Musty Books: “Freaky Friday” by Mary Rodgers (1972)

More of a Wet Wednesday than a Freaky Friday, this familiar tale of a mother/daughter body-swap feels, appropriately, like an engaging, powerful story being forced to masquerade in the form of an ungainly knockabout comedy. Four (four!) feature-length screen adaptations to date, all produced by Disney, have given Mary Rodgers’ tale a genuine pan-generational appeal, but the book is very firmly rooted amid the middle-classes mores of Nixon-era New York, and is centered around a family whose reactions to a perspective-altering case of otherworldiness seem disappointingly glib.

Disappointing, because it’s a genuinely brilliant premise. 13-year-old Annabel Andrews wakes up to discover that she now inhabits her own mother’s body; and has therefore inherited a full gamut of family responsibilities: her busy executive father, her six-year-old brother Ben (or “Ape Face” as Annabel has nicknamed him), and – indeed – her own absent physical form, which she assumes to be now inhabited by her mother’s personality, although this supposition remains tantalisingly vague until the book’s final chapter.

Things predictably go awry: overwhelmed by the obligations of the adult world, Annabel – a typically scatty and wayward teenager – finds herself baffled by her mother’s vague diary appointments; out of her depth in a school meeting about her own underachievements; and – ultimately – not only concerned about the disappearance of her own physical form, but also that of her younger brother. Because Ben, we learn, has been inexplicably allowed to leave the house with a “beautiful chick” stranger who calls at the apartment, charming teenage babysitter Boris into letting the trusting infant wander the streets of New York in her company.

Boris, an adenoidal 14-year-old adored by Annabel – although, predictably, he himself is in love with the senior Mrs Andrews – does actually provide effective comic relief: I certainly laughed at the revelation, after an entire book’s worth of sleight-of-hand, that his name is actually Morris, but a cavalcade of sinus-troubling allergies render him unable to pronounce it correctly. It’s the 1970s New York equivalent of the “Decond Class Redurn Do Dottingham”. But elsewhere, it’s the humour that actually stymies the story. Which would be fine, if the book was intended as nothing more than light whimsy; but it clearly has pretentions to making a serious point about the responsibilities of adults towards children, and it occasionally veers into unexpectedly dark territory. At one stage, Annabel – in her mother’s body – fires the family housekeeper for using racist language; and in another scene fears that her own physical form may actually have abducted, raped and murdered.

This uneasy combination of the shocking and the lighthearted comes to a head in the book’s closing chapters, when Annabel eventually attempts to report both the disappearance of her own physical form and that of her younger brother to the police. What should be a moment of heart-pounding tension is depicted as high farce, and a serious of knockabout telephone misunderstandings (“I can’t figure out whether the dame is a fruitcake or for real!” chuckles Patrolman Plonchik to a colleague, as – no, really – a distressed woman attempts to report the abduction of her six-year-old son) fizzles away the tension into (very) sub-Mel Brooks wisecracking.

Unlike other readers whose reviews I’ve poked through, it doesn’t bother me that the exact method of the body-swap is left unexplained. In fact, I rather like weirdness that’s simply left there for us to deal with: that ambigious oddness is a staple of many of my favourite Twilight Zone episodes, and clearly Mary Rodgers was of the generation that took inspiration from some of Rod Serling’s finest TV work. But, unlike in the best Zones, the reaction of the characters in Freaky Friday never really convinces. Annabel responds fairly calmly to finding herself in her mother’s body, setting methodically about living Mrs Andrews’ life rather than responding in any believable way (my own response, I suspect, would be to scream obscenities at the mirror and pound the walls until my hands bled), and although she (and we) gain a few insights into the world her mother inhabits, it feels, frustratingly, like we barely scratch the surface.

But perhaps most disappointingly of all is Mrs Andrews’ response to spending the day in Annabel’s body, and any committed “Women’s Lib” advocates (to quote the book itself) might want to bite their lip and take a moment here. While it would have been fascinating to learn of the insight she gains from spending the day inside her teenage daughter’s body, she is absent from virtually the entire book, re-emerging only at the end to reveal that she has taken full advantage of the body-swap scenario to give her 13-year-old tomboy daughter a makeover, a new hairdo, a new wardrobe and a spot of dental work for good measure.

Boris – or Morris, if you will – is predictably delighted. But although there are some very funny and very thoughtful moments scattered throughout the book, I was a little less enamoured.

Update: Thanks to reader David Brunt for pointing out that “Collins Cascades” was a 1980s/90s series of reprints of childrens books, and did indeed seem to be geared towards schools. Other “Cascades” titles listed on Amazon include The Third Class Genie by Robert Leeson, and Alan Garner’s Stone Book Quartet, and there’s even a Coursework Folder available.

Mustiness Report: 1/10. My copy is as fragrant as a Spring morning, a 1987 hardback reprint that seems to be No 16 of a series called “Collins Cascades”. There’s no price tag and no bar code, so I’m wondering if this was a selection of childrens’ books reiussued specifically for British schools? The “Stokesley School” stamp on the first inner page of my copy suggests so.

One Man’s Trash… The Ephemeral Obsessions of John Townsend

(This article first published in the Fortean Times No 390, dated March 2020)

For almost 70 years, John Townsend amassed an extraordinary collection of 20th century ephemera that has now inspired a new book, Wrappers Delight. Bob Fischer carefully unwraps the story, then puts the packaging to one side for safe-keeping

“He was collecting on a different level,” says Jonny Trunk. “Relentless. Absolutely relentless. It’s so hardcore.”

This is quite something coming from Jonny, a irrepressible gatherer of vintage curiosities himself. His label, Trunk Records, has become the stuff of legend; breathing new life into musical obscurities of the mid-20th century. But his new book, Wrappers Delight, shines a spotlight on one of the most prolific collectors of British ephemera ever to have lived. The late John Townsend lived in the suburbs of Stockport, dedicating his entire life to a house-filling (and, indeed, shed, caravan and summerhouse-filling) collection of cards, stickers, wrappers, packaging, tins, junk mail… pretty much anything that ordinary households would routinely throw away.

The story of the book began with promotional flexi-discs. A friend of John Townsend’s son Robin borrowed a boxful from the house, and uploaded an audio mix of them onto Youtube; before alerting Jonny Trunk, who has a profound interest in such matters. “There was the Barbara Moore Singers doing a Tango advert; there was a Bryant & May ‘Message from the Chairman’, that sort of thing,” remembers Jonny. “Just my sort of advertising rubbish! I went up and offered Robin a good sum of money for the box, and I said ‘Let’s have a look around the house’. And from there… “

He pauses.

“It was an Aladdin’s Cave. Hanging in the hall was a Weetabix T-shirt, and I thought ‘What?! Why is there a Weetabix t-shirt there?’ It was the one where they turned the Weetabix into little skinheads, remember that? And on every shelf there was a thing, a tin can that was a promotional item that had been turned into a radio… wherever you looked there was something. He had loads of mugs, and I love mugs. And they were everywhere… mugs from Robertson’s Jam or the Swizzels factory.


“There were bags, and in the bags were boxes, and in the boxes were more bags, and in the bags was more stuff. I’m a collector, and I know how much time, energy and effort it’s taken to collect the roomful of records I’ve got. And he did it with postcards, cigarette cards, tobacco silks, first day covers… everything. What most people spend their life doing for one thing, he did across several. I got really excited by the possibilities.

The book is a sumptuous affair, with 500 of John Townsend’s most vividly evocative items scanned and photographed in loving detail. From Pink Panther candy to Yellow Submarine sweet cigarettes, from Lolly Gobble Choc Bombs to Kung Fuey crisps, they provide a direct portal to an era when luridly-packaged treats would be eagerly snaffled by grubby-faced kids all over the country, queuing in pokey sweetshops and street corner newsagents alike.

Three days after speaking with Jonny Trunk, I travel to Stockport to visit the Townsend household itself, finding myself at the door of an impressive, five-bedroomed house in a leafy cul-de-sac: the very epitome of unassuming suburbia. I’m greeted by Robin, a whiskery blues musician now known universally as Robin Sunflower (“It was chosen for me by the people of Ashton-Under-Lyne”, he smiles, enigmatically). His wife Paula is also there, as are two incredibly excited dogs, one of whom is called Elvis.

Immediately, I get a sense of what Jonny has described as a “strange energy”; John Townsend’s collection, although depleted since his death in 2014, still dominates every available space. The house is a riot of ephemera, a museum of 20th century pop culture and packaging that is still piled halfway to the ceiling in some rooms. As we settle down by the fireside, Robin begins to tell me his father’s life story.

“He was born in Surrey in 1937,” he says. “His dad died quite young, and his mum got another man, so he ended up going into a children’s home. And he spotted that the milk that was delivered there every day had different patterns on the cardboard bottle tops. And he started collecting them. It was something that he could have, something that made him different to everybody else. And from there he went onto collecting cigarette cards, tea cards… and then anything.”

“He had an eye for design, and logos…” adds Paula. “They would have appealed to him…”

“Yeah,” agrees Robin. “Logos fascinated him. So he went from cigarette cards, to bubble gum cards, and then the actual packaging. Everything that came into the house was planned. It wasn’t just a case of ‘We need some beans, we need some Cornflakes.’ He’d be in the shop, and he’d say ‘We’re going to get these beans, because they’re advertising this film…'”

John moved from Surrey to Stockport in the late 1950s, and into the current house in the early 1970s. He spent his entire working life as a rep for Bird’s Eye (“We were never short of frozen peas,” deadpans Paula), weaving his love of collecting into his regular family life, with wife Brenda and three young sons – Martin, Robin, and Christopher.

“Me and my older brother Martin were very much employed, at not fantastic rates!” laughs Robin. “My dad would regularly come back with boxes of bubble gum… 144 packets in each box. And in each packet there’d be one piece of bubble gum and four or five cards of whatever series it was; footballers or pop stars. We would flatten all the wrappers, then get all the cards and put them into order, onto boards. There’s No 7 from that series, and there’s No 22…”

What comes over strongly is that John’s hobby wasn’t merely collecting for collecting’s sake: he felt a overpowering duty to preserve the minutiae of 20th century life for future generations to enjoy, and had a visionary sense that eventually these throwaway items would amass great cultural importance, simply because most households were throwing them away.

