: all the latest news about Anthony...
|2007/06/09 15:42 - The heart is not uncharted|
Let me be snow again
let me come in someone else's hand
let my bones become apparent
let this puppy fat finally go to the dogs
I saw a field of Tuscan poppies
home to horses who never dreamt of you
so far from our west wales torpor
its rain bloated summers cruel
here and there
in my breast pocket too
seasons of dust that my fingers had harvested
to the patent in these wet leather shoes
here and there
You'll find a formula
a minute equation
mapping out a lifetime
between the old love
and the new
|2007/06/05 12:43 - The delicate ankles of Orson Welles (and why I loathe Geoff Emerick) |
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Current mood: full
Here's a quote from Geoff Emerick, most famously known as a colleague of The Beatles. Geoff is recording the Kaiser Chiefs, and they are covering 'Getting better' from Sgt pepper.
"listening to the guitars it really does remind me of the beatles".
Read it again.
Is it just me...?
Why does this fill me with such heavy loathing and a near incandescent despair? Why?
The article is in the Radio times, and one could put it down to a neccessary lazy journalisim but no. I heard a Radio 2 documentary of the rehash of Sgt Pepper last night and this Geoff fellow really does come across as a dreary old groat.
But there's something about this walking corpse uttering such a surrealy banal statement in regard to the counterfit human currency that are The K.Cheifs regurgitating this Beatles song that for me, sums up the something unspeakably wrong with some part of right now...
Sorry to be so oblique...I don't have time to write proper right now. But can someone tell me why this disturbs so?
'Sgt pepper' is my favourite Beatles album. I still have the vinyl my mother bought in 1967...I discovered it at 13 and along with a Motown compilation and Duran's 'Rio' it rocked my adolescent summer...its one of the few beatles albums that for me, works as an Album. (My other fave is err...'Best of the Beatles'. nah. I love revolver and Rubber soul too.)
Maybe that's something to do with it. Or maybe its the thought, perhaps a fantasy, of what The beatles were up against...how many studio engineers I've had to deal with, for instance who told me 'We can't do that'...'What? Why'? NO! ¬etc etc
I dunno. It just bugged me. Thought I'd mention it.
My no booze and no drugs policy is working. Second week where I don't touch a drop Sunday through Thursday. (Not that it's Compulsory that i drink on the weekend). And I've cut out the other stuff completely. The result has been some evenings of beatific ecstacy in my own company. I feel like my soul is getting a Windows update.
My one real night out was a perfect evening. I'm rediscovering cardiff and I revisited The Chapter arts centre...meeting up with the all round top chap and writer John Williams, my new chum Huw and Matthew Scott...(we're getting on again). Jolly nice. I bumped into someone I hadn't seen for 13 years too! And as if this friendly hot summer eve gathering weren't enough...we were actually there to see my first full length show by Robin Ince, who was filming a special in the Theatre. (I liked that venue. If I do play again then maybe there)?
A luxury to see him do his mojo proper, as I've only enjoyed what seemed like slivers in support of Gervais previously...again, I was struck by the musicality of his performance...nice to see he's bringing the accordian back to comedy too...(did it ever go away)!
Then into the broiling hell of nightlife cardiff where we found an oasis of civility at the back of the top of The Taurus restruant, where Matthew's brother works...
I had at last some proper time to get aquanted with Mr Ince. I'm sure we were boyhood co- founders of some obscure minor celebrities' fanclub in some distant, faraway alternative universe.
Eating dinner between 2 and 4am still seems decedant to me for some vague and no doubt catholic reason...and then into a morning of Seagulls and the walking dead...a hansom cab home and a righteous sleep...and no regurgitation. Except for this Sgt pepper aborration, of course...
Currently reading :
By Frank Brady
Release date: By 01 March, 1990
|2007/05/31 18:01 - Anthony Reynolds is unwell|
A week of extremes. I cut out alcohol last Sunday through Thursday. After a Saturday night out with Matthew where I felt as if we were the oldest swingers in town, I came to the next day with very sore ovaries. I assume this was kidney and liver. (Plant me a liver tree/and grow a pair for me/A right coupla peaches/Are livers like these/What a shame livers/Don't grow on trees)...
(From 'The Liver Tree' another unfinished song by A.R. Circa 2007).
So I thought I'd try a few days without the sauce and jolly nice it was to.
On that posioned Sunday my brother gave me a Nokia N80, as I lay recovering, and also the first three issues of 'Preacher' a graphic novel.
To think I used to be against Mobile phones! Ha! This beauty has rocked my world. I can take and upload pics and videos again...
(I'm still estranged from much of my belongings, including cameras and gizmos etc until I can raise the cash for yet another bleeding removal van)...
But anyway...So yeh...this little monster is bleedin' useful...(I can also listen to music again while I run...yes...yes..I do run. You think all this comes natrually)? Erch.
I'm sure I'm coming across as some pathetic luddite geeko Sadboy, but I've never been particularly excited by new gizmo's...or cars or bikes or fashion or sport or contemporary society or the given reality....and/or whatever...so all this technology is kinda alien to me...but its actually jolly useful...
