Dayse and Aver EP01- Review

Like a scratched Isaac Hayes record, the industrial soundscape of 19th century Manchester provided the sultry mood music to the conception of a new age. Spinning frames, steam engines and the howls of disfigured children; a sensual rhythm to which Karl and Friedrich thrust their swollen and throbbing dictations deep into each other’s minds. The hirsute lovers tangled like spiders caught in their own web of intellectual lust, it became impossible to tell where one beard stopped and the other began. Sometimes, Engels would pretend to be the proletariat, tied tight to the frame of his bed, while Marx played the cruel Mill owner. “Spare the rod and spoil the child, my dear boy,” he’d say, spitting on his hand. It was in this setup that they penetrated further into the concept than ever before. Distributing his warm wealth across Engels’ perfect oily body, inspiration struck. “I’ve got it,” he shrieked, “My best line yet… but what rhymes with ‘chains’?

Stains. The Capitalist bed sheets were well and truly soiled that day, leaving a mess the servants of the Imperial Machine are still struggling to remove. With all of this in mind, it‘s fitting that Dayse and Aver’s ode to our city is a reflection on the revolution that it helped to inspire. It comes in the guise of a hip-hop concept album- portraying a not so distant Mancunian dystopia. A terrifying cauldron in which brutality, surveillance and hidden menace meld to form a hellish urban penal colony. D&A have created a future every bit as vivid as the books and movies that inspired it; and in doing so, they have provided a powerful commentary of the present.
This debut is a soundtrack for a world in which many of us carry tracking devices in our pockets, willingly, like lambs unaware of their shepherd’s plans for them. Our midnight bus rides, blazed and bleary, are under the cycloptic gaze of countless security cameras.  Dayse’s lyrics confront a society that has allowed the gap between the rich and the poor to widen, systematically removing the safety net from under those who lose their grip.  References to social philosophers from previous centuries show him to be a well read MC, acutely aware of the Industrial Revolution’s parallels to the present.

The beats laid down by Aver match the lyricist’s dexterous flow with a sonic syncretism the two have honed through years of performing in The Natural Curriculum.  Opening track, Hell Is a City, is a statement of intent- over a haunting wall of synths a sample, sourced from the bowels of science fiction, warns the listener that returning to Earth is suicide. And right about then Aver introduces us to the Bass- lurching and stuttering and heavy as hell.

The EP’s strengths lie in its diversity, various flows and styles are fused seamlessly; from nocturnal jazz of Dark Matter to the MF Doom-esque psychedelia of 221120100. Human Zoo sounds like some kind of nightmarish Native Tongues production. Despite the nods to influences (some obvious, others less so), EP001 stands out on its own terms as a work of individuality and artistic integrity. Somehow managing to sound both old school and futuristic, Dayse and Aver have hit on something that deserves to be noticed.

The Death of Venice (A review of Old Story by Zoir)

A dignified death.

That’s all Simon really had left to hope for these days. After spending more than three decades as a copyright protection agent for a major record label, he had increasingly become sickened by his line of work. He couldn’t really put his finger on it. He was wealthy and working for an industry that many people, far more talented than he, had sold their souls to be part of. Maybe it was the thrill of the chase that he missed; back when the first MPC came out he used to handout lawsuits like they were fundamentalist hate pamphlets. With new advanced music recognition software anyone could do his job. Amateurs. Where were they when he was working undercover at Bronx block parties, sporting a ridiculous hi-top fade and listening out for Steely Dan samples? His name had been made by taking on the Zulu Nation. He’d given hell to those bastards, and he was proud to play his part in making a fiercely independent art form conform to the rules of his employers at The Majors.

Maybe this is was how Wyatt Earp felt, he’d think to himself. Once The West was won, what was there left to do? But Earp had Hollywood. Simon’s own autobiographical screenplay hadn’t even warranted a rejection letter. He was burnt out, an ageing relic of a history unknown. He wasn’t a hero to anyone- his daughter resented that he spent his life prosecuting teenagers for downloading music they couldn’t afford. Christ, he was pretty sure she was file sharing it too. But what could he do? Sue his own family? No thanks, he paid enough in alimony already.

Jaded, he’d made the big decision a while back. He had lived like a Narc, but he would die like a Roman Emperor. It was a simple plan, but quietly refined. He would see out his last evening in luxury. When his regal corpse was discovered, it would be clear that he had parted on his own terms.

