punching myself in the face...

Bible in braille, Autumn 2009

Mon, 05 Oct 2009 12:13:00 GMT

The Isle of Kiltipper

Wed, 15 Jul 2009 13:29:13 GMT

This is the first of a series of radio/ soundpieces I'm working on exploring island life around remote Britain and Ireland. Let me know what you think.

So I arrived in Ireland last week to work on the new united bible studies record at a shepherd's cottage in tipperary. the place is situated out near dolla, which as far as i can tell is basically one steep hill with little satellite farms round the base. the cottage was around 400 years old...the 'modern' fireplace was installed in the 1700s and still bears a hallmark to that effect. it's really hard to describe this type of cottage unless you've been in one before - the walls are ridiculously thick...probably around a metre and a half...it feels like a giant larder or cold store (though that's not as unpleasant as it sounds, especially on a baking summer day).
The windows are small and deep set. so much so that if anyone passed or stood in front of them, it looked like the sky had been turned off. we had an attic conversion which was bare and unfinished, perfect for recording in...a real dead space. the nearest neighbours were almost a mile away and pretty much all you could hear were distant cows and swallows dashing through the courtyard.

there were 5 of us staying, richard, gavin, aine and sue - aine's flatmate - they got the place for almost two months for an outlay of 500euro (£450?$630?) which is pretty incredible considering it has 4 bedrooms and outhouses etc. any time not spent cooking or sleeping was in the attic room, recording endless improvisations for voice, harp, piano, bowed strings and electronics.

so on the second night, sue made mention of the disused barn at the end of the drive...and how she felt someone had died there. it got a bit excessive (references to wandering spirits) and when folk go off on these pseudo-mystical/supernatural rants, i usually switch off or smile politely - more a statement of how jaded i am. when did that happen? anyways. we decided to head that way and out into the fields to record some acappella pieces. it must have been around 3 am. by the time i'd reached the barn i became acutely aware of an ominous presence.

the pure visceral sensation was so unique to me that i just had to stay and experience what it felt like to be scared. i'm such an ardent fan of horror films and literature, but i haven't been genuinely spooked since i was about 12...so i just had to hang out and let it rattle through me. i said nothing - and when the others arrived, exactly the same thing happened to them. one by one, falling equally silent or charged with nervous humour. the slightly dotty
sculptor lady started shouting 'back...BACK' at invisible somethings, whilst the rest of us frantically tried to get a torch lit. richard, after the event, said that when it finally came on, all our faces looked different and unfamiliar - he said our features had melted and changed. we were all acutely aware of the situation, but set the recording gear up regardless and recorded half an hours worth of improvised singing out there and (it feels dumb to write the words now) the sessions very charged and odd, to the point that i certainly felt possessed.

the following day sue set out to walk with mr.crowley, her cat, whilst we recorded. she said she saw two people moving in the hedgerow alongside her, slightly unseen but she felt no malice - she assumed it was myself and/or gavin, as one of them had a red t-shirt on, and began whistling a tune at her. in keeping with our group singing exercises, she whistled back and this went on for a while as the shapes of the figures could gradually be seen darting around. her attempts at conversation faltered and then she realised no one was there, as we'd been up in the attic recording all along. she laughed afterwards, but the experience obviously shook her, especially as this was in broad daylight.

richard left midweek as he had a job interview and sue drove gavin back to dublin with his gear on the final night, leaving aine and myself to hang out watching a monty python film. i went to my room which was opposite the recording attic space around 1am. there was a sudden rustling from where all our equipment was - it sounded like a big bird, trapped and fluttering around the space. i went in to check it out and turned the lights on - and the only way i can describe this is something was in *front* of me but i couldn't see it. it was about 3 feet up and rustling - a feathery sound - and i could hear it come through me and out the other side going toward the door behind me - it certainly wasn't outside, or under or over...but it was real. for every bit i was horrified i just felt incredibly lucky that all this was happening to me so i just listened to it shuffle away, and tried to memorise every detail. but at that exact moment, as it made the stairs, aine began screaming in her sleep. and not a normal kind of scream, but one of those that starts as a murmur and grows, coming deep from the ribs and chest - more of an 'AUGH' than an 'ARGH' (again, i can't explain it any better than this) - her screams carried right through the house and sounded like someone who was genuinely terrified for their life - i'd not heard anything like it outside of footage of eastern funerals or snuff films. i ran down into her room and had to shake her awake (actually begging her to shut up, as it was scaring me so much) - she had no recollection of what set her off, and it happened almost simaltaneously as the thing moved through the attic. we both sat there with all the lights on and waited for the sun to come up.

