Saturday 27 March 2021

Paradise 9 - Science Fiction Reality

If Paradise 9 had been around back in the day, then surely their space-punk vibe would have made them great stablemates for the likes of Inner City Unit, Underground Zero, and yes, Hawkwind themselves, on the 1980s Flicknife roster. Fast forward to 2021, and how fantastic to see them join the resurgent Flicknife now! 

Their debut release for Frenchy's label is Science Fiction Reality ... 'science fiction/science fact/there's no way of going back' ... I've been saying this over the pandemic, all the times in the 70s when, as a teenage SF fanatic, my mum castigated me for reading so much of that 'rubbish science fiction', and yet here we are in the sort of world that the writers of the 60s and 70s were postulating and describing. It's mainstream, embedded in our everyday lives, 'the new society' as Paradise 9 put it in the title track to this highly successful album, itself bright and sprightly and righteously declaiming the modern world of data harvesting, democracy in retreat, new deities and hierarchies springing up around us at pace. Can't get back to where we came from, can't visualise what's coming next.  Perhaps a little too consciously on message on occasion, with their sampling of Greta Thunberg on the opening 'These Are The Days' not out of place ... absolutely not ... but arguably placed too early on and in danger of breaking the opening flow. But, you know what, some messaging can't be said too many times, so it absolutely has a place somewhere on this sharply aware record.

Step back a moment though. Longtime readers of this blog back to its Spacerock Reviews incarnation will have seen the evolution of Paradise 9 over the years, with a revolving cast of collaborators alongside the ever present Gregg McKella; this time out he's lined-up with Alternative TV's Tyrone Thomas (lead guitar), Neil Matthars, formerly of Casual Affair on bass, and Wayne Collyer drumming. It's the familiar Paradise 9 sound, melodic and catchy, totally immediate stuff with a light touch that belies its strident underbelly. Singalong tunes, such as 'Shine On', one that's been around a while, previously popping up on their 1997 - 2017 Live album in a cut from their Kozfest 2016 appearance and which ought really to be considered a classic in waiting at the very least. Sparkly and infectious. (Ha! Can we still say 'infectious' in a good way? This is such a great, please play me on repeat, song!). 

I'm reminded on Flicknife's press release for this album that I once described Paradise 9 as being music that represent facets of the counter-culture as a joined-up whole. So long ago - what I see when I research that one, is that I've been writing about them since 2009 - but looking back, I was thinking about the way in which their music over those years has touched on spacerock, psychedelia, reggae, dub and comparing their righteously indignant surveys of, as one earlier song declared, the 'State of the Nation' to, as an equally early reviewer put it, Joe Stummer's straight-up and moral outlook. They still have that fire of rage bottled up in these psychedelic punk tunes. 'Deconstruct, Divide and Rule' and its despair of 'forward motion without a clue' and asking 'is this what you really voted for?' And these votes made by people 'with their backs against the wall'. They're right. What on earth are we thinking these days? 

Lest it all get too serious, there's the 'Matter of Anti-Matter' to lighten the tone, a bit like 'Quark Strangeness & Charm' popping up amidst the heavy hitters of 'Damnation Alley' and 'Hassan I Sabbah' to borrow a Hawks analogy, before we get back onto the activist lyrics of 'This is Your Inheritance', that world, that dystopia, we'll get if we don't change course. Useful to remind though, that lyrics are one thing, and creating a sound that bottles the energy and fun that clearly comes from these guys playing together is another. Big ticks in both boxes. And playing out is a trippy mood piece, 'Safe Haven' that floats away in a loop of repetitive space psychedelia and clarinet blowing to ease our troubled minds into a state of perfect bliss that's equally perfectly judged in the way it deviates from and still complements the textures of what's preceded it. Lovely, actually.

Listen, this is an album that sounds great, crisp and clear, and that has a narrative that's completely relevant to these days - and let's give thanks that there are bands out there still that have this burning agenda at their core, because there certainly aren't a lot, or enough, of them. 

Sunday 4 October 2020

Hawkwind Light Orchestra - Carnivorous


Hawkwind Light Orchestra, Psychedelic Warriors, Sonic Assassins… even Hawklords… indications that this is Hawkwind doing something a little bit different, a touch outside of their envelope or perhaps without some of the current complement of band members. That’s the case with Carnivorous – you’ll spot immediately the anagram involved here – initially a Dave Brock solo project tapping into that rich seam of ideas that’s been mined over the years by the band, from ‘Starfarer’s Despatch’ and its offspring ‘Spirit of the Age’ onwards, the interface between human and android.

That solo record was started on in late 2019, with current Hawks Richard Chadwick and Magnus Martin adding pieces the following January and February, until lockdown forced a remote working to complete the album. So, no Niall Hone, and no Tim Blake, but a fresh line-up for the second HLO record, following Dave, Richard and Niall’s Stellar Variations under the same badge from a few years back.

It’s the best studio thing to come from any configuration of the band in recent times. Now, I know when I say that, that last year’s All Aboard The Skylark was very well-received, while I have a particular liking for the Marmite of Road To Utopia, but Carnivorous really hits the spot, feels like a properly cohesive Hawkwind record even when being a bit more wide-ranging and mixing their familiar spacerock sound with some traditional barroom blues lilts, as on ‘Model Farm Blues’.

You get this from the start, ‘Dyna-mite’ is a purposeful and punchy lift-off with some classic Brock guitar that will sound fantastic live when these days have passed, as they surely will, and yet has a rich studio texture to it, meaning that it will also, in all the best Hawk traditions, sound different live as well. ‘An android will last forever / despite humans best endeavours,’ sings Brock, keeping that ‘Spirit of the Age’ going onwards, before the album diverts into the spacious synthesisers of ‘Void of Wasteland’ where Dave’s guitar emerges out of the wash to add vim to this instrumental’s rolling rhythms.

‘Human Behaviour (No Sex Allowed)’ is a strident siren of a dystopian rocker – this is a record about songs, mostly sharply around the three – four minutes mark, though some stretch out a bit further, and the highly topical raison d’etre, ‘The Virus’, clocks in at just over ten, but then this is why it works so well, a collection of memorable tunes punctuated with moments of instrumental reflection (the afore mentioned ‘Void of Wasteland’, the pensive ‘Square Peg Into a Round Hole’) that makes the flow work so smartly.

It reaches urgency towards the later tracks. ‘Lockdown (Keep Calm)’ might be titular good advice but it has something of the relentlessness and vibe of ‘Some People Never Die’ from Church of Hawkwind with its “State of Emergency” and “Stay Calm” samples running through it. [Side note here – isn’t it intriguing just how influential that LP, another side project record in many respects, has become over the years with a reputation that grows and grows]. And then we’re into an epic and provocative ‘The Virus’, which points the finger at meat-eating and, and again often in best Hawkwind tradition, has a really downbeat take on the future of humanity within its cautionary tale (‘is this how it’s going to end?’), before concluding in a bucolic moment that perhaps suggests that, sans humanity, peace has returned to the Earth.

I’d have cut it there, fading out on those more gentle notes, a fitting coda to a solidly rocking record. I think that would have been a perfect ending. Carnivorous carries on, ‘Forgotten Memories’, about the tragedy of Alzheimer’s, what’s noted as the hide and seek of memory, and the melancholic and genuinely emotional ‘Higher Ground’, both songs with real heart to them, so, you know, absolutely not dismissed in wanting the album to finish on those haunting notes that play-out ‘The Virus’, but a reflection that they possibly deserved another home, simply to allow a fade of the record on a different note.

