“Sound is a blow delivered by air, through the ear, on the brain and the blood, and transmitted to the soul” – Robert Macfarlane
That time of year again. The 16th on the trot that I’ve holidayed without flying. I have a minute carbon footprint. Smaller than that of Alfie, our Norfolk Terrier, this year on board to partake in our escapades. Our plans are finely honed: hit the north; bother stones; listen to music; read books. Summon up the energy to face another 12-months in this economic anarchy. The perpetual search for possible escape routes from this most rat-ish of races. Solastalgia for an age yet to come.
The first of my literary companions set the tone for week one: ‘Underland’ (Penguin), Robert Macfarlane – “A journey into the worlds beneath our feet. From the ice-blue depths of Greenland’s glaciers, to the underground networks by which trees communicate, from Bronze Age burial chambers to the rock art of remote Arctic sea-caves, this is a deep-time voyage into the planet’s past and future. Global in its geography, gripping in its voice and haunting in its implications, Underland is a work of huge range and power, and a remarkable new chapter in Macfarlane’s long-term exploration of landscape and the human heart”.
Friday: Le grand depart. We broke out of the Midlands, at a disabled snail’s pace, at rush hour, at the close of a particularly challenging week. Unweather engulfed us. Inclemency prevailed. The so-called summer had thus far failed to materialise. A schoolboy error plonked us amidst a traffic situation. The wrong exit at a roundabout. The M42, a stone’s throw away. At a virtual standstill, inching towards the M6, wasting valuable solstice sunlight. I’d taken my eye off the ball early doors, and now we were drowning in frustration. It felt like a heroic escape from a collapsing system. The irony of salvation through the M6 Toll did not escape us. Socialist principles often evaporate when faced with a five-mile tailback into Coleshill.
Post-toll, the M6 flowed with relative ease. My co-pilot, the gracious Lady Di, took the opportunity to check up on the accommodation she’d booked for the night, in an incident that became known as Kendalgate. Consulting her plastic document wallet, she produced the details of our hotel in Kendal, the gateway to the Lakes. The only drawback being that we’d planned to stay in Keswick. A somewhat flustered Lady Di duly cancelled the Kendal booking in an excruciating conversation with a less-than-pleased Kendal hotel proprietor, who stressed the he was only a family business, and that it really was poor show that he hadn’t been notified earlier. The apologies were profuse, but charming, and thankfully the Kendal hotel owner, a family man, reneged on his documented policy to charge for all cancelations, and we collectively heaved a large sigh of relief. Kendalgate resolved, technology soon booked us a room at the Royal Oak, in Keswick.
By eight PM, we finally reached our solstice destination. Castlerigg is perhaps the most atmospheric and dramatically sited of all British stone circles, with panoramic views and the mountains of Helvellyn and High Seat as a backdrop. It is also among the earliest of British circles, raised in about 3000 BC, during the Neolithic period. The site was buzzing, with around a hundred-or-so solstice revellers. Alfie stretched his paws with glee and left his mark accordingly, as Norfolk Terriers do. He’s always greeted with affection by most everyone he meets, and collected observers of ancient tradition proved no exception. People sat in small groups, a collection of tents surrounded the perimeter. The odd whiff of weed hung in the air, a priestess conducted rituals, intensely (incensely?), and people measured things. As the sun slipped across the blue of time towards its eventual resting place in the western sky, we hugged the stones in this magnificent forever archive, greedily ingesting the energy of our ancestors. We spent an hour or so marvelling at the majesty of the circle, and the genius of the setting, before issuing forth in search of sustenance and the Royal Oak.
Returning to the car, we encountered a sizeable, avuncular gentleman, surveying the site from a bridleway to the east. He was a drone enthusiast, intent on capturing some of the solstice revelry on digital recorder. He was the Lost Dog Man, locally renowned for finding lost dogs on moors with his drone, a fact later corroborated by the corporate identification on his company car. He was indeed a professional. He gave us a (not so) brief run-down on the fine art of locating lost dogs on moors with the aid of drones, including detailed information on the breeds most likely to go missing, and his prowess in the local press. Alfie seemed disinterested, however, but saying ‘goodbye’ to Lost Dog Drone Man wasn’t as easy as you’d think. Finally, we accepted directions to a highly-rated chip shop in Shapp, some 30-miles south, just to end the conversation, before heading the other way, to Keswick. Sustenance consumed, we made our way to the Royal Oak, some 6-miles west. The Royal Oak turned out to be an award winning hotel, unfortunately said award was won in 1957. Essence of moth ball hung evocatively in the air: no wifi, no TV, no phone service, in every room. Crest-fallen, somewhat, it felt like someone would rush in and inform us the NHS had just been founded, and that if we trusted in Aneurin Bevan, everything would be alright. Apparently we’d pitched up in Royston Vassey, and Tubbs (Glenda?) explained they’d soon be getting the internet hard-wired into every room, eventually. Stuck between a bed of rock and a hard place, with a constant red light shining in the corner of the room (Roxanne, turn it off): no sleep till Ullapool.
Saturday: The Royal Oak breakfast experience began amongst a collection of UKIP members, who rustled their Telegraphs loudly, as if they were in the green room at a recording of Question Time. An East-European waiter wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer to the egg question. It took some considerable effort to escape with mere cereals and toast. He seemed genuinely aghast that we wouldn’t be eating any sausage, egg, bacon or black pudding. Leaving the Royal Oak finally felt like an exorcism, and we’d bearly been there 12-hours. A brief interaction with Keswick’s National Trust long-stay-extortion car park was rudely interrupted by a return to Glenda: once more into the Royal Oak breech. Lady Di had forgotten her charger. A brief lakeside dog walk and a Keswick petrol queue later, we hit the wide open road north. Soundtrack: Anthony Naples, Bicep, DJ Nature, Djrum, Loidis, Y U QT:
It’s funny how quickly one can get blasé about stunning scenery. The further North we pushed, the harder the sun tried, the more breathtaking the views. Past Glasgow, Stirling, Perth, and, eventually, Inverness, we pit-stopped at Tore, to take on fuel and water. A mile-or-so up the A835 to Ullapool, we found an ancient woodland walk, to stretch our legs and Alfie’s paws. We’d been on the road for five hours, and our destination was less than an hour away now. We finally rolled into Ullapool, a village of around 1,500 inhabitants in Ross and Cromarty, around 6pm. The sun lit the sky to welcome us. The forecast had looked gloomy from a distance, but our Ullapool joy on arrival was unbounded. We located the Yellow House, our tastefully appointed home-from-home for the next two weeks, possibly a reference to the 1888 oil painting by the 19th-century Dutch Post-Impressionist painter, Vincent van Gogh. Initial village explorations included: sunset on the sea loch of Broom; a so-near-so-spa branch of Tesco; a quayside walk; the Taste Of India; and Kelman Duran‘s ’13th Month’ on the balcony, still light at midnight. Arrivistes, at last.
Sunday: The sun had got its hat on by the time we left the Yellow House. Alfie walked, and ritual hot chocolates consumed, it was time for Ullapool Tourist Information, with John. It turned out to be a fortuitous intervention, had we left it any later we’d have failed to book ferries for our trips to both Orkney and Lewis, jeopardising the pre-booked hotels that awaited us on both islands. Disaster averted, we hit the road to the Summer Isles, exploring the amazing rock formations and landscapes along the Rock Route, as we travelled through the North West Highland’s Geopark. We passed Strathcanaird, carved in ancient times by an immense river of ice, and Stac Pollaidh, the remains of a mountain the weather is gradually eroding. The beach at Achiltibuie provided the first WOW! moment of the holiday. The Coigach peninsula has a superb choice of sandy beaches, but Achiltibuie has it all: rolling downs, leading to acres of dune-flanked golden sands, complete with snaking estuary, the incredible heights of the Geopark in the near distance. Alfie tore across the sands with lightening speed, a recent diet leaving him both trim and agile. He may well be an ATT (All Terrain Terrier), but sandy beaches are fast becoming his preferred surface. Sat beneath the dunes, looking out to sea in blazing sunshine, we could have been just about anywhere in the Mediterranean, except there was no one else in sight.
We moseyed onwards to downtown Achiltibuie, in search of refreshment. After a couple of false starts, we were eventually pointed in the direction of the green Community Hall adjacent to a ‘council estate’ (his words), by a helpful young chap on a bike. We scored ginger bread cake, lemon brownie, oodles of hot chocolate, and sat watching the Summer Ilses for a while, to make sure they didn’t move. The council estate to our left reverberated with the sound of children having fun playing outdoor games, in much the same way Lady Di and I remembered playing as children, 50-odd years previously. It was comforting to feel that little had changed in Achiltibuie since the mid-70s, although I’m sure they didn’t have lemon brownies back then. Returning to Ullapool, a Tesco fishing trip caught our supper of chilli and lime salmon and a spot of extreme salading. Alfie evening-stretched via riverside walks and harbour strolls, we settled down for a double bill of ‘Years And Years’ on BBC iPlayer, followed by a late night rewind with Ossia:
Monday: Awoke to rain. Morning mood: Sarah Davachi‘s ‘Pale Bloom’. Undeterred, we kept things local, and headed upwards. After three days in the car, it was time to stretch some leg muscles, so we made our path by climbing it. Ullapool Hill proved a short but steep ascent, revealing superb views over Loch Broom. At its highest point, the outcrop of Meall Mor revealed stunning views inland to Loch Achall and the surrounding countryside. The rain fell consistently throughout the morning. We met a group of stoic Scottish hillwalking folk on the ascent. Lady Di commented that it was a lovely climb, but wet. The Scots answered: “This isn’t wet”. We found some stray Americans wandering at the summit, they seemed lost: I asked their captain what his name was, an’ how come he didn’t drive a truck. He said his name was Columbus, an’ I just said ‘good luck’.
