Electric Six

Whoever said that you should never meet your heroes must have had the wrong heroes.

On Saturday 15th December I was fortunate enough to see Electric Six perform at Shepherd's Bush Empire in London. Fortunate as, despite seeing them play a mere five days earlier in Brighton, I was shocked and completely blown away by them.

My good friend Tim spent a bit of time writing a great wee article about their seventh album, Zodiac, and why it (and the rest of their output) is both so exciting and intelligent. Yes! Intelligent! A fan-made video for one of the songs Tim mentions in his article, 'After Hours', is profoundly illustrative at conveying where the band is coming from. It combines footage from the films Metropolis, American Psycho, They Live, Eraserhead and A Night at the Roxbury. Normally, fan videos on youtube make me cringe and feel sorry for the people making them, but in this instance the creator has made something that is generally more fitting than the majority of music videos.

So, these guys aren't just being vulgar, mindless schmucks. There is a point to it all (well, most of it). Swift didn't honestly believe that the Irish should eat the children of the poor in order to ease their economic woes. Satire is a potent tool for criticising social conventions, and when in the disempowered position of the musician, it can be a mightily effective one. I find it hard not to read Electric Six's third album, Switzerland, as being an all out critique of the music industry. Fresh from being dropped by Warner, ultimately ending their mainstream music careers, beneath the comic set pieces and ludicrous imagery lies a powerful bitterness. Without being tempered by comic set pieces and ludicrous imagery, such a powerful bitterness would be a major turn-off for most listeners. With this tempering, the band have created what is widely held by fans as one of their most engrossing albums. Maybe at some point in 2013 I'll write about it a bit more, but for now I'm focusing on a gig they played in 2012 which featured but two songs from that album, and one of these was only part of an acoustic set before everything kicked off!

So, I knew what to expect from the gig, especially as I'd seen them play earlier in the week. The tour was to celebrate the ten year anniversary of their breakthrough album, Fire, the one that carried 'Danger! High Voltage' and 'Gay Bar' into the public consciousness in 2003. As a result, the main set in Brighton and elsewhere on the tour had consisted with the album being played in its entirety, bookended by 'greatest hits' from their other albums. Fire is undoubtedly one of their strongest albums, if not the strongest, and so this worked fine as a set. It was also a wonderful opportunity to hear great songs that are seldom played live nowadays. It was the first time I'd heard the track 'Vengeance in Fashion' in the ten years I've been seeing them live, and it was the first time Tim had heard 'Naked Pictures (Of Your Mother)' since we'd seen them in 2003, despite us having covered this song in our band, Philanthropy, numerous times in the past. This was what I expecting then; the entirety of Fire, with about 7-8 other tracks from their back catalogue, with one or two of these hopefully being different to the ones played in Brighton.

That ain't what happened.

I should have said earlier that myself and my wee brother Ian had got VIP tickets to the gig. This entitled us to a meet and greet session pre-gig, a signed poster and entry to the aftershow party. What I didn't realise was that this would also include a wee pre-gig acoustic set by frontman Dick Valentine. This treated us to a couple of deep cuts from the back catalogue, along with a couple of tracks from his solo and side projects. Cute start. Neat touch. Feeling pretty good about the gig.

Then we find out that there aren't any support acts, and in fact the band are going to be playing two sets. Wowzers. The second of these would be the Fire set. Wowzers.

And then, when the lights cut out, the audience all salivating in eager anticipation, out of the shadows ambles Dick Valentine.

Alone.

Wearing nothing but his boxer shorts.

He then proceeds to play 'Underwear' by the Magnetic Fields.

Then Tait Nucleus? the synthesiser player comes out, carrying a t-shirt for Dick.

They then proceed to play a song, just guitar and synth.

Then Percussion World the drummer comes out, carrying trousers for Dick.

They then proceed to a play song, just guitar, synth and drums.

One by one, the other members coming out, assembling the line-up and Dick's wardrobe one song at a time. It was such a surprising and enthralling way to start a set, and I especially loved it as a homage to Talking Heads' Stop Making Sense performance. The songs they played as part of this initial set were all huge favourites of mine, and I couldn't fault their song choices at all. The crowd also helped make the experience incredible; the level of participation from the audience was the best I'd ever encountered at an E6 gig, and there were no acts of arch-douchebaggery from any audience members that I experienced. The E6 Brighton gig of 2011 had seen me sent flying into one of the pillars in concorde2, hurting my back a fair bit. Sometimes you get meat-headed arch-douchebags in the audience. Not so this year.

For the second set, playing through Fire, the band (barring Tait Nucleus? who opted for some flamboyantly camp waistcoat action) wore white naval captain/dance commander uniforms.

They also found the energy for a two song encore after this second set.

This was the gig that kept on giving. The energy levels from the band rubbed off onto the crowd, whose excitable enthusiasm must have rubbed off on the band, and everyone everywhere in that venue was rubbing off all over the place.

Struggling to write paragraphs longer than a couple of sentences now, such is my excitement in recollecting the gig.

The after party was also quite something. I was lucky enough to have chats with Dick Valentine about life and being an English graduate (Dick don't reference Yeats and Shakespeare for nothin' yo), and Smorgasbord (bassist) about Brighton and how much Ohio sucks (it does a wee bit). Both were very pleasant gentlemen, and I would presume the others chaps in the band are as well. It made me wonder, why don't all bands do it this way? Anyone at that gig could tell just how much the whole occasion meant to the band, they were having the time of their lives. It's these little personal touches, these gestures towards the fanbase that make it so incredibly easy to obsess about bands and want to spread their music to as many people as possible. Dick told me that one of the key things for the band was that they treat being in a band as their job, and this approach seems to me to be the obvious way to go. The more you do for your fanbase, the more they are likely to do for you.

