Marmaduke's Musings

Best of 2011

2012-01-11T18:12:00.001Z

It seems like a lifetime ago that there was a thing called 2011. However, I've only just gotten around to sorting out a list I've been compiling over the last year of my favourite musical discoveries. Some are new releases for 2011, some are new discoveries for me, and some are cherished rediscoveries. It's all a bit electronic and very pop, I grant you, but it was just that kind of year I'm afraid. Plenty of lonely nights out on crowded dancefloors, you understand. Enjoy, if possible, and thanks to all that introduced me to anything on the list.

Click the below youtube player and it should play the whole playlist one after another, or see the list of individual tracks further down.

1. Flight Facilities - Crave you Feat. Giselle
2. Totally Enormous Extinct Dinosaurs - Garden
3. Architecture In Helsinki - That Beep
4. Yellow Magic Orchestra - Taiso
5. Blood Orange - Sutphin Boulevard
6. Friendly Fires - Hurting
7. Bombay Bicycle Club - Shuffle (Leo Zero Remix)
8. Suicide - Cheree
9. Magistrates - Make This Work
10. Fool's Gold - Street Clothes
11. Metronomy - The Bay
12. M83 - We Own the Sky
13. Destroyer - Savage Night at the Opera
14. Scott Walker - Rawhide
15. James Blake - The Wilhelm Scream
16. Totally Enormous Extinct Dinosaurs - Trouble
17. Janis Ian - Stars
18. The Weeknd - The Morning

Takamine Acoustic Guitar EN10C

2011-12-09T15:13:00.004Z

Takamine Acoustic Guitar EN10C for sale - Starting at £300 / Buy it now £350

Bought new in 2000 for £900, this guitar has been a true reliable work horse and has seen many a gig over the years. I'm finally selling it as I'm looking for a different sound now. It is worn as you can tell from the photos, but not to the detriment of its lovely warm tone that has noticeably matured over the years.

A great all round acoustic, perfect if you're a strummer or more into picking or lead as there is a cutaway so you can access the higher frets. None of the strings buzz on any of the frets. The preamp is in excellent condition, giving a good clear sound when DI'd. Researching prices of the EN10s, it seems the mint conditions go for £500 and those with marks go for £400. Would prefer collection, and am based in London, but can post for £25. The guitar comes with the original hard case. This would make a great Christmas present for any budding or seasoned player.

You can hear it on many of the recordings and see it in live videos linked to on my site here: http://www.marmadukedando.com/

See all the photos below.

You can bid on this item here:
http://cgi.ebay.co.uk/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=190613261860

Revelations: Anton Shelupanov

2011-12-09T14:46:00.000Z

The latest Revelation I bring you is an interview with Anton Shelupanov: prison reformer, boxer and lead singer of death blues band, Bleak. We talk about prison systems around the world, hyper incarceration, the war on drugs, and why blues is still a relevant modern genre. Also in this interview the main songwriter of Bleak, Yvonne Okoduwa, speaks out about life in Bleak.

Revelations: Anton Shelupanov by Marmaduke Dando

For more information on Bleak follow this link:
http://www.lineoutrecords.com/releases/bleak-for-the-good-of-the-nation/

Revelations: Vinay Gupta

2011-09-30T17:01:00.005+01:00

It has long been an ambition of mine to create a series of audio podcasts, in which I interview the various intriguing characters I happen to come across. The name of this series is to be called Revelations with Marmaduke Dando. After a few false starts, I finally have a Revelation in a format I am happy with.

Below you will be able to stream or download the first podcast, fresh off the Revelation press. Listen to me interrogate my first guest, Vinay Gupta, and hear my brain slowly ticking over as it tries to grasp the difference between what is being said and what is being implied...

Revelations: Vinay Gupta by Marmaduke Dando

I do hope you enjoyed that. The trader interview that was referred to in the interview can be found here. If you'd like to find out more about Vinay, you should visit him here, http://vinay.howtolivewiki.com/blog/about
and follow him on Twitter: leashless.

The Sediment of Society

2011-09-07T17:34:00.000+01:00

We made a short video to accompany the woozy piano lead, Bukowski inspired, drinking song, "The Last Drink", the other day, all stitched up and directed by Andrew Clarke. Many thanks to him for his patience. It was shot on good ship Minnow, where I reside, and features the rather brilliant Sonia Gurdjieff on the ivories. Take a look below.

Coming home

2011-08-25T15:18:00.002+01:00

Uncivilisation festival this year was held in the countryside just outside of Petersfield in Hampshire. Taking the train down from London with my band mates, gave me a sense of nostalgia for where I grew up. This was the same route I would take to visit Portsmouth, when I still had family living there. From the station, the band and I bundled into a taxi and sped off to the festival site to make our soundcheck.

As we passed through the fields and woods of the Meon Valley, I let out a "well I'll be damned" grunt to myself. It was really quite pretty round these parts, and it brought back all the memories of the walks my parents used to take me on. I hated being taken along on the walking group we were a part of. All I wanted to do at ten years of age was to play on my GameBoy or watch television all day long.

The greatest pleasure I could take whilst on those walks was to find a walking stick, then promptly try to trip up my poor mother with it. That memory still makes me chuckle even now. To think though, that I had no interest in any of the natural world as a kid. I would stretch out in meadows as we had lunch somewhere, like some impish druid, mud splattered, grass stains up my trousers, a streak of dirt across my forehead. But I was not revelling in it like I would now. Now I would be like some overzealous student of DH Lawrence, thrusting my hands into the slime of the earth with purpose, to gain pagan credentials, or some such nonsense. As a kid, I was just making the best out of a bad situation. I guess that's just what kids do.

As we pulled in to The Sustainability Centre, the sun was low, and the site was calm except for the Feral Choir singing their lungs out somewhere off in the woods. I was very excited to be there. Having followed the Dark Mountain from its beginning, it had been a firm friend to me in my own personal journey, influencing and reaffirming over these few years. I had written a number of protest songs, which was my own way of contributing to a counter narrative. These included "If This Is Civilisation", "Give Me Detumescence", and my most recent "Infinite Squalor" that was to be debuted at this festival.

Primed with a healthy dose of sloe vodka and some local ale, we got to it, rattling them off to what was essentially a crowd of anarchists. I've no idea how we went down, it was just a pleasure to be there and a part of it all. There was a firm feeling of jubilation around the campfires that night, as if we were all there for a debriefing on a very important mission.

Saturday morning, that debriefing began, with talks on collapse, talks on the relevance of the Luddites today, a lesson on how to make alcohol from just about anything, entitled “Prison Booze”, and much more. However, much of that was eclipsed for me by a deeply humbling moment during the talk on the Luddites.

An old man that was sat at the side of the room got up and told the whole room: that he had been in the war, had read the American newspapers, which had excited him, had inspired him to follow the dream that they preached. Said "I worked for an American company for 40 years. I'm retired now, been so for 15 years. I just want to say, that it really hurts. To know that you've wasted your life for nothing."

He sat back down, without a hint of emotion on his face, just matter of fact. I was completely floored, my eyes were streaming, and I couldn't hear anybody else for the rest of the session. For someone nearing the end of their life to make an admission like that, let alone in front of a few hundred people, takes a humility rarely seen. What made it worse was that he was inconsolable, because he was probably right. There was nothing anyone could say to him to make him see it in a different light, and to attempt to do so would be to try to get him to believe in a lie. Utterly heart wrenching.

Arranging the evening Power Down in the woodland hut with that great harbinger looming over me was no easy feat. We laid out the candles, I made the relevant introductions, and promptly sat down on a pew. I paid barely any attention to what was going on in front of me, apologies to my friends that performed that evening. All I could think about was the old man’s words going over and over in my head, “It really hurts”.

Thankfully, I was soon awoken from the broody spell, and post Power Down we were all ushered back to the centre of the festival. Darkness had fallen and everyone was converging around a camp fire at the edge of the woods waiting for something to happen. Soon enough a small group of individuals became distinct from the crowd, wearing robes and with faces painted. This was all part of a performance piece called Liminal.

We were asked not to bother with taking photographs, to switch off our telephones, and to “watch out for the stag”. The group then disappeared into the woods and they beckoned us to follow. A flute began playing at the head of the party, and in single file this crowd of hundreds entered the motley English taiga in complete silence.

We encountered illuminated black and white artworks depicting historic scenes. They almost resembled cave paintings, albeit suspended in mid air amongst low branches. A faun like character, I’m guessing the “stag”, was huffing away somewhere out of sight and charged at the line of pilgrims from time to time. A naked man was lying at the base of a tree in the foetal position cradling a large pelvic bone in his arms.

We eventually stopped in a clearing in the woods where the flautist was still playing accompanied occasionally by a lady singing beautifully with no words. We waited there for all the other pilgrims to arrive in the clearing, to find a space for themselves. Of course, everyone’s interpretation is subjective, but to me it appeared that once the crowd was settled into the clearing, that we began to reflect, en masse. It was an undefined period of reverence, an appreciation of our immediate surroundings and the moment. A few candles dotted around lit up the canopy above us, just enough to give contrast to the clear starry night behind it. I for one was besotted.

I forget how we disbanded, but soon found myself around the campfire singing Dylan and Bowie songs. Naturally. The campfire being the most purest of democracies, no intimidation present, just about everyone offered a song, a poem, or a fragment of something. It didn’t seem to matter what, just that it was a little piece of themselves, almost as a sacrifice. It was a welcome equalisation of the distress from earlier in the day, and with a full heart and a big smile I laid my bones down to sleep.

This was the emotional terrain of the uncivilised weekend for me. Old questions answered, new ones quickly sprung up in their place. And with Portsmouth, the place where I was born and raised, looming on the horizon, visible from the festival site, there was a sense for me of coming home. Coming home to something familiar, but not actually experienced. Something burning in the bones, something inexplicable through science and reason. Perhaps a figment of my imagination, but I don’t see why that should matter in the slightest. What is becoming increasingly clear, thanks to the weekend at Uncivilisation and the Dark Mountain Project in general, is that there is a way through the tough times ahead. That navigation, I think it will be more meaningful than if none were needed. Rather collapse and all that entails, than the promise of infinity.

Virgin to the flame

2011-08-17T11:03:00.000+01:00

This post may roll some eyes, I'm sure. To some it was inevitable given the amount of virtual banging-on I've been doing in the last month or so. However, I must share with you my excitement for this set of recordings, 'The House of Balloons' by The Weeknd.

What do I know of it all? Not a great deal. Young chap from Toronto, 21 years old, made it all in his bedroom. Oh that old chestnut eh? Only later do we find out that 2011's answer to Trevor Horn was producing. I know, I know, we've heard it all before.

Regardless...smooth androgynous vocals, heavily treated with a vocoder on many of the tracks, as he sings, stroke, raps his way through them, all to a backing track of electronic beats and wait for it...sped-up looped samples of...only my favourite band of last year...yes that's right...Beach House. What an incredibly heady concoction: dreamy choruses from Victoria Legrand punctuating this urban style croon of obscenities. And thank god it's not just one track, but multiple.

'The Morning' is certainly the standout track on 'House of Balloons', sounding in vibe but not content, like a number 1 hit record from the 1990s. However, this on repeat lasts just a few weeks. After you've lived with these glorious productions for a while, it's like looking into a magic eye painting, suddenly all the context leaps out at you in 3 dimensions. The motive behind the name becomes so ridiculously axiomatic, you feel silly you ever wondered about it.

What becomes clear is that the whole 9 tracks are the charting of a very long weekend indeed. One that is full to the brim with copious amounts of drugs, booze, lust, sex that doesn't happen, sex that does happen, what-is-she-doing-with-him, blow jobs, youthful arrogance, dancers, the list can go on, and does. In short, the ruminations of a teenage boy. Or the graffiti on the path to hell.

But my god, how the loins can stir when put so eloquently. Every party you ever went to, you wish they turned into this. For your mediocre memories, you'd take the mightiest come-down the world could conspire for just that one long evening of a hedonism only imagined in songs like these.

This is so on the mark of the moment it is quite unbelievable. And you may wonder, what this, *clears throat*, curmudgeonly old luddite who's apparently always harking back to days never endured, is doing listening to something so unashamedly decadent and on the pulse.

I tell you, when there is no hope, there is only oblivion. With the choice of jumping or being pushed, The Weeknd compels me to jump head first, like a virgin to the flame.

Download 'The House of Balloons' legally and for free from The Weeknd's site.

Listen to 'The Morning' below.

The Merits of Travel

2011-08-05T10:13:00.006+01:00

Like an indefatigable leviathan, the issue of travel keeps coming up in conversations at the moment. Everyone I talk to is vehement that we must be doing it, like some blinkered religion no one stops to question. But the relevance of it, I can't get over the question of whether there is any or not.

We're taught in Britain that it's our birthright. To be able to move freely through the world, to seek employment, adventure, or relaxation, all just as equally essential. We are all middle class now and the world is our playground. We have overcome our capitalist oppressors, *chortle*, and we can now enjoy such luxuries as the experiences that only other countries can offer. Just like the rich once had exclusive access to. Our health, wealth, and life expectancy in comparison with our ancestors and the current slaving masses in the "developing" world, are testament to this.

But does anyone stop to question its relevance? Sure, we can argue that the experience one gains from travelling the world gives us perspective, which helps us make better decisions, enriches us as individuals and in turn our families and communities. That is hard to dismiss.

But to what degree must we travel in order to gain perspective? Must we see every golden cupola the world has to offer? Witness every "primitive" tribe in all the darkest deepest rainforests? Must we all drink from fish bowls of hallucinogenic drugs with bronzed Swedes on Thai beaches? Eat Argentinean steaks on the Pampas they came from?

Surely the benefit of literature is that we do not have to experience these things first hand. That we can be enlightened via proxy. This must be good enough for most of our experiences, our thinking, and the concoction of our world view.

Perhaps it is the same kind of misguided individualism that inspires half the world to be indelibly inked with "unique" tattoos. Is it the effect of the awareness of feeling so insignificant in the world that we must strike out in some way, to be appear original, at all costs? I'm sure these confused ramblings are something along those lines too.

I don't like to bring the environment into this, as horrific an effect our cumulative attempts at individuality are, these quests for a questionably richer fabric of personal history. But surely the same question would, and should arise. If there were no environmental degradation from millions of people taking pointless journeys, surely we must still question the point of those journeys.

Of course, many of them are not pointless. There is little we can do when the globalised world encourages us to fall in love with people from far flung reaches, or retire to overseas "paradises". All of which require us to travel to keep alive those essential connections with our loved ones. I would not begrudge anyone who feels that need, I have felt it myself, of course. The perpetuation of those close relationships is essential, possibly one of the very few rational reasons for journey.

But for all others, I can't get it. Surely our efforts should be devoted to our immediate surroundings. To enrich them, to make them beautiful and pleasant places that we would want to live, relax, love, and retire in, not an infinite squalor we continually want to escape from. Then we would have no need for the greener grass over yonder.

As the late poet Glyn Hughes said in a recent interview for the Dark Mountain II anthology, "We are sold aspiration...Earn enough money to get on a plane and fly somewhere else to lie on a beach. Why? You don't need it. Go round the corner and lie in a field instead."

Footage from The Lexington

2011-08-05T10:10:00.001+01:00

Some footage of my solo show at The Lexington a few weeks ago below. It’s a playlist, so should load one video after the next, seamlessly. If you don’t want to listen to all though, links to individual songs are below it. New songs debuted, such as “We’ll Go Dancing” and “Old Friend”…Enjoy!

We’ll Go Dancing by Marmaduke Dando

Old Friend by Marmaduke Dando

If You Go Away sung by Marmaduke Dando

The Art of Decay by Marmaduke Dando

We Fucked It Up by Marmaduke Dando

And thanks to Andrew Clarke for filming and putting these together, much appreciated.

Infinite Squalor

2011-07-03T22:02:00.000+01:00

Infinite squalor is ushered in,
Like the changing of the seasons,
A natural thing.
Aren't you the clever ones,
Now you have purchase,
To buy up medallions,
And hang them in earnest.

"But how can you blames us? What's to be done?!"
So easy to fuck, so hard to make come.

The lust for labour,
And conspicuous consumption,
Such curious behaviour,
This democratic serfdom.
If you've faith in the system,
Shore up the machine.
Await your end, in mid daydream.

"But how can you blames us? What's to be done?!"
So easy to fuck, so hard to make come.

All shut away now, and tripled locked
With your private libraries,
In your mortgaged box.
The final nail, in this coffin,
Has firmly come, from within.

"But how can you blames us? What's to be done?!"
So easy to fuck, so hard to make come.

Infinite squalor is ushered in,
Like the changing of the seasons,
A natural thing.

An Inhumanist Vision

2011-05-09T12:05:00.000+01:00

In recent years, as this blog’s history will testify, I have undergone somewhat of an enlightenment. Discovering the threat of climate change to be irrefutable and learning of the certain realities that peak oil will bring to humanity, has severely altered not only the way I think, but also how I live my life. Peak oil, however, always seemed to me to be more stirring.

Perhaps I found it to be more tangible, the burning of finite resources to power real, touchable objects that surround me everyday of my life. Climate change on the other hand, whilst I can read the studies and draw the same conclusions as 3000 scientists, seems to require greater strength of the imagination. Because of the differences in the emotive effect the two issues have had on me, I’ve often wondered why climate change has received more attention, and yet peak oil is barely spoken about. Why climate change, that is arguably a more abstract concept to get across to the average man on the street, over peak oil, which directly threatens the lifestyles of the Western world?

I’ve finally gotten round to reading The Dark Mountain Project’s published debut, an anthology of poems, conversations, essays, stories and images, that aim to expose the myths of civilisation and attempt to create more honest counter narratives. The first essay in this collection is by John Michael Greer, entitled “The falling years: An Inhumanist vision”, which I believe may shed some light on the puzzling issue of the preferential treatment of some catastrophes over others in the media:

“Compare the recent and continuing furore over anthropogenic climate change to the more muted response to the rapid depletion of the world’s remaining petroleum reserves, and one such distortion stands out clearly. Both these problems are unquestionably real; both were predicted decades ago, both could quite readily force modern industrial civilisation to its knees, and both are already having measurable impacts around the world.

“Yet the response to the two differs in instructive ways. Anthropogenic climate change has become a cause celebre, splashed across the mainstream media, researched by thousands of scientists funded by lavish government grants, and earnestly discussed by heads of state at summit meetings. Nothing is actually being done to stop it, to be sure, and most likely nothing will be done; not even the climate campaigners who urge such drastic action in the loudest voices and most extreme terms have shown much willingness to accept the drastic changes in their own lives that would cut carbon dioxide emissions soon enough to matter. Still, the narrative of climate change has found plenty of eager listeners around the world.

“None of this has happened with peak oil. The evidence backing the claim that the world has already passed the peak of petroleum production and faces a future of declining energy and economic contraction is every bit as solid as the evidence for anthropogenic climate change; the arguments opposing it are just as meretricious; its potential for economic and human costs is as great, solutions are as difficult to reach, and it can feed apocalyptic fantasies almost as extreme as those that have gathered around climate change. Still, no summit meetings are being called by heads of state to discuss the end of the age of oil; there has been no barrage of mainstream media attention concerning it and precious few government grants. Climate change is mediagenic; peak oil is not.

“A core difference between the two crises explains why. Climate change, as a cultural narrative, is a story about human power. We have become so almighty through technological progress, the climate change narrative argues, that we threaten the Earth itself. The only limits that can prevent catastrophe are those we place on ourselves, since nothing else can stop us; and even our own efforts might not be enough to stand in our way. It’s nearly a parody of the old atheist gibe: to prove our own omnipotence, we’ve made a crisis so big that not even we can lift it out of our way.

“Peak oil as a cultural narrative, on the other hand, is not a celebration of human power but a warning about human limits. At the core of the peak oil story is the recognition that the power we claimed was never really ours. We never conquered nature; we merely stole some of the Earth’s carbon and burnt our way through it in three short centuries. All the feverish dreams and accomplishments of that era were simply the results of wasting a vast amount of cheap fuel. Now that the easy pickings are running out, and we have to think about getting by without half a billion years of stored and concentrated solar energy to burn, our fantasies of power are proving unexpectedly fragile, and the future ahead of us involves more humility and less grandiosity than we want to think about.”

He wraps this idea up nicely with the following:

“While anthropogenic global warming is a real and serious problem, its consequences are subject to natural limits that current thinking, fixated on images of human triumphalism, is poorly equipped to grasp. Meanwhile, another real and serious problem – the depletion of the nonrenewable energy resources that prop up today’s industrial economy and keep seven billion people alive – gets next to no attention, because it conflicts with those same triumphalist obsessions. It’s no exaggeration to say that the modern world might solve the global warming crisis and then collapse anyway, because it only dealt with those of its problems that proved congenial to its self-image.”