“There was definitely a social history angle,” nods Robin.

Paula agrees. “Everything to do with disposable life fascinated him,” she says. “He was always going on about the throwaway society, and how it was wrong and he should keep everything. And how one day it was all going to be in this glorious museum. He never got round to that… he never gave himself time, because he was always just collecting more and more.”

“People would bring him things as well,” adds Robin. “He’d say ‘Please collect all your empty cereal boxes and bring them to me… all your junk mail, all your phone cards, all your bus and train tickets…'”

And some of John’s collection has accrued remarkable value.   

“There were two boxes full of flattened cereal packets, mostly from the 1970s,” says Robin. “I looked through, and said ‘This one’s got Star Wars on it…’. So we put two Star Wars Shreddies boxes onto eBay with a starting bid of a fiver. Someone got in touch, and asked ‘Would you take £300 for the two?’ It was like… right, OK… let’s tread a bit more carefully now. We’ve also got Battlestar Galactica, Superman, The Black Hole

“And the Doctor Who Weetabix boxes, we just couldn’t believe. One bloke bought three of the four, on the same day. He spent over £1,000 on three empty Weetabix boxes.”

So objects that were designed to be collectible are now worth less than the packaging that housed them, simply because people kept the former, but not the latter?

“Yeah,” nods Robin. “People might have kept the little plastic figures or the cards, but not the box. That’s the nature of ephemera.”

“Your dad knew that all along,” says Paula. “He understood that immediately.”

The presence of John’s wife Brenda seems to have tempered the scale of the collection, but the intensity of his hobby escalated following her death in 1989. “It was different when Mum was alive,” agrees Robin. “There were certain areas where his collection was, and certain areas where it wasn’t. But once there was only him, there was no need for any demarcation lines.”

This change in circumstances led John’s fascination with printed matter into some unexpected new territories, too: notably, a notorious Manchester nightclub whose name become synonymous with 1990s rave culture.

Haçienda club flyers,” says Paula. “He loved those.” 

Robin nods. “He used to go into Manchester with a rucksack, a shopping trolley and a couple of shoulder bags, and he would go round Affleck’s Palace and Eastern Bloc Records, picking up huge stacks of them. His bag would weigh a ton!”

This new direction prompted John to put his collecting on a more formal footing, with the foundation of an official society. “He was running a club called the M.I.C.E. club,” explains Robin. “All about club flyers, tourist information cards, free postcards… things that were given away as promotional items.”

At this point, he retrieves from the shelf a book that gives an indication of the level of attention that John’s collection began to attract. The Ultimate Guide To Unusual Leisure, by Stephen Jarvis, was published by Robson Books in 1997. It includes an entry on M.I.C.E, the “Modern Information Collectors Exchange”, founded by John to swap promotional flyers with similar enthusiasts dotted around the country.

“What would life be like if you saved every piece of junk mail?” the book speculates. “Probably like John Townsend’s life, who has boxfuls of the stuff all over the house. It’s even on the staircase. He says: ‘There’s a gap down the middle of the hall, where I walk…'”  

Robin closes the book, proudly. “It’s also got entries on Zen Archery, the Friends of the Museum of Bad Art, The Flying Nun Fan Club, and barbed wire collecting.”

“I’m surprised your dad didn’t get into that,” smiles Paula.  

So did the collection take over the house as spectacularly the book suggests?

“It was quite extreme at one point,” says Paula. “You could sort of shuffle around, but you had to do it really slowly. Sometimes you would actually have to climb over boxes. If you laid flat, you could sort of slide over them. And I don’t remember going upstairs for the first few years. I don’t think it was accessible upstairs.” 

“Sometimes you’d hear a sort of rumble upstairs, as something collapsed…” remembers Robin, wistfully.

“But there was never any shame over it,” adds Paula. “He was always ‘Take me as you find me, this his how I want to live’. And everybody accepted that, because it was just… John.”

Both Robin and Paula recall John’s sense of humour and gregarious nature, describing a funny and sociable man who was entirely aware of his own idiosyncrasies. “He liked the thought of being the eccentric English gent,” nods Paula. “He loved being the centre of attention, and if he got the opportunity to be on the radio or the telly, then he loved that, too.”

And the dawn of the 21st century provided the opportunity for John to expand his collecting habits even further. Perhaps not surprisingly, he was an enthusiastic early adopter of eBay.

“He had his own van that the Post Office would send out specifically to come here,” recalls Paula. “Nowhere else. A massive box of condiments, free sachets of brown sauce, turned up one day. We said ‘Why have you bought this?’ He said ‘Because I’m collecting free giveaway condiments, obviously.’ He never used them, they just sat there for years in the box, then got totally moused…”

Robin laughs. “He ran a M.I.C.E club, and them some real mice joined…”

“The kitchen was really scary,” laughs Paula. “Remember that big tin of Mango Purée that exploded?”

Both agree that the collection reached its peak in 2007, by which stage the house was so dominated by bags and boxes that John moved into the garden summerhouse. And shortly before his death in 2014, he was still ordering eBay items from his nursing home: they would arrive unexpectedly at the house, much to Robin and Paula’s surprise.  

The couple moved into the house when John died, and began the bittersweet task of gently dismantling the collection. As the family sift through what John once conservatively estimated to be 34,000 items (“Possibly 34,000 squared!”, jokes Robin), older brother Martin has been tasked with listing the more interesting items on eBay.

“It feels strange, it all going out of the house,” admits Paula. “Because the house and the collection have kind of become one. And it is Robin’s dad. Having had years of arguing with him, I now feel that I understand where he was coming from, and why he couldn’t let it go. I thought it would be easy just to get rid of it, but it’s really not. When stuff goes out of the house, it does tug on your heartstrings a bit, because we’re never going to see it again. But realistically, we can’t keep hold of it.”

Robin agrees. “It’s a shame that he spent a lot of time gathering these things together, and now they’ve been fragmented. Maybe out there now, there’s someone desperately trying to gather them together again…”

Wrappers Delight, of course, immortalises a corner of the collection, and cements John Townsend’s visionary status: Jonny Trunk’s 2019 crowdfunding campaign to finance the book reached its £20,000 goal in 36 hours, proving that the world has finally come round to John’s way of thinking. We now positively delight in the disposable ephemera of decades past. And Jonny Trunk himself is rightly proud of the finished product. “On every page I’ll see something I like,” he says. “There’s a lot of illustration which I think is really quite charming. Some of it’s brilliant, and some of it’s not very good at all… that slightly ‘outsider’ art of badly drawn pop stars, you know. But there’s something on every page I’d buy.”

Meanwhile, Robin and Paula are a delightful couple, and inexhaustibly welcoming. As we potter around the house, I get an overwhelming impression of their love for John, and their willingness to share and celebrate his story. Touchingly, on top of a drinks cabinet in the front room, are the modest pile of 1940s cardboard milk bottle tops that sparked the whole collection. They graciously offer them for me to inspect; the faded remnants of a traumatic, wartime childhood. I’m subsumed by a feeling of incredible sadness.

“He lost everything when he was a kid,” says Paula. “But these were something that he could take, that he could just have. It was like everything he’d lost, he put into his collecting. I think a lot of it was about him taking control of his life.”

“Yeah,” agrees Robin. “Existing on his own terms.”

And as we pass the foot of the staircase, John’s story has one final, heart-rending twist. Posing for photographs beside a promotional cardboard cut-out of a beaming 1970s schoolboy sporting a Superman t-shirt and a chequered flat cap, Robin smiles. “If we stand here, my parents are in the picture, too”, he says. And he points out two charcoal-grey cardboard boxes, nestling almost unnoticed beneath a fluffy, sleeping toy cat.

John Townsend has become part of his own collection. It’s impossible not to conclude that it’s what he would have wanted. 

Wrappers Delight, by Jonny Trunk, is available from FUEL Publishing, RRP £24.95. It’s here…

http://fuel-design.com/publishing/wrappers-delight/

And if you’d like a slice of John Townsend’s collection… look for the eBay ID “oldtom85”.

Thanks to Robin and Paula, Jonny Trunk, and to ace photographer Andrew T. Smith; gratitude to FUEL Publishing too, for providing images from the book.

The new Fortean Times (Issue 391) is now available, and has the latest printed Haunted Generation column, featuring reviews of new albums by Keith Seatman, Plone, The Heartwood Institute & Panamint Manse and Capac with Tom Harding. It looks like this
:

Musty Books: “Rebecca’s World” by Terry Nation (1975)

It’s almost possible to play Terry Nation Bingo with many of the scripts that the debonair Dalek supremo turned in for Doctor Who during his 1960s and 1970s heydey. There will be a remote planet with a frighteningly hostile environment (check); there will be a futuristic citadel that provides fragile respite from the dangers present on the planet’s surface (check); there will be an eccentric scientist working alone on a secret project (check); and a sizeable chunk of the story will essentially consist of an “obstacle course” journey across a hazardous landscape populated by deadly beasties, with the eventual goal of reaching – literally – the story’s ultimate place of resolution. It’s usually on the other side of an acid lake, or a deadly, petrified forest.

Check. All of these elements are present in Rebecca’s World: it only really needs the lingering threat of radiation poisoning for the complete Terry Nation Full House.

What separates it from the bulk of his TV work, however, is the book’s ultimate strength – a delightfully surreal and clearly Goons-inspired sense of humour. Perhaps this shouldn’t come as a surprise given Nation’s background as a comedy writer: his first–ever professional credit was for a sketch sold to Spike Milligan in 1955, and he subsequently worked on hundreds of radio scripts for likes of Eric Sykes, Harry Worth and Frankie Howerd, before joining the long list of illustrious collaborators to have been fired by Tony Hancock.

For better and for worse, Rebecca’s World clearly draws heavily on these experiences. The titular lead character is a sparky young girl, bored to tears during a school holiday in her sprawling country home. She has an unmistakably Edwardian quality – clearly reinforced by the book’s interior illustrations – although there’s also a single, slightly surprising reference to her once watching television. Perhaps a leftover from a previous draft? Either way, after unwisely dabbling with her father’s gigantic astral telescope, she finds herself transported across the universe to a decidedly unusual – and curiously unnamed – “Forbidden Planet”.