This is the best Hawkwind record of the 21st Century, opportune and apt – great to see the crazy days of lockdown yielding such creative results here. 

Wednesday 2 October 2019

Jane Weaver - Loops In The Secret Society

Jane Weaver’s Loops In The Secret Society. Ah, this is one of my favourite albums of 2019, but one of those reviews planned for print publication that got away. I think this one dropped by the wayside because of a change in house style made it a tricky one to reconfigure, and it’s been sat among my files, waiting for an opportunity to not be condensed but instead just expanded a little for blogging. And it’s timely because the releasing Fire Records, at their Bandcamp page, have a ‘Bookback’ CD/DVD of with new illustrations and experimental visuals from its tour noted for release circa 15th November.

More intriguing and ethereal a musician than Jane Weaver you’d be hard-pressed to find; once part of brit pop outfit Kill Laura and signed by Rob Gretton in the 1990s, her experimental electronica work over the past few years has seen her declaim Amon Düül II as inspiration and sample Hawkwind’s Star Cannibal track, culled from their most leftfield electronic LP Church Of Hawkwind. Indeed, when I visited Dave Brock himself a couple of years back for a magazine interview feature, he was at pains to mention that particular sampling as part of Hawkwind’s on-going relevance and influence on subsequent generations of musicians.

This extensive double album revisits and recolours extracts from her previous suites The Silver Globe and Modern Kosmology, alongside new shimmering ambient pieces to create an effect that’s akin to viewing a contemporary art exhibition or sequence of installations. If you accept that notion, you'll find it built around sensory perceptions, displaying shade, light, texture, tone and coalescing in an immersive whole. While I was working for a contemporary art gallery a couple of years back, the curators presented a sound installation at Richmond Chapel in Penzance of the work of Janet Cardiff (Forty Part Motet), interpreting a 16th century choral piece by Thomas Tallis in forty male voices, each played through a single speaker to create a complex ensemble sound… and though this is, of course, so very different, it feels like its textures and tones would resonate in similar setting. 

Weaver has previously noted the Swedish abstract painter and spiritual mystic Hilma af Klint as a way marker for her own aural compositions, and indeed once you know that, in the patterns of Weaver’s music you find something intricately geometric in a similar manner to af Klint’s canvases. For Modern Kosmology she related to The Independent her interest in “the explosion of ideas: when they come, where they’re from,” and related that to stumbling upon af Klint, finding her “so mystical, but also so scientific.” In the record’s titular secret society there’s an acknowledgment of how important this painter, with her grouping of female artists ‘The Five’, who experimented with spiritualism and seances, has become to Weaver’s creative thinking, and perhaps a nod towards af Klint’s interest in automatic drawing. I adore something of art, in any media or medium, that sends you off to something else, analogous and yet different; that seems to me to be part of the subtext of being creative, that it opens eyes to other things as well.

There’s the repetitive electronics in Weaver’s music that have a totally hypnotic trance to them, but in her vocals, on the addictively compelling ‘Slow Motion’ for instance, there’s something of such simple, yet haunting beauty that you absolutely could lose yourself in it. Her voice has an ice maiden quality to it, distant and brittle, while her music feels like … I don’t know … an extra-dimensional temple of sound, as though it represents something out of time, timeless, lost to time, once again that spiritual mysticism found continuous aural form. And having not been familiar with previous work, it seems to me that Loops In The Secret Society is not just a re-exploring of established pieces for the already converted, but an expansive introduction to Weaver’s world that serves as a perfect entry point. 

Jane Weaver - Fire Records Bandcamp

Tuesday 18 June 2019

Strange Stars

While I'm posting a few previously unpublished reviews, here's one written last year on Jason Heller's intriguing Strange Stars examination of the relationship between rock music and science fiction (and far from just the obvious ones as well, even if there's bands, such as SpAce for instance, that I'd have though merited a little more coverage). I'd first heard of Jason through a piece he'd written on Hawkwind for one of the US science fiction magazines (Clarkesworld I think), which had referenced some of my own writings on the band... and was delighted at the number of times the references section of his book saw my name included. That has to be one of the highlights of researching and writing non-fiction, to see another writer build on what you'd published.

I see that Strange Stars had its paperback release a few days ago; this review, originally commissioned by Record Collector but then left unpublished, derives from last year's hardback edition. I'd planned to write an extended review to coincide with the paperback edition, but that's got away from me with other work, so here's my condensed to print magazine review length thoughts on this book, from summer 2018.

Strange Stars: David Bowie, Pop Music, And The Decade Sci-Fi Exploded
Jason Heller
Melville House
978-1-61219-697-8; 254 pages
Ground Control to everybody

Bookended by Bowie’s laments to Major Tom, Space Oddity and Ashes To Ashes, Strange Stars is an immersive pulling together of the connections between rock music and science-fiction of prose and screen, a vast network of influences, inspirations and fantasies drawn from the classic writers of the genre, be it Clarke, Asimov, or Heinlein from one era, to Dick and Ballard from its next. 

At the core concept of the text is Bowie’s interest in reflecting science fiction ideas in the rock genre, something that he returned to multiple times. It’s the narrative that American journalist and musician Heller anchors his chronology to, while casting a panoramic eye across those who made sci-fi their lyrical driving force, or embedded it in their sound, or indeed those who simply adopted its imagery for visual effect.

There’s Hawkwind of course, an entry point for discussion of their sometime contributor and sci-fi giant Michael Moorcock’s wider rock connections, though their late lyricist Bob Calvert’s work merited more examination. And there’s the translation of J G Ballard’s dystopian visions into bleak disconnection by Joy Division and others.

But Heller delves further than SF’s use in muscular space-rock or clinically dispassionate post-punk. This book was also conceived from a love of Meco’s disco crossover Star Wars Theme/Cantina Band 7”, though not so much from the briefly acknowledged Magic Fly of its contemporary, Didier Marouani’s Space. And it’s built upon an extensive knowledge of the sci-fi sources that found their re-entry point in everything from Jefferson Airplane to George Clinton’s P-Funk, scientific romances that rocket-fueled these musician’s daydreams. 

Jason tweets as @jason_m_heller

Recent Reports...

Here's a few reviews from recent(ish) months originally anticipated for print publications which, for whatever reasons, didn't appear in their intended destinations. A couple of these will have longer reviews here soon.

Earthling Society: Mo - The Demon
Riot Season 

Always a shifting, changing concept, Earthling Society have worn many aspects since forming in 2004, from the space-rock of their self-released Albion debut, through championing from Julian Cope, the luscious psychedelia of Beauty And The Beast, and its gloriously out-of-focus masterpiece The Boy With The X-Ray Eyes, and onwards to an ever evolving, always experimental collection of albums. 

Their current LP is largely an imagined soundtrack to the justifiable notorious 1980s Kung Fu/Horror crossover movie The Boxer’s Omen, a film that Starburst magazine once characterised as a “mad-ass jumble of genre ideas…” Honestly, as a starter for ten that would go some way to depicting the shimmering, discordant eldritch of noise that, in grappling with the concept, the first five from seven tracks here spew forth. 

