The Visitor

Thresholds fold. Solid Gold.
Two lungs full of water

I awake inside a chalk triangle, unable to move. Mucous coated. Foetal response. Shouts from the shadows.

Candles flicker, their dim light blinding to eyes so used to blindness.

Tongues of Angels pronounce catastrophic. I am surrounded by visions and memories, echoes of a past and future no longer separated by the razor blade of Now.

A stream of blood makes it's way towards me, a slow roll across wooden floorboards. As it touches the apex of my geometric prison it becomes two, branching out along the white outline.

Choking cough, splutter.
Gasp.
Finally, I exhale.


.:     .:

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

Excerpt from Chapter IV (A Novel)

A rogue beam of early morning light cuts across the room, having easily out flanked the filthy towels and bedding I flung over the broken curtain rail. Apollo’s plague tipped arrow, announcing the horrors of a new dawn, a new day, a new ruin. A headache. The shadowy creatures of the other world are still nearby, but becoming less tangible, slipping back into the void I had dragged them from. Forgotten. Symbols with out meaning, like the mysterious Star of Babel (how many points did it have again?), conjure fevered debates without conclusion, restless discourses and oafish rebuttals. No way of telling what’s being said anymore, the walls of this absurd theater are forever expanding, the chorus’ voices echoing, merging in to one unspeakable tongue.

I'm twisting, still fully clothed from the previous evening, trying to find a position that doesn't invite spasms of pain. The sickening sweet taste of undigested whiskey lingers in the back of my dry mouth, one wrong move and it will break free of it's corporeal prison. I grab a pillow and wrap it over my face, providing slight relief, then remain as still as possible- occasionally shifting slightly to whimper like a wounded animal.

Of course, this ritual is performed in vain. I am well aware that in just seventeen minutes my alarm clock will begin to shriek. Try as I might to drown this abhorrent thought in a sea of Nothingness, it rises back to the surface like rotting log. That cursed clock. As I lay awake it's designed function is no longer valid, but rather than allow it's circuitry to be reduced to redundancy it has evolved. Once Chronos' slave, now it is his most trusted oracle. It breathes inevitability. Previously, that piercing sound was like a slapstick tug out of the dreamworld- it left me reeling, disorientated, angry in dazed wonder. But the days of comically chasing my clock around the room- Grasping. Missing- are gone. I'm already awake. In fact, in these moments I exist only to wait for it.

Waiting for the prophet to emerge from his cave. Knowing that his trumpet call signifies a painful transition. Lying here, red eyes shielded by a pillow from the sun, my body petrified in booze soaked agony, I know that the worst is yet to come. This is only purgatory.

Still I try to forget. There's another part to this ritual. I lay on my back imaging a white light. The aim is to concentrate on the light until it fills my consciousness, leaving me blind and content. Well, that's the theory anyway. Today it flickers like a hanging bulb in some shit smeared brothel- for an instant it increases in luminosity before fizzing out into the dullest glow. I strain my mind to bring it back but it's going the wrong way, into darkness and beyond. The point that the light once occupied in my mind has become a roughly torn hole through my dark prison walls, opening up an infinite new realm of shadows. I can hear voices calling to me from outside, beckoning me towards them. I stay put. But there's no escape and they come in. Howling my name, the Hordes approach. They bring with them visions of the coming day, or perhaps memories from the previous one- it's all the same.

Gasping, I open my eyes again. I look towards the clock. Three minutes left. Resigned to defeat, I lay on my side- never taking my eyes from my digital tormentor. I wonder why I'm doing this to my self again, if it would really be so bad to be one of Them? Surely, a roof and four walls can't be worth this. Stability. The irony of the word is enough to make me laugh aloud. Stagnation would be more apt. One minute to go. My thoughts fall silent for the first time since I woke, I am overcome by a tiredness so heavy I can't resist. After a morning of squirming restlessness, I now feel as if I could sleep all day. Maybe I'll stay home. Tell them I'm sick. Hell, I won't even call them. Maybe I could-


I am interrupted by The Sound.

Moloch has spoken.

I obey.

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.