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.