World Wolves //////////////////////////// Surrealist Reflections on days and nights at WOMADelaide

…took some time to warm up but once in the zone she held strong with searing banshee vocals leading an off kilter repetitious war-like Celtic / Nordic folk drum rhythm laced with ambient jazz trumpet. Indeed I had an elegant vision of running through Christian knights with a Viking broadsword in slow motion, gloriously rich crimson blood spraying ceremoniously up my wolf-skin tunic. A quadrangle of free visceral reeling, a soul-opening-up-to-the-sun platform, a sky piercing call-to-arms, letting all come that will and landing wherever it comes ashore. Part of the way through the show, Marie Boine, come straight from the northlands -30 degrees centigrade wintering in Norway exits at the back of the stage. Meanwhile her cohorts strike up an aggravated improvised free jazz explosion, gnarled beligerant haphazard bass chords dive like a gliding lead juggernaut out over the crowd, sea borne on the air, the drums peeling and pummelling the wake to break open the afternoon like a can of god-snakes over the scorched 38 centigrade degree earth. And upon the crowd it came down, splashing into vapour just before impact, posed hippy dancing weaved in and out of a suspended scene, the music of a spinning death blow, a helmet bent inwards by the seeking power of a throwing axe, and the last moments of life, in a dimethyl reel, as it dreams itself away, out through eyes of surprise, out through the veins…

Tripping over to stage number three in the cloudy stenching humidity, the steam-hung crowd awaits Dhafer Youssef. The instant he appears we feel a sudden weight from above as we are landed on. He kneels prostrate between us, eyes tensioned straight ahead, soon it becomes evident he is in the grips of a silent seizure, with others we lay him down on his side. Frozen in time his hands and feet pick up the sharp rapid rhythm, tapping / air treading, absorbed in the groove from the depths of his seizure. St John’s and a doctor from the crowd assist then hand over to the ambulance crew. We step in and relate the story which had yet be told despite recollections of training on these matters from the saints. Wild sharp jazz beats and fluid voice breach the canopy as the stretcher crew receives applause. Atmospheric falsetto, sparse open calm flipped over and built into deft crested waves of math-crafted petri-rhythm.

Rolling in late and soaking up the flavour of the air from South America, a positive short feast, hydrant red flowers passed around, stomach braced for more drink and more paced for raw stink of humming summer like fruit, close in the troop.

And later ravenous devouring of burger theories to the bright dew envelope of Antibalas afrobeat funk from New York. A rest in a rose garden then the half sleep of the dead to the planar elevated vibes of Sudha Ragunathan. In the central piece, fruity kaleidoscopic vocal gymnastics, crow-like illuminated waverys with fragments of voodoo zombi-dream sequence, sustained rapture.

The final stage of Saturday, Hugh Masekela, priestly in purple, ridiculous moves, slow train chugging out from the mouth, slowing slowing stop… and a hearty ointment for the scolds of the day, cooling in the night, some stars seen out, a calling out of the spirit to douse inhibition in family petrol.

Soweto in the sunshine, a pure moment of shade and raised rising voices, descending passion wiping out in the sea seed of baritone waves, the sun stellar held perfectly behind a spear tower tree trunk in the finest hour. Soweto Gospel Choir singing a perpetual dawn in the late afternoon, the wizard of heaven sleeping soundly dreaming on clouds, a zen nothing beat of cane on the head of a deity, gone or never… some stale sections but when the souls spoke they did with candour, skygone absent in the skipping waves of an afternoon drunk.

Deep red wine cascading down in the new dark, no stars seen, lit up grounds heaving and people slipping in and out, do you mean to talk or talk to mean? Hammer drunk, washing up in semblance of post-rudeboy days, squashed-in happy, Jimmy Cliff, a long Jamaican celebration truncated by living grass of beer bar, late dining on Odin and Freyja, shown tapestries of Danish winter blizzards and tales of the years of Skaldic unity now divided, reminiscent in Norse autumn thoughts, back across the oceans and mountains to the edge of the desert.

Last day, another burning afternoon, spent close to mist haze, clothed in waterfall spray diamonds to soothe off the sun, a Swamp Thing emerging from the muddy ground, tackling the heat with endless Sunday blues sliding up creek and down across to the colder sub Australis lands. Taking off in the early eve to the coast and diving into a mellow bubbly scene at the beach, floating effortless in clean ocean brine, a salted wound complains for an instant but vanishes in the bliss. The horizon of a long weekend hanging orange and bright, a smile of earth and steel, electric grass, a turning wheel, slow, now passed.