The cosmopolitan bright lights of its titular travelogue opening theme with its kaleidoscopic cult movie motifs only hint at the madness to be entered once its jagged melodies are left behind. In the same way that the film leaves many viewers eluded as to its narrative, the trust of Earthling Society’s interpretation is a screaming psychedelic tsunami mind-fuck, wailing, grating and sonically disturbing. Is your headspace cavernous enough to take it?

Pink Fairies: Resident Reptiles
Purple Pyramid

Since their original trio of LPs in the early 70s there’s been ad-hoc attempts to revive the Pink Fairies name by varying line-ups of ex-members, including a couple in the 90s by Paul ‘Blackie’ Rudolph and Twink, and the recent Naked Radio album led by Russell Hunter and Duncan Sanderson. 

This latest psychedelic rip-roar rock‘n’roll has a little bit of synergy to their occasional early days counterculture forays with Hawkwind as Pinkwind. It’s Rudolph with former long-time Hawk bassist Alan Davey, eschewing his multi-layered solo stuff to revel in lip-smacking rawness, and original Motörhead drummer Lucas Fox. There’s a nod to another Fairies/Head luminary with their cover of Larry Wallis’s Old Enuff To Know Better, a good old fashioned muscular no nonsense salvo, but then this straight-up, don’t give us any frills but load up on the thrills, guitar, bass and drums is rocking abrasiveness personified. 

Gritty and to the point, it’s a full-on brawl in a loud and packed bikers’ bar from guys who, thank God, don’t want to be old enuff to know better. Back in ’75 Rudolph replaced Lemmy in the Hawk ranks and gained an apocryphal legend that he’d pushed them towards a funkier sound – nah, not if this one’s anything to go by. 

Juju: Maps & Territory
Fuzz Club

Once of Italian afro-space-jazz groove band Lay Llamas, Gioele Valenti is on his third album as Juju, recording here by turns with fellow psychonauts Goat, who he’d toured with back in his Llama days, and the prolific Seattle-based avant-garde composer Amy Denio. It’s a heady and fluorescent mix of styles, chants and rhythms; a hypnotically danceable tune-scape that beats to something liberatingly primordial in its unshackled sense of freedom. 

What’s astonishing about Juju is the lightness of touch with which Sicilian-born Valenti explores an eclectic range of still complementary influences, from krautrock to world music, to electronica to acid jazz; these shifting sands are his foundation. I’m In Trance, his Goat hook-up declares, a hazy chill-out number pre-empting the insistently mesmerising sway of God Is A Rover, but throughout the album locks into a compulsive tempo.

Only when we reach the final track, Archontes Take Control, Valenti’s collaboration with Denio, is the pace reduced to a smoky jazz drawl, but it’s a moody and reflective end to another successfully unconventional suite. In his previous incarnation, one particular track titled itself as Spiritual Expedition, and it feels like it’s a mission statement that continues to inform the music here. 

Sun Dial: Return Journey

Loitering at an unorthodox meeting of Seattle grunge and home-grown shoegaze, Sun Dial have never comfortably sat in any genre, twisting and evolving at the guiding hand of founder Gary Ramon as they moved across labels from their self-released 1990 debut Other Way Out to mid-90s appearances on Beggars Banquet before disappearing until their 21st Century revival.

They lost Return Journey, their putative sophomore album, somewhere in the midst of establishing their early sound, its gritty rawness a step away from their initial neo-psychedelia and eschewed in favour of what became Reflecter for the Vinyl Experience shop’s UFO imprint. Ramon would then release it himself but, a couple of US reissues aside, it’s been unavailable in its original form since.

Yet, it has a special place in the Sun Dial canon, raided for reworks and distributed across EPs and compilations, and still sounding as relentlessly focused in its sonic propulsions as it ever did. And though Ramon’s ever-changing cast of cohorts had coalesced into a sharp trio at this moment, it’s his own guitar that is the superheated lava at this record’s molten core. Retaining its original black-and-white ink collage packaging by Edwin “Savage Pencil” Pouncey, this is a sterling reissue.

Sunday 14 October 2018

Festivalized Extract: Conspiracies & Consequences

Here's a chapter extract from Festivalized: Music, Politics and Alternative Culture (Ian Abrahams, Bridget Wishart, Gonzo Publishing) where our contributors discuss the decline of the free festival scene at the end of the 1980s, early 1990s, and ruminate on its myriad causes. Commentators for this piece include Bridget herself, Jerry Richards (Hawkwind/Hawklords/Tubilah Dog), Jez Cunningham (The Levellers), Club Dog co-instigator Michael Dog, Simon Williams (Mandragora), Dick Lucas (Sub-humans, Culture Shock), singer-songwriter Nigel Mazlyn Jones, scene photographer Oz Hardwick, and the late Gary Bamford (2000DS - in probably the most extensive interview he'd ever given).

Conspiracies & Consequences

For every commentator who sees conspiracies lurking at the heart of the festival movement’s decline and collapse, there’s another who views the troubled second half of the 1980s as being at least in part due to the problems being experienced internally, even if those problems where then further exploited by the authorities in its own very publicly avowed intent to break the festivals, The Convoy, and those who furthered the free festival ethos.

Simon Williams: The scene was always under attack. There was always a feeling of, ‘We’re going to do this despite the fact people in suits or in uniforms don’t want these things to happen.’ People didn’t want it on their doorstep; they didn’t understand it, as far as they could see it was a bunch of troublemakers, hippies. People these days would find it difficult to believe you could get a great line-up of bands together and it would be completely free. Now there’s only one festival that I know of, that’s the Burning Man, which costs a lot to get in but there’s no trading once you’re there and even the performers pay to get in.

Oz Hardwick: Somewhere on the outskirts of Oxford in 1987. Hardly anyone got through all the roadblocks, we were camping on tree roots, constantly aware of the police threat, and finally awoken by a helmeted head thrust into the tent about two hours after we’d got to sleep, telling us to clear off within the hour. Helicopters and full riot kit – they meant it. Just felt tired, beaten and very sad.

Jeremy Cunningham: I was living on buses until I moved off the travelling scene when the Criminal Justice Act came in and it got so hard… I’d done it to live a ‘free’ lifestyle but at the end you became less free living on the road than if you lived in a flat. You got so much grief, everywhere you went. The Levellers had got a lot bigger than we ever thought we would, and made that crossover, and I was getting just a bit too well-known on that scene. I didn’t like that, I liked to be quite anonymous, so I left [the scene] in the end and just moved into a flat, though I still kept in touch with a lot of people. I still know people who are living in buses today, but not many. But I was living on the road from the mid-80s to the early 1990s. 

Oz Hardwick: In the later years, say 1985 – 1989, there was always the dodging about to get to sites. Generally at small gatherings there wasn’t much hassle once you were there, though after Stonehenge ‘85, which I’ve mixed feelings about having missed, there was always the threat of violence. At Oxford, for example, things looked like they might turn nasty, with the [police] shield wall and so on, but… I think most people had a sense that if it came to violence, the government-trained thugs were going to have the upper hand. A sense that face-to-face confrontation wasn’t going to further any cause. 