At this stage, Nation’s influences become clearly apparent: we’re essentially thrown into a Milligan-esque reworking of The Wizard of Oz. Rebecca discovers that the planet is in thrall to the dastardly Mister Glister, a debonair tyrant with the sartorial tastes of Liberace. Glister keeps the population subjugated by controlling – and charging for – access to shelters that will protect them from the murderous GHOSTS that are roaming the planet’s surface; and yes, the capitals are Nation’s, and are used throughout. Keen to become an unlikely hero on her new home world, Rebecca teams up with three lovable local misfits and embarks on a lengthy quest across the planet’s surface to liberate the cowering populace.

So there’s Grisby, a fur-coated hangdog (in fact, almost a fur-coated Hancock) with the most painful feet in the world; Kovak, a hopeless spy and hilariously transparent “master of disguise”; and Captain K, a feeble, bespectacled superhero whose power lies in his possession of a “GHOST stick” – the last remnant of the forest of GHOST trees that kept these malevolent spirits at bay for generations. Until, that is, Mister Glister chopped the trees down to build said “GHOST shelters”, charging the public a small fortune to enter these tiny refuges, their only way to remain safe during the dangerous GHOST raids that frequently sweep the planet.

Pursued by Mister Glister and his hapless henchmen, the mis-matched foursome travel across land to reach the mythical “last GHOST tree”; encountering a succession of genuinely great characters along the way: my favourites being the creepy “Scarepeople” – a legion of giant, dark-robed screaming figures that line the rim of a desert canyon; and the “Bad Habits”, a initially genial elderly couple who transpire to be the originators of all the irksome peccadilloes picked up by children the world over; training tiny, furry creatures to whisper “Bite Your Nails” into the ears of sleeping infants at the dead of night.

The landscape too is the stuff of fairytales, all towering needles and bottomless feather wells. It’s genuinely terrific stuff. But Nation’s background as a sketch writer, and the influence of Milligan in particular – a strength when it comes to the book’s humour – is perhaps his downfall, too. The story is essentially a sequence of fairly unrelated incidents and set pieces, and never quite connects as an genuine journey, with character and consequence. Maybe I’m asking too much of a book clearly aimed at a very young audience, although it’s not a criticism I could level at – just thinking out loud here – The Wizard of Oz. Regardless, it’s never less than good fun, and shows an interesting flipside to Nation’s typically traditional TV science fiction scrips.

Point Of Order: This is the first “Musty Book” of which I can claim previous experience. In 1982, my primary school teacher Mr Hirst read the opening chapters to me and my fellow ten-year-olds, shuffling impatiently on the parquet floor of Levendale Primary School. I intended then to complete the rest of the book one day, so never let it be said that I don’t play a long game.

Update: Thanks to ‘Joe Dredd’ on the Roobarb’s TV forum for pointing out the Rebecca was, in fact, the name of Terry Nation’s daughter. And to Chris Orton, who added that she also lent her name to the character of Rebec in Nation’s 1983 Doctor Who story, Planet of the Daleks.

Update: Thanks to reader Mike Dickinson for pointing out that audio company Big Finish released a Paul Darrow-narrated adaptation of Rebecca’s World in 2010. It’s available here: https://www.bigfinish.com/releases/v/rebecca-s-world-journey-to-the-forbidden-planet-196

Mustiness Report: 1/10. My copy is a 1984 reprint, and smells inexplicably of vanilla blancmange.

The Heartwood Institute, Panamint Manse and Parapsychedelia

The paranormal was taken far more seriously in the 1970s. Mainstream news programmes like Nationwide would frequently include UFO sightings and poltergeist infestations alongside analysis of the latest economic forecasts and industrial action; and their 1976 report on the Hexham Heads – the buried stone carvings that unleashed both a werewolf and a rather curious half man/half sheep creature on this sleepy Northumberland town – has become the stuff of legend. In newsagents, the books of Erich Von Daniken nestled happily alongside the latest Jilly Coopers, and – by the turn of the 1980s – Arthur C Clarke’s Mysterious World was a fixture on primetime ITV. It was, as one dedicated Loch Ness Monster-hunter* once said to me, “a very credulous era.”

*Yes, I’ve met a few.

Into this mix was thrown the fascination with a paranormal phenomenon that perhaps came closest to arousing genuine scientific interest: that of Extra Sensory Perception. The idea of a “sixth sense”, an innate psychic ability ready to be unleashed in all of us, was a mainstay of 1970s weirdness: it was an era when Uri Geller became an enigmatic international celebrity, and when there was even talk of the CIA employing military-grade psychic readers to gain an advantage in a still-simmering Cold War.

This delicious combination of nebulous strangeness and academic respectability is evoked perfectly on Parapsychedelia, a new collaborative album by The Heartwood Institute and Panamint Manse. The transatlantic duo (essentially Jonathan Sharp, from Cumbria, and Wayne P. Ulmer, from California… god knows, if they ever visit each other, they’re in for a hell of culture shock, climate-wise) have created a melodic, dreamy collection; where the authoritarian voices of beardy-weirdy 1970s researchers emerge chillingly from beautiful, eerie soundscapes, redolent of both the authentic vintage library music of the era, and the first giddy wave of Ghost Box-led Noughties hauntology.

The album is released on the Castles In Space label this week, and I asked Jonathan and Wayne about the background to it all:

Bob: The album is great fun! Between the pair of you, whose idea was it to make an album about ESP research?

Jonathan: Thanks! When we initially started planning this, Wayne suggested the ESP theme, and he passed me a mood board of images and text. It sort of grew out of that. It was a bit of a lucky chance, as I’d just been reading a book on remote viewing, so it all kind of clicked. A lot of Wayne’s initial images were so evocative, and dovetailed with what I’d just been reading.

Wayne: That’s right, I had been wandering the stacks in a local library a few years ago and came across a book on parapsychology.  Flipping to the index, I was greeted with a list of peculiarly resonant words, and wrote them down for future use.  Later, in communication with Jonathan, these resonances would prove to be a fertile aesthetic from which to draw inspiration.

What are your memories of the paranormal from being a kid? Did you watch Arthur C Clarke’s Mysterious World, and similar programmes?

Jonathan: Oh absolutely, I think I was at exactly the right age for that to be a big influence and spark my interest in the broader subject. There seemed to be quite a widespread interest at the time in UFOs, parapsychology and ESP… all that stuff. As well as those Usborne books, there was just so much available: everything from Chariots Of The Gods to The Highgate Vampire. And lots of it was targeted at children as well as adults.

Wayne, was there a US equivalent of, say, Arthur C Clarke’s Mysterious World? I know Leonard Nimoy presented a similar show… was there other stuff as well?

Wayne:  Ah, you’re thinking In Search Of, but that was a bit before my time.  As a child in the late 1980s, it was Unsolved Mysteries after dinner, and Time Life’s Mysteries of the Unknown books in the school library. There was definitely something in the air, and anything paranormal got my attention. Beyond the cultural reference points, I’ve always felt a natural predisposition to magical thinking, and wonder.

Did this stuff scare you both as children? The ‘Monsters of the Deep’ episode of Arthur C Clarke’s Mysterious World gave me nightmares for months… 

Jonathan: Honestly, it was a bit like watching a real life version of Doctor Who… there were things that were certainly scary! But I watched it religiously. The one that has stuck in my mind after all these years is the Tunguska episode.

Wayne:  I’ve always been terrified of lots of things!  Close Encounters was my favorite movie growing up and – though not scary in the traditional sense – it sure scared the living hell out of me. I’d watch our VHS copy over and over. So when my family moved to the Mojave Desert in 1986, I would camp out and search for UFOs in the night. Often paralyzed with fear, but it felt wonderful. That tipping point of otherness, just beyond perception.

Oh, I have to ask… did you ever see one?

Wayne: There was one lone instance. Spherical lights, maybe four or five on the horizon to the east, fading in and out of visibility in a sequence, from right to left. Pulsing like an inchworm across the night sky, slowly. As one light dimmed on the right, another would fade in on the left. It lasted only long enough to baffle me, and leave me transfixed.

Do you think it was an age when ESP and other paranormal fields of interest were taken more seriously – both by the mainstream media and by academia?

Jonathan: Oh totally, I mean this was the time of Uri Geller being a huge TV star. It did seem like certainly the mainstream media took it all more seriously, or certainly gave it screentime without attempting to debunk it with a knowing wink. Likewise, academia was a bit more open, too. I have some great T C Lethbridge books from the period, plus things like The Occult, by Colin Wilson. I think it really was the tail end of the “Age of Aquarius”.

Wayne:  For sure, Jonathan. But I understand why that openness has gone away. With the advent of smartphones and related tech, there should be more documentations of unexplained phenomena, but instead we have fewer. The hard sciences are universally lauded – and rightfully so – but the ability to not-know can be equally important in a moment. I think we worked on Parapsychedelia from a space which embraced our classically shared touchstones of the unexplained, but I can’t help but feel it all points to something much closer.

Are you a believer in any of this stuff yourselves, then? Have you ever tried experimenting with Zenner Cards, for example?

Jonathan: I have a set of Zenner cards that came with a copy of The Unexplained magazine. I’ve never had much luck with them though! Let’s say I’ve an open and enquiring mind on this and a lot of similar esoteric subjects.

Wayne:  Traditional parapsychology? Not particularly. But I believe the reality of our situation to be several magnitudes weirder than any of that!

The idea of a collaboration between a Cumbrian artist and a Californian artist is an intriguing one! How did it come about?

Jonathan: I’d been familiar with Wayne’s Panamint Manse releases, and we started chatting back and forth. I really liked his last album a lot and he said “Well… how about we do some kind of collaboration and see what happens?”

I don’t think either of us had any initial expectations of it turning into a full album, but he sent me some initial ideas to play with, and it quickly became apparent that we clicked musically and had something pretty cool. The whole thing took shape over a few months as ideas bounced back and forwards, and suddenly we had an album’s worth of stuff.