Tonight was the night. Sweating and a little bit nervous, he began the ritual. It started, perhaps less divinely than he would have liked, by taking a dump. Ever conscious of his mortal legacy, he refused to be found amidst the ruins of his evacuated bowels. Emptying them of his own accord was his ultimate victory over Nature. Unable to adequately survey the dark forces stockpiled inside him, he sat there until he was certain that he was quite through. Satisfied, he donned his velvet dressing gown, opened a bottle of wine and sat on the sofa. He listened through the entirety of Fleetwood Mac’s Greatest Hits (Warner Brother, 1988), enjoying his last mouthfuls of vintage Bordeaux.

Music was his life, and now it would be his death. It was timed to perfection. As No Question Asked (Nicks, Kelly Johnston) began to fade out, he stood. Next song. Next step. He marched triumphantly to the bathroom, accompanied by the Second Prelude of Bach’s Cello Suite (Yo-Yo Ma, 1983). His soundtrack was audible in every room of the apartment thanks to the central music system the Bose engineer had installed. After running through a full mental checklist, he disrobed and climbed into the warm candlelit bath. When Tomorrow Never Knows (Lennon/McCartney) began, he took his razor and cut through the flesh of his wrists, wincing as he sliced through tendon and skin. To avoid any unnecessary mess, he maintained an impressive resolve to carry this act out below the surface of the water. He closed his eyes and tried very hard to imagine himself floating downstream.

As usual with Simon, there were conflicting motives in this selection. The obvious reason was its reference to the Tibetan Book of the Dead. When his final playlist was analysed by a reverential detective, he was sure to be beatified. On a more personal note, he had made a lot of money suing artists for the unauthorized use of Beatles songs. Now all doubts and troubling thoughts were banished by the cheerful memory of bankrupting unknown bedroom producers stupid enough to sample Strawberry Fields (Lennon/ McCartney).

Lying in crimson water up to his neck, he felt calm, collected and proud that he had, at last, taken full control of his own destiny. He waited for his swan song to begin, already pre-empting the beauty of fading out to its glorious climax. Unfortunately for Simon Venice, it seems that fate was determined not to be outwitted by a man. Instead of hearing the opening organ and slide guitar of Free Bird (Collins, Van Zant), he heard a young boys voice speaking to him talking about old stories. What was this some kind of memory? Had he passed over? No something else. Drums. Oh Fuck. Fretless bass and piano arpeggios. Oh shit... oh God...Oh No. Please no.

He recognised it and knew what had happened. A few days back he'd been handed a copy of Zoir's EP to comb for copyright infringements. He'd given it a cursory listen in the car on the way home. It had made him feel vaguely uneasy and irritated so he decided never play it again. But something had gone wrong. Somehow this had made it's way onto his playlist, right where Free Bird should have been. He screamed, “No! This can't be! Free Bird! Free Biiiiirrrrrddd!”

He sobbed, muttering something about how “the bird changed” and began, as if by reflex, to analyase the tune to pinpoint the piano sample. “I'm gonna get this guy,” he spat. “He's history, wait till we file.” The obvious falsity of this statement only made him more irate. The music was taunting him. It had been chopped up so far beyond recognition he couldn’t make it out, not now anyway. There was a chaos wrapped around those notes, as if Zoir had crafted the beats just to torment a dying man. To taint his final moments.

He breathed a sigh of relief as the song came to an end. Maybe it was just that song, “If I leave here tomorrow,” he repeated to himself as if he could mentally control the computer in his living room. But he had to hope, and having lost so much blood, he was hardly in his right mind at this point. His petition to the gods of Southern Rock was in vain; as the synths of “It's on There” began to surround him he couldn't help but think of all the unanswered prayers of his youth. A torrent of bitter memories ran through his mind. He'd always been a disappointment to everyone he knew. And now his daughter, what would she think?

Fuck.

His contemplation was broken. The warm ambience and vinyl cracks of the song's intro had taken him on an introspective journey but it was soon severed by a total aural assault. It was as if Future Sound of London had OD’d on ketamine and been reborn as vengeful wraiths hell bent on ruining his party. He'd been in some tricky positions throughout his life, and usually managed to remain fairly calm- but in that moment he lost all self control. He lifted his arms out of the water. He instantly regretted breaking his first and most important rule.

Arterial blood pulsed slow and irregular from the demented grins on each of his wrists. Monochromatic rainbows arched sureally around him. Profundo Rosso. Deep Red. The whole world had been whitewashed and was being painted red by a mad man. This was not the plan. This could not be allowed to happen. Simon Venice was gripped by an irresistible force of self preservation. Vanity is a man's downfall, but also his greatest strength. “If I get out of this, I'll let Zoir know he saved my life,” he thought wistfully. Imaging his face on the cover of various True Story rags, he pulled himself out of the tub.

He tried to stand but was too light headed. Reaching for something sturdy, he put his hand on the toilet roll holder and lost his footing. Simon fell over. His fall was broken by the hard porcelain of the toilet, which his mouth wrapped around. Teeth cracked and tore through his lower lip. Lightning. Pain. He crumpled to the floor. Above him the bog roll was still spinning, coating him in paper like freshly fallen snow.