Dick Lucas: One night during the post-Henge time of high police paranoia, June ‘87 or ‘88, the local Warminster / Culture Shock crew, about fifteen of us, crammed into a large van at 5am and set off to find a gathering place that Tim Sebastian had located on a map showing the edge of the army territory that extends across Salisbury Plain. This was a hillside a few miles away. A helicopter buzzed over the van on the way there, and by the time the sun came up a dozen cops had come to join in. They let us stay there, tolerated our argument that this was common land and we had the right to assemble, and positioned themselves by the barbed wire at the top of the slope that marked the start of army territory. Behind them were some curious cows wondering what all the fuss was about, which made a great picture! A Channel 4 camera team didn’t turn up, but Tim said they were interested in having someone talk about all this over the phone, and suggested I do it; later I called them, but as they were after a ‘serious sun worshipper’, it was all over before it began. Tim was older than us, full of intense passion about the Stones, a leading Druid by the time he died, and inspired a lot of people into action. RIP.

Chopper over Stonehenge 1987
(Boris Atha)

Jerry Richards: You really did have to look out for the authorities because they were coming for people and infiltrating. Some of the stories of MI5 being part of the instigators are true. There was a guy from MI5 who tried to sell guns to ‘The Convoy.’ Now, who was the ‘The Convoy’, well, everybody and nobody, right? But he’d wormed his way in there, looked the part. Walked the walk and talked the talk, and tried to sell guns thinking we’d be paranoid and bloodthirsty enough to want to take his weapons to defend ourselves against the police. Absolute madness and he was chucked off site and exposed for what he was - an MI5 mole. 

Michael Dog: There was a train of thought that suggested the Stonehenge Campaign itself had been infiltrated by agents-provocateurs, people who were associated with the government. It’s not impossible, though you’ve got to beware of going on a paranoia trip with this sort of thing. In my view the post-1985 festival scene destroyed itself. I don’t see that it was brought down by outside influence. I don’t see that it died because the police made it hard to run festivals in certain parts of the country, because in other parts of the country, like Hampshire, they didn’t give a hoot. That last Torpedo Town, the police didn’t stop people going to the festival; the people themselves wrecked the festival. But it’s hard not to wonder whether elements of straight-society, or people in Government, had decided the way to break this scene once and for all was from the inside. You can go one way and say, ‘Oh that’s just paranoid nonsense and it was actually just a bunch of irresponsible people who let this thing slip through their fingers.’ Or you can see the other point of view, that there were people who were put into this situation and had pressure put on them, or maybe incentives were offered to them to wreck the movement from inside. The fact was that heroin use and dealing became a bigger and bigger aspect of the festival and traveller scene, seemingly unregulated and unstoppable… and unstopped by the authorities. The establishment seemed happy to allow an element of the scene, basically travelling junkies, to just carry on what they were doing. On the Stonehenge Campaign there seemed to be individuals hell-bent on wrecking that movement on the inside, prominent individuals who spent more time creating dissent within than actually doing something useful. 

Jerry Richards: I think there were a lot of political diversions. There’d just been the Falklands War and [the authorities] were looking for people to divert attention on to. The police that came at us were the ones that had been on the miners’ strikes, at Orgreave, and they were tough people, I mean really tough. So the authorities used these people on the hippies, on the travellers. If you think about it, this could have been one of the reasons why Thatcher was deposed, because things had to change. The police were under a spotlight where they had to answer to things in the press, people asking difficult questions. But they also had to look at themselves and decide whether they were going to be used by whichever political party to be their political assault force and do the party’s bidding. Now, the police may be whatever the police are, and I’m not anti-police, but they don’t want to find themselves used as political pawns, because they’re going to get a bad rep. The police are there to stop people ripping you off or attacking you, that’s what they’re there for, not to protect property but to protect us. But they find themselves at the end of some politician’s tryst up in London, who wants to make office again next time the election comes and who’ll use any diversion available. They’d use the miners’ strike, Falklands War… Thatcher had been elected three times, John Major after her, and we were a happy distraction whilst they did whatever they did – like selling off the nation’s assets. So the Americans own the Royal Train – how do you figure that one out? The French, the Spanish and Germans own our gas… then there’s the telecommunications, so they’d flogged off the silverware. And this was the legacy from the Second World War, that sense of social conscience that tackled Beveridge’s ‘Five Giants’ [want, disease, squalor, ignorance, idleness] which is where we got the National Health Service from. The people who’d fought the war had rebuilt the country’s infrastructure. In some sense, all of us festival crew were children of that sensibility, we’d grown up with all of that. We might have rejected part of it in wanting to live the alternative lifestyle but the values were there, that you helped your fellow people. Now it’s all about ‘me’ and ‘I want it now and I want it faster’ and if you make your own stuff it’s kind of looked down on, seen as a bit naff. Now, for me growing up, if you wanted embroidered jeans, you embroidered them yourself, you didn’t go to GAP or Prada! You did it yourself and that was what was cool about it. People would say, ‘Bloody hell, man, where did you get that?’ Well you went down the shops and got some needle and thread. Stitch one, purl one! That sort of sensibility where you made your own stuff has a thrill to it. So, if you were a fashionista at the festivals, hey, get real! You’d see all of these wonderful, colourful shirts all dyed, and special fatigues, and be aware of the amount of creative energy in these art students, or former art students, potters (as I was) – all these talents.

Michael Dog: My personal conspiracy theory is that if you accept that there were elements within the Thatcher government that set out to change the face of society, then they got what they set out to achieve. If you study the history of society, then the key to effecting a transition to any kind of totalitarian regime is to create a generational break. Suddenly there’s a huge gap between an older generation that knows how it used to be and a younger generation that have no idea how it used to be. That’s what we’ve come to now. For the people who came of age between 1990 and 2000, and even really to the present day, there isn’t an alternative culture any more. There’s nothing for them to slot into. I feel very fortunate; I came of age at a time when that culture still existed and I just fell into it. There were lots of festivals, underground publications, bands and all the political movements were there. I just found them and went, ‘that’s me’ and I joined the club. For people coming of age in the 90s, that club wasn’t there any more for them to find some sense of purpose or belonging. And now, that whole culture is a thing of the past. It shouldn’t be, but for young people now, there’s nothing for them to slot into. 

Taking a break during the walk to Stonehenge, 1987
(Dave Fawcett)