With the rain still falling, we returned to the Yellow House, drenched, for sustenance, showers and shelter. We spent the afternoon with the finale to ‘Years And Years’. We’d both become extremely fond of the show over the previous week, one of the most compelling series in recent memory. A crescendo of emotion welled up inside me in response to the denouement, nothing short of acute. I was literarily shaking, holding on to Lady Di’s hand for grim death: tears in my eyes; fear in my heart; a keening suggestion that this was possibly more premonition than mere fiction. They say impending truths are normalised as art prior to their execution, a trailer for the inevitable. Though there were holes in the surround sound, technologically, lets call them inconsistencies in the fine art of progress, the whole hung together with suspended belief. I forgave it its foibles, and instead harvested the possibility: good will transcend. I wonder what happens next? PM soundtrack: Pessimist, Kelman Duran, bblisss comp, Loods:
Tuesday: AM soundtrack: Burial, exael, Ghostride The Drift, Sam Binga & Marcus Visionary. We set off back down the A835 towards Inverness under grey skies, to where the River Ness meets the Moray Firth. It’s the largest city in the North, the cultural capital of the Scottish Highlands. We took on reasonably priced fuel, hot chocolate, and wandered the austere streets of the Old Town in search of the Harris Tweed shop, before heading out to Clava Cairns, three 4,000-year-old tombs surrounded by standing stones. Clava is a type of Bronze Age circular chamber cairn, named after the group of three cairns at Balnuaran of Clava, 8-miles east of Inverness. There are about 50-cairns of this type in the Inverness area. The cemetery has remained a sacred place in the landscape for millennia, renowned amongst stone bothering communities for its energy levels. The site provides many clues to the funerary belief systems of Bronze Age society. What remains today would have once been part of a larger complex. The site itself is surrounded by trees, planted by Victorians in an attempt to enhance the site’s Druidic vibe. It’s a unique setting, a truly magical place. We wandered from cairn to cairn, hugging stones, soaking up energy, before striking out on foot for a mile or so to a forth cairn, Milton Of Clava, and the remains of a medieval chapel.
We headed back through Inverness on the A82 to skirt Loch Ness. It’s difficult not to be overawed by this massive body of water. Every time I return, it just seems to get bigger. We abandoned a visit to Urquhart Castle when we saw the number of coaches in the car park, and returned to Drumnadrochit for a pitstop and cafe lunch. Considerable interest in Alfie from a group of fellow small dog enthusiasts resulted in a kerfuffle as we left, leading to the loss of our hallowed road atlas: an incident that would come to be known as Atlasgate. We walked off lunch with a climb through dense woodland to the impressive Divach Falls, before a short drive to Corrimony Cairn: a ‘Clava type’ cairn in a remarkable state of preservation. The site itself demonstrates the impressive skills and insightful planning of its builders. Considerable resources went into its construction, and unlike at Clava, much of the passage’s roof survives. The cairn is situated in a secluded glen, surrounded by birch woods and cultivated farm land. The reemergence of the sun blessed our visit. With no one around, Alfie ran wild, clambering up the cairn to join us on top in locating cup marks on the now-dislodged capstone.
The return leg to Ullapool allowed us to plan the next day’s route to Skye. Kamikaze Space Programme‘s newly captured ‘Dead Skin Cells’ (Osiris Music) twisted and bent the Toyota’s speaker system. Powerful rays refracted around mountains to cast shadows across the glens. Vast bodies of water shimmering and glinting with this crisp golden wonder. The hubble bubble of the rushing burns. White frothing crowns on the brown water beneath. The journey punctuated by photo calls to capture this unprecedneted beauty. PM sound-system bangers: Anthony Naples, Kelman Duran, Manonmars:
Wednesday: Early start on the road to Skye. Finally overcoming my antipathy towards Rupert Murdoch, and taking the plunge. You can never get complacent with the scenery in the North West Highlands. Every route, every direction, every climb, every bend, every dramatic descent: differing perspectives, stunning views. The sun was high in the sky. Eileen Donan Castle literally shone, reflecting sunlight, nestled atop its island setting. The site was overrun with tourists, coaches rammed the carpark. We walked back across the road bridge to stretch Aflie’s paws, snapping the castle and the village of Dornie from across the water. The castle itself sits upon the Isle of Donan, most likely named after the 6th century Irish Saint, Bishop Donan, who came to Scotland around 580 AD. The first fortified structure was built here in the early 13th century, protecting the lands of Kintail against the Vikings who raided, settled and controlled much of the North of Scotland and the Western Isles, between 800 AD and 1266. From the mid 13th century, this area was the quite seperate ‘Sea Kingdom’ of the Lord of the Isles. The sea was the main highway, the power of feuding clan chiefs measured by the number of men and birlinns at their disposal. Eilean Donan offered the perfect defensive position. Although impressive externally, the massively reconstructed castle we see today offered little of interest to us internally. We fought our way through the hordes of American, Japanese and European visitors, past the drab Victoriana and mock medievalism, both keen to press onwards on our journey, and mindful of Alfred, dutifully sulking in the car. He doesn’t like being left alone. He does like: sniffing other dogs trails; leaving his mark according; and chasing cats, for whom he reserves a pathological hatred.
We could see Skye Bridge in the distance as we honed in on the Kyle Of Lochalsh. It’s an impressive structure, spanning the 1.5-miles across Lochalsh, at a height of 30m. Built in 1992, it was initially a toll bridge. Construction brought much controversy back in the day. John Major’s government allowed it to be privately funded, granting a licence for the private company to charge tolls. It was said to be the most expensive road bridge in Europe. Locals on Skye set up a campaign group called SKAT (Skye and Kyle Against Tolls). After years of campaigning, legal challenges, and the establishment of the Scottish parliament in 1999, cross-party agreement soon made it a priority to abolish the tolls. On the 21st of December 2004, the bridge was purchased by the Scottish Government, and has been toll-free ever since.
After grabbing some scran and a quick wander around Portree, we headed out for the Old Man Of Storr. The Storr is a rocky hill on the Trotternish peninsula, some 8-miles west of Portree. The hill presents a steep rocky eastern face overlooking the Sound of Raasay, contrasted by gentler grassy slopes to the west. We arrived to find cars parked haphazardly on both sides of the road. A gleeful traffic warden was having a field day, issuing tickets akimbo to all cars parked on the Raasay side of the road. We luckily conformed by parking Storr side, and began the 674-metre climb to say hello to the old man. As we climbed, the clouds began to break up. The sun that has drenched our approach to Skye was burning through, even in this most stubborn of environments. At a plateau around 500-meters, Lady Di and Alfie elected to rest up, whilst I forged onwards and upwards, in search of that iconic shot that would prove I’d made the climb. Gazing down from this height, back across the Sound of Raasay, the enormity of the Western Highlands is mind-blowing.
With the sun now back in full force, we made our way across the midriff of Skye, towards the Fairy Pools at foot of the Black Cuillin hills, near Glenbrittle. The Black Cuillins were absolutely mesmerising as we approached, their colour flitting from every angle in the evening sunlight. I was picking out purples, silvers, pinks, whites, stopping every couple of miles in lay-bys to capture their brilliance in differing combinations. We’d heard a lot of hype about the Fairy Pools, thus our anticipation and excitement duly grew as we closed down those last few miles. The beautifully crystal clear blue pools of the River Brittle are genuinely stunning. We were blessed with perfect weather conditions, t-shirts and shorts, walking alongside French, Spanish, Italian and Japanese families, in idyllic surroundings. A group of teenagers Wild Swimming reminded me of my own forays into the art, on the Ardèche at Pont d’Arc, back in 1978. The blue of time, the speed at which it passes: the blink of an eye. The hours we spent at Glenbrittle will stay with me till the end of my days, rarely have I felt the all-encompassing perfection of this planet’s natural infrastructure engulf me so totally. The return journey to Ullapool sped by, dwarfing the duration of the outbound in our perceptions, which is often the way. The outbound is all about the wonder of the new, the homebound the return to sender. We arrived back at the Yellow House at 10.30pm, it was still light. Lady Di knocked up some scran, and we ate with the buzz of satisfaction that we’d achieved another milestone. We’d covered over 10-miles on foot during the day. Just time for some Burial before interring bed-wards, shattered:
Thursday: We arose early, once again, and hit the A835 north, in search of our ferry to Orkney. Sat-nav confusion approaching Lairg created the illusion of an ever-expanding journey. Our ETA just got later and later. I drove with growing ferry-related stress. I’d forgotten to take my CBD capsule at breakfast, and my brain was working overtime to quell the ensuing waves of anxiety. By the time we joined the A9 on the east coast, Lady Di was requesting a pit stop. I was striving to snatch back precious minutes from the ETA, and she needed convenience. I shouldn’t have worried, we eventually made port at Gill’s Bay, near Wick, with ten minutes to spare. The crossing was set to take an hour, as opposed to the 90-minutes I’d sailed in 2016, from Scrabster to Stromness. The ferry set sail at a clip. The sea was choppy, we pitched and yawed. By the time we entered Scarpa Flow, sheltered by the islands of Mainland, Graemsay, Burray, South Ronaldsay and Hoy, the sea had calmed, and the sun had broken through. We docked at St Margaret’s Hope at 2.30pm, and made for Kirkwall. We stopped off for a beach walk behind the first blockade we crossed. Alfie charged across the sands, every bit as gleeful as he had been at Achiltibuie. Pit-stopping in Kirkwall to browse and refresh, it felt incredible to be back on Orkney again.
Filled with hot chocolate and cake, with new jumpers, t-shirts and gifts to boot, we drove out to Stenness in deteriorating light. The Stones of Stenness today consist of four upright stones up to 6m in height, in a circle that originally held 12-stones. The focus of the interior is a large hearth. The stones were once encircled by a large ditch and bank, the form of which has been lost over time to ploughing. I mapped out the landscape for Lady Di from this vantage point with excitement, the Ness Of Brodgar being one of my most favourite ritual landscapes in the world. We walked down to the nearby neolithic settlement of Barnhouse, a village ostensibly as important as Skara Brae, but markedly less impressive, in terms of remaining archaeology.