Electric Six have a job. The fans, the crazies, are the people they work for. The crazies help pay the bills. Electric Six's job is to get the crazies to pay the bills. Maintaining the craziness of the crazies is fundamental to this. All bands should understand that one album every two years only keeps a crazy person at a certain level of craziness. Work for the crazies, not just the labels. The labels can turn on you. The label turned on Electric Six. Electric Six turned to the crazies. Electric Six released and toured a new album every year from 2005 to 2011. This kept us crazies pretty damn crazy. The crazies paid the band in both love and money, Eros and Thanatos. Them guys worked hard. They got me wanting to work hard. They got me worshipping them as heroes.

Meeting your heroes can be a very good thing indeed.

Supermarket - Aisle 2

Holding up a mirror towards the throne
Shows vulnerability of metronome

Inside this packed vacuum
A cold call to prayer is answered,
Man's cage estate
Is ruled by spectral council.
It states that a monochrome spectrum be
Painted on its spiderous avenues.
Oh! Unhygienic Archimedes &
His chronic ill logic,
They feed the drip -
A drip caught short,
Excising poetry from calendars,
Janus, Juno et al jilted,
Welcomed into hyperpurgatory,
That cold custody for the inverted.

Turn off the stars for there is no more space
For constellations left within this place.

Hot Tub Cocktail Party

I didn't know where to look. Eventually, I decided to focus on the safe, unassuming tiles. The non-reflective tiles that refused to heave, quiver or sway. Carefully manufactured, the porcelain tiles of the hot-tub had each been individually selected and positioned artfully so as to create a pattern at once so delicate and so dynamic that the casual observer might not even notice that it was there at all. The tiles were of four different colours: a rich ocean-deep cerulean; a vital green that glowed as if alive; a wicked scarlet that drew in the eyes seductively and a noble pearl, pure and chaste, unblemished by the other colours that danced and splashed so provocatively about it. These non-reflective tiles were fixed; they refused to heave, quiver or sway. A quick look up around the hot-tub confirmed this. No, these definitely non-reflective tiles definitely refused to heave, quiver or sway.

Violent Metempsychoses pt. 3

THE WAITING ROOM

“Another failed sacrifice,” intoned that now familiar voice. I could see the furry shape in front of myself, shielded by the mists. I could feel a vague sense of shame for having returned to this room so swiftly.

“A father and a partner. I would have thought you would have been happy with the chance you had been given.” I could definitely sense something else at work behind its calm words.

“You should have seen what was at work behind the situations you placed yourself within.” I could definitely detect a new edge to the voice. Mmmmm. “I told you previously that everything has a story. You have not been heeding this.” Mmmmm, I certainly had not, forgot about that, caught in the moment each time. I could feel judgement again.

“What are you?” I blurted out, out of the blue. I had no idea why I asked it, nor where these words came from.

“I am a different story to you. I am the one that is here in this room and does not have to make the choice of going through that door one more time, or staying put, learning to be at ease with the endings of stories past.”

Is that all it came down to? Being content with how my story ended? But don't we write our own stories? Could I not rewrite it in a much better way? Of course it wasn't just about my story, but about Sarah's as well. And Josh's. Illiterate worm. I could do this. I would do this, it was the correct thing to do.

“I see that you have made your decision. It does not come as a surprise to me. I wish you the best of luck, and that I hope you can do what is best for all.”

The yellow eyes were staring straight at me, with all the fervour of a crowd. They were inside of me, probing my thoughts, a thousand hands feeling out what I was thinking. It wasn't just this furry thing in front of me, it felt like the hands of history were doing this, appraising me like an omniscient auditor. I couldn't hold its gaze. I flew for the door, eager for the trial to be over.

*   *   *

I, AT THE CENTRE OF THE AIR.

Hanging, suspended within structures crystalline

                                                  Waiting. I am hungry.

                                                  Waiting.

                                                  Taut, silent, hungry

At the corner of the infinite periphery astride air

                                                  Waiting. I am hungry.

                                                  Waiting.

                                                  Forming a path

From abyss to abyss, hungry and patient weaver

                                                  Of text whilst waiting

                                                  Waiting.

                                                  For characters to come

Enter this story, add their words to the ghostly structure

                                                  Floating in the void

                                                  Waiting.

                                                  Hungry for a conclusion

For the lines to quiver and tremble at approaching agency

                                                  Eager for an end to such

                                                  Waiting.

                                                  The woven strands shake

Sending orders to issue forth, intercept, retrieve, absorb

                                                  Surround in words

                                                  Wrapped and captive

                                                  Until the subject is the one

                                                  Waiting.