So after a few days of realtive clear headedness I felt perhaps myself settling, at last, into Cardiff and my bachelor flat. Not boozing also meant I embraced solitude full on and I found myself able to listen to music again too, something that's been hard to do of late for some reason. probably the blues.
(It always disgruntled me when people said 'Oh when i'm down I listen to 'Rite of Spring' and it cheers me up no end)...Yeh, well when I'm down, I can't even put the bloody CD player on...
On friday I visited my brother, who lives in a shared house with some very amiable chaps and some lapdancers...(Complete with Pole, which I'm told is cleaned with Vodka). This is the first time I've ever done such a thing - met my bro' as a chum rather than a realtive and jolly nice it was too. We watched the final Star Wars movie (or was it the first??! I'm very confused by the order of episodes). I was a bit heavy I thought, compared with the simple pure pleasure of Star Wars and the other ones I saw as a sweet natured Sprog...but it was a new experience, watching a film with my bro' in his room.
Saturday my brother (again)! and I went to See Robin Ince at the CIA...Jolly Good but as I explained to Robin afterwards I was suprised to hear him do similiar material to the first time I saw him, at the same venue some months before. This is of course, a compliment...because Robin gives the impression of simply making his 'routine' appear as if he's making it up as he goes along. Its a very natrual and almost musical performance. (Hi Robin)!
We chatted briefly in the Vulcan afterward before all too soon, sir Ince had to leave for the heavy gravity stickiness of the Gervais' world wide spider web...
Whereupon I descended into an alcoholic inferno.
That's the problem, y'see, if you have a reputation as a serious drinker. People who you hang out with when one does yer heavy boozing hate to see you sober...and so a forest of complimentary drinks sprouted upon the table in front of me and I did nowt to cease or desist. I suppose I can't be suprised...Going to the greatest pub in the world (The Vulcan) and expecting to get out sober is plain daft.
Before long the night was nowt but blurry lights and singing, deep garbled conversations with strangers, deep throatinhg cigars and Tango dancing with one armed dwarves. (I think I may be...Gulp...Banned from the Pub too..surely some kind of achievement, y'know...Satan wise)?
Now, as with solitude I've recently decided to just embrace my newfound celibacy 100%, and as such I fully expect to die a Virgin...(I suspect that if one goes without for long enough one does indeed become a virgin again)... which I feel is a kind of mutual decision between me and womenkind - on their part).
And yet I do get...I suppose, 'chatted up' but its always at a point where I'm so far gone that I can't possibly engage in such conversations and rituals...I'm talking about speaking coherently ..as was the case again on Saturday...a shame in this case, as the divine creature was straight out of a Robert Crumb Sketchbook, pretty as the first star of evening, a horse lover and as bright as Stephen Hawking on fire...damn my booze gene...
So Sunday was a new kind of Hangover...totally different to last weeks. This one was all about a kind of very methodical vomiting, every forty five minutes or so, from 9am until 8pm. By 6pm I'd gotten almost used to it (usually Puking seems so horribly unatrual, a violation)...and I felt well enough to watch 'The Prestige'. What was weird was pausing the film every time I threw up..('Oh, here's David Bowie...I want to see this bit....BLEUARGHHHEUCH...oH ...gOD..aERUCH..OCHHH'..Ahh. that's better...back to the film').
I enjoyed the movie. The story was daft but it looked beautiful, was atmospheric and had a wonderous cast.
Another good thing about my alcohol posioning was that because even sticking out my little finger made me feel like death, I couldn't get any food...or could have kept it down if I had...So I went the whole day without Grub. As such today I feel purged. I don't even feel hungry...maybe I can use this and get down to 200 pounds again...
Have been working on a few songs but to be honest, the idea of trying to find a deal for another project is so off putting and tiring that its hard to get excited about songwriting. My Deal with Spinney expires on the release of 'British Ballads' and I could be without a deal for the first time Since 1995 by the end of the year. have I made too much music I wonder...? Already? I think of Fred Neill and his Dolphin farm and I'm envious.
I'd like to write more books but with the Walker Biog still stuck in limbo this is as hard as making another record. (For this reason I couldn't bring myself to watch the Scott Walker Documentary on BBC1 this week...the subject is too painful when I think of all that hard work just sat on a hard drive...Boo Hoo)...
This asides I feel quite chipper, in a grim cold way.
I seem to have escaped this bank holiday too, somehow. I truly loathe bank holidays. One Sunday is great but two in a row is unholy.
Currently listening :
Cansei de Ser Sexy
Release date: By 11 July, 2006
9:13 AM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment
Yup, I think you got about 7 Jack Daniels in the 30 minutes I was in the Vulcan, it is both a burden and a financial boon I suppose
Posted by Robin Ince on Monday, May 28, 2007 at 11:02 AM
[Reply to this]
it seems things are quite different than the last time I saw you !
The same could be said for me, I suppose ...