With a 6pm-visit booked to view the 5,000-year-old Maeshowe, one of Europe’s finest chambered tombs, we drove the short distance to the visitor centre. All was quiet, too quiet. The last time I’d been here the carpark had been rammed, consistently. We soon discovered the visitor centre had been moved since my previous visit, due to concerns over traffic access to the site. The new visitor centre was a mile-or-so back down the road, in the village of Stenness. Ironically, from there, we caught a bus back up to the site of the original visitor centre to begin our guided tour. From the outside, Maeshowe looks just like a large grassy mound. The word ‘howe’ comes from the Old Norse for ‘hill’. Each wall of the 10m-long passage is formed mostly of a single, gigantic sandstone slab, up to three tonnes in weight. At each corner of the central chamber is a magnificent upright standing stone. The floors, back walls and ceilings of the three side cells are each made of single stone slabs. Fighting off midges, flailing our arms wildly, we wandered up to the Ring Of Brodgar, an enormous ceremonial site dating back to the 3rd millennium BC. Originally consisting of 60-stones, only 36 survive today. At least 13-prehistoric burial mounds can be found in the vicinity of the site. A large rock-cut ditch surrounds the stone circle.
Back in Kirkwall, full of fish and chips, we checked into the Kirkwall Hotel. Once ensconced, I logged on to Boomkat to grab a copy of Mister Water Wet‘s much anticipated ‘Bought The Farm’ (West Mineral Ltd.), one of our most treasured labels. We hunkered down on our surprisingly comfortable hotel bed for that all-important-first-listen, albeit on the puny speakers of my MacBook. We were not disappointed, but I’ll explore this release, along with Pontiac Streator and Ulla Straus’ ’11 Items’ (West Mineral Ltd.), in more detail next month:
Friday: We awoke to sunlight, with blue skies dominating the horizon. It had been a disturbed night’s sleep for me, with Orcadian revelry emitting from the public bar of the hotel until the wee hours, an observation I found repeated man times on the Kirkwall Hotel’s Trip Advisor profile. Lady Di had slept through it all, largely due to the industrial ear plugs she employs to drown out my horrendous snoring on a nightly basis. We breakfasted heartily, before engineering Aflie’s stay at the Kirkwall for free due to my interrupted sleep. Orkney’s a different place with the lights on, and our return to the Ring of Brodgar enjoyed perfect conditions. We parked up roadside, just past the Ness Of Brodgar, an archaeological site covering 2.5-hectares between the Ring of Brodgar and the Stones of Stenness, thought to be up to 7,000-years-old. The site is open for further excavation through July and August every year. I’d managed a guided tour of the dig on my last visit, but this time we’d missed out by a matter of days. As we approached the Brodgar stones, coaches began to pour across the Ness causeway. We’d soon be swarmed by hordes of Danish, Norwegian and American tourists. We circled the stones twice, snapping away furiously. I got some excellent shots, the light was perfect. The site is swamped in heather and gorse, and the purple of the flowering heather adds another dimension to the palate of colour on show in bright sunlight. The spirits of the ancestors were with us today.
Skaill Bay, our next destination, provided another glorious beach walk for Alfie to practice his (by now) trademark sand shuffle. He was getting faster and faster, and slowly learning not to drink the seawater. Above Skaill beach, nestled within the dunes, lies Skara Brae. Long before Stonehenge or even the Egyptian pyramids were built, Skara Brae was a thriving village. First uncovered by a storm in 1850, Skara Brae is the best-preserved Neolithic settlement in Western Europe. The site includes a replica Neolithic house, showing how its interior might have looked 5,000-years ago. A pathway leads down to the ancient buildings, the prehistoric houses still contain stone dressers and box-beds. We chatted with one of the guides, originally from Nottingham. He’d moved to Orkney eight years ago, and lucked out with employment here at Skara Brae. We chatted about the pros and cons of emigrating to Orkney, it’s something Lady Di and I have been considering. He talked of a complete change of life style, a slowing of the blue of time. Apparently, we’d hit pay dirt with the weather. On Orkney, you can bank on sunshine for about seven days per year.
We returned to the Stones of Stenness to photograph them in sunshine. Sheep lazed in the shade of the stones. With Maeshowe behind us, Stenness in front of us, the Ness and the Ring Of Brodgar to the right, the entire ritual landscape came alive with sunlight, framed in blue. We ventured down into Stromness, the second most populous town on Mainland. I’d not spent time wandering its streets before, and I came to the conclusion that I’d prefer it to Kirkwall in terms of a possible relocation option. We even found an impressive, recently renovated, 4-bedroom, 3-floored town house for sale. By the time we’d driven back through Kirkwall on our way to St Margaret’s Hope for the return ferry, our attempt to see the Italian Chapel built by POWs in WW2 was foiled by deteriorating weather. Mist and fog had descended on Scarpa Flow, and we literally couldn’t have seen the Chapel clearly had we been standing directly in front of it. The return crossing was smooth and uneventful. An hour later we were back on the road to Ullapool in bright sunlight, it had been the hottest day of the year thus far in Scotland. Sound-system bangers: Kamikaze Space Programme, Rainer Veil, Anthony Naples:
Saturday: Designated no-driving day, stipulated following the previous two days exertions behind the wheel. My left arm had picked up some kind of RSI from all the gear changing. The day commenced with Mister Water Wet pouring from the beatbox we’d rigged to the MacBook in the Yellow House. We spent the day reading, wallowing in the sun, wandering Ullapool market, raiding Tesco, cooking, and relaxing. Sound-system bangers: Nammy Wams, Idealist, Kamikaze Space Programme, Pessimist, Ulla Straus, Sir Hiss:
Sunday: A lazy morning amidst weather front deterioration. Return of the unweather. The blue of time rescinded behind ominous cloud formations. Clinging to the glen’s sides. Hangers-on. Scruffy, fluffy, sticky plasters, slowly peeling themselves away from the gorse skin of the surrounding hillsides. exael on the sound-system AM: chased down by Hank Jackson, Galya Bisengalieva, Funky Doodle. With ‘Underland’ nailed and in the can, Macfarlane’s most complete and satisfying work to date, we broke out of the Yellow House post-meridian: a 6-mile river walk, with supporting gorge and falls, through Auchindrean, Cuileig and Inverbroom. As we stood watching the power of water crashing down at speed from heights of thirty feet, a large dark object sprung from the foot of the falls to the top like an Excocet missile. I’d just seen my first salmon, on its way back to its spawning grounds. Incredible, an experience of serious jealousy on the part of Lady Di, who’d missed it. The evening was spent cooking, eating and reading. I’d been awaiting my next book since 2014’s ‘Perfidia’, the first novel in James Ellroy‘s second L.A. Quartet. Time for a change of pace and style. Sound-system PM: Sam Binga & Marcus Visionary, Helm, Loidis, Demdike Stare, Dead Boy, Xyn Cabal, HXE, Sam Binga & Marcus Visionary, K-Lone, Huerco S, Skeptical:
“January, ’42. L.A. reels behind the shock of Pearl Harbor. Local Japanese are rounded up and slammed behind bars. Massive thunderstorms hit the city. A body is unearthed in Griffith Park.The cops tag it a routine dead-man job. They’re wrong. It’s an early-warning signal of Chaos. There’s a murderous fire and a gold heist exploding out of the past. There’s Fifth Column treason – at this moment, on American soil. There are homegrown Nazis, commies and race racketeers. There’s two dead cops in a dive off the jazz-club strip. And three men and one woman have a hot date with History. Elmer Jackson is a corrupt Vice cop. He’s a flesh peddler and a bagman for the L.A. Chief of Police. Hideo Ashida is a crime-lab whiz, lashed by anti-Japanese rage. Dudley Smith is a PD hardnose working Army Intelligence. He’s gone rogue and gone all-the-way fascist. Joan Conville was born rogue. She’s a defrocked Navy lieutenant and a war profiteer to her core. L.A., ’42. Homefront madness ascendant. Early-wartime inferno – ‘This Storm’ (Penguin) is James Ellroy’s most audacious novel yet. It is by turns savage, tender, elegiac. It lays bare and celebrates crazed Americans of all stripes”.
Monday: Lazy days. Lazy ways. Steps, rivers, wagging tails. Dodging showers. Lewis-bound on the evening tide. AM sound system: Batu, Burial, Al Wooten, Abul Mogard, Bengal Sound, Finlay Shakespeare. Steps, stock-up, pack and roll. Load the sled and slide dock-wards: 5.30pm sailing to Stornaway. Kwells necked, high seas: rough crossing. Parents guide children toilet-wards at haste. The sounds of mewling and puking. My head in ‘This Storm’. My stomach calm in my lap. Alfie distraught in Lady Di’s lap. Braver dogs nearby, seemingly très nonchalant. Dock, Stornaway: 8.oopm. Dusk town walk and fish supper. The light is ‘un’-real. A purple hue. Purple haze. Converse with a reasonably drunk local whilst waiting for scran. This just in: the legendary Stornaway Black Pudding industry is a scam. No abattoirs left on the island. No pigs on the island. Puddings imported from Holland. Packed on Lewis. Shhh. Keep it strictly shtum. Caladh Inn check-in. First TV in weeks. Frank Lloyd Wright documentary: “Study nature, love nature, stay close to nature. It will never fail you”.
