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.