Bachelor pad in Cardiff, quite interesting, the whole circle going 'round thing.
I'll be in Madrid in a few months, maybe we can meet up ... ha
Posted by Polymath on Tuesday, May 29, 2007 at 2:22 PM
[Reply to this]
Take it easy !
Posted by John on Wednesday, May 30, 2007 at 6:17 AM
[Reply to this]
|2007/05/18 13:18 - Wondering Mourning dew|
Friday, May 18, 2007
Wondering mourning dew
Current mood: calm
Category: Travel and Places
He was told that the steps he now walked to the apartment were once walked by Roman Centurions. Could this be true?..
He certainly had enough time to consider this as his borrowed room was at the very top of the huge and ancient building.
Once ensconced he had the feeling of being aboard a giant flying galleon. The room was romantic and nautical, curving blue and white wooden beams, portholes, aptly overlooking the port.
Two cats arrived and settled in his suitcase. Grey and mystical, and clearly close friends, they were the cats of a ship upon dry land.
His host, Ceasre, was a man both of vision and action - a rare combination in the early years of the 21st centaury.
Blessed with an unaffected baritone and a natural genius for living, Ceasre was well read, sensitive, thoughtful and poetic. He was immensely proud of his city and walked it like a general with his hands behind his back, pointing out places of historical and aeshetic interest. It was obvious from Ceasre's litany that this port was both the birthplace and hub of modern civilization. He also honked his car horn when passing pretty senoritas. In short, a true man.
There was an unprecedented absence of strings in the studio. Instead, he found at his disposal oboes, clarinets, a double bass and saxophones both baritone and tenor.
Their languid tones and textures, fresh to his arranger's ears, curled like wood smoke and toasted his heart sweetly. Arrangements came from air and quickly transfigured themselves to the hard drive.
The songs - Ceasre's 'Opening night', Billy Mackenzie's 'Beyond the sun' and his own 'Live on' got up and walked on baroque and ornate legs, aided and abetted by Ceasare's raggedy funky gang. A guitarist/exorcist, a cherubic Horn player, and a beautiful Jazz enamoured bassist... The pianist was a drunken gypsy with the heart of Toscanini. So engaged was he by the work that he hardly felt the usual need to drink while working. All in all it was a splendid arrangement.
The speakeasy was just that. A 30's club in an ancient city. Cigarette smoking was not allowed but joints were. At 3am, in the back room, high on local produce and sweating inside his Paul Smith shirt and jacket, you would have found him playing the drums like the 19 year old he once was. He was allowed 2 hours sleep that night before making for home.
The journey took a sudden and savage detour and he found himself in an unplanned hotel room far from anywhere. Holding a bottle of water and sat heavily on the edge of the bed he felt a breathtaking aloneness, the culmination of years of travelling without companionship. It was exhausting, this solitude in transit. He missed everyone.
He tried to sleep knowing that no one was waiting for him at home.
Somewhere the sun was always raising a vine and the . One and one equalled three. The Mediterranean roared beneath a Cliffside cafe.
Deep in their cellars the yeasts and sugars of even the oldest bottles of wine were already somehow reacting to the oncoming spring.
Currently reading :
If This Is a Man and The Truce
By Primo Levi
Release date: By 01 January, 1991
|2007/04/28 16:45 - A DAY IN THE LIFE|
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Current mood: sleepy
Awoken by Victorian sounding children outside the window of my sordid griefhole..'Ere, lets 'ide 'ere'..'naw, oveah dare'..'ere 'ecomes' 'jump 'im'...etc
at 5-fucking 30?
Whats up with kids these days?
Went to dentist. Had filling. Dentist argued with cute assistant mid Op : 'hand me impliment like THIS or I have to TURN it in my HAND' mid filling.
Surreal. I thought she was gonna blub. It was like I'd dissapeared.
(I used to flick my tounge up in the hope of catching the needle cos I liked it. Now Im weak and old and just whimper and go soggy. Though This may be to do with cost more than anything).
Outide and poorer In the bright sunlight I thought..'Left or right'?
Went right, toward my folks.
We went for lunch and I ate too much pizza and drank very platable house wine.
Staggered back to grief hole. 2-35. A possibilty to meet a chum at the Vulcan.
His phone is out of order though so its nixed.
At present Im nesting in my bedroom. Books blocking the sunlight. Its dark and cool and hard to tell what day or time it is.
I drink the cheapest vodka Ive ever bought (Tesco's own) mixed with ice and bluberry and cranberry juice.
I read books and watch Dick Cavett interviews. (Bob mitchum is my fave so far).
occasionally I look toward the spines of the books and muse upon the recent and massive mistake I've made...perhaps the biggest mistake of my life.
If I close my eyes I can quite clearly hear the sound of rainforests being trashed inside me, lakes being drained, cities burning.