Tuesday: Up and atom. Sled parked quayside. Walk and load. Risen and shining. Chasing down holes in the cloud. 12m-west of Stornoway off the A859, Calanais: an extraordinary cross-shaped set of standing stones. Erected some 5,000 years ago. Patrick Ashmore, who excavated at Calanais in the early 1980s knew the score: “The most attractive explanation is that every 18.6-years, the moon skims especially low over the southern hills. It seems to dance along them, like a great god visiting the earth. Knowledge and prediction of this heavenly event gave earthly authority to those who watched the skies”. The stones were originally set sometime between 2900 and 2600 BC. A 4.8m-tall monolith stands at the heart of the monument. Lines of smaller stones radiate out to the east, west and south. An 83m-long avenue runs to the north, formed by two lines of stones that narrow as they approach the circle. A small chambered tomb lies within the circle. There are at least 11-smaller stone circles surrounding Calanais. Lady Di is blown away. We hug stones. We snap. We hug. The energy at Calanais is palpable. The sun emerges. Burning off patches of cloud. Revealing the blue of time behind the curtains. The heat is intermittent. But when it hits you it sears. Coats on. Coats off.
Back on board the sled, we cruise the short distance to Gearrannan Blackhouse Village. This coastal crofting community is situated in a secluded bay, within the district of Carloway. Traditional methods have been used to recreate the drystone masonry and thatched roofing of the original croft houses, with the discreet integration of modern conveniences. We amble through the village. Down to the pebble-dominated beach. No sand for Alfred. No scampering. The terrain is tough going. Even for an ATT. On the road out of Gearrannan we are beckoned by a local brandishing an Eagle Owl. We idled the sled and partook. Lady Di became an Owlstress. Alfie remained in the sled. Eagle Owls can take out ATTs. One final Stornaway stroll. Late for 2pm return ferry, so we opened the gate and let ourselves in. Admonished by dock-based ferry professional. Sternly. Kwells necked. Books out. Porpoises stage-right. Bring on the dancing horses. Dock, Ullapool: 4.30pm. PM soundtrack: Anthony Naples, Helm (Beatrice Dillon remix), Jabu, Tilliander, Sophia Loizou, 4 6 2 5, Kulør 001, 154, Manonmars, Logos, exael:
Wednesday: Pea-souper. Zero visibility. Hilltops missing from vista. AM livener: Augustus Pablo – ‘King Tubby Meets Rockers Uptown’. Late strike out on a costal 6-miler in search of Rhue lighthouse. Ship wreck alley. Graffiti on an abandoned hulls states: ‘Repent’, ‘Rust’, ‘Fuck CID’, ‘Fat’. We run out of path, forced to hill hike north in search of tarmac. We encounter a local codger and engage in bin chat. Easy enough to start, more difficult to end. We eventually see him three times in total on our walk back into to town. He waves each time. We’ve bonded. PM soundtrack: Demdike Stare, E.B.U., Eli Keszler, Bristol Pirates, Logos, LKJ In Dub, Ghostride The Drift, Hiroshi Yoshimura, Jay Glass Dubs, John T Gast:
Thursday: Pissing down. Wind-raised choppy sea loch. Campers below us fight their tents. We sympathise from a safe distance. Snug in our Yellow House. A lazy AM Twitter purge scythes followers akimbo. Block and roll. Strictly upbeat tempo sound system, infusing insurgent spirit against inclemency: DJ Nature, Sam Binga & Marcus Visionary. PM road to Gairloch amidst frequent showers. Big laughs as we encounter Laide Bay. The Love Croft, sung to the tune of ‘Love Shack’ by the B52s. We hole up a while at Achnasheen and beach walk in the drizzle. Alfie scoots across the sodden sand. The river water feeding the bay temporarily confuses him. Is this OK? Back on the road, the view down from Achnasheen pass to the beach is one to treasure. In Gairloch we dry out and consume at Hillbillies Coffee, Bookstore and Trading Post. We score a duo of hiker’s vegetable soup and homemade fresh bread combos, avec le grand chaud chocolate. Included in the deal: the finest cheesecake ever made. On the back nine, we take a brisk Lael Garden forest walk, before a final visit to the Taste Of India. Back at the Yellow House its refresh browser time: repeat. Eventually I score a copy of Ossia’s live cassette on Tape Echo from Rewind Forward, a live recording from the ‘Devil’s Dance’ album launch in Bristol earlier this year. A gig Lady Di and I attended. A copy for posterity was obviously de rigeur. PM sound system: Ossia, Rainer Veil, Sarah Davachi, Shinichi Atobe, Pendant, Pontiac Streator & Ulla Straus, Crump:
Friday: Awake to no rain, but rain awakes soon enough. AM download of the Félicia Atkinson‘s long-awaited ‘The Flower And The Vessel’ (Shelter Press). First play: vast. This motherload is going to take mucho appraisal, baby. Constitutional AM walk. Swollen rivers, raging flows. People and small dogs, persistently sodden. Only partially downtrodden. Lady Di departs for emergency vet visit: suspected tick invasion. Possible faulty tick collar and subsequent action against homeland vets. Lady Di returns with placatory cake. False tick alarm. We eat cake. We drink tea. We wonder why anyone in their right mind would go camping. We ask the big questions one asks at the close of a holiday: are the skies crying because we’re leaving? Or are we bringing the atmosphere down because we have to leave? PM soundtrack: Félicia Atkinson:
Saturday: Reluctant farewells. Goodbye Yellow House. The long and winding road south. Past those local scenes that have become our own. Torn from situations that have become comfortable. Alfie’s supplies are low, so a pit stop at Pets At Inverness is required. We take on reasonably-priced fuel at Morrison’s, and point the sled south. The hundred-or-so miles from Inverness to Perth is slow-going. The sun’s back, though, and reports are coming in of blue skies south of Perth. We pit stop for croissant and chocolate chaud, and Alfie leaves his mark in Perth. Dumfries bound, expectation mounts for our neolithic pièce de résistance. Skirting Dumfries, we hit the road to Cairn Holy. The skies are by now electric blue. We pick up glimpses of the coast ahead, the sea shimmering above the green of the coastal downs. The two cairns of Cairn Holy are impressive survivals, particularly Cairn Holy I, with its concave façade of tall pillar stones. Their landscape position is equally impressive, situated on a hill offering fine views over Wigtown Bay. The site is frequented by a legendary figure known as Cairn Holy Joe – one Joseph Proskauer (from Westbury, New York), who “lives with his wife and many other creatures, slightly below the surface of earth, toward the point where the sun sets in the dark days of winter – as seen from Cairn Holy”. Joe describes the site itself as “three instruments, each resonating with their environment: cairn; world; participating observer – the sophistication of the site in relation to cosmic activity: near perfect alignments of sun/shade – not a single stone seemingly set without a specific significance, in alignment, shape or quality of stone”. We arrive in perfect conditions at around 5.30pm. We soon spot a figure flitting between the stones, measuring, photographing intently, jumping fences, gathering angles. As I made my own photographic journey around the stones, the figure commented to Lady Di that I seemed to know what I was doing, engaging us in conversation. Before long, I asked: “Is your name by any chance, Joe?”
Indeed, it was. Joe asked us many questions. How we felt looking at the stones, and the surrounding area. He asked us what we thought the shapes, the spaces, and the placement of the stones might mean. What they may have been used for by the people who put them there. He was interested in how we interpreted the site; how it made us feel; what we noticed. A Welsh chap called Andrew was also present. We borrowed his orange twine to mark out positions on the forecourt floor. Joe held the twine in line with markings inside the right-hand flanking upright, guiding me to mark positions on the floor with stones. From these positions we photographed, we clicked (subsequently capturing some incredible unexplained phenomenon in the form of ‘green energy arcs’ in several shots). Intense experience. Energy incarnate, energy abundant. We walked a few hundred yards up to Cairn Holy 2, a slighter but none-the-less impressive cairn, iconic from certain angles, before returning for a few final words with Joe and Andrew. Joe gave me his e-mail address for future correspondence, and I’ve since located him on social media. A conversation has begun about the possible meaning of the photographic anomalies. I remain enchanted at this prospect.
We bade our good byes, and boarded the sled. South, down to Wigtown Bay, for a final beach walk. You could say we left the best till last. The Solway Firth lapping against acres of expansive sand. Flanked by dunes, ships and yachts akimbo. Alfred scampered his best scamper yet. An ATT with a beach fetish. They call this place Secret Scotland, we learnt later. They are not wrong. We will be back. Within the hour, a Dumfries fish supper. We ate in in the sled, accompanied by blaring four-to-the-floor bass drum boogie, issuing from the riverside Dumfries hostelries. Only slightly alarmed, we retreated to the altogether more refined ambience of the Holiday Inn, Dumfries University.
Sunday: Sunrise sunshine. Campus stroll and full Scottish breakfast. 8-miles due south, our final historical interface: Caerlaverock Castle. Moated, two-towered, triangular. Caerlaverock Castle positively glowed in the urgent morning sun. Besieged and captured on numerous occasions, two sieges stand out: the first, July 1300, involved Edward I himself. The small garrison surrendered within two days of facing the full might of the English king’s army. The second, in 1640, was the castle’s last. It was brought about by Lord Maxwell’s loyalty to Charles I during his struggles with the Covenanters. The garrison held out for 13-weeks before surrendering. We walked the grounds, down to the site of the original castle, once served by a costal inlet and dock. The sea some miles away these days, but for how long?
Those final miles across the border lands were our last of relative sanity for six hours. We hit the M6 with 180-miles left to travel. We ground to a halt. The collapsing system we’d escaped two weeks ago was waiting here for us now: M6 hell. The journey went on, and on, and on. So much so, that by the time we reached home, all three of us had M6-lag. It felt strange to be back. Adrift from the dramatis personae we’d become so accustomed to over 16-days. The leafy Warwickshire lanes felt somehow drab by comparison. It was going to take a while to re-adjust.
