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.
Monday, 4 October 2010
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
Thursday, 16 September 2010
Credits
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.
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.
Wednesday, 15 September 2010
We Fucked It Up
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
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
Tuesday, 25 May 2010
WOOD
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. 
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.
Saturday, 24 April 2010
The Art of Decay
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
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
Tuesday, 13 April 2010
The magic of radio persists
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.
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