scene opens on the doulton fountain, soundtracked by post-summer shirtless dickerry; tar-lung yellowed bellowing from some east-end prolapse full of do it yrself tattoos, a gnarly invigoration of buckfast and sectarian odium.
(score fades in. hammer of hathor: via america / japan / scotland. hijikata tatsumi carouses with charles gocher; la monte young’s in costume; pärson sound nods off / out)
our rancorous protagonist atop, betwixt and almost pornographically inside this album. and it’s so fucking working.
i take a seat amongst the huddling, baffled travellers, their tourist chatter hushed, set on edge by the unanticipated advent of violence.
(the first track’s wandered into view, something approaching riff on something approaching guitar stumbles around, gestures spastic before it all klangs and clatters percussively down the bloody stairs)
he’s all sinew and strain, ectoplasmic with some random rage. butoh, detourned and random and alive and right in my goddamn face.
(it’s wheezing asthmatically into itself; a rubbery metronome, a fizz of thin reeds moulded into low rent ‘jazz’ and death throe noise. it starts, looking for a little lick or two but finishes with fists, a sweaty yuzna-like back ‘n’ forth shunt)
i’m waiting expectant for the third engorged act, a flail or swing at the ghosts in his head at his feet but this bastard, reduced to mutters, crouches and curls hisself all foetal.
(what feels like an interlude when i wanted climax, stillness when i wanted movement. there’s willing coaxing, ethnologically teasing one gentle jangle out as things bend and rattle. a minute meander, remaking/remodelling fourth world music and)
he contorts. coiling and uncoiling, flickering with nmda receptor antagonism.
(looping back through the crackle and hum of a bad connection to more loose string / percussion flaps)
he climbs to his knees now, gargantuan effort, buckled, garbled gabbling, the colour red, teeth and whatnots.
(the narrative arc’s all askew, as sun cut-throated sparks, huffing wildly too-late to life. let’s call it blooze, a splashing construction of re-de-tuned ur-rock. great clunks of noise, birthed and (s)played, obvious)
the people’s palace looms, menacing as the past and a historyless future can be. this is the afterbirth of fag-end sixties experiments and the mucked-out shed of the eighties. fifty pence for the electricity meter, alex harvey spitting out willie the pimp, bible john, bad speed cheap cider, neu! and knives knives knives…
(yes! heathen music! pagan music! jesus music! everything’s a / on show, a performance. fluxus jams till you want to do better yrself. and we’re reaching ecstasy too late, too soon as it whispers itself away. the ritual skree dies down, ears ringing)
no resolution, no explanation but yr man wanders waywards away innardly raging still. shirt tossed aside in dis-fucking-gust.
(emphasis on the wave in no-wave coz i stammer to my feet, seasick from absurdist warbles and atonal wobbles, crude scrapes against my lugholes. it ends, post-coital, lacking clarity, cohesion but i’m relieved, like i lived through something. this was corpse pose)