Wayne: Yeah, I had admired Jonathan’s work from afar before we began corresponding.  After devouring all I could of the more popular stuff, I’d search Bandcamp for music tagged with “Hauntology” – I know it’s uncool, thanks – and The Heartwood Institute stood out for me.  I remember hearing Calder Hall in 2016, around the same time I put my first music on the platform.  I think Bandcamp can be a great tool for fostering communities and building connections. But it was Jonathan’s willingness to work with a bit of an outsider that allowed Parapsychedelia to develop.

Have you ever met each other in person, or even spoken in real time?

Jonathan: No, we’ve not met in person at this point, but yes – we’ve talked at length in actual, real time. And probably sent several thousand words of e-mails and messages!

Wayne, how have you found it working “remotely” in this way?

Wayne:  We have similar setups so it wasn’t insurmountable, but I love being forced to commit and bounce down audio, because I can be so indecisive in my own work. Sending audio and MIDI, and text and pictures to friends are great frequencies for me.

What do you think each other brings to the collaboration? How do you complement each other’s work?

Jonathan: Well, I’ve been jokingly saying that Wayne brings the tunes and melodies, and I bring the noises. Which is probably a bit flippant, but I think we each have different strengths, and when they come together it makes for something that neither of us would do by ourselves.

Wayne:  Haha, yes. It’s not all so black and white obviously, but there is a mixture of dark and light going on.  I tend toward sentimentalism in my own work, and so it’s pleasant to explore murkier zones with Jonathan and just let go a bit. Not every song needs a chorus, Wayne!

Can I ask where some of the track titles come from? I’m intrigued by ‘Black Ant, White Magic’…

Jonathan: ‘Black Ant, White Magic’ and most of the other titles are Wayne’s – he’s great at mashing existing words to make new ones that sound like they ought to actually be a thing. I loved what he came up with, it’s kind of a woozy melange of psychedelia and parapsychology.

Wayne: ‘Black Ant, White Magic’… mostly, I just liked the sound of it. I wanted to retain some of the desert connections, and huge black ants are everywhere here in summer. ‘White Magic’ is just an attempt to be gentle, and not overly morose about the project. But I guess it’s been awarded some context after the fact… Jonathan is the black ant, and I bring the white magic.

Ooof, that’s lame.

And the rest? ‘Mesmercuria’? And ‘Amaranthracine’? Neither of these appear to be actual words… did you have fun inventing new words for this album?

Wayne:  OK, nerding out here, but for the titles you mentioned I’d start with a word thematically related to our aesthetic, like “mesmerism”, and then bring up the default dictionary on OSX.  You type three letters into the dictionary, it begins to auto-populate on the left, and you can scroll for something you like.  Then you can just keep twisting away by repeating the process. So for the above example I used “mercurial”, but just dropped the “l” from the end, for added mystique. But perhaps “mesmeridian” could have worked, or “mesmercyanemiasma”? It’s like a directed cut-up or something. ‘Clairvoyeurism’ works in that way, as does Parapsychedelia.  Overall, we tried to find a good mix of simple and graphic.

Can you tell us where some of the samples on the album came from? They’re very evocative.

Jonathan: I went down a massive Youtube rabbit hole of 1970s American science-fiction, and weird documentaries. A big resource was that Leonard Nimoy In Search Of…. programme. Which is very similar to Arthur C Clarke’s Mysterious World, so there was much to be had from that. Also, there are some bits pieces lifted from Phase IV. I think if this whole project referenced one movie: stylistically, visually and content-wise, it would be Phase IV.

Wayne, are they any samples on the album that you’re particularly fond of, or find especially evocative?

Wayne:  Definitely what Jonathan said about Phase IV… I love the dialogue at the end of ‘Amaranthracine’. ‘Onyx Oracle’ uses non-repeating. one second snippets from various VHS tapes. And the percussion sounds from Within The Woods on ‘Precognition’ were an absolute pain!

Will you both work together again, do you think?

Jonathan: Oh yes! We have plans for another joint album, and we’ll be digging further into the shadowy world of the Mobius Group.

Wayne: We will go much, much deeper during future investigations… it’s inevitable.

I meant to ask about the Mobius Group. The vinyl album comes with a couple of curious documents that allude to the existence of this mysterious organisation. What more can you tell us about them?

Jonathan: The Mobius Group… is standing by. Who they are, and what they do, is the subject for the next album. They are a shadowy group of people with extraordinary powers…

Thanks to Jonathan and Wayne for forging a psychic connection and transmitting the results remotely to the Haunted Generation… Parapsychedelia, by The Heartwood Institute and Panamint Manse, can be ordered here:

https://theheartwoodinstituteandpanamintmanse.bandcamp.com/

Musty Books: “The Nature of the Beast” by Janni Howker (1985)

What is “The Nature of the Beast”? Literally speaking, it’s the identity of the mysterious animal that is slaughtering livestock on the hills above Haverston, a remote moorland town in North-West England. But it equally applies to the simmering fury that threatens to overwhelm the book’s central characters – teenage narrator Bill Coward and his father Ned – as well as being a remarkably philosophical dismissal of the whole sorry situation by Bill’s beer-sodden grandfather, Chunder.

Surely written during (and inspired by) the troubled fury of the 1984 miners’ strike, the book is a damning condemnation of the economic policy of the era. Haverston’s main employer, Stone Cross Mill, is closing down, forcing the bulk of the town’s working population – including Ned – into redundancy, and robbing an already-depressed area of its main identity. Bill, effectively sharing a home with both his father and grandfather, sets out his stall early on: confiding, with best friend Mick, that his long-term plan to escape a seemingly hopeless future is to live in a cave on the moors, shooting rabbits and grouse with his air rifle and raiding allotments during the winter months.

Into this situation comes “The Beast”, whose arrival – surprisingly late in the tale – at least gives Bill a sense of short-term purpose. Brutally slaughtering the hens that Chunder has acquired in a vague plan to build a lucrative cockfighting empire (yes, the book is that bleak) and picking off the sheep of windswept moorland farms, it naturally excites the headline-writers of the town’s sensationalist Gazette newspaper (“HAVERSTON BEAST STRIKES AGAIN!”), and the paper’s offer of £500 for a clear photo incites Bill and Mick to steal a camera from their well-meaning teacher “Oggy” Oglethorpe’s car and head to the moors, seeking both glory and brief financial respite for their families.

The exact setting of the novel might be left a little vague (there are mentions of Lancashire, but also of Border TV and seagulls, so my educated guess is somewhere close to the Lancashire/Cumbrian coastline… if I had a map, the pin would be hovering above Barrow-in-Furness) but the sense of place and landscape, and indeed of a very distinct and depressed era of social history, is almost overpowering. This a town seemingly permanently shrouded in darkness, with a strong community huddled into pubs and houses virtually unchanged since the 1940s. Indeed, the occasional intrusions of modernity – the TV crews, for example, that cover the Mill’s closure – seem starkly incongruous.

And the moor itself, a black deathtrap of peaty marshland and bare-boned sheepfarms, smothers the town and effectively as effectively as the prevailing economic climate. Bill – a perceptive and intelligent teenager – is trapped in Haverston in every conceivable sense, and his righteous fury at this situation threatens to increasingly overpower him. I was even a little disappointed when a rational, believable explanation for the presence of “The Beast” is ultimately offered: it works so well as a metaphor for Bill (and Haverston’s) anger, a physical manifestation of their rage, its nocturnal raids on livestock and livelihoods effectively an act of self-harm.

But nevertheless, what a book. It effortlessly weaves the desolation of its setting and situation with the charming internal monologue of a typical smalltown teenage boy. The friendship between Bill and Mick – hiding in ramshackle dens, adding to the pointless graffiti (‘MOOR MODS RULE OK’) in bus shelters – is touchingly and believably portrayed, and given an extra depth by the revelation that Mick’s father is Stone Cross Mill’s put-upon Union Rep, blamed by the community for not making a firm enough stand for their jobs, and himself bitter about what he perceives to be his own workforce’s apathetic lack of militancy.

The ending is shocking and heart-rending in so many ways. Bill finds personal vindication in his quest to uncover the identity of the moorland killer, but his story is characteristically written-off in favour of the local media’s preferred narrative. Even in triumph, he has no voice. And you may even find some sympathy for The Beast: I did. Janni Howker wrote only three books and a handful of short stories, and – as far as I can see – there’s been nothing since 1997. But she rightly earned the Whitbread Literary Prize for Childrens’ Books for this, her debut novel, and you’ll rarely find a book that reflects the anger and hopelessness of the 1980s Northern industrial experience in such a devastating fashion.

Update: Read the comments below for a wonderful development… regular blog reader Mark Holden was the boy who posed for the cover of this book, back in 1985. His family was a friend of artist Stephen Lavis, who often based used images of people he knew for his cover illustrations!

In April 2020, Mark kindly agreed to restage the cover picture 35 years on, with photos taken by his nine-year-old daughter… needless to say, I’m delighted with the outcome.

Mustiness Report: A fragrant 3/10. My copy is a 1987 reprint, so there’s time yet for for it to achieve its full Mustiness Potential. The pages, though, are the colours of an old-school pub ceiling, which is pleasing: for sake of argument, let’s say it’s the Hare and Hounds, in nearby Kirkby Haverston.

Alex Cargill, Treedom and the Central Office of Information

There seems to be a burgeoning love affair between contemporary electronica and the soothing – if sometimes otherworldly – qualities of the British countryside. Recent albums by Pulselovers, The Relations, Polypores and Jon Brooks have all celebrated a distinct emotional connection to nature, with moods that range from the wistfully nostalgic to the powerfully invigorating.

Treedom, the new album from The Central Office of Information, takes the passion for flora deeper underground. Quite literally. It celebrates, with a very organic form of electronic experimentation, the secret connections between plant and tree that lay beneath the soil… the so-called “Wood Wide Web“.

The Central Office of Information is the project of Kent-based Alex Cargill, and a self-titled debut album was released by Castles In Space in 2019, very much exploring the light and shade of childhood nostalgia. This follow-up, released on the Woodford Halse cassette label established by Pulselovers’ Mat Handley, is both melodic and atmospheric; a combination of sounds and textures as intricately tangled as the underground network of roots and radicals that it celebrates.

