Vagabondage Soul .. by albi!

I felt like I could handle the motorbike round these tracks on the edge of the jungle. One of my rare Marlboro Man moments. Real American Wild West mentality. But lest we forget, the question is not whether America saved us Brits in WWII, but why they took so long, while Coke designed Fanta solely for sale in the Third Reich post 1939 and IBM adapted and maintained systems for 'processing' Jews. A new bread of hero was now needed and that might just be me. Not good in a bar brawl but good in a bar at dawn. I had heard you could get opium up around here in the hills of North West Thailand. I went past a seemingly half alfresco hospital on the way up the winding dirt track. Not knowing I would spend some hours getting bandaged up their later, after another minor opium and moonshine spill. Later still I would meet a girl back in my hometown, who had spent time in the same hospital. She once rubbed my cock as I turned to kiss her friend.

The tracks lead past the hospital to a solitary collection of huts on low stilts. I pulled over by one and asked for opium. I bold move, but it paid off. The next time a guy hailed me from the side of the road, I thought my luck was in. He actually wanted to offer me a fried bug. I ate it of course. I had already eaten a boiled bug back in an opium hut. After my first score, I brought along a Dutch friend, Eelko and we ended up in this family’s hut eating dinner with them after smoking opium. I ate my bug down, when the head of the family offered me it to me. My Dutch amigo was so stoned he didn't realise what it was he held out in front of his mouth. Once he did, he let out a screech and flung it across the room. The family thought it was hilarious. I've had fertilised eggs offered too, and accepted by me, before now. It’s mostly done for shock effect I think, on both sides.

A nice evening meal was an added bonus. This was not long after the father had stoked our opium pipes, with our heads on block pillows. There was no threatening over tones. Smoking opium here was so far up the drug chain, the real cunts hadn't even got involved yet. No buying and selling of self esteem and nightmares here, just a transaction for a bit of fun. I smoked too much opium on a boat on the Mekong once, for aesthetic reasons. I think I had too-many-pipes. It was the coolest thing ever, until both the seller and I got greedy for our respective goals. It was Christmas Eve and I spent the whole of Xmas almost paralysed in bed, after throwing up in my rucksack liner.

on the banks of the slygo run grows love for all brothers, peace for all sisters

pines and sea

Broadcast and The Focus Group - #2: I See, So I See So

Thou Gloomy December

Thou Gloomy December

Robert Burns, 1791

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December
Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care;
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember
Parting wi' Nancy, oh, ne'er to meet mair.

Fond lovers' parting is sweet, painful pleasure,
Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour;
But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever
Is anguish unmingled, and agony pure.

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest,
Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown;
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom,
Till my last hope and last comfort is gone.

Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December,
Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care;
For sad was the parting thou makes me remember,
Parting wi' Nancy, oh, ne'er to meet mair.

Thee Earwigs live 29.8.09

Jack Rose. February 16 1971 ~ December 5 2009.

R.I.P.

Thoughts to Jacks Family and Friends, thanks for leaving us with your music.

WW2 AERIAL PHOTOGRAPHY

http://aerial.rcahms.gov.uk/worldwide/

Pesky Gee! before they went to the Sabbat and became.....

Black Widow!

bats

bats bats bats bat bats bats

bats bats bats bats bats

bats bats bats

your owne par;

liament of bats

bats bats bats

bats bats bat bats

bats ba-bats bat bat bats

bat

bats bats bats

your owne par;

liament of bats

Francois & the Atlas Mountains - Be Water (Je suis de l'eau)

The Black Ryder - Sweet Come Down

pumpkin

pumpkinpumpkinpumpkinpumpkinpumpkin

Hey Zeus! by Albi Vinehart (spoken word)

Hey Zeus! by Albi Vinehart by albivinehart
with the help of seymour klearly and bill o parr

I can still hear the crackle

Trees - Snail's Lament

Tom Verlaine and Jimmy Rip - Music for Experimental Film

MAN RAY - Emak Bakia (1926)

Fairport Convention - Tam Lin

Red

Clinic - The Witch

Sylvia Plath October 27, 1932 – February 11, 1963

The Goethe Gaol Card by Albi

If you bring forth what is inside you, what you bring forth will save you. If you don't bring forth what is inside you, what you don’t bring forth will destroy you. Yuz Asaf-Issa.

