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
Tuesday, 30 September 2008
This I Ask Of You
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
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
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
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
Sunday, 7 September 2008
Thrashing a stone to no avail
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.
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.
Sunday, 31 August 2008
All Of Me
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
http://www.myspace.com/mar
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/tal
Saturday, 9 August 2008
The Spice of Life
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.
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
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.
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.
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