They say that it is easier to imagine Boris Johnson as a human being than it is to imagine a Christmas without John Lewis. This is the twenty-first century. New technologies should be liberating us from wage slavery. Automation: the yellow brick road to equality for all. Prosperity, liberty, luxury, happiness, solar-powered renewable energy, in every social home. Electric cars, efficient public transport, automated production lines pumping out ever-cheaper produce. The death of fossil fuel dependence, wave farms, wind farms, sun farms. Rapid advancements in genetic and synthetic biology. Revolutions in healthcare, food production and nutrition. Together, we can feed a world of 9-billion people. Together, we can create meaningful freedom, for everyone.
As the crisis in capitalism reverberates in our ears like a death knell, the need for a coherent response from the left has never been greater. The Marx revival continues apace amongst emerging media platforms, challenging the hegemony of the right-dominated MSM. Novara Media is one such organ, a vanguard committed to fighting interpassivity: waging war on the war on terror; the war on drugs; class war. Above all, Novara symbolise a hunger for a post-oligarchic system cleansed of all corruption. A new form of scapegoatery to take down those hiding in plain sight.
To truly achieve a Benthamite ambition of the greatest happiness of the greatest number, it is imperative that the left break ranks with lumbering public perceptions of Marx as abettor to totalitarian terror, to define new possibilities for the virtues of democratic socialism. Capitalism wastes time, energy and resources to cement a pyramidic hierarchy for an ever-diminishing elite. It reduces us all to beings so disempowered by the sheer complication of surviving within the system, that we either master it at the expense of others, or become slaves to the rhythm of mass exploitation. In the Olympic stadium of free-market dominance, only a minority make the podium. Socialists, meanwhile, believe in concepts outside of the Olympiad market place: time and space; self-determination; opportunity to embrace Socratic examined lives.
The co-founder of Novara Media, Aaron Bastani, sets out his stall for a future with a sociological imagination with ‘Fully Automated Luxury Communism’ (Verso). Over the course of 243-pages, Bastani deconstructs the possibility of FALC as the triumvirate of: ‘Chaos Under Heaven'; ‘New Travellers'; and ‘Paradise Found’. “We are set for peak human”, he expounds, “our technology is already making us gods – so we might as well get good at it – it’s time for us all to stop waiting and make history once more”. Critics and pro-capitalists the globe over will be falling over themselves to deride such wilful optimism. Cultural commentators with vested interests lining up to pour scorn on the suggestion that the human race is capable of saving itself. Climate change, resource scarcity, surplus populations, technical unemployment, all apparitions of left wing scaremongery.
Whatever the naysayers may say, our societies are closer to making these technological leaps than most people realise, and the neo-liberal right are planning to shape the Third Disruption in the image of private accumulation and corporate power. In order to avoid a mutually assured JG Ballard-esque ‘Cocaine Nights’ dystopian future, we must transcend our collective totalitarian memories of socialism as a failed experiment to embrace the pure humanitarian philosophy at the beating heart of Marx’s theories. Although he is no Mark Fisher, Bastani’s unabashed love of neologisms express the post-everything passion required to liberate human consciousness from the norms of capitalist society. To step outside the confines of established sociopolitical hegemony, to become comfortable with being uncomfortable, we must accept that the very act of disturbing normalcy is essentially disturbing. As Fisher states in the introduction to ‘Acid Communism’, the challenge facing the left is: “not to recover our ‘lost’ identity, to free our imprisoned nature, our deepest truth; but instead to move towards something radically Other”.
Agrippa – ‘Dead Weight’ (Par Avion): Third vinyl instalment from Par Avion, celebrating label co-honcho Agrippa’s unique production style: wonky, rolling, polyrhythmic techno. Sombre, reflective, and at times erratic, these four cuts further enhance both his profile as a producer of worth, and Par Avion’s profile as a label-of-note, in a teeming Bristolian underground awash with quality and innovation. Alongside brethren Henry Greenleaf and Meta, Agrippa is keeping it dreader than dread. These boys know what they’re doing.
Galya Bisengalieva – ‘EP Two’ (Nomad): Expanding on the incredible promise of ‘EP One’, Kazakh/British violinist Bisengalieva pushes the envelope yet further for her sophomore EP, collaborating with avant-turntablist Shiva Feshareki, to delve ever-deeper into the well-worn furrows of left field interest. Featuring three new pieces and an Actress remix of ‘Tulpar’ as a digital bonus, there are no available clips as yet, so you’ll have to make do with a clip of ‘Tulpar’ from ‘EP One’.
Burial – ‘Claustro’ (Hyperdub): The South London don returns to the fray with his first new material in two years, a high-tempo 2-step affair, complete with looping R&B refrain. A killer bass synth rises and falls below furious hi-hats, as pitch-shifted vocals fly left and right to nitrus oxcidic effect. Ostensibly a return to the Burial mapped out on ‘Untrue’, maybe a prelude to a follow-up long player? We’ve waited far too long.
Sarah Davachi – ‘Pale Bloom’ (W.25TH): Quietly Canadian Davachi seemingly releases a brace of long players a year. In the last 12-months or so, we’ve gained ‘Let The Night Come On Bells End The Day’ (Recital), ‘Gave In Rest’ (Ba Da Bing), her collaboration with Ariel Kalma, ‘Intemporel’ (Black Sweat), and now ‘Pale Bloom’, for Superior Viaduct imprint, W.25TH. Whilst recent outings have mostly focussed on the meditational and quasi-religious import of organ drones, and the role of scared space in creating devotional ambience, ‘Pale Bloom’ returns to her instrument of origin, the piano, to reinterpret J.S. Bach through a psychotropic kaleidoscope on side 1’s ‘Perfumes I-III’, before cutting loose again with drones and mangled strings for the La Monte Youngisms of side 2’s expansive ‘If It Pleased Me To Appear To You Wrapped In This Drapery’. Possibly my favourite Davachi release thus far.
Kelman Duran – ’13th Month’ (Apocalipsis): Released digitally back in 2018, and now available on double clear wax, Kelman Duran’s epic ’13th Month’ is an impressive sample-driven journey through 90s hip-hop beats towards 00s reggaeton dembow. Inspired by time spent with the Lakota people on the Pine Ridge reservation in South Dakota, ’13th Month’ refers to the lunar structure of the Lakota people’s calendar, the album is Duran’s intimate response to the experience. References to Biggie Smalls and 2Pac bring both sadness and anger to the mix, ’13th Month’ is a vast progression from his patchy debut, ‘1804 KIDS’ (Hundebiss).
K-Lone – ‘Sine Language’ (Wisdom Teeth): Trippy, b-boy-baiting break-beatery from Bristol stalwart, rhythm research and development expert, K-Lone. Broken beats for big rigs. Dropping vocal samples onto pulsating electro-break mechanics like napalm, Charlie don’t surf, K-Lone don’t stop. Dropping the science like Galileo dropped the orange.
Anthony Naples – ‘Fog FM’ (Incienso/ANS): “A house music transmission filtered through fluorescent static, from a station out of place and time” emerges from the miasma, equipped with strident baselines, crisp motifs and dub-house atmospherics, challenging Shinichi Atobe‘s ‘Heat’ (DDS) as one of the finest outings in the discipline in recent memory. With nods to Naples’ compadre-in-sound, Brian Leeds‘ output as Loidis, ‘Fog FM’ presents celestial crescendo after celestial crescendo in an orgy of scuffed-up clubbery.
Pessimist and Karim Mass – ‘s/t’ (Pessimist Productions): UVB-76 Music/Ruffhouse compadres Kristian Jabs and Tom Cooper unite to throw down the gauntlet to Ossia‘s masterful ‘Devils’ Dance’ (Blackest Ever Black) in the album-of-the-year-thus-far stakes. Dread electronics, broken hip-hop, demonstrative dub and sooty drones, manifesting as 12-untitled cuts of menacing experimentalism across two sides. Play loud. Rewind.
SSTROM – ‘Drenched 9-12′ (Rösten): SSTROM is the project of Hannes Stenström, onetime member of Sweden’s Slagsmålsklubben, one half of enigmatic techno duo SHXCXCHCXSH (SHX). ‘9-12′ is the culmination of his ‘Drenched’ triumvirate on Rösten. Impressively prolific, Stenström’s work ethic cannot be questioned, his robust dub techno veers off the page towards psychedelia at times. Collectively, ‘Drenched’ is an enormous statement of intent.
Ulla Straus – ‘Big Room’ (Quiet Time): Pennsylvania-based producer and sound artist Ulla Straus follows recent contributions to the legendary ‘bblisss’ (bblisss) compilation and her collaboration with Pontiac Streator for West Mineral Ltd with this 8-track cassette release on NYC’s Quiet Time tape label. Straus cites her influences for the collection thus: “keeping pictures on a wall left there by someone else”; “daydreaming about something not real”; “hearing a friend walk through the front door”; “letting a plant die”; and “the silence of a room when the box fan is turned off.”
Batu/DROOGS004/Harrga/Heith/Helm/HXE/Jook/Kids C Ghosts/Rainer Veil/Xyn Cabal
“Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare”- Audre Lorde (1988)
Deaths by drug overdose, suicide or alcohol-related conditions amongst middle-aged men in the UK have now surpassed those of heart disease. Originally dubbed ‘deaths of despair’ in the United States by Nobel Prize winning economist, Sir Angus Deaton, the phenomenon has now crossed the Atlantic. According to a new report by the Institute for Fiscal Studies (IFS) published on May 14th, deaths of despair amongst middle-aged British men have been rising steadily since 2010. In 2017, they drew level with deaths from heart disease, they are now chasing down deaths from cancer. Deaths of despair amongst women are also rising, but at a notably slower trajectory.
Deaton links US deaths to the current epidemic in over-the-counter/prescribed opioid painkillers; economic factors; faltering standards of living; the erosion of social institutions such as the church, trade unions, love and marriage. Although there is no comparable research yet here in the UK, opioid-related deaths have risen from 800-a-year in the mid-1990s, to 2,000-a-year currently.