There is certainly something in this. When explaining peak oil to people, one generally encounters a knee jerk dismissal of any looming disruption to our way of life. The comeback is always, “We will find a way to sustain our lifestyles, we always do, we are ingenious, look at what we’ve already created in the world, examples of how humanity innovates to overcome limits are everywhere”.

It’s the same self belief in humanity that Greer talks about, the collective shoring up of mankind’s staggering ego. What does it mean though, to admit that perhaps there are limits that we cannot overcome through ingenuity? Are there psychological issues at work here? The basis of one’s whole way of life, the premise of a belief system that allows one to operate in this modern world, shattered in their entirety.

The admission that there are limits to our species just as there are limits to every other species on the planet, would leave an individual in disarray. This is what peak oil confronts us with. Its limits challenge everything we believed was true about humanity. What individual would willingly accept to go through the process of admission, confusion, humility, and eventually the restructuring of a belief system? It would be much easier to continue along with old beliefs, ones that the majority of the world believe to be true, which no doubt gives a sense of comfort and ease that a rejection of anthropocentrism cannot give.

I find this refusal to engage in any other narrative to be extremely dangerous. To accept only the mainstream memes leaves one open to what could potentially be a significant fall. Entertaining counter narratives, after an initial internal meltdown, can only help make an individual stronger and more resilient to future catastrophes. If those catastrophes don’t materialise, what has the individual really lost? A little time maybe, not much else.

The Dark Mountain Project is shortly due to publish its second book. Should you wish to purchase the first book and help fund the second, visit their website at www.dark-mountain.net

John Michael Greer’s blog can be found at http://thearchdruidreport.blogspot.com/

Criminal Waste of Time

2011-04-27T23:34:00.000+01:00

I’ve just finished ‘The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists’ by Robert Tressell, a novel about a group of painter and decorators in southern England in the early 20th century. It’s a long rambling text in favour of socialism, the overthrow of the capitalist system, by showing the contrast between the poverty stricken working class and the rich “sweaters” that have everything and do nothing. The title of the book comes from the idea that the working class are happy with the current system and are essentially philanthropists, pledging all their time and strength to make money for the good of others, not themselves. It’s deeply moving at times, and generally convincing…until one character starts talking about how to organise society, and then I get a little twitchy. The following paragraph resonated strongly with me:

“Nature has not provided ready-made all the things necessary for the life and happiness of mankind. In order to obtain these things we have to work. The only rational labour is that which is directed to the creation of those things. Any kind of work which does not help us to attain this object is a ridiculous, idiotic, criminal, imbecile, waste of time.”

I wonder about this in relation to the Current State of Things. Now that we have more rights to protect workers, we are paid much better, we work only 35 hours a week, we have paid holidays…in comparison with workers a hundred years ago, conditions for the masses are greatly improved. However, we are all still employed in irrational labour. We have outsourced food production and industry overseas, leaving us staring at screens and jabbering away on phones. The service industry, which contains no job that is necessary in order to sustain the life and happiness of mankind.

Have we been granted better working conditions in order to placate us and keep us driving the industrial machine? When the people are on the verge of revolt, make a few concessions and they’ll quiten down, and we can keep the system going for at least another century. With comfortably pointless existences, as most of us have now, what need does anyone have for protest? Especially when looking back at history and seeing how much better we have things now.

It’s curious that so many Labour politicians cite this book as an inspiration to them, the reason they got into politics etc. I wonder how many Labour MPs and their supporters really believe that the service industry is a Criminal Waste of Time. Surely there is still purchase in this idea of Rational Labour, but for the life of me I can’t think how anyone would be convinced.

We'll Go Dancing

2011-04-13T12:59:00.004+01:00

Brain's been in a fug the last couple of days, but after the regular chores of an evening last night, I managed to set my mind to finishing off this song about dancing with one's beloved. Think Piaf talking in the verses, and then a dreamy 3/4 whisks you away on the chorus. Taking in the glory of spring that is upon us at present, and a stock misanthropic theme, I bring you..."We'll Go Dancing".

We'll Go Dancing

I search this ugly town, for things that do not spark a frown.
Up treeless avenues, down barren streets that hold no clues.
But round the corner in the park, I find the backdrop to my heart.
Take my hand if you please, beneath blossoming cherry trees...

And we'll go dancing, through the rush-hour malaise,
Desperately advancing, in their separate ways.
And you'll look enchanting, either making or breaking,
What would otherwise have been,
Yet another uniquely dreary, forgettable day.

The insipid urban sprawl, and the ideas behind it all,
Are enough to take your breath away, but never in the same way,
As you do my love, come closer my love.
Click hard your heels on the floor, smash all that The Others adore.
We have momentum and flow, like a petal of Spring snow...

We'll go dancing, through the rush-hour malaise,
Desperately advancing, in their separate ways.
And you'll look enchanting, either making or breaking,
What would otherwise have been,
Yet another uniquely dreary, forgettable day.

Despite the heaven that we hold, you are embarrassed by my bold,
Nature to declare, this is more than an affair.
I slow to savour every aspect, you grow impatient with my step.
And as the band are winding-up, you skip out leaving me hard-up.
I'm left alone now with my thoughts, on this imaginary waltz...

We'll go dancing, through the rush-hour malaise,
Desperately advancing, in their separate ways.
And you'll look enchanting, either making or breaking,
What would otherwise have been, and consequently was,
Yet another uniquely dreary, forgettable day.

Old Friend

2011-03-09T15:28:00.003Z

My good friend and musician Rebecca Jade, hosts a songwriting night once a month. The aim of the night is to get the usually stagnant creative juices flowing, by proposing a theme for all participants to write a song about. The last month's chosen theme, picked from a hat, was "old friend". From those two words, I've written the following piece. It's debut performance will be at Folke Newington this Sunday.

Old Friend

So long old friend. I've buried you, as you did me. I've got myself back finally.
So long old friend. You may go now, to where your mind, has been all the time.
So long old friend.

I may seem a little bitter, under this sentimental glitter,
But I must protest, I feel a lot less.
As I get longer in the tooth, thanks to the tumult of youth,
It gets harder each year, to part with a single tear...

So long old friend. I've buried you, as you did me. I've got myself back finally.
So long old friend. You may go now, to where your mind, has been all the time.
So long old friend.

All these trivial teenage trials, and tribulations aside,
The lack of a will, undermines the way.
As I get longer in the tooth, thanks to the tumult of youth,
It gets harder each year, to part with a single tear...

So long old friend. I've buried you, as you did me. I've got myself back finally.
So long old friend. You may go now, to where your mind, has been all the time.
So long old friend.

Must We Be Bound?

2011-03-08T10:43:00.002Z

I present a new song I wrote over Christmas, but finalised last night. It's debut performance will be at Folke Newington this Sunday, March 13th, 2011, doors at 8pm, free entry.

Must We Be Bound

Must we be bound?
From now until the time agreed we lay our promise down,
All efforts to break free will be crushed into the ground,
Must we be bound?
We must be bound.

We may be silly little fools, that think they know it all,
But tell me, when will that cease to be, the essence of mortality?
With no god in which to trust, mine is with yours be as it must,
So fast your hand to mine, it's the blind leading the blind.

Must we be bound?
From now until the time agreed we lay our promise down,
All efforts to break free will be crushed into the ground,
Must we be bound?
We must be bound.

No document is needed or any caution heeded,
When time and money are pissed away on endless nights of debauchery.
And a hangover is the only thing, I've a chance of being intimate with.
Well here's my lot I throw it in, and take what may come on the chin.

Must we be bound?
From now until the time agreed we lay our promise down,
All efforts to break free will be crushed into the ground,
Must we be bound?
Must we be bound?
Must we be bound?
Must we be bound?

Footage from rooms

2011-02-07T13:09:00.003Z

The last week has seen the band and I play a few acoustic shows, power down style. One of these performances took place in someone's living room in rather swanky part of London, Primrose Hill. That was for people at Songs From a Room, who organise pop up gigs in living rooms in cities all over the world.

The other acoustic performance we gave was at Flashback Records to commemorate and celebrate my debut album coming out on vinyl record. It was an overwhelming night, with the shop bursting with people, the busiest it's ever been said its owner. If you failed to make it down to grab a copy, Flashback is stocking the album 'Heathcliffian Surly' permanently, on CD and Vinyl. Alternatively you can buy over the internet here.

We will be quiet for a month now, and will re-emerge at the Union Chapel on Saturday, March 5th, for Daylight, an afternoon of music starting at midday.

Until then, have a butchers at some of the recent footage below.

Live at Flashback Records:

Live at Songs From a Room:

Review from Sharon O' Connell at Uncut

2011-01-07T11:19:00.001Z

Below is a review of 'Heathcliffian Surly' by Sharon O’ Connell at Uncut:

He describes himself as “a crooner of morose ballads and drunken frisky jigs”, but the eccentric Dando has his sights set on multiple broader horizons. Marrying his mannered and melodramatic baritone – equal parts Noel Coward, Baby Dee and Bryan Ferry – to this quintet’s accomplished orchestrations, he dips into klezmer/gypsy jazz, upbeat indie country, honky –tonk and Associates-style art pop. Dando’s florid delivery and self-conscious romanticism won’t be to everyone’s taste, but there’s humanity and a tender heart here, along with the hubris and professed horror of modern life, as “Odessa!” and “No Tomorrow” attest.

Summary of 2010

2011-01-03T00:00:00.001Z

Usually around this time of year, I like to rain terror down upon the hell hole venues that I’ve played in, or the wicked promoters that do nothing to earn their title. However, the gripes of previous years don’t seem to have been as prevalent in 2010 now that I recall. Could this be progress, or luck? Pft, who cares. It was nice, let’s leave at that. So to cement some of the memories, I’d like to round up my year with the below YouTube playlist, which is a collection of videos from artists that I've enjoyed immensely in the past 12 months. Here's to another splendid year in 2011.

If you click play above, it should play video after video of the playlist. Tracklisting below:

Timber Timbre - Magic Arrow
Beach House - Norway
Where Is My Mind - Chancery Blame and the Gadjo Club
Black Doe - Mary Epworth and the Jubilee Band
Ultrasound - Sovereign
Kenji Mizoguchi - Geisha Dance from Ugetsu Monagatari
This Is Laura - The Ghosts of Lovers and Hounds
Ellie Goulding - The Writer
Joni Mitchell - Both Sides Now (2000)
Dakota Jim - medley of his songs including, We Will Meet Again
Beach House - Better Times
Timber Timbre - Demon Host
Bethia Beadman - Homerton Station
Ultrasound - Everything Picture (live at The Lexington, reformation gig)
Canteloube - "Bailero" - Sung by Netania Davrath
Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band - I'm Glad
Kenji Mizoguchi - Sanshô dayû

Review from Martin Skivington at The Skinny

2011-01-02T23:19:00.001Z

Below is a review of 'Heathcliffian Surly' by Martin Skivington at The Skinny:

Marmaduke Dando has been described as an author channelling the 'horrors and beauties of the modern world', but hyperbole aside, his music sounds something like a cross between Antony Hegarty's weeping recitals and Baby Dee's warped balladry. His debut album, Heathcliffian Surly, is a drink-soaked, literary and almost Victorian collection of morose pop, led by his own piano playing and supported by a five-piece band.

Dando assumes theatrical roles exquisitely throughout, from dejected drunk (Dead To The World) to embracing romantic (All Of Me), while giving a lesson in early 20th Century song in the process. Although it's easy to find his voice overbearing – a notion magnified by a song like Life Can't Get Any Better – the skill and subtle wit of songs such as Give Me Detumescence still indicates an artist who's well aware of his own idiosyncrasies, and capable of using them to his advantage. A curious introduction.

http://www.theskinny.co.uk/article/101047-marmaduke-dando-heathcliffian-surly

Review from Shane O’ Leary at Unpeeled

2011-01-02T23:17:00.001Z

Below is a review of 'Heathcliffian Surly' by Shane O’ Leary at Unpeeled:

Obviously that headline should read 'genius with beard plays piano', but that's no fun and would undermine any claim to dyslexia. However, we have found a genius and he does, for the moment at least, have a beard.

Said genius also has a name. We're presuming that Marmaduke Dando is a nom de warble as opposed to something his poor, gin-soaked old mum scrawled on his birth certificate before expiring with a fit of the giggles. Said genius also has an album to purvey, convey, sell, flog and place before the bemused and largely non-bearded masses. Said album is called "Heathcliffian Surly" and the big money is on it being a reference to a certain character that sent the muse, licketty-split, to both Kate Bush and Cliff Richard, a threesome I don't wish to visualise again, but an album we should all hear again and again and... you get the idea. There is a proper review on the 'Everything Else' page, but skip that and skip directly to www.marmadukedando.com

Heathcliffian', but we'll have a go... Alas, the artiste known as Marmaduke Dando is a
beautiful breeze of fetid air as Bela Lugosi amuses himself, Miss Havisham style in a basement once inhabited by some kind of Bryan Ferry/Brian Eno mutation.

Knockers and the insensitively souless will point out that this is an album with more arch than Archway, more affectation than an incoming princess and far too clever to be good for itself. We call those people 'Conservatives' and point out that "Heathcliffian Surly" is the fine dining version of 'Rocky Horror' and that Marmaduke Dando may well be camper than Baden Powell, but he slips through genres more slickly than a Mozart made of eels. Take something like "The Last Drink", a honky tonk, slow-mo piano stamp around a bordello bar, something that both Leon Russell and Hinge & Bracket would be comfortable with and perfect for. This is such a lovely record that I'm liable to come over all sensible and suggest that you buy it, a
lot and now.

IS IT ANY GOOD? We don't get a lot of genius down our way, but we know it when we hear it.

Review from Dominic Vavlona at God is in the TV

2011-01-02T23:11:00.001Z

Below is a review of 'Heathcliffian Surly' by Dominic Valvona at God is in the TV:

Marmaduke Dando is a tortured soul: his atavistic disposition, seeming ill at ease with the modern world. A self-appointed despairing and melancholic romantic, Dando is unceremoniously catapulted from rubbing shoulders with the likes of Byron, Keats and Dostoevsky in the garret and study room’s of a hazy bygone age, to the harsh realities of a cold dystopian envisioned Metropolis. If further prove of his separation from our technological fetishist society was even needed, a sardonic passage bemoaning about de-humanisation in the face of modernity and progress by the revered and controversial novelist D.H Lawrence, is included as a footnote inside the albums cover.

Musically, our troubled troubadour wistfully croons over a bare and deftly layered accompaniment of mournful piano, searing melodic violins, shuffling drums, and pronounced pining guitars, all swaying between a soundtrack of sorrowful ballads, Weimar epoch cabaret, and Balkan gypsy woe.

Dando’s saddened and stirring swooning vocals share all the more restrained traits of Scott Walker, Jacques Brel, Lloyd Cole and Billy Mckenzie, on this disconsolate and doleful journey. Walker-esque allusions begin with Heathcliffian Surly's opening rue, and tribute of a kind, to the Ukrainian Black Sea port of Odessa, on the track of the same name: picked I assume for its revolutionary bent and historical romanticism – the city was famous for the tragic 1905 workers uprisings, which were depicted in Sergi Eisenstein's ‘Battleship Potemkin’. Our new-age Shelly pens an ode to a place he’s only ever read about and imagined; using its exoticism and mysterious aura to express sentiments to his intended muse.

The reclusive Walker returns, with his own ‘30th Century Man’, which is used as the bedrock for the jangley Apache toms beat and lust-for-life celebration, ‘Life Can’t Get Any Better’; whilst his morose tones echo large on the sadly lovelorn prose of ‘This Is I Ask Of You’.

With his elaborate 18th Century cravats and tailored gentlemen’s attire, the poetic protagonist often drifts into surprising waters: mooning like a carousing mid-70s Bowie and melodramatic Simon Le Bon - of all people - on the French sophisto-noir of ‘If This Is Civilisation’, or revisiting the wry wit and eloquently worded lyrics of Neil Hannon’s Divine Comedy, on the Kierkegaard melancholy of ‘Dead To The World’ – possibly his best outing.

It may seem that with all these influences - worn on our tormented singers sleeves for the entire world to see - that Dando merely apes or pays homage to his inspirational hosts. Yet, in some ways this collection of acutely penned modern stirring songs, carries on the grand tradition of lugubrious and laid bare hymns by his influences with a subtle degree of wit and invention. On paper this album sounds daunting, but somehow at the same time heart-warming, as it chimes with relevance to our own times and attempts to put malady on the map.

Heathcliffian Surly shows that Dando’s cup isn’t just half-empty, but is smeared, cracked and slowly leaking the little content it still has left. To borrow a slightly changed, well-worn line from that Californian sage Brian Wilson, “Dando just wasn’t made for these times”.

http://www.godisinthetvzine.co.uk/content/content_detail.php?id=4896&type=Albums

Review from Charlie Brown at The Music Critic

2010-11-05T13:00:00.002Z

Below is a review of 'Heathcliffian Surly' by Charlie Brown at The Music Critic:

The best thing about singer songwriting balladeer Marmaduke Dando's debut is it’s really enjoyable to listen to because it’s different, original and interesting. How does someone so young have such an old fashioned voice? It’s almost of an another time and place. One of sepia photographs, of melodramatic climax before something sinister slaps us from romanticism back to an inevitable reality.

Heathcliffian Surly is lyrically and vocally honed from that old school that’s close to Kurt Weill, Jacques Brel and Scott Walker but with a modern twist. From the opening track Odessa! to closing track The Last Embrace and all in between, there’s a peculiar freshness. On Life Can’t Get Any Better and the stand out ballad, This I Ask Of You, reminiscent of David Sylvian’s solo work merged with the lyrical sharpness of Nick Cave.

'If this is civilisation I want no part in it' croons young Marmaduke and his horror at the modern world may be well be his own undoing. My biggest worry about this album is despite the great quality of songs, I fear the world may not be ready for something as clever or quirky. Marmaduke Dando could’ve been on the Tube in the 80’s and then next week on a forty day UK tour supporting The Birthday Party, gaining a minor Top 40 entry with an explosive Top of the Pops performance pushing them into the top 20. In fact, if the single was the quirky Bertolt Brecht’s Alabama Song styled Give Me Detumescence they could have even have their very own Frankie and Relax controversy.

This album is worth buying for many reasons. The songs are well structured and the performances from the large supporting cast are first class. Along with the great artwork, the lyrics come in a fold out sheet and they are a remarkable literal treat.

A fantastic album.

4/5

http://www.themusiccritic.co.uk/2010/10/marmaduke-dando-heathcliffian-surly.html#ixzz14PTuQ6bt

Review from Rob F at Leicester Bangs

2010-11-05T12:58:00.001Z

Below is a review of 'Heathcliffian Surly' by Rob F at Leicester Bangs:

Marmaduke Dando Hutchings (to give the man his full name) is a London based songwriter with a penchant for morose balladry, and frisky drunken jigs. That’s what his MySpace page tells me, and it’s not far wrong. Reference is also made to a family link to pirate stock, and the popularity of Dando’s music within the halls of Parliament. Perhaps that’s true, too. The image of Dando on the cover of Heathcliffian Surly is one of an 18th century consumptive, probably not fit for a life at sea, but certainly healthy and wealthy enough to buy a seat in a rotten borough.

Musically, his influences appear purely European, with scarcely a hint of what we scribblers call rock and roll. Instead it is the influence and heritage of composers like Kurt Weill and Jacques Brel that Dando most liberally borrows from, though feel free to include names like Scott Walker and Tom Waits, who also both know their way around the European songwriting tradition. The results might have been calamitous. We English aren’t known for this sort of thing, especially with material that lives ponderously at the dark end of la rue (see what I did there?). Dando’s no Jake Thackray, sardonic witticisms are decidedly thin on the ground, though a certain gallows humour permeates Heathcliffian Surly, or at least I hope it does. Song titles such as “Dead To The World”, “The Last Drink” and “No Tomorrow” give the game away, though they’re tempered by “Life Can’t Get Any Better” and “Give Me Detumescence”, the latter causing difficulties for both my spell-check and the Cambridge University Press dictionary. I think it’s something to do with the reduction of swelling. It’s that sort of album.