 

Dominic J Clark

The Lost City

 

4th/5th Feb Queen's Theatre, Adelaide

 

Festival review written for Finger Magazine featuring Prince Rama, Love of Diagrams, Doe, Sparkspitter, Slave Girls From beyond Infinity, Mondo Phase Band, Xango!, Slamagotchi and more.

 

Told by an Edwardian Gentleman on a quite singular expedition into now.

The Lost City...

 

                                   ...And so we walked with all our carriage in the fresh sunshine that had begun to beam through from behind towering white clouds of majestic cotton, still lingering after the scattered rains of the morning. All was brightening up as I struck a match and set the flame to a short yet handsomely aromatic cigar. We followed the map, noting the street names as they passed. It was a Saturday afternoon but the city was empty, the public houses closed, there was a desolate edge to the footloose freedom that drifted in the air, the derelict and shut up city was a blank canvas involuntarily handing itself over to artistic endeavour. New energy and expression seemed free to exist among the dirty alleyways and bare concrete buildings. As we continued on the street names seemed familiar, though we had not come this way before. A close look at the map revealed that street names had begun to repeat themselves despite our progress in a straight line. We continued on in order carry out an experiment. After the fourth repetition of Golding, Hamford, Spiel and Rampart my companion and I became duly spooked. In addition to this my companion, Daisy, noticed a slight advancement in the decrepitude of the street signs. Indeed after around six repetitions our surroundings had become quite ancient in appearance. The shop fronts and houses were now completely derelict. We were much perplexed and disturbed but continued on as our mutual curiosity was champing at the bit, as they say horsing circles. Our pace quickened and as it did so vegetation began to spring up amid the ruins. The street signs fell completely into disrepair and lay on the ground covered over with moss. Finally mother nature became quite belligerent and returned our way to the original brush floored woodland that once dominated this area.

 

Many hours must have passed but the sun remained high in the sky as if it had been noon all day. A hill rose up out of the bushland ahead, so we cut a path through to it, climbed up and surveyed the surrounds. Below in a clearing lay a network of ruined buildings, strangely bustling with activity. We ventured down into their midst and took in all that we saw, market stalls, projected images displayed on ruined walls hither and thither and upon a stage a group of minstrels stood waiting to play, stuck in a pregnant moment, poised to synchronise their chords before commencing. A few glances passed, then they began to clatter together and a scattered chaos erupted. After a minute or so it seemed to find itself and became rooted in a cycle that seemed endless and some manner of hazy spirit emerged and began to hover above the minstrel troop. In light of the goings on of the day it seemed quite possible that a sonic platform was being sustained so that an interplanetary craft could land as a stop off on its way from the eastern lands to the outer cosmos. The inhabitants seemed unfazed by our arrival so we sat and observed patiently. Lights danced on the wall face above the stage powered by some array of modern oil lamps. It seemed to be some kind of festival, at once futuristic and yet not so. The crowd seemed vaguely aloof despite their common interest, a dignified reserve perhaps akin to our own time, for this did not seem to be the 1901 we had left behind.

 

The minstrels appeared to have signaled the opening of the ceremony. A white manuscript upon the wall bespoke of the schedule for the days festivities. We had apparently seen a group of minstrels named Slave Girls From Beyond Infinity. Curiously they all seemed to be gentlemen. Particularly as regards to the way they wore their moustaches. A rye humour was afoot and we were game for more and besides the spectacle thus far demanded we stay and conduct further research. Daisy seemed concerned about how we might return to our own time, to which I replied simply, 'trust me, I'm a scientist.'

 

We filed through a darkened doorway following a glowing repetition of sound that seemed to heap itself more and more upon itself, in an Appalachian perversion of sorts with heavy percussion and spanish guitar like instruments with terrible power doubling up over the torrent. The area, a former stable was awash as if a factory full of machinery was in operation. This groups name, Sparkspitter seemed entirely appropriate. Apparently they had recently captured their sound and it soon would be available for purchase-and-play on a futuristic gramophone, hence their good form. Back in the larger Horse Arena, a gentleman named Hal Bird was emanating noise from electrical devices while the lights continued to dance on the wall. We sat outside to smoke as the convention here seemed to dictate. The music could be heard still and was pleasing as smoke crawled down my throat then plumed forth into the air.