The Cloisters (2009)

Thu, 09 Apr 2009 12:04:23 GMT

do you like spam

Fri, 24 Oct 2008 14:42:17 GMT

hello all. released on monday, a collaboration between glen johnson of piano magic/ textile ranch fame and myself. there's a blurb round here somewhere...

"This 44 minute piece may structurally resemble a classical composition - divided as it is into several interlocking stanzas - but it's difficult to place it comfortably within the realm of modern music. If anything, 'The Rest....' evokes the otherwordly, fantastical obsessions of the Victorians (Conan Doyle, Lear, Grandville, Wellcome and others) through means of meticulously manipulated instrumentation, samples and voice. Plinth, of course, is no stranger to Victoriana. In 2007, the Dorset-based multi-instrumentalist and founder of the Dorset Paeans record label released, 'Plays Victorian Machine Music' - an EP made up entirely from sounds generated by antiquated parlour machines and music boxes. Tanner has also played as a member of Pantaleimon, Directorsound, United Bible Studies and with Sharron Kraus live. Glen Johnson founded the Anglo-French "ghost-rock" unit, Piano Magic, in 1996 and since then has released over 30 records on a multitude of different labels, including collaborations with Low, Vashti Bunyan, Cornershop and Tarwater. In 2004, his debut album as Textile Ranch, 'Bird Heart In Wool,' a portfolio of abstract, melodic electronica, was released. Tanner and Johnson may have met on the internet but their collaboration here relied greatly on Her Majesty's Royal Mail service, swapping files by post, adding, subtracting, remoulding, magnifying found sounds and home recordings. Angele David-Guillou, a regular contributor to Piano Magic recordings and chanteuse with her own project, Klima, generously guests on vocals and other instruments here, whilst the mysterious Ms Autumn Grieve adds further voicings. 'The Rest, I Leave To The Poor' comes as a strictly limited edition of 1000 copies in letter-pressed sleeves of recycled chipboard with red metallic ink finish."

here is a piece of the record:

available outside the US from make mine music but you can also obtain copies from boomkat, norman records and rough trade. darla will carry copies in the states.

Elena Hoyos (thanks for the inspiration, R)

Thu, 09 Oct 2008 14:25:33 GMT

"I've never been able to forget that sight. It didn't even look like a human anymore. So much reconstrution and decay....it was the scariest thing I've ever seen. Her face was an odd white-ish color that looked more like a wax dummy than a womans face. And she had horrible, black, staring, glass eyes. I still dream about that sight."

In 1927, 50-year-old Georg Karl Tanzler abandoned his wife, Doris, and two daughters in Zephyrhills, Florida, fleeing to Key West to “find his soul mate.” Upon arriving, the German immigrant claimed to have nine university degrees, reinventing himself as “Count” Carl Von Cosel. He landed a job as an x-ray technician and bacteriologist, treating tuberculosis patients at Marine Hospital. An electrical wizard, scientist, and inventor, Von Cosel enjoyed playing music long into the night on a home-made organ.

He spent his spare time tinkering with electrical devices, and even built an airship, until one day in April of 1930, he found his true love. Elena Milagro Hoyos was a beautiful 20-year-old Spanish Cuban, and Von Cosel was obsessed from the moment he met her, convinced this was the woman he had dreamed of for decades.