                                                  The strands deceive

The structure is hewn and falls softly to a silent rest

So silent silence skirts the periphery and scales the real

Alien superstructure the strands of fate adhere to

No longer able to wait patiently when impatience has torn

The woven fabric of the wait, a story built and finished

                                                  By one unable to read

                                                  As a weaver reads vibrations

In the text, in the patterns and the strands of the asking

This agent could not read and was afraid of what he knew not

So from the periphery an exodus to alienation and further

Away from pursuit and heavy judgement from above

Amidst broken frames of fallen structure, to be rebuilt anew

                                                  In a different, freer land

                                                  Away from this illiterate

And this land that had proven to be barren since text-birth

So I, at the centre of the air, ascend contrary to gravity

And stand instead upon the inverse surface, reversed horizon

Eyes appraising the foundations for which the woven path
May be retrod once more, after the vibrations have departed

                                                  I feel the illiterate beneath

                                                  Sending tremors into the ether

Trembling and anxious, and I have this mad compulsion

An instinctive blurting, far from erudite, irrational

And I must weave downwards, descend, fall, go down

Dropping like a weight enacting gravity's ritual towards

This illiterate, as though I have a story to weave for them

                                                  And the impatient illiterate

                                                  Can no longer be kept

                                                  Waiting.

                                                  The new crystalline silk

                                                  Liquid weave unwavering

Permits my going down, the woven text suffers for it

This is not part of a natural structure but an alien one

Feeling forced upon myself, bent over backwards

And enveloped fast within my own ghostly coccoon

Though I can see through spectral structure I am stuck

                                                  And compelled onwards

                                                  Tied to descending hungrily

The vibrations in the air are fearful and terrible

Though the agent has perceived the intent behind the weave

Followed the pattern of the structure and traced the lines

Of silken glass connecting one story to another

And the illiterate has fallen, gone down far faster than gravity

                                                  His structure has toppled

                                                  Fall finally ending all this

                                                  Waiting.

                                                  My hungry impatient waiting

                                                  And now the threads tell me

That this illiterate has fallen from its ladder through fear

At seeing a fellow weaver go down to it against its will

And in trying to evade fell too far, too much and too hard

And the tremors send cracks through the air shaking the lines

And make a noise that summons the illiterate's partner

And she, for she is a she, a she that would consume the story

And would envelope the male for that is as she is want to do

And she comes and sees I at the centre of the air

And she encases me within a glass coccoon of her own

And I know that she is a story teller as well

And I know that the structure she is imposing is a story

                                                  That I have heard before

And her tears are ones that I have heard before

                                                  In another story entirely

And the tears to my silken structure

And the tears for her fallen partner

I feel them as shiverings of the same story

And I am caught in the middle of this snare

And before I am thrown to a cold, wet end

I wonder why this has been chosen as the end

Of our stories.

Violent Metempsychoses pt. 2

THE WAITING ROOM

“That didn't go so well, did it?”

I'm back in the white room again. The furry thing is sat in front of me, eyes trained on the floor. I tried to detect whether there was some malice in its voice but couldn't perceive anything. It was just as calm and comforting as before.

“I wasn't ready for that.”

“We're all different. You'll need to think about that next time. That is, if you want to try again?”

“Definitely.”

“Even after sacrificing the life of an innocent?”

This was a good point. Poor old Barry, I could distinctly remember his concerns and feelings. He hadn't deserved that end, that was for sure, but then after all didn't it serve Josh right? He took from me the one I loved and now I had just done the same to him.

“So you can rationalise it then. Very well. Just remember though that the reawakening process will be more difficult this time.”

I nod. This time I would be ready. I wouldn't rush into anything. I would have my revenge and be done with it, so that I could take some time to experience the world again. Perhaps I could visit Sarah, see how she was doing? Buoyed by these thoughts, I pad my way over to the door again.

*   *   *

CHOOKI AND THE AWAKENING

This     day     is     enjoyable.     I     have     scared     away     another     from     my     territory     when     the     light     was     low     in     the     sky     and     found     several     large     worms     shortly     after     to     give     to     my     mate     and     the     young.     They     are     delighted     with     the     food     I     have     provided     for     them.

I     am     still     hungry     though,     so     I     am     currently     scanning     the     grasses     for     more.     I     can     see     some     berries     down     by     the     bottom     of     the    leaf     hedge     so     I     wheel     around.     I     scan     for     big     beasts     but     cannot     see     any.     I     swoop     down     and     land. I give out a pook-pook-pook and hop over to the berries.

The berries are red and I eat four berries straight away. The berries are soft and sweet, like worm flesh but moister. I can see some old crumbly leaves at the bottom of the leaf hedge and so I am going to have a look and see if there are any crunchies hidden inside. I find a small crunchy straight away. It tries to scuttle past me but my beak is down straight-away and I have eaten another delicious morsel. I can see another crunchy, one of the ones that curls up like a stone. My beak is down and I have eaten another one. I am trying to find some more of these crunchies as I enjoy them the most, but there aren't any.

I hear a rustle from further along the leaf hedge but I can't see anything. I hop away from the leaf hedge into the open grass and have a look around. I cannot see anything. I hear a pook-pook-pook from behind me, and there is the other that I scared away from our territory perched on a tree branch. He has seen a big beast but I cannot see one. I hear a rustle from the leaf hedge and turn to see one of the long claws creeping out from behind a large pile of crumbly leaves. I hop, hop, hop away and take to the air again,     away     from     the     long     claws     and     alight upon the same tree as the other that I scared away earlier.

I don't know why he came back to my territory after I scared him away earlier, but if he hadn't then the long claws might have gotten me. I really dislike the long claws. They are the worst of all the big beasts. I am thinking about how they are like this other that I scared away earlier. They don't care about who the territory belongs to. They are always stalking around the nests of the giant worms, the ones that use all the tools. The tool worms don't seem to mind though. It is as though they think the long claws are just another tool of theirs. The long claws are not just another tool of theirs. The long claws don't care about anyone but themselves. I don't see long claws hunting for worms and berries and crunchies to take back for the mates and young.