Nigel Mazlyn Jones: I’ve been travelling around Britain and Europe since 1975 and I’ve been in a good position to compare things and I’m completely outraged about the way the country is and its [lack] of rights and freedoms. The counterculture movement, complementary medicine, alternative thinking, has always been there, it’s never gone away. A lot of what it espoused has now become both mainstream and very corporate: Body Shop, Centre for Alternative Technology as advisors to ICI, ethical investments, the huge graphic industry that is employed by Greenpeace and Friends of the Earth, the massive administration structure right the way up through the qualified people who are on immense salaries for Greenpeace and Friends of the Earth. It’s a huge corporate structure turning over millions, or billions, of pounds. A constantly moving volcano that’s being fed from underneath and lots of elements of it are bubbling and difficult and not accepted by society. But out of the top of it eventually comes the heat and steam that creates your Greenpeace or your Friends of the Earth that has an impact to the viewer. You can’t see what’s going on in the volcano but you can see the point at the top. I think that’s how the counterculture does feed how we move forward as a society, that’s how we are still vaguely a democracy; people are forced to debate issues because everybody’s got so much knowledge on-board. I go back to Harry Hart, who started Green Deserts, and I was twenty-eight years of age and I came across all this information. I saw all the slides he’d taken, and I’d made a point of going to find the core people and listen to them sitting around the campfires, what was being debated, what they were going to do, and I was deeply inspired by the core issue. Yes it was an entertaining cross-cultural event with tepees over there and Romany caravans over there – but for that melting pot of humanity, think of all the youngsters who learned stuff. Move forward to the rave culture and you will have pockets… the early Whirl-Y-Gig raves were set up by humanists. Those humanists booked me to do the Parachute Chill-out Tent in the 1990s; I first met them at Rougham Tree Fayre in the 70s, sitting playing under the trees. Those humanists became very impressive social workers, dealing with drug addiction in the heavy parts of London. They didn’t start Whirl-Y-Gig to make money; they started as a like-minded group of adults, and all from that counterculture, who’d got older and recognised there was a huge youth problem. They thought, ‘Let’s not have thump, thump, thump, mechanical auto-robot music, let’s use world roots music. It’s wonderfully educational, it’s a lovely vibe, it’s great to dance to, and you can get the same rhythms as the thumping auto-music.’ So, wonderfully successful Whirl-Y-Gig raves, running at Hammersmith Town Hall, all the festivals, all the mainstream things like Peter Gabriel’s WOMAD, mainstream acceptance. They got through their doors at their raves over a million people, I’d have thought. Now, I remember being at events with Whirl-Y-Gig and being there before my gig, which wasn’t going to be until three o’clock in the morning because I was doing the chill-out, and listening to youngsters of all backgrounds and they’d be chilling-out drinking flavoured mineral water, because there was no alcohol. They’d be in the café or in the chill-out rooms and they’d be discussing stuff and it would be absolutely mind-blowing to hear their intelligent terms, talking about different issues that they were active on, like green activities or raising money for some socially-aware event that wasn’t being funded. 

Michael Dog: [Unemployment] galvanised people into either feeling pissed-off about the situation they were in or wanting to react against the yuppie ideal, whereas now the yuppie ideal has become the norm. The Thatcherites forced the bulk of British society to go and get a job because they had to pay rent and it became almost impossible to claim benefit and to lead that alternative lifestyle, which requires you not to be doing a nine-to-five job. I debate this with my son, who grew up very much involved in the things I was involved in. He went to festivals from when he was two and, for his peer-group, has a fairly privileged upbringing in that he just about remembers what it was like and is very frustrated with the apathy of his own generation. But he understands that as they left school and went into life they were immediately obliged to get jobs and settle into a nine-to-five. It takes up so much of their time and brain-space that they don’t have the time or energy to do very much else. He figures it’s completely down to that. He’s forever ranting and railing that anybody he knows who is involved in art of any sort be it music, video or fine art feels so obliged to produce art that will sell that they see it as pointless to produce art for art’s sake. That if it isn’t going to sell, there’s no point in producing it at all. So the Thatcherites got want they wanted. 

Jeremy Cunningham: I got a lot of hassle [on the road], everybody did, but I learned early on to play the game with the police. The police were quite happy, as long as you’d go along with them. When I first started getting pulled over on the roadside, which used to happen all the time, the immediate reaction was to lean out the window and start shouting obscenities but I remember doing that once and this copper started to look around the front of the vehicle and he said, ‘If you carry on shouting at me like that, I can think of a hundred and twenty violations for this vehicle’ and pulled out this long sheet of paper. I thought, ‘Maybe this isn’t the right way of going about it’ so after that, when I got stopped, I’d be going ‘Oh, how are you, officer? Everything alright?’ We called it ‘playing the game’, as long as you showed that they had some kind of authority and were nice to them, they usually moved on to the next guy, who was pissed and wanted to fight with them! They used to let us go, most of the time. We did have trouble but it was usually only when you’d get a lot of vehicles all together, before the days of mobile phones when we were all trying to find a festival site or a rave. You’d have fifty buses going up the road one way, then coming down the other and you’d see the ones coming down the road, ‘Oh, they must know the way.’ Eventually pagers came in and we could find the sites straight away! I’d usually travel with a group of about six or seven vehicles, not a big group. When we’d go to a festival it might end up as a big group, the Peace Convoy and all that, but I didn’t live with a big group. 

Bridget Wishart: I think there was the thing of people taking over the Convoy and moving in and the Brew Crew becoming an ever-bigger element. Other people who had been part of the scene and had put up with a certain amount of anarchy and drug-dealing just moved away, moved to Spain… ‘This isn’t why I moved onto the road or moved into a vehicle.’

Martin: I went to the last Elephant Fayre, in ’85 or ’86 and the reason [the organiser] never had another one was that the Peace Convoy turned up there. It definitely wasn’t a hippie, ‘Save the Earth’ kind of thing. My memory of it was a very kind of punk, ‘I’m in it for what I can get, fuck the lot of you.’ But then, if you take a group of people who are very alienated in the first place, and then herd them around with a heavy police presence then you may well push them in that direction. Now, that was definitely my experience, having said that, and I visited quite a few sites that my brother was at, and there were family people there. I’d say the common factor that linked everybody was drugs, was a lifestyle, but there were family people there, I wouldn’t say nobody there was looking after their kids. There was a mix of people, but most of the places I visited were places that had been found for people to park up. I think at the time, the strategy was to try and break up this huge entity and try and make life difficult for them. In Longwell Green, in Bristol, a piece of wasteland that’s now a big industrial estate, there were a lot of vehicles there for a very long period of time and it was just Smack Central, it was a really bad place. So it went from that Haight-Ashbury idyll of ‘If you’re going to San Francisco / Be sure to wear flowers in your hair’ to just a really degraded, everybody washed out, drugged out sort of place, really.  

Hippie Van Man: Winter ‘91-‘92, I bought and converted a Bedford Vega 31 Coach and moved in full-time, with the intention of spending 1992 on the road. I got the job of taking a load of jugglers down to Glastonbury. We had the vehicle pass and were told to pick up the people passes when we got there. When we got there we had to wait in line outside, oddly enough the TK behind me in the queue was owned and lived in by a girl who lived opposite me when I was a kid. Neither of us knew about each other living on the road! After fourteen hours of queuing we were eventually let in, just to be booted out again after three hours for selling cider… I never really wanted to be there anyway.  On the upside, we found our way to the free alternative, which was at the old airfield near Smeathorpe.  There were loads of folk there and a few very loud raves. I moved the bus after a few hours because the sound system near us was so loud and always seemed to be turned up to number 11 even when there was nobody dancing; it seemed the owners or folk who ran these systems didn’t give a toss about other festival-goers. We went into the village for some bits and bobs and in the grocer’s shop we got talking to a few locals. They were disgusted at how much money must have been spent on policing the site; the police helicopter was causing a greater disturbance to them than the noise from the festival. I’d become disillusioned with the whole thing. Raves seemed to have taken over and I was sick of the sight of police helicopters. In early ’93 we were staying in a lay-by on the A34 and a mate turned up in his Hedingham bus on his way down to the Avon Free Festival; this ended in fiasco in a service station on the M5. We were eventually forced onto the motorway and pushed north, the police kept overtaking the convoy and blocked off the exits, again and again. When folk ran out of fuel they were arrested… what a load of bollocks. This marked the end of the festivals for me, I sold the bus and moved into a Commer Walkthru [Van], then in late ’94 I moved onto the canal and finally in 2004 we moved to Orkney. I thought I’d happened upon a way of living in the UK that was kind of Utopian, and sometimes it was, but I’d discovered it too late. For me, the raves killed off the real free festivals. I’m just glad I saw a few old style festivals before they disappeared. To quote [Radical Dance Faction] ‘I caught a glimpse.’ The whole experience of the festivals and living on the road has had a lasting effect on me. I still keep a living van and I’m proud to say have never stayed on a campsite. After nearly twenty years I still have dreams where I’m at free festivals… maybe subconsciously I’m still longing for those days… I’ve absolutely no regrets.

