I recently took part in the first, and very enjoyable Found Objects Podcast. The inaugural meeting took place at the Angel pub off Denmark Street: hosted by Ken Hollings, along with Dolly Dolly (David Yates) and Andrew Demetrius. David has distilled the two hour conversation into a podcast for Found Objects. Ken discussed Morning Of The Magicians, Andrew - HPL artwork, David - A honeycombe from his bee keeping interests. Myself, I took along Christopher Evans' Landscapes Of The Night.
Monday 29 November 2010
For English Heretic: Andy, Dave and Hannah
For K-Punk: Mark, Zoe, George and Michelle
Destination: Great Yarmouth - Louis Tussaud's House Of Wax, Regent Street and Promenade.
Great Yarmouth is one of my favourite places. I first visited it about 10 years ago with my then wife Helen and our son Dave. Helen had just found out she was pregnant with Hannah and was suffering really bad morning sickness. So it didn't help that we booked into the seediest hotel, serving the most gelatinous minestrone soup and salads lubricated with a homemade dressing - of a consistency more David Lynch than Paul Newman. The hotel proprietors were Harry and Terry. Terry was a muscular middle aged Geordie who did a drag routine on a Tuesday evening in the exquisitely uncomfortable and bijoux lounge bar. On the wall of the stairwell leading to the bedrooms, there was a photograph of Terry - dressed as a mermaid. Still, it remains one of our favourite holidays - like being in a George Kuchar film...
Recently I've been pondering a new kind of psychogeography - one for the family, after all every coordinate of pretension and speculation has been annexed by some flavour of the 'art'. The Society Of The Actophile is therefore a natural extension. A play on Bataille's esoteric cult of revolutionary sacrifice - The Actophile makes an apotheosis of the beach and, by extrapolation, a religion of leisure. Whilst this conceit is obviously bathed in lazy irony, Actophilia has real potential. It's where the situationist disciples of the ludic revolution go on a day out, more charabanc than Left Bank.
As a place for praxis, the beach itself is a clean talisman, waiting for dead seals to be drawn upon it and jetsammed to the subconscious of the next tide.
One only need look at the revved up world of Jeff Keens, the terminal sands of JGB, the incubal revenants of M.R. James' Burnstow and, the hints of R'lyeh at Dunwich to know that seaside psychogeography represents the most powerful frontier between what is known and a queasy occult: where the relics of a hideous pre-historical weekend break are washed up as the future's lagan.
|Louis Tussaud's House Of Wax
|Plan For The Assassination Of Princess Ann
|The Ultimate Power Electronics Supergroup: Eichmann on laptop; Black Panther on beaters; Manson on vocals and Beads
|Forensic evidence proves that God told the Yorkshire Ripper to do it
|A three eyed, idiot dwarf, cannibal killer from Poland - an identity parade nightmare
|Trish Clowes' Tangent - the best name for a jazz band ever
|Onomatopeaic Coffee Bar... an even better name for a Jazz band
|Dave in retro holiday photoshoot
|With a name like Gypsy Roaselee, you'd expect her to be clairvoyant
|Existential Noddy, reframed as Kowalski in Vanishing Point
|The Question is... What kind of Family?
|The shores of Boleskine atop a Carousel
|Joyland - This is what i'd imagine the end of the world looks like to a 3yr old
|Brutal Sports Centre
|Ridiculous food sculptures - Oppenheim at the Seaside
|A place to perform the treasure seeking rituals of Magick Concrete
|Lost Underwater Chippies
|Roadside East Anglia
|Yarmouth - after De Chirico
Sunday 21 November 2010
On our way down to Ilfracombe with Dave and Hannah, we drove past Dunster. From the road, you can see the Castle. The kids looked suitably impressed. Yes, it's a fairy tale castle. We decided to visit it on the way back. Dunster is just outside Minehead and I've subsequently discovered some great connections with horses about the place (that is feeding into the work Hippomania which will be appearing in the next Wyrd Tales).
So, both Neptune and Poseidon are the "God of Horses", as well as the sea. Neptune Equester is the God of horse racing.
which suggests the origin of the hobby horse:
"... be in commemoration of the wreck of a vessel at Minehead in remote times, or the advent of a sort of phantom ship which entered the harbour without Captain or crew. Once the custom was encouraged, but now is much neglected, and perhaps soon will fall into desuetude"
"King Neptune" plays a central role in the long-standing tradition of the "Line-crossing ceremony" initiation rite still current in many navies, coast guards, and merchant fleets. When ships cross the equator, "Pollywogs" (sailors who had not done such a crossing before) receive "subpoenas" to appear before King Neptune and his court (usually including his first assistant Davy Jones and Her Highness Amphitrite and often various dignitaries, who are all represented by the highest-ranking seamen).
And this is where it gets crazy!
Davy Jones is really an epithet for the state of death of drowned sailors... possibly a corruption of Devil Jonah...
Davy Jones (the dimunitive singer with 1960's pop band Monkees), orginally harboured ambitions to become a jockey.
In July 1992, Hampshire-based Anita Jones, wife of said pop star Davy Jones, had two mares attacked within days of each other. One received a wound to the shoulder. One had her genitals slashed and a fence post driven inside her. This was perhaps the most infamous incident in the horrific phenomenon of horse mutilation.