It finally ended when we smashed the place apart, piece-by-piece. There are few things more satisfying than physically destroying the place you used to work at with your own hands… whilst blind drunk. The place was The Workhouse bar, Leicester’s then premiere haven for underage drinkers and rug dealers, a real zesty, zeigisty sort of place. The year was 1992; I was 20, E’s were £15 each and you really did love everybody when you took one. Reality rent asunder, you saw a new dawn of possibilities for life. These things are impossible to explain to anyone now, especially in the current cultural climate.

The drug dealers stood in the back alley and the real underage drinkers were in the doorways of the closed/closed down buildings either side of the front. You could, of course still smoke inside in those heady days. Though the smoking of drugs always came after we closed, staff only fringe benefits. The only place in England I’ve ever know smoking dope to be acceptable was the back room of the St Johns pub in Hull. Enid the old Landlady would come into the windowless back room in her slippers and bark at us to get out come closing time, our weary eyelids drooping as we shuffled out after playing Little Red Rooster by the Stones too many times on the old jukebox.

The workhouse was rumoured to have a Kinky Gym. I never quite new what this was but I know that rumours abounded about the goings on in that place. I know first hand there was no Kinky Gym, only an old bench press down in the cellar, classic Chinese whispers. The owner, a fat grubby Uncle Monty character, would offer £50 to any of us boys to let him suck them off. I declined, though not everyone did. Not that I’m adverse to cock, you know my mantra, “I take my coffee sweet and black, like the first cock I sucked”. There was enough perks of the job to keep us happy; smokes and drinks after work, free entry into the best club around for what we were into and free drinks if we stood talking to the dirty old man. Every pump in the cellar was connected to a weaker cheaper barrel than indicated by the taps on the bar. Taps that we enjoyed smashing off with a wooden mallet. Knees on the bar and bash that cider tap off, watch the cider spurting from the now open-ended pipe arc-like behind the bar. Now its time for the mirrors and the wall lights. There were three of us lads (all ex-employees) and my girlfriend. A mate ended up fucking her that night; I’d ended up with recent ex of his just before, but couldn’t quite close the deal, I couldn’t fucking get it up. That happened to me so many times in my early days and still does, Viagra or being in love are the only cures I’ve found.

Before the bar was finally closed down, which lead us to be left with the keys to a now derelict bar that fateful night, it had been the jewel in Leicester’s crown. The police had been so inept at raiding the place it was funny. Plain clothed policemen, looking very like plain clothed policemen would come and loom over the bar at lunchtime (we did a good trade in working lunches for the offices near by) and ask for drugs. We would say, “what are you talking about” and carry on as usual. When the busts began to come at night (the real illicit time) the owner would always receive a tip off first and inform the dealers. The dealers disappeared into the night within seconds. One morning after an attempted bust I found a bag of trips (Bart Simpsons’ in case you were wondering) and a 8th of weed the dealers had dropped in their rush to leave. Perfect for my first of many trips to Glastonbury that weekend. That was a weekend that changed my life, the peak of the rave years, a holy ground for the left field mind. Another time after work I found a scrunched up newspaper that contained some weird dried mushrooms. I went to my boss who told me they were magic mushrooms and how to prepare them. We took them later on a trip to Hull and giggled for hours whilst listening to HP Lovecraft (the psychedelic 60’s band) and the Grateful Dead’s first two albums. If you’re going to take psychedelics, do it in style.

The end was closing in on the Workhouse. I had gone away to University and missed the final throws of the dice. Eventually it was just too illegal to live. A time and a place that none involved will ever forget. I was introduced to the rapier gay wit there. After work one night I stood back to back with another guy, seeing who was the taller. The difference was marked. “It’s a good three inches” someone proclaimed. “There’s no such thing as a good three inches!” came the reply. Indeed.