There’s much here to be worried about. The gothic overtones, the carny vibe, the relentless doom and gloom, yet none of it seems in any way detrimental to an album that is undoubtedly one of my favourites of the year so far. In fact, I’ll go as far as to say that if I hear a better singer-songwriter album by the end of 2010 it’ll be a Christmas miracle. Check out the man’s MySpace page for further details and to listen to a couple of songs.

http://www.leicesterbangs.co.uk/oct10-1.html

Review from Charlie Ashcroft at Artrocker

2010-11-05T12:56:00.001Z

Below is a review of 'Heathcliffian Surly' by Charlie Ashcroft at Artrocker:

Portsmouth-born singer-songwriter Marmaduke Dando has produced one of those records which make you lean into the stereo a little more intently, or bemoan the fact that background noise is creeping into your headphones from the outside world.

Such is his attention to detail and delicate artistry that you’re left with no other option but to donate your full attention to the album from start to finish. From a vocal perspective, Dando comes across as a slightly more hyperactive incarnation of Antony Hegarty. It also seems fair to conclude that his musical accompaniments are rather wide-ranging throughout ‘Heathcliffian Surly’ – it’s folk music with a twist one minute, Wild Beasts-esque balladry the next.

Opening track ‘Odessa’ is a gorgeously orchestral 41Ž2 minutes, with the air of a song which should have soundtracked a tragic scene in a World War II film, while ‘Life Can’t Get Any Better’ is a quirky paean charting the directness of modern love.

The jazz-soaked shanty ‘The Last Drink’ is also a highlight, thanks to Dando’s wonderful couplet which could well be a statement to contemporary Britain: “You’re hooked on the life of the glamorous drunk/You’ve no idea how low you’ve sunk”.

This is an album which, in the same vein as the previously mentioned Johnsons/Beasts stable, won’t be for everyone, but for those who do eventually enter Marmaduke Dando’s wide-eyed world, they’re in for a treat. It’s poetry in motion for those who indulge in it, rich in texture and full of musical poise. 8/10

Review from JG at Tasty Fanzine

2010-11-05T12:52:00.002Z

Below is a review of 'Heathcliffian Surly' by JG at Tasty Fanzine:

I'd just finished reading a newspaper article celebrating the 50th anniversary of the legalisation of DH Lawrence's 'Lady Chatterly's Lover' when along comes Marmaduke Dando, acerbically witty singer songwriter in the manner of Neil Hannon, Momus and occasionally Morrissey - and he's a fully paid up Lawrentian to boot : the CDs inner sleeve contains a colourful 100 or so word quote from Lawrence, one which is very unlikely to have seen publication in his lifetime.

Never really struck me as much of a loungebar sophisticate, old DH. Only too easy to imagine him spluttering through his moustache while attempting to put a banjo tune together for that 'Lizard' poem we got at school, in between throwing pieces of coal at nuns and admiring those newfangled 'futurist' ideas from Milan. Unlike Marmaduke Dando, whose musicianship is melodic and restrained, a lot like a sort of edgier Divine Comedy, employing actual pathos as opposed to Hannon's seaside japery.

Gets a bit samey over 10 tracks though, I really was listening out for a musical flourish, for a break from the repetitive keyboard-led strictures and structures, away from the unvarying tone of mildly shocked cynicism, awaiting the arrival of a trumpet or slide guitar or even a female voice to shatter the ever thickening fug of ever decreasing options, the sound of blinkers going on, the entire desperate spiralling that arrives with crushing finality at the park bench and sherry denoument of 'The Last Embrace' ....

Pulp fans, this one's for you!

http://www.tastyfanzine.org.uk/albums103oct10.htm#MarmadukeDando

The Springs of Life

2010-10-18T11:30:00.000+01:00

I happened upon a most interesting chapter in Fyodor Dostoevsky’s ‘The Idiot’ today, brimming with anti-Enlightenment sentiment. It’s Prince Myshkin’s birthday, and everyone has descended on the villa he has rented in Pavlovsk, to help him celebrate. Holding court is a cretinous amateur lawyer called, Lebedyev, talking of “the springs of life”, explaining his point by telling the story of a man who in the twelfth century, to combat hunger, ate 60 monks and 6 infants. This is where Lebedyev concludes:

“Now for the conclusion, the finale, gentlemen, in which lies the solution of one of the greatest questions of that age and of this! The criminal ends by going and giving information against himself to the clergy and gives himself up to the authorities. One wonders what tortures awaited him in that age – the wheel, the stake and the fire. Who was it urged him to go and inform against himself? Why not simply stop short at sixty and keep the secret till his dying breath? Why not simply relinquish the clergy and live in penitence as a hermit? Why not, indeed, enter a monastery himself? Here is the solution. There must have been something stronger than stake and fire, stronger even than the habit of twenty years! There must have been and idea stronger than any misery, famine, torture, plague, leprosy, and all that hell, which mankind could not have endured without that idea, which bound men together, guided their hearts, and fructified the springs of life. Show me anything like such a force in our age of vices and railways…I should say of steamers and railways, but I say vices and railways, because I’m drunk but truthful. Show me any idea binding mankind together today with anything like the power it had in those centuries. And dare to tell me that the springs of life have not been weakened and muddied beneath the “star”, beneath the network in which men are enmeshed. And don’t try to frighten me with your prosperity, your wealth, the infrequency of famine and the rapidity of the means of communication. There is more wealth, but there is less strength. There is no uniting idea; everything has grown softer, everything is limp, and every one is limp! We’ve all, all of us grown limp. “

Sounds familiar…?

Formidable Marinade

2010-10-13T13:02:00.002+01:00

A very fond memory of the album launch was captured on film, which was Mikelangelo inviting me to sing a duet of his song "Formidable Marinade". Relive the moment again below:

The Human Thing

2010-10-04T13:49:00.012+01:00

I have been asked on numerous occasions recently, in regard to my music, "what is it that you want?". Every time I was caught off guard, and scrambled around for an answer, usually something along the lines of "err, to play nicer venues". "Is that it?", is probably what they were thinking, but dared not ask. It has prompted me to re-evaluate myself, and my music making, and to come up with some good reason for bothering.

It's certainly not money that's for sure. Anyone who makes music with some idea that they'll make pots of cash, is seriously misguided, and probably psychologically unhinged: a fool, in short. They'd be better off gambling on the stock market and continually reinvesting.

What makes me feel good is the praise, the fleeting moments of delusional brilliance, the power to captivate, the down turning of eyes when I linger too long on an audience member, the physical thrill of singing. All of this is connected to ego in one way or another, and is quite shameful to think about it all. Nevertheless, the feeling exists. Though is it enough to justify art creation?

When I question this amongst friends they all say, "but it's ok, it's an emotion like any other". Easy for them to say when the scale of ego is so small, cute, cuddly almost. Imagine it a million times bigger and it doesn't seem so quaint any more, in fact positively offensive. So being aware of ego, the satisfaction of it being a primal urge, one can accept it and overcome it. Only then can one pursue a worthwhile cause, and a more rational one at that.

Reaching this stage in my thoughts, it suddenly occurred to me. There was no need to "come up with something" as if it needed to be conjured out of thin air for the sake of having something to say. The answer had been there right beneath my nose all along, I'd just been distracted. The point of it all, not just music creation, but creativity in general, is subversion. To reject the common reality and present a different version. To corrupt and question that reality in any way possible. Personal propaganda you might call it.

The protest in my songs, which is most prevalent in "Give Me Detumescence" and "If This is Civilisation", may seem to some as a funny type of sentiment. They often make the audience chuckle, much to my chagrin. There is nothing humourous about either of those two songs, and I am deadly serious when I perform them. I hope the true message comes across when listening in private with no crowd to jostle against.

This tiny meme I have cast out, like a drop into the ocean, is worth every effort, for me alone. No matter how ridiculous it might seem and how quickly it may be forgotten, the irony of delivery, the inevitable hypocrisy, at least I will know that I have stood for the human thing, in my own way. And that is what I'm doing it for.

2010-10-04T12:54:00.000+01:00

Dear friends,

It was almost a month ago now, but the memories of the sell out launch night at Hoxton Hall are still vivid. What a night it was. To look out from the stage upon a sea of familiar smiling faces, and to play in such a beautiful space, is what dreams are made of. Well mine anyway. Thank you for being part of it. If you'd like to relive the magic of the night, many photos have been taken. Some video footage will follow shortly too.

So, the album is OUT. If you weren't at the launch, then you wouldn't have been given a copy. No dramas necessary. The album is available for download here:

http://marmadukedando.bandcamp.com/

You're able to listen in full beforehand to hear what you're getting yourself into. You are also able to buy a physical copy on CD format. I am hoping to have some vinyls ready for Christmas. It will also be available on Spotify and iTunes in the next couple of weeks.

The next show we have planned will be Thursday October 28th, at the Kings Cross Social Club, in Kings Cross would you believe.

I do hope you're able to make it. Until then,

Marmaduke

Credits

2010-09-16T11:47:00.007+01:00

The following text is taken from the credits on the insert for the album 'Heathcliffian Surly'.

The making of this record has been a long and arduous process, spanning at most 5 years, if you take into account the oldest songs that appear here. I have had plenty of personal crises during this period that have undermined the drive behind the record, some of which are documented here, albeit abstractly. The songs have been recorded in many a bedroom, studio, boat, and field. Even the band that contributed musical parts to these songs have undergone many line-up changes over the past few years. In fact the only constant on this whole record is myself, perhaps appropriately so, as it is a faithful expression of my character and no other, as it was in this period.

I wish to thank the following people for their help, advice, support, and inspiration that made this record possible. Thom Ntinas, a masterful engineer who has captured the sound here. Naomi Doran, a fiddler that introduced me to an entirely different kind of music, and can be heard very faintly on “All of Me”. Peter “Old Timer” Hall, who is missed dearly on this side of the Atlantic. Rebecca Jade, who better not remain dead to the world, if there is any justice in it. To Citizen Helene and Jennifer Hatt, for still talking to me. The King of Hearts, John Patterson, who lent his fast licks to “Life Can’t Get Any Better”, and for the relentless barrel of laughs. Paolo Bertagna, who plays drums with an exquisite light touch on “No Tomorrow” and “All of Me”. My old friends Greg Duncan and Odel Jeffries, who played guitar and drums on “Odessa” and “This I Ask Of You”, respectively, your legacy lives on! Marti Bowley, the longest standing member of my band, a fine double bass player and great friend, your role in this cannot be overstated, many many thanks my good man. The newest recruits in my band, Peter Maidens on guitar and banjo, Andy Marvell on drums and Sonia Gurdjieff on piano, all of whom have a remarkable ability to learn quickly, and most importantly able to suffer this fool’s whims without issue. Chancery Blame, who lends his searing violin solos to “Give Me Detumescence”. Nicole Brant-Zawadski, for the invaluable insights into how the modern world of music works. Daniel my bludda, for all the teenage giggles. Madeleine Brangwen, for doing the dirty work. Tom “the pen” Harris, for the album cover artwork. Dan Smith at Finyl Tweak for mastering. James Bowman, for giving me Sondheim. Aysha Ahmed, for giving me Lawrence. All at the Islington Arts Factory for being so accommodating. Ultrasound, still the best band that ever walked the planet, and without whom I should not have embarked on such a folly as this. Will E. Hogg, for being there for me in times of great emotional hardship. Dougald Hine and Paul Kingsnorth, for posing the questions that no other dares to. My dear parents, for not knowing they even owned a copy of “Young Americans”. Leeland Crane, for your unfaltering support and insistence that I get on with it. Alex “Lemond” Reece, for the exposure to pop music, Scotland, and Musgrove Road parties. To Russia, for Pushkin. To Holloway, for The Prince. To those bastard aspidistras that never give up, and finally, to B.S. Eliot.

We Fucked It Up

2010-09-15T12:35:00.001+01:00

Sobriety descends, you pull the covers up to pretend,
That this was a mistake, that I am to blame.
Well that’s not how it felt when you were screaming my name…

We fucked a flame into being, as our senses were leaving us, to the act of creation and eternal damnation. We fucked. We fucked. We fucked. We fucked it up.

Deep in my arms, you struggle and then are calm.
On the tip of your tongue “Oh god, what have we done?”.
I’ll tell you just what we’ve done…

We fucked a flame into being, as our senses were leaving us, to the act of creation and eternal damnation. We fucked. We fucked. We fucked. We fucked it up.

In that flash bulb of orgasm, I feel you buckle in fits of passion.
It’s a pornographic zoetrope, I grope, you groan in mock agony.
Two bodies beating in sympathy.

We fucked a flame into being, as our senses were leaving us.
The poor innocent parties and their imminent heartaches weren’t big enough to stand in our way…as we fucked a flame into being, as our senses were leaving us, to the act of creation and eternal damnation. We fucked. We fucked. We fucked. We fucked it up.

Written by Marmaduke Dando Hutchings

WOOD

2010-05-25T00:05:00.000+01:00

How tired and grumpy I am right now, like a battered old shoe still thumping along with a ragged foot inside. If only I could pass out and sleep for one hundred days, alas, no, I am still up and writing. It seems much more important that I relay the experience of the weekend past to the unfortunate masses that couldn’t be where I was.

Wood festival 2010, was the source of my ultimate joy this year so far. A small gathering of about 800 people, camping in meadows in the middle of nowhere. It couldn’t have been further from any festival experience I have previously suffered. No one was in my way at any point, there was distance between bodies, no officious high vis jackets, and no angry voices. Even the naked toddlers running around causing mischief, which by the way I haven’t seen since the 1980s, could mar the feeling I was experiencing. In fact, I might have even thought that children weren’t so bad after all, funny little blighters.

Now I know it’s just camping, but really, why do we not do more of it? Why is it a novelty, a past time, when it was once daily life? Emancipation from the elements, a higher standard of living, always moving away from that shabby floor that ultimately sustains us. What thanks we give it.

I puzzled over the constellations above me while Cate Le Bon was wafting softly around me, my head was spinning, but I wasn’t ill, quite the opposite, life couldn’t get any better. But then it did, I took her place on stage with my own band, and we played an incensed set to an appreciative sun-baked crowd. The final word of the festival was from Timber Timbre, who sounded like Roy Orbison trapped in a shower banging, in time, on the door to get out. In and out of consciousness they took me, and set me up for a massive fall.

After 2 days in the pure unadulterated countryside, waiting for the bus back to Oxford, stood on the highway, maniacs in cars shot past us, ruthlessly slicing all my joy. By the time I was in the plastic box watching the sunset on the fields I was not a part of anymore, it had been shredded irreparably to bits. Back to the city, back to someone’s so called “civilisation”.

Sigh.

The Art of Decay

2010-04-24T10:05:00.002+01:00

Every day a deeper breath,
I don't know how much I've left,
In me, I've lost the will,
To live, now all is still.

Every day another step,
One foot closer to my death.
It's the art of decay,
Better to burn, than fade away.

Every day is like the next,
I can't help but regain consciousness.
No one to devote it to,
That someone, it once was you.

Every day a deeper breath,
I don't know how much I've left,
In me, I've lost the will,
To live, now all is still.

Written by Marmaduke Dando Hutchings

The magic of radio persists

2010-04-13T14:06:00.001+01:00

Even in this day and age, what a phenomenon.

I shall be on Resonance FM this Wednesday from 9.30pm - 11pm Greenwich Mean Time, playing a few songs live, and a cover from 1964. You can listen on the airwaves in London at 104.4FM, or online for those who are too far away http://resonancefm.com/listen.

Hold Everything Dear

2010-03-14T18:52:00.001Z

After a long run of Huxley novels, I’ve finally broken the chain with John Berger, recommended by one of the Dark Mountain founders. The book Hold Everything Dear by Berger is a collection of essays on resistance and survival, which opens with the following poem. It struck me as acutely relevant, so sad and beautiful, I had to reprint and share it.

Hold Everything Dear

for John Berger

as the brick of the afternoon stores the rose heat of the journey

as the rose buds a green room to breathe
and blossoms like the wind

as the thinning birches whisper their silver stories of the wind to the urgent in the trucks

as the leaves of the hedge store the light
that the moment thought it had lost

as the nest of her wrist beats like the chest of a wren in the turning air

as the chorus of the earth find their eyes in the sky
and unwrap them in each other in the teeming dark

hold everything dear

the calligraphy of birds across the morning
the million hands of the axe, the soft hand of the earth
one step ahead of time
the broken teeth of tribes and their long place
steppe-scattered and together
clay’s small, surviving handle, the near ghost of a jug
carrying itself towards us through the soil

the pledge of offered arms, the single sheet that is our common walking
the map of the palm held
in a knot
but given as a torch

hold everything dear

the paths they make towards us and how far we open towards them

the justice of a grass that unravels palaces but shelters the songs of the searching

the vessel that names the waves, the jug of this life, as it fills with the days as it sinks to become what it loves

memory that grows into a shape the tree always knew as a seed

the words
the bread

the child who reaches for the truths beyond the door

the yearning to begin again together
animals keen inside the parliament of the world

the people in the room the people in the street the people

hold everything dear

19th May 2005
Gareth Evans

No more fiddling around

2010-03-13T14:07:00.000Z

I have some sad news to report this week. My good friend and band mate, Naomi Doran also know as Naomi De Kleined, will no longer be playing with the band. She has decided to call it a day with my rabble in order to dedicate all her spare time to her own art work, which has been causing quite a stir in recent months. She has been a delight to play alongside these last few years and her influence on me has been in no way slight. My sincere best wishes go out to her.

Secret Cinema: Wings of Desire

2010-03-03T13:36:00.001Z

The weekend just past, the band and I were booked for Secret Cinema. As the name suggests, it was supposed to be all very hush hush regarding the details of the event. Now it’s all over I can reveal what actually happened.

Secret Cinema puts on classic films in unconventional venues, then themes the night around the film. The audience does not know what the film is until they arrive at the venue. The film that was screened last weekend was Wings of Desire, directed by Wim Wenders, set in Berlin in 1987, it follows a couple of angels that watch over some troubled characters. It’s all rather dreamy, and not a lot happens, but it’s a very beautiful film to watch.

The venue was a disused theatre on Shepherds Bush Green, right beside the Shepherd’s Bush Empire. Inside the main hall where the film was being screened, there were some circus acts and a trapeze artist, which fitted in well with the contents of the film. They also had Fyfe Dangerfield playing a few deliciously romantic numbers before the film began, swamped in natural reverb and backed by a viola and fiddle player, “faster than a setting sun…”, the soundtrack to the weekend, I melt in recollection.

Outside of the main hall, Secret Cinema created a small Berlin night club called the Metropole, with a few rooms mocked up in 1980s German decor. I was to host this area, as the owner of the club, play with my house band, and introduce a few other acts. The other main act was This Is Laura, which were possibly the most appropriate act to put on, other than Nick Cave himself.

Well with 4 screenings, that meant music either side, making it a very intense 48 hours. Matinees and evening shows on Saturday and Sunday. The crowd would walk past us to get to the main theatre, or leave the venue. Thankfully, many would stay for a drink and watch and listen to me spitting about throbbing tumours and the like, and by the end of it they were screaming and hollering and dancing and leaping around.

Certainly a weekend to remember, plenty of camaraderie between my own band and This Is Laura. I now feel very toned, like a musical equivalent of Dolph Lundgren.

There will be plenty of post promotion of this event, which I’ll post up as I receive the links to it. Though you can see a slideshow of the event here to get an idea.

Small step forward for mankind

2010-02-04T10:06:00.000Z

So Obama has cut Nasa’s budget and shelved any plans for putting a man on the moon by 2020. Across the political spectrum the press are calling it a travesty. Some wildly, some barely, but there is at least a hint of dismay in all of it. America will fall behind, China will overtake them in the exploration of the galaxy, and technological “progress”, with all its unintended wonders, will be slowed. You can even hear the shuffling of nervous environmentalists in their seats, as they see all their climate change techno fixes go up in smoke.

There aren’t many things world leaders do which can be seen as a positive and progressive step forward for humanity, but this is certainly one of them. Whether it was intended this way or not, is another matter. The solution to all of Earth’s ills already exists on this planet. No amount of money ploughed into research centres for space exploration is needed in order to mitigate the effects of climate change and peak oil, bring about peace in the middle east, greater social cohesion within nations, and to raise the standard of living for those already living on earth.

We’ve had the answers to all the manmade evils and inequalities for millennia and passed them up to inflate our collective ego to an even more monstrous size. Like a pissing stream of urine, drunk on our phantom triumphs over nature, we aim for an unmarked goal, an ill defined objective. Somewhere out there, in the breadth of one careless sweep of the arm, across the unimaginable expanse of the universe is our old friend Progress.

Any old friends of mine would no doubt be splitting their sides hearing me speak like this today. As a teenager the Mars trilogy by Kim Stanley Robinson captured my imagination like no other work of fiction at the time. I still find the concept of colonising and terraforming another planet incredibly fascinating, as well as the technical details involved in space travel. This stems more from my breeding however, than from any form of rational self interest.