I asked Alex about both albums…

Bob: Congratulations on Treedom! It’s great – you must be very proud of it?

Alex: Thank you Bob, that’s very kind! I owe a great deal to Mat Handley of Woodford Halse for how nicely the finished product has turned out.

So can you tell us a bit about the “Wood Wide Web”? What’s your understanding of how it works?

I’ll try my best. The Wood Wide Web is a subterranean social network which is almost 500 million years old. It exists beneath forests and woods and is essentially a complex network of roots, fungi and bacteria which connect trees to one another. The fungi form connections with the roots, and consume some of the sugar that trees produce through photosynthesis. In return the fungi provide the trees with nitrogen, phosphorous and other nutrients from the soil. Through this vast network, trees are able to share water and nutrients and to communicate using chemical, hormonal and electrical signals: for example, warning each other of attack from insects, disease and drought. Larger, older trees have been shown to support young saplings which may be struggling for sunlight by pumping sugar into their roots through the network. Dying trees have been shown to release their nutrients to their neighbouring kin.

Recent evidence suggests that some plants can even emit sounds, in particular a crackly noise in the roots at a 220 hertz frequency, inaudible to humans.

Are you an enthusiastic woodland walker yourself, then?

I’ve always enjoyed the visual beauty of trees and woodland, but I was never especially interested in trees per se until fairly recently. In the summer of 2017 I attended my first yoga and meditation retreat just outside of Totnes in Devon. For a few days I was sharing a Grade-1 listed Palladian villa and the vast surrounding estate on the banks of the river Dart with about a dozen other like-minded souls. It was pure bliss – I’ve been back since and will be returning again as often as I can. A lot of the time was spent in silence, so during “personal time” I would relax in the library, browsing through books and playing an acoustic guitar which resides in the corner… I actually wrote ‘The Fleeting Freedom Of A Seedling’, from Treedom, on that very guitar.

I stumbled upon a book called The Secret Life Of Trees by Colin Tudge, which shocked me with its revelations about trees communicating with each other beneath the soil. My mind was blown and my interest well and truly piqued. When I returned from the retreat I started reading articles and watching YouTube videos and Ted Talks about the Wood Wide Web and generally becoming fascinated by it all. I was inspired to start a musical project where I could explore the subject in my own unique way. The title Treedom came directly from Colin’s book.

Any local woods that you particularly enjoy walking around?

I’ll be honest – I’m a fairweather walker. I love to explore fields, meadows and woodland but you’ll probably only catch me out there in the spring and summer, possibly the early autumn too if the weather is dry. I’m not a winter person at all. If I could, I would love to just hunker down and hibernate for those three months of the year.

But my current favourite place to walk is Scadbury Park which is on the outskirts of Sidcup, the town in Kent where I’ve lived for the last nine years. It’s a vast expanse of woodland and wild meadow, absolutely beautiful, and the perfect antidote to the hectic pace of modern life. My parents live just outside the town of Devizes in Wiltshire – where I originally hail from. When I visit them, I love to walk along the footpaths which cross the perfectly flat farmland of their village, or to explore the nearby Roundway Hills which provide a stunning backdrop. And the Sharpham Estate in Devon is another favourite place of mine to explore when I’m down that way. The peaceful isolation and the scenery is heavenly.

How does it make your feel when you walk in these places?

I love the innate feeling of connection to the land and the wildlife that I get when I spend time alone in nature. I think that if you look hard enough, you can see a spark of divinity in everything. Even wasps.

I like to meditate every day and one of my favourite things is to meditate outdoors. Usually this will just be in my garden, but occasionally I go further afield. Last summer I spent a morning exploring the woods and meadows of Scadbury Park. I sat in the middle of a wild meadow to meditate (meadowtate?) and it was such a beautiful and life-affirming experience – surrounded by long grass, with the sound of birds, bees and insects all around. During deep meditation, I really do get a sense of the Earth as one large living organism with all of us connected, interdependent and playing our own very small part in the big picture.

When I eventually opened my eyes there was a caterpillar lazily crawling across my leg. It’s funny how when you sit perfectly still, the local wildlife will actually come and investigate you, rather than reacting with the usual flight response. I notice this in my own garden too – if I keep very still and quiet then the birds, squirrels and even random cats will come very close. I wholeheartedly recommend meditation to absolutely everyone. It really does work wonders for your mind, body and soul in this crazy, fast-paced Western world that we live in. Also, a lot of my musical and creative ideas tend to come to me when I’m meditating, so I’d recommend it even more so for creative types. I’ve even heard the absolute legend that is Mr C of The Shamen confirming this too, so that’s quite an endorsement!

Are these places where some of the field recordings came from, then?

I do like to make my own field recordings occasionally but – at the risk of being shunned by the entire hauntological fraternity – the natural ambiences used on the Treedom album were all ‘pre-rolled’. They were taken from my enormous, bloated sample library. I’ve been collecting sounds for about 20 years now and they tend to come from any number of sources – old sound effects albums, online resources, TV and film, as well as my own personal recordings. It’s become almost de-rigueur these days to gather your own field recordings for a musical project and I actually quite like that trend. So I took some field recordings at Scadbury Park last summer specifically with this album in mind, but they didn’t come out quite as well as I’d hoped and therefore didn’t make the final cut. Most of the ambiences on this particular album came from old sound effects CDs. I often tinker with them in order to make them a bit more ‘haunty’ (copyright Bob Fischer 2018) though. For example you might notice a bit of reverse-reverb on the crows, which gives them that slightly otherworldly, psychedelic quality.

This is a much more “organic” sounding album than your debut, too. There are guitars! And other acoustic instruments! Was that deliberate, given the subject matter?

Yes, the use of guitars and other acoustic instruments on Treedom was deliberate. I wanted to go for a more organic and pastoral vibe which would reflect the subject matter, while still keeping the core COI vibe intact. I think I just about managed it – certainly the initial reaction to Treedom has been very kind.

On my Castles In Space debut album, a lot of those tracks had been kicking around for many years – ‘Homemade Jams And Chutneys’, for example dates, back to early 2010. So I think there was a certain feel to the album as a whole and the tracks that Colin Morrison and I agreed on for the final cut all seemed to fit together rather nicely. Colin has a natural flair for that sort of thing. A couple of guitar-based tracks had been submitted for consideration, but we didn’t include them and I think that this was the right decision. Colin had a very strong vision for the album and I think that he delivered it perfectly.

With Treedom I felt a bit more relaxed. I had received such positive feedback from people who’d bought the first album and it had received a lot of airplay from yourself and many other DJs. So I felt confident enough to take a risk and broaden the sonic palette, throwing in acoustic guitar, electric guitar, theremin and even melodica on the title track. The melodica is a really fun instrument and is dirt cheap too. Melodica lessons should be compulsory for primary school kids. Whack a bit of delay or reverb on it and you’re basically King Tubby. There could be classrooms up and down the country full of budding young Lee ‘Scratch’ Perrys, imagine that!

Can I ask about your background as a musician? And, indeed as a music fan? Who did you listen to as a kid?

I’ve been obsessed with music for as long as I can remember. My early idols included Adam And The Ants and Shakin’ Stevens. As a kid I was into all the great pop music of the time, but I became especially fascinated with electro and hip-hop. I used to make rap tapes with friends… no doubt these recordings would’ve been laughable. We used to beatbox, scratch on our Dads’ record players – sorry Dad! – and breakdance in our living rooms.

Leading on from this, I got a Casio PT-80 keyboard for my 10th birthday in 1985. I never had any formal training, but I picked up a few choice melodies of the time from friends – ‘Axel F’, ‘Fourth Rendez-Vous’, ‘Chariots Of Fire’, ‘Inspector Gadget’ and so on.

When I was 14, I got into hard rock, heavy metal, thrash and punk. Inspired by the likes of Jimi Hendrix, Guns N’ Roses, The Sex Pistols and Metallica, I took up electric guitar in 1990. I had lessons for about eight months and this enabled me to become a competent player and also to understand a bit about how music works in general. I don’t think I’d be making electronic music today had I not had those guitar lessons. Whilst I was never really in what you could call a proper band, I used to jam a lot with another guitarist, a drummer and a vocalist… of sorts. We often talked about forming a proper band and doing gigs, but we were we young, we lacked discipline and just wanted to party every weekend.

I was also really into the house music and acid house that was crossing over into the charts in the later part of the 1980s. I was only 13 years old when I first heard ‘Stakker Humanoid’ in 1988, but it completely blew my mind. I remember it vividly. It was the first proper acid track I’d heard, and back then it sounded like music from another planet. I’ll never tire of that squelchy, slippery acid sound and it often finds its way into my COI stuff. From 1991 to 1993, when the hardcore rave scene exploded in the UK, I was completely hooked. That short period was the most exciting time that I can personally remember in UK music. It was such a creative peak and it felt like new sounds were coming out almost every week. I loved the DIY attitude…young bedroom producers were fusing hip-hop, house, techno, dub and ragga to create this very British sound which seemed to suddenly appear from out of nowhere. It had everything – funky breakbeats, heavy basslines, euphoric piano and soaring vocals – but it also had that dark, hypnotic techno groove. I couldn’t get enough of it.

At the same time there was also home-grown techno from the likes of 808 State, Orbital and The Shamen, amazing techno coming in from America and Europe, as well as the beginnings of ambient house. So it was just a really vibrant period that I will always be really fond of. I happened to hear some current house music very recently and they are still churning out the same old samples nearly 30 years later. So whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing, the legacy of that era is still being felt by the kids of today.

When I went to university in 1993 my flatmates had turntables, and I soon learned to DJ. At this point, I was becoming immersed in hard trance, acid, electronica (I refuse to call it IDM or worse still, EDM), jungle and ambient music. A few years later when I was sharing a flat with friends we had a drumkit set up in the kitchen – as you do – and a flatmate, the drummer from my school days, taught me the basics, which has helped me to this day. I then started making electronic music in 1999, initially on a Playstation. This early material was produced under the oh-so-1990s pseudonyms of Sonik Science and Phatcamp and was very much dancefloor-orientated, covering genres such as techno, house, breakbeat, acid, drum n’ bass, electronica, glitch, trip hop and eventually dubstep, as well as some forays into ambient and dub. In 2005 and 2006 I received some airplay on BBC Radio One. Between 2005 and 2007 I also made DJ appearances at DiscoWhip events in Wiltshire, warming up the turntables for legendary house DJ Brandon Block on several occasions.