Currently watching :
The Dick Cavett Show - Hollywood Greats
Release date: By 12 September, 2006
|2007/04/23 15:42 - death of a familiar (For G, M, Anna, Sweep and Bibi)|
You started going wrong on Saturday night
Just the Friday before you had run along the garden with us and the other cats
At 19 you were the oldest and the only female
A kind of lady among the lads
Full of contempt for the tabby
Saturday I heard your first strange calling
I went down Low
Almost on my belly
Along the wet backyard
Saw you trapped
In the garden next to ours
I went and knocked on our neighbours door
Planted you affectionately
In our home
But you kept returning
Drifting toward their house
To find yourself lost and abroad on their lawn
We brought you in that night
And you seemed to stay put
Hardly drinking though
Your appetite subdued
At least you managed to swipe the tabby spitefully
(How could we know then it would be the last time)?
That night I dreamt
in the garden again
I was feeding your skin to the other cats
The way we peeled and fed you the fried skin of cooked chicken
We awake that Sunday
And though we recovered you from next door first thing
In some sense you were leaving us
your eyes darkening
And when laying down you assumed a pose of the dead
Or was it perfectly focussed
Beyond the weather
The hedges and birds
The air and the afternoon
Repeatedly we brought you home
Your body suddenly a sack of splinters and cords in my arms
You smelt odd too
Wherever we sat you you could not seem to settle
All your usual places
The spare bed
The sunny patch of carpet by the French doors
And your favourite – the pillows of our bed
The pillow cases there having to be washed twice a week
(Still weaved with your fur
As they hung drying on the line)
None of these would do
Summoning your energy and with visible will
You made again and again for the taped - up catflap
Insanely scratching for as long as you could manage
And then you'd fall exhausted
Your head seeming suddenly super heavy
Bowed far too low upon your sinewy paws
After listening to your mad desperate awful efforts from our bed
And let you go through the night
Though it may as well have been morning to you
We left on the backyard light
The atmosphere weird
I could not sleep properly
I imagined your life as a kitten and as a young cat
Had you ever swam?
Had you ever had sex?
When and where did you kill your first bird
We awoke to the sound of pounding rain
Early English August morning
Not yet light
Then night unnatural and weird
Flooding our yard
Yellow and sickly
You next door out of reach
I saw you in my mind
Pounded by the rain
To wet black sludge upon the grass
I recovered you from the neighbour's front steps
You were beyond wet
Reduced and sodden
As if the water had simultaneously melted and invaded you
Yet you still mewled when I gathered you up
(You always hated being picked up and you had a defiant crow like squawk
Part spoilt child
Part indignant queen)
We tried to dry you
But it was as if the water had gotten into your blood
You refused food and drink
Your head too big for your body
The neighbour had sympathised and said
This odd remark
'They don't really die'
He explained that cats could go on and endure and endure
No matter how ill or suffering
I see now what he meant
later that Sunday evening
We had taken from our house a small balloon filled with helium
It had been a gift earlier that week
from my significant other's workmates
And we'd ignored it pretty much
Letting it float around the front room
Awaiting it cue
That Sunday evening
Hours before the rain
I was compelled by the urge to
Let this balloon loose
Into the summer sky
So we stood on the terrace and let it go
It drifted up pretty straight
There was little breeze
We watched it until
It almost disappeared
Before it did so
We walked back into the house
Looking back on this now
I think this was the moment we decided to have you killed
We took you to the vet on Monday
|2007/04/19 17:41 - Blind Minotaur Paintings|
The blind Minotaur is being led along the shore
by a girl holding a dove
It is night
Nocturnal fishermen watch from their boat
On the beach
A young sailor stares
A blind Minotaur
With his cane
Being led by a young girl with her dove
The night sky is black but for twelve stars
Moon Light across the water
Along the sand
The blind Minotaur
Grips a staff in his left hand
Rests his right hand on the shoulder of the girl
The girl holds a dove in her left hand
Leading the Blind Minotaur on
Through the night
The Blind Minotaur is silently screaming
Howling at an unseen moon
A moon that even Picasso
Dare not paint
|2007/04/04 13:11 - |
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
My Lost Laugharne Weekend
Current mood: quixotic
Category: Jobs, Work, Careers
Well, I pulled it off. Or we pulled it off. 'Cos at more or less the last minute I asked the poet Christopher Brooke to join me in my 'Alcoholic afternoon' one man show at the Laugharne weekend festival...:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
I had mixed feelings about doing a show that would have left me... naked. I chose to do it without a guitar, piano or even singing. To be realistic, I had doubts as to who would turn up if I was billed in a musical capacity. A harsh call on myself, maybe but a true one nonetheless. This asides, ultimately, the plan was to see if I could do it with no plan and no preperation asides from the art of self medication.
I wanted to frighten myself...To test myself.
And, in a small back room of (appropriately enough) Dylan Thomas' 'second favourite' pub, The Cross house, I (we - Brooke, me and the audience) did it.
I was awake from 2am on that Saturday. Someone tell me what's sadder than cooking a fried egg sandwhich on your own at 3am.