These days I’m more likely to be swooning over the cycle of phosphorous, the basics of barbering, or the art of origami, than some form of state funded national escapism. How dull, but how bloody useful.

Practical material objects and tangible skills are all humanity needs in order to create a world in which it can live a fulfilling life. With Obama’s retreat from the race to put a man back on the moon, this should only be seen as a small but symbolic step forward for mankind.

Clarification of Division

2010-01-21T10:06:00.001Z

The last post about division being the basis of evil, is a little confused, I admit.

When one looks at the alternative to individual expression, it’s herd mentality, do nothing original, raise no objection to the status quo, to follow others blindly. Not the most attractive of ideas, nor realistic. It works as a successful meme for some if not most animals, but humans have evolved to question, to analyse, to adapt based on ideas, which are all examples of individuality. So, essentially human, and not much we can do about it unless you can drug a population to act as a herd of animals.

Under that assumption, the negative effects of individualism can’t be completely eradicated, but they can be mitigated. As Huxley points out, pride, hatred and anger, are individual expressions that deny others freedom, whereas greed and lust necessarily don’t.

With this in mind, one can reject the former set entirely from one’s self without the need for constant proof. With greed and lust however, it will take analysis and judgement at every instance on the part of the individual to determine whether they are denying another of any freedom.

Admirable, but is it realistic?

The basis of evil

2010-01-06T10:07:00.000Z

As if to confirm my previous rant about the evilness of individuality, Huxley comes along in the final pages of Eyeless in Gaza with the same sentiment:

“Evil is the accentuation of division; good, whatever makes for unity with other lives and other beings. Pride, hatred, anger – the essentially evil sentiments are essentially evil because they are all intensifications of the given reality of separateness, because they insist upon division and uniqueness, because they reject and deny other lives and beings. Lust and greed are also insistences upon uniqueness, but insistences which do not entail any negative awareness of others from whom the unique being is divided. Lust only says, ‘I must have pleasure’, not ‘You must have pain’. Greed in its pure state is merely a demand for my satisfaction, not for your exclusion from satisfaction. They are wrong in emphasizing the separate self; but less wrong than pride or hatred or anger, because their self-emphasis is not accompanied by denial of others.”

Civilization and Sexuality

2010-01-03T22:08:00.000Z

Taken from Aldous Huxley's Eyeless In Gaza, Anthony Beavis explains at a party in London in 1926, the correlation between sexuality and civilization. Much food for thought here:

"Civilzation and sexuality...there's a definite correlation. The higher the one, the intenser the other...

"Civilization means food and literature all round. Beefsteaks and fiction magazines for all. First class proteins for the body, fourth class love-stories for the spirit. And this in a safe urban world where there are no risks, no physical fatigues. In a town like this, for example, one can live for years at a time without being made aware that there's such a thing as nature.Everything's man-made and punctual and convenient. But people can have too much of convenience; they want excitement, they want risks and surprises. Where are they going to find them under our dispensation? In money-making, in politics, in occasional war, in sport, and finally in sex. But most people can't be speculators or active politicians, andwar's getting too much of a good thing; and the more elaborate and dangerous sports are only for the rich. So that sex is all that's left. As material civilization rises the intensity and importance of sexuality also rises. Must rise, inevitably."

In the name of vanity

2010-01-01T22:10:00.000Z

What have we done with ourselves? We have destroyed the very heart of our being, in the pursuit of what noble cause exactly? What in the world could justify such a destruction?

The pursuit of specialist knowledge, the pursuit of personality, so unique on the surface at least, yet hollow as a rotten oak one hundred years old.

It’s ego that destroys anything good and beautiful. It’s ego that perpetuates misery. The unquestioning belief in the uniqueness of the individual, so strong, it’s practically a religion, or at the very least a cult of individuality.

That one is better than others, that one has the potential to be better than others, drives most of us on, into the jaws of vanity. The rest, into the fields of misery, lying fallow until sufficiently recovered, then ploughed through by another heartless machine.

All in the name of self discovery, career development, personal gain, and new experiences. And look how the world has changed, profoundly so, because of it. What a tidal wave of influence!

Happy new year, you bastards

Great Expectations

2009-12-09T17:14:00.001Z

My dear friend Lemond and I had a short writing session together a couple of days ago. Just 3 hours with a basic hook, stolen from Willie Wonka, Lemond laid it down on piano, one mic in a room, and lyrics made up on the fly.

I never work this way alone, as I don't have the discipline. I've always got several songs on the go which are slowly added to and completed as and when I feel they're ready, so it was quite a thrill to work this fast.

I've no idea if this song is any good, perhaps it's all over the place, disjointed, laboured? I would appreciate an honest opinion though, ruthless is always respected. Up on www.myspace.com/marmadukedando take a listen, it's called Great Expectations.

Great Expectations

There we were, under threat of rain,
Arm in arm, on the banks of the Seine.
A pocket sized bicycle I bought from and old street vendor.
That out of season Popsicle, we shivered and shared together.

I said "My dear, let's move to Papua!"
I knew it would make, such good sense to her.
Was it just a figment of my imagination?
Did I fall short of great expectations?

If you want to view paradise, simply look around and view it.
Anything you want to, do it.
Open up your eyes, there's nothing to it.

Does everyone want the happy ever after?
A smooth ride and house filled with laughter.
The only one that matters, won't answer when I ask her.
Even I forget sometimes, just what it was I was after.

If you want to view paradise, simply look around and view it.
Anything you want to, do it.
Open up your eyes, there's nothing to it.

So I cannot shake, this picture in frame,
Just open your eyes, draw back the grey.

If you want to view paradise, simply look around and view it.
Anything you want to, do it.
Open up your eyes, there's nothing to it.
If you want to view paradise, simply look around and view it.
Anything you want to, do it.
Open up your eyes, there's nothing to it.

In My Solitude

2009-11-13T11:52:00.001Z

I knew this always, and yet, I have either forgotten, become stupid, or been blinded by tricks. Perhaps all three. The following passage from Aldous Huxley’s “After Many a Summer” says it all:

“…From solitude in the Womb, we emerge into solitude within the Grave. We pass our lives in the attempt to mitigate
that solitude. But Propinquity is never fusion. The most populous City is but an agglomeration of wildernesses. We exchange Words, but exchange them from prison to prison, and without hope that they will signify to others what they mean to ourselves. We marry, and there are two solitudes in the house instead of one; we beget children, and there are many solitudes. We reiterate the act of love; but again propinquity is never fusion. The most intimate contact is only of Surfaces…Pleasure cannot be shared; like Pain, it can only be experienced or inflicted, and when we give Pleasure to our Lovers or bestow Charity upon the Needy, we do so, not to gratify the object of our Benevolence, but only ourselves. For the Truth is that we are kind for the same reason as we are cruel, in order that we may enhance the sense of our own Power and this we are for ever trying to do, despite the act that by doing it we cause ourselves to feel more solitary than ever. The reality of Solitude is the same in all men, there being no mitigation of it, except in Forgetfulness, Stupidity, or Illusion; but a man’s sense of Solitude is proportionate to the sense and fact of his Power. In any set of circumstances, the more Power we have, the more intensely do we feel our solitude…”

And still we continue to operate, without the slightest allusion to the above.

Amen and step on the gas

2009-08-15T10:27:00.000+01:00

I have copied out below a fascinating chapter from Aldous Huxley's 1928 novel Point Counter Point. It's really a monologue of one man, Mark Rampion, based on DH Lawrence, punctuated by the intrigued intellectual Philip Quarles, based on Aldous Huxley himself.

I look out at the vulgar constraints of the modern world as if it were a new problem. However, as this text and plenty more from Huxley and Lawrence suggest that I am what is new, not the problem.

To have one's disorganised thoughts summarised so succinctly by someone else is always a thrill. I share them with you now, and urge you to read the book should this passage excite you as much as it does me:

'But it's so silly, all this political squabbling,' said Rampion, his voice shrill with exasperation, 'so utterly silly. Bolsheviks and Fascists, Radicals and Conservatives, Communists and British Freemen - what the devil are they all fighting about? I'll tell you. They're fighting to decide whether we shall go to hell by communist express train or capitalist racing motor car, by individualist 'bus or collectivist tram running on the rail of state control. The destination's the same in every case. They're all of them bound for hell, all headed for the same psychological impasse and the social collapse that results from psychological collapse. The only point of difference between them is: How shall we get there? It's simply impossible for a man of sense to be interested in such disputes. For the man of sense the important thing is hell, not the means of transport to be employed in getting there. The question for the man of sense is: Do we or do we not want to go to hell? And his answer is: No, we don't. And if that's his answer, then he won't have anything to do with any of the politicians. Because they all want to land us in hell. All, without exception. Lenin and Mussolini, MacDonald and Baldwin. All equally anxious to take us to hell and only squabbling about the means of taking us.'

'Some of them may take us a little more slowly than others,' suggested Philip.

Rampion shrugged his shoulders. 'But so very little more slowly that it wouldn't make any appreciable difference. They all believe in industrialism in one form or another, they all believe in Americanization. Think of the Bolshevist ideal. America but much more so. America with government departments taking the place of trusts and state officials instead of rich men. And then the ideal of the rest of Europe. The same thing, only with the rich men preserved. Machinery and Alfred Mond or Henry Ford here. The machine to take us to hell; the rich or the officials to drive it. You think one set may drive more cautiously than the other? Perhaps you're right. But I can't see that there's anything to choose between them. They're all equally in a hurry. In the name of science, progress, and human happiness! Amen and step on the gas.'

Philip nodded. 'They do step on it all right,' he said. 'They get a move on. Progress. But as you say, it's probably in the direction of the bottomless pit.'

'And the only thing the reformers can find to talk about is the shape, colour and steering arrangements of the vehicle. Can't the imbeciles see that it's the direction that matters, that we're entirely on the wrong road and ought to go back - preferably on foot, without the stinking machine?'

'You may be right,' said Philip. 'But the trouble is that given our existing world, you can't go back, you can't scrap the machine. That is, you can't do it unless you're prepared to kill off about half the human race. Industrialism made possible the doubling of the world's population in a hundred years. If you want to get rid of industrialism, you've got to slaughter half the existing number of men and women, Which might, sub specie aeternitatis or merely historiae, be an excellent thing. But hardly a matter of practical politics.'

'Not at the moment,' Rampion agreed. 'But the next war and the next revolution will make it only too practical.'

'Possibly. But one shouldn't count on wars and revolutions. Because if you count on them happening, they certainly will happen.'

'They'll happen,' said Rampion, 'whether you count on them or not. Industrial progress means over-production, means the need for getting new markets, means international rivalry, means war. And mechanical progress means more specialization and standardization of work, means more ready-made and unindividual amusements, means diminution of initiative and creativeness, means more intellectualism and the progress atrophy of all the vital and fundamental things in human nature, means increased boredom and restlessness means finally a kind of individual madness that can only result in social revolution. Count on them or not, wars and revolutions are inevitable, if things are allowed to go on as they are at present.'

'So the problem will solve itself,' said Philip.

'Only by destroying itself. When humanity's destroyed, obviously there'll be no more problem. But it seems a poor sort of solution. I believe there may be another, even within the framework of the present system. A temporary one while the system's being modified in the direction of a permanent solution. The root of the evil's in the individual psychology; so it's there, in the individual psychology, that you'd have to begin. The first step would be to make people live dualistically, in two compartments. In one compartment as industrialized workers, in the other as human beings. As idiots and machines for eight hours out of every twenty-four and real human beings for the rest. '

'Don't they do that already?'

'Of course they don't. They live as idiots and machines all the time, at work and in their leisure. Like idiots and machines, but imagining they're living like civilized humans, even like gods. The first thing to do is to make them admit that they are idiots and machines during working hours. "Our civilization being what it is," this is what you'll have to say to them, "you've got to spend eight hours out of every twenty-four as a mixture between an imbecile and a sewing machine. It's very disagreeable, I know. It's humiliating and disgusting. But there you are. You've got to do it; otherwise the whole fabric of our world will fall to bits and we'll all starve. do the job, then, idiotically and mechanically; and spend your leisure hours in being a real complete man or woman, as the case may be. Don't mix the two lives together; keep the bulkheads watertight between them. The genuine human life in your leisure hours is the real thing. The other's just a dirty job that's got to be done. And never forget that it is dirty and except in so far as it keeps you fed and society intact, utterly unimportant, utterly irrelevant to the real human life. Don't be deceived by the canting rogues who talk of the sanctity of labour and the Christian Service, that business men do their fellows. It's all lies. Your work's just a nasty, dirty job, made unfortunately necessary by the folly of your ancestors. They piled up a mountain of garbage and you've got to go digging it away, for fear it might stink you to death, dig for dear life, while cursing the memory of the maniacs who made all the dirty work for you to do. But don't try to cheer yourself up by pretending the nasty mechanical job is a noble one. It isn't; and the only result of saying and believing that it is, will be to lower your humanity to the level of the dirty work. If you believe in business as Service and the sanctity of labour you'll merely turn yourself into a mechanical idiot for twenty-four hours out of the twenty-four. Admit it's dirty, hold your nose and do it for eight hours and then concentrate on being a real human being in your leisure. A real complete human being. Not a newspaper reader, not a jazzer, not a radio fan,. The industrialists who purvey standardized ready-made amusement to the masses are doing their best to make you as much of a mechanical imbecile in your leisure as in your hours much of work. But don't let them. Make the effort of being human." That's what you've got to say to people; that's the lesson you've got to teach the young. You've got to persuade everybody that all this grand industrial civilization is just a bad smell and that the real, significant life can only be lived apart from it. It'll be a very long time before decent living and industrial smell can be reconciled. Perhaps, indeed, they're irreconcilable. It remains to be seen. In the meantime, at any rate, we must shovel the garbage and bear the smell stoically and in the intervals try to lead the real human life.'

I'll Drink To That - Video

2009-07-16T13:31:00.001+01:00

I have finally managed to work out how to extract video from a camcorder, and have uploaded to youtube this live rendition of I'll Drink To That. It's from the Sensual Earthly Women gig at St Mary's Church in Stoke Newington that we played some time in March. Hear all those reflections! Enjoy

M

The Future of Pop

2009-07-10T11:15:00.000+01:00

I have had the great fortune to be in close enough proximity to observe the progression of an extraordinary talent. His name is Lemond, also known as, Alex Reece. We both hail from the same nowhere borough just outside of the naval island city of Portsmouth.

I was in a dreadful college band when I was sixteen and we used to murder some of the indie bilge around at that time. Quite how we made it sound worse than the original is beyond me. The bass player in this band was also in Alex's band, Tarantella, and introduced us once at one of their gigs at the multiple fire ravaged Contented Pig.

Alex was wearing a Seafood T-Shirt, a band I'd not heard of, and wore glasses and was proud of the fact. Strange and vaguely exotic concepts for me at the time, how provincial! I would write about all of this in short gig reviews that I would post on the Wedgewood Rooms email group. I'm sure this made the older majority of the group either groan with boredom or guffaw uncontrollably at the computer screen.

Somehow, though I can't remember the exact details, Alex and I struck up a friendship. I remember a particular night where we'd both played on the same bill. Tarantella had a song called Shark Vs Bone, with the band shouting that for the chorus, then Alex lifting a trumpet up and blowing off a flurry of notes. I was in silent awe. The room was throbbing with people, there were drunken youths passed out in speaker cones lying in puddles of piss and beer. Ah, those heady nights upstairs in the Horseshoe (RIP. Now flats).

We'd play the open mic nights at The Priory on Victoria Road (RIP. Now flats) on Monday nights, with plenty of out of tune odd balls and 50s throw backs. I'd sing these atrocious self indulgent songs of mine laden with strained falsetto, as I'd just discovered Jeff Buckley and was about to embark on a 5 year obsession with the man. Alex would mumble quirky self-conscious tunes that just about only I enjoyed.

I saw brilliance in that man then, though justifying it is impossible. We were both terrible musicians, singers, and songwriters. More importantly, my tastes then were despicable. How could one possibly have faith in the opinion of a seventeen year old amateur of everything? And yet, thankfully, my tastes have flourished and broadened as has Alex's song writing, the two possibly in correlation.

We both moved to London for university and to make bands. Alex hid behind guitars and keys for indie pop outfit, Mike TV, rarely singing, clearly embarrassed about his voice. Though out of tune and constantly cracking in those days, there was a timbre and depth to it that demanded attention. It received it eventually, when the bloated Mike TV devolved into separate projects.

From that point on, Alex concentrated on his own songs as a solo artist. He played me demos recorded on zip tapes from those old Boss 8 tracks in his New Cross rooms. I was constantly ecstatic to hear them, and secretly insanely jealous. There were so many ideas in one song, so many weird chords I'd never heard, obscure one liners that begged intrigue. I'm sure they were all too long in those days, but the seeds were there, clarity was descending.

We both left university and London as we started, in musical terms, nowhere. I headed off to Australia to study Audio Engineering for a year, Alex to Glasgow. He holed himself up in the roof of an old Queen's Park tenement with a PC and cracked copies of Logic. I think there was some effort to produce himself, nothing more, spending months and months on the same songs.

However, by the time I came back to the motherland, things were gaining pace. His songs were now shorter and snappier. All those esoteric signatures that were once the focus, were now cleverly woven into fabric of this new sound. It was a mixture of Zoot Woman and Phoenix but with Paddy McAloon singing. Deep woah Elvis thrusts perfectly punctuated with orgasmic Patti Smith shrieks. Lemond was born.

Did I envisage any of this when I was sweet sixteen in the corner by the fruit machine? No, it was beyond my comprehension then and probably Alex's too. What I was hearing and drooling over, was the product of years of hard graft, the forging of a voice and a unique production.

A few more years in Glasgow producing more tracks and redoing old ones, found him at the end of his tether but at the top of his game. What would be the fate of him, all that hard work and no one to recognise it. I'd take the train up to see him and in the midst of the Hall and Oates YouTube clip marathon he proceeded to put me through, there was an awful sadness. A recognition that he was just another man thrashing away in his bedroom that no one would ever hear.

Thank the heavens above someone was listening. After some MP3s that had been slung around and played at Run Hide Survive parties, the songs finally made their way to a management company, and proceeded to blow their balls off. Since this happy occurrence, Lemond has been making new demos at Sarm studios for legendary producer Trevor Horn, and developing what is looking to be a long and fruitful pop career.

Lemond is a shining example to any musician, and I would point to him if any toothless young musician asked me for advice. There is nothing more pleasurable and rewarding than listening to music, and listening to as much of it from wildly different genres is just as important as practicing your instrument, if not more in the case of songwriters.

Because Lemond has followed this path, he now embodies all that is great about pop music. Dripping with sex, a production that winds you with incredible efficiency, and a lyric so sharp it'll ruthlessly disembowel you on the dance floor, there is nothing quite left for the listener to desire.

Listen to this man's work of brilliance and revel as I do in his grand ascent to stardom.

Homage to Holloway

2009-06-13T23:08:00.001+01:00

The end of an era is upon me. I am leaving my beloved Holloway this week for the envisaged greener pastures of Stoke Newington. I go in search of stimulation, inspiration, the promise of new faces, a community, and the nearness of friends both on paper and in action.

Misty eyed as I write this from my attic room on Tufnell Park Road, the heavy summer rain outside echoes my sentiments. What a time to be leaving! I was so stoic in my belief that it was better to be the last one standing, to be the outsider. Now I join the ranks of the cultured masses, the Guardianistas, the liberalati, the nutrition conscious. How awful, and yet, how agreeable.

Holloway has served me well. It was my entry point to London when I arrived as a mere child nine years ago, at the bottom of Parkhurst Road, where the A1 begins it's ascent to the Northern reaches of the country, I took rooms. Four lanes of traffic serenaded me to sleep every night, and the soft concrete landscape soothed my provincial eyes.

What a fool I was to follow in the footsteps, almost literally, of Dick Whittington. To believe the streets of London were paved with gold. I arrived fresh off the family Corsa expecting to rise to indie stardom within months. How wrong I could be. How much time I wasted on that fruitless exercise.

There was always a consolation however. The Prince Edward opposite Holloway prison on Parkhurst Road has seen me grow from the floppy haired pretty boy into the upstanding gent I strive to be today. Inebriating me with pints of Fosters and Chicken Walkers at the lowest and highest points in my life. Though the selection of beer is nothing short of drab, I challenge anyone to find a better served pint of anything The Prince Edward offers. With an award winning beer garden, sadly ruined by the need to turn it into a smoker's shelter, and a barman so consistently incomprehensible you can only laugh and nod, it has all you really need in a pub, in a living room, in a life.