Resigned to defeat he finally let go. Simon Venice was overwhelmed by a feeling that his heart was pumping in time with the wonky Dupstep crawl of “Resh Kesh then Repeat”, struggling along and missing every third beat. He reached a stage of Zen like acceptance. This was it. This is what he was listening to and he was powerless to change it. He began to drift into unconsciousness.

It felt a lot like some of the trips he'd had back in the seventies. Strange patterns began to form on the walls and he had a hard time looking at anything for very long. He zoned in, blacked out and came back around again. Synchronicity. First his body had mirrored the music and now, as he became too weak to maintain any clarity the music blasting out of his speakers began to do the same. The fluttering samples and stunted beat of “How Far?” perfectly matched his fluctuation between Being and Not.

And then it was over. The EP that is. The silence was so loud it hurt his ears. A last injection of strength coursed through his broken body. “What?” He howled, fuelled by a hatred of Biblical proportions. ”This can't be right. How can a whole EP be shorter than fucking Free Bird!?”

Old Story is out Now

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.

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.

(Modern) Love to Burn

What makes a record special? Perhaps it's that ever elusive Something, which elevates seductively spiraling grooves- crudely carved into a slab of vinyl- from the realms of the mundane towards the legendary. Can there possibly be a way to truly measure and compare the fruits which dangle from the branches of Art's rotten tree, as if they were subject to some infallible laws of Science? This very question has troubled critics, as well as a whole class of high society cultural rapists, ever since we crawled far enough out of the primordial slime to stop worrying about impending death and start focusing on the wholly insignificant. The utterly inconsequential. The classic album.

Classic is a strong word, conjuring (to my mind, at least) images of Herakles' children seeking shelter in Athens, Phaedrus' garden parties and Cronos eating his own children. In short, something that has stood the test of time- in these cases thousands of years- yet which still remains relevant and capable of answering some of our questions about ourselves. I don't care what the NME might think, but in 2000 years no one on Earth (if an Earth there still be), will give a monkey's fuck about Vampire Weekend. Actually, my mistake, it turns out that this is already the case. Humiliated, I back track... in the span of the next two millennium, even the Beatles will be forgotten and entirely irrelevant. It is with the self important, and ultimately futile, arrogance of a doomed culture that we feel fit to tempt the hands of fate with premature deification of our meagre artistic excretions. Like Kool Keith, America's greatest philosopher, once said we're making “wrinkle cream out of rat poop”- artifacts so instantly disposable, that a supposedly “ageless” tune is old before it's even been recorded.

Cynical? Well, you would be too if you'd seen even half of the things that I haven't. But if you want a slice of meaningless hyperbole to go with your bullshit pate, I can think of no better place to find it than Boomkat Records, where superlatives are thrown around like infant Chinese girls from cliff tops. Every other record is branded as “killer” or “huge” or (the one that bothers me the most) “Essential”. I'm sorry, but if a record is actually essential to your ability to function as a sentient being, then it's time to give up- just leave your front door key at home, pick a direction and keep on walking. Vinyl addiction is a real problem for a lot of us, and this kind of one-sided reviewing can easily make otherwise sane people lose their financial continence. I, myself, write this from a room pebble-dashed with records- many from Boomkat. Some I still listen to, the rest make superb building up boards. Here's one thing that my bitter experience battling musical cholera has taught me- very, very, very few Dubstep records even come close to being useful, to say nothing of essential. If you think otherwise, you may just find me waiting for you outside of Hit & Run with a rusty claw hammer.

To my mind Boomkat's worst offences come when describing their own imprints, such as Modern Love. The site always deems fit to spew forth the grandest of compliments for the tracks it will profit most from selling. Praise is laid at the feet of artists such as Andy Stott, in a manner that hasn't been seen since Henry VIII's court of yes men tended to the last pussing syphilis lesion on the twisted shaft of his weeping cock. I understand that it's a business and they exist only to sell records, but language is such a beautiful gift it's a shame to misuse it so wantonly. Which, of course, makes me a terrible hypocrite. I can admit that, and I am big enough to admit that quite a few Modern Love records are actually pretty good. Further more, I'm starting to get a bit excited about the FutureEverything show coming up on May 14th at Sound control featuring ML's Demdike Stare and Boomkat DJ's as well as tunes from Finder's Keepers. The real draw, though, is Omar Souleyman playing with Mark Ernestus of Basic Channel (!) and Paul St. Hilaire- it should be quite a bit of fun. Just please don't let me hear you fucking describe it as “Epic”.

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.

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.