The other that I scared away earlier gives out a chink-chook-chook and takes to the air. The other that I scared away earlier has confused me. I gave out a pook-pook-pook to keep others away from the food. The other that I scared away gave out a pook-pook-pook to warn me about the long claws. This is long claws thinking. Or tool worm thinking.

I don't think I am feeling well so I decided to return to the nest.     I     have     become     airbourne.     The     thermals     take     me     above     the     tree     and     I     soar     over     the     other     trees     and     leaf     hedges     and     tool     worm     nests     towards     my     own     nest     in     my     own     tree.     The     tool     worm     nests     always     impress     me.     They     are     like     bigger     versions     of     the     tiny     crawler     nests,     but     very     few     tool     worms     live     in     them.     More     different     creatures     live     in     them,     like     crunchies,     web     scuttlers,     long     claws,     loud     jaws,     even     others     that     I've     scared     away     build     their     nests     in     them.     We     are     all     cuckookoos     where     the     tool     worms     are     concerned.

I     can     see     my     nest.     My     mate     and     my     young     are     inside     it.     I     can     also     see     that     other     that     I     have     scared     away     perched     on     the     branch     next     to     the     nest.     I      am     angry.     He     is     bowing     his     head.     My     mate     is     motionless     and     her     tail     is     down.     Good.     Keep     it     down.     I     am     angry.     I     cannot     believe     that     this     other     that     I     have     scared     away     is     attempting     to     cuckookoo     my     mate.     I     cannot     think     of     ever     seeing     such     a     thing     before.     Although,     maybe,     perhaps,     once,     I     did?

I can remember.

I land on a nearby branch and remember, a time when I flew once before, uncontrolled, the wind rising up at me from below, featherless, wings not catching the air currents. I can remember falling out of the nest, pushed by another who wanted to be with my mate.

Josh. Worm. I am going to have vengeance. This time, I am. I am pausing to think about things this time. I need to find out where I am, then find out where Josh is. Then, I am not sure. Perhaps I can divebomb him, or drop something onto him, or cause him to fall. I can work it out when I see him. My mate is still motionless with her tail down, though she is looking at me now. I will be back for her, and our young, I just have to deal with Josh first. I hop off the branch and take to the sky once more.     As     I     do     so     I     take     one     last     look     at     my     mate.     She     has     raised     her     tail     and     is     moving     now.

I      am     soaring     over     the     tool     worm     nests,     racking     my     brain     to     try     and     work     out     which     one     might     be     Josh's.     I     can     do     it,     I     know,     but     it     is     difficult,     trying     to     apply     my     tool     worm     memories     to     this     new     point     of     view.     If     I     was     to     go     lower     then     I     would     be     at     risk     from     big     beasts.     It     comes     to     me     though,     the     gutters     of     Josh's     nest.     They     were     full     of     leaves.     That     was     why     I     was     climbing     the     ladder,     to     remove     the     leaves     for     him.     Yes!     I     give     out     a     cheerful     seeeeeeeeeeeee     and     wheel     around,     scanning     for     his     untidy     nest.     I     know     it     is     nearby,     I     can     feel     it.     I     can     recognise     the     curving     roads     and     trees     and     leaf     hedges     that     divided     the     neighbourhood.     And     there,     I     can     see     it!

I stoop down and land on a wooden platform in Josh's back-garden. There are some seeds scattered on it and I can eat several of them whilst I devise my plan of attack. I am pleased that these are here. Looking at his nest, I can see that this side of the house is opened up. He must be finding it hot. This means he will be here as well. He wouldn't leave his nest open if he wasn't at home. And yes! I can see, directly in front of me, him! Bastard tool worm. He sits on his chair. There is someone else next to him, who I cannot see in the light. That's it. Just from seeing him, I know I can finish him now. I can fly into him, as fast as I can, and my beak can go through his eye and into his brain. Yes! I'm coming you bastard.

I hop off this food platform and take to the air once more, circling around so that I can generate enough speed to do some damage. Before I make my flight, I locate some excrement in the grasses beside his nest. This was from his loud jaw. I stab my beak into it. If I don't kill him then I can make any wound a dirty one.

I     am     in     sky     again     before     any     long     claws     can     hear     me.     I     can     circle     around     the     nest     three     times     and     generate     enough     speed     to     do     the     damage.     I     make     my     rapid     descent.     My     feathers     are     strong     and     I     fly     like     divine     wind.     Closer.     Closer.     I     can     almost     feel     it.

I feel an intense pain. My beak is forced backwards into my head as I am halted mid-flight. My head. Everything spins. I cannot. I cannot feel. What? Everything is flashing colours. The window. Of course, it was a window. He never opens his windows. He is afraid that web scuttlers will get in his nest. He hates climbing ladders in case he climbs into one dangling in the air. Everything is loud pain. I cannot move. My beak isn't working. Everything is loud pain, apart from the sound of rustling from the leaf hedge, and the warning cry of a chook-chook-chook, from another who has just seen one of the long claws.

*   *   *

Violent Metempsychoses pt. 1

So I've been struggling with the National Novel Writing Month challenge once more, meeting with little success. There are just too many birthdays in November. Next year I think I will go and stay in a log cabin in Scandinavia somewhere for a month so that I can finally win. As I feel like putting something up here purely for the sake of putting something up, here is part 1 (of 3) of my dissertation's creative component. I'm going to expand on it at some point in the future, when I feel up to writing lots and lots and lots in the style of a dog. Probably when I've got the keys to that log cabin in Scandinavia.

