More twee vicar?

Dead Jazzmen, unhinged rockabilly, French sci fi comic illustrations and dub reggae - time, perhaps, for something of a more obvious beauty.

Magpahi. Probably at the top of the list of artists that I want to see play live. The main draw is her voice, but also the interesting instruments: xylophone, recorder, harmonium (or variations on). I posted her song Seed a while back. Brisk and a little bit twee (it contains the phrase,"not even a small bumble bee"). I don't mind twee and I love that track but it took me a while to follow it up with her six track ep - mainly, I think, because I thought it was only available as a download. Anyway, this is from that.

Magpahi Horses In The Night

Flook

Browsing the shelves of Oxfam the other lunchtime I saw, and immediately snapped up, a copy of I, Flook. On the face of it an autobiography of the eponymous star of the long running cartoon strip in the dreaded Daily Mail, though (as I knew), really written by the always interesting George Melly. I've never read any of the actual strips (albums of which go for about £30 each when they're available). Flook is a funny little creature from the Stone Age, possibly a woolly mammoth, but it's not clear. He (I think he's a he) has lots of skills and attributes that you wouldn't normally attribute to a mammoth, and he gets into lots of quite amusing adventures.

Anyway, my curiosity was aroused by the fact that this book was written by Melly during the period of his life covered in the first part of his autobiography, one of the most enjoyable books I've ever read. In common with that book it also has excellent illustrations by the cartoonist Trog. Having read Owning Up to death a bit I thought I, Flook might provide some further scraps of insight into the great Melly's life. This view was encouraged when I saw that pictures of a character named Scoop were blatantly based on Melly (see below, and what nice shoes!).

As I scanned the pages a description of bleary eyed gamblers stumbling into the dawn to see Albert Bridge gilded by the morning sun jumped out at me. "Aha", I thought,"clearly informed by the years the author spent living in Margarette Terrace", and felt quite pleased with myself. At one point Flook refers with fondness to the decor of his flat, a feature of which is a phrenologists' head - while over in Owning Up George recounts his own joy at turning up just such an object at a junk shop in Grimsby.

Perhaps not staggering revelations, but little pieces of a puzzle nonetheless. As it happens the author takes up three pages in Owning Up on Flook, admitting that his lifestyle was all grist to the mill or, as he puts it, "Flook meat".

Bad case of the snakes

Dan Sartain was possibly the last act I got into through hearing on MTV. Off the back of Walk Among the Cobras I bought his first album and then his second when that came out. Both are excellent.

Dan Sartain Walk Among The Cobras

I don't know why it occurred to me to post this now, I certainly didn't know he had a new album coming out. But he has and the first single off it is called Fuck Friday, Fuck Saturday, Fuck Sunday. It's 58 seconds long and is a work of utter genius, single-handedly rendering the Ramones' entire back catalogue redundant. I especially like the line about the barbecue. Listen here.

I promise I have not been bought by One Little Indian.

Moebius

Back in January I commented on how much a piece of Egyptian sculpture I'd seen reminded me of the work of the French illustrator Moebius. I was, it turns out, actually thinking of La Foire aux Immortels by Bilal, another French illustrator. But anyway, I thought it was Moebius and when I looked him up on the internet my brain was flooded by his vast body of intricate and mindblowing work. The best site I found was Quenched Consciousness which, I don't know if you've noticed, I put in my links.

Other than the work itself the most interesting thing I turned up was that the largest exhibition of his work ever put on was currently running. The only thing was it was in Paris. However, I was feeling saucy so I booked myself a Eurostar ticket.

I suspect the first drawing I ever saw by Moebius was the third panel of this cityscape from The Long Tomorrow, which I think was included in some long forgotten sci fi anthology I borrowed from my school library. I'm a big fan of dense, vertiginous future cityscapes and this depiction is possibly the most simply satisfying I've ever seen. The original artwork (in black and white) was on display.

This coloured version is well done - most of the art on display was just black ink on white paper and the lines were so sharp. The addition of colour to most editions of his work seems to bland them out. Seeing the crisp, original pages in the subterranean gallery at the exhibition came close to bringing on sensory overload - it was all I could do to fight the urge to run, gibbering, between all the immaculate little masterpieces. I nearly wore my eyeballs out staring so intently at a picture entitled Chaoma (detail in the second column below) and three pages from Incal Book 4 (detail in first column top).