So when did you discover the whole “haunted” aesthetic – was it Ghost Box Records? I’m always intrigued to know when and how people drifted into this strange world…

Around 2005 or 2006 I started to become fascinated with the woozy, nostalgic sounds of Boards Of Canada and it soon began to influence my own music. I discovered Ghost Box Records and Moon Wiring Club in early 2010, purely because Amazon started recommending their albums to me based on my previous purchases.

How did you feel when you discovered all this? It was almost a sense of relief for me, that I’d found people who clearly remembered their childhoods in the same weird way…

When I first heard Boards Of Canada it resonated with me on a really deep level. It was like someone flicked a switch inside my mind. It brought up feelings of warm, fuzzy nostalgia. It felt as if long-forgotten, half-remembered childhood memories were being unearthed, and it was powerful stuff. The music was ‘warm’ and woozy, but it also had melancholic or eerie undertones which really reflected my own memories of childhood in the late 1970s and early 80s – the fear and paranoia as well as the happy times. Musically, it was a breath of fresh air – despite the obvious retro feel – and it really inspired me creatively.

When did you start making music as The Central Office Of Information?

I made a few Boards of Canada-inspired tracks under my Phatcamp pseudonym in the late noughties. Then, in 2010 after discovering Ghost Box and specifically the Other Channels album by The Advisory Circle, I decided to begin The Central Office Of Information as a separate project devoted solely to this kind of sound.

‘Homemade Jams And Chutneys’ was the first ever COI track and was inspired directly by The Advisory Circle’s ‘Civil Defence Is Common Sense’. I remember sitting on my bed listening to the CD for the first time and I’m pretty sure I smiled or possibly even chuckled when I heard that track. Like Boards of Canada, it resonated on a really deep level and I was instantly transported in my mind back to primary schools days, being sat in a classroom of kids huddled around a massive old telly watching Programmes For Schools And Colleges. I hadn’t heard music like that for years and I was amazed that somebody was even making that type of music in the 21st century. Whereas Boards of Canada induced woozy, hazy memories using production techniques to deliberately muddy the sound, this was a much more direct link to the TV music of my early childhood. It was uncannily accurate, I thought.

Given the name that you record under, I’m guessing Public Information Films were a big influence on you… can you remember which ones particularly got to you as a kid? 

Again, I had completely forgotten about Public Information Films until listening to Other Channels, which contains the Frozen Ponds PIF. Of course the memories came flooding back instantly. That was a particularly nasty one, and the sound of the ice cracking is truly chilling. As a child, the other PIFs that really disturbed me were Play Safe – Frisbee and Apaches. The latter was utterly horrific, and to this day I cannot believe that the government deemed it suitable for kids. It was basically a short horror movie. However, it certainly had the desired effect and I never did decide to go and mess about with farm machinery. I would feel uneasy even watching it now in my forties – that scene with the kid drowning in silage is beyond disturbing!

I genuinely found your music by chance, when I was presenting the BBC Introducing show on BBC Tees, and I used to put random words into the BBC staff portal, and see which artists came up. And in May 2018 I tried the word “office” and found you! And a track called ‘Pools Of Witchlight’. Was it a surprise? I got the impression you hadn’t made any music for a little while…

It was certainly a lovely surprise. I’ve never actually stopped making electronic music since I started in 1999 – I’m constantly churning it out – but I had definitely reached a stage where I was resigned to music being just a hobby for my own benefit as opposed to something that would be of interest to others. I think the tracks that I’d submitted to BBC Introducing had been sat there for quite some time, maybe even as long as two years. I’d honestly forgotten all about it. So, yes it was a very pleasant surprise indeed.

How did that lead to Castles in Space putting out your debut album?

After the first two airplays on your BBC Introducing show, I felt so reinvigorated! At the time, I hadn’t sent out any demos to labels for about a year. You recommended the music of Concretism – who had also featured on your show – and I subsequently bought For Concrete And Country directly from Castles In Space, a label with which I was unfamiliar at that point. Of course, I loved the album and it occurred to me that CiS might even be interested in my own music. So I e-mailed Colin [Morrison, label boss], who was really supportive. He basically walked me through the whole process, bringing in Jez Butler of The Twelve Hour Foundation on mastering duties, and Nick Taylor of Spectral Studio for the artwork and the logo.

That debut is a lovely mix of rather homely sounding tracks, and others that are much more sinister! It’s ‘Home-Made Jams and Chutneys’ vs ‘Chemtrails!’ Were you keen explore both sides of nostalgia, both light and dark?

Absolutely, I was keen to explore both sides of the haunted coin. I love really euphoric and uplifting music – disco, house, rave etc – but there is a part of me that has always been drawn towards the dark side too, and I seem to have an unusual knack of coming up with dark, eerie tracks. I guess it stems from the thrash metal influence, the short-lived ‘darkcore’ rave era of 1993, drum n’ bass, and listening to artists such as Aphex Twin, The Future Sound Of London and Moon Wiring Club. I personally enjoy albums which have a nice mix of darkness and light – The Orb’s Adventures Beyond The Ultraworld would be a good example of this.

The track ‘Chemtrails’ came about after watching an interview that Prince gave on American TV in which he spoke emphatically about his own belief in the chemtrails conspiracy theory. This was all new to me, but I was intrigued and immediately started reading articles and watching YouTube videos on the subject. The title ‘Homemade Jams And Chutneys’ came from a hand-written sign that I spotted on the bar in a village pub in Wiltshire. I actually bought one of those chutneys and it was superb, but I can’t remember exactly what was in it.

What about jams? What’s the best jam you’ve ever tasted?  

My all-time favourite jam would have to be the plum jam that my Granny used to make when I was a kid, bless her.

The packaging on that album was sumptuous – what was your favourite bit of it? I was particularly intrigued by the postcards of Ilston Church and the Norman Staircase in Canterbury. And the Welsh Publishing Company that one of them is addressed to…

Yes, the packaging on the CiS album was next-level! We may well have set a new world record for the greatest number of inserts within an album. The A4 sheets with Nick’s artwork and the COI badge were my personal favourite bits of ephemera, but the Telephone Exchange and Telegraph Linesmen postcards were also nice. I wish I could explain all of the mysterious inserts, but you would really need to ask Colin as he was the mastermind behind it all. I had some degree of input, but really Colin and Nick have to take the credit for the overall aesthetic – both are excellent at what they do and were really nice to work with. Jez was also lovely to work with and my fairly limited understanding of the mastering process has improved as a result. Let’s just say that he had fewer “woolly frequencies” to contend with when he mastered my second album!

So what’s next for you?

My next release will actually be the first official Phatcamp album, titled Transport For London. I’ve been working on it since 2017 and am just applying the final touches now. I’m aiming for a 1st June release. It will be a digital download only, sold through Bandcamp. I describe it as follows: “an electronic soundtrack for London’s hectic and often overloaded transport network. The familiar soundscape of the London Underground forms an ambient backdrop which occasionally adds its own mechanical rhythms to the techno, acid and breakbeats that roll across it”.

The release details will be confirmed nearer the time by me on Twitter and by Kat (Mrs COI) on Instagram.

I’ve produced an exclusive COI track for the next Scarred For Life compilation album, due out later this year. I’ve also done a track for a compilation called Electrophon – A Journey Through Radiophonica which is being released on a label called Wormhole World in around May. This compilation celebrates the work of Delia Derbyshire and other early pioneers of electronic music.

I have some ideas and at least a couple of tracks ready for the next COI album, but I don’t expect to release anything now until 2021. I’m super busy right now working on a COI podcast, a COI live show and I’m also attempting to write a book on electronic music production. It’s for people who have always wanted to have a go at making electronic music but have never quite taken the plunge, and also for those with some previous experience who might want to take it a little bit further or simply to brush up on their existing skills.

Thanks to Alex for his time, and for a lovely natter. The self-titled Central Office of Information debut album is available here…

https://coi-cis.bandcamp.com/album/the-central-office-of-information

And Treedom is here…

https://woodfordhalse.bandcamp.com/album/treedom

Musty Books: “Cora Ravenwing” by Gina Wilson (1980)

Grief, outsiderdom, friendship and prejudice: they’re all explored in this beautiful, poetic and perceptive book. It’s an extraordinary piece of children’s literature, and it haunted me throughout.

Untypically, the outsiderdom is not that of the classic “new girl” who narrates the story: she is Becky Stokes, a personable schoolgirl uprooted from her Birmingham roots to live in Okingham, a sleepy 1950s Buckinghamshire village; and she is quickly co-opted into the close-knit social circle of classmates Hermione, Barbara and Susan. However, she has to conceal from them a burgeoning – and arguably more intense and genuine – friendship with Cora Ravenwing, a lonely and morbidly troubled young girl who has become a pariah within this tiny community.

Cora is a fascinating character: the daughter of a free-spirited, proto-hippy mother who died during the birth, she was nursed as a baby by village busybody Mrs Briggs (whose own child has been a victim of cot death) before being returned into the care of her gravedigger father, whose grief is so absolute that he has played little part in her subsequent upbringing. Cora’s proximity to so many aspects of death and mortality has had a profound influence on her character, and a terrible impact on the community’s opinion of her. Spending her days obsessively tending her mother’s grave, she has gained a reputation as almost a harbinger of doom; even being described as a “devil child” by Mrs Briggs, now the chief instigator of the village’s unanimous policy to ostracise Cora from its everyday activities.

She is awkward, pale, detached and friendless… at least until she meets Becky, who is unsettled by Cora’s morbidity, but fascinated by her unaffected authenticity; an authenticity in stark contrast to the seemingly shallow, aspirational lifestyles of Hermione, Barbara and Susan. This contrast is epitomised, curiously, by poetry: Hermione’s “nature poetry” is lauded by teachers, pupils and parents alike… but despised by Cora, whose loss has given her a genuine connection with both the beauty and brutality of nature, and who sees Hermione’s verse as twee and superficial. Obsessed by her dead mother’s diaries and nature writing, Cora also possesses an impressive knowledge of traditional folk song, and a singing voice of remarkable purity. She reminded me a lot of Mina, the nature-obsessed teenager in David Almond‘s book Skellig (and its later prequel, My Name Is Mina), whose all-consuming relationship with the natural world, and her willingness to turn it into art, is equally profound and – indeed – has similar hints of the macabre.