-   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -

THE WAITING ROOM

I was inside a large, white room and everything was cloudy. I couldn't tell whether there was something wrong with my vision, or whether there was actual mist surrounding me. Waving a hand experimentally in front of me told me that it was a little of both. Very confusing, I had no immediate recollection of how I came to be there. My last memories were of Sarah, the fall, and the repulsive leering face of Josh. Him, standing at the bedroom window, watching me as I dropped, mouth open, eyes wild. I hated him for what he did to me.

This didn't explain how I had come to be there though, nor the distinct absence of pain in my body. Had I landed on my back? My legs? I definitely started to go backwards as the ladder toppled, and I can remember holding Josh's gaze for what seemed like forever. The bastard. I still couldn't believe what he had done to Sarah. What he was doing to Sarah, my Sarah, the bastard. And then to push the ladder...

But I was getting ahead of myself. Despite the rage burning away, I still didn't know where the hell I was. The room was long, like the main hall of a church, with a strange uneven ceiling that curved down at the sides. It was like a cavern with smooth painted walls, as though someone had taken a large burrow and given it some interior decorating. And then there was the mist. It shrouded everything, giving the whole place an unreal feel. That, and the fact that I'd apparently just appeared there from out of thin air.

“I assure you that this is very real.”

A voice. From out of the mist came this voice; calm and authoritative but in a soft way. It had come from the centre of the room. I squinted into the mists and after a few seconds I could discern a round silhouette, probably four feet tall or so. Strange. Had I been thinking aloud? What was this thing?

“Come closer and see. I won't bite.”

There was something reassuring in its tone. I cautiously stepped forwards into the mist, noting as I did how my legs did not ache or feel stiff. It was as though I had just woken up.

“In a manner of speaking, you have.”

Then I could see it more clearly. It was about four feet tall, a round thing, covered in brown woolly fur. There were some pointy bits at the top, ears possibly? And some yellow eyes, unblinking, focused on the ground in front of me. I suppose it had a face in that respect.

“What are you?” I asked, in a manner that betrayed how nervous I was. This situation was alien.

“I'm different,” it replied after a pause, “to everything else. I appreciate that this scenario is different to everything else you've ever experienced. To a degree.”

It had got that right. It felt as though I was participating in a car crash in slow motion, getting psychic whiplash, or something crazy like that. And all because of Josh? It must be.

“You don't like him do you? You're blaming him for your being here.”

There it was again, seeing what I was thinking. I definitely hadn't been thinking out loud, I was paying close attention to myself. But it was right, I was blaming Josh.

“You think he is the reason that you died.”

“Died?!” But this all seemed so real, despite its unrealness. Tangible. I mean, I felt full of energy, alive, ready to go. And though I'd fallen from the top of the ladder it was only storeys up. People have fallen from higher. People have fallen out of planes and lived.

“You landed onto concrete. The point of impact was just below the base of your neck. You shattered your cervical vertebrae.”

Instinctively I reached up and rubbed my neck. It felt fine, as though nothing had happened. As though I hadn't been pushed from the top of the ladder by the biggest son of a bitch I'd ever met.

“You blame him for your death and you hate him more than anything in the world.”

“You're damn right! This guy has ruined my life! He's killed me and taken away from me the one person I love. Not only that, but he's using her! He doesn't care for her! It's all just a game to him! It's all a game and she doesn't know!” Hearing myself say these words out loud really brought everything home. A tear rolled down my cheek.

It looked up at me. Its yellow eyes glowed in the mist, their radiance asked questions of me that its voice could not. They burned with an intensity that cut through the swirling confusion.

“And you want revenge?”

It asked the question, even though it already knew the answer. As though it just wanted to hear me respond, to engage with the question and its implications. But if what it said was true, that I was dead, how could I get revenge?

“From this afterlife you have three chances. Although your body has been broken, your soul still burns brightly with life. In the process of reincarnation, your soul can pass into a body that is still whole. Your soul will merge with that which resides within. In this way, you can have another attempt at life. This may happen three times.”

“So, I can go back, and get three shots at revenge that way?”

“What you do with this opportunity is for you to decide. Should you wish to pursue vengeance there are a couple of things you must be aware of, however.” It stopped and blinked, very deliberately, as though what it was about to say contained great weight. “There are some factors which you may find limiting to your mission.

“Firstly, you will be reborn into the body of a creature that is different to your previous one. You will find that each subsequent reincarnation will be a step further from your previous form. Secondly, as there will already be a soul present in the body, your past memories will not be present to begin with. The shock of rebirth will push them to the back of your unconscious. They will need to be re-awakened, which will happen when you encounter something that will connect with them. Through subsequent reincarnations, the reawakening process becomes harder.”

This brought to mind all of those stories you hear about people coming back as animals. Birds that visit bereaving families and comfort them in their loss. Dogs replacing lost children.

“If this is the case, why aren't there more stories of animals attacking humans? I would have thought everyone would be desperate for this sort of opportunity.”

“Not everyone who dies wants revenge. And not all who want revenge are able to harbour such feelings after experiencing a second chance of life. Not all wish to sacrifice another life in order to satisfy the yearnings of one that has already expired.”

These seemed like reasonable arguments, but my anger was much stronger by far. It wouldn't be a sacrifice, not like it was making out. I could be reincarnated, save Sarah from that beast and be done with it. See out the rest of my days in peace.