I've decried The Prince Edward as the best pub in the world many a time, and let me state once and for all the reason why. The reason for this is the reason why anything is any good in all walks of life: they get the important things right, and don't try too hard. A motto to be observed, but ironically, one that can never be followed.

In those early days though, I hated it, I truly despised it. It was ugly, crude, dangerous, and a bloody shock to the system, coming from the disgustingly sheltered suburbs. In reaction I planned a temporary escape from it's clutches to a more charmed existence in a less cultured continent. From there I had the opportunity to reflect on just what I left behind. A utopia it wasn't, and all the better for it.

On returning to the bosom for a second suckle, I started to pay homage to Holloway. Every song you've had the displeasure of hearing in the last few years has been written with this in mind. A backdrop to the ballads, hopefully subtle references to my escapades in and around the streets.

Perhaps 'The Last Embrace' epitomises this aim of mine. A particularly maudlin song about the non-existence of spirituality set on the bench in St George's park below my window. I sang it to the pigeons, and the drunks that should be left alone as they desire and certainly not admonished for choosing the bottle over an enduring human relationship. If there was of course, any choice to be made.

The polar opposite of that would be the celebration of the antic hay I have danced here, in the form of 'Life Can't Get Any Better'. Introduced at my shows as "A love song set on Holloway Road", it tries to encapsulate that feeling one has after the third pint. You're in the greatest city in the world, a pit bull off the leash, and there is a woman you admire and she returns your advances. The moment is fleeting of course, but still it existed, and why not celebrate it? For you know as well as I that I revel in my own misery all too often.

So here it is then. The last goodbye? I shouldn't think so, but a marked departure if nothing else. I shall certainly be back for a confused exchange of words with Sean at The Prince. It was once the centre of the known world for me, and may it continue to be.

Goodbye old friend.

MDH

United I stand

2009-05-07T16:00:00.001+01:00

Silence is golden after all. The mobile phone has been firmly shut away in my drawer for one month now, and with no calamities to speak of. No piercing shrieks in the morning from the built-in alarm clock. Daylight wakes me now.

The occasions where I've needed to call someone, or have someone call me, I set aside some time when I was ready, and made or took the call in the comfort of my chambers.

People have often tried to get hold of me urgently for various reasons, but have had to either work it out themselves or call someone I'm with. Both ways are prime examples of devolved responsibility. I feel entirely comfortable with this new, albeit, minor freedom, and intend on continuing in this fashion.

My father on the other hand, a man of reasonably advanced years, who has written hand letters well into the 90s, and typed letters on Word Processors well into the 00s (all in capitals I might add) is now telling me he wants to "get on the net".

As I slowly turn away from the vulgarities of the 21st century he'd spoken of my whole life, he sees the false light of global communication as a portal to a more fulfilling world.

I was so ready to embrace him. To pen a letter on parchment with quill and squid ink, and ecstatically confirm "Dad, you were right! You were right all along!".

Who now will clasp me to their bosom in solidarity? United I stand. Alone.

For the love of music

2009-05-06T15:00:00.001+01:00

I have just returned from a free lunchtime concert in the new hall in Lincoln's Inn, just by Chancery Lane. As usual, it was breathtakingly brilliant, with some of the best young musicians in the world, if not the country. Today's concert comprised of violinist Zhanna Tonaganyan and pianist Yulia Vorontsova, both from Russia, playing Mozart's "Sonata B-dur", Liszt's "Tarantella", and Glazunov's "Violin Concerto in A minor, op. 82".

Also quite staggering is the fact that there were just 10 people in the audience. Last night I went to Ronnie Scott's for the first time to see John Surman. As much as I like Surman, and enjoyed soaking up the atmosphere of the legendary venue, I couldn't quite get over the exclusiveness of it all. Ronnie's was as far as I could see, sold out, despite the cheapest ticket costing £30. On a Tuesday night.

This brings me to the usual conclusion that the public, tragically, only trust certain media for their sources of entertainment. Established venues pull in crowds simply because they've been doing it for a long time and people believe in the prestigious nature of the venue. The thought is something like this: "If they're playing there, then they must be good". This is quite simply, not the case.

For the love of music, I implore you to go and see one of these free concerts at Lincoln's Inn. Not only have they sparked a burgeoning interest in classical music in me and provided a grounding in that genre, but they have been some of the best concerts I've had the great fortune to witness in the past year.

For details of the upcoming concerts, see this programme.

Speak low, when you speak love...

2009-04-24T12:54:00.000+01:00

It is with much enthusiasm that I bring you news of some summer shows. The boys at the Fitzrovia Radio Hour, have kindly booked us for the opening party of a new venue under the legendary Shakespeare's Globe Theatre, Friday May 29th. The new venue will be called The Underglobe, would you believe, and promises to be a very busy night with all the usual and not so usual accoutrements to the typical 21st century soiree.

From this, we hope to be starting a residency of sorts in the Swan bar, also attached to the Globe theatre, confirmed so far as Saturday June 6th, and 27th. We will play 2 sets (expect some covers) to the punters that would be spilling out from the Globe theatre after the play ends, about 10.30pm. This will be free entry, and should be quite an experience, with views over the Thames and St Pauls at night.

Perhaps come and see a play at the theatre then take some drinks after and allow us to serenade you. If it's a hot night, we may even be performing on the terrace. On June 6th the play is Romeo & Juliet, and on the 27th it will be As You Like It. For more information regarding the plays, please follow this link:

http://www.shakespeares-globe.org/calendarofevents/thismonthattheglobe/?month=2009-06

We still have some shows in some wonderful venues before the thespian onslaught begins however, the next one being this Tuesday in the West End:

28 Apr 2009 Bourne & Hollingsworth, Fitzrovia, London - Free
12 May 2009 Hope & Anchor, Islington, London - £5
14 May 2009 St Mary’s Church, Stoke Newington - £5
21 May 2009 The Camden Head w/ Joe Worricker (new Rough Trade signing), Camden, London - £5
29 May 2009 The Underglobe, Southbank, London - £TBC
6 Jun 2009 The Swan, Southbank, London - Free
27 Jun 2009 The Swan, Southbank, London - Free

It would be wonderful to see you on one of these balmy nights.

MDH

Mobile Bone

2009-04-06T18:33:00.000+01:00

The time has come to stop fooling around with technical gadgets and get on with life. I have pretended for too long that they actually benefit me, make things easier. I have held on to the belief that I need them all to promote my music, but that clearly has no effect whatsoever. So from tonight I will start by consigning my mobile phone to a shut drawer, for one month.

I may of course be wrong about this technology malarkey. It may enhance my life after all, and I am more than willing to admit this fact, should it come to light. I will not however mask my gleeful anticipation at not being interrupted at any moment of the day, let alone the middle of the night.

I look forward with immense enthusiasm to my new lack of responsibility. No longer will I be called upon at 11th hour for anything. I envisage many hours spent in pubs waiting for flaky friends, but with a book and a pint of ale, what more could one need? My eyes will finally be free from the paranoid flickers to the phone display. "Have I received a text but I didn't hear it? Perhaps they rung while I was in transit and I never felt it vibrate in my pocket?"

Is it possible that silence can be as sweet as I imagine it to be? I shall report back in one month on my findings. Happy twiddling.

MDH

Without a shadow of a doubt

2009-03-25T11:38:00.001Z

Sincerely yours,
Despite the rolling eyes,
That have seen it all before,
And don't wish to see it again,
Well to hell with that and them,
Because I, have finally figured it out...

Without a shadow of a doubt,
Nothing can phase me now,
I even find it hard to imagine how,
I've lived so long, without you on,
My mind. Intervention is divine.
There's nothing I'm more sure about,
Without a shadow of a doubt.

Heathcliffian surly,
Could it be that for her,
I have come too early,
And the paranoid thoughts I foster,
Will expose me as an imposter,
Any minute now, I will be found out

Without a shadow of a doubt,
Nothing can phase me now,
I even find it hard to imagine how,
I've lived so long, without you on,
My mind. Intervention is divine.
There's nothing I'm more sure about,

Without a shadow of a doubt,
Nothing can phase me now,
Save the thought of you running out,
On me, but that can only be,
Confined to morbid fantasy,
There's nothing I'm sure about,
Without a shadow of a doubt.

Written by Marmaduke Dando Hutchings

Everything is free

2009-02-20T18:28:00.000Z

I had been obsessed with Gillian Welch about a year ago, specifically Time: The Revelator, needing to hear it a couple of times a day. Time wore on, and other stimuli infiltrated my attention. Listening indifferently to it just this week, whilst toiling away at some administrative nonsense, the meaning of one of the songs, Everything Is Free, suddenly became clear. I'd fallen in love with her morose southern drawl and the simplicity of the recordings, not particularly the content of the lyrics.

Everything Is Free seemed to resonate strongly with my own feelings about how music is these days, how the way the world works now. We give everything away for free because we can't beat the pirates. They're too many, we are too few, and our righteous cause of payment for goods and services delivered, is dismissed, let alone even considered. So instead of beating them, we acquiesce, and take money from sponsors instead, directly or indirectly rather than from the listeners themselves.

What I love the most about the song though, is the last verse, which intimates that, if this is the way it must be, then one has no right to demand anything from the musician. Their expression of creativity may well be free for all to hear, but pure. Free from meddling record companies with agendas. The control is placed firmly within the musician's hands.

Whether this is a good thing or not, is somewhat subjective. Some sort of direction, whether it comes from the musician or whether it comes from some svengali type, is always positive. Personally I see both sources of direction as being equally valid, regardless of whether they make money or not. Financial success shouldn't really be linked to purity of expression, or the corruption of it, though it often is. Her two fingers up at all that ironically undermine and yet demand of her, and the stoical nature of her music is something to admired.

Lyrics printed below:

Everything is free now,
That's what they say.
Everything I ever loved,
I'm going to give it away.
Someone hit the big score.
They figured it out,
That we're gonna do it anyway,
Even if doesn't pay.

I can get a tip jar,
Gas up the car,
And try to make a little change
Down at the bar.

Or I can get a straight job,
I've done it before.
I never minded working hard,
It's who I'm working for.

(Chorus)

Every day I wake up,
Come in a song.
But I don't need to run around,
I just stay home.

And sing a little love song,
My love, to myself.
If there's something that you want to hear,
You can sing it yourself.

'Cause everything is free now,
That what I say.
No one's got to listen to
The words in my head.
Someone hit the big score,
And I figured it out,
That we're gonna do it anyway,
Even if doesn't pay.

Listen to the song here:
http://www.myspace.com/gillianwelch

Power Down VII, February 28th, 2009

2009-02-17T23:27:00.000Z

Power Down VII is upon us, and will be Saturday February 28th at the Islington Arts Factory, 2 Parkhurst Road, N7 0SF. Apologies for the late news of this date, but we had a slight issue with the cancellation of some acts. However, all the troubles are over, and this will be a very special one, i can guarantee that.

If you're new to this and are unsure what Power Down is, it is this:

"Power Down is an irregular night of eclectic musical entertainment that aims to promote sustainability through subtle means. The performers are completely unamplified and the audience is silent out of necessity. The lighting is provided by donated candles and a type of candle that we make ourselves using recycled vegetable oil from the local fish and chip shop. Food and beverages are served which are either organic or locally produced. The nights are held together by the host Marmaduke Dando, and are generally held at the Islington Arts Factory in Holloway, north London.

"The following acts have performed at Power Down in the last 2 years: The Hoosiers, Liam Bailey, Cellorhythmics, Seb Genovese, Ahuman, Portico Quartet, Chris Lyons, Rebecca Jade, Rachel Rose Reid, Rob McCabe, Tall Stories, Sara Mitra, Josephine Oniyama, Citizen Helene & The Racists, Lemond, Chancery Blame and The Gadjo Club, Zoot Lynam and his band, Top Shelf Jazz, The Langley Sisters, Ed Harcourt, and Marmaduke Dando. "

The line-up for this Power Down will be just 3 acts this time, to give you all enough time to drink and talk in between sets, and make the last tubes.

The line-up for Power Down VII will be just 3 acts this time, to give you all enough time to drink and talk in between sets, and make the last tubes.

Cellorhythmics as the Working Classical Orchestra - The progressive cello group who played the first ever Power Down with The Hoosiers two years ago are back with their 10 piece orchestra, the Working Classical Orchestra. Have a listen and look at one of their performances here:

Kat Vipers - Hailing originally from Greece, Kat Vipers is a young pianist with a flamboyant vibrato that croons over everything from gypsy folk, to punk and sinister fifties-era melodrama. Have a listen and look here:

The Boycott Coca Cola Experience - One man on a bicycle playing his guitar while he rides to power a small amp (a momentary power up). Hilariously dry tales of the horrors of the modern world. Take a peak here:

Entrance will be 5 pounds on the door, and doors will open at 8pm. The first performer will be on about 8.30pm. The usual cheap organic drinks will be on sale at the bar.

There are about one hundred buses that stop outside the venue, and there are two close tube stations, Holloway Road and Caledonian Road station. Do not fear if you reside in some far flung recess of London, the entertainment will be finished in time for you to catch your tubes. As this aims to be a low carbon event, we urge the audience to use public transport, bicycles or their own feet to get to the venue, as the performers will also be doing. There are secure places to lock your bikes. If you have to drive, then please don't come!

Enjoy the silence

2009-02-02T11:32:00.000Z

London is under a blanket of snow. I stayed up late last night looking over it all in wonder. The sky was sodium orange, almost like daylight, the city lights reflected in the flakes. How I imagine daylight on Mars to be, two thirds the strength of Earth light, and with an eerie tangerine glow to it.

This morning, no public services are working of course, and it's too heavy to cycle or walk. There are children laughing, adults grinning, snowmen leaning wonkily, and a silence I've not heard, since, hmmm, my travels through Siberia, and Mongolia.

Not only is it the acoustic quality of snow, that sucks up all sound, and kills reflections, but it's the fact that there are hardly any machines running today. Just a smattering of cars, going very slowly. It's utter heaven. Imagine what London would be like with this few machines? It would be a utopia. Marinetti wouldn't know where to look. The only thing to complete the scene would be to have the church bells playing Gershwin, Rhapsody in Blue.

What a wonderful world.

Darkness at noon

2009-01-19T13:53:00.000Z

I'm just chomping through Darkness At Noon by Arthur Koestler and came upon this little gem:

"A mathematician once said that algebra was the science for lazy people - one does not work out x, but operates with it as if one knew it. In our case, x stands for the anonymous masses, the people. Politics mean operating with this x without worrying about its actual nature. Making history is to recognise x for what it stands for in the equation."

How the candles are made at Power Down

2009-01-09T12:15:00.001Z

Since Power Down began, the lighting we employ has gone through a number of incarnations. I scoured the internet looking for the best source of lighting for our needs, and found many possible solutions. Clearly the motive behind Power Down is the looming energy crisis and man's contribution to global warming, so it was imperative to bare this in mind when choosing the solution.

The first thing to address is the inefficiency of candles over electric light. For the same amount of calories that a typical candle would burn to produce light, an incandescent light bulb will glow 39 times brighter. Imagine then using a Compact Fluorescent Light, or even LEDs, and you'll have an greater degree of efficiency.

However, the beauty of the atmosphere at Power Down is the low luminosity of candle light. There would be no vibe whatsoever if the audience and performers were bathed in a blazing grey light from a ceiling array of LEDs. Not to mention, the name of the night alludes to zero power usage, regardless of the source.

So candles it was. Though actually, at first it was oil lamps. I asked my local fish and chip shop in Holloway, the Odeon Fish and Chip Shop, whether they had any spare vegetable oil I could have. All they did with the oil was to leave it outside for collection by the company that delivered fresh supplies. This would most probably be thrown on landfill or worked into pet food. Something to consider the next time you bite into one of your dog's biscuits.

I then began making these fiddly little contraptions, oil lamps made from glass jars, water, the oil, paper clips, and wicks made from platted string. They burn very well, and if just a few, they're quite manageable. With 70 of the blighters, it turned out that there were just too many to attend to all night.

If you can imagine, there was water in the jar about 7/8ths to the top. Oil filled the final 8th, and a wick would be held in the centre of the jar by a paper clip hanging from the side of the jar lip. The wick would hang from it's position, through the oil, and down into the water. When lit, the oil would be sucked up through the wick by capillary action to the tip, where it would be burned by the flame, and heat, light, soot, and carbon dioxide would be produced. After a while, the decrease in oil would be noticeable, by exposing more of the wick, creating a bigger and dirtier flame. This was combated by one of 3 ways: 1 - Trimming the wick in mid burn, 2 - Topping the jar up with more oil, and 3 - Topping the jar up with more water. The third choice was the most practical, and hence implemented. This had me rushing around with a small watering can delicately filling up the jars to keep the flames at the optimum size. Whilst trying to arrange the performers and host the evening, you can imagine this was quite a task.

Not only were they hard to maintain in great numbers, but when kicked over by an appendage under the influence of delicious organic beer, sending oil and water flying in all directions, they made a bloody mess! So the design of the lighting had to improve to be more independent and be made of a less capricious substance.

I was inspired by margarine. It is made from vegetable oil and yet is semi solid. How do they do that? I researched the hydrogenation process and found that it's done by heating the oil to hundreds of degrees centigrade and at a huge pressure. Not something I could feasibly do on my stove at home.

Buying candles was not an option, as it would be creating demand for raw and often finite materials, such as crude oil which refines to paraffin, found in candles. Candles made from vegetables, soya etc would be made from crops likely to be taking the place of food crops, or precious rainforest, not to mention the transportation of the stuff, likely to be from the other side of the world.

The conclusion I came to was to use the second hand vegetable oil I already had, and mix it with redundant wax from candles that have had their wicks burn down, and then make them into new candles. The solidity from the paraffin in the candles would be compromised by oil diluting the wax, but it would make more candles, and so increase efficiency.

I had to extract this redundant wax from the well crafted under-sink cupboards of Islington somehow, and I did so through Freecycle. Many donations came through, after the specific plea that they should not create a demand for new candles to be purchased in the shops.

Once the harvest was sufficient, I took a large saucepan, filled it with the second hand vegetable oil, and began to heat it slowly. I then added some of the broken and redundant wax from the donations I'd received, until it had melted. I never measured anything accurately, but I would hazard a guess that the ratio is one part of wax, to five parts of oil. I then ladled this out into myriad containers, with short lengths of string for wicks. These were anchored to the bottom of the container by a thin metal square from a beer can with a split cut halfway in that held the bottom of the wick. The containers were a collection of sardine tins and mince pie cups. The liquid would take roughly an hour to cool properly, and would then of course harden. The candles were now ready for transportation or use, with no mess. The little maintenance that is involved is a simple wick trim with a pair of scissors, but this is far less frequent than with the oil lamps.

If you've been to a Power Down before, you may notice that there are some very smart looking white church candles adorning walls and podiums. These are not the candles described above. They were donated from a company in the City that, despite their generous nature in this instance, do not warrant any form of advertising. They had bought all these candles for the tables of some award ceremony, which were burnt during, and after became useless to them. It seemed an awful shame to melt down such good candles into the mucky brown pallets, so I left them intact. They've been lighting the churches for over a year now.

So hopefully, this riveting read has mildly absolved Power Down from the guilt spawned from the culture of waste, if not because of a reduction in emissions. It is hoped that for every Power Down that is staged, the nightly carbon footprints of 200 people are considerably reduced, by choosing our night of entertainment over something more traditionally profligate.

MDH

Atrocity Exhibition

2008-12-21T23:57:00.000Z

There is not a more perfect picture of man's ugliness than that of S**********. The scourge of all things striving toward beauty and absolution. A tick the size of a city. An invading species of suffocating kelp. A farm of subsistence misery, encapsulates forgotten terrain.

Dissonance reeks in every shadow, while grace cowers in neglected reservations. Traffic lights abound, as breathing apparatus for the ignominious. Lice, behind painted slabs, breed without hesitation. For boom and bust, in fog we trust.

At the General, the grand frame, the wicked altar, a palace of filth, all the glaring instances of vulgarity this hateful mess contains are held. As if on show in a state museum, a pageant for successful mutations, an atrocity exhibition.

What a place for one to die. What a place to say goodbye.

A Summary of 2008

2008-12-12T16:07:00.001Z

Now the year of Two Thousand and Eight is drawing to close, I thought it might be an appropriate time to take stock of the musical happenings of the past year. I can't quite muster the correct amount of enthusiasm for this, but as well as it being a cathartic process for myself, the documenting of the quality of venue and general experience of over 40 gigs I have played this year in London, may prove useful to others that are about to embark on a similar endeavour.

20 Dec 2008 - Mutate Britain @ Cordy House, 87-95 Curtain Road, Shoreditch

Not yet played.