The dawn came mercifully quickly though and it was a beautiful one here in Cardiff. Partly shaved and fully bathed, in a Black Dior shirt and Jacket, Italian designer flared jeans, my authentic Texas cowboy boots, scent of Issey miyake and my trusty old YSL belt....the morning took fine shape and saw me boshing it by five to ten prior to the cab to Cardiff station.
As regular readers will know, one of my favourite things in life is getting slowly munted on a train journey in good company, and sadly, surely, for most of you this one of life's more unknown pleasures.
The art of such self medication is to do with pace, balance of chemicals and direction of energy. Iggy used to do gigs on acid and the energy of preforming would more or less cancel the effect of the LSD or, more accuaretly, combine to create a third energy. At least for the duration of the gig. This is why self medication in solitude is usually - not always - such a one way street.
But the saturday was sunny, the scenery beautiful and Brooke a well read and articulate fellow. The Chivas flowed, the chems did their work and all was right in our world.
Such a day comes back to you in retrospect gradually, the sights and sounds filtering through to your consciounesss in the days that follow. One relives it through the aftermath. At the very time of happenstance, you are too in and of the moment for introspection and thus throughout most of last saturday I felt free as a fleshy ghost, moving through your mortal material world.
I still can't recall the details of the actual 'happening' and I asked Chris not to film it. But what would be interesting is a transcript. Oh why can't I afford a full time assistant for such things. Oh right, that's why.
The people there suprisingly were warm, intelligent and open minded. Indulgent. Receptive. I expected some sort of aggro, but no, nothing. The large rheumy eyed locals that I had expected to heckle or whatever suprised my posioned heart by getting to their feet and reciting some poetry at the end. I was moved.
Chris went on first, I think. And read from 'And the concept of zero', his first and fine poetry book. I had been talking to either a middle aged lady or a middle aged couple, I can't remember...but I know we talked of hurt and intimacy. Seperation and loss. Healing and tommorrows.
Rather touchingly, the lady told me 'Oh I'm sure you don't have trouble with the ladies'...
I instantly felt like Leonard Cohen complaining righteously and bitterly of his 'Ladie's man' tag when having spent the last thousand nights alone...(It's a poem in his wonderful recent 'Book of Longing')...
...back at the back room, following another diversion to the bar...(What I Like about these kind of days is that having a drink is no longer any kind of issue, its just there, like an organic appendage to one's arm)...where I talked about Veganisim with a Shepard...I ended up back at the venue at the head of the class...and what I spoke of, I cannot tell you. I remember my line 'And that's why there are no Polar bears in Queen Street'. I remember feeling like a school teacher. I think the audience were sat at desks...I invited a Jolly middle aged fellow called Phil to join me...perhaps I spoke of George Bush and how the Government ran him and not the other way 'round...I spoke of...Oh I don't know...many things. But it felt good and unlike any kind of violation. I think that the prescence of Middle aged ladies, with whom I had in some way bonded with over Al Pacino earlier, helped me refrain from Cursing and also from sharing my second thought on seeing the recent photo of world's tallest man with his wife...
Once the thing had ended, I continued to chat to some of the younger folk about Seaumus Heaney and why Animals should have at least equal rights...and then I sat with a charming 'Transgender' from Poland and his lesbian partner....we bonded, me too being a lesbian...
By 8ish...(The 'event' began at 3 something....) I made the casual aquaintance of a very attractive young lady...and this is where it's falling down for me in this department....I am habitually so munted that after 2o mins of conversation all I can quite say is 'Sorry love...what did you say your name was'...every 7 minutes and /or ramble surreally.
This raises two realisations : I think I get habitually fucked to make other people appear more interesting and that given the choice....and i think this is something Johnny Thunders felt...given the choice of female company or partying hard, I'd rather party. That is, though if they had to be mutually exclusive and they don't, right? Occasionaly at such times, ripped to the gills after 12 hours of straight imbibing I do find myself fantasising...that I am Tom Waits circa 1980 and I finally meet Kathleen, who takes the cigar from my mouth, puts it out in my Octoganal Scotch and tells me to stop fucking about....who shows me a life worth saving. But it ain't happening lately, bub.
So anyway. What of the rest of the night? I remember the distant vision of Howard Marks boring me in his nicely laundered white shirt....more pubs... the clientele thinning out....insulting a middle aged lady from across the street at midnight....(certainly not the same one from earlier)...becoming maudlin to anyone who'll listen...(These things go in phases) and then somehow, I know not how, getting back to the Travel Lodge with the unflappable Brooke.
Chris left early next morn but we had another night booked, so I foolishly took the 10am bus into Laugharne...this may have been a mistake...I was feeling sweatier and more the hurting kind by the hour..unhelped to find out that the next bus wasn't until quarter to six!
I decided to kick in and make the effort....how often would I be here? And no one was waiting for me at home.
I browsed the book shop and on bending down to the lower shelf felt as if I were about to pass out.