Home Office data supports the premise that UK deaths of despair began to rise significantly in the mid-80s, around the time of the Miner’s Strike and Thatcher’s crushing of the British Trade Union movement. The subsequent decline in traditional manufacturing industries and the rise of service industries has consequently affected gender roles that have held sway for generations. In 2004, female employment rates were notably lower than those of males. In 2019, the IMF report suggest that this no longer the case, implying that women can be more employable than men in today’s marketplace in certain demographics, where traditional male perspectives of gender privilege are duly being challenged.
With deaths of despair spiking again post-2010, another causational candidate becomes apparent: austerity. The wholesale dismantling of the welfare state has included the introduction of draconian measures in controlling unemployment. The use of sanctions against those who fail to meet strict job-searching requirements have made the experience of looking for work progressively more soul destroying. With societal inequality at an all-time-high, and social mobility akin to Victorian Britain, the final solution of Thatcherite values in the UK circa 2019 are manifest in death and despair.
In a society that profits from your self-doubt, liking yourself is a rebellious act. In a society that has destroyed all adventure, the only adventure left is to destroy that society. Self-love, therefore, becomes a subversive act. In order to heal Broken Britain, we must first heal ourselves, heal from within. We are conditioned from birth to serve others before ourselves. We are taught that any other way is selfish. We are instructed that hard work, stress and efficient production values lead to success. We are told that exhaustion is evidence of our true worth. We are indoctrinated to disengage from our feelings, to deny our emotional truth. To eschew wisdom in favour of logical, rational thinking. We are not educated in emotional first aid. Our mental health services have been in decline for the last twenty years. The NHS is under attack, privatisation by stealth.
To reclaim the power of self-love, we must begin by writing ourselves new stories. As Ben Okri states: “A people are as healthy and confident as the stories they tell themselves. Sick storytellers can make nations sick. Without stories we would go mad. Life would lose its moorings or orientation. Stories can conquer fear, you know. They can make the heart larger”. We need, therefore, to rewrite our own stories. We need to care for ourselves first. A complete and vibrant version of us renders us better for others. To be the best human being possible. The best version of ourselves yet. To fully realise our sense of purpose and potential, we need to show up, slow up, and pay heed. We need to care. We need to hone our present-moment-awareness, about what we’re thinking, feeling, experiencing, and about what others are thinking, feeling and experiencing around us. Human beings are social animals, isolation is the enemy of collectivism. Collectivism is the enemy of surveillance capitalism. Our connectivity to our fellow humans is imperative for our survival. Learn to notice self-as-context. To recognise our role as the micro within an ever-expanding macro. Our gut feelings tell us exactly what we need. We need to reconnect to the infant in all of us. Rediscover the imaginations that ignited our childhoods. We will need to be brave to crack these well-worn grooves in our cultural and personal narratives. To put ourselves first: to practice healing as a subversive act.
Music can help us to heal. Music therapy has demonstrated efficacy as an independent treatment for reducing depression, anxiety and chronic pain. Music has positive physical effects, it can produce direct biological changes: reducing heart rate, blood pressure, and cortisol levels. When we listen to music, our brain releases dopamine, essential for the healthy functioning of the central nervous system. Music effects emotion, perception and movement. Music can recall associated memories, instigating positive transference. Music can physically heal us too: Fabien Maman, a musician and acupuncturist, devised the Tama-Do Academy based on his extensive research, that showed that human blood cells respond to sound frequencies by changing colour and shape. His findings demonstrate that sick or rogue cells can be healed or harmonised with sound.
With his first outing for the label since 2017’s ‘Murmur’, Omar McCutcheon (aka Batu) returns to Bristol’s Timedance with ‘False Reeds’. Crisp, spacious, deft of touch. Light, lush, insanely groove-worthy, Batu fleshes out the bare bones of his practice with arguably his finest work to date:
UVB-76 Music imprint DROOGS are back once again with their ill behaviour, this time in devastating effect, with this invigorating double-header from Holsten//Artilect. Holsten pretty much decimates the lower-end frequency delivery mechanisms of your speaker systems, along with any relative sense of bon homie you may currently enjoy with you neighbours, with sub-bass action of Brobdingnagian proportions. This one shakes the flying ducks off on the other side of the wall. Artilect, meanwhile, mines a late 90s seam, in a simmering display of static-laden intensity. Four slabs in, this label can do no wrong:
I’ve always been a sucker for the French language as a vehicle for radical discourse. From Metal Urbain to Rixe, the propensity for the Gallic tongue to convey the purity of disdain is unbridled. Miguel Prado (Nzumbe) and Dali de Saint Paul (EP/64, Viridian Ensemble & DSC) are HARRGA (‘a burn’ in the Moroccan Darija dialect). Formed mid-2017, ‘Héroïques Animaux de la Misère’ (Avon Terror Corps) documents their industrialised rage against the escalating Migration Crisis in incendiary fashion:
Shapeshifting is at the heart of Milan-based Heith‘s debut 12″ for his own Saucers label. Following-up his ‘Laguna’ debut for Haunter Records, and a handful of CDRs and 12″ releases over the past five years, the fractal 5-track ‘Mud’ EP blends experimental electronica with approximations of traditional elements with a vaguely Hispanic bent, to fashion an evocative and complete experience that is proving to be a true slow-burner with all who stumble upon it:
If you, like me, saw 2015’s ‘Olympic Mess’ (Pan) as a watershed of progression for Luke Younger‘s Helm, prepare to be dumbfounded by ‘Chemical Flowers’ (Pan). Composed in isolation at NO Studios in Essex, The Lowest Form bass-slinger and one-man-electronic-orchestra has excelled himself beyond all compare this time out. From the Alternative TV ‘Nasty Little Lonely’ quoting vibe of ‘I Knew You Would Respond’, to the bookended return to ‘Olympic Mess’ pastures of the titular closer, Younger drags rural nuance from urban decay in a festival of maturity that exemplifies his dedication to practice. Aided and abetted in these pursuits by string parts arranged and recorded by JG Thirlwell, additional cello played by Lucinda Chua, and saxophone by Karl D’Silva, Younger has crafted a post-everything masterpiece that elevates him beyond contemporary compare to a pantheon of his own:
London-based HXE (fka HEX) follow their previous outing on Liberation Technologies with the 4-track ‘INDS’ (UIQ). Continuing Lee Gamble‘s fine run of late, with essential recent releases from both Zuli and Nkisi, HXE’s enigmatic take on liquid industrialism provides concrete evidence of electronic salvage and deformity in practice. In collaboration with Paris-based sculpture artist Anita Molinero, ‘INDS’ inspires visual expression through sonic construction:
Brighton’s Jook finally delivers the much-anticipated ‘Flying Nimbus’ (Sector 7 Sounds) for the Bristol-based grime label. This one has pinged around the underground in the form of advance war dubs, nestling in the sets of the chosen few, for what seems like eons now, so its overground emergence can be rightly heralded as cause for celebration. All killer, no filler: and while the title track pushes all the low-end buttons for bass-mongers, its ‘Gold Rush’, for this soldier, that really sets this exemplary release up as future classic :
Catching John T. Gast in support of Ossia at the ‘Devil’s Dance’ album launch in Bristol back in February was a life-affirming moment. He seemed genuinely shocked post-set when I pounced to rain down the plaudits directly into his visage. Genuinely unassuming, a beacon of modesty, I’ve been mighty impressed with his body of work over the past few years, a real underground talent who’s doubtless happiest where he is. Anything he’s had his hands on has become a buy-on-sight scenario, and this 10″ dub plate from Kids C Ghosts – ‘Bankruptcy Dub’ (5 Gate Temple) – is no exception. Burialesque in many facets, but in no way homage. Follow the bread crumb trail, invest in the future:
Cinematic, expansive, inventive and eminently loveable, Rainer Veil‘s 5-year absence from our senses is brought to a close with the shockingly consistent ‘Vanity’ (Modern Love). Emerging with seemingly little fanfare from the contemporaneous commentariat, ‘Vanity’ is nothing short of exultation in excelsis: “Tracing rapidly mutating electronic forms, from ringtone hooks to latinate rhythms and Razor synth edits, ‘Vanity’ explores an instinctive swell of ideas and influences in perpetual and unstoppable forward motion, a sequence of flash frames captured and distilled for posterity” – Boomkat:
Finally, Athens-based Xyn Cabal debuts in fine style with the 5-track ‘Perfect Oracle’ (Death Of Rave). The imprint itself has long been a synonym for quality, and I’ve been an avid consumer of much of their output in recent times. Reminiscent in atmosphere and intent to Croww‘s 2017 for the label, ‘Prosthetics’, ‘Perfect Oracle’ has been years in the making, and the attention to detail across the EP surpasses that of many a long player elsewhere. Marshalling sub-bass loops, clattering rhythmic nuance, Messier 87 intensity darkness and Arabesque vocal samples, ‘Perfect Oracle’ is simply Delphic, in every sense of the term:
Benedict Drew/Dubkasm/E B U/Ghostride The Drift/Halcyonic/Jabu/Versa
“No more miserable Monday mornings” – Mark Fisher
We live in a society that conditions us to believe that system change is not possible. We live in times of deflated consciousness. We exist in an unprecedented period of economic anarchy in the UK. Our future dreams are literally shopping schemes. The Apple store our post-everything cathedral, where we worship ourselves: our hallowed space, our self-serving grace. Amongst this Cult Of The Individual, we are always at the centre of our own world. Alone in a crowded room. Staring at a screen.
In order to raise our standards of living to the next gaming level, in compliance with our hardwired desire for survival, in line with unilateral global equality, we need to raise our consciousness. We need to be expressly conscious of our class, our place within this broken system; conscious of the primary goal of equality at any cost, the precious gift of diversity; above all, we need to be universally conscious. If you ever want to experience how inconsequential you are as an individual: go outside, find a green space, lie down, look up at the sky: focus on how insignificant you actually are in the grand scheme of things.