09 Dec 2008 - Bourne and Hollingsworth, 28 Rathbone Place, Fitzrovia

See below.

07 Dec 2008 - Sensual Earthly Women @ Ryan’s Bar, 181 Stoke Newington Church Street

See below.

20 Nov 2008 - The Last Days of Decadence, 145 Shoreditch High Street, Shoreditch

Awful sound, rude staff, full of vapid wankers with unhinged jaws. No redeeming features. Would never return, not even for a drink.

19 Nov 2008 - Cirque de Crème Anglaise @ The Cross Kings (Upstairs), 126 York Way, King’s Cross

Pleasant set of coves that run this night. Good sound on stage, messy back room, lots of things scattered around, custard creams aplenty and London Pride on tap. Would certainly play here again.

05 Nov 2008 - Chicken Royale @ Bar Monsta, 18 Kentish Town Road

Awful bar with a stage, devoid of any character, though the promoter was reasonable enough. One of those nights where you'd rather stay in an watch Strictly with your fiancée. Would never play here again.

18 Oct 2008 - Biddle Bros, 88 Lower Clapton Road

Back room of a quaint bar in an unlikely area. Reasonable sound, agreeable audience. No payment, though I think a few drinks are provided if not playing as part of a Saturday jam session, which I had no idea I was playing. Piano exists in this bar, but not sure of it's tuning. Would play here again, but on a dedicated night, not a jam night.

10 Oct 2008 - Sensual Earthly Women @ Ryan’s Bar, 118 Stoke Newington Church Street

Excellent sound downstairs, run by SEW, always a pleasure. Would play again in a shot.

09 Oct 2008 - Boogaloo, 312 Archway Road, Highgate

See below.

04 Oct 2008 - Power Down VI, Islington Arts Factory, 2 Parkhurst Road, Holloway

The birth place of the Power Down movement, the Islington Arts Factory is an arts space in a converted church. The huge cavernous hall lends itself perfectly for the divine acoustics when using unamplified instruments. Wonderful people working behind the bar, and a great feeling of well being amongst the audience. A working, in-tune piano and other instruments provided. Candle lit as standard and low on carbon emissions. Performers get paid very well, in my experience. Would always play here, as it's my initiative.

25 Sep 2008 - Boogaloo, 312 Archway Road, Highgate

Unfortunately one is not tripping over Shane McGowan's comatose body when entering this notorious north London boozer. Always a crowd forming irrespective of your act, usually some guest list and some drinks. PA is wholly ineffective and strains under the weight of more than 2 inputs. Don't even think about putting a bass through it. It will probably never get upgraded either, as there is a limiter that cuts all electricity once the levels in the room reach speaking volume. There is a neglected piano usually piled with guitar cases and leads, not sure how in tune it is. Would play here again, but would have to choose instrumentation wisely and consider logistics of amplification.

20 Sep 2008 - Decasia Club @ The George Tavern, 373 Commercial Road

Pleasant and enthusiastic promoter, free drinks and a guest list, who would have thought such privileges exist?! An old east end boozer with a lot of character. Full of dirt, the stage a happy after thought in the corner of the room. Good sound, plenty of vibe, an audience that comes not just for the bands, so one finds new ears for a thrashing. They even have bottles of Shepherd Neame behind the bar, albeit at ludicrous prices. Would love to play here again.

05 Sep 2008 - Viva Viva, 18 High St, Hornsey

A restaurant with a stage in the middle of nowhere. Very difficult to get to for all involved. Bar staff and owner are most agreeable, and the sound is crisp. Would be reluctant to play here again.

21 Aug 2008 - The Betsey Trotswood (downstairs), Farringdon Road

Always had grief playing here in the last few years, mainly from promoters who are passing on their own problems to the acts with the militant and unreasonable venue regulations and hire price. Why promoters should be paying to hire out a venue, let alone one smaller than most people's living rooms, is beyond me. When the promoter is reluctant to give you £20 for the taxi to move all the gear you're sharing with everyone, and regardless of the fact that you've brought an audience of a more than decent size, been given no guest list or complimentary lubricants, you can only wonder why you bother. Though the sound is surprisingly good for such an intimate venue, the persistent hassle undermines any enjoyment one might have had. Wouldn't play here again.

17 Aug 2008 - Barden’s Boudoir, 38-44 Stoke Newington Road

Shoddy sound in here, though that may be to do with the rectangular shape of the room and the placement of the stage, and the hard flat surfaces everywhere. Empty it's rather disheartening and pointless, full, I can imagine a right raucous occasion with perhaps an improvement in audio quality. Reluctant to play here again, but probably easily persuaded.

14 Aug 2008 - Power Down V, St Mary’s Church, Stoke Newington

As stated before, an incredible place to play, and even better unamplified. To hear your voice naturally reverberating around the church walls is a heavenly experience. Audience sat quiet and attentively in the pews and candle lit. One of the high moments of the year. Would jump at any opportunity to play here again.

26 Jul 2008 - Stranger Than Paradise, DEX, 467-469 Brixton Road

Played on the rooftop under a small tent at the height of summer, very romantic, sipping Gin and Tonics on the terrace overlooking the immediate Brixton skyline. Promoter looks after you well, lots of other interesting and entertaining things to do and see. Surprisingly easy to get back to North London at 4am: 2 buses but plenty of them so not much waiting. Would play for them again.

24 Jul 2008 - The Lock Tavern, 35 Chalk Farm Road

Awful sound, rude staff, full of vapid wankers with unhinged jaws. No redeeming features. Would never return, not even for a drink.

15 Jul 2008 - Bourne and Hollingsworth, 28 Rathbone Place, Fitzrovia

A wonderful basement bar in a most underrated part of town. Old wallpaper, tea room vibe, jovial coves serving Asahi and Gin and Tonics. Sound done behind the bar, simple yet clear. Tiny room makes for a heaving pack standing on the toes of the performers. Just as it should be. Would play again whenever possible.

12 Jul 2008 - Feeling Gloomy, Islington Academy, N1 Complex, Angel

Awful sound, dreadful beer, abysmal selection of drinks and served in an unapologetic savage fashion: plastic cups. Stirling chaps that run the night, but the venue, owned by Carling, can in my opinion, go to hell. Would hate to play this place again, but fear it may be one of those compromises.

05 Jul 2008 - The Wilmington (supporting Yeti),

See below.

02 Jul 2008 - The Defectors Weld, 170 Uxbridge Road

There's rarely a good reason for heading west, and despite the horror of the flowers on the bar downstairs invoke, it's a decent pub. The upstairs venue is tiny, quaint and warm, crammed full of vintage sofas. The sound is excellent, free beer was provided. Would certainly play here again, though because of it's western location, pulling a crowd is difficult.

28 Jun 2008 - The Lion, 132 Stoke Newington Church Street

Half a PA, dreadful acoustics. Would not play here again.

26 Jun 2008 - Tommy Flynn’s, 55 Camden High Street

Grubby, loud, full of oddballs, about as good as Camden gets. Would certainly play here again.

18 Jun 2008 - Jrink, 62 Frith Street

Soho cocktail bar devoid of character. Not even worth a drink let alone the bother of performing.

13 Jun 2008 - Wilmington Arms, Roseberry Avenue

Reasonably established intimate venue that didn't live up to expectations. Bad sound, lazy engineer, and a bouquet of flowers on top of the bar. Would prefer not to play here again but wouldn't rule it out.

08 Jun 2008 - Maggie’s, 98-100 Stoke Newington Church Street

Awful bar with ghastly decor, mirrors everywhere, pvc covered seating and where visible, orange walls. Sound dire. Ruthless harridan that runs the place will throw anyone out without hesitation or logic. Would not play here again even if my life depended on it.

07 Jun 2008 - The Deptford Arms, 52 Deptford High St

Probably the least disturbing of pubs in Deptford, with a vague connection to the arts. Reasonable sound, strange audience. Hard to get yourself down to Deptford, let alone any fans or friends you may have. Held a certain raw charm to it. Would prefer not to play here again.

05 Jun 2008 - City Hall - World Environment Day

A real highlight of the year, and a gig never to forget. Though we only played 2 songs, I bellowed across London's Living room, while the sun went down on the capital. Made many contacts in sustainable industries here. Very attentive audience. Free organic wine. Would play here again in a shot.

29 May 2008 - The Hideaway, 114 Junction Road

See below.

18 May 2008 - World’s End, Opposite Camden Tube Station

See below.

11 May 2008 - Rock Garden, Covent Garden

A Sunday afternoon of a hodge podge of genres. Good sound, little vibe. Would be apprehensive to play here again.

05 May 2008 - The Green, 29 Clerkenwell Green

See below.

29 Mar 2008 - Sensual Earthly Women @ St Mary’s Old Church, at the start of Stoke Newington Church Street

Sensual Earthly Women is a night run by Saint Natasa of Stokie. Through her nights I've met what I believe to be the cream of London song writing. Equipment provided, lots of familiar faces in the crowd, free grappa. No payment, but always good times. This particular venue is a dream to play in terms of atmosphere as it's over 500 years old. However, the sound, when heavily amplified is quite muddy.

16 Mar 2008 - Above the Clock @ The Green, 29 Clerkenwell Green

See below.

17 Feb 2008 - World’s End, 174 Camden High Street

A Sunday afternoon gig, playing to the weary shoppers of tat from Camden Market. Usually quite busy, full of people you don't know and refreshing in that respect. Stage set up in front of the fire escape. Flat stone surfaces all around this pub make the sound lack clarity. Couple of free can's of Carling and Strongbow. Pleasant fellows that run it. Would rather not play here again.

15 Feb 2008 - Deptford Birds Nest, 32 Deptford Church Street

Dreary old pub on the side of a dual carriageway. Deptford isn't the most magnetic of places at the best of times, and this hovel does the village no favours. Wouldn't play here again under any circumstances.

10 Feb 2008 - Above the Clock @ The Green, 29 Clerkenwell Green

A big airy room with pleasing acoustics, little amplification needed. No hassle to arrange or perform. Food was served for the performers, a few free drinks too. Many enjoyable Sunday afternoons playing here. Would love to play here again.

31 Jan 2008 - The Hideaway - Tango In The Night, 114 Junction Road

Yet another gloomy basement, as all venues should be. Wonderful people who run this joint. For an intimate setting this is splendid. Unfortunately, there's an irritating neighbour directly above that rains terror down on the whole place, forcing music to be kept to a level barely audible. Would play here again once neighbour has been dealt with.

18 Jan 2008 - The Constitution, 42 St Pancras Way

Easily the best pub in Camden, though that isn't saying much. A charming beer garden overlooking the canal, and a dingy basement where bands cram onto a stage no bigger than a coffin. Awful sound, easily remedied, but no will to do so. Heaps of charm but would only play here again as a 3 piece.

13 Jan 2008 - 93 Feet East, 150 Brick Lane

A large cold hall out the back with little character. Good sound as I remember. Highly unsuitable for my act. Would prefer not to play here again, though it appears I am.

Make of that what you will. If you are a promoter that has read this far, first of all I congratulate you! You've done more research on your acts than most. Secondly, you should know that I enjoy playing live as much as possible, but obviously to a point. I've never demanded money or anything else from anyone, least of all had expectations. A few free drinks and money for transport if one is providing the equipment, is obviously much appreciated. I love dives, any place with character, and stocked with genuine types will have me chomping at the bit.

Thank you to all that have made this year one to look back on with delight. Have a merry Christmas and good will to all.

MDH

The King of Hearts (An ode to King John)

2008-10-14T13:00:00.001+01:00

For life he lusts,

Beneath that shaggy mane,

Sprinkled with gold dust,

Set in a denim frame.

A fellow commentator,

On the peculiar nature,

Of the cruel spatula,

That serves gruel only to a bachelor.

Oh! The consultations I must fair,

With ladies of various dispositions,

On how exactly they could ensnare,

This dear chap, and clip his ambitions.

"Stay well clear" I tell them,

Do not spoil the Essence,

Allow him to live on,

Forever in our presence,

As the King of Hearts,

And of perpetual laughs,

Mrs Patterson's only son,

And my good friend, King John.

Wax Lyrical

2008-09-30T22:50:00.000+01:00

There has been a number of requests for the lyrics of my songs to be published. Well, here, I finally acquiesce and leave them for your critical eyes...feel free to comment and attempt to describe what each song is about, and perhaps I shall confirm or correct those assumptions.

I'll Drink to That

2008-09-30T22:48:00.000+01:00

I'll drink to that, I'll drink to anything and everything, that keeps the spirits high and flowing befriended strangers from going oh anything will do, to occupy the mind of a fool.

Some put their trust not in god but in vanities. Capital drives the fruitless slog and perpetuates insanity. I put mine in the competent hands of the barkeep. I'd rather be propping the bar up, than have the whole world baring down on me.

Yes, I'll drink to that, I'll drink to anything and everything, that keeps the spirits high and flowing befriended strangers from going oh anything will do, to occupy the mind of a fool.

How awful it must be to be terminally employed. Why toil away at trifles when you can be permanently devoid of all the qualities that make up the so called modern man? I'd rather be ridiculed than ridiculous with a glass held in my hand I say...

I'll drink to that, I'll drink to anything and everything, that keeps the spirits high and flowing befriended strangers from going oh anything will do, to occupy the mind of a fool.

For every dram of pleasure I've swallowed and ocean of pain. With all my heart invested and not a penny to my name. The thanks I get is equal to the sum of worthless acts of kindness less than none are a part of the qualities that make up the so called modern man. I'd rather be ridiculed than ridiculous with a glass held in my hand I say...

I'll drink to that, I'll drink to anything and everything, that keeps the spirits high and flowing befriended strangers from going oh anything will do, to occupy the mind of a fool. I'll drink to that, I'll drink to anything and everything. Even to enemies, their health, their families, their wealth, oh anything will do to keep me from the horrors of solitude.

Written by Marmaduke Dando Hutchings

Who Would Have Thought We Would Go to the Moon and Stop

2008-09-30T22:43:00.001+01:00

Who would have thought we would go to the moon and stop? To harness the power of swoon and then drop, the reins as if failure were not a choice but preordained by an authoritative voice, who would have thought we would go to the moon and stop?

I'd have burned down that flag if we'd stayed long enough and replaced with a symbol of love, but matches won't work without air, and hey maybe that's why we got scared?

Who would have thought we would go to the moon and stop? To harness the power of swoon and then drop, the reins as if failure were not a choice but preordained by an authoritative voice, who would have thought we would go to the moon and stop?

The man who hangs in the crescent we thought was just charming and pleasant, but critics will always be there, and hey maybe that's why we got scared?

Who would have thought we would go to the moon and stop? To harness the power of swoon and then drop, the reins as if failure were not a choice but preordained by an authoritative voice, who would have thought we would go to the moon and stop?

Now we sit side by side thanks to friends who conspired. Let's return to the moon, let's return to full swoon, let's return to the moon and pick up where we left off.

Written by Marmaduke Dando Hutchings

All Of Me

2008-09-30T22:38:00.000+01:00

Forgive me not for the slightest humility. Question not my plight's futility. You once handed me your heart, I just crushed it with a laugh. Treat me not as a gentleman, but like the savage that I am...and you'll have all of me. Yes, I mean all of me. Well, what's left of me, is yours to keep and do with as you please.

Now you have my attention undivided, walk on as if you care not in the slightest. I've tried many avenues and they all seem to lead to you. You must convince me that I am something you cannot stand...and you'll have all of me. Yes, I mean all of me. Well, what's left of me, is yours to keep and do with as you please.

And here in the flames of passion, I attempt to beat down with my rationale...well to burn under your scorn is a better fate than none at all...and you'll have all of me. Yes, I mean all of me. Well, what's left of me, is yours to keep and do with as you please.

Written by Marmaduke Dando Hutchings

No Tomorrow

2008-09-30T22:28:00.000+01:00

So you say, there's nothing here to live for. Everyday I long to hear my name called. Even though I prepare the ground for words to leave you, still they don't tumble forth so freely.

And you wish there was no tomorrow, and damn yourself to the heights of sorrow. There's no exception to your rule, I'm just another bloody fool.

I exclaim at such a fine mess you keep. I'd clear it up if only you would let me sweep. You can hang your head, just let me tip it up at times, into my eyes tell me that you are mine.

But you wish there was no tomorrow, and damn yourself to the heights of sorrow. There's no exception to your rule, I'm just another bloody fool.

Hmmm.

Now I wish there was no tomorrow. After you I'm compelled to follow. Now I wish there was no tomorrow. After you I'm compelled to follow. I don't understand a bit and here's testament to it.

Written by Marmaduke Dando Hutchings

Bondage and Lies

2008-09-30T22:22:00.000+01:00

Girls, your deceit runs Atlantic deep. Don't you know that love's not guaranteed? There ain't such a thing as a heart shaped receipt. No return period or exchange policy. The choice you make is the grave you'll keep.

Until death do you damage you'll defend, as long as the means justify the ends.

Boy they'll fool you to believing it's the path to paradise, soon the boat will be leaving, but it's disaster in disguise, 'cause where there's female you're bound to find bondage and lies.

It's a conspiracy to pervert the course of a dream, the blueprints of which are locked within your machine. You can't prize out a heart with a spoon, or on a stick balance the moon.

Until death do you damage you'll defend, as long as the means justify the ends.

Yes, we are guided by shallow voices and we're at odds to tell you why. Don't be complaining or complacent or underestimating what's inside, 'cause where there's female you're bound to find bondage and lies.

Written by Marmaduke Dando Hutchings

The Last Drink

2008-09-30T22:18:00.000+01:00

A swig in the morning to combat the yawning and the pangs of clarity you predict will bring you sanity. It takes gallons of stamina to keep up the pace, to endure the misery you day to day face. There in lies the heart of your story, there's more value in decadence than in love, wealth or glory!

The last drink you bought was your first, and even that came from your daddy's purse. And now you're hooked on the romance of the glamorous drunk, and you've no idea just how low you've sunk.

You're the sediment of society, at right-angles to sobriety, with no means or method to fund your junk but your body and soul, any cretin can afford, with a price this low.

So let the bottle slip from those delicate fingers, I'll lead you to a kiss that will enlighten and linger. Where you're headed you'll be deprived of the gutters and stars. The trouble with prison babe, is it has the wrong type of bars.

The last drink you bought was your first, and even that came from your daddy's purse. And now you're hooked on the romance of the glamorous drunk, and you've no idea just how low you've sunk.

You're the sediment of society, at right-angles to sobriety, with no means or method to fund your junk but your body and soul, any cretin can afford, with a price this low.

Written by Marmaduke Dando Hutchings

The Last Embrace

2008-09-30T22:14:00.000+01:00

With St George's pigeons as my witness, on this bench I consume my last picnic. I've not got so far in this race, well give me a bottle of fire for my last embrace.

It's been with me through the thick and through the thin. Oh why should it not be to what I cling?

When you can't store and recall the best of your kisses...Love gives out in the last issues.

What does one expect to find behind the final curtain but an old broom and pair of gloves? A private show, no admission. Including the ones, you've loved.

Even if they were with you through the thick and through the thin. There's room for just one in this great transition.

Despite all your efforts, they're superficial: Love gives out in the last issues. Love gives out in the last issues. Love gives out in the last issues.

With St George's pigeons as my witness, on this bench I consume my last picnic. I've not got so far in this race, well give me a bottle of fire for my last embrace.

Written by Marmaduke Dando Hutchings

This I Ask Of You

2008-09-30T22:07:00.000+01:00

Baby, you can tell me anything you like. It doesn't matter, we're strong right?
Her confidence was the only thing on my side. The first thought you have is the longest to hide.

This I ask of you: won't you let yourself out? Don't tell me how it came about, just get the light on the way out. 'Cause there's no need for that now. Let the shadows mute the howls.

Baby, you can ask me anything you like, for yourself, but don't expect some reprise. The consequence of dark conspiracy, despite what you think does not depend on me.

This I ask of you: won't you let yourself out? Don't tell me how it came about, just get the light on the way out. 'Cause there's no need for that now. Let the shadows mute the howls. This I ask of you: won't you get the hell out? Before I begin to howl. Before I begin to howl. Before I begin to howl. Before I begin to howl.

Drink up, drink up, those tears of love, for all that is bitter can be considered enough.

Written by Marmaduke Dando Hutchings

Odessa

2008-09-30T22:03:00.000+01:00

I sit at my desk writing reams of mess, about the commonwealth of independent fates, or the convergence of finite mistakes, and how we could figure in all of this. We could have it all if you'd only say yes, yes, yes...

Odessa, I say it regrettably. Odessa, uncontrollably ashamedly. Odessa, I confess you're just a name to me, but oh, no, oh, Odessa. How I want it to be more, is it possible we could be more?

