Review: Trojan Horse

It’s a good job I don’t do this for a living. I was asked to review Trojan Horse’s album weeks ago and am only really getting around to it now. But here I am, typing some words. In order to do so, I’ve decided not to go to work- which, coincidently, is where I do make a living.
Like any ne’er do well, I’ve got my excuses. A big stumbling block has been dark associations that the band’s name has in my curiously fragile life. Some time ago, when my over used collection of asphyxi-cuckoldry videos began to feel a bit stale, I set out in search of a new exciting alternative. I delved the recesses of the human condition (feltch-gasketing, HIV bukake, train track bondage etc. etc.), hoping to rediscover that indescribable thrill of the decadence nouveau or, at the very least, achieve something resembling an erection. For those of you unfamiliar with these passions, be advised, the internet is a dangerous place- particularly for your computer. Within minutes of starting my lonesome journey into the wildernesses of perversion, my PC began to show the first tell tale sign of wear and tear- advanced intelligence. The computer began to think for itself, the curser struggling free of my mouse enabled ownership. I watched in horror as it drifted around the screen for a few moments, before opening my online banking account. It then made several large transfers to the Vatican, only stopping when my overdraft had reached it’s limit. The blue screen came next. Efforts to resuscitate the machine had various degrees of success, but all came to the same end- a series of beeps, several error messages and then a crudely made, and unstoppable, Powerpoint presentation outlining the benefits of the Rhythm Method.

Back in the present tense, I’m currently using a borrowed laptop with several keys that stick (see above paragraph), writing a review for a band which, ironically, shares a moniker with the film that killed my computer. In hindsight, I probably should have given that one a miss.

Trojan Horse kicks off with the rather ecstatic ‘Mr Engles Says...’, which nicely charters out the band’s own manifesto. Tight stylistic changes, lush arrangements and catchy choruses abound here- it is clear that a lot of time and effort went into this album and the results, for the most part, reflect this. The Horse take a no holds barred approach songwriting, bouncing between genres regularly without ever feeling forced. It’s a tapestry of familiar sounds, patched together to make a finished product which is unique and interesting. Not an easy feat. There are, however, moments that let the album down- it occasionally ventures in to blander pop territory with tracks like ‘…And the lights went down’ being less than memorable despite some nice flourishes.

Minor flaws are forgiven, as Trojan Horse have created an album which fully showcases their elaborate sonic spectrum. These 10 songs certainly hint at their reputation as one of the more exciting live bands in the Manchester area (an opinion that I whole heartedly endorse). I’m not sure if they’d like me saying this or not, but there’s a very British feel to this LP, kind of like drinking Liberty Cap tea with the Mad Hatter in the pouring rain. By which I mean to say, the album is euphoric and rich, full on and excessive… it’s likely that too much of it could make you feel a bit ill, but there’s only one way to find out. TH make nods to an eclectic mix of bands, ranging from the Beatles to Mastodon, but manage to mould their own sound throughout. The lasting impression that I got from listening to this album was of a band that immensely enjoys making music and sees no reason to pretend otherwise. Hopefully, I’ve burnt down enough churches not to be kicked out of the Burzum fanclub for finding this joyful approach to music refreshing.

Get in the Van

We’d been driving for a long time. Those at the wheel were about to see their third morning in a row without sleep and our minds were beginning to play tricks on us. Strange things start to happen when a group of people are placed in a confined space for long periods of time. Add the constant vibrations of the road and uncomfortable seating arrangements to the equation and the results become truly chaotic. Our motley ensemble rapidly transformed from well mannered gentlemen into perverted truckers who suffered from severe Tourettes- involuntarily screaming at pedestrians and passing vehicles alike. The overall vibe in the van had shifted, without warning, from naïve excitement to road wearied sleaze. We certainly weren’t proud of ourselves but it couldn’t be helped. The mere sight of an attractive woman was enough to spark a fury of shrieks, hollers, moans and gasps as we grappled over one another to get a better look. This was not how we’d hoped to represent ourselves to the people of Europe but it could not be helped. We were possessed, condemned to cruise dark Gallic streets ordering innocent strangers to “Get in the van!” Imagine the sense of rejection as our advances were met by expressions of horror from the locals, who were certain that this was the beginning of David Cameron’s plans to transport dangerous sex fiends to Eastern Europe. Needless to say, nobody ever got in. However, it was in the grips of this animalistic state that we found ourselves facing our first real test of character. The Law.