 

Back inside we re-entered the stable stage area to hear the finale of a performance by a group of lady minstrels by the name of Gold Bloom. Bold 3-part harmony singing, emotive and dreamy gave way to a simple but satisfying instrumental piece revolving around a guitar melody. The warmth of this performance was complemented by a colourful light display in the horse arena from one Joel Stern. The manipulation of interacting lights altered and triggered electricity based waves of sound. A marvellous tinkering experiment. He continued with air pump devices that bag-piped a quasi-musical fare, dividing his contribution in two. At the tail end of this performance a second gentleman, Cured Pink, sprung up with a cluster of industrial machines and rusted iron parts, clashing and whirring an irregular repetition with a distinctly misanthropic tone. Quite timid vocals interweaved periodically. The gentleman had a splendidly brutal routine going and began hurling large rusted springs about. Novel clashing sounds complemented the industrial sander that flicked on at varying speeds. Following this Timothy Tate worked-in some heady slow motion speech from some magnetic tape and played eerie notes from a violin. A rather casual group of mad scientists. A friendly gentleman instructed that certain parts bore resemblance to some extreme minstrels by the following names; Nurse With Wound, Einsturzende Neubauten and Urabe Masayoshi.

 

 

 

After a further cigar interlude we returned to the stable to the full flow of a trio of players named Mondo Phase Band. A shredding rapid and repetitive slew of sound carried forth about the room as I lurched in through the crowd. The giant magnetic coil hubs either side of the stage punished my ears with whitening volume. A distinctly germanic subconscious-vibration-invoking plane seared through me, punctuated with echoing psalmic chatter. A truncated piano device was most absorbing, working out its repetoire among the shred. Over all it was rather like toxic sonic marmalade spread on hearty angular bread.

 

Heavy deliberate drum patterns and ethereal melodic sounds held court in the Horse arena next. somewhat more gentle in comparison to what we had just witnessed. it had a certain degree of heart, a little melancholia, bound by a formula that was indeed handsome. Steering by Stars passed like a clear chill night on a ship pleasantly off course but sure to return on schedule, as a benefit of having a well trodden map. We wandered outside in pursuit of a delightful smell of roasting beasts. On locating the source, we managed to barter a silver pocket watch for a good feed and with this weighing in our stomachs we sat against a wall in the dark of the stable to rejuvenate. A sequence of relaxed atmospheric gramophone records played by Oisima were just the right contrast to the higher strung minstrel groups. The mood soared again after this as Xango! assembled on stage and began strumming. A trio from Brazil, their vibe and rhythm lifted the mood of the room and spread joy throughout. Stage left the tall melodic/percussive instrument known as the Berimbau seemed to lead the groove as they switched between modes, described as Reggaeton and Samba among others. All with precision and grace they held the room captive in groove.

 

The composed introvertism of Doe contrasted again as we came through the tunnel back into the Horse Arena. Off kilter beats tore on amid a backdrop of atmospheric guitars and some manner of square device capable of creating all manner of sounds. A repetition of slightly truncated mathematical fractions in the rhythm sought to defy the usual settling of the minds metronome while the ambient quality of the rest of the sound floated about the room as if disconnected from the percussive element. It followed me outside, loud and clear twisting through the cloud of deep silver smoke that surrounded me.

 

I rather missed out on a loose minstrel free jam from Ghost Gums but hearsay reported a minimal scatter of drums and guitars. The highly active yet sly dreaminess of Love Of Diagrams quite picked up the pace. The density was of interest but the acoustic capacity of the room lent itself better to the sparser ambient moments. Still they thundered forth and hurtled us towards the upset electric sound vibrations of Slamagotchi. A wondrous deconstruction and repetition of some more primal rhythms, warped, twisted and minced. Midway through a cast iron beat the fourth dimension would open up for a second, slow down then ricochet off the walls before resuming normalcy. What stirling use of the flow of electrons I thought. Fancy footwork was keenly encouraged and indeed I could have gone at least an hour more of this mechanical fetish. Sculpt and Timotea took over the reigns next, funnelling and simplifying the rhythm down to just one repeating thud for a calmer glide and atmospheric tinker. Pleasing but I had just put on my dancing shoes.

 

A golden, sparkling display of drums and varying sizes of electric pianos adorned the Horse Arena stage next and two young colonial ladies from the Americas, practiced in the ways of eastern religion by way of upbringing in the spirit of Hare Krishna were busy preparing to perform. They had taken the name of Prince Rama of Ayodhya. Their style seemed at once modern and ancient, with other worldly singing and pounding drums driving the crowd along in their thrall. The lady to the left then baited the audience on the theme of trust, lurching forward in a zombie-like fashion, turning her back on one and all and, still chanting 'trust, trust, trust' incessantly she began to lean backwards and it dawned on us that she was committed fully in a trust exercise. The first 2 rows caught her as she fell and I saw a gap in the crowd opening up. Myself and several others moved forward to ensure she did not fall, catching her in the knick of time. She was carried about the crowd while the other lady chanted on then finally brought back to the stage. A quality trance and good dose of entertainment all round, ending with a quite unridiculous dance routine amid the crowd.

