Haunted Insomniac Ambient Mixtape

NR02- Haunted Insomniac Mix by Spurious Scholars on Mixcloud

 
1. Hildur Guðnadóttir- Elevation
2. Francesco Tristano- Andover
3. Deathprod- Dead People's Things
4. Aiden Baker- The Sea Swells a Bit
5. The KLF- Elvis On The Radio, Steel Guitar In My Soul
6. Caretaker- False Memory Syndrome
7. The Hafler Trio- Buggy White Flings
8. Oren Armarchi- The Evening So Soon
9. Murcof- Come Quislera Decirte (Remix)
10. Iancu Dumitrescu- Grande Ourse
11. Tangerine Dream- Birth Of Liquid Plejades
12. ASVA- Birds

Free Trojan Horse!

Something interesting has been happening over the last few months. A good band actually seems to be getting some of the attention they deserve... and (whisper it) they're actually nice guys too. If, like me, you are sick and tired of boring run of the mill, marketing campaigns disguised as bands getting all the buzz, then this is undoubtedly a good thing. I mean, who the fuck actually listens to WU LYF anyway? Certainly no one that I'd rescue from a canal boat fire.

If you live in Manchester and have been cursed with the insatiable desire for new and exciting music, you'll be pretty familiar with the great "scene" we've got going here. Lots of great musicians make great sounds for great people in great places. It’s all really great. Unfortunately, the rest of the country tends to overlook all the good stuff coming out of the city in favour of the endless stream of anaemic pussbags erupting from Wilmslow’s ass like a tepid pill shit.

Perhaps this is starting to change to some extent. Like the blinding flash of light as the police raid an illegal sex dungeon, there is hope for the disenfranchised. Our days of being chained to the greasy torture rack of anonymity may be a long way from over, but one of our own are about to break free. Having just been featured in Classic Prog Rock Magazine (that ubercool guardian of hipster style and taste), Trojan Horse are about to embark on a nationwide tour which is bound to increase their profile.

Personally, I couldn't be happier for them. I've been living vicariously through Nick Duke's beard for the last few years, whispering into the ears of underaged emo girls that I used to be in a band with the guy. Things are about to get a lot better for me. And for You, because The Horse fucking rock. Comprising of three ginger brothers and some other Guy, the band is often referred to as Eccles' answer to Hanson-  and believe me, their jaunty Prog-Metal styling totally lives up to the comparison.

To celebrate their recent turn of fortune, the Horse are giving away their debut LP (which I reviewed a few months ago) for free. So why not click HERE and download it? You could even listen to it... if you're into that kind of thing.

Manchester Evening Coming Down

Rain, too cold for August, hammers down from an unforgiving sky. A damp cotton hood does little to protect my aching forehead from the icy daggers. A waterline has worked its way up my jeans, slowly, like poison creeping towards the young Montague’s heart. My shoes- wet and heavy- are drowned corpses.

I’m not headed anywhere. There’s no reason to be out in this weather, but I walk all the same.

Hands in pockets, I drift through Piccadilly Gardens, my shoulders bump into strangers and I don’t try hard enough to avoid the tsunamis of bus splash wheels. The perverted lights of the amusement arcade pierce the dull night, grotesquely twisting the shadows of old men sharing cigarettes outside a betting shop. Under the concrete archway, Somali boys in brand new baseball caps laugh and huddle close together. A young couple kiss on the low bridge over the fountain, stopping to watch me walk by.

I pretend not to notice.

Bars and restaurants are full of strangers, as alien to me as B-movie atrocities. Lads clad in white t-shirt horror, swagger into the rain, oblivious to all as they shout and sing. Like brothers in a morgue, they all smell of the same cheap fragrance. Further down the road, men in pinstriped suits and no ties, talk on and on about mortgages and their daughters’ university fees and the state of test cricket. Their shoes seem dry- I wonder how they got there.

A beautiful woman rushes past me, her pendulum hips awakening butterflies in the pit of my stomach. A suitcase follows her towards the station like an enthusiastic dog, its wheels slip sliding on the wet pavement. I wish I could go with her too, but she moves faster then my serotonin depleted soul can manage. Soon, she’s out of sight, lost among a crowd of passengers in waiting. By the time I reach the taxi rank, I can’t remember what she looked like.

A left at the Star and Garter takes me into a tunnel’s cobwebbed womb. The flickering of the overhead yellow lights always play tricks on my eyes, conjuring phantom shapes to dance around me. I sit down for a while, finally out of the rain, back against the filthy brick wall of my haunted cave. Happily, I remember a can of beer in my bag. Passing pedestrians sidestep me, as if avoiding a fallen gorgon, careful not to make eye contact. Sipping the cold beer as the trains roll over head, I feel, momentarily, content.

Time travels, cars drive by and more trains pass above me. Two cops in diseased jaundice jackets walk towards me. I attempt to hide the can, but they don’t care either way. They just walk by. Using my hands, I get to my feet. Out of the tunnel now, I climb the hill through the industrial estate where balding men get blowjobs in maroon Cavaliers. Tyres screech as someone makes a get away, or perhaps begins a pursuit- I can’t say. Two whores in tall leather boots and high skirts stand beneath a single blue umbrella. Madonnas in boob tubes. I smile and say hello, but they just scowl and look away- disgusted by an uninvited traveller in this barren land. Unexpectedly, their snub hurts more than a lifetime of averted gazes. “Fucking Cunts,” I mutter under my breath- kicking a puddle and instantly regretting it.

In Ancoates, where the giants once were, amidst the rubble of burnt out mills and crumbling warehouses, kids- with the glowing eyes of hungry foxes- ride by on the back wheels of their bikes. I begin to think about the moon, invisible behind the clouds, and whether it really controls us. Are we just marionettes, twisting at the whim of Dianna’s silver strings? I pick up a litre of whisky from the nearest off licence, deciding that wheat and barley have stronger pulls than any lunar cycle.

The path along the canal is strange and muddy so when I manage to climb down there I’m completely alone. I watch the stadium’s floodlights reflecting in the murky water, which moves just as I do- propelled by a force we can’t understand. I continue my aimless journey. I am Nebuchadnezzar, king of Nothing. Through the lonesome dark and endless sheets of rain, I push onwards towards my kingdom. I’m going Nowhere.

Dayse and Aver Interview

I've started writing occasionally for the Mind on Fire website now, so some stuff will be there and not here. One such article is an interview with Manchester Hip-Hop duo Dayse and Aver, who have just released a rather sick new EP. My review of the record soon to be appearing on www.mindonfire.co.uk 

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