If you worked as a Customs Officer, patrolling the highways of rural France, it's likely that you would have, sooner or later, devised some kind system for spotting potential criminals. This would, almost certainly, be based on stereotypes and wanton speculation, but- hey- if it works it works. Perhaps you would keep an eye out for tinted windows, loud music or simply nervous behaviour, but- if you know what to look for- travelling drug casualties are pretty easy to spot. As the Mind of Fire van pulled up to a deserted toll booth at 3:00 am on that Tuesday morning, it's pretty safe to say that we ticked all the boxes. The pounding 4/4 Techno beat blasting out the windows, may well have woken them up. If that didn’t get their attention, the frantic shouts of “EUROS! WHO’S GOT THE EUROS?” and the howls of rage as yet another beer spilt across the passenger seats, must have. To be honest, though, even with out these distractions, nine dishevelled English dudes in a fogged out van was always going to raise some eyebrows.
As the first torch glared in our faces, we decided to play it cool. “Guten Tag, Herr Officer!” we called out, before someone remembered that we weren't in Germany yet. We were directed to a lay-by a few metres away, where we were met by several police cars. The cops gathered en mass around the van. “Where are you going?” they demanded.
“Croatia,” we replied, “We're musicians on the way to a festival.”
“Musicians? What kind of music do you play?”
“Umm... Well, reggae... I guess.”
Wrong answer. The female officer raised an eyebrow. “Ahh! Like Bob Marley?” Within seconds, the side door was yanked open, and with it several empty beer cans fell to the ground. The degenerate state of the van's interior can only have confirmed their suspicions, as they shone their flash lights around a dank cavern of cigarette butts, spilled beer and bent playing cards. Six strange men, in various stages of mental decay stared back at them, eyes adjusting to the sudden influx of light. The cops eyed the scene suspiciously. Then they discovered The Smell. Their noses twitched in disgust as the first wave hit them. A Victorian work house for hydrophobic necrophiles would have smelled like the Body Shop in comparison. The questions began. “Do you have hashish, ecstasy or acid?” they asked in chorus. It goes without saying, the Mind on Fire band would never even consider smuggling such dangerous substances across International borders, but they were not having it. One of them, with seemingly no concern at all for due process, attempted a childishly transparent act of entrapment; asking us if we wanted to buy any cocaine.
I decided it was time to create a distraction, so, after making sure there was only a small danger of being shot, I got out of the van and beckoned to the one that seemed to be in charge. We walked to the front of the van. He followed eagerly, perhaps expecting me to reveal a stash of black tar heroin hidden in the wheel well. I didn't. Instead, I began asking a series of questions about the converter stickers that we had placed over the headlights. He stared blankly at me for a moment, so I began gesturing wildly and pointing at the beams. Bemused, he said, “Look, I really don't care. I'm Customs- not some Traffic cop. Are you on drugs?” I replied that I was very concerned that we were breaking his country's laws with misplaced stickers and that I had not taken any drugs. As my attention turned back towards the headlights, he walked away back towards his car. Meanwhile, the interrogation in the back had drawn to an end.
We breathed a collective sigh of relief and set back on our way. The short spell of trying to act like normal people had taken a big toll. It had been the first time in over a day that we had been forced to let the outside world in, and it had raised some serious questions about our sanity. Like I said at the beginning; we'd been for a long time, but there was still a long way to go. The van pulled back onto the highway. After a while, a voice from back seats broke the silence. “That lady cop... She could well have got in the van!” And with that, we were on the road again.

Reflections Upon A Failure

Hindsight is a rotten, worm eaten cunt. It's rancid discharge, constantly oozing from that tattered and decaying flower, has been passed off as Wisdom, by unscrupulous cunt merchants, since Day One. Or was that Day Two?

I've been around long enough to know this, but it's still hard not to wonder why I even bothered writing for tba. I was already completely disenchanted by the time I'd written my first word, and my first review for the zine proved that I'd have a difficult time getting anything, that I actually wanted to write, published. Instead, I found myself asked to write wiki-lite articles on electronic labels (I know... how horrendously fucking exciting) and asked to write promo pieces for promoters, bands and venues that the editor wished to suck up to. Needless to say, my style doesn't lend itself to such work. After each submission I'd be greeted with praise and enthusiasm, followed (in short order) by the inevitable“I just don't feel comfortable printing this”.

"Fair enough," I'd say, "maybe next month".

For a zine that claims to provide 'a platform for young and fledgling writers', tba shows very little interest in doing so. As for being 'a preview into subversive, unknown and admired creativity', I don't even know what the fuck that means. Perhaps, a 'glimpse into' or 'a showcase for' would be a little more apt. Except, of course, that it couldn't be any further from the truth. Maybe I just don't get it. Perhaps, if I was a writer of the calibre required to write for Pulp Magazine, I'd have had my work printed on a regular basis.

I seem to struggle with The Trivial. It's my main flaw- but please believe me, I'm working on it. Recently, I tried immersion therapy, but after two and a half editions of tba I'd had enough. I fear that I will have to opt for a much more direct course of action- Electric Shock Treatment. The Shoreditch Cure, I believe they call it. Each time the Patient has a thought bearing even the slightest trace of originality, a high voltage blast of current is administered directly to the Corpus Callosum. I hear it feels a little bit like being skull fucked by Zeus.

So, after three months of putting up with it, I've decided to go own way. Please accept this as my letter of resignation. Glad I gave it a try. It was an aesthetically pleasing publication and it might look nice in my 'Portfolio'- or whatever the fuck those snivelling cretin who manage to write for a living carry around with them. But looks can be deceiving. Thrym was very pleased by the beauty of his new wife- until, that is, she revealed- from behind her crimson veil- a Nordic beard and began hammering his purple testes to the banquet table. You can screen print words on to paper, but unless they are even remotely interesting no-one wants to read them. Which is probably why not a single soul has made it this far into my diatribe- and it all started so promisingly too, with it's profanities and oh so eloquent stylings.