We blamed the wreckage on local bikers and hoped we wouldn’t go to prison for the many thousands pounds worth of damage. Nobody ever came knocking. I sit here now all these years later pondering this and other more pressing matters. Like the wisdom of Barak Obama receiving the Noble Peace prize. The end of meaning for the Nobel peace prize; the Nobel prize for perpetuating most war crimes on other sovereign states soil; for his steadfast work on devaluing the currency of human rights/the Geneva convention in relation to Iraq/Afghanistan, rivaled only by the Israelis genocide of the Palestinians. Those war crimes are of course funded/backed by the new Obama administration as well. And if you think Obama or his administration make the decisions you’ve got some research to be doing online. Try Noam Chomsky, John Pilger and Alex Jones’ Prison Planet (http://www.prisonplanet.com/) for starters. The Workhouses where the poor refuges of the industrial revolution were forced to eek out their pitiful existence have been with us in one form or another ever since; sometimes it’s more manifest, sometimes more subtle. We all work in a giant workhouse these days and only a few of us have been bothered/lucky enough to figure it out, thanks to the likes of Noam Chomsky. Noam was due to get this years Nobel peace prize, but he was sidestepped for Obama. Selah. Any artist in the broadest sense, who doesn’t put across in her art the core beliefs of the free soul, needs her fingers braking. One by one. Crow bar it in there if you have to, subtlety not a prerequisite. Nothing is prerequisite. Gene Genet wrote Our Lady of the Flowers in prison again and again as it was confiscated, on the bags he was made to sew. I thought I needed a Mac book to get anywhere.

Artists are generally right-minded individuals. Dark creativity isn’t aesthetically pleasing; it’s the craft of war, grey buildings and politics. The creativity of light is words, music, colours and art from the heart. Sure Charles Manson made an album, but it was shit and its rejection was part of his descent into evil. Sure the third Reich appreciated art, but nothing came out of it, other than what seeped out due to their crushing of souls. Messiaen’s wrote and premiered the Quartet For The End of time in Stalag VII-A as a prisoner of the Germans in WWII, played on a few broken down old instruments they gathered together. It changed my life, merely by listening to it. Here we see dark against light in action. The dark obeys the rules and follows the uncontrolled delusions of self-love and hatred of other. The light obeys no rules and seeks truth as beauty and above all enlivens emancipation.

I could sense an epiphany was approaching; as I listened to the quartet playing in front of me, the arches in the cathedral walls became translucent. Two vast edifices rose above me, one white, one black, out of space and time they loomed over, one gave me a sense of foreboding and fear, the other hope. Across town I felt the old places where they used to keep criminals, the pub cellar that used to be men’s Jail and the pub that used to house the women before their execution. The spirit within me ranted for redemption. Reality rent asunder, I staggered for the door. The sky was overcast. Like lost peoples souls. I finally knew my spirit would forever ascend. I am cast down by my actions or rise with my love, but nevertheless we are all saved, like Goethe’s Faust, for it is our destiny, our evolution, and our goal, to become the bright white wisdom light; it’s the inexorable evolution of the soul.

Zalatnay Sarolta

georges garvarentz - un beau monstre (1970)

Cate Le Bon - Hollow Trees House Hounds

Nat Johnson & The Figureheads - Beautiful Emergency

Broadcast & The Focus Group Investigate Witch Cults of the Radio Age

Read about the brilliant new Broadcast mini album here

WOODS - TO CLEAN

WOODS

Wonderful Emergency

Nat Johnson & The Figureheads have released their new double A side single today 'Wonderful Emergency/Don't Worry Baby'. Hear it on their myspace page Artwork by Moonpie!

Stevie Wonder - Superstition live on Sesame Street

Catherine Deneuve.. Les Demoiselles de Rochefort...

Francoise Hardy - Autumn Rendezvous

Now the summer days are ending
Leaves are falling, red and gold
Now the warmth of love is fading
And the nights are getting cold

From the east the wind is blowing
Now the sky's no longer blue
Overhead the clouds are growing
Summer's gone and so are you

You wanted to be free
Love was just a game to you
And you never meant to be
At this autumn rendezvous

All the happiness life gave me
Changed to emptiness today
Now that you no longer love me
Autumn's come, it's here to stay

Life seems empty now without you
It's not easy to forget
I may learn to live without you
But I'll always feel regret

I would cry but it's no good
Tears won't bring you back to me
Though I'd stop you if I could
I can't change what has to be

With the years I'll still remember
And in time the hurt will go
I'll forget this sad September
And be glad I loved you so