Sadly, Elena Hoyos was dying from tuberculosis, so Von Cosel set out to cure her. He used electric shock machines, gave her free radiation treatments, and even concocted a potion containing flecks of gold.
He soon professed his interest in her, lavishing her with gifts and proposals of marriage, but she denied them being a devout Catholic whose husband had deserted her. Alas, in 1931, several days before Halloween, the beautiful Elena passed from this earth and was buried in a simple grave.
Von Cosel got permission from her family to build her a mausoleum. There, Von Cosel used formaldehyde and other chemicals and spices to preserve the body, secretly visiting it nightly. He had a key made that no one but her sister knew about. The Hoyos's trusted Von Cosel and since he seemed to love her in life (even though it was an unrequited love), they were understanding of his fondness for visiting her grave. They did not know he was inside attempting to preserve Elena. Von Cosel paid for and built an above-ground burial vault which included a telephone so that he could communicate with her and a strange airship whose function he refused to state. During these nightly visits, he would talk to Elena's corpse and said later that one night he saw her ghost in the mausoleum. He claimed she appeared to him from that time after every night and they would have long conversations and she expressed her love for him. These nocturmal visitations continuted for two years until he lost his job at the hospital and moved to a remote shack.

For the next seven years, Von Cosel did everything he possibly could to keep his beloved near him; body and soul intact. Upon arrival home, most of poor Elena’s skin tore from her body when he accidentally dropped her. He then stuffed her nearly hollowed body cavity with rags soaked in embalming fluid, bulking her back to a more natural shape.

Piece by piece, he strengthened her skin with wax and silk, treating her with lotions, potions and electrotherapy using a million volt Tesla coil. He replaced her rotting eyes with glass ones, using the hair falling from her scalp to weave a wig. With piano wire he strung her bones back together. After dressing her in a white wedding gown, he perfumed her body with oils, and serenaded her with melodies on his home-made organ.

Not seeing Von Cosel outside Elena's tomb for over seven years, her sister Nana began to suspect something was amiss. She notified the authorities and they searched her mausoleum only to find it empty. Elena's sister instantly knew who had taken her sister's body and found Von Cosel's shack and confronted him. Peeking through one of Von Cosel’s windows, Nana got the shock of her life. She a body lying in Von Cosel’s bed, dressed in wedding regalia with one prosthetic finger sporting a wedding ring. .He kindly invited her inside and she saw what appeared be a wax dummy in the likeness of Elena laying on the bed. He told her that he and Elena were happy and in love and invited her to come back again and visit. The sister was horrified and went to the police.

They came and took what they assumed to be a dummy to the local morgue to be autopsied. The "dummy" was actually the long decayed corpse of Elena Hoyos; her bones held together with piano wire, her skin had been treated with wax, her eye sockets filled with glass replacements, and she'd been perfumed to mask the odor of decomposition.

This turn of events sparked media frenzy. The funeral home became a tourist trap, putting Elena’s body on display. Over a three day span, upwards of 6,000 people came to view the tattered remains of Elena.

Declared sane, Von Cosel was not charged with a crime because the statute of limitations on grave robbing had expired. Elena Hoyos was eventually buried at a secret location. Von Cosel, separated from his love, used a death mask to create a life-sized dummy of her, and lived with it until his own death in 1952. It wasn’t until 1972 that some shocking information was released by a Monroe County medical examiner. “In the vaginal area, I found a tube wide enough to permit sexual intercourse.” Dr. Depoo said. “At the bottom of the tube was cotton, and in an examination of the cotton there was sperm. Then I knew we were dealing with a sexual pervert.”

To ensure Elena would never again be reunited with Carl, her remains were cut into small pieces, placed in an 18-inch box, and buried in a secret location. The only three people who knew the whereabouts of the box, took that secret to graves of their own.

the mac

Tue, 30 Sep 2008 15:40:39 GMT

during our month-long tour of the states i was probably the only one of united bible studies with an ipod. this lack of forethought on their part led to the assembled entourage being burned by fleetwood mac's 'tusk' in its entirety (including the bonus disc with the reissue). after that, a choice smattering of the buckingham nicks album and some live outtakes that hold a special place in my heart.

they welped. they moaned. i was threatened with physical violence on more than one occasion. one of the reason's cited for the driver ending the tour early was 'because of tanner's fucking music'.