It's tough finding good images of the pictures I wanted on the internet, and even harder to get hold of copies of paper editions (Moebius should never be out of print). Sadly, I can't find any images at all of his depiction of Jimi Hendrix's disembodied head making its haphazard way, on ectoplasmic tentacles, down some freaky highway. Again, like all the best stuff on display, done in black and white - and somehow, despite how utterly clean the lines of the illustration were, managing to give an incredibly powerful suggestion of motion.

The exhibition catalogue cost 49 euros but having had a chance to look at it I decided it was worth every cent. While I was flipping through it though a bloke came up to the counter, asked about it (in French) and after a short conversation went away looking a bit disappointed. There was a little sign on the counter about le catalogue. I could only make out the last sentence which said "Thank you for your understanding in this matter". Hmm, the preceding sentence all seemed to hinge on this word epuise. After a bit of lurking I strode towards the counter and launched into my spiel: "Je suis anglais. Je ne parle pas francais". The attendant was very good about it but it was clear in about half a second that he didn't speak English. "Le catalogue...", I continued. "Ah, epuise", he said. I pulled my best puzzled face. "Er...sold out", he managed. "Ah, merci". And that was that. Bummer.

I had about four hours before my train so I went for a wander. I remembered from a previous visit a particular book shop and set off to find it. I didn't and drifted to a halt outside Notre Dame. After a refreshing slice of pizza I turned back into the Latin Quarter and immediately hit the motherlode, which, if you're ever comic shopping in Paris, is Rue Dante. Reprints were available in most of them but they were a bit too glossy.

The last shop I went in had a load of slightly earlier, slightly less glossy reprints. I nearly bought the first Humanoides Associes anthology but decided, after about 30 minutes, that I shouldn't really shell out about thirty quid for the sake of the four pages of artwork that I loved. Of course now I'm kicking myself. This was one of the pages that tempted me so.

Frequencies

Moving chronologically forward into the realm of dub, a couple of things from Tunes from the Missing Channel. Despite being a classic this album seems to have dropped off the map a bit. Well, it's not available digitally in any of the usual places. "One of the most upfront dub albums ever recorded" pontificated one of my friends at the time. He was not wrong. It's all very good but here's side one, track one - I'm not sure what the instrument is that comes in at 41 seconds but if you've had a couple of hot knives and you're playing it loud enough, it might just rip your head off. I imagine it'll have quite a nice effect on your graphic equalizer as well.

Dub Syndicate Ravi Shankar Pt1

Side one, track two is This Show is Coming which, much as I love it, is showing its age a bit due to some overly snazzy keyboards. So I've ruthlessly swapped it for a younger model - a version from Pay It All Back Volume 2 featuring Lee Scratch Perry spouting his inimitable cosmological, messianic stuff over the top of it. Rather a long intro, the track proper kicks in at 57 seconds.

Lee Scratch Perry Train to Doomsville

Buzz feeling

Inspired by the general reggae goings on around Reggae Britannia (which I didn't watch) and by an article I read yesterday about Rastamouse, here is one of my favourite reggae tunes. Though is it reggae? It's very slow - but it's Bob Marley produced by Lee Perry, so it must be reggae.

Weirder than your average though, it certainly seems to be the odd one out on my copy of The Best of Bob Marley 1968 - 1972 on which it's credited to B. Marley - the most rudimentary of searches reveals the writer in fact to be Glen Adams. Over the years I've probably spent a few minutes pondering the meaning of the lyrics. I can't remember if I'd come to any conclusions, but if I had they were wrong.

Bob Marley Mr Brown

Minor public building

Cleland House. Until recently the home of the prison service. It looks more like it should have been the headquarters for the British Interplanetary Society, I think. I was often distracted by its jutting profile while on my way to work and made several mental notes to myself to take some snaps. So when I saw it was going to be demolished I made sure I put my camera in my bag. I'd have liked to have gone to the top of Millbank Tower and taken a photo from there.

White rabbits

On a dark night shortly before or after my seventeenth birthday I found myself at a party thrown by a girl I did not know. By the open window a curtain billowed, stained orange by the streetlight; all the while, to my intermittent distraction, dragons flapped in inky silhouette across its surface. Looking about the carpet writhed with dark patterns and the floor beneath it undulated gently. At some point I remember handling a rough ceramic vase, through the pores of which I could see and hear lava crackling. I was tripping fairly hard.

