope of the future disappears into the chasm. Now. It's a long way down, but it's even further to get back up- and this is the end of the track. Sisyphus refuses, and with a finger of defiance pointed at Zeus, Jesus, Sigmund Freud or who ever the hell else might be listening, screams "This boulder shall burden me no more!". A laugh escapes his chapped and bleeding lips as he feels the weight for the last time. Let go.

Takes one last drag, pulling himself to frozen feet and legs which shake beneath him. Arms spread like the fallen angel Xaphan, Ocean spray replacing the smouldering abyss. He might have made it.

If he hadn't hit the rocks.

From the Archive- 03/10/06

It came as quite a shock to a fairly sheltered young man like myself. For days I tried to deny it. The first step was to blame the liberal media for making up slanderous stories about a truly great man. But it didn't add up. What could those swine in such far left news outlets as Fox and ABC have against this visionary songwriter to make up such intricate lies. We're not talking your run of the mill gossip here- no this isn't the kind of thing that one can take lightly. And besides, the media's so busy busting W's balls and aiding the terrorists that they wouldn't have much reason to make this up. Even my faith diminished when I saw the video confession. There he was sat on a leopard skin couch and wearing knee high Doc Martin Boots... This wasn't the Lil John I had grown to love through such Krunk Klassics as 'Get Crunk' and the deceptively simple 'Damn!'. This wasn't the sensitive mind behind 'Put Yo Hood Up'. But before my eyes here he was, a tear rolling down his saintly face, stuttering and ashamed. There could be no doubt that this was the Lil John- the most potent mind of the twenty first century- and what he had to say has still got me messed up.

I quote: 'Over the recent days there's been- YEAH- some allegations made - CRUNK!!!- about- YEAH!!!- my -MOVE THAT ASS BITCH!!!- character. Its been a hard- CRUNK!!!- time for me -YEAH!!!- and many of those who I thought- ITS A PARTY!!!- I could trust have deserted me. Its not easy for me, Lil John creator of Crunk Juice (Registered Trade Mark YEAH BITCH!!! GET LOW!!!) to come out and admit it but its gone on to long. I've got to say this shit even if its hurts. I have been known- ALRIGHT- to enjoy the tactile pleasure of touching ham.'

That was the exact moment that my life fell apart. My idol, the namesake of my first three children, admitting to stroking and even caressing slices of lunch meat. Sure he joins other to come out- only recently Thurston Moore had made a similar confession, but he's an unashamed avant garde wierdo why wouldn't he stroke the ham? And the bass player from Panic at the Disco was sacked for his penchant for sniffing canned ham and pork(it certainly wasn't because of his oddly porportioned body, tight trousers and ridiculous haircut.)- but this was Lil John, poet laureate of the crunk generation.

Denial soon gave way to attempts at reason. Perhaps it wasn't so bad. So I began doing what I usually do- following the example of rappers no matter how questionable the actions. Just as I had shot my grandmother when I discovered Tupac, raped a baby when they put away R Kelly and intentionally contracted AIDS when Easy E died, I now began buying as much ham as I could- and stealing it when I could afford no more. I started nice and slow, quick brushes of the hand when no one was looking. Before long I was up out of control- I made and entire suit out of Bernard Matthew's wafer thin ham slices and rolled around for hours on my stoop. My ham habit was sending me under, I could wear my ham briefs to my work and noone even suspected my pleasure. For a while at least. There's only so long a man can get away with rubbing ham against his genitals in public places and as my use got out of control my life went into tail spin. I woke up in a jail cell- I don't even know how long I'd been gone but judging from the advanced stage of sliced ham cold turkey I'd have to guess three days.

It may seem like fun to you at the time, your heroes may do it and it might be the only way to get a record contract. But please do your self a favour DO NOT TOUCH HAM. Thats right even when you see Jay Kay rubbing his face against a handful of processed pig or watch Flavor Flav stuff an entire joint of Wiltshire's finest down his down his trousers, you must try and resist. Its just not worth it.

Eulogy

In a small chapel in rural Pennsylvania a small crowd barely fills the first 5 pews. The dank stone room is lit only by the green and red beams being projected from the stain glass windows. The streams of light point directly at a coffin at the front of the room. A sparse arrangement of dead and dying flowers decorates the wooden box, an unshaven man limps slowly to the pulpit and begins to speak.

Speaker: Well, I don't know what you can say about a guy like Larry (fidgets uncomfortably and clears his throat). He was fearless, that's for sure. And damn good at pool for a man blind in his right eye. But mostly I'd say he was devoted. Not a devoted father, I guess (nods solemnly to Brenda Jean and Cornwallis who sit on the front row -eyes locked on the coffin) No he wasn't that. Not a devoted employee either, don't reckon that old fart ever put in an honest days work in his life... (a few chuckles from the back) Well, y'all know there's a whole list of things Larry wasn't devoted to- his country, his women, his goldfish or his social and moral responsibilities. But that's not why we're here... and that's not why Larry's here either.

No, Larry devoted his entire life to a dream. Every fibre of his being was dedicated to reaching his ambition. Now- and I pray each day that God will forgive me for my lack of faith- when Larry told me about his vision I thought he was out of his mind. "You've got to lay off that damn pipe" I said "always locking yourself in your basement, smoking the rock for days on end and coming up with these crazy ideas". But Larry was not to be discouraged, and I truly believe he was on a mission from the Lord himself (chorus of amens from the pews). At the time, though, we were just kids, 16 year olds with the world in front of us. I remember it like it was yesterday, Larry came up to me with his right eye wide open and his left one all pointing somewhere else the way it used to. Larry, he comes up to me and says "Theodore, listen to me, I know why I was put on this earth. I've been drifting aimlessly around stealing and robbing, speaking hatefully to my elders and plain old wasting my life. But I've got a purpose, Theo, a vision. I am going to find out exactly how far a man can fall and stay alive.