i love fleetwood mac.

when i was a kid i remember them as the band where the girls had the boys names and vice versa. they were a band you didn't so much listen to as be engulfed by...layers of plush fabric from a cheap indian market that soak into every pore. 'tusk' in one sitting is the aural equivalent to the poseidon adventure, only on a sea of syrup. one friend always relates a story of those guys in the studio, experimenting so as to get the exact production frequencies of elevator muzak...can that be done? regardless, this is not a negative.

at some point i was converted, a few years back now - i think it might have been seeing this video, which if you know the story behind it is pretty powerful stuff:

the look she is giving lindsay is just chilling. lindsay is the peter pan of pop.

suffice to say, UBS have come round to my way of thinking. this is a 20 track mix i made for my friend david colohan (agitated radio pilot) which i though ti would share...there are a few oddities and outtakes in there i couldn't live without:

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=GP25G3VI

(mac users: this was compiled on a pc so the tags may be a bit screwy)

last.fm

Mon, 31 Mar 2008 15:21:10 GMT

last.fm has this new fancy doo-hickey whereby you can upload and stream your records for free. it means i've dusted off a bunch of out of print/scarce early material that was made in very tiny runs from way back when...including some music made with friends. lots of streaming odditties and free downloads for anyone interested here. - you just have to click on the cover of an album to stream it.

"what we did on our holidays"

Mon, 17 Mar 2008 15:56:50 GMT

softer than softer than soft

Sat, 29 Dec 2007 17:47:52 GMT

winnie, patron saint of 'darzet.

Mon, 09 Oct 2006 11:59:29 GMT

the wisdom, words and 'sound-art' of winston miller

winston is a dorset legend. unheralded of course, like all the best ones. i first chanced upon him around seven years ago, hunched like a leathery bookend over a suitcase which was packed with what initially seemed to be shards of aluminium cans and plastic boxes. dressed in a hand-knitted rupert the bear jumper (bearing the friendly speech bubble "hello!" on the front and "goodbye!" on the back) his performances switched from erratic accordian solos to soapbox style public rants. i didn't get the gist of these at first...something about thomas hardy's wife and the labour party, delivered in a growling monotone.
venturing in for a closer look i noticed his suitcase was filled with homemade tin boats and a series of D90 cassettes, each of which had an individual hand-cut photo discreetly slipped inside the case. i opted for the one i found to be the most disturbing: a stark shot from inside the mouth of a cave, looking outwards over a body of water, purely because the thought of venturing into any local pothole and finding winnie and his cohorts, camera in hand sent a shiver up my spine. when questioned about the series of odd images gracing his tunes, he revealed a brief glimpse into his 'winnie miller care in the community scheme':

"a simple girl from the farm takes 'em" he said, spooling the cassette back through the lead-in with his grimy index finger, "...it does 'er good".

this is an example of what i found lurking on the tape:

1. the famer's in his den - accordian solo - music box song.
2. in an' out they windows.
3. one man went to mow - 'orsey, don't you stop - tom the pipers son.

(1 rar file @ 28Mb - if you have to listen to any of it, scroll forward to 'music box song' and the end of 'tom the pipers son' - big moments in dorset musical history)

once i'd accepted the shocking sound quality, what initially struck me about listening to these songs was winnie's stream of conscious approach to performing. in several of the numbers he'd get up and walk off, still singing and playing, growing ever more faint as he staggered around the room, sometimes right out the door. occasionally his heavy boots clunking on wooden floorboards would pierce through the caterwhaul or the sound of a coal scuttle could be heard taking a faint knock. it allowed me to build up a mental picture of winnie's world. what goes where, the layout of his room, the dimensions and measurements to the door, the sound of his braying arching and bouncing back from struts and peaked ceilings. i don't doubt how earnest and focused he is, nor the serious nature of his playing...he's so beautifully lost in it all that i'm almost envious.