Becky, of course, is tormented by a typically teenage dilemma: if she follows the advice of adults and fellow children alike, and abandons Cora, both children will be robbed of a friendship that has genuine depth and resonance. But maintaining the relationship will lead to Becky’s exclusion from virtually every other social group in the village, an impossible situation for someone so young. The book depicts this appalling quandary with incredible sensitivity and depth of character, and boldly offers little in the way of resolution: the ending, in particular, is both dramatic and unflinching. I was completely unaware of Cora Ravenwing until I found a copy recently, hidden in a used bookshop in a quiet North Yorkshire town, but I’m delighted to see that it was reiussed by Faber & Faber in 2013, and that Gina Wilson continues to gain praise and acclaim for her work as a poet.

Friendships at the turn of adolescence can be intense and profound, and often cast a long-standing shadow over our ensuing adult lives. That influence has rarely been more beautifully explored than in the story of Cora Ravenwing.

Point of Order: The back cover of my 1986 edition described the main protagonist as “Becky Schofield”, but in the text she is very definitely “Becky Stokes”. A late name change, perhaps? Can anyone with the 2013 reissue confirm whether poor Becky is now uniformly a member of the Stokes family?

(Update: thanks to Rachel Coverdale for pointing out that Becky is definitely a Stokes on the back cover of the 2013 edition!)

Mustiness Report: A delicate 3/10. My edition’s pages have the reassuring waft of an old, wooden wardrobe on a fresh summer’s morning.

Keith Seatman, Doctor Who and Time To Dream But Never Seen

British seaside towns exist in their own, weird pocket universe. The gaudy fairgrounds, the extravagant ice creams, the Kiss-Me-Quick hats and flashing arcades. The chips dusted with sand, the dogs on the beach. The works outings fuelled by beer and rock dummies; the windswept piers, the cockles and mussels, the inscrutable soothsayers and fearsome landladies. They are towns that teeter on a weird tipping-point between real-life hell and Carry On heaven, a direct portal from the everyday to the world of the 70s sitcom.

Time To Dream But Never Seen, the new album by Keith Seatman on the Castles In Space label, captures these feelings perfectly. It is strange, beautiful, utterly transportative: the very essence of modern psychedelia. And it seamlessly continues a lineage of British wonkiness that includes The Alberts, The Bonzo-Dog Doo-Dah Band, Syd Barrett, and every bizarre, half-baked novelty act that ever clattered onto a wooden stage in some draughty, tumbledown, end-of-the-pier palace of varieties.

I love it. Almost beyond words, although God knows it’s inspired me to write a few. It has weird fairground organs, bamboozling radiophonic noises, sleeve notes by Ghost Box Records‘ Jim Jupp, and regular Seatman collaborator Douglas E Powell reciting a bizarre list of unlikely rustic aphorisms that never cease to make me laugh out loud: “Where the acorn lands upon the ground, the hare, mouse and pig are found.”

On the weekend of the album’s release, I called Keith at his home in Southsea, the Hampshire seaside resort whose culture, landscape and social history has clearly seeped into the album’s very DNA. We talked for almost an hour and a half, and it was wonderful. Here’s how the conversation went:

Tell us about your background as a musician… I know you were in a 1980s indie band called The Psylons, but had you done other things before that?   

No, that was the first thing. It was 1986, we were a load of twentysomethings kicking around, and we released a single that got Single Of the Week in the NME. Then it got into the Indie Charts, and then I think John Walters phoned up one day… I can’t quite remember, one of the other band members dealt with it! But it was basically: “John Peel wants you to come in for a session.” And we said “Right OK…” and we did that!

Then, about four or five weeks after that, we got another one. We got two sessions! We did a John Peel session and an Andy Kershaw session, and thought “Wahey, here we go!”

But we were just really unlucky. It went kind of pear-shaped.

This is an example of our bad luck, it’s absolutely true. The second single got played by Janice Long, and those were they days when – if you got a play on early evening Radio 1 – you were quite lucky. I got in one evening, and my Dad said “You’ve had a phone call from someone called O’Connor…” So I dialled the number up, and it was Hazel O’Connor’s brother, who worked for Martin Rushent, the producer. And he said “Martin wants to record you, can you come to Genetic Studios?”

So we piled in the car, went down to Genetic Studios in Berkshire, and we’re thinking “Christ, Martin Rushent… he’s done The Human League, he’s done Buzzcocks… wahey!” But after that we didn’t hear anything from him for weeks, and then the weeks turned into months. And we suddenly saw, in the NME, that they’d gone bankrupt. It kind of always happened like that, we were always just really unlucky. We sustained it until the 1990s, we finally got an album out that got good reviews in the Melody Maker and NME, but by then we were just fed up. We were all drifting in different directions, musically. And that was pretty much it.

So even in The Psylons, did you have that psychedelic influence in your music?

It was real post-punk. Noisy, with bits of psych and backwards guitar, and other bits and bobs. We had a list of hardcore things that we were all into, and that was… Teardrop Explodes, Echo and the Bunnymen, very early Pink Floyd, a lot of psych. Then it kind of drifted. I was really into a lot of post-punk synth stuff, and Tangerine Dream. And they could never understand my love of Hawkwind, so there you go.  

Actually Jim [Jupp] and I were discussing Hawkwind recently, and trying to convince Douglas Powell how great they were. But he wasn’t having it at all!

Didn’t you first meet Jim when you were in The Psylons? Did he come to see you live?  

It’s one of those weird connections. I didn’t know Jim, but he came to our gigs. And Jez Stevens, who did the Avoid Large Places video on Youtube, was in a band with him. I got to know Jez through some other projects, and then became aware of Jim… it’s all mutual friends, really. Friends of friends in the pub, that kind of thing. And time crept on, and it became quite close-knit. Jez and Doug knew Jim, and I knew Jez and Doug, and it came together like that. And now we go for long walks together!

So was this pre-Ghost Box?

Yeah, because Jim then disappeared for a few years… was he an architect? It was a high-level, posh job! But then we all came together again. Jez was always in touch with him, and we all got together again in the late 1990s or early 2000s. And that’s continued to this day. We’re all going out on a Last of the Summer Wine day! Me, Doug, Jez, Jim and our friend Russ… we’re going for a walk to Lewes on the South Downs. It’s a lovely walk. We’ll end up in Lewes, in the Lewes Arms – which is a fantastic pub – and then at Jim’s. We all kip on Jim’s floor, and muck around into the night… it’ll end up with me and Jim trying to convince them all that Hawkwind are brilliant.

So after The Psylons, did you quickly want to make music as a solo artist?  

Yeah, I tinkered around with Jack and Simon who were in The Psylons. I still do stuff with Jack, he does a lot of my mastering and co-producing, because basically his studio is a damn sight better than mine! So I did stuff with Jack and Simon, and recorded bits and bobs, but it was the late 1990s and early 2000s again before I started really tinkering around with stuff. And to be honest I wasn’t that confident.

But by about 2008 or 2009, I had all these tapes and CDs of stuff, and Jez gave me a good talking-to in the pub one night. He said “You’re going to have to release it, otherwise you’re not going to do anything.” And I wasn’t that confident about releasing it… I thought “No-one’s going to buy this old crap!” (laughs) You think you’re working in isolation and that no-one’s going to like it.

But I released a couple of things on Bandcamp, and a few people did like it. In fact, one of the early people – this would have been about 2011 – was probably Kev Oyston, of The Soulless Party. We contacted each other through e-mails because I bought a copy of Exploring Radio Space, which I really liked. It looked like a Ladybird book! And I bought his Close Encounters album, too.

I was really lucky. I released the second album, Boxes, Windows & Secret Hidey Holes, and Shindig reviewed it. And I thought “Good Lord, somebody really does like it!” And it just progressed from there. Somewhere along the line, Stuart Maconie played a track… and it just genuinely seems to have snowballed, with a lot of support from a lot of people. Jim’s been fantastic, and yourself… if I had to write out a list of people to thank, it would be a massive list. One day I’m just going put it on the blog page. Without them, I probably would have been sitting in a room, recording stuff but not doing anything with it.  

Time To Dream But Never Seen really spoke to me, and reminded me so much of my childhood visits to the seaside. We’d get the train to Redcar or Saltburn, or the coach to Scarborough, and I was just transfixed by the otherworldiness of these places, and how different they were to the towns that I knew. The whole culture was so exciting and exotic – the fairgrounds, the arcades, the dummies in glass cabinets that laughed when you put a coin in… 

We’ve still got them! There’s one in the city museum, it’s fantastic – you put in 20p and he laughs away. You can hear the motors whirring and clicking away inside. It’s brilliant.  

Well, all of that came back when I was listening to the album. Did you intentionally set out to capture the atmosphere of the seaside, and the fairground in particular?

Oh, I’ll sound really pretentious here, but it really was a subconscious thing. It all just came together. In 2017, I did the All Hold Hands And Off We Go album, but then I got really bored. My attention span went completely, and I thought I’d just release EPs and singles for a while. So I did one of those, and then the Ghost Box 10″ with Jim and Doug… but I carried on recording. And I got quite obsessed in 2019, building up to finishing work for the summer [Keith works at a local college]. I was talking with my sister about the build-up to my nine weeks off, and I was saying that it was exactly the same feeling as when we were little. For two weeks before the holidays, there’s just a buzz in the air at work. The students are fed up with us, we’re fed up with them, and we’re all just looking forward to hitting the summer.

Living in Southsea, we always had access to the beach. And I was saying – the summer holidays would kick in, so we’d have six weeks off. And you could guarantee that, for the first few weeks, we’d be down the beach, at the fair, on the pier… arsing about doing stuff. And I suddenly realised that some of the tracks that I’d done sounded like that and I thought: “Oooh, there’s something going on here!” And then I started thinking about it more, and I realised that the summer holiday basically broke down into three periods.