Human beings have an innate ability to survive. We could, therefore, learn much from those who have had to change in order to survive. It’s time we asked ourselves a few uncomfortable questions: Aren’t you bored with all this? Do you feel over-stimulated? Why do we spend 2/3 of our lives at work? Why do we participate in an exchange mechanism that rarely gives us back what we put in? When did you last have an original idea? How scared are you? Isn’t it time we talked about desire? When was the last time you felt valued? How do you rate your sense of community? When was the last time you felt part of something? Can you resist temptation on every level?
Post-Capitalist Desire, therefore, is the concept that we can reimagine the successes of Democratic Socialism and Libertarian Communism through the prism of evolved consciousness, at a universal level. Super-therapeutic practice, according to Jeremy Gilbert, allows us the opportunity to do “something more than just fix people up, to repair some of the damage done by daily life under advanced capitalism, enabling people to become extraordinarily empowered precisely by enhancing their capacity for productive relationships with others.”
The forces of divide and conquer at play within our current system despise the cohesion of collective movements. That’s why they’ve worked so hard, and for so long, to disconnect us from each other, and, more importantly, from ourselves. The Cult Of The Individual is no sociological accident, this is social engineering at its most divisive. Our ability to manage stress has a profound influence on our potentially contracting an array of common diseases, including diabetes, heart disease and multiple sclerosis. A stressed population is a managed population. The big wheel of industry keeps on turning, 24/7, emitting sparks that rain down on us as symbolic violence.
In the shadow of that wheel, when considering our hopes and fears, we find ourselves hopeless and fear-stricken. As Deleuze observes in ‘Postscripts On The Societies Of Control’: “There’s no need to fear or hope, but only to look for new weapons. There is no hope unmingled with fear, and no fear unmingled with hope”. As Spinoza further expounds in ‘Ethics': “Hope is a joy not constant, arising from the idea of something future or past about the issue of which we sometimes doubt. Fear is a sorrow not constant, arising from the idea of something future or past about the issue of which we sometimes doubt”. Hope and fear are essentially interchangeable; they are passive affects, which arise from our incapacity to actually act. Like all superstitions, hope is something we call upon when we have nothing else. We don’t need hope; what we need is confidence and the capacity to act. Confidence is hyperstitional: it immediately increases the capacity to act; the capacity to act increase confidence; we become a self-fulfilling prophesy, a virtuous spiral: “Confidence is a joy arising from the idea of a past or future object from which cause for doubt is removed” – Spinoza, ‘Ethics’
Emerging from this miasma of despair, Extinction Rebellion‘s militant actions in London over the Easter period have provided exactly the kind of inspiration outlined above, to a diverse spectrum of likeminded human beings across the entire globe. Commonality of cause; simplicity of message; passion of delivery; integrity of action; humility of behaviour; these traits have marked Extinction Rebellion’s April Actions as the most impressive green direct activism since the anti-nuclear protests on the 1950s. With over 1000-arrests, and establishment arms aloft at the disruption to holiday period shopping, these brave and vulnerable warriors recognise full well the importance of eco above ego.
Professionally, I work with people largely broken by the symbolic violence of the big wheel. People with little or no option but to manage the pain their lives have become through the medium of self-medication. We talk about the need for personal recovery as the first step to social recovery. We support each other to self-heal through the exchange of mutual aid. We encourage the development of recovery identities, using empowering person-first language; we nurture the recognition of diversity as gift; and learn to transcend the pain of the ego by celebrating the body as the eco-system of precedence, in order for survival to be achieved. There are parallels here with an emerging Acid Communist manifesto. An antidote to hope and fear, the confidence to deliver change through direct action. This is the time for action. This is decade zero.
No stranger to the practice of consciousness raising, Benedict Drew is an “artist who works in sound, video, sculpture, installation and performance. He is also a fearless explorer of our fractured isle. Previous releases have seen him crawl through oceans of Tory slime and sift the psychotropic neural networks of half-hammered, food-fasted commuters”. ‘The Ughhh Ballads’ (Bloxham Tapes) is described by the label as electronic music from the Isle of Thanet, continuing Drew’s exploration of tainted transit, inside and out: “A psychedelic gong bath for the Leave Means Leave generation over two sides of magnetic tape”.
If ‘Crawling Through Tory Slime’ (Mana) seemed futuristic back in 2017, this cassette-only issue finds the rest of the planet catching up. Having lived with the former on rewind for 22-months, I actually felt both qualified and prepared for the arrival of ‘The Ughhh Ballads’. Following Drew on social media, I am visually connected to his expanding worldview via his artwork, I therefore welcome this reconnection on an aural level. Side A finds us trapped in a room with Andrew Neil’s nose (bad feeling); escaping the false memory of a once great nation boogie (good feeling); standing stone tour guide (bad feeling); in praise of the chemical that produces the effect of feeling empathy (good feeling). Side B, meanwhile, casts a spell to protect you from the negative energy radiating from the copy of the Daily Mail being read by the person sitting next to you on the train (bad feeling). Everything we’ve come to expect from Benedict Drew, only more psychedelic. He’s opened up the doors of perception, raised his conscious game, maybe it’s time to follow him down the rabbit hole?
With a lineage of recorded sound that stretches back to 2003, DJ Stryda and Digistep are stalwarts of the eternally vibrant Bristol underground. Together as Dubkasm, they’ve release five long players and dozens of 12″ 45s. Their sixth full-length, ‘Shady Grove’ (Peng Sound), pays dub homage to their hometown district of St Paul’s: “We dedicate this album to the community of St Paul’s in Bristol, now being stifled by gentrification. We hope this LP is a musical window into a time when the neighbourhood, despite being plagued by poverty and constant racist intrusion from the authorities, had an energy, a rebellious spirit and nightlife that inspired the music which has made Bristol world famous.”
Setting yourself up against the wall of classic dub sides of the 70s/80s/90s when building a contemporary dub album is a strategy fraught with danger, circa 2019. After all, in a medium often best served on 7″, it’s a thin line between homage and parody. Thankfully, with ‘Shady Grove’, Dubkasm have succeeded where other recent attempts have fallen short. Using a spectrum of dub wise production, from the vintage tape-delayed, spring reverb driven, analogue-baked sounds of the 70s, to the digital effects of the 80s and 90s, the vibe throughout is of authenticity. Guided on your aural journey by extensive liner notes composed by the band themselves, ‘Shady Grove’ proves to be part local cultural history, part travelogue, all first class education in the fine art of dub technique. Featuring contributions from local dignitaries: Tony Caddle, Aran Shamash, Rider Shafique, Dub Judah, Blood Shanti, Stanley Andrew, Solo Banton, Bliss Lion, Tom Fenech and Wes O’Neill, ‘Shady Grove’ encapsulates the spirit of a community on the frontline of gentrification.
Referring to her uniquely singular style as ‘Swamp Pop’, Bristolian Ella Paine follows her recent 4-track EP with this full length debut as E B U: the 10-track triumph, ‘Hinge’ (No Corner). Conjuring aspects from radiophonic pioneers Daphne Oram and Delia Derbyshire, alongside elements of Kanky? Ongaku, Japanese environmental music of the 1980s, Paine smuggles her smudged pop sensibilities into the mix to vibrate at ever-higher frequencies, inviting us to ponder the nature of existence through her work. ‘Hinge’ could therefore be imagined as the mechanism on which the doors of perception are hung: an opportunity to explore our sense of self, to embrace our universal consciousness. Explored best both at volume and in great depth, ‘Hinge’ will not be bracketed easily. Be prepared to be intrigued. Be prepared to be smitten.
Having brought much joy to this household throughout 2018, the West Mineral Ltd. posse come again in full effect with Ghostride The Drift, ‘S/T’ (xpc?): a 5-track 12″ on D. Tiffany‘s new imprint. Sounding like little else out there right now, Ghostride The Drift is described by the label as ‘outer rim junkyard elektro’.
Recorded in Berlin in 2018, with Ghostride The Drift Huerco S, Exael and uon have forged a template for exploration as equally magnificent as their own individual work (each released essential records in their own right on West Mineral Ltd. in 2018, you should own them all). Reminiscent in places of Aught artists such as Topdown Dialectic and Xth Réflexion, ‘Ghostride The Drift’ may have seemingly taken forever to arrive, but now they’re finally here, let the celebrations commence.
Following a couple of impressive collaborations in 2018, Bristolian Halcyonic returns to our decks with this freshly minted debut 10″ plate for new imprint, Firmly Rooted. Veteran rootsman Junior Dread rules the mic on ‘Can’t Hide': “wicked dem a run/but you know they can’t hide/they are living in a darkness/cos they can’t stand the light”. On the flip, old skool Bristol don Rob Smith dusts down his RSD alias to deliver a deep dubstep revision.
The latest 12″ on Young Echo Records delivers a pair of drastic reworks of Jabu cuts from 2017’s outstanding ‘Sleep Heavy’ (Blackest Ever Black). ‘Fool If’ remixed by J Glass Dubs breaks up the insistent rhythm of the original, adding sax, synth stabs, and acres of space, to gargantuan effect. Meanwhile, on the flip, SKRS tend to ‘Wounds’ by hoovering up the groove from the final third of the original, hiking it above the vocal in transformational style. If ‘Sleep Heavy’ filled you with soporific euphoria, this is another essential side for your collection. To these ears, Jabu are on the cusp of greatness, and I’m not fussed if they were born that way; achieve it; or have it thrust upon them.
Harmonica-led, reverb-drenched, Versa‘s ‘Passing Light’ (At One) marks another debut for yet another killer label out of Bristol. This one’s been doing the rounds on pre-release digital for a few months now, and it’s an act of pure wonderment to finally have it in my hands and on my deck on 10″ dub plate.