yearly, i would chance upon him in his favoured spot at the wimborne folk festival, planted squat in his stool, yet splayed out with all his worldly goods like a familiar gnarled tree stump. occasionally he would be joined by an equally tuneless violin-playing harlequin, displaying a degree of one upmanship in otherworldly dress sense:

his liner notes refer to himself in the third person (and by his official title):

"the foremost historian and spokesman on thomas hardy's dorset, and 18th century melodeons" (along with a home phone number so that you can easily reach him in the middle of the night, if you wake in a cold sweat caused by a mix of existential angst and the need to know florence hardy's maiden name...)

sometimes i'd make a point of sidling quietly in between his street performances to eavesdrop on what pearls of wisdom were being foisted upon the general public today. the topics would be as diverse as the salvation army, 'rearing of them young 'uns', winnie's stance on 'mull-tie-collllt-rizms' and where to find the best blackberries this side of tolpuddle.

i don't want to live in a world without winnie millers.

review and admission of alcholism.

Mon, 07 Aug 2006 14:39:58 GMT

Now that foxy and the wire have reviewed it, i couldn't give a shit about anyone else:
http://foxydigitalis.com/foxyd/review_detail.php?id=1683

"
Artist: Plinth
Album: Plays Victorian Machine Music
Label: Rusted Rail
Rating:

Plinth is the solo endeavour of Michael Tanner, who is also a member of the Dorset Paeans Collective (dorsetpaeans.org.uk) and the A. Lords (which have a wonderful new cdr due out soon on Barl Fire) amongst others. As the title suggests, all the music featured on this cdr was entirely created from music played by Victorian machines.

Between 2004 and 2005, Tanner gathered recordings from a variety of sources : vinyl, cassette archives, internet resources as well as his own recordings. In addition, he made sure surface noises and other machine sounds could be heard, all of them becoming an integral part of the music. He then set up to initiate a series of unpredictable dialogues between the recordings/ sounds he carefully selected and chose to let them do the talking instead of exercising total control over them.

Tanner explains: “The process tended to differ from track to track, but my favourite thing to do was take a snippet of melody from an old music box and play it back against say, a collection of notes from a parlour bell machine. This resulted in creating an entirely new melody altogether, and one that wasn't pre-planned or specific. It was if the machines were playing themselves.” As you can guess, the results are simply stunning – lovely, yet unsettling at times.

No doubt, Tanner excels at evoking the atmosphere of a bygone era – a process which, of course, operates on the most fantastical level as these sounds may resonate quite differently in our minds. Plinth thus “plays” machine music – using musical box and other carnival-like tunes as raw material – but it also plays with our sense of memory through the constant recontextualizations these elements are constantly subjected to.

What strikes me every time I play this cdr is the sheer delicacy and dreamlike nature of the music. There’s this whole tapestry of more or less loosely-bound melodies and ghostly textures that never exhaust their mysterious powers. Sometimes, there are moments that may recall the sound-world of Cécile Schott aka Colleen, although a closer listen reveals a different kind of approach altogether, at least to my ears.

Right, the melodies do not necessarily follow a song-like structure. Sometimes, only fragments of them are actually surfacing. But this doesn’t make up for the fragile poetry that you will find here. True, the choosen medium (a three-inch cdr) makes the experience all the more concise in its overall scope and the “collage” method is deliberately unconventional (only one piece of software was used for the sole purpose of editing the tunes), but there is something here that just cannot be fully grasped into words.

I may venture to write that, like Vashti Bunyan’s oft-misunderstood lullabies, the music of Plinth is able to create a singular climate that offers as much a safe haven as a more acute awareness of the dangers that may surround us. Consequently, the dreamlike quality of the music mentioned just above is not merely lovely-sounding and it is a tribute to Tanner’s unique experimental edge to make us hear other “unexpected” voices in-between the tunes themselves.

To my mind, these darker overtones are a full part of the fabric of this work and although they’re not overwhelming in any way, their presence is quietly upsetting.