I don’t think I’d noticed the music until a friend went to change the disc, only, on experiencing some difficulty, to report from across the room that the drawer had been glued shut. We blandly accepted his assessment of the situation. So, for however long, we sat there and listened to Treasure by the Cocteau Twins. I slowly realised that I had to own the album and the next day I floated into Our Price I think it was, and plucked it from the racks.

Whenever I play the album four lines scored into its inner sleeve always give cause for a poignant moment. They were made by Tig, my brother’s cat, long since dead.

Cocteau Twins Lorelei

Pilgrim's progress

I was chatting to my brother the other night and the topic of film adaptations came up. He was lamenting the dire version of A Wizard of Earthsea that he'd seen. It hasn't been done yet, and so I don't think I mentioned it, but I've thought for a long time that The Last American would make a great film. The story covers the first few days of Ulysses S. Pilgrim after he emerges from suspended animation twenty years after World War Three.

It came out on Epic (a Marvel subsiduary) back in 1990 and I'm not sure how I would've heard about it. I imagine it was the artwork that persuaded me into buying them, though possibly the storyline - nuclear war was my most morbid fear throughout childhood and I find myself drawn to the topic (my brother's the same about sharks).

Post nuclear apocalypse scenarios aren't very fashionable at the moment but there was meant to be a trend emerging a while back for bleak sci fi (Moon being the only example I can think of right now).

The artwork, (by long time favourite and regular 2000AD contributor Mike McMahon) is, as befits such a storyline, brutal. Whatever humour can be mustered from the situation comes from the dialogue between Pilgrim and his three robot helpers (Able, Baker and Charlie - a nod to Huey, Dewey and Louis in Silent Running?).

Here are a few random pages that I particularly like. Copies can be picked up for buttons on ebay.

And finally, I'd have this as the soundtrack.

Laurie Anderson O Superman

It always seemed to me that this song was about the start of World War Three. The lyrics "Here come the planes" and then "Smoking or non-smoking" and "Neither snow nor rain nor gloom of night shall stay theses couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds" - highly suggestive to me of the bomber in Dr Strangelove, unstoppable once the process has been set in motion.

And the lyric asking "Who is this?" and the voice replying, "This is the hand, the hand that takes" a reference maybe to the bit in the book of Daniel when the hand appears and writes "Mene, mene, shekel upharsin" - I find it a pleasingly spooky idea that god might reveal himself, even if only to one person, at the climax of humanity's hubris.

In the garden

When I was a kid I didn't buy albums, I didn't notice that groups tended to release song after song. I lived, as was only right, in the moment and was continually knocked sideways by random singles. The earliest that I remember being really addicted to were The Model, Senses Working Overtime and Golden Brown - all three of which, when I check, I see were released between Dec 81 and Jan 82 - pinpointing the dawning of my pop consciousness.

At about this time a genuine appreciation of their music, and a certain amount of peer pressure, led to me declaring that Madness were officially my favourite group and I bought my first ever album (One Step Beyond) and maintained a preference for this earlier, more ska-ified version of the band.

At the time I considered Madness's streak of pop genius (Tomorrow's (Just Another Day), Michael Caine and Yesterday's Men for example) as something of a loss of form and when the single Sweet Dreams came along what might previously have been just another one hit fixation saw the purchase of my second ever album Sweet Dreams and the Eurythmics assume the mantle of my favourite band (later sharing the honour with Talking Heads) until sometime in 1987, when Indie finally beckoned me across the generation gap.

So, the Eurythmics - as big a fan as I was I'd never heard of their first album In the Garden until I discovered it, oddly enough, while flipping through the collection of the friend who had introduced me to Spacemen 3. I gave it a spin and absolutely loved it: my old beloved Eurythmics but without the histrionic vocals and the worst excesses of eighties drum and synth production and, on the plus side, fuzzy guitars and the odd squeak of feedback. Definitely a great lost album.

Anyway, here's my favourite track off it, one of the more gentle tunes from Annie Lennox's endless supply of bummed out love songs.

Eurythmics Never Gonna Cry Again