Francoise Hardy - Rendez-vous d'automne

Mammy Low Pt2 / the world is short.. by albi

I stepped from the plane into the cultural ant-capital. I soon discovered a cultural void edifice the size of Uluru (that’s Ayers rock to you Nazi’s), akin to the immeasurable internal all consuming void edifice of my need for alcohol. I think its funny after being an alcoholic; I still can’t spell the word without spell checking it, much like my degree in Communication Processes, which I still can’t spell either……… Not that any of that mattered in such a godforsaken country as Australia. Maybe I could bring culture to this country like an old style missionary but bringing culture instead of Catholicism. There are of course the amazing Aborigines, but they have been hunted almost to extinction. I was due to stay a year and Sydney was my first stop. My first tentative steps, nervous with hangover fear, took me out of my dorm room and put me face to face with Kuntz (real name). He was a young German fellow with a handlebar moustache and a caliber of the likes you will rarely see again. He asked if I would share a bottle of fine wine with him, (its 10.30 am) as it’s his last day in the country. Never wishing to rile our Teutonic friends, I took part; what’s the worst that could happen? After all it would take him a day or so to get to Poland and he would have sobered up by then. This drinking session lasted 6 weeks. As Kuntz left he was replaced by a series of wonderful fellows, but my money and liver were wearing thin, after a louche month spent up the east coast in Byron Bay, involving booze, dope, a tad of heroine and a 24 hour pie shop. One day I had a moment of pan au chocolate clarity; a flash of genius; I could go and stay with my Nan and alcoholic step-granddad in Perth, that way I could save money and cut down on my drinking; I really believed this. 6 months later and was booking my flight home, financially fettered and exhausted.

My time there had been eventful though. There had been a lovely 17 year old who I fucked everywhere, she was always bra-less and only ever wore a short piece of hippie curtain material wrapped round her waist and never, ever any knickers. Her sharp nipples peeping strikingly through her top and red bush gleaming at me from across the room at a party, as she sat cross-legged on the floor. There were others too and a tip off for a fixed horse race that eased the financial troubles. I had a bar job to lessen my woes too. A titty club by day and a music bar by night. I ended the trip by hitching from Perth to Darwin. I hadn’t really figured on the distance; around 5 thousand miles. At the end of the first day I was hitching back to my gran’s again, with my tail and a leaky bag from a box of wine between my legs.

That in itself, turned out to be a Taoist blessing in disguise. I was too embarrassed to go back to my gran’s in the end and headed to my uncles, where I was tipped off my elusive other uncle John who I hadn’t seen in 15 years, had a trip up to Darwin planned the following day. He had only waited 25 years to get round to it and would be going unknowingly the same day as me on the 3-day bus journey. At the first truck stop I mysteriously handed over the dollars my other uncle had given me to pass on and said enigmatically “you don’t know who I am do you?” as I recognised him, but I was very different to the 8 year old kid he had last seen 15 years before when corrupting me by taking me to the then still controversial Monty Pythons Life Of Brian and giving me me a glass of gin. Having spilt some in the sink, someone thought I had tipped it away; could my prodigious alcohol abuse be put down to still trying to prove to those long gone critics that I could REALLY DRINK? John had always been my favourite uncle and we clicked again instantly. As I hadn’t been able to track him down during my spell in Perth I had settled for hanging out with The Drunks. The Drunks, as they were half affectionately known, were Peter and Barry. Both dead now of course; Peter turned Simpsons yellow as his liver failed and Barry has long since drowned in his own sorrows. They were so much fun, those guys. Once a week they would receive their benefit checks and duly head into Freemantle town to cash them in. Money in hand, they would proceed to spent a load of it on a day time drinking session that would see them awake the next morning with no recollection of the night before. Nothing unusual there, except that the bar they frequented was next door to a pet shop and they would often be surprised to find a Parrot or some such creature greeting them in their living room upon their hazy coming to of a morning. The Awakening of The Drunks was always an interesting ritual. The first to rise would sneak a can from the box of beer and with a tea towel tightly wrapped around the top to minimise the noise, gently spring it open; this was so the other would not hear and start on the limited amount of booze too.

I finally made it to Darwin after an uncomfortable penniless time in Broom, where I had left my uncle. On the way up to Broom each stop saw the people in these roadhouses know him by a different name, I never asked the details of why, I just left it as an enigmatic little story. Life’s more fun left as a fugue of enigmas. Some people lead mysteriously interesting lives it seems, though not nearly enough of them. The flight home from Darwin to the UK was uneventful it seems, as I recollect nothing, except planning to become a teacher of English as a foreign language. I eventually became one, with plans to travel the world that year financed by it; I got a far as teaching an infamously dumb white area of my hometown. I still wonder how Kelly, the 17-year hippie kid is doing now. I wonder who is fucking her and hope that she is calm, happy and at peace in her life.

Pointy Birds

Pointy birds
oh pointy pointy
anoint my head
anointy nointy

- Dr. Hfuhruhurr

Jean Toomer - exert from Seventh Street

CUTLERY - (YOU BETTER LOVE ME) BEFORE I AM GONE. A bloody smashing cover of the BJM song.