Clenching my fists, digging my nails into my palm and taking tremendous gulps of stale air, I managed to buy Ted Hughes' 'Tales from Ovid' and a wonderful photo book, 'Picasso paints a portrait' which shows, in sequence, just that. But by now I had entered the realm of the unwell. The sunny pubs and bars full of happy shining people disgusted me and I had to avoid folk at all costs.
So I took to hiking to the Dylan Thomas' buildings, his house and shed or whatever...when I saw people approaching me along the path I had to fight the urge to make for the undergrowth like some sickly Troll.
Happy couples were the worst of course. Particularly as it struck me that the last time I was here was in 1991, on a break with my first True Love. (The person who inspired 'Pioneer Soundtracks').
Feet, heart and head pounding past the chalet where we stayed, once impossibly young and pure, I felt grief and horror coming on in waves...and I still had many rivers to cross and hours before the next bus.
I hid out on a green slope by some castle, struggled with 'Ovid' and gave up, temples and feet throbbing with pain. Ants were crawling over me and children were killing me with their happy sqealing nearby...was there no where I could rest? Bundling up my meagre possesions I scurried for the shadows...whimpering soundlessley...by now lacking all essential vitamins, sneezing blood and sweating Scotch....I seeked sancutary.
Laugharne is so tiny its hard to become invisible...every path I took brought me to a Sunday picnic...giggling lovers, happy campers.
I took flight lest they lay their eyes upon one as Godless as I. Taking my breath behind some nameless piece of rock, my heart almost came out of my bone dry mouth when across the road I spied some of the people I'd been talking bollocks with last night. I looked into my reflection in the stream between us. The hair on my head had fallen off, probably back when I was struggling with 'Ovid'. My eyes were red as cranberries behind fogged glasses. The glands near what was once my jaw were puffed up and swollen with toxins. In horror I brought my hands up to my face. I almost expected the palms to be matted with fur. I touched my football shaped head. I resembled some sort of posioned puffa fish on legs. No mortal must see me like this!
Sheilding my face from the sun and passers by with a raised and sweat drenched arm, I made finally for the woods. fearing pursuit I weaved across roads and playgrounds, staying close to the ground. I loped across turf and paving, moving like some thwarted beast in Quarry. In fact, I was almost moving on all fours by the time I reached the woodland behind the human's dwellings.
Rooks and crows went crazy in the high trees above me as I sat on the cold earth. At least here I was safe from the townsfolk. The animals would take me as their own. I sat there with so much time on my hands I realised at last why had God created the universe and everything in it in the first place.
Through gaps in the trees I could see the estuary, with humans milling about in the their queer and weird alien pickerninniny fashion.
I realised I had left that realm now, possibly for the last time.
I looked above at the nests of the inky black birds. I looked at the human folk far off. And then, stripping my clothes till I was naked, I got on my knees and began to dig into the soft damp earth.
|2007/04/04 13:11 - Meet he Fuckers|
Maria came to stay which was all good. feels like visitors visiting from a distant colony called earth.
Having warm, sensitive, intellegent people to stay is good for my soul but always brings back to me how exhausting I find any kind of company. I s'pose I've become extremely indulgent. Somewhere inside me sam beckett is fighting Paris hilton for dominance.
We all did wonderful llangollen again. A special place with an ancient atmosphere that will ever call me back, even when I'm gone from this place.
I sometimes wonder if I form a relationship with a place just to haunt it at a later date.
Have been thinking about another life, part of me still wants to live above a bagel shop in New York. I spoke to someone I'll be working with on the phone last night; They have been living at the Chelsea hotel for the last year and a half.
between the micro pauses in conversation I could hear sirens and the like from New york. could I ever live such a city life again?
Do we ultimately have a choice in these matters?
Where's the money?
My Walker brothers Biography is exactly a week late...am grinding to finish it; or the frst draft at any rate. I want it beind me now.
Writing songs again; one is coming along like a dew lapse photography statue; 'Swan'.
My Beck Vinyl arrived yesterday; Guerro. What a perfect pop record. A Lo-fi sensibility with a Hi fi budget. the bass drum on the first three tunes is sooo perfect. 'Neu york' would have sounded like this if i'd had more than 2 grand to make it on.
Watched 'Testement d'Orphee' again. magical and better than the last time I saw it at The brixton Ritzy almost 10 years ago. My fave scene; When J Cocteau is transformed into modern dress and walks into the dusk through the Lab doors in slow mo - Dogs are barking. My fave scene from any film ever.
Speaking of ten years ago, a chap making a Scott Walker film has been in touch and mentioned peter Walsh...
It was exactly ten years ago that Peter finished production on Jack's 'Pioneer Soundtracks'.
this summer, 1995.
I fear this record has been largely lostsince but am sure it will be rediscovered again in my lifetime.
the people putting out 'British Ballads' and I have been talking about putting out a 'Anniversery' edition of my debut next year.
Watched 'meet the fokkers' last night with A and sank 3 bottles of Sauviogn Blanc. A lovely film that hit the spot.
