Now for something completely the same

Trawling through the hard drive and finding a few things to post from last year. Not at all relevant to the events of today, but then again they probably never were.

Gig Leg- Now Wave 03/03/2010 - Deaf Institute

Dedication and professionalism, that's what I like to think that I bring to any job I put my hand to. Not to mention, tranquillity and some killer dance moves. But most of all I am efficient.

I'd been drawn to the Deaf Institute tonight to try to do some research for a piece I've been writing for Monk's Monthly. For weeks on end I'd been staying up at night, soaked in sweat, puzzling over a riddle as ancient as it is clichéd. A koan, which, if Master Hakuin was to believed, would expand my consciousness beyond my wildest imagination. Having spent much of the last decade trying to do exactly that, this assignment filled me a zeal I had never before experienced.

It must have been by the hand of fate that I decided to put away my dusty books and manuscripts for an evening and see what was going on in town- for if, as usual, I had dedicated myself to my studies, I would never have spotted my biggest lead yet. And even better, it had to do with that other topic I write about occasionally. Music. As a wise monk probably never said, I had the chance to catch two birds with one net. Who would have thought that the answer to the question which had so ruthlessly tormented me might be found at a gig?  But, then again, who would have reckoned on the The Phenomenal Handclap Band? As I stared at the listings, I began to shake with excitement. If they didn't know the sound of one hand clapping, nobody did.

There is a real problem with trying to go to a  gig after weeks of meditating in solitude. The crowds and the noise and (dare I say it?) the excitement can really be to much to take in. Fortunately, being the dedicated professional  that I am, I know a few short cuts to reaching the party spirit. However, on this occasion,  it meant trekking out to Moston and banging on a steel door for thirty five full minutes until it was finally opened by a sketchy albino called Frank. Eventually, I arrived at the Deaf Institute, but to my dismay I had completely missed the gig. Instead of the beatific sounds of hand clapped epiphany that I had hoped for, I found myself in the midst of an Electro night full of students.

On a projector screen, behind the DJ, a young Lou Reed looked down on us. Andy Warhol and Nico also made appearances, as if to suggest that this was some kind of artistic equivalent to 1970's New York. The only similarity I could find comes in the title of a Velvet Underground song- "Oh! Sweet Nuthin”. This was a club night totally lacking in substance, and from the speakers the sounds of Nothing blared at full volume.  Any trace of decadence on display was merely the light hearted frivolity of those who still have Serotonin left to burn. In this crowd, I felt distinctly out of place, like Charles Manson visiting a Young Conservatives club.

Worryingly, being one of the few males present able to grow facial hair, I was beginning to attract unwanted attention. “I love beards”, cooed one girl, seconds before shrieking, “They're playing Battles!”, and bouncing  around ,clapping her hands like the Jonas Brothers had just come on stage. If I had known it was this easy when I was a  much younger man, my life may have turned out very differently. But now, I was just looking for an escape. As I made my way towards the door, another teenybopper leaned over as if to kiss me. It took me a second to realise that she was trying, instinctively, to sniff a mysterious white residue that had somehow gotten onto my moustache. Pushing her away, I downed my whiskey and stumbled out the door, beginning my long walk home. As I shivered in the cold night air, I tried to console myself. So what if I didn't manage to see the band I was supposed to review OR find the answer to my Koan? At least, I had, once again, failed efficiently.

Dance like an Egyptian

It's party Time in Egypt right about now so get down with Omar Khorshid

Viva Revolution

Congratulations to the people of Egypt, after more than two tough weeks, finally Mubarak has fled. I'm still a bit worried about what will come (any that gets the US/UK seal of approval will be just as bad), but for now let's celebrate with our Egyptian brothers and sisters.

The world is changing.

السلطة الى الشعب

Bairaag Dance Music- Kalyanji Anandji

This is a tune right here...working on a podcast of Turkish, Indian and Iranian funk at the moment. Soon

Waiting

From the rocker on his porch, the old man watched the silhouettes appear on the horizon, barely specks descending the low treeless hill a few miles west of his cabin. He made no effort to gauge the time by the evening sun and needed not make any calculations as to the time of his visitors’ arrival.

A cool breeze ran through his tattered red shirt. Wind chimes sounded. He had crafted them from wood, so many years ago- a gift for his wife. The sweet sound, different each time yet so familiar, had always soothed him, and in these his last years, they heralded memory’s ebbing tide. So simple, just wood and string, but what else was required? The ancient notes, random and to no meter, were an immortal tribute to the old oak tree, which had been ripped from the earth in a fierce storm. In fact, it had been that very tree which had finally convinced them to settle there after so long on the dusty trails. Majestic on the banks of the fast flowing creek which cut through the stead, it summoned feelings they were beginning to forget. Home. Over the next decades it had rewarded their faith with shade from the sun and- once the children were born- leant its strong branches to climbing feet, untamed imaginations and rope swings.