Look out here comes dusk, the curtain dawns on our lust. The boats pile out and the fog creeps in. It's a pale and daunting early evening, a look out on a deep blue but Black Sea.

Odessa, I say it regrettably. Odessa, uncontrollably ashamedly. Odessa, I confess you're just a name to me, but oh, no, oh, Odessa. How I want it to be more, is it possible we could be more?

Hmmmmm.

Odessa...Odessa!

Written by Marmaduke Dando Hutchings

Thrashing a stone to no avail

2008-09-07T17:43:00.000+01:00

Conversation in London always seems to be about communicating essential information, or joking around whilst drinking copious amounts of beer. Nothing wrong in any of that of course, but it's so rare to have a prolonged discussion about anything not so immediate. Something you feel that has worth, and that you're further along in your thoughts because of that conversation.

Everyone lives in their separate apartments, and meet for a chosen period of time. The individual decides what his time ought to be spent on, and that couldn't possibly be 10 hours spent in the company of a close friend. For reasons of politeness, discomfort, lack of imagination. Forced and prolonged periods of time with company can lead to many insights.

As a young London bachelor, I find myself worshipping along with the rest without even noticing, the spirit of individuality. It's held up in reverence, comparable to nothing else, not even god, as we believe in nothing. We criticise every type of conformity, and yet fail to see how individuality is just as much a cult. We follow it's doctrine just as the "ignorant" we criticise follow theirs, without question, blind faith. And does it lead to happiness and purpose? At times perhaps, but more importantly, it leads to rot like this being written.

All Of Me

2008-08-31T22:15:00.000+01:00

Hardly new, but i've finally gotten around to mixing a version of All Of Me. It was recorded live at Alchemea by Thom Dinas, with some vocal, bass, acoustic, pianet overdubs in my penthouse suite. It's not perfect by any means...which is why it's taken me so bloody long to put it up. Should i, shouldn't i? Of course, why the hell not, as Peter, my drummer, is leaving the country for good at the end of September. Better to have a record of a period of time than a big blank space commemorating nothing. So there it is, do tell me what you like and don't like...preferably the latter. You can hear it hear:

http://www.myspace.com/marmadukedando

I suppose i should take this opportunity to state yet again that i am looking for a drummer, and a saxophonist. If anyone knows any suitable candidates, i would be very grateful if you'd direct them my way.

And one other thing...i have been mixing Tall Stories latest recordings they've done in Saul's shed. Listen to Clever Monkey here:

http://www.myspace.com/tallstorieslondon

The Spice of Life

2008-08-09T14:27:00.000+01:00

We trekked out of the wilderness with great speed towards our machine that would propel us South. Down through the valley, away from the mountains, passing streams that stain rocks rusty red, birch forests, the odd reindeer and a few professional Swedes.

It was my second time up in Lapland, with a year between seeing the same countryside. When I saw it first, last year, the flora and fauna and the untouched splendour of the arctic circle had a profound effect on me. This time however, it was less so. I was trying to muster as much internal enthusiasm for the same scenery, the wild blueberries everywhere, the lichen on rocks that looked like the map of some strange alien world, the continual sound of water falls and all that they represent. I noticed I took it all for granted, not completely of course, but significantly so.

It's horrifying to witness in myself the easy slip into indifference. I who is so often pushing for the appreciation of these small earthly beauties. How fickle the human mind is, even when we're aware of it, it makes no difference.

I wonder about D. H. Lawrence's love of nature, how he rambles on and on about the minute details of English country life. Did he really feel like that or was he also battling with a secret apathy? How on earth the Morel family, having grown their whole lives surrounded by the same countryside with very little external influence, can still find Daffodils at the bottom of their garden, truly captivating, year in year out.

It could be that we're products of different eras of the industrial revolution, Lawrence in post-dawn, and we in late gloam. Simpler and clearer minds, forged to appreciate the small inconsequentials. Whereas, we, ruined by choice, have no apparatus to deal with such subtleties. Like children shovelling sugar into their mouths because they like sweet things but not spices.

Snowy Scythe

2008-08-09T13:59:00.000+01:00

On year later, after our first try, with the same lads, and the same borrowed long johns, I finally scaled Kebnekaise. The tallest mountain in Sweden and at the top one is able to see 9% of the country spread out below. Certainly not very impressive on paper in comparison with other mountains around the world, but for 4 city dwellers, it was a gruelling task to say the least.

Climbing over rocks, into ice snow, first up to a high peak, then down the other side into a high valley. At that point we have coffee and contemplate the next climb, "Just over that ridge", a statement which never fails to disappoint. We should know by now that things are rarely as close as we think they are. Taking the final ascent, sharing the load of our one bag every now and then, it goes on and on and on.

We all imagined a flat rock surface at the summit, but as we came over the final steep incline, the top surpassed all our wildest expectations. It rose into the sky as a curve, to a sharp point, like a scythe made of snow cutting through the frosty zenith.

At the top, the four of us hugged and congratulated each other. The view was immense and overbearing. Mountains stretching out seemingly exponentially on one side, probably all the way to the north and Norway. In the opposite direction was the valley from whence we came, which twisted along all the way to Nikoulokta and Kiruna, over 70km away, and even more beyond. They say one can see 40, 000 square kilometres from the top, staggering. It was the highest altitude I had ever reached using just food to power me.

Can you believe even up there people were on their damned mobile phones! The government network Telia seems to infect every crevice of the country. Such magnificent beauty contained in that vista, you would think is enough to satisfy, and yet people feel the need to share that experience with an absent party. Why can't individual experiences such as these be left sacred? Instead have them butchered by a dominant and ugly culture of mass communication. Of course I shouldn't be surprised, people in general have no taste, no reverence for nature which bore them. So long as they get that extra block of cheese.

Constellations

2008-07-31T22:59:00.000+01:00

I slept on the beach at Simrishamn last night and I couldn't have paid for a better night's sleep. It got dark around eleven, at which point I stopped reading, rolled out my sleeping bag at the chosen location, a distance from the fishermen on one side, and a lone camp fire on the other. And they there were, the stars! Like I'd seen them before in the Turks and Caicos islands, piercing and heavy, and more than one can fathom. Such an alien image for a city dweller, and all the more fascinating. Though they mean nothing to me, I just throw my head back and in awe think "The Stars!".

It was cool outside of my pupa state, but no wind, sand for a pillow, and the waves as my nurse. I awoke naturally to a glorious sunrise straight ahead of me, as the beach I was on faced East. Luminous orange, Estonia beyond it? A couple more dozes before it warmed up, then I stripped off in front of no significant witnesses and dived into the sea, which wasn't as cold as I was expecting, though my skin was in shock when I emerged. Truly life affirming. What a way to wake up in the morning!

Befriended Strangers

2008-07-30T22:33:00.000+01:00

I stumbled into the infamous Christiana district of Copenhagen, just as the sun was setting. The first thing I noticed was the complete absence of cars. Wherever you go in a city, at any time of day or night, one can always hear these damn things chugging along some highway for probably the least necessary of reasons. In Christiana, not silence, but machine silence...bliss!

Broken walkways, but still neat. Kept and unkempt communal gardens. The spirit of idleness runs deep there. I was slightly wary as I walked through crowds of weathered looking types, but I guess that's natural when on foreign soil. Of course the first thing to do was to get hold of a beer. A bar with a free table in the sun, perfect. Quietly supping away on that, watching everyone else, contemplating getting my book out to look busy, and then resolving not to. If there's anywhere in the world where people don't expect you to be doing something, it's Christiana.

Within 10 minutes a shifty young fellow sits opposite me on the bench. I greet him politely. I was in the mood for some kif, but only a tiny bit for the evening, and I didn't want to be hassled by explaining this, then being forced into buying more than I actually needed. Should we, shouldn't we? Well, why not?! Conversation ignited, like the universe.

He was from Mexico, in America, and been over in Christiana for 3 years, though he couldn't remember clearly. His sister lived in Copenhagen, has 2 flats, 1 she rents out to tourists, is doing "well" for herself. Is frustrated by her brother's lifestyle: There she is getting up at 7am working 12 hour days, making money, and he drinks and smokes when he wakes at 3pm, every day until sunrise. I see his point. A balance between the two I think is where I should be headed, though leaning more towards his style.

His mother is mexican, and his father was american. They met in Morocco in the 70s. She was travelling and bumped into him in a hotel. He was there setting up hash trade agreements and planning to ship it to Copenhagen. Like father like son. That's a rather impressive heritage for any dealer. To be able to say one's father set up the original hash trade between Morocco and Christiana!

I bought him a couple of beers, he rolled a joint with a huge roach. Must be a Danish thing? I never understood why in England we make tiny roaches and then struggle with the dregs. A lady sat next to us, late 40s, Danish, "respectably" dressed, not an inhabitant of Christiana. She'd just come after work to soak up some atmosphere. She liked Christiana, and thinks the spirit here is so important to Denmark. I have to agree. All movements that ignore governments are important. I bought her a beer too, £1.50 a bottle of Danish lager...I was most impressed!

We all shared the joint. I felt ecstatic and shameless. There was a black girl, beautiful child, playing with a ball amongst all these care free adults. Two old Chinese ladies walked by with cans of beer in their hands, a dog sat mournfully in a bike trailer waiting for his master. It must have been the hash because no-one else found the dog in the trailer the least bit amusing.

I left my befriended strangers and tried to make my way back to "civilisation", with great difficulty. My orientation had quite up and left me, but also, thanks to the spliff, I wasn't bothered.

Out of all the lonesome travelling I've done over the last 6 years, this trip I have been most comfortable and confident with. I no longer canvas restaurants for eternity wondering whether the conditions are right, or fret about in train stations under departure boards wondering if my train really does exist. If I need to know something, I simply ask the nearest suitable looking citizen. Oh the anxiety I used to suffer was overwhelming at times. Now I have my reasoning down to a fine art.

Filthy and Sweating

2008-07-30T22:15:00.000+01:00

After a horrendous night's sleep on the train from Köln to Copenhagan, a 15 hour journey, with 4 of the dullest people I've ever had the misfortune to share a compartment with, I am now sprawled out in a park, sun and wind filtering very agreeably through the trees, pipe filled with Danish tobacco infused with port, 2 cans of Tuborg and the bustling city of Copenhagan behind me.

The compartment was just as big as a normal sleeper and could easily fit 6 bunks in it. Instead there were 3 giant seats on each side opposite each other. Giant, one would naturally assume to be a good thing. However, with seats that big, it's hard to rest your head and body against anything when you want to sleep. One has to delicately balance the head in such a way that it won't roll off and wake one up...just at the crucial moment of dreamy oblivion.

I imagine the discomfort was designed so the train company can charge two separate prices, the sleepers being the premium of course. If the sitting compartments were bearable, then less people would pay a premium for a sleeper, making them less profit.

The company was made up of 2 young chubby Nordic fellows, who actually seemed rather pleasant. Then there was a young couple. She appeared to be plain Russian. He, Swedish, and chubby, yet masculine...oh how men can get away such a look! I would have thought nothing of it, and may have even attempted some polite conversation, if it weren't for their complete lack of concern for their immediate surroundings. The first thing they did after putting their bags up, was to open their filthy, sweating Burger King meals in front of everyone, releasing the most repulsive of odours, made worse by the heat of the evening. Could they not have eaten in the corridor with the window open? Could they not have simply bought bread and cheese like a respectable and well seasoned traveller should do...and done every one concerned a favour?

Next was the young cretin's reaction to some over excitable youths in the corridor. Didn't bother me, as I couldn't understand a word of it...it was just noise, a few joyous yelps over the machinery of the train. In the company of 3 people he did not know, he relayed to his girlfriend "Urgh, Norwegians. So irritating. That's the one thing that you can tell the difference by with Swedes and Norwegians, they're so damn loud."

Now I know I'm not completely innocent when it comes to perpetuating national stereotypes, but I do so for the sake of banter, which I see little wrong with. But this man, was overly serious and sincere. He was also complaining about how slow the train was going within 15 minutes of alighting! The train will get there when it gets there, you numbskull.

So, yes, now in Copenhagan, too many sites to see in one day, so an aimless wander about stopping in parks to read, drink beer, smoke a pipe, and write some nonsense in my notebook. All these historic statues I've walked by, bustling hordes of tourists consumed by some particular detail. I've not the faintest clue of any of it. And does it really matter? I'd rather read in depth in books, the history of nations, than on tacky plastic signs, patronising summaries.

I am on holiday after all. Though life should always be like this of course. Let Copenhagan, and every city, town or country, be a backdrop to an agreeable experience of idle wandering, park loafing, or barflying.

My Father's Son

2008-07-29T22:11:00.000+01:00

Entering German territory on a train bound for Köln. I spy my reflection in the window, as the sun is setting over endless fields of corn. A young man's face with a neat mustache and an upside down smile. My father was this exact description at my age, in Germany in the mid seventies. He had something of a purpose though, no, an obligation...the military. Patrolling the Berlin Wall. Oh, and to visit his 16 year old German fiance, Claudia. My god, Pater, what were you thinking?!

Cash

2008-07-29T22:07:00.000+01:00

Now in Brussels, sipping my second pint on a sunny boulevard, only after searching for half an hour for a bloody cash machine. Just one ATM in the whole of Brussels Midi, would you believe?! It simultaneously horrifies me and delights me to see a city's lack of access to cash.

It horrifies me because I'm so used to having no barrier between my material desire, and the item on sale. In England, they make paying for goods and services as painless as breathing, supposing one doesn't have emphysema. In Tokyo there are about three cash machines in the whole city. Two in Narita airport, which is 70 miles from central Tokyo, and one in Roppongi, in a Citibank, on the second floor of a suspiciously unassuming looking building.

It delights me however, to know that access to things one doesn't actually need...like forgettable kebabs at 3am, or taxi's 2 miles up the road...is barred through infrequent installations of cash dispensing machines.

Tokyo's inhabitants have to draw money out from their banks and...budget...*gasp*...until they can get to the bank again. Budgeting is an alien concept to me I doubt I will ever master. That's certainly not an admission of being in funds that never deplete...far from it. It's just in my nature to always spend more than my wage. Gordon would be proud of me, I guess I've done my bit for the country in that sense.

Frugalism should only be romanticised when it comes to convenience items. When it comes to having fun...like drinking..."put another round on the credit card...no way of knowing".

Pylons

2008-07-29T22:01:00.000+01:00

I awake from one of those cosy mid afternoon naps exiting the Channel Tunnel. I am being transported across a landscape of yellow grass and scores of spindly grey behemoths as far as the eye can see...France.

Every time I see this drab scene it never fails to conjure Dirk Bogart's witty response to the customs officer in the film adaptation of The Tale of Two Cities. At the height of the French Revolution, Sydney Carton, the idle lawyer and enthusiastic drunkard, enters France at Calais. When asked what his business was in the country at a time of great unrest, he replies in the driest of tones, "The wine...what else?"!

Casting Off

2008-07-29T21:53:00.000+01:00

And so today I have embarked on a short tour of northern Europe, for pleasure and pain, of a purely individual nature of course, as that is how I was bred. I break into Hodgkinson's 'How To Be Idle' in the Eurostar departure lounge, and that has instantly set me in a jovial mood. Less toil, more contemplation, less material desire, a more recumbent outlook...all make for a wiser individual.

I couldn't agree more with the sentiment. However, there is one issue I fail to reconcile completely, and that is the aspiration to create profound, strikingly original, and durable popular music. I've always strived towards such a goal, and have reached nowhere close to where I'd like to be. Why should I lay in bed idling when there is work of a musical type to be done? That has always been the question gnawing at the back of my mind, lashing me with criticism, like an old Victorian Beadle.

Certainly all evidence of late has pointed in favour of idleness, when it comes to satisfying desires, though unfortunately in the least important areas of my life. Doors remain closed if you continue to push them, and yet fling open the second you turn your head, allowing you to walk backwards blindly through them.

Is it right to "tut" at The Blue Nile for releasing about 6 short albums in the space of 30 years? To scoff at their encore at a rare live performance, being not only their biggest hit, but also the last song they played before the encore! Is it right to expect, or worse, demand, of creative types that their output be frequent, consistent, and of staggering quality?

Of course the answer to that is that I'm being unfair to myself and to those I respect as artists. Let them and I do as we pleased, be buffeted by life's heady stimuli, and try not to regiment the unruly.

Joy in repetition

2008-07-14T00:05:00.000+01:00

"You live beneath another star..." sings Paul Buchanan, as the last light from the star that we all live beneath gradually fades, thanks to the turning of the Earth. Somerset House on the banks of the Thames, with seagulls sqwauking overhead, and lachrymose cherubs looking on, was the perfect setting for a Blue Nile concert.

His voice is the richest timbre I've ever heard, the most satisfying tone to come from a human's throat. Gymnastics are for show-offs, the polar opposite of what The Blue Nile are. Humble to say the least. They've been playing music for well over 30 years and only released a handful of albums. One could raise a family in the time between each album...

Doubt and apathy, chasing eachother around the dinner table like 2 obnoxious children with an exponential amount of energy, is enough to hamper anyone's ambition. Don't I know these two bastard fiends all too well!

I love old standards, and pop songs of all eras, which often might seem contradictory depending on the vehicle they're delivered in. It's the simplicity of the lyrics that I find so compelling. Abstract and suggestive to a point, but not so much that one doesn't have a clue what the song is about. Direct and poignant verse can be more heady and rewarding than the opposite. Extremely hard to strike a balance between simplicity and vapid lyrics. This balance is the holy grail of song writing. The Blue Nile strike it.

I often wonder if there really is any more emotion than I've already experienced, or can at least imagine. I generally conclude that this is it, as Evgeny found out early in his twenties. That sentiment lines every song Buchanan has written. Why convolute what is well known?

"I love you, and so I shall simply say it, but still prepare the ground around it, with decorations fit for such an expression". And then he will say it again, and the band will not solo, but find that sound and loop it, because there's joy in repetition. There's joy in repetition.

Supply and Demand

2008-06-24T23:34:00.001+01:00

Supply and demand is a concept that not many seem to grasp, and it drives me to distraction. In these times of resource shortages and impending climate catastrophes, there could be no greater concept to be sure of than this. And yet, on a daily basis i am dismissed by these heathens as a fool for not making use of products and services that are already accounted for.

So here it is in black and white. A local shop owner sells cans of baked beans. He knows because he's sold baked beans for a couple of years now, that he sells about 20 cans of beans a week. So he orders 4 crates from his supplier each month. If one week he doesn't sell so many beans, he has more than he knows what to do with, and so orders less from the supplier for the coming delivery. If he sells more than normal, then he may put in a special order to be delivered soon.

This is the way i understand supply and demand, and i try (emphasis on the "try") to adjust my life accordingly. So if i decide not to fly because i don't want to create a demand for a service that pollutes the earth's atmosphere, and consequently contributes to endangering millions of the poorest lives on this planet...this is the reasoning behind it. Yes, the plane may well have empty seats on it for the particular flight i may have been considering. However, i didn't make the purchase, and the empty seat is a signal to the air travel industry that demand for that particular route is down.

I'm not expecting anyone to sacrifice anything in their lives, though the world would be better off if we all did consume less. I'm asking for some consideration and understanding of why i and others make certain choices based on finite resources and the environment.

Poor Choice of Words

2008-06-24T23:01:00.001+01:00

Swearing. I do it all the time, but I'm making a conscious effort to atone for the lack of imagination i have when exclaiming out loud. There's nothing wrong with swearing, it's a wonderful sense of release, and builds moral within groups. However, it's the monoculture of swear words we use these days that we must abandon. They lose all effectiveness when constantly repeated at the end of each sentence and next to "like", which seems to be used as if it were a comma for most of the English speaking public under 50.

The "C" word, the most heinous of all modern swear words, is bandied around as if it were candy, and shown off to small children on public thoroughfares accordingly. It's positively thrilling to read a DH Lawrence novel, full of tedious prose about the beauty of the Midlands (of all places!), then completely out of the blue, a character describes a woman's genitalia with such fervor, "Aye, that's a fine cunt ye have...", at which point the character proceeds to describe the object at hand in all it's minute glory. This is when the "C" word should be used, to startle, when we haven't heard it in long while, and in places we are least expecting it.

Two things you should be slow to criticise

2008-06-16T22:07:00.000+01:00

"Two things you should be slow to criticise, a man's choice in woman, and a man's choice in work" as Paddy McAloon says on Jordan: The Comeback.

Never did i quite understand that line as i do right now. The complexity that some situations achieve can be so overwhelming that it's impossible to make a decision. Either choice can be justified at a particular level, so how does one know which is the correct one?