Smiley coppers, White Horse Hill, 1985
(Adrian Bell)

Simon Williams: A lot of us all went out to Europe after Thatcher started attacking our scene, went to festivals in Italy and Germany and Holland. They were fun and comparatively new and it was a good scene to be a part of. But it was different in that it wasn’t so linked to the Pagan calendar and the hippie vibe that was prevalent in Britain. In Italy, because they have such a right-wing government at times, to have parties or festivals, the organisers will actually identify themselves as being very left-wing. The reason for that is because if it’s seen as hippies with no specific agenda it’s easy to shut it down. If they say, ‘You are suppressing our human rights because we’re left-wing people,’ then that’s a political card they can play. They’d have two-thousand-capacity venues with their own radio station and their own printing press and do everything themselves. It was comparable from that point of view, but probably better organised! The British way was to say, date, place and everything else would just happen, provided everyone turned up. 

Gary Bamford: After the clampdown in 1990 we ended up living in Berlin for a few years. It was as close as you could get to that free festival thing. Berlin was something else. We’d gone there about a month before the Wall came down, with something like ten vehicles, and did one show in the East one night, and then one show in the West. We ended up moving onto a site on no-man’s-land in an area of Berlin called Kreitzberg which was like a white Brixton. If you went to West Berlin, you didn’t have to join the German army, so all the freaks and people who wanted to drop out went there. There were lots of squats, lots of bombed-out streets, and a massive punk scene.  It was like a free festival just being in that city, hundreds of vehicles parked on no-man’s-land. Lots of squatted streets in the East, the place was in chaos. Six months later they were demolishing streets with people in them. There’d be helicopters overhead, and you’d hear sirens going off all the time. There weren’t many bands, no site bands, but people were living in bowvans, big trailers that get pulled into construction areas for workmen to have their breaks in. You’d find a couple of fields and there’d be twenty, thirty bowvans all quite tidy and organised; we’d turn up with that British mentality of madness, and people falling out of vans and heaving beer cans around. So we’d look out of place, not up-to-date or tidy enough, because we were still used to being evicted once a week whereas they’d stayed still for a while and got quite organised. 

Jeremy Cunningham: We all lived in Amsterdam for a while, on a big travellers’ site there. When it started to get bad in the late 80s we thought, ‘Just fuck it, we’ll go abroad’, because we’d heard there was this site in Amsterdam and the laws there were a lot more liberal than they were in Britain, so we lived over there for six months until it got bulldozed. When you went to a squat in Amsterdam, it was nicer than most people’s flats… I couldn’t believe it. Whereas squats in the UK were pretty rough and ready affairs, people over there, because they had been living in them for ten or fifteen years, they were much more together about everything. There was a big free festival there, called the Last Bus Shelter which was the name of the travellers’ site in the East Docks and was the last stop on the bus route; now it’s a big housing estate. 2000DS were over there with us as well, I knew Gary [Bamford] very well. They had this huge old Greenpeace coach that they lived in, a massive great thing, towing a trailer on the back of it with a recording studio in it. When they turned up it was always guaranteed chaos! When we were in Amsterdam, Gary and the DS of the day, because they frequently changed line-ups, went off to live in Berlin… probably because they found living in Amsterdam too easy, not confrontational enough, so they went to live in Berlin! Everyone else was just looking for a peaceful life!

Oz Hardwick: I was affected on a very deep, personal level. I felt a profound despair. For a long time, I lost the belief that one could make a difference. It took a very long time to regain a sense of purpose.

Michael Dog: I think the scene imploded on itself by becoming too cocky. I don’t think becoming too big was the problem. I don’t believe it attracted lots and lots of nasty people. My memories are that on the whole, people were there for all the right reasons and very respectful. It’s only the later festivals, post 1985, that slowly but surely attracted people who weren’t there for any of the right reasons. But people had taken it for granted that you could do these things and cock a snoot at the authorities and in retrospect I saw that that had brought about the demise. People didn’t realise how brutal the Thatcher regime was, until it was. We were blessed in the 60s and 70s with relatively benign governments and nobody was prepared for how brutal and how hard-line the Thatcherite regime would be. I’ve always wondered whether there was some Tory think-tank at the time that realised there was this quite large and relatively influential alternative scene based around squatting, the underground press and free festivals and other aspects of that scene, that wasn’t exactly a threat to them but couldn’t be allowed. The mid-80s were really the darkest days of Thatcherism and I guess it pulled people to either being a part of that or not being a part of it at all. Stonehenge being a victim of its own success, with more people hearing about it and wanting to go, and the hardening of the political atmosphere, probably forced people to decide which camp they were in. Of course, after 1984 fewer and fewer people went to the festivals. I personally feel the government set out to fragment that movement and they were very successful at doing so. It was no accident that they made squatting illegal – it wasn’t really about protecting the rights of property owners, that wasn’t their prime motivation, they realised that squatting was a key element of the alternative scene. When I was a kid, or a teenager, when you finished school you could leave home and go and live in a squat and live on very little money and pursue the lifestyle that you wanted to pursue. If you wanted to do music, or arts, or politics, or whatever, on a cheap budget, you could squat. By taking away squatting, it falls to people to have to earn a living and get a job. And by forcing people into having to get a job, they couldn’t devote time to these other things unless they had money from other sources. It was a quite deliberate policy. Of course, what happened after 1985 was that they used more and more Draconian powers to break up the festival movement. But sadly, from my own point of view, I think the festival movement destroyed itself.

Monday 27 August 2018

Hanterhir - The Saving of Cadan (Interview)

Receiving much admiration at moment, and with justice, is Cornish psych-folk rockers Hanterhir and their 5-sided 3-LP The Saving of Cadan on Cornwall-based label Easy Action run by industry veteran Carlton Sandercock. I've reviewed its overwhelming mass of sound - unlike anything else you'll hear this year for sure - in the current issue of Record Collector in its vinyl format, and will be writing on its 2-CD release and profiling the band elsewhere shortly, but a few weeks ago it was a particularly great pleasure to be in my local pub talking to their bass player, and old friend of mine, Grant Kellow, to catch up on past-times (we reckoned we'd not seen each other since the mid-80s), chat over how he came to be part of Hanterhir, how the record had come to fruition, and its remarkable link to Cornish language and heritage.

We started by thinking back to the old days on a Sunday night at Redruth's Penventon Hotel nightspot - then called Trumpets - with its eclectic mix of music styles; indie was downstairs on a cramped dance area filled with alternative types and the sounds of Iggy Pop, The Cure, The Sisters of Mercy et al, while the disco and soul brigade hung out on the first floor with its much bigger spaces. You could find your own identity... or wander up and down and swing both ways...

Ian Abrahams: What were you listening to back then? I guess it's a step away from what you play these days as part of Hanterhir?