 

 

 

We huddled back to the stable and cradled a late night Chivas Regal gazing through 3 dimensional glasses at the lighting that accompanied the electronic acid music of Kangaroo Skull. At some uncertain time we hastened out into the street in search of a hansom cab but found only horseless wonders being 'driven' about the streets. It occurred to us at this point that the forest had vanished altogether. We instructed the driver to take us out of town and in no time we found ourselves by the sea. We climbed out and there was much fuss about our lack of contemporary money. After an argument at considerable volume we settled over my cigarillo case, gold trimmed, handed down by my grandfather. It was a fresh night so we huddled behind a sand dune, coats appropriately fastened, hats on, up against the esplanade wall, sheltered magnificently against the gale.

 

On the second day we wandered back inside, weary from a long walk and sat down. We were regaled by a succession of artists, experimental and dreamy. Major Crimes soothed and intrigued with a futuristic repetitive almost Caribbean wave of phantom drums and guitar riffs. Beige Abrasion pulled together quite rapid snare drum work with unusual ghostly monolithic ambience.

A subtle creeping electronic nucleus bonding well with the acoustic cavern theatre that housed us. The trio of industrial, light and tape minstrels also returned accompanied by still more gentlemen with guitars and such. Their work drifted throughout the floor space tinkering and twitching and surrounding us. We were able to purchase beer with the last of our trinkets and I had salvaged the cigars from my case, so the chill Sunday afternoon passed handsomely enough. A little cold perhaps but our minds were pleasantly lacerated with noise, drone and free chaos, which continued onstage without further ado as Bitches of Zeus saddled up. One felt as though one had consumed some unsavoury toadstools, perhaps vomited and then realised the little creatures defense mechanism was rather more of a bonus than one first suspected. Quite belligerent vocals slouched over the backdrop of guitar and percussive mess, finally complemented with two gentlemen appearing under the moniker Pink Dreams for more driven abstract salad garnish. One gent casting a familiar shadow, likely of Mondo Phase origin.

 

Night had fallen outside. Our sojourn into this new ancient place seemed complete, so we attempted to re-enter the void of our coming. We would walk in the reverse direction in the same absent minded fashion and hope to rediscover the way. It would be difficult to decipher any subtle change in our environment so the clamp and chatter of horse hooves would have to be the cock crow of our salvation. Our trip had been most enlightening but the need to relate our tale to those from our own set was growing. The travellers reward of a multitude of tales to tell over port and cigars. To casually trump a professional banker in the midst of his best joke, 'Why it was an abrasive psychedelic moon stroll that we would gladly revisit given the appropriate wormhole or fourth dimensional device. It was just a shame you weren't there to see it for yourself old chap...' The street names began to repeat and our eyes glistened with validation in the reflecting moonlight. Soon an accord of trotting coconut husks was struck against night sky and we were back home headed towards a roaring fire and a tall glass of the tawniest of Ports and, not to put too fine a point on it, a large White Owl Blunt.

 

written by Dominic J Clark for Finger Magazine, Adelaide Feb 2012. pics by Spoz Spozington.

Vintage Nature Loves Courage 2: March of the Zombie Dickheads (distilled intent from too much time spent working in retail)

March of the Zombie Dickheads

 

I was going to start by saying that generally speaking human beings are decent creatures and when they walk into a big superstore they become zombies but in fact many humans are Dickheads and when they walk into a big superstore they become Zombie Dickheads. A more sympathetic eye might suggest that the bombardment of displays and variety of goods on offer at a swollen, oversized retail outlet, lets say CD/DVD store to take an example at random, is overwhelming, plus a time limit and fear of having to queue at the end to escape intact with ones goods can account for the array of symptoms. All of these factors are particularly significant when considering the case of a tourist on account of the language/culture gap.

The resulting panic creates a kind of ‘Mind Slow’ due to the overload of information and collision of instincts, killer or otherwise.

Customers tend to lose basic skills and memory bank data first. Confusion when attempting to decipher the alphabet is common, followed by walking into staff members and other customers, impacting and apparently not sensing it.

 

There are two Zombie Sub-Types, divided according to pride.

 

1)     The Increased Pride Zombie:

This type of Zombie is arrogant, disrespectful and rude and will talk down to the staff they have asked for help and pretend they already knew things to cover up how ashamed they feel at their own stupidity. No prisoners should be taken when encountering these specimens and immediate execution is recommended to avoid infection or indeed to prevent the consumption of thine own brain.