I spent all day saying 'lets watch meet the fuckers' and thinking it was hilarious.
but when I went into blockbusters to hire it and the smirking girl said 'meet the fuckers is it'? I thought; jesus, what a peurile Joke.
|2007/04/04 13:11 - |
|DIAL 'F' FOR ART|
Oh, and as a postscript to the sorry Scott walker pop art farce, Kirk lake wrote me:
"that painting is by peter marsh - not philip - he did hundreds of them - dylan, lennon, hendrix, they were screenprints done after photos in the 1970s passed off as vintage posters and then he woould ocassionally paint over the screenprint so it looked like a painting - somebody gave me a john lee hooker one - i sold itt on ebay for about £10 - horrible thing" -
|2007/04/04 13:11 - |
i forgot to mention.
This is my current favourite magazine. its STUPENDOUS:
And I have also invented a cocktail.
its called 'A TONYTOWN'.
(ie, when you order it, you would have to say; Can i have a a Tonytown, please'). But as you're unlikely to be in my kitchen, you're unlikely to order it.
You will Need:
One bottle of Vodka. or two. one two go in the freezer for 24hr and one to drink while you wait.
if you're poor, try a good cheap brand like tesco's finest at £8.49. Dont buy anything russian sounding for under a tenner-you'll go blind and get spots on the whites of your eyes.
if you got dosh, kristal and all that.
Then a jug-pir half full of almost frozen vodka. then two cut lemons. Then a chunk of fist sized ice. THEn-TWO ttpes of grapefruit juice. the regular and the gold. (Bllod).
Top up the jug and shake.
Welcome to Tonytown. A.
|2007/04/04 13:11 - |
I finished the book last Tuesday. I'm sure there's further work to do but the first draft, the bulk, is I hope, complete.
I've been asked so many times that I shall get around to writing a 'Why and how I wrote a biography of The Walker brothers' piece for this sites 'Writings' section some day soon.
My brain feels as if in a state of meltdown and looking at a PC screen makes me feel headsick.
Finishing it was odd. Its a mutual haunting.
I was into my robe at 4am on Sunday morning because I was convinced in my dream state that Maurice king was rustling through our dustbins.
Oh, such irony.
This asides, I finally finished, or I mean, finally got and then finished, George Plimton's 'Shadowbox'.
A consumately beautiful book. What a charmer.
Made me think that I gave up my boxing career too soon. (I didnt like getting hit in the face).
Am now reading kevin Booths book on buddy Bill hicks.
Anything Hickswise is engaging but its terribly edited.
money is a monster that offends me and the making of brituish Ballads. I'll be doing the vocals in october and have no idea as to how i will finance this trip.
Talk of re releaseing 'Pioneer Soundtracks' next year.
Should be a busy one.
Many other seismic changes, forever.
May indulge in music now.
|2007/04/04 13:11 - A history of Holes|
...I am waiting...waiting...hanging on...hanging in..but not hanging! (from Rafters or underpass girders). So. Each moment is calling me, its true...Patience is its own reward, oh yes...
Spent a splendid weekend with Len as visitor. Lots of bookshops, Spliff, films and White wine.
I don't 'Smoke' often but its pleasant on the rare occasions I do...much less of a one way street that the Narcs I'm used to..(None since february, actually)...
I fell off the diet into the land of Curry tho'...
I is as fat as De Elephant corpse dat float bloated down de congo....
Watched some incredible Outakes from the Elvis films 'On tour' and 'thats the Way'...
Amazing-some of the scenes straight out of a Kubrick Movie.
revisited 'Slither'...what a joyful movie...not even out on DVD! The shame of it...
What I love about this movie is the detail; When James Caan asks for pen he gets a pencil...
His ability to seem eternally disgusted...
The Quincy Jones (crudely edited) Soundtrack...
And whats its genre? thriller comedy I guess.
I'd buy the movie poster but its truly ungood. Maybe theres a cool turkish one out there...
I also recorded Len...a song I forgot to ask the title of..I thought it were great; had him singing in a Johnny Cash voice rather than the usual Cat Stevens...and I was gonna include it here be he's asked me not too, as he thinks it doesnt do him Justice...
It's a fine line between Tom Waits' sounding scrappiness and scrappiness I guess.
As for myself, I've been feeling utterly uninspired musically. I forced out a few instrumentals which are soundtracking the latest Galleries...(See the link below right)...but I feel utterly out of touch with my songwriting.
Understandable I suppose, what with British Ballads being 75% done...I really want that in the can. Supposed to be there 3 weeks from now.
Finally received Sylvian's new album; 'Snow Bourne Sorrow' Via Opium...It is a creeper...winding round my legs and upto my rusty heart...'A history of Holes' is a favourite already...when he sings 'When I was a boy'..Oh Boy.
A lot of you girls out there were little boys too, somehow, am I right? No one hurts like a hurt son. (Discuss).
I also got Sylvian's answers back to the questions I sent him...an interview that will appear as part of a pice nearer the release of his album. I wanted it to be..well, its different 'cos I am. I'd never ask 'Any plans to tour' and such..not me..so..this will appear soon..and will be well worth it. I wanted a sense of minds meeting on the page and I think I got it..