Again, this may all be woven from the stuff that dreams are made of, but there’s a reality going on here too, and it will be as joyful, lively and sad as you want it to be. It’s also a perfect example of how “free” music can be, as it starts to behave like an organic entity that “plays” along with its creator(s) and develop the ability to change the way we actually listen – all this without even our realizing it. A true gem, indeed...- Francois Hubert

being called by the name 'tanner' a lot makes me feel like i'm back in the playground.

also, looks like i'm going to be on a compilation of unreleased music with current 93 and espers. VELLY GOOD!

i need need need to stop drinking and i love you all very much.

paeans is mightier?

Fri, 28 Jul 2006 16:54:59 GMT

Wed, 19 Jul 2006 10:57:49 GMT

recovering in oxford, by the river banks and sandstone halls, eloquent young men with ice-cream hair are being punted downstream whilst overweight daddy's girls in bikinis attack wobbling geese with orange beaks like castanets in wicker hampers. somehow i feel like the seventies never arrived, i'm in some kind of joe boyd inspired hippy dream. got gently led to a night of folk singing with elfin hipped eunuchs and local giants adorned with growling spittle in beards. songs remind you that your shallow little problems in life matter Not One Jot, you're not feeling any greater sense of loss than a crofter gazing across a field two hundred years ago, maybe not even greater than the ale-fuelled sentry who belts out these words. you just simply are, arching the curve of your slumping posture against the grain of the polished wood that has been here longer than you mister tanner, and will be here for a long time after.

fucking horrible.

Tue, 11 Jul 2006 13:51:23 GMT

mike to julian.poidevin

how long to the conspiracy theorists claim he's been moved to a quiet little home outside blackpool? jesus. but this is horrible. i felt secretly safe with the thought of him pottering around his garden somewhere whilst i was in the library. not doing anything musically, just being alive.

julian.poidevin@****.uk to me

This is it mate, it's the idea of living in a world where the man who made
up those wonderful English afternoon songs no longer exists. Things are a
bit less safe and cosy without him. As you say there was something very
comforting in knowing that he was sitting at home painting and doing as he
pleased.

Julian Poidevin

Fri, 07 Jul 2006 16:38:10 GMT

i'm away in galway.

i've been made to feel welcome by a fine number of folks -it's a bit like that episode of 'happy days' where the fonz goes to live with the cunninghams (if you could imagine that but with ralph mouth instead of the fonz).

i'm here but my mind is elsewhere, i think...i'm playing a bookshop tomorrow night as part of a fringe festival-thing, probably with my (sickly) tour-guide, mr. k wallace of rahoon as my foil. duelling laptops. i haven't slept for something like 30 odd hours now, drinking guiness with the rusted rail boys and girls and leaping out of windows in the morning to go on adventures and seek out coffee. 1am noise jams and parties past that best left avoided. i haven't felt care-free warmth like this in a long time. everyone is scratching a collective groggy head right now while i bask in the other-endedness of going through some alchohol and sleep barrier, brain refined like a bright white paste. hyper sensitive, hyper aware - but all in good ways this time.

five shores

Thu, 01 Jun 2006 15:36:04 GMT

five devotional songs for the sea, improvised on looped guitar - directorsound helps out on piano and clarinet.
around 30 minutes long, to be released as dorset paean no. 7.

these were written a little while ago for a girl to help her get to sleep.
i'm playing the obsolete technology exhibition at the venn festival in bristol this weekend and might have some with me if i get the CDs burnt in time.

*edit* - i'm only going to be making an old-skool run of these of around 50 or so, so do let me know if you want one. they'll be super cheap.

6 things.

Wed, 31 May 2006 15:30:11 GMT

1. eating mushrooms with your steak.
2. the incredible hulk van you bought me that the big kid next door initially burned, then tried to bury.
3. the dimple in your chin.
4. shouting.
5. your woolly tartan sofa.
6. army jumpers with padded sleeves.

directorsound, the wire, absence of speech.