 

2)    The Decreased Pride Zombie:

This type will be humble and pathetic and surrender all self respect at the feet of the wise, commanding and savvy staff member and while wallowing in the filth of their own shame will thank and apologise to their helper/ redeemer a great many times during their visit.

 

Aftermath

 

These lucid and subjective thoughts can be found in the heads of many customer service assistants across the globe and are as real as the sun in the sky or a dog in the street after a long day on the shopfloor dealing with salivating consumers but sober and out of context these ramblings and spontaneously compiled classifications seem extreme. This is the nature of the beast in our capitals lifestyle oriented retail outlets. Chew on my pulsating, rupturing spleen for a while and think about sharing your own reactive venom, the kingdom of heaven awaits you on the other side.

 

 

Drawing by Zachary K. Nyhus

Vintage Nature Loves Courage 1: Clever Girl, or the Predatory trap of Pop Music Marketing

“...Clever Girl...” or the Predatory Trap

of Pop Music Marketing

 

‘...Clever girl...’ the insightful but too late in the day last words of Bob peck’s Park Ranger in Jurassic Park, moments before being ambushed and inevitably munched by velociraptors.

A good lesson in how the theoretically well tooled can get pinched by some kind of violent immediate reality. I specifically refer to the violent reality of the advertising/ marketing machine, zooming in closer on that of the pop music industry.

Through personal experience and private torture I have come up with a theory about Pop Music Marketing. The use of psychology in advertising is well known. Where advertisers lack the ability to create a genuinely pleasing ad they fall back on either extreme repetition of the product name phrase or number or by simply annoying the crap out of you so you can’t forget it. With Pop music I believe there is another predator involved that clinches a trap of enduring power and precision.

 

This predator is a lack of independent interest, more specifically in this case, a lack of independent interest in music. By this I mean a will/drive/curiosity to discover new things musically and not people who like Indie music. Pop music marketing is very aggressive, it is almost impossible to ignore it on the TV, on the soundtracks to big movies, billboards, magazines, in stores, on the radio many times a day, perhaps twice an hour for a big hit. Pop music isn’t so much an interest as a compliance. In addition to these raw facts, the charts in big record stores are not what they seem. They are not as would be expected- the biggest selling records of the week. Chart positions are paid for by record labels. The higher the chart position the higher the price.  It’s a game for the big boys with the big cash. I have personally witnessed record label representatives dropping in and complaining about a record appearing at the15 position as opposed to the paid for 12. This is an established part of the music marketing process. The illusions fall down around our ears as we delve further into the folds of the music business pussy. The titillating clitoris of adverts and sound bites you have seen plenty of but its time go beyond making out and fully penetrate to find where it really gets off.

 

Velociraptor no. 1 – Lack of information

Velociraptor no. 2 – Marketing Domination

 

Our first beast comes right from the heart of democratic society. From the very beginning of democracy in England it has been necessary to restrict the flow of information, or shape it to a certain degree, through newspapers, TV, radio etc…

A small number of corporations own the major newspapers, TV and radio stations. These folk are very wealthy and powerful and have strong political influence. The people who control what we read in the papers every day also influence government, thus the state of the nation. The two are linked. What serves the interest of one very likely serves the interest of the other.

The first newspapers sprung up at the same time that parliament was introduced. Before Britain had a parliament it was run by Royalty. Kings and Queens with the power to decapitate citizens who stepped out of line or were unsatisfied with the way things were organised. The point here is that it is of benefit to the rulers of the nation if the people don’t know what’s going on. Therefore citizens have to dig for useful information as it is not freely available. The aggressive advertising discourages any effort on the part of the citizen. After years of intrusive psychological advertising and over exposure from pop artists supported by very wealthy corporations it becomes normal. This moves the goalposts and people will feel as though they have discovered artists, when in fact they have been force fed. Those not so easily convinced will usually be herded into the right pen by the need to be up-to-date and abreast of things sheepdog. So why dig for information when it so conveniently falls in your lap. Digging for information might involve internet research, comparison of major, minor and local newspapers plus TV and radio which would be an extreme effort after a long 8 ½ hour day at work. It slots nicely into place to just believe the Evening Standard, The Times, fuck, even The Sun.

You have to dig for information like you have to dig for interesting music. Independent music is necessary for many reasons, the core of this may be is because music now represents the interests of some men in suits, who probably range between music enthusiasts, financial entrepreneurs, business school graduates, ex-hippy capitalists (who saw the light in reverse when their revolution failed but saw their music gain legendary and marketable status) and mafia bosses, whereas before capitalism and the market of today music would have represented a tribe, a village, a town, a community.