“As you wish. There is a door at the end of the room. It will take you where you seek. Be wary though. Every living being has its own story. It would be a mistake to think that yours is the most complete simply because it is the one you are most familiar with.”

With those words it averted its gaze again, contemplating the floor in front of me once more. It felt as though a pressure was lifted from my shoulders. As though I had been in court and the verdict had just been announced. I looked forward into the mist and at once I could see a dim light at the far end of the room. This must be the doorway onwards. With great purpose I strode past the thing and made for the exit, with vivid thoughts of vengeance dancing in my mind.

 *   *   * 

 

BARRY AND THE AWAKENING.

Warm, mmmmmmmmm, hot, I love lying in the sun, it's fun, yes it is. Mmmmm, nothing like a nice stroll with the Leader, but still lovely, this spot is so comfy. Normally I don't like it when the Leader goes away and shuts me in his moving house, but it is rather soft to lie in and when the sun is shining it gets so lovely and warm its almost as if I'm in my basket, or even when I used to nuzzle up against my dam all that time ago when it was our basket and not just mine, mmmmmmm.

I wonder where the Leader has gone, he's gone and left the Lead just lying there in the front on the friend chair, and I want to go and get it but I know that if I do it won't be the same as it is when the Leader gets it, and the Leader doesn't like me sitting in the friend chair, no, not there. Ahhhhhhhhhh, it's so warm that I don't mind, I'll find that the Leader will come back and then we'll go for a nice walk, or maybe he'll talk to me and give some food, good, mmmmmmm.

There was one time when the Leader left me in here, and he left the glass bits all up and it got too warm, like the room where the Leader makes his food, not good, mmm, and I felt quite ill, still, will not happen again I don't think, as the Leader has learnt and has left it, the glass bit, open and –

Wait a minute.

An open window.

Josh.

All of a sudden, a deluge of memories falls on top of me, burying me in the past. I remember everything. The window, the fall, the look on his face as it happened. The bastard. He was going to pay.

I wag my tail at this thought, making a pleasing thump-thump-thump noise as it whacked against the soft leather of the back seat. Neat, I was back, on track and ready to get some revenge. Once the Leader got back I would be able to get out of this car and then see about tracking down Josh.

The more I think about Josh though, the more images in my head seem to come together. This repulsive man, the bane of my previous existence, his image is everything that the Leader isn't; the Leader is lovely and kind and takes me for walks, gives me food, good, and pats my head before basket time. Despite this though, the smell of the Leader, that wonderful kind smell, seems to be bound up with Josh. Repulsive man, delightful smell. Both pictures seem to be drawn together in this car.

And then I get it. What the connection was. Why these two seemingly incongruous images were meeting here in this car. This is Josh's car. I should have recognised the faux-leather interior, tacky wood stained finish on the dashboard, Millwall FC air freshener. Lack of air circulation for his dog.

I am his dog, Barry! This is perfect. Poor old Barry was going to bite that hand that feeds him. I can see myself now, leaping up at Josh as soon as he opens the door to the car, cannoning forward onto his chest, the shock of my weight forcing him to fall backwards to the floor, me on top of him, clawing at his face, then sinking my jaws into his neck, canines and incisors digging into his weak flesh, feeble arms beating against me but too late, too late to stop the merciless rush of his blood, wet and hot into my –

But here he is! Coming to open the door to the car, some kind of sick, animal grin on his face. I can hear the jingle-jangle of the keys as he pulls them out of his pocket, so I know, not having much time, I have to leap into the front seat, neat, sweet look in my eyes masking the murderous rage within. His hand has moved to the door handle. I can hear him mumbling something, the words seem strange to my ears, but I can smell his surprise, wafting in through the opening in the glass bit. Then he opens the door.

I spring forward, like a wolf, like a hunter, but he is swift. He sees me coming and sidesteps my lunge. I fly out of the car and onto the hot tarmac of the road. I hadn't noticed that the door has opened up onto the road. I am dazed. There is an intense assault of scents, smells, odours, so many, overpowering, and I find myself cowering. I'm not prepared for all this. Josh is shouting something but its lost in the rush. The onrushing scents, the onrushing scents.

The onrushing car.

*   *   *

The Proclaimers

A few weekends ago I went to see the Proclaimers play in Guildford. It had been around 6 or so years since I last saw them live, inebriated, off the back of two songs and a wee bit of silly nationalism. At the time the inebriation and silly nationalism certainly raised my opinion of them, but their performance encouraged me to purchase their greatest hits album a few days later. I am very pleased I made this decision, along with the one to go and see them again in Guildford. This time, older and wiser, having only had one pint, I was able to appreciate them much more as musicians. They put on a great show and have inspired me to look further than the peripheries of compilations. Sunshine on Leith is now level pegging with Rumours to be the next CD I purchase.

For someone (like myself back in t' day) looking to engage with their music after the turn of the century, it must be difficult to look past their image as a novelty act to be confined to wedding parties where three minutes of jovial scotch 'ta-da-la-la's sit well next to the 'Macarena' and 'Bohemian Rhapsody'. Back in t'day though (a much earlier day than t' day I was back in, mind) they leaped onto the scene with a television performance that garnered a lot of attention. Rather than a party tune, this was a deeply political ode to emigration from Scotland. These two songs, the two I was familiar with before seeing them for the first time, illustrate what makes them appealing to me. Matt Lucas of Shooting Stars and Little Britain fame describes it more eloquently than I can currently:

"...there is great wit and intelligence. Craig and Charlie's lyrics are frequently emotional, often unashamedly sentimental. Other times their words are as dry and pithy as their melodies are simply divine. They write with unabashed honesty and understated eloquence about what they know best - life, death, love, sex, marriage, parents, kids, football, politics, alcohol and Scotland - and leave the rest, quite happily, to everyone else."