I feel a wanderlust, an eely feeling in my boots...if anyone wants to hire me as a Male Escort for a few days, get in touch. Darn it, if it was good enough for Rupe Everett it be good enough for me. More exotic the location, the more open minded I'll be. I know how to work for my bed and breakfast!! Hey...Up!!
Can't settle on anything reading wise. Am floating through a Tenesee Williams memoir but..amusing as it is..apart from 'night of the iguana' I dont know much about him...
Re-reading some critical writings on ted hughes..a book on boxing 'Fat City'..but am really waiting for a book on a guywho lived alone with a raven in the maine forest.Thats where my head is man...
In fact, I did record a song recently..this week. But its rubbish. Its also called 'Birdman'.
here it is; better or worse;
Theres a lot of maleness about this entry.
Which is lovely and righteous..
but heres something to balance it out..
Alrighty. I'm off to work on my upper arms.
What are YOU doing?
|2007/04/04 13:11 - |
|..finished 'Lunar Park'...last night. Oddly, it overlapped with the Alan bennet South Bank show that I so wanted to see...it was like following a great Curry with a (Veggie) Roast...two worlds colliding.|
but Ellis' book reminded me of a conceit I came up with years ago.
I was boating in Arundel with Anna and as is my wont I began imagining the shock of seeing dinasours rising out of the surrounding woods. And then I saw dogs and horses. ANd then I thought-if this were a dinasour park, it wouldn't be so shocking...
So then I considered that most horror movies werent shocking, because they were sold as such and therefore you werent surprised. So what you'd need to do, is be seeing a film you really did think was about people taking picnincs-ala a 'Midsummernightssexcomedy' and then-BOSH! Out comes a diplodocus and chews ia farrows' Noggin off...
butbthen word would get around and..it'd be no shock-people would wait in heightened expectation and CHEER..as Mia wriggled..
But what Ellis has done in Lunar Park is..lace a conceit with the truth. One you've swallowed the memoir bit-so believeable, THEN upon that 'fact' he superimposed Carnivourous terbies..
So it really is shocking.
Y'know, I couldnt read a stephen king book beyond the age of 17..As much as I enjoyed them then I felt since that I couldnt afford such a holiday of the mind...
But yeh...Lunar Park is the closest I'll get to 'being gripped'. I admire this new form although it seemed undigested in parts..it also read like a movie treatment, which it is as well, I guess...
It ends on a sad, melancholic chord, so it seemed to me-the abscence of children.
|2007/04/04 13:11 - This is not an Exit|
|..and so ends my recent strange fascination.|
The Bret Easton Ellis reading/Q and A at Manchester was a ...flesh wound of a dissapointment. Although BEE bounded on as impressively bulky and substantial, a real prescence...the whole episode was flippant, rushed, and ...trite. Amusing, still. the whole thing lasted barely an hour-I didnt stay for the signing. My question was batted into the bushes bordering embaressment everglade, just south of humilation house. But I got off lightly-other poor geeks chomped crow for all to see...
Walked Manchester from 2pm on...utterly fucked me. Most of the grimy second hand bookshops I'd haunted a year ago, around the cruddy part of Manchester-as you go right leaving piccadily-they've gone. City life jangles my nerves...I had to fight the urge to down a margeritta at the first oncoming of temple pounding...
Still, picked up the collected Charles burns 'Black hole' series. Will attempt to read in one go;
|2007/04/04 13:11 - Set sail on Snow...|
|...off to London first thing-A place I once lived in. I always get drunk the night before travelling. Smell of red peppers on my hands.|
Downstairs goat cheese grills on asparagus. The Scotch glass full to brim.
Just finished 'Black Hole' by Charles Burns.
A true, true artist this man is. A wonderful, moving work. made me remember the acrid joy of sad adolescence.
the last picture show.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13
|2007/04/04 13:11 - Running down that hill|
Returned home from a week in London last Saturday.
Have only now readjusted and recovered.
I will write up the account; 'recording british Ballads Part deux' for 'writings' soon.
But, it was rejuvinating in many ways and devestating financially. Not a bad balance.
My kidney's hurt on waking every day, and I'm putting that down to the sleep medication I take when away.
So what am I doing here?
Well, yesterday was magical. We drove to
To see these beautiful wild birds eat. A very moving almost religious experience.
It stays with me still.
Although even Rural Wales I find depressing, as beautiful as it is.
What else. I am chasing people regarding the extras for the re release of Pioneer Soundtracks.
A neccessary bore.
I am watching movies..although-ha-cant remember any off hand. Thatd be the wine, maybe.
But am reading Bogdanovich's 'Who the devil made it'
Which is wonderful wonderful wonderful...!
Tidying up, thinking about writying songs but mainly waiting for people to get back to me which is boring.
isnt chasing people up soemthing one does in ones twenties?
But anyway, yes, The recording of britisH Ballads went excellently...
Sheit, I'd forgotten how talented I am.
But more of that soon.