Civilization and Sexuality

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.