How we baulk at the office workers from the desks of our school classrooms! How simple it was back then, to think that destinies are something we have complete control over. Little did we know of the myriad compromises that make up an adult's daily life, watering down those pure and noble thoughts we once had as teenagers.

Most days i alight from the bus in the City, mortified that i have to be surrounded by such ugly buildings and dreary people. How supremely original i think of myself compared with these career driven fools. And yet, how do i not know, that behind one of these pink-shirt-blue-tied brutes, stirs a kindred spirit? There could be any number of truly creative souls out there, bludgeoned by the machinery of a financial centre, and their only aim, to use it, as i use it, to sustain and propel the flames of imagination, albeit in an altogether abstract way.

Again, in the youthful enthusiasm of a lad bred on Dawson's Creek, there lied a misunderstanding of what interconnected realities lay before him. Love, i am told, heightens the senses, yet lowers one's perceptions. Is it wise to fall disastrously in love, to plough all available resources into such beauty as one so defines, only to be rebuffed by common sense, and the cold light of day? Jerome K. Jerome, believes that affection is all one can hope for, a flat-lined flow of sensuality, rather than a swooping sine wave. Can one settle for affection only, and find passion and purpose elsewhere? Should it matter if one can be satisfied in all areas of one's life through many different means, rather than just one?

Such a Western impression. To believe, to even consider that a partner could provide everything one desires! Is it perhaps that we've debunked religion as the answer to everything, and now we scrabble around for a new idol worthy of our adoration? I had once thought that an ideal partner would be someone i could communicate with in such subtle ways, and would understand my articulated nonsense that would be taken as feelings. Now i am torn between that which a society has nurtured me to believing, and something that same society would think utterly base and devoid of humanity.

To see a couple, and to react to their choice in partner, is something i now abhor. It is no-one's business how they connect, or do not connect, as the case may be. Just as it is of no-one's concern how one makes a little money to get by.

Teenage ideals should be kept in the Mongolian wilderness, where life is truly simple.

Moonlighter

2008-06-09T22:06:00.000+01:00

I have recently had the great pleasure of being introduced to a saxophonist composer of overwhelming depth and dark majesty, a man called John Surman. I saw him play at The Wigmore Hall a few months back, and it was an experience i shall never forget.

So often i concentrate on the lyric, and the pop composition of music, that i forget how potent jazz can be, when it's not noodling to infinity. I had enjoyed John Surman's set very much, but it didn't quite move me, until about half way through, when his string section, Trans4mation, struck up the intro for Moonlighter.

It plays for about a minute on maybe 2 chords, a subtle tension builds and holds, then the baritone saxophone cracks in, completely unexpected, but so soft, gentle, like an old dog with cancer that rests his clumsy paw for one last time on your knee.

That very moment, this intense surge of emotion welled up in me, and poured out in the form of a few tears. Indescribable emotion...i wasn't low on that particular day, but Surman manipulated me into feeling utterly despondent. That skill to invoke emotion in someone completely off guard, is one to be admired, and desired.

Unfortunately i can't find a link where you can hear this in full. However, i strongly urge you to buy this album, The Spaces Inbetween, certainly the best thing i've heard in the last year without a doubt.

Weep, and wallow.

Market Principles Do Not Discriminate

2008-05-24T22:05:00.000+01:00

The London music scene is not really a scene as such, but more a collection of various cliques, that will exchange and initiate members depending on the hype surrounding the individual.

There is one main reason for this, and that is scarcity. Scarcity is the simple idea that when there is not very much of a certain resource, then the value of it rises accordingly. This we are all acutely aware of with the price of oil shooting through $135 a barrel yesterday. The opposite happens in London with musicians.

There are thousands and thousands of "musicians" in London, and just as many "bands". I'm sure your next door neighbour is in a band, if you were to by chance talk to them. There are also many venues. With so much choice...there is little focus, and hence, zero vibe. In London, musicians hardly ever get paid when they play, nor receive any consolatory perks...not even respect (though this is often justified depending on the goons that are performing). If i have to hear one more promoter tell me that i have to sacrifice a month of my life, by not playing any other night except theirs, i will take my razor to their Sales' cords!

Hype is the way a sales man can make more profit from essentially the same product that is being sold elsewhere in the market. Hype is disseminated through various channels that the general public "trust" or allow themselves to infiltrate their consciousness.

Let's not fool ourselves here, we're all wanting to make money from our "talents". It is business after all, based on profit, making as much as possible from as little investment. Just the same as farming fields, building cars in factories, online legal publishing etc.

Market principles do not discriminate, nothing is safe, there is no loophole for the arts that keeps them dignified and held in reverence.

Sustainable Shaving

2008-05-24T22:03:00.000+01:00

A few weeks ago i took the plunge and bought a cut-throat razor and all the appropriate paraphernalia. Never had i shaved this way before, always behind those safety bars that the high-street brands seem to think necessary in their designs. As if the modern citizen isn't protected enough from calamity!

I've wanted to write about this new experience for some time now, and have thought about putting finger to keyboard at the start of every shave. However, i keep cutting myself, a lot to begin with, and now only once or twice per shave. Damn it, i'll write about it when i've shaved my face with not one nick, then i can tell the world how flawless it is!

Still, what prompted me into all this malarkey, was not Sweeney Todd, as some have suggested, but that disposable razors are just another example of unnecessary waste in this sea of futurism. Not to mention the good ones are bloody expensive.

With a cut-throat and a strop (a piece of leather that you run the blade along to sharpen it), one can shave for the rest of one's life without buying any new equipment. If you treat your razor carefully you can even pass it on to your adopted children.

I believe you could make your money back within a year, and have free shaves until the day you die. Once you get the hang of it, it's a bloody good shave, and a ritual that will make you feel like a true gentleman.

Yes, it takes longer than what you'd be used to...but why does that matter? It's a great excuse to idle for longer, to gaze at your well groomed facial hair in the mirror, and daydream of swooning, fine tweed-cladded young ladies that of course don't exist in "real" life.

*sigh*

Foot Fetish

2008-04-22T22:02:00.000+01:00

"On the seashore, with storm impending,

how envious was I of the waves
each in tumultuous turn descending
to lie down at her feet like slaves!
I longed, like every breaker hissing,
to smother her dear feet with kissing."

Alexander Pushkin, from Eugene Onegin

Mellors’ Last Rant

2008-03-31T22:01:00.000+01:00

"We’ve got this great industrial population, and they’ve got to be fed, so the damn show has to be kept going somehow. The women talk a lot more than the men nowadays, and they are a sight more cock-sure. The men are limp, they feel a doom somewhere, and they go about as if there was nothing to be done. Anyhow, nobody knows what should be done, in spite of all the talk. The young ones get mad because they’ve no money to spend. Their whole life depends on spending money, and now they’ve got none to spend. That’s our civilization and our education: bring up the masses to depend entirely on spending money, and then the money gives out. The pits are working two days, two and a half days a week, and there’s no sign of betterment even for the winter. It means a man bringing up a family on twenty-five and thirty shillings. The women are the maddest of all. But then they’re the maddest for spending, nowadays.

"If you could tell them that living and spending isn’t the same thing! But it’s no good. If only they were educated to live instead of earn and spend, they could manage happily on twenty-five shillings. If the men wore scarlet trousers as I said, they wouldn’t think so much of money: if they could dance and hop and skip, and sing and swagger and be handsome, they could do with very little cash. And amuse the women themselves, and be amused by the women. They ought to learn to be naked and handsome, and to sing in a mass and dance the old group dances, and carve the stools they sit on, and embroider their own emblems. then they wouldn’t need money. And that’s the only way to solve the industrial problem: train the people to be able to live and live in handsomeness, without needing to spend. But you can’t do it. They’re all one-track minds nowadays. Whereas the mass of people oughtn’t even to try to think because they can’t. They should be alive and frisky, and acknowledge the great god Pan. He’s the only god for the masses, forever. The few can go in for higher cults if they like but let the mass be forever pagan."

Mr Mellors’ last rant, from DH Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover.

Twiddling Little Machines

2008-03-23T20:59:00.000Z

DH Lawrence, a man before his time. In a conversation between the Game Keeper and Lady Chatterley, in reply to a question she asks him about the common people, the proletariat:

"Their spunk is gone dead. Motor-cars and cinemas and aeroplanes suck that last bit out of them. I tell you, every generation breeds a more rabbity generation, with indiarubber tubing for guts and tin legs and tin faces. Tin people! It’s all a steady sort of bolshevism just killing off the human thing, and worshipping the mechanical thing. Money, money, money! All the modern lot get their real kick out of killing the old human feeling out of man, making mincemeat of the old Adam and the old Eve. They’re all alike. The world is all alike: kill off the human reality, a quid for every foreskin, two quid for each pair of balls. What is cunt but machine fucking! - It’s all alike. Pay ’em money to cut off the world’s cock. Pay money, money, money to them that will take spunk out of mankind, and leave ’em all little twiddling machines."

Little twiddling machines, twiddling little machines.

How To Be Free

2008-02-22T21:59:00.000Z

Reading a wonderful book at the moment, "How to be Free" by Tom Hodgkinson, about casting of the shackles we didn't even know were there. It is not a self-help book...of sorts...though the concept is that way inclined. It follows the notions of sustainability and finding happiness in life through similar principles. Anyway, here's an excerpt i've just read on the bus, regarding the bondage of time-keeping:

"The automobile, for example, saves no time in the long run. Ivan Illinch once calculated that if you add up all the time you spend on a car, including the trips to the garage and the time spent earning the money to buy the fuel and maintain the vehicle, and divide by the number of miles you travel, then your average speed is 5mph. You would be faster on a bicycle. Speed, paradoxically, eats up our free time."

Brilliant!

Not So Smug Anymore

2008-02-11T21:56:00.000Z

Christmas past, i returned to my mother's house in Portsmouth. A refreshing experience as usual, for it brings one closer to the reality of the nation and its citizens. Its all too easy to live in London and feel that this is how the people of England live. It certainly isn't, as i'm well aware...in theory, though not in practice.

After Christmas dinner, i went out with my mother and step-father for a walk to the seafront and back. On this walk, the usual disgust for road vehicles surged in me, enough to bring it up in conversation. As oil had just reached a record high, about $100 per barrel at the time, i asked them how much the price of fuel would have to rise by before they'd start changing the way they use their car. At the time it was about £1.10 a litre for petrol. Would £2 make a difference? How about £3?

I was asking them this, trying to keep the inner smug grin well off their radar, and they answer with the utmost courteousness. "Maybe, over £2 we would start to change our behaviour...but to be honest, we only use the car to go the gym and to get to work, and to see your nan...everything else is within walking distance. I suppose we could use a bicycle to make most of those journeys...". And of course, one wouldn't need to go to the gym if one was cycling, haw haw haw.

Then my step father asked me, innocently enough, "How much would it take for the price of beer to rise before you started to change your drinking habits?". Damn! I hadn't thought of that! Humble pie thrown in my face. See how easy it is for a Londoner to think their way of life is progressive and normal? Well, i don't drive...because i live in London...its not necessary under any individual circumstances. The rest of the country however...in short...isn't like London.

I drink a lot...because i socialise a lot, and beer is an integral part of it. Can i go out and not drink? Well, if needs must, then yes of course...just like my parents, they could stop driving and take the bicycle...but they're unlikely to do so until petrol rises to £3 a litre. I won't curtail my drinking until it reaches £5 a pint. In fact...i'll probably act in more devious ways...buying cans from off-licenses and topping it up in the toilets! Argh. Lets hope i have some sense and instead, direct all my social meetings to Sam Smith's pubs...organic beers and spirits, made in Tadcaster. Possibly the most socially responsible night of debauchery one could have in London. Not including Power Down of course! Or even better, give up drink altogether! Countless bad purchases have been made in the heady thrill of the night...or in the dull ache of the morning after. "Fuck it" is the usual sentiment. Embarrassing, to say the least.

The point of all this? Easy to be a smug bastard living an ecotarian life in the capital. Still, see blog entitled "Knee Jerk Reaction" for justification. It ain't easy.

Knee Jerk Reactions

2008-02-11T21:54:00.000Z

Being ecotarian isn't easy. I'm sure vegetarians, pescatarians and vegans think they have it hard. But let me tell you, the turmoil they go through whilst making purchases is nothing compared with that of a poor ecotarian such as myself. The term "ecotarian" seems to fit with the other groups of self denialists. I define "ecotarianism" as abstaining (or trying to) from products that harm the environment by means of unsustainable manufacturing. And it doesn't have to be solely about food, in fact...every single thing one consumes, including services.

With a vegetarian, all they have to do is cut out meat from their diet. Decision: meat, or not meat. Technically, they could eat GM vegetables...they could eat vegetables that were grown using intensive farming practices and covered in a myriad of petrochemicals...and they would still be able to claim they were a vegetarian.

An ecotarian on the other hand, must weigh up an infinite amount of variables. Lets take the purchasing of a carrot as an example. Is the carrot organic? Locally sourced? Are you buying it from a huge multinational corporation (Tescos)? How far have you travelled especially to buy this carrot? These may seem like easy decisions to make, but its hard to get them all aligned. Should i be giving Tesco's any money at all? Corner shops arn't in the habit of selling anything remotely organic. Often, i throw my hands up in despair, choose the path of least resistance, and justify it later.

Terrible isn't it? And yet the most important aspect of ecotarianism is the will to change. Regardless of the decision one has just made, it is the fact that one had those decisions to make. The ecotarian has entered a new set of ethics into their decision making. With time and experience, it will get easier.

And what thanks do we get for all this inner turmoil? Certainly no respect whatsoever...not that that's the reason we take on this new lifestyle...or is it?! (That deserves its own discussion!) Still, the knee jerk reaction ecotarians face daily when in conversation with a "normal" citizen, is of scorn for apparent blatant hypocrisy. For example, maybe i might mention in the pub something about my compost heap...and some smart alec will cheekily denounce me as a hypocrite because i'm sat there with a pint of non-organic, mass produced lager that came from Ireland...along with my critic of course. As if there was no difference between me, Eva Peron, Idi Amin, Hitler, or Chris Martin.

If you have just become an ecotarian, stay calm, shrug it off. Do not under any circumstances retaliate in a torrent of self righteous abuse. Lead by example, and improve your daily processes by using the torment as a positive catalyst. None of us are doing enough, thats certain. Still, some of us are doing something. So be glad that you're on the path to atonement, if nothing else.

Howling Feedback: A Thing of The Past

2008-02-11T21:50:00.000Z

I'm sure there is not one soul on this planet that finds deafening and screeching feedback pleasing to the ear. And yet, most of us involved in the bowels of the music industry, playing small, pokey or intimate venues, have to with-stand this blood curdling noise most times we venture to play live.

I am here to tell you, promoter, sound engineer, musician, whoever...it doesn't have to be this way! Yes, i am a musician, though do not jump to conclusions. A musician telling an engineer how to do his job...blasphemy! And i would agree with you in most cases. However, we're all on the same side here: anti feedback. So, please indulge me for a moment, and take note of the following information that will save all of us, a hell of a lot of pain.

Feedback is an expression of a room's dimensions. One may note that not all feedback has the same frequency...this is because the dimensions of the room, determine which frequencies are amplified over the others. The way to combat feedback is to "tune" the room before any sound check commences...before any musician, bar steward, cleaner...anyone, enters the venue.

To tune the room, you will need a graphic equaliser inserted somewhere in the signal flow of the PA. Third Octave graphic equalisers are the best, because they have many frequencies with which you can boost or cut (they increment in third octaves from 20hz to 20khz). Even the most basic of PA's have some sort of graphic equaliser on them. Here is what you do with it:

1. Turn all the gain pots, eq, and master fader right down. Make sure the graphic eq is at zero on every frequency.

2. Plug a mic into a channel, put on a mic stand, place directly infront of a speaker, 1 metre back from it.

3. Now for the dangerous part! Set the gain on the channel the mic is plugged into, to about 3/4s. Now turn up the master fader very slowly. When you start to hear a bit of feedback, identify using your ears and brain what frequency the feedback is...this comes from experience. Pull down the frequency on the graphic eq until the feedback disappears. If you can't work out what the frequency is, try every one until the feedback abates.

4. Start to bring the master fader up until you hear feedback again. Identify the frequency and cut on the graphic eq.

5. Do this until the fader has reached maximum. The room will now be "tuned". The mic was pointed directly at the speaker because it was an extreme scenario. When you place the mic where you intend it to be onstage, it will be even less likely to feedback now. You will now be able to turn the PA up to its maximum volume without it feeding back. Efficiency!

Some individual EQing on each channel will affect your adjustments to the graphic eq, so this should be done reservedly. For example, if an instrument needs a little boost in the top end...think in the negative...roll off some bottom end, and turn the channel up...much safer!

If you have monitors, you will need to do something similar with them, preferably with a separate graphic equaliser.

Please spread the word that feedback does not have to be an essential part of live music. And please, do not take this as some self righteous rant against engineers...we're all pseudo sound engineers at some point of our lives...my only intention is to pass on some information that will save a few hairs on our cochleas.

The Misogyny Myth Exposed

2008-01-29T21:46:00.000Z

Unfortunately, i seem to have some explaining to do. After singing, rather ferociously "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorn" and "Where there's female, you're bound to find bondage and lies", at recent gigs, a number of people have made some rather ridiculous assumptions.

First of all, i would like to stress, i am not a woman hater, in fact quite the opposite, though philanderer is too far polar.

Second of all, don't take the lyrics in these songs too seriously, for crying out loud *arghhhghghgh*. I have written a number of songs that have taken on the subject of male frustration with the opposite sex. They are intended half serious, half humorous. Women are always voicing their venomous opinions of men, and what is our response? Indifference, generally. Though these songs are not at all intended to be poisonous, or inciting hate for those divine creatures that men find so puzzling. They are notes on subtle experiences i've had in the past, that many can empathise (and possibly sympathise) with. Songs are all about taking small ideas and embellishing them til a hook hangs.

I beg you humourless folk to grasp this concept before there's a witch hunt and my limbs are fed to St George's pigeons. Though i'd secretly love the fact that i would no longer be a burden on the earth's resources if that happened.

Calm be with you.

The Corkhill Cult

2007-11-21T21:42:00.000Z

Here they come, blue by blue, the denim army...an uninspired view.

Take a look down any busy street, and from the waist down you will see 90% of the pedestrians wearing denim jeans, most probably blue jeans. What the hell happened? Did Jimmy Corkhill descend from his scally cloud and brainwash everyone while i was asleep one night?

"Worship me, and i will provide for you in heaven. I did not die on the cross, but i went out with a rant in a blue denim jacket. Do you remember my final hour? The great orator that i am. Now pledge your allegiance to my scally but righteous way of life, and don some denim garment, and i shall know, when i look down from the faded stonewashed gates of Brookside, that you, are with me, Czar Corkhill."

Or is it an "expression" of anti-establishment sentiment, against school uniforms, against work uniforms? And what does the Corkhill cult come up with...all wearing jeans, all the time? Yet another uniform.

The Eternal Monotony of Passion

2007-11-19T21:45:00.000Z

"Being sure she loved him, he did not trouble to please her, and imperceptibly his manner changed. He no longer used the tender words which made her weep, nor did he lavish on her those vehement caresses which almost deprived her of her senses...(he) contrived to hide is indifference."

Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert, 1856

It has been written and expressed countless times before, century after century, and still the conclusion is the same. It transcends time, geography, and culture...the circle of perpetual seduction:

"...the humiliation of feeling how weak she was, turned her to rage, which was appeased by voluptuous pleasures. It was not attachment, it was perpetual seduction."

This is coming from an ageing lonesome batchelor in a damp and breezy loft conversion on a night when the Drizzle Cabaret are in town. If you're married and happy, are you thinking "he just hasn't found the right one yet...he will...and all his untethered misery will evaporate like the drizzle that numbs him."?

Picture sensuality plotted on a graph, as a Sine wave. It peaks and troughs exponentially into the future. Depending on how you react to the above statements, will position you on the sine wave somewhere.

No relief...no more depth...this is all there is in romance. I'm serious, this is all there is to it.

The Torment

2007-08-19T21:36:00.000+01:00

These days, every place i play, it rains heavily, yielding a negligible and/or indifferent audience, making me feel a damned fool and sending me into a wretched state of sullenness.

To the higher power, whatever incarnation you actually take on: Why me? Have I slayed men? Have i seduced virgins? Have i wrecked homes? Do i wax lyrical about my own genius and believe every word?

None of those things, do i do. And yet, i understand the incredible fortuitous position i find myself in, a young British male with myopia being my only significant physical defect, how can i possibly raise my skinny fists to the sky and beg of you...more fortune?!