For more on horse mutilation see:
Wednesday 17 November 2010
It's not often I feel the urge to write gig reviews. I did a couple for Wire magazine a few years back. However, when Richard called me to say The Wurzels were playing at the Ipswich Beer Festival, I couldn't really say no. Ironically this was just after I had written my essay on Kensington, in which I boldly stated that "certitude is the concrete engagement with life". I had resolved to live with reality as it actually is, rather than a fantasy projection of some infinitely glamorous other existence. So I really perceived Richard's invite as a message from the Gods, much like Crowley felt compelled to treat every action as significant following his reception of "The Book Of The Law".
The first thing to say about The Wurzels is that they have that cheerful look of the ruddy faced rustic Satanist. I suppose this has its archetype in the look of Charles Grey and the activities of Fred West. The highlight of the set for me is their take on "Una Paloma Blanca" ("Iam a cider drinker"). "Una Paloma Blanca" was a hit for celebrity pederast Jonathan King. It was also famously the song played in the prison van that took Gary Gilmore to be executed.
During the set, lead singer Tommy Banner strips down to a brown thong. He turns around and gyrates his - doubtless heavily flagellated during scrumpy libated rites - posterior to the audience. It's an act of transgression that puts me in mind of the performance of Eugene Robinson of Jazz Metal outfit Oxbow. I can imagine "I've got a brand new combine harvester" chortling from a transistor radio on the patio of 25 Cromwell Road during the shimmering heatwave of 1976.
In fact there is a link between The Wurzels and Fred West. The Wurzels covered the disco classic "Go West" by The Village People. When West committed suicide visiting football fans would taunt teams in Devon and Avon by singing "Go West"...
The Wurzels are not so much saucy as pan-erotic; the kind of people that would engage in romantic liaisons with farm machinery. If love between farmer and tractor seems absurd, then I would point the reader to the following case of autoerotic death detailed in The Journal of Forensic Sciences:
"A 42 year-old Asian man was found hanging by the neck, suspended by a rope attached to the raised shovel of a John Deere Model JD410, diesel powered, backhoe tractor...The decedent was suspended in a semi-sitting position by a cloth safety harness strap wrapped around his neck and clipped to a rope that was hooked to the raised shovel of the backhoe tractor. A towel was between the loose fitting strap and the victim's neck. A long piece of plastic pipe was connected on one end by conduit tape to the hydraulic control lever of the shovel in the operator's compartment of the tractor. A broom stick was taped to the other end of the pipe and was partially under the decedent's buttocks. The hydraulic shovel could be easily raised or lowered by slight pressure applied to the broomstick. The decedent was fully clothed, and his genitals were not exposed. No pornographic materials, women's clothing items, or mirrors were at the scene...He had no known psychiatric illness.
Determination of autoerotic death was made from decedent history and circumstantial indicators. The victim kept a journal of love poetry dedicated to his tractor that he had named "Stone," outlining his desire for them to "soar high" together. The victim was unmarried and lived with his parents on their farm. He also had a reasonable expectation of privacy for an extended period, as he engaged in this behavior in the late evening down by the barn. Cause of death was determined to be accidental autoerotic asphyxiation with carbon monoxide intoxication as a contributor. 
Towards the end of the set, The Wurzels cover "Ruby Ruby" by the The Kaiser Chiefs. It's a frighteningly easy mutation, replacing the chorus with "Oooarrr oooarr ay". Indeed I can't help thinking that the pork pie hat, turned up jeans and suit jacket look of The Kaiser Chiefs is an updated version of the country bumpkin stylings of The Wurzels. Perhaps The Wurzels are The Kaiser Chiefs', cider drinking, combine harvester mating, rural uncles?
1] Dietz, P.E., & O'Halloran, Ronald,"Autoerotic Fatalities with Power Hydraulics", Journal of Forensic Sciences, No. 2, March 1993, pp. 359-364)
Monday 8 November 2010
As anyone who has spoken to me for more than about 10 minutes will know, my creative inspirations are quite transparent. For years I've been obsessed with JG Ballard (who in a weird way, I consider a surrogate father figure), and Kenneth Grant (though I would NEVER seek practical parenting advice from his words). I've spent alot of time introspectively trying to tie together their creative worlds. The brook to bridge between JGB and Grant appears to be Ballard's refusal to countenance anything paranormal. This seemingly irreconcilable difference has actually provided me with the dialectical fuel to see a possibility of synthesising their mythos'. Where Grant and Ballard meet is in their appreciation of the science of the imagination, revealed through Surrealism. The pivotal figure in the equation is Salvador Dali and his siddhi of manifesting - the "concrete irrational".
I've recently started moving the English Heretic project abroad, following the imaginal across the channel to Europe. In doing this, I've been groping for a suitable moniker to describe the research. Of course the hankering for exotic soil is a subconscious one analogous with Roussel's "Impressions Of Africa".
I've decided upon "Magick Concrete". Starting in 2011, I'll be developing this project. I envisage there being three broad aspects to it: "Theory" (essays, discussions, hermeneutics); Art (Concretised Irrational); Practice (Ritual/Fieldwork). Of course this may all change on the hot deserts of the imagination, but it feels like the time (albeit it told with soft clocks) is right.