Traditional music now is a resurrected revived concept played by devotees to ancient ways or a local novelty for tourists. These ways have been mostly killed off by the modern financial music industry. The most interesting and inspired music to my own subjective knowledge is that which has come out despite the lusts of the industry at large. Maybe groups of this nature, are humans seeking their tribe which has been worked out of existence.

Miss Tuesday under the Mistletoe Tree

The woodland floor was crisp, carpeted as it was with the browned leaves of autumn still lying on the ground, preserved thus far by the insatiable frost of a deeply penetrating winter, more ruthless and pounding with snow blizzards and early morning frosts than any in years. Miss Tuesday’s memory was wistfully emboldened with recollections from 5 years previous, seated somewhat snugly up front downstairs on an old red London Routemaster bus, the kind with the doorless rear and winding stair, just turning the corner onto Stoke Newington Church Street, slip-sliding on black ice and twisting around the roundabout next to the Rose and Crown Pub, dreamily tucked inside an all consuming crimson scarf watching the interlocking neon shopfronts and dark residential streets flash by. And for a moment nosing hungrily in through the window of the Fox Reformed at its warm red faced occupants sitting at wooden tables, sipping wine, a few playing quiet games of draughts, the rest animatedly discussing the season, literature and the oppressing cold, balanced it seemed with the joy of a wondrous blanket of snow which for years even then had not fallen this far south. Her memory glided back further, a recollection from within a recollection, a time towards the end of childhood, leaping into crunchy layers of ice atop frozen streams in rural Wales and one morning a fox, snout deep in the rubbish bin and the hunters on horseback and gang of beagles in pursuit only minutes behind.

The one memory slipped back into the first and as the bus pulled away her eye caught the little brown plaque above the broad front windows of the Fox Reformed that read, ‘Edgar Allan Poe 1809-1849, Writer and poet was a pupil at the Manor House School (1817-1820) which stood on this site'. With this in mind the Forest took on a creepier more mysterious tone. She pulled her long coat in about her breast, in defence against the lucid fear of her own imagination and tighter yet against the cold. There had been no snowfall for a few days, the sky was bright, the land dry but the frost bit deep into the topsoil, set in with its mosaic of brown leaves, mummified elegantly as if part of some indestructible swirling marble grain.

Despite the cold and fresh dark mystery of the wood a sense of wild freedom crept up inside our rambling heroine. She was free and alone and with her imagination ignited she began to smile, relishing the season, her cheeks glowing red with the icy air and a slight blush of self-consciousness. She turned about to check if she was alone and true enough it seemed she was. Conrad had stood her up quite cruelly. For a half hour she had waited at the turnstile but he had not shown up. The wilderness excited her, no one was around, an open and wild opportunity seemed at hand. Booby became restless and overheated in her heavy and beautiful white winter coat and with her quickened pace and reeling among the trees she slipped on the icy ground and slumped at the foot of a great tree, in a pile of leaves between two large roots. The leaves crunched and flattened beneath her and her coat fanned out creating a spontaneous eider down absorbing much of the impact of the fall and a comfortable place to lie and conjure up romantic and frankly obscene scenarios involving her absent lover. Her pale winter hands delved between the warm layers of clothing, frosty but soon warming up squeezed within the context of the radiating hearth of her tender bosom. Thus defrosted they slipped eagerly south, beneath silk to a perfect feeling of ravenous rapture, fast building pleasure rushing home to the centre of her divine hips.

Drifting along in a harlequin daze stomping on leaves and twigs and rebounding off tree boughs a bloody claw relented its grim power and retreated back into a less furry keen elegant human hand. A crimson glaze peeled back to reveal natural colour once more as if an optometrists lense had been slipped out of its clunky glasses frame during an eye exam. With the precision of an oft studied ritual the hand proceeded to do up the buttons of the fine purple coat, concealing the rips and tatters of the shirt beneath. The sudden cold closed in as a foot below snapped a small tree branch. The crack rang out loudly among the trees and the rosy passionate gasps and moans of a thoroughly absorbed woman revealed themselves in the instant of their ceasing. Conrad had been flung back to reality. He peered in the direction of the most exquisite tell tale sign of secret wild abandon. He remembered an appointment he could not keep and dared not as his profession dictated that afternoon that he drink of the elixir that was both bane and secret weapon to his existence. Through a red mist of remembrance it seemed the beast had uncovered the meeting from beneath a heavy rock in Conrad's private schedule and was on its way to keep it. Timely thus was his metamorphosis and now upon a new case was he, unbound by any bond to the contrary. A pang of excited fear blew through him as a figure ducked behind a tree in the middle distance. He convened with the fear, observed his surroundings then composed himself and addressed his energetic observer.