- taken from the foreword to The Best of... (2002)

 This mixture, combined with the wry sense of humour which seems tied into a sense of 'jovial suffering' that pervades most aspects of Scottish culture, that makes them a winning package for me. There is something beautifully human about being free to tackle all subjects, from the serious to the comic, and not being any worse off for it. By looking at them this way it seems less surprising that Lucas was able to write that "'Sunshine on Leith' says more to me about me life and the way I feel than anything Morrissey or Cobain ever wrote." And he's not even Scottish!

Their style of lyrical honesty is certainly one that I'm going to try and use more in the future, and they are definitely a band that I am going to encourage others to give a chance to. Starting with you! Go and grab a bunch of them.

"Let me donate something to a kids charity of your choice
For you I would willingly be a worse traitor than William Joyce
If I could sing I would sing you a song in Sam Cooke’s voice
Let me rephrase that, I think there’s a better line there
Spinning around in the air"

The Great Escape 2012 (part 1)

NB - I started writing this a long time ago, fairly soon after the Great Escape. Various life events put finishing this off on the back burner. Rather than pick away at it for another couple of months I thought I'd get Day 1 posted up now. Can't have it sitting there on my Drafts page gathering anymore world wide cobwebs now.
 

Despite living in Brighton for over 3 and a half years I had never been to the Great Escape until last weekend. For those unaware, the Great Escape is a music festival held in Brighton over 3 days in which the majority of music venues in the city (as well as others less accustomed to live performance, such as the laundry centre on St. James' Street) play host to a variety of bands; predominantly up-and-coming acts relatively new on the scene from across the world.

For me personally it took the main thing I like about music festivals, being able to see lots and lots of different bands over a relatively short space of time, and gave it to me without the main thing I dislike about music festivals, namely the close proximity to lots and lots of people who are there for the "festival experience"; i.e. sitting around a campsite getting boorishly wasted. If I wanted to get really drunk every day I could have just gone and sat in a pub for a few hours, or just stayed at the flat and drank on my own, sparing everybody else in the city my gross vulgarity. As it happened I usually had a lie-in in my lovely warm bed each day instead (another perk).

I would strongly recommend that anyone living in or near Brighton give the Great Escape a go next year. I certainly will. Last weekend I was able to see 27 bands (whom I shall discuss shortly), a total which could have been higher had I the stamina, and for the ticket price (£35, not inc. booking fee) and the quality of their music this was a steal.


So who did I manage to see? Well, let me tell you...



THURSDAY:



Slow Down, Molasses (Canada) - Blind Tiger Club
These guys got things underway with some inoffensive generic laid-back rolling rock. They were enjoyable enough to watch, at their best when their bassist and guitarist swapped instruments as the former bassist was much more active on stage. He also had a great moustache. Nothing out of the ordinary but a pleasant warm up.



Hot Panda (Canada) - Blind Tiger Club
This is where things properly kicked off for me. This band had great stage presence and had one of the best frontpeople I would see all weekend. He was happy to wander down into the crowd and then tell things like they were. "Let's cut the shit...are there any influential bloggers or record company representatives here???...fuck..." Their quirky and energetic rock was engaging and is best sampled at their website here. They reminded me quite a bit of Sex Bo-Bomb from Scott Pilgrim in their mannerisms, though their rocking out was reined in much more.


We Were Evergreen (France) - Komedia Studio Bar

A quick walk across to Komedia saw a Gallic three-piece playing sweet little whimsical tunes that wouldn't be out of place sound-tracking a twee indie movie, or as incidental pieces during the thoughtful parts of a Flight of the Conchords episode. Unfortunately their set was beset with technical problems, with instruments malfunctioning and sound levels varying. They went about their business with a smile (well, 2 out of 3 did) but ultimately this held them back slightly. Pretty but the performance didn't hit the mark as well as Hot Panda.

Dillon (Germany) - The Hope

I had heard this song ahead of the festival which was enough to make me dash up to the Hope and experience my first queue of the weekend. Unfortunately, once I got in to the packed room I was treated to a set more in the style of the other song I have linked (click on 'Dillon'). Undoubtedly a talented singer, with haunting vocals reminiscent of Coco Rosie or Regina Spektor. I just couldn't get on with the sparsity of her songs though, which was backed by a relentlessly pounding bass and illegible computer squawks. Perhaps not the right style of music for me, but also what really grated was how dull it was to watch. Dillon mainly sat at her piano with a face like a crumpled lemon whilst the man making the computer squawk and bass beat would have fitted right in as a Kraftwerk member stunt double. Yawn. I made my great escape after a handful of songs.

Hundreds (Germany) - Komedia Studio Bar

This was more like it. A singer who looked like a cross between Caroline Lucas and Claire Sissons and a computer man who looked like Benny from Abba. These guys were humble, charming, and purveying a more minimalist electronic version of the Eurythmics. Lovely stuff, although alas only a relatively short set of 20 minutes. Their appearance wasn't recorded in the festival programme (only online) so I fear many people may have been unaware of this gig. Shame.