Sad eyes, which had seen their fair share of both horror and beauty, tracked the travellers as they steadily made ground towards his home. Men had been here before- to rob and to destroy- but he’d always been able to keep them at bay. He’d had the boys around then though, born and raised on this land, they’d been a match for any newcomer. That was then. Now he was alone and all that was left to defend were the ghosts of a past more real than the present. More certain than the future. Alive within and around him, they spoke with each creak of the house’s wooden frame. In the tall grass, not far from where he sat, he still thought he could see his youngest son’s blood. A dark crimson pool had had welled up just short of the porch steps. That was the end. It had been just him and his daughter after that, for a few years at least, until the winter of the Fever. He found himself alone on land that he had always expected to share. Yet he could not leave; everything that was Him was here. So he remained.

Alone. But never without companionship. Perhaps, when he’d been young he wouldn’t have understood- but, somehow, he was content to sit back and watch the reflections of his life ripple in the wind of time. His life had been a full one, tainted by sorrow, untouched by regret.

The moment approached, riders passing a plot of land marked by five wooden crosses. He had buried them all himself, each time with one less pair of hands to help. There was not a soul left to put him in the ground, when the day finally came. Was this it? Surely, he had survived worse odds, but each day that passed was one less left to live. He waited. There was no point to rushing, nothing to be gained through recklessness.

Around him, songbirds sang their merry hymns of tranquillity. Soon they would flee, to be replaced by buzzards and crows- one way or another.

He breathed deeply, slowly reaching to his right where his rifle rested. He felt the familiar weight as he lifted it to his shoulder. The blueprints of his house were carved deep into the calluses of his hands and his aim was steady. As he waited, he recalled that he had used the same gun to put down the horse that had carried him here. And he thought, “It’s funny what you think of when you’re old”.
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photo by Fazal Sheikh

Letter from Cairo

Dear Mr Thomas Cook,

It is with great regret that I find myself locked inside my hotel room, typing this letter of complaint, when I should be outside enjoying the package holiday that I paid a bloody fortune for. This won’t do, and I can assure you that I won’t be using your services in the future.

Since arriving in Cairo last week, the holiday has gone from bad to worse to absolutely bloody disgraceful. For starters, it’s just too damn hot… which wouldn’t be a problem if I could sit beside the swimming pool in a civilised manner. However, the air is heavily polluted here- the horrendous stench of burning rubber is enough to make anyone sick, but now they seem to have started burning human flesh as well. Not on. To make things worse, the noise pollution is extraordinary. All this incessant chanting…what are they even saying? It all sounds the same to me, they could at least have the common courtesy to speak in English. Their entire economy is built on tourism- show some bloody gratitude!

I have never before experienced such appalling customer service. I doubt that Jamie Redknapp would stand for this, and I certainly won’t. It took me three hours to get a beer in the hotel restaurant the other day, an absolute shambles. It’s like a ghost town, only a handful of staff have even bothered to turn up and they are just moping around with million mile stares. Totally unprofessional and, let me tell you, thoroughly unacceptable. It seems like these people lack the basic values to turn into work each day. Sure, go out and make bloody racket- it is a free country after all- but do so in a way that doesn’t affect people who have paid good money to be there. I didn’t get where I am today by skiving off work and shouting in the streets like a bleeding Bolshevik. Those last years of Gordon Brown were no picnic, let me tell you, but you didn’t see me rubbing my shoes against a picture of his face. You know why? Because I was in work, doing my bit to put the Great back in to Britain.

On the rare occasion that we have deemed fit to leave the hotel premises, we have been appalled by how filthy the streets have been. You can barely walk without tripping over flags and rubble and all manner of debris. Hardly the immaculate beauty promised in your brochure. Furthermore, the “friendly vibrant culture” that you promised seems to be a gross fallacy. I was expecting much more of the people here, but my confidence seems to have been misplaced. I can hardly begin to tell you how much I was looking forward to being mobbed by street vendors hoping to sell me sunglasses, bongos and other such hilarious trinkets. That’s the kind of go-getter attitude that I thoroughly approve of, but it is no where to be seen.

My previous points pale in the face of our trip to the museum last night. All around us people were screaming and lashing out. Save for a few rather friendly fellows on horses, the crowds were an absolute disgrace. Crikey Moses, you’ve made your point, now go home and let me enjoy the Jewels of King Tut in peace- or at least have the common decency not to run about ripping the arms off mummies and using them as weapons. I tell you, the things we saw we will never forget. Blood everywhere. People on fire. We even saw a man with his brains hanging out; really shook up my missus, that did. If you think that you can get away without paying us compensation for this you are greatly mistaken. We have human rights too, and it is clear that the tourists are the real victims here.

I have never been so angry in my life. Having flown half way across the world to experience the ‘Wonders of Egypt’, I now find myself wondering how I could have been stupid enough to use your services after a long history of disappointment.

I trust you received my letter from New Orleans.

Sincerely,

Nigel H Mortimer