And that's exactly what he did, he started that very day, climbed right on up to the top of his Aunts old oak tree, hung by both hands and then with an all mighty holler he just let go and dropped to the ground like a dead duck. My my my... he layed there still for a minute just groaning and drooling and then goes and pulls himself to his feet and starts walking around like nothings just happened. From that day on I was a believer. Now, he had other disciples, Judases mainly, but some were good men who didn't make it to be here today- but they never knew Larry like I did. I only ever tried falling myself one time, from the top of this very church believe it or not. Broke my leg in 15 places and have never been able to run let alone climb to the top of buildings and leap off. Now, you may question my devotion, but Larry never did- and in return I was with him every time he fell, there to pick up his teeth for those first weeks when he still had some. I was there when he landed on a small boy who was playing hide and seek. I was with him in every time he checked in to the hospital and was still there every time they wheeled him back out of the operating rooms. And I tell you what I never heard that beautiful man complain (Shouts of "That's Right" and "Hallelujah" echo through the building). No not once did he utter a single doubtful word or curse his maker for sending him on such a doomed mission. Instead he'd just be laying there planning his next fall.

Within a few years Larry was falling from as far 60 feet, and when he sensed he'd gone about as far as he could he'd jump from exactly an inch higher the next time. Larry was a religious man
and had little use for science, but he was a lot like a scientist the way he measured those drops writing them down in his book when he still could, and then telling me what to write in his later years when he could no longer move below his neck. Anyone remember when he first got that electric wheel chair, the way he used to sing as he rode round town? (coughs and then in a crackling baritone begins to sing) "I use da wokka ronda blocka now I dryyyyvaah!". We built a winch to get him to the top for each fall, and when he could no longer speak there was no question that he still wanted us to hoist him up an inch higher than last time. Now I think my time's running out, and I've said more than I intended to... but I've got one more thing to say. The priest won't let us bury Larry in the cemetery because he took his own life, but I want to say, as God is my witness, that Larry never jumped to die- Larry fell to live.

Review: Not For Prophet - 03/04/09

“Five pounds please”.

“Sorry?”

“You've gotta pay a fiver to get in”

“But I'm reviewing the night”

“You've still gotta pay to come in, you see this guy next to me? Yeah? Well he's pretty big isn't he? And he would absolutely love to kick your malformed ass across the street if you keep asking me questions.”

“Ok! Ok, but I thought this night was call Not for Profit.”

“No you misread, its called Not For Prophet, we're quite happy to pocket some coin. Just don't expect to stumble across any pearls of wisdom once inside, we're strictly not here for enlightenment.”

With this cleared up, your humble reviewer made it's way inside Saki Bar, where some kind of snuff film was just ending. It pays not be squeamish in this job, but somehow I got the feeling this was going to be a strange one. By the entrance, a make shift merch desk consisted solely of crack pipes and 9/11 conspiracy theory books. Prying one such manuscript from the post rigour clutches of a severely burnt-out Ket fiend, I began to leaf through the pages. According to this poorly produced and badly edited document, in 1969 when the WTC was nearly complete, Donald Rumsfeld (then Director of the United States Office of Economic Opportunity), arranged for each tower to conceal an incredibly powerful electro magnet. When activated, the monoliths would create magnetic fields strong enough to pull an airliner out of the sky. It was a long shot, but as the man in charge of Economic Opportunity, Don had the vision to see it to completion and 35 years later he was leading US troops across Iraqi oilfields. A dastardly plan, so far fetched it could only be true.

As I became more and more immersed in this putrid pile of polarized propaganda, I could hear several poets harping on about something or other. In the face of this revelation, and I've got to be honest here, I just didn't care. Same goes for the DJs (some kind of low end rumbles) and the bands (acoustic hipsters, I imagine, but can't for the life of me recall); entertainment had suddenly become trivial, a bourgeois exercise in self-denial. As I finished book after book, cover to cover, sheets of cold sweat dripping from my brow, I became ever more oblivious to my surroundings. I was coming to terms with an awful truth (and let's not even get into Michael Moore's involvement in this cyber-Fawkesian plot), a slow dawning that the hand that had fed me all of my life had also been the very same that kept pushing me under.

Later, as the aforementioned bouncer dragged me away from the table (book still in hand- apologies to the organisers), I found myself shivering in awe, trying to take in the significance of what I had just experienced. It is only now that I find the words to describe such a profound gathering, a commune forced to operate under the guise of a club night, in order to spread The Truth. Not For Prophet changed my life- rarely has such a visionary and subversive collective graced this, or any other, city. When you get the chance to rub shoulders with intellectuals, freedom fighters and artists who are in it for something much more important than money, five pounds seems very cheap indeed.

The Return of Spurious Scholars

I started this blog a few years back with the intention of forcing my bile upon the rest of the world. I managed to write one fairly gentle "poem" and then neglected it all together until now. In the meantime, I wrote for, the now defunct, zine Doom Ascends- a below the radar rag that allowed me, until the police raided the offices (another story for later), to review gigs, bars and research chemicals.

With this revolutionary dream now a fading memory, I return once again Answers In Caves- as a canvas, but more often than not as a rancid sick bag for my puerile insights. To fill space and create the illusion of being, at least, vaguely industrious; I will be digging through the Doom Ascends archives and posting some of the more coherent ramblings on here alongside more current reviews of underground Mancunia.