Grant Kellow: I guess you’d say it was post-punk, wouldn’t you? So it was Siouxsie and the Banshees, Theatre of Hate, Southern Death Cult, Echo and the Bunnymen, New Model Army…

The downstairs at Penventon stuff...

Yes! Definitely not the upstairs stuff! God no! But then, there’s also only so many times you can hear ‘Rock Lobster’. I guess it is completely different from that, but it’s kind of the same as well. We’ve all got some common ground on stuff we like… some common ground… Peasy [guitarist of singular name] and Ben [Harris, vocals and guitar] would have common ground with Sonic Youth, with Jason  [Brown, drummer] and Ben it would be 60s music, even though Ben would say that he doesn’t like The Who and Jason is mad on them. With Mike [Hewitt, saxophonist] and myself it’s probably Bauhaus, though Mike is also a big Nik Turner fan, and Hawkwind, I think he saw them at Stonehenge in 1984. Ben and myself, it’s probably Ned’s Atomic Dustbin and The Cure, and New Model Army. Then for Lou [Louise Macchi, flute and vocals], she’s quite eclectic in what she likes and I’m not sure there is so much common ground. I’m quite narrow in what I like and don’t mind admitting it. 

You can hear the whole melting pot of sounds in the record though. And for me, and I guess this might come from the Hawkwind thing that I like, I'm writing in Record Collector asking if there has been a greater cacophony of music since Space Ritual? I'm hearing that in its density of sound, with the saxophone wailing across the top, that makes it have a bit of the feel of Hawkwind circa late '71, into '72, the relentlessly concentrated sound...

I’ve not heard Space Ritual, so from that point of view all I can say is that when I heard ‘Silver Machine’ it was because a guy up the road from me, a few years older, was playing it, and also Alice Cooper’s ‘School’s Out’, so I always tend to think of them together, that period of time, 1972, but other than that I couldn’t tell you anything about them. We did have a guy that came up to us at a recent gig, really gravelly voice, saying “I liked that… I can hear the Hawkwind influence in there.” We’d look at each other and go, “What?” because we really don’t get that, but people say it. 

How did you come to join the band? I'd seen them support Hawklords at the Ritz in Penzance a few years back, but that was before you'd got involved with them...

I’d seen them quite a times. I was in a band called Weazledust and they supported us a couple of times, but we all of us go back quite a way. Their first bass player went travelling, I offered my services but they’d already got somebody, but he couldn’t make a gig, was in London seeing Bruce Springsteen when he should have been in Penzance, or something [laughs]. I was in another band, then that fizzled out and I was available. They were doing the surf and music festival Boardmasters in Newquay and a couple of the guys didn’t want to do that, so “can you do Boardmasters?” but I was in France doing the Lorient festival for a week because I was in a Cornish folk dance band. So I was at Lorient while they were doing Boardmasters, but came back and that was it, I was in the band. This was May 2014, turned up one night and it was, “Shall we start the rock opera now?” and I’m thinking, I’m not going to fall for this… because we take the music seriously but we are not serious people, we’re not good on self-promotion, we make everything a joke and nothing’s out of bounds. But this time it was, “No, we’re being serious.” They’d gone through a period of coming up with lots of ideas but without having someone to translate what they were coming up with. But I’d got into my favourite band, I’d just played the long game. I mean, sometimes it’s more like a dysfunctional family than a band, but it’s my favourite band.

So that review that came out on-line somewhere recently, where the reviewer was talking about the band, their followers, their hangers-on... that was something like it, really?

Yes, it was! Ben’s always had a bit of an open house policy about it all, “Why don’t you just come up and play?” so it was like with Lou, getting Lou to come in and put a few flute bits on the album and then Lou’s in the band and there’s six of us… or it could be three of us. The idea was that there would always be people around who were able to gig, if someone couldn’t make it, doesn’t matter. So that’s become the policy. When it comes to the album, if Peasy’s not around there’s probably four or five songs we can’t play without him, other than that, we can compensate, change things around, give it a different feel. It’s quite a fluid [live] band. It’s always fun, it’s never a chore, and people never quite know what they’re going to get. 

Hanterhir: 'Hello Sunshine' from The Saving of Cadan

Easy Action is a label I've long been a great fan of... how did the band get involved with them?

The first Cornwall Calling [Easy Action's compilation album of Cornish bands] had come out and they were getting ready to do the second one. There was a benefit gig in Falmouth, at Mono, and they were a band short, and [influential local journalist] Lee Trewhela suggested us, so we were the wild card for the night really. We were on before Lost Dawn, and Lee’s review of the night was something like, “What do you do you when you see a man who has been in the record business for thirty years have his jaw drop to the floor?” I think that was the first time that Carlton had heard of us. I didn’t think we did anything special that night, tiny little stage, couldn’t really hear what we were doing, but he saw something. At that point we were already halfway through doing the album… but now I’m not breaking my back carrying around to every gig a box of CDs that we might have had burnt a hundred at a time, he’s given us the ability to get it heard in the outside world. We owe him big time. There’s no game plan, so when Carlton came along it was, “Oh, wow.” 

The album's had a long gestation period...

We’d had three-quarters of the album done, then lost it, the whole lot. We practiced at the local cricket club, Peasy lived in a chapel so we’d do stuff there, but generally we'd record at the cricket club and have it set up so that their showers were a room for the guitars, the main bar would be where we had everything set-up, and we just used a proper studio for the drums. Then the laptop we used went wrong, took it in for repair and they lost everything, so we had to start again. So the bit where we say it’s taken four years, it probably took two years but then we had to do it all again. 

Hanterhir (Grant Kellow second from left)
Photo: Maddie Dickinson

That nod about Space Ritual aside, I've never really heard anything like it, that sense of Cornish identity mixed into the psych-folk thing, that huge wall of sound... it's like nothing else.

It’s like, what a crazy idea, but why not do it? Originally it was going to be ten tracks on a 10-inch, with ten people playing on it and given away to ten people. Then ‘Hello Sunshine’ grew to seven minutes long, so that idea went out the window, then it became a double vinyl, until Carlton came back and said that actually there was too much for that… but there was nothing we felt we could take off and now it’s a triple because it didn’t deserve to be cut down. Two tracks didn’t make it in the end! We had a song called ‘Mark’s Ferry Dance’ which was a guy playing a melodeon over a riff we’d come up with, an instrumental, and then also ‘Disco Funk Shit’, which was just as it sounds, us playing a very bad disco funk shit record, but it was to do with the story, Morwenna coming into Redruth for the first time in 2,000 years and going to the pub and hearing this terrible music. 

Ha! They can be on the future expanded edition! What's the story to the opera?

Morwenna fell in love with a boy, they then fell out, the boy killed himself and his mother was a witch who cursed Morwenna to the lake on Carn Marth [near Redruth, in Cornwall]. So she was the evil spirit and anyone who stepped in to the water, she’d pull them underneath. Cadan went to the lake to throw himself in, to kill himself, but because he gave himself to the lake, she then saved him. So there was this thing where she was the spirit and he was mortal, then they discovered that on a certain night there would be a lovers’ moon and things could be reversed. Cadan becomes the spirit of the lake, Morwenna is set free to go out and experience life. That’s the gist of it, a doomed love affair. The Cornish language used on the record, that's Morwenna speaking; we tried to put as much in as we could, though I don't know if we'd ever do a proper Cornish album.