'Seasons Greetings to you, Sir or Madam, though far more likely madam I should think.'

Nothing stirred.

'I assure you I wish you no harm... none at all.'

There was no response but for a slight rustle of leaves. Then, seemingly from beyond…

'Would that be, by any chance, a gentleman going by the name of Mr Conrad Savage?'

'Ahh young Miss Tuesday. I see you have kept our appointment even though I could not.'

'Could not, as opposed to would not?'

'Yes my profession intervened and tweezered me away to a much less delightful meeting.'

'Yes, you left me standing in the cold you fiend!'

'Indeed.'

'You stood me up, almost.'

'Au contraire Miss Tuesday. I was unable to be here on time, a violent incident at work waylaid me, but now I am at your service.'

'mmm. You're timing could be better than I may have led you to believe.'

'And yet I am with you on that point. I shudder to mention it but clear and sharp it came to my senses, as indeed I did at exactly the same moment.

'Yes...' said Booby retreating guiltily up against a tree, turning up her word at the end as if it were a question.

' I heard the most excessive sounds of a young woman in the grips of either distress or dare I say it...joy.'

Booby flushed instantly with shame then with a second thought tossed it away vigorously. She reached out and dragged him, by the tie, towards her in order to sandwich her inflamed self between man and tree. Her slow hard kisses consumed Conrad who stepped up beyond traditional etiquette and dived headfirst into her love. They sank together onto the leaves and into her perfect nook between the tree roots and wrapped themselves around each other, as a hot burning heart in a cold frigid forest of bleak midwinter. Miss Tuesday rose up from beneath Conrad, cast off her woollen coat and, exposed and bullet-nippled she saddled up and rode them both home, gazing up at the clear sunny winter sky and the tree that dominated her vision. She exploded and as she did so her eyes closed as if in slow motion while her accelerated perception connected with the giant overgrown mistletoe tree that towered above her.

Finally she slumped down onto Conrad, divine and dirty as the shortest, coldest, darkest day of the year set-in to pass into night. The winter solstice evening spent under a mighty tree of endless kisses and fornication, worthy of worship by the ancient ones.

...And a Partridge in a Pear Tree...

John Waters ‘This Filthy World‘ live at Adelaide’s her Majesty’s Theatre Thursday 27th October 2011

Despite his infamy I wouldn’t have guessed JW would make it out to this little town that, last weekend attempted to prove itself to be a far outpost of the world when very few made it out for the weekend of John Waters movies that played at the Mercury Cinema. The opening night even featured free ‘Pink Drinks’- Some manner of trashy cocktails laced with unseen or tasted but ever present vodka. They even rolled out a couple of drag queens and a glorious purple carpet to kick off the proceedings. However its lack of serious publicity may be to blame for the thin attendance. Still, Pink Flamingos was glorious on the big screen. Still savagely shocking to newcomers who couldn't believe what was unfolding and as hilarious as ever to veterans of filth. Films like Hairspray, A Dirty Shame and Cry Baby (featuring Johnny Depp) are world famous but to little avail at this movie marathon.

Happily though, after easing a bout of spring humidity with imperial pints of beer we find that the cult following has come creeping out of the woodwork. Adelaide really turned out for the Pope of Trash. All manner of secret fans, overt ones, rockabilly folks and the gay community (including a pretty good Divine look a like) came out of the wormwood and delivered rapturous laughter and enthusiastic applause as he took to the stage and yarned non-stop for an hour and a half, without a single in-breath. John Waters must have six lungs for he is an almighty and relentlessly funny gas-bagger. And indeed it was mainly new stories and anecdotes and tales of John interacting with the modern celebrity scene and a few new sex acts and horrors.  Including his obsession with Justin Bieber to whom he gave an eyebrow pencil…and the world subsequently witnessed a douchebag with Water’s trademark pencil thin mustache. John went on to add, on the subject of Justin, ‘If Michael Jackson were still alive…’

John’s presence was pure gold and he exceeded my expectations which had built up like an inextinguishable hellfire. In true form he introduced us (me?) to a new sex act- Blossoms- Swollen results quite deliberately obtained through significant rear fisting. And his amusing sandbagging of ‘sploshers’, the obsession of dousing ones private parts with food items, sent light heartedly packing with one liners like ‘ you can’t date rape a cookie’ and ‘you can’t hate fuck a cake.’