Wed, 24 May 2006 10:49:49 GMT

i still can't find words. i used to write an awful lot but every syllable seems to be a struggle recently, like my brain has been replaced with a long oval slice of ryvita, shaped perfectly for the human skull. it's getting worrying now...especially as i only started using livejournal as a bit of a head stretching before lunch, to keep myself in the good habit of regular writing...although the few things i do want to say tend to be too vitriolic, aimed at the self absorbed and easily offended. i've been really enjoying silenceinspades journal, it's all the good things livejournal should be, i haven't had the balls to tell him as it might be perceived as all gay n' stuff, and you know what an alpha male i am.

-BUT-

i'm playing london this weekend as banjo-slinger in directorsound, supporting grizzly bear along with miss felinebird who'll be fingering the ivories. here's the promotional guff:

SATURDAY 27th MAY
DOORS: 7.30pm – 2am
TAX: £6.00

TICKETS: www.wegottickets.com

Bardens Boudoir: 38-44 Stoke Newington Rd.
www.bardensbar.co.uk

DIRECTIONS: The nearest overground is Dalston-Kingsland (two stops from Highbury & Islington tube), Bardens is then a five minute walk up Kingsland Road.

Buses 67, 76, 149 and 243 stop on our doorstep. Buses 149, 243 and 76 operate all night.
Buses 242, 30, 38, 56 all go to Dalston Junction which is a five minute walk up to Bardens. Buses 38 and 242 operate all night.

oh, and my victorian machine music ep got reviewed in the wire (not that i can afford a copy)...

"Dorset's Plinth appeared on the Geographic compilation You Dont Need Darkness To Do What You Think Is Right back in 2001. As the title suggests, all eight tracks on this EP were created by the 'creaking, winding, piping, chiming and wood-knocking of Victorian parlour music machines'. Though Plinth sometimes lets aged fairground/carnival tunes peek through the static, more often he uses the music machines for melancholy toy tunes, or reflective puddles of wistful melody, swamping the sweet metallic ring of the instrument with layers of machine clutter and clatter."

i think that's sonic youth up there on the cover. you'd think the wire and the youth would be mutually bored with eachother by now...or it could be a case of suffiency - if one gets hurt, the other feels pain...if a wire staff writer cuts himself shaving, lee ranaldo keels over in front of a thousand hipsters in milwaukee. it's a bit like optimus prime and his trailer, but i'll save that one for another time.

i title them 1. rehearsal, 2. zombie-schnoz, 3. trespasser.

Mon, 08 May 2006 11:35:37 GMT

i can't find words so here's a new song.

the highwayman inn, devon.

Wed, 19 Apr 2006 14:17:36 GMT

where i been...

the front door was made from the salvaged remnants of a stagecoach...

...inside the leather seats and wooden panels were all in place.

to the left is the main bar - the hallway was a thing of stained glass beauty

this is the main bar - it really was this dark, from 11am opening til' the shut in come 2.30 in the morning. the bar itself is the remains of a dead tree, dredged from the moors.

from the bedroom looking down. yes non-believers, that wallpaper is real.

the galley was made out of the bowels of some ancient ship. all the oak beams tarred and waxed, musty and heavy smelling.

apparently the little chap on the left is the ships cat.

i suggested they install mechanisms into the lamps to make them sway back and forth in unison, to really screw with drunkards minds.

more at on my flickr page

(it was taken over ten years ago)

Sat, 01 Apr 2006 14:03:46 GMT

the library here was built as a bowling alley in the 40's, but the construction company went bankrupt before it was finished. the little alley where the pins are meant to roll away is the corridor to the staff room. true to it's cronenberg style, there is a hidden room on the uppermost level that no one is allowed to enter. i once sneaked in on my first week here and found an aluminium wardrobe full of lonely single shoes, very old in style, without their left foot - all right-footed shoes, ladies, neatly stacked in a row. there was also an army camping bed, with a mattress that had the thickness of a wafer, or something knitted by your granny. it was shabby, but well used (sunken in the middle). so so grey and cold.
now the room is gone, not demolished or redecorated, just gone. a wall of plasterboard to deny it's existence. i used to imagine it as the secret haunt of stressed librarians, taking five after an irate encounter with an OAP over a 10p fine, or pacing round the floor in equally measured steps, pondering their spinster routine and asking 'why?'. (this job is the equivalent of a modern day female eunuch. it's horribly uncanny in it's inevitibility...you can generalise and stereotype, yes, but the magnetic pull between libraries and the older single woman is undeniable. a non-quavering, enviable or pc fact. we also say "shh" a lot.)