And finally, for those with a need for something more stimulating in terms of architecturally-related reading material, Issue 30 of The Modernist is upon us: “Infrastructure is where the fields of landscape, architecture and engineering meet one another, often in support of ambitious projects realised through collective means. In the post-war period large-scale government schemes were narrated as feats of engineering and focussed on ideas of taming nature or overcoming great obstacles in the drive for progress”.
In the post-capitalist period, large-scale consciousness raising, powering collectivist solutions, is the only way we will be able to tackle the feats of bio-engineering required to save nature, to overcome the obstacles that stand in our way in the drive for genuine progress. This is the time for action. This is decade zero.
Broshuda/The Caretaker/Dive Reflex Service/Nozomu Matsumoto/Msylma/Rian Treanor
“Art has the potential to convey scientific data, complex ideas and concepts in a powerful way that words or graphs fall short of” – Pekka Niittyvirta
Through the simple projection of synchronised beams of a combination of lights of different wavelengths in the electromagnetic spectrum, two Finnish conceptual artists have created a powerful commentary on the rising sea levels that threaten our planet. With ‘Lines (57° 59′ N, 7° 16′ W)’, Pekka Niittyvirta and Timo Aho have enveloped buildings and their surrounding landscapes on the Outer Hebrides with white lines symbolising the levels rising seas are calculated to reach in the near future. Everything below these lines will be submerged.
Installed at The Taigh Chearsabhagh Arts Centre in Lochmaddy, on the Isle of North Uist, an institution that has already seen its own further development blocked due to concerns around rising sea levels on site, the location alone speaks volumes. With ‘Lines (57° 59′ N, 7° 16′ W)’, Niittyvirta and Aho have merged artistic vision with visionary art to create an installation that is not only aesthetically engaging, but more crucially, socially conscious. ‘Lines (57° 59′ N, 7° 16′ W)’ visualises the abstraction of projected data, conjuring up the near future in front of our eyes. The power of art to empower the heart: to brave the rising waves of naysayers; to challenge the status quo, from below.
According to Slavoj Zizek, “the lesson of global warming is that the freedom of humankind was possible only against the background of the stable natural parameters of the life on earth (temperature, the composition of the air, sufficient water and energy supply, and so on): humans can ‘do what they want’ only insofar as they remain marginal enough, so that they don’t seriously perturb those parameters of life. As our freedom to grow as a species starts impacting the world, nature’s response then curtails our freedom. ‘Nature’ becomes a sort of social category in itself”.
It is, therefore, simply not enough to recycle; to buy organic food; to repost memes about climate collapse on social media platforms; to hope that someone will do something about it, eventually. Before it’s too late, obviously. As nature itself melts into thin air. When only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun. Will you wait until your genetically-modified bulldog spontaneously combusts on your carefully manicured lawn? Will you risk third-degree burns on your way down to Waitrose? Are you looking forward to the first season of ‘Water Wars’ on Sky Atlantic? As Zizek concludes, “maybe, unfortunately, only the shock of an actual catastrophe can awaken us. And then we will become aware of the ridicule of the fights between our nation states, of America First and Brexit games, when our entire world is slowly disintegrating and only a large collective effort can give us hope”.
“Sisters and brothers: today, our Mother Earth is ill. Everything began with the industrial revolution in 1750, which gave birth to the capitalist system. In two-and-a-half centuries, the so-called developed countries have consumed a large part of the fossil fuels created over five million centuries. Under Capitalism, Mother Earth does not exist, instead there are raw materials. Capitalism is the source of the asymmetries and imbalances in the world” – Evo Morales (November 28, 2008)
“Don’t fear failure so much that you refuse to try and do things. The saddest summary of life contains three descriptions: could have, might have and should have. A broken heart is the worst, it’s like having broken ribs. Nobody can see it, but it hurts every time you breath”. So begins Broshuda‘s profoundly affecting ‘You’ll Aways Stay Beautiful’ (NoCorner). Having experienced both a broken heart (romantically, and metaphorically) and broken ribs (fell off my bicycle a few weeks ago), and in light of the theme of this month’s column, I choose to hear Broshuda’s latest broadcast as a call to arms, rather than self-obsessed wallowing. I’ve spent many hours being inspired by this release, I even texted my estranged younger daughter another vital quote from it: “spend time with your parents, treat them well. Because one day, when you look up from your phone, they won’t be there anymore”. I’ve also started ringing and visiting my mom on a more regular basis. An earnest reaction to a piece of sound art, you may surmise?
As Evo Morales states so evocatively, the clock is ticking: the need for participative change is suddenly imperative. If a graphic designer and sound artist from Berlin can inspire change in an ageing fanzine writer in middle England through the medium of sound art, then there is surely hope for everyone: the power of art to affect behaviour? The power of love? Current data suggests that as a species we are buying more self-help books than ever in the post-everything era. Text-to-speak conversions offer remote counselling online. Cyber-therapists deliver random interventions, eternally. Feedback loops of information, advice and guidance, bouncing off satellites in space, infinitely. Swimming in the same gene pool as recent releases from Sam Kidel and Nozomu Matsumoto, ‘You’ll Always Stay Beautiful’ asks important questions around the compatibility of emotional need and automation, as the artificiality of our accrued intelligence threatens to break all of our hearts, all over again.
‘Everywhere At The End Of Time (Stage 6)’ (History Always Favours The Winners) brings The Caretaker‘s 20-year project to a close in suitably sombre tones. From the haunted ballroom, to our place in this world fading away, The Caretaker has carried us over the threshold of acceptance of our own mortality. Like all truly meaningful art, the project has invoked joy and pain, in a compelling manner that has ultimately proved dependency-forming. Like all addictions, what began in pain has ended in pain, even if we are no longer capable of expressing it. Stages 4-6 have proved the most rewarding. It has been fascinating hearing the format gradually crumble to a residue of greyscale rubble. With each subsequent Stage, the trepidation has mounted. Stage 6’s industrial dub is decorated with fleeting glimpses of what has come before. Rising waves of primordial scree wash over compartmentalised loss. How do we summon any learning from this brutal defeat? Can we in some way celebrate at least the end of what has been a long, slow decline? As rolling thunder pummels redundant synapses, neurotransmitters approach the final broadcast. Our place in this world is truly fading away. Yet, even amongst these formless shadows, the final throws suggest the faintest presence of ethereal escape from this mortal coil, before the needle hits the wax one final time: a choral denouement suggesting testament, and, perhaps, closure?
Vinyl debut from Bristol’s Limbo Tapes, ’01’ is a beatific summation of mesmeric invention, created lucidly within the hallowed confines of the Dive Reflex Service bunker. Hunkered down on the rug of excellence, cutting holes akimbo, this exemplary record is a surefire back-to-back rewind. Largely beatless, the collection is driven by the rhythmic cadence of a loop here, a crackle there, a sample here: the odd lonesome snare or tambourine, buried deep within the mix. Instrumental, except for a stunning vocal cameo on ‘Via Della Morte’ from Jamileh Lee, Dive Reflex Service summon up the spirit of ‘Untrue’-era Burial in a seance riddled with the lineage of a city haunted by the ghosts of magnificence. Pressed on heavyweight vinyl with full-colour artwork and high quality digital download, mastered and cut at Stardelta Audio Mastering. Limited to 300-copies worldwide, act quickly to avoid disappointment.
Tokyo-based performance artist and curator Nozomu Matsumoto fucked my head up back in 2018 with his hypnotising debut 12″, ‘Climatotherapy’ (Death Of Rave). ‘Phonocentrism’ (Long Form Editions) takes his art to another level altogether, with its extraordinary blending of diverse sources: Cemetery, DJ Obake and Emamouse, amongst a host of other contributors, to transmit an incredible environmental forecast that sits so succinctly within the theme of this month’s column. Apocalyptic in tone, Matsumoto veers from rap to metal; from ambience to thrash; from auto-tuned chicanery to fretboard shredding; punctuated by haunting vocals from Sumiko Matsumoto. Inexplicably not yet released on wax, available digitally from:
Having lived all over Zuli‘s superb ‘Terminal’ (UIQ) for the past few months months, I was beyond elated to stumble across one of the stars of that set’s unheralded debut full-length: Msylma‘s ‘Dhil-un Taht Shajarat Al-Zaqum’ (Halcyon Veil). The timbre of Msylma’s incredibly affecting vocal on ‘Kollu I-Joloud’ was one of the many reasons I fell for ‘Terminal’ so heavily. So, unexpectedly coming across his debut album without warning came as a massively welcome surprise. Scored by a strictly minimalist instrumental range comprising electronics and percussion, Msylma is ably supported in this regard by Zuli, 1127 and Karim El Ghazoly. Sung passionately in the classical Arabic vernacular, ‘Dhil-un Taht Shajarat Al-Zaqum’ features 11-tracks informed by the ancient pagan traditions of pre-Islamic and Quranic poetry. Available only digitally at present, I am assured by the label that the vinyl will drop by summer 2019.
Fathered and mentored by sound artist and curator, Mark Fell, Rotherham’s Rian Treanor has a four-year developmental arc behind his Planet Mu debut, ‘ATAXIA’. The record’s familiarity in shape and texture draws comparisons to one of his father’s collaborators best work to date, namely Gabor Lazar‘s ‘Unfold’ (The Death Of Rave). From the playful text-to-speak opener, ‘A1′, to the relative maturation of eminently funky closer, ‘D3′, Treanor treads a zigzagging path through a veritable radius of variations. ‘Ataxia’ literally means ‘the loss of control of bodily movements’, and the record’s asymmetrical properties fittingly jar involuntarily against each other with multifarious ease. As intrinsically playful as it is wilfully obtuse, ‘ATAXIA’ grows across its sides towards the recognisable early peak of ‘B2′, only to expand further on the back nine. Elsewhere, ‘C2′ nods towards Equiknoxx‘s languid skank, whilst ‘D2′ cements those earlier Lazar correlations.