It seems to me as though you belong in that contemporary psych scene, the one that stretches across Sendelica, bands at Kozfest, the Fruits Der Mer and Mega Dodo bands, Litmus... it's a scene that needs to come and find you. Not because you're like these bands, but because its a disparate scene where no two good bands are alike.

We just do what we do; we don't really have a comprehension of what's going on anywhere else. It's a constant struggle to get gigs down here if you're doing original stuff. Times are hard, and owners want to book bands into pubs if they're covers bands. You can carry on, thinking that we'll just make music and if nobody wants to hear it, that's fine. But every now and then you'll make some magic and you'll go find someone out of Cornwall wanting to hear it, or we'll do the odd trip up to London and it's interesting. But we'll literally play anywhere! Twice a year we play locally in the woods, a sort of bartering thing - you do this for free and we'll do this for free - so we play in Tehidy Woods and Treslothan Woods ... Tehidy is all solar-powered. It's just a little scene, it has to be. But we enjoy playing live, just really enjoy what we do.

Hanterhir Website 

Saturday 23 June 2018

Dr Space / Oresund Space Collective

May was a busy month for long-time champion of the spacerock scene, Scott Heller, releasing LPs under his Dr Space by-line (Alien Planet Trip Vol. 2) and as part of the veteran Oresund Space Collective ensemble (Chatoyant Breath), both on the Space Rock Productions label, and gigging around Europe.

It's been quite a while since I've covered any of Scott's releases here, but he continues to be prolific in releasing new music - OSC's Bandcamp site lists no fewer than 61 records that have been available in either physical or digital format - and it's great to see the variety of work that's captured between these two very distinct albums. Alien Planet Trip isn't quite a solo record, with Daniel Lars and Stefan Krey on-board for the five tracks that comprise the vinyl edition, though a sixth digital bonus track sees Scott alone. This second volume, subtitled Gloomy Horizon, is built up from layers of synth and programmed drums, with guitars then liberally cascading across the surface.

It's well-titled in its moody atmospherics. 'The Dark Room Becomes Blue' is a oppressively dense tone piece, full of portentous keyboards, doom-laden and claustrophobic, with banshee improvised guitar lines that screech out of the ether, discordant and unsettling. 'Alien Talk' is full of sonic debris that falls in and out of the ethereally minimalist background, analog sounds that move through, swooping out of the distance and streaming off into the horizon, cluttering the soundscape with myriad noises. 'Lost In The Cave' echoes in its cavernous vacuum, Lars's guitar work right to the fore, dueling with an even greater expanse of analog flotsam and jetsam that cascades around in angular free fall. Alien Planet Trip is a vividly uncompromising and imaginative experiment.

Chatoyant Breath is equally as improvised, culled from a single day of jamming with what's now the principal live configuration of the band joined by 'Gary (Yawning Man)' and Martin from Scott's fellow OSC players' band Univerzals. It's often the more melodic counterpart to Alien Planet Trip, 'Peaceful Patterns' opening things with a mellow, chilled-out spacey vibe, still having that ribbon swoop of synth that cuts across the tunes, but now part of something that implores you to dive deep into its lulling music and drift away on its tripped-out astral plane. 

It feels like it could go on forever, never needing to find proper form but following its theme loosely, simply being in the groove, shifting and reassembling all the time, the drums getting more muscular as the musicians lock into a heavier sensibility (at least on the digital; there the day's work yields over two hours of music... the vinyl, of course, will  edit to the highlights on its four-sides). 

'Angular Ambrosia' starts out with crystalline vibrations underpinned by Jiri's rumbling bass lines, building into a more encompassing picture, the musicians becoming ever busier in adding their bits and pieces so that it's a piece that moves a long way from its origins and becomes almost a segmented collection of movements, full of changes and surprises, just as its jam-improvisation creation should be. 'Turbulent Trepidation' follows the same modus-operandi, twisting and turning from one idea to the next.

The final side of the vinyl is the title track, quite beguiling, following the patterns of its predecessors in becoming evermore urgent, busy and insistent as it makes its way from its easy-going starting point into an increasingly frenetic jam. What a day these guys had together!

Wednesday 21 March 2018

NEWS: Vive La Void - New project from Moon Duo's Sanae Yamada

(Photo: Ripley Johnson)

This spring Sanae Yamada, keyboardist for Moon Duo, will release her debut solo album as Vive la Void. The self-titled release is out May 4th on Sacred Bones and today she has shared a first track and accompanying video, “Red Rider”.

As Vive la Void, Yamada foregrounds synthesizers and her own voice, stripping away the excesses of psychedelic music to its bedrock hypnotic pulse and hazy atmosphere. Recording during the rare downtime between Moon Duo’s flurries of touring and recording, Vive la Void is dark and propulsive, and inspired by the strange and objective nature of memory and perception. 

Today Vive la Void has shared a video for “Red Rider.” The video is a collaboration between the experimental playwright and theater director Tina Satter (of Half-Straddle), filmmaker Nick Zeig-Owens, costume designer Enver Chakartash and Vive la Void’s Sanae Yamada. It was shot over two days in Riverside, CA, with a cast that features performance artist Jibz Cameron (aka Dynasty Handbag), dancer and choreographer Jennie Liu (Grand Lady Dance House) and Screenwriter/Actor Guinevere Turner (Go Fish, The L Word, American Psycho, The Notorious Bettie Page). The project was conceived of as an incarnation of inner life as a physical place, and plays with the the idioms of music videos, dance, fashion, and feminine identity. Its about getting pulled into an obscure geography of the psyche and wandering among the unexpressed iterations of self that hang around there - the garden of hidden reality and its denizens.

Yamada wrote and recorded the self-titled debut Vive La Void album over roughly a two-year period, during windows of downtime in Moon Duo's substantial touring and recording schedule. The dense, shape-shifting atmospheres of the seven songs grew out of late-night basement experiments in the layering of synthesizer tracks, a process that also led to meditations on the changeable nature of memory and perception. The result is an undulating blend of ethereal swirl, low end thrumming, and electric crackle, buoyed by Yamada’s understated but captivating vocal melodies and her striking lyrics.

“The lyrics were a way of reckoning with my own memories and also of trying to process my reactions to the human situation,” Yamada explains. “I wanted the voice to have a kind of ghostly quality, to emerge from and recede back into the song, or to pass over it like weather. It's one of many layers of sound, which are meant to blend together in such a way that on one listen you might hear one thing, and on another listen you might hear something else, so the music seems to change even as it stays the same.”

Yamada has spent the last decade as a working musician, moving between semi-permanent home bases whenever she isn’t living in a tour van. In some ways, then, it feels inevitable that Vive la Void became a meditation on the strange rhythms of long-term touring, constant relocation, and the accompanying stream of brief but compelling encounters. It’s a testament to her empathy and creativity that these songs feel both specific and universal, familiar yet tantalizingly unknowable.  

“I feel like the movement of life in the sphere of consciousness is this process of trace-leaving,” Yamada reflects. “Wherever we go, whomever we interact with, whatever we touch, we leave and absorb these invisible traces, this residue of memory that lingers. I wanted the sonic textures of this record to explore that state of being there and not there, of something being with you but not tangible.”

“Vive la Void” will be released on May 4th via Sacred Bones records and is available to pre-order here

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News submitted: Kate Price / Stereo Sanctity