Cutlery on Myspace for more loveliness

Vampires of Dartmoor - Dance of the Vampires

Well here we are in Honeybuzzard heaven- i can hear the plaintive whilst of an old stream train- here's something from From Dracular's Music Cabinet (1969) on Finders Keepers Records.

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The master of all genre's at work- (just like the bands I'm in whenever we record, honest!); documenting the whole creative process from beginning to end, via 1,000 Gitanes; Serge Gainsbourg Initails BB:

s.Gainsbourg Initials BB - Création
Uploaded by occiMORT. - Discover more animation and arts videos.

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Jean-Claude Vannier and his crew working on a fashion show for Yves Saint-Laurent in the early 70's..

Beachwood Sparks - Canyon Ride

From the man who helped Melody Nelson appear to your mind.. Jean-Claude Vannier

Lord Kitchener's Valet

DOODLINGS

AMERICAN ANALOG SET - COME HOME BABY JULIE, COME HOME

I'd like some fur

Karl Struss - Dance study 1930

Joker's Daughter - Lucid

Above is the goddess of fertility in British-Celtic mythology.. polly jean harvey!

The Two Trees by W.B. Yates

Beloved, gaze in thine own heart,
The holy tree is growing there;
From joy the holy branches start,
And all the trembling flowers they bear.
The changing colours of its fruit
Have dowered the stars with merry light;
The surety of its hidden root
Has planted quiet in the night;
The shaking of its leafy head
Has given the waves their melody,
And made my lips and music wed,
Murmuring a wizard song for thee.
There the Joves a circle go,
The flaming circle of our days,
Gyring, spiring to and fro
In those great ignorant leafy ways;
Remembering all that shaken hair
And how the wingèd sandals dart,
Thine eyes grow full of tender care:
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.




Gaze no more in the bitter glass
The demons, with their subtle guile,
Lift up before us when they pass,
Or only gaze a little while;
For there a fatal image grows
That the stormy night receives,
Roots half hidden under snows,
Broken boughs and blackened leaves.
For all things turn to barrenness
In the dim glass the demons hold,
The glass of outer weariness,
Made when God slept in times of old.
There, through the broken branches, go
The ravens of unresting thought;
Flying, crying, to and fro,
Cruel claw and hungry throat,
Or else they stand and sniff the wind,
And shake their ragged wings; alas!
Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:
Gaze no more in the bitter glass.

By W.B.Yeats

The Low Anthem - my new favourite band

Sugar Mountain..

Pregnancy Test BJM

ode to space hasstle..

The Brian Jonestown Massacre 'Ode to Space Hasstle


elis e tom - aguas de março


Vicente Fernandez - Volver Volver

Look out for Monkey...

Popul Vuh classical ambient folk mantra Kyrie 1973

In the dew of little things

Let there be no purpose in friendship
save the deepening of spirit.
for love that seeks aught but the disclosure
of its own mystery is not love but
a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable
is caught.
and let your best be for your friend.
if he must know the ebb of your tide,
let him know its flood also.
for what is your friend that you should
seek him with hours to kill?
seek him always with hours to live.
for it is his to fill your need, but not
your emptiness.
and in the sweetness of friendship let
there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures.
for in the dew of little things the heart
finds its morning and is refreshed.

(exerpted from: Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet)

Don Fardon - I'm Alive

He who fears death cannot enjoy life..

A snapshot of a life half lived - by Albi

Round the corner of every instant, the fascination of the unknown
from Waterloo Bridge (1940)

Sat in the works executive toilet cubicle, Oliver Bedsocks takes another drink of Vodka chocolate milkshake to quell his untamed nerves. Would the Mint Field Playboys ever except me in this state, he wonders? That morning he had passed a Drunk, who after draining the last drops of his Special Brew in the open pub door way, turned to enter. He wanted so much to be that Drunk. Was love enough to keep him sane?

The 5th Dimension - Aquarius/Let the sunshine in

To Summer by William Blake

O thou who passest thro' our valleys in
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer,
Oft pitched'st here thy goldent tent, and oft
Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld
With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.

Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard
Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car
Rode o'er the deep of heaven; beside our springs
Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on
Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy
Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:
Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.

Our bards are fam'd who strike the silver wire:
Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:
Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:
We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,
Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,
Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.