John’s idea for a bar was something to be treasured. Featuring 'unhappy hour' where penniless and barred patrons are given free drinks and brawl with each other. Another splintered mental note comes back simply as …’serving vinegar from a witches asshole.’ But despite his very individual and creative Baltimore universe of trash and filth, a warm hearted spirit and unshakeably decent values shine through. John isn’t telling you how to live, he is shocking and entertaining you, like one of his B movie idols William Castle. This same glow bursts out of Hairspray, whose heroine is overweight 'Hefty Hideaway' girl Ricki Lake dancing her way to local stardom in a 60’s teeny bopper show. And side by side with her pals protests her favourite show because it won’t show a single black face unless it is ‘negro day’, the last Thursday of every month. And Pecker with its loving family and faith in Baltimore’s homely insanity Vs. New York’s world of high art and fashion. Waters and his crew grew out of hippy protests and rebellious politics, plus the people at protests ‘looked good and had loose morals’. 

He is clearly a polite and thoroughly decent chap who knows how to enjoy himself. During the post show meet and greet some people were too hasty and rude and harassed him quite a bit. At one point I noted a look on his face as some patrons headed off that seemed to say, well fuck you too, he seemed to have been disrespected. I couldn’t think of anything clever to say, so simply gave him a copy of the Nature Loves Courage zine (hoping he would get a kick out of the bad romance of ‘Booby Tuesday (see below)), placed an unforced arm on his back and wished him all the best, to which he responded with a deliberate and gracious thankyou. And besides daring a close friend to eat shit on screen and being treated like it in person are quite different.

But seriously as Charles Bukowski once said, ’those who preach love don’t have love'. John doesn’t need to harp on about good deeds and righteous behavior like a televangelist and doesn’t point fingers and demonise others. Perhaps it is the repressed neuters of the world who in their jealousy create proper evil, jealous of Satan’s freedom? Who hate the liberty of others and seek to keep it in check? But this is just speculation. My finger remains pointed at the sky, awaiting the new dawn. Ladies, gentlemen, transexuals and drag queens... Satan is love.

Dominic J Clark

John Waters: The Role Models in my Life (book reading and Q&A) Watershed Cinema, Bristol, UK.

Something's noticeably different about the Watershed tonight. The usual attendees (smart-casual Guardian-subscribing liberals) have been replaced by a giggling horde of polka-dotted fag hags, art-schoolers and curious old queens. In short, the queue snaking its way toward Watershed Screen 1 resembles the cast from a John Waters film – and its awash with genuine excitement and anticipation. JW has a rabid cult following in Bristol, it seems.

My companion and I can't profess to having known much, or been particular fans of, Mr Waters output before this. But even to the uninitiated, the man is a delight to watch. Enthusiastic, frequently hilarious, and in possession of copious oddball anecdotes – the like of which you only pick up over a lifetime spent documenting the underbelly of American culture.

Touring in support of his new book 'Role Models', he begins with a reading from said book which is mercifully short. Not because the reading is dull per se, but he's such a charming interviewee, a longer reading would have cut into what already felt like too little time in his company. And what spectacular company it is. His suave appearance and bizarre voice are matched by his star-like presence yet humble attitude. His anecdotes are both hysterical and absurd, his answers eloquent, and despite his stature, it always feels like he’s addressing friends at a party. We begin to wish we had smuggled our cocktails in from the Bar.

He tells of his early days in 1960s Baltimore, getting to grips with his homosexuality, and his encounters with the bizarrely repressed patrons of the city’s ‘telephone clubs’ (“I may be gay but I’m not that!”). And he talks warmly of his relationship with childhood friend and early muse/whipping boy, Divine (Right).

But its not all jocularity. He talks soberly of the difficulties facing independent film directors these days (too few truly independent companies left, too little money to go around), and he dedicates a large proportion of the Q&A to answering questions on his relationship with former Manson family member Leslie Van Houten. Van Houten is obviously a close friend, and he manages to negotiate a careful line between explaining his support for her parole, whilst never condoning the Manson family’s crimes. It shows a delicate and eloquent side to him that is often hidden beneath the trashy public image.

Then, without missing a beat, he tells the story of a Baltimore man he once met who was 'so gay he couldn't stand up'. And therein lies the essence of his character – a mixture of warmth, humanity, absurdist humour and trashy sensibilities.

The talk finishes all too soon, and we’d happily spend the entire evening in his presence. Alas, my companion and I leave as the chaotic book-signing begins – the crowd are baying for more and we decide to get out and continue the cocktails elsewhere – something we’re sure Mr Waters would not disapprove of. Its hard to imagine anyone else who could have turned this usually quiet cinema into a skid-row pride rally. There’s definitely something in the Waters.

Justin Clark