so the haunted little room is now boarded up now. hollow. i wonder if they removed the wardrobe and the bed? or whether they just sealed it up as a time capsule, a testament to the melancholy of others. and if one day it'll be opened, flooding out a mist of repression and black thoughts like an autumnal fog. the stuff that gets in your hair, your lungs, and follows you home.

victorian machine music

Thu, 30 Mar 2006 10:58:57 GMT

hello folks. got my copy of victorian machine music through the post today...it was still a shock to see how tiny that 3 inch cdr was in the palm of my hand...it's a sweet thing, using the design from a beautiful old postcard found by crunchcandy. so this is a limited edition record that's going to be available from directly from rusted rail here, a few outlets and stockists in england (here shop in bristol i think have ordered a few?)in monorail in glasgow. for those of you who haven't followed my constant ramblings about it, it's a short record i made using the clangs, bongs, creaks and spooky/soothing melodies of victorian music boxes and parlor machines.

oh yeah, it's dead cheap - 5.00 euros plus a euro fer shipping...which is like 7 dollars? 4 quid?

ok, i've finished whoring myself now. dave from united bible studies has an amazing solo record out on the label too that i was just listening to today. it's under the name agitated radio pilot and one of the best deserted village related releases yet. woooooh!

plastic sword etiquette

Mon, 27 Mar 2006 08:55:12 GMT

1. it's not essential that you both have swords. the poor kid can always wield the plastic scabbard and pretend. but he will be psychologically scarred in later years, and regail the rest of the bar with his tale of woe wielding other kids scabbards, baked beans on toast, no transformers etc etc.
2. sword has life span of approximately one week. vulnerable points are round the hilt and the midrift of the blade, which will inevitably go floppy.
3. bear in mind that the plastic sword will probably be the least obvious sword colours ie, bright red blade, yellow hilt and sky blue scabbard.
4. if you are the one that gives in and dies in the fight, other kids will like you more.
5. forcing sword through belt loophole in jeans will lead to severe loosening and/or complete denim/loophole seperation.
6. real swords don't make a ripping sound when unsheathed.
7. all fights should be choreographed in slow motion with plenty of ducking under and leaping over 'blades'. be sure to watch out for what you're rolling in before you hit the deck.
8. don't lend older kids your plastic sword. they will inevitably abuse them and go straight for your shin bones, using little or no finesse whatsoever.

things, songs, no spring, coils, solder, freemasons...

Thu, 16 Mar 2006 14:53:11 GMT

my second laptop in a year wiped out, taking most of the dorset paeans masters and my own recordings with it. boo fucking hoo.

rather excitingly, i just found out you can directly link to myspace's servers. here's some free songs for all you fan-dancing non-myspacers:

(edit: these take some time to connect, so bear with 'em)
plinth - victorian machine music, piece 1.
plinth - victorian machine music, piece 4.
plinth - bracken.
plinth - untitled number one.

these are taken from victorian machine music, and wintersongs respectively.

does anyone want to head down to padstow for may day and a weekend of drunken pagan revelry? morris dancers, accordians, straw bears, hobby horses, torch-lit processions, real men drinking real ale with real beards, old ladies selling cakes, the salt sea smell...i'm planning the logistics now so let me know.

"and then" he said triumphantly, "i shall centre my text..."

afternoon, insect clicking keyboard keys...

Thu, 09 Mar 2006 16:18:59 GMT

there is a stocky musclebound man in a camoflage t-shirt sat in the corner of the library. he has a buzzcut and no neck.

he is quoting lines from the bible into his dictaphone, clicking 'stop' violently, rewinding, and recording the same phrases over and over again.

if you hear about a mass shooting incident in dorset in the next day or so, you know what happened.

(also, for the second night running i dreamt i wrote a musical called "hitlers tamagotchi".)