So the first two weeks would be that build-up, and excitement, and you’re with your mates and getting up to stuff, drifting home, having your tea and going back out again.  

And then you’d hit the middle, where it was almost like… “OK, where’s it going now?”

And then, in the last two weeks of August, there’d be this weird feeling of impending doom. The whole seaside thing disappeared, and we’d go out with Mum and Dad to country fêtes. You know, where you’d stick your head through a piece of cardboard, and people would throw sponges at you. We’ve got the New Forest close to us, so we’d have all those weird fêtes with their home-made jams. And you’d realise that, in this strange, six-week period, you’d drifted from “all the fun of the fair” to these rural tents.

I remember getting told off by my Dad for jumping over the ropes on the tents! He used to say “If you fall over the rope, you’ll get harpooned by the tent peg, and it’ll go through your heart…”  

And then, inevitably, it would piss down with rain. You’d be at a fête and everything would be soggy, and then… well, the summer would be over. So it went from that initial excitement at the beginning, to a weird limbo in the middle, and then stuff with the family towards the end. And before you knew it, it was the autumn. For that last week… you always knew the autumn was on its way, creeping in.

Have you seen the TV series, This Country?  

Only a couple of episodes. I need to see more.

In the very first episode, there’s a scarecrow festival. And that’s what it reminds me of. There’s a bit of a breeze… it’s not cold, and it’s not hot, and there’s just this weird feeling of knowing autumn is on the way. Like Ray Bradbury’s Something Wicked This Way Comes… that first chapter, where they’re getting ready for the autumn, and talking about the “autumn people” turning up. It’s a fantastic book, and it’s that feeling. There are clouds on the horizon.

And then it’s here, it’s the autumn. And the summer, all that stuff – mucking around with your mates, falling in the sea, trying to chat girls up, not succeeding at all – it’s all gone. It could almost be a lifetime away.

You go back to school, and everyone seems older. Before the holidays, they looked 13 or 14, and then suddenly they look 30! They’ve all got beards! How they hell did that happen? I was still standing there under my Buzzcocks and Undertones posters looking really pasty, and other students were coming in looking like Lemmy…

So it wasn’t a conscious thing to begin with. But once it was, everything seemed to match, and that’s how it all came together.

So the album was structured to reflect the changing feel of the summer holidays?  

Yeah, once I’d got the idea. The actual title track, ‘Time To Dream But Never Seen’, was probably about the fourth track I had, and then it started to come together. I thought I’d make that the final track, but I still had so many ideas, folders with samples, bits and bobs, and stuff laying around. There was a lot of stuff that I ditched that didn’t work at all.

In my head, I’d thought we were doing a CD, but then Colin [Morrison, from Castles in Space] said “No, we’re doing vinyl!”

“Oh crap, I’ve got to rethink it…” (laughs) I knew then that Side 1 had to end with ‘Compact Bedroom Circus’.

And ‘Waiting By the Window’… I got the title for that because I was once sitting in our house, on an afternoon towards the end of summer. It was absolutely piddling down with rain, and I was waiting for my Dad to come back… we were supposed to be going out, doing all that summery stuff. And I remember staring out of the bay window at the rain, just thinking “If I go away, and come back in five minutes it’ll be better. The sun will be out.”

But it wasn’t. It rained and rained, and I remember my Dad coming in with a look on his face that said “Yeah, we ain’t going anywhere…” And that was it, the end of the summer. It was Mousetrap and Ker-Plunk for the afternoon.

Your relationship with the seaside is an interesting one. Has it always been about Southsea for you?

Yeah, I grew up down this way. I’ve lived away a few times, but always come back. I went for a walk down the beach when it was windy the other day, and I thought – I’ve got a real affinity with it. I’d have a real problem moving inland, away from the sea. Even when I go to see Doug in the West Country, he’s not far from Barnstaple in North Devon, and it’s smashing – there’s sea up there, too! I’ve got to have some sort of water. It’s nice to come out of the house, go for a walk on the beach, and I can look at the sea forts from Doctor Who, The Sea Devils….

Is the strangeness and otherworldliness that I got from seaside towns something that you can appreciate when you actually live, and grew up, in one?   

Yeah. Definitely. There’s also a weird thing… I was chatting with my daughter about this: you go to the beach in the summer, and it’s pretty horrendous. Nowadays it’s barbecues, and there’s literally a dark cloud of apocalyptic smoke hanging over the beach – it’s appalling. You see families with binbags of 500 sausages from Iceland! But again, it’s that “end of summer” thing. When you go back to the beach in the autumn, when it’s still slightly warm… that’s what I really like. All the holidaymakers have gone, you can see the grassy bits on the beach again, and it can be eerie and wonderful. We actually went to see the sun come up on the beach on Christmas Day, two years ago. All sitting there at 7 o’clock in the morning… it was lovely.

Down this way there’s a lot of old history, a lot of forts and derelict sites. The eerie one is Fraser Range, where The Sea Devils was filmed. I had a wander down there the other week, because they’re slowly knocking it down and turning it into flats, which is a real shame. But growing up, it was so exciting going down there. It was an active range, and you’d hear the guns on a Saturday and a Sunday morning. They’d fire out into the Solent and put marker buoys out, to stop ships from coming in. And that’s basically what you see in The Sea Devils, when the hovercraft comes up, and they’re all running around. That’s Fraser Range.  

But you go down there now, and it’s all covered in graffiti. Online… they’re called urban explorers, aren’t they? They go into old buildings? There’s one for Fraser Range and it looks fantastic.

So yeah, it’s that sort of mystery. It’s quite nice. Even walking through the fair in the autumn, when everything is under canvas – you know, they cover everything up for the winter. As soon as dusk falls, anything at the funfair looks weird. With a full moon and eerie shadows.

So that Doctor Who story, The Sea Devils from 1972… obviously the fact that it was filmed in your town had a huge impression on you, but it’s also got one of the harshest radiophonic soundtracks ever! Malcolm Clarke’s music for that story is so experimental. Did that get to you as a kid as well?

It’s those screechy bits – I’m going to do one now! Weeeoooweeeeeeeooo! I was obsessed with that when I was a kid. Absolutely. My two favourites, and the only Doctor Who stories I’ve got on DVD, are The Sea Devils and The Daemons. I’ve always been a “take it or leave it” Doctor Who fan, but they’re my absolute favourites. One was filmed down here, and the other…well, it’s The Daemons! Set in the village church, there’s the little guy called Bok, the huge Daemons… and that’s got some good sounds on it as well.

But yeah, The Sea Devils is really extreme, isn’t it?  

I love the fact that we were exposed to avant-garde, experimental electronic music on BBC1 at a Saturday teatime. And not just that… I think it was actually considered really healthy at that time for children to experience leftfield art and music.

Jim said something once, when we were discussing stuff like that. That we were all into the same odd and strange stuff, but you never knew who else was into it… so when you met someone that was, it was quite exciting! A friend and I showed the intro from Children of the Stones to his son, who was about 18, and his daughter, and they just stared at it and said “What the hell is this all about?” (Laughs) And does anything actually happen? But they thought the opening was quite freaky.

And the intro to The Owl Service… that totally shook them up! They said “What’s it all about?” And I said “Well I’ve read the book, watched the TV show again recently… and I’m still not absolutely sure.” I’ve got two lovely editions of the book, one of them a lovely hardback that I picked up in an old junkshop, and I’ve got the DVD of the bloody series… but I still wouldn’t like to explain it to someone.

It’s one of my favourite books. It doesn’t give up its secrets easily, but I like that. 

Yes, you’ve got to keep reading it, and you’ll keep seeing different things in it all the time. We were all subjected to stuff like that, and I suppose – going back to The Sea Devils – it all fits in. The strange avant-garde electronica, the kids’ programmes with weird beginnings… I don’t know why it worked like that back then, and why it doesn’t work now. I’m going to sound really old, but everything has to be explosions now.

Although saying that, I did watch Doctor Who the other week, and there were a lot of Cybermen in it. And I thought “OK – I’ll go with this!” I like a good Cyberman.

The track you contributed to the Scarred For Life album was an homage to another unsettling TV series, Escape Into Night.  [NB the album is discussed in detail here]

Yes! I watched that with my sister. We had the book at our primary school, Marianne Dreams. I remember it being in our little, basic school library, next to Bedknobs and Broomsticks. And again – I didn’t have a bloody clue what was going on, apart from these rocks getting closer to the house, and scaring the crap out of me! I re-watched what I could some years ago, when it started appearing on Youtube, and I tracked down the paperback and re-read it, and it’s an absolutely fantastic story. And the crackling voice on the radio: “We can see you…”. Again, coming back to that Doctor Who approach… I don’t know if they just shoved a microphone through an old fuzz pedal, but it’s really, amazingly distorted. So that’s why I did that one!

I love ‘Avoid Large Places’ on the album, and I was trying to work out where I knew the sampled speech from…  

It’s not actually one sentence, it’s cut together from a larger bit of speech on a junior poetry album. I had to chop the whole middle bit out, so she doesn’t actually say “Avoid large places, keep to small…” It’s “Avoid large places… blah blah blah… keep to small!” I’ll try to dig it out. I pick up cranky old poetry albums, and record these samples, and I forget where they came from.

There’s a second-hand record shop in town, and somebody brought in an amazing collection. I was chatting with the guy in the shop, and he went downstairs and said “Oh, someone’s just brought in a load of BBC stuff… ” I ran down, and it was the usual sound effects albums, and I already had a few of them, but it also had these BBC albums of poetry and nursery rhymes, and an original copy of the orange-covered Play School album. So I just bought the whole lot… I think he wanted seven quid! It’s not what he would normally deal with…

So I think it’s from one of those. I do tend to scour eBay for odd poetry albums, I’ve got a couple from a series called Voices, they’re 1960s albums done as educational things. Shirley Collins is on them doing a couple of pieces, they’re on the Argo label. There was a whole series of them, but I’ve only got a couple. And then there’s one called The Searching Years… there seemed to be all these albums around then, with strange kids reading poetry! And glockenspiels being hit, and kids belching into microphones.

That’s another thing from that strange era… it was