I'll cut to the chase. No more metaphors or half-arsed mythological references. I like writing and I like Zines. I feel strongly that the Independent Press is a powerful tool. I believe a writer with even an ounce of courage, knows that making friends at the expense of artistic credibility is not worth it. Not by a long shot.

I want to express myself and work with others who feel the same way.

I'm in the process of starting my own publication based on these principles... and I need help. If you are interested please get in touch. Otherwise, I'll touch you.

Waratah Blossom

Here is a new(ish) song I've made as Spurious Scholars. It's available as a free download on a recent Mind on Fire compilatonalong with tracks from a number of Manchester musicians including CZUK.

More songs from the Spurious Scholars studio are on the way.

Waratah Blossom by OG Spurious Scholars

Grouper @ Nexus Cafe 06/11/09

It's Friday night and it's absolutely pissing it down. Only a syphilis crazed maniac would be out in this weather, but here I am on my way to see Portland noise goddess Grouper (aka Liz Harris) at the Nexus Arts Cafe. I'll be honest; I had my reservations about kicking off the weekend by being lulled into a coma by ambient drones, but after seeing her at Salford's Sacred Trinity church last year I was not about to miss this. For those of you with better things to do than read self important quasi-reviews, I'll cut to the chase: What a difference a venue makes.

For the rest of you I'll explain myself. The Nexus Arts Café is in the Northern Quarter and run by the Methodist Church- a nice little spot for community arts and covert conversions. A kinder man would enjoy a place like this- with paintings of childhood innocence hanging from strings between pillars, bookshelves to the side of the room inviting visitors to enjoy a moment of quiet reflection and friendly staff serving coffee. What's not to love? Well for starters, I'm not a kind man. As far as I'm concerned, the gig would have been more tolerable if it was held in a dolphin abattoir staffed entirely by gnomes dying from highly contagious strains of genital leporosy.

People have different ways of enjoying ambient music. Some like to concentrate on the sounds presented to them, appreciating every subtle change in the fabric of sound. Others prefer to let the sounds wash over them without any particular analysis. For the anemic scensters present tonight, the preferred method is drink vast quantities of coffee, twitch around on the floor and generally ruin the show for anyone who was interested listening to the music in either of the ways listed above. I don't get it. What's with all the coffee? Sure there's no booze being sold at the Nexus, but the people here are engaged in an unholy oroborus of caffeine consumption. Does the experience of being able to pay money for fluids really have such a pull on their subconscious minds that they can't resist handing over coins for yet another cup? I'm positive that if the cafe had been selling cat urine instead, these half witted zombies would be gulping it down like their gullets were on fire. As the show went on the cups of Joe were taking a toll. One chap in particular, in regulation flannel jacket, went over the edge. He first caught my attention when he fell asleep standing up, his fingers losing their grip of a paper cup. Scolding coffee poured onto the head of a young man sitting cross legged on the floor. Now, in most parts of this fine city, no further provocation would be needed for the pair to lock in to a wildeyed fight to the death. Fortunately, the victim was to polite to complain- perhaps he was too far gone to notice the searing pain of boiling liquid eating through his skin. Our hapless offender left the scene, gallantly returning moments later with a ragged towel. He then proceeded to get down on his hands and knees and mop the floor with a zeal that I've only seen in those deep in the grip of a psychedelic meltdown.

Needless to say my mind was pretty far from the music by this point. Every time I started to get back into the right frame of mind, another ignoramus would order a late or some other infernal concoction- which was undoubtedly followed by the near deafening sound of an industrial coffee machine. During Jasper TX's support slot this was less of a problem- as his set seemed to be crafted entirely from samples of the world famous Grindmaster 2450Q Espresso machine. As Grouper took the stage, it became evident that paying admission to see a musician after nearly drowning in the streets of Manchester was not enough to prevent this audience from sadistically conjuring up that dreaded mechanical sound. This continued throughout her set, the nuances of the loops and sweetness of her voice all but lost to me. I could not help to notice that the main offender was, in fact, the very same numbskull who had caused the ruckus before. Perhaps he was trying to prevent a repeat occurrence of his narcoleptic disturbance, as he was now ordering double shots of the strongest brews available. Unfortunately, his plan backfired as began to shake uncontrollably- once again letting go of his cup. This time it was a proper mug and shattered at his feet. He looked around hoping no one had noticed. Needless to say, at this point, I noticed. I watched as he bent over and picked up the pieces. I watched as he looked around frantically, his coffee-addled mind stalling before coming up with the bright idea of gripping the ceramic shards as tightly as possible. Still I watched as blood started to pour from his clenched fists. At some point during this fiasco, Grouper finished playing, leaving the stage to the polite applause of the chronically impolite.

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.

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.

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.