Avalanche City (New Zealand) - The Haunt

Like a Mumford & Sons without that aggressive angsty snarling side to their folk, this NZ trio played us some lovely lovely songs; a good way to start the Thursday evening selection. Without the snarl though their set was not as rousing as it could have been, though this is not to take anything away from them. I enjoyed them immensely (almost as much as I enjoy their video!) and felt happy and carefree as I exited the venue.

Frànçois and the Atlas Mountains (UK/France) - Corn Exchange

These guys can be difficult to pin down. The last time I saw them, in January at the Green Door Store, the best way I could describe them was, "the Flaming Lips, fronted by Yann Tiersen, covering Graceland." This is still the most apt description I can come up with. They were the sole reason I bought a ticket to TGE and they didn't disappoint. Definitely a band of the weekend. This time round they were missing a bassist and drummer so their set was stripped back from the last time I'd seen them. This meant missing out on some of E Volo Love's more involved tracks, but I certainly appreciated being able to take in a different kind of performance from them. I imagine seeing them live multiple times would be quite rewarding.

Savages (UK/France) - Corn Exchange

I saw these guys play their first ever gig (ever!) at British Sea Power's club night in January and was severely blown away by them. NME's description of them as a "riot grrrl Joy Division" is a good one, and frontwoman Jehn struck me as a cross between Karen O and Jarvis Cocker. In fact, I had never been more blown away by a support act in my entire life, which is why their set at TGE was possibly the most disappointing I saw. The hype machine has been at work for them over the past few months so my expectations were high. It just didn't click here though; their previous energy was lost in the vastness of the Corn Exchange, and with Jehn sulking her way moodily through the set they were missing the other key piece of their performative puzzle (we henceforth referred to her as "grumpyguts"). I had thought that they were a surefire bet for the future, but this set has made me a little more wary of forthcoming releases.

Ben Kweller (US) - Komedia Upstairs

Whilst Savages were lacking in the energy and enthusiasm department, Ben Kweller made up for them with an abundance of both. He purveyed some experienced Springsteen-lite rock music that got heads bobbing and faces smiling, and kept the crowd hooked with charming talk in between songs. He put on a show, no doubt, and did it with great positivity. This was the shot in the arm that was needed. I had been given a copy of one of his albums a few years ago and will have to revisit it; there are times where a slice of modest American rock is just what is required.

Django Django (UK) - Pavillion Theatre

This was one band I'd heard a lot of buzz for but hadn't really heard any of their music. After a nervous queuing session we finally made to squeeze ourselves into a packed theatre just in time to see the art-rockers stride onto stage, resplendent in a series of hideous-looking shirts. This should have served as warning that they were to be a very striking band. There was something almost tribal about their music in which all vocals were delivered dually, giving the singing a very subtle force behind it. The music itself was art-rock, with a feathery electronic coating. It was an engrossing combination, sounding like the most individual mix I'd heard coming out of the indie scene in quite a long time. This band also had a very positive stage presence, making them seem likeable even when not playing. This was especially important, given that they suffered a technical problem which delayed their set by a few minutes. Despite this they held the crowd's attention and continued on to deliver a rousing second half to their set and ended our first day of Escaping on a high.

Go To Bed With Terrorism

NB - Since acquiring a magic phone I have been enjoying using this blog as a way of looking up song lyrics that I haven't learned yet. You'd think that if you wrote the lyrics you'd automatically remember them, but no. It's quite embarrassing how long it's taken me to learn the lyrics to Who Put The Dog In The Basket? I wonder how Nick Cave manages it.


I was naked in the field
Searching under rocks to feed
Pondering centipedes
When you came along
Took me in your arms so strong
Dressed me up in uniform
We downed shots of chloroform
Until we felt the same

We walked out around the shops
Gazing at adverts at bus stops
Sunshine and lollipops
The words began to smother me
You ran to uncover me
Heroic act so brotherly
Sisterly simultaneously
You had me at the shots

Go to bed with terrorism x 2
If you go to bed with terrorism
You'll have a safer home
Go to bed with terrorism x 2
If you go to bed with terrorism
You'll never sleep alone

I was raking up the leaves
Outside the exotic maisonette
Working up quite a sweat
The owner he came over
In a shower of obscenities
Flung his flabby fists at me
Spilled blood upon my hosiery
Because the leaves looked shit

We both marched that night
Outside the exotic maisonette
Conveying quite a passive threat
As he ignored our placards
We started to bombard the bastard
We hurled rotten eggs and custard
He ran out all red and flustered
A shell had split his lip

Go to bed with terrorism x 2
If you go to bed with terrorism
You'll have a safer home
Go to bed with terrorism x 2
If you go to bed with terrorism
You'll never sleep alone

Oh mum and daddy, look at me, would you prefer it if I sold car insurance?
And after years of meaning well are you upset I've put in another poo performance?
Of course there will be times where you will question whether what I'm doing is right universally
But you must remember that ethics are just subjectivity!!!

With our backs against the wall
Helicopters circling
I have never felt this small
Also never this glad
You took me by my broken hand
Took me to the promised land
Where I played in a marching band
I sang and played the guitar!

So we'll make a final stand
And we will go out with a bang
The curtains will close upon
A blaze of pure affection
Your love will be my protection
You set me in the right direction
I stand erect at full attention
Lead us on, my friend

Go to bed with terrorism x 2
If you go to bed with terrorism
You'll have a safer home
Go to bed with terrorism x 2
If you go to bed with terrorism
You'll never sleep alone
Go to bed with terrorism x 2
If you go to bed with terrorism
You'll have a safer home
Go to bed with terrorism x 2
If you go to bed with terrorism
You'll never sleep alone