Silver Apples 1969

They Live by John Carpenter - a video essay

Elvis Has Entered The Building

Last years bride stands barefoot on threshold of her dystopian dawn
Last years bride clutching attic dolls wrapped in the old sex towel
Last years bride mulls the contents of her saddened handbag mind
Last years bride stands stone alone, by her hereditary blood throne

by albi

AQUA NEBULA OSCILLATOR- Lost In Space - full version

Françoise Hardy - Ce petit coeur - 1968

France Gall - Avant la Bagarre

Jacques Dutronc L'opportuniste 1968

Hal-An-Tosis (A Walpurgis Nightmare)

Vashti Bunyan interview from 2007

Vashti on Wiki

CARIBOU - AFTER HOURS LIVE AT THE SECRET GARDEN PARTY

Caribou on Myspace
Official website

The dark side of the moon..

The Twist and Spout at The Secret Garden Party

21st July 1969

Ultimate Spinach - Ballad Of The Hip Death Goddess

Svengali- Internet comedy pilot

you can watch the series on youtube/itunes free podcast/facebook link etc..

MUTO by BLU

Save the Honeybee

Help the soil association get the Government to ban neonicotinoids, pesticides that are harmful to honeybees, by signing their online petition.

Wendy & Bonnie

Wendy Flower on Myspace
Wendy Flower's website

The Pillars of Eagle Castle

Astronomy Picture of the Day Archive

Gregor Samsa - Jeroen Van Aken

Myspace

David Fletcher RIP

So sad to hear the news that David Fletcher, bassist from the brilliant Colorama, has died from a heart attack.

I had the pleasure of meeting David and his partner Holly after their gig at the Indoor Picnic last january, what a lovely guy, and what an amazing musician. Our thoughts and sympathies go out to Holly, their two children, family and friends.

Andrew Bird - Keep your lamp trimmed and burning/Jesus is a dying bed maker

HEALING THE SOUL of Salt Lake City.

Andrew Bird covers the timeless gospel classics, sung by many but most notably by,

Blind Willie Johnson

and

Charley Patton

a

La Poupee by Hans Bellmer, 1934

Hans Bellmer
Surrealist photographer
1902-1975.

From the pit of your imagination by Albi Vinehart

"It's not a question of just reading books, Mexicana, it's also the physical pleasure and inner peace you get from holding them in your hands."
From Queen of the South by Arturo Perez-Reverte

The Sun keeps me from at baying at the moon
Enlightened in the day, monger of doom
Your drug dealer phones you in the cab
The moment you step fresh from rehab
Liverpool Street station booze abounds
Amongst the throngs and the sounds
Kings Cross station I take my first drink
A skimming stone is soon to sink

Sky Saxon RIP

Beatiful song by Mount Eerie with Julie Doiron

A little bit of love for the Skychildren

Valerie and her week of wonders

Film and soundtrack to change your life!

Happy Solstice!

Summer Solstice, Stonehenge 21.6.09

Viy

Brilliant Russian horror film from 1967 Viy

Llama Festival, Lynton and Lynmouth, this weekend!

Waste/Graceland

I am trying to get at something so simple
that I have to talk plainly
so the words don’t disfigure it,
and if it turns out what I say is untrue,
then at least let it be harmless
like a leaky boat in the reeds
that is bothering no one
David Berman

England is waiting for the ashes to start. It’s a dynamic and evolutionary tale. It’s Handel, St George and Oscar Wilde. A German, a Turk, and an Irishman walk into bar; we’re their punch line. The sun will never set on the nations that make up England today. You take your England where ‘er you go. I’ve taken my England pot holing with no equipment in Thailand with the locals; taken it up to Annapurna base camp, changing into my favourite t-shirt half way up the last ascent. I’ve plummeted into the ravine of alcoholism and clambered back out again with England on my back and on my sleeve. I’ve waived a toy gaming gun at my England out of a London window on crack and heroine; sat serenely in with it in Lakeland meditating on love and compassion. Show me a BNP member and I’ll show him the flaw. Time to wake up and smell the coffee, make mine sweet and black like the first cock I sucked. All this begs the question, so did those feet in ancient times really walk upon England’s mountain green? Well they did in Scotland; Prestwick march the 3rd in 1960 to be precise.

By Albi Vinehart

The Moon And The Sledgehammer

The Moon And The Sledgehammer website.

...and for those in the North

14th June, The Grapes, Sheffield.
See Links for myspace pages;
Tisso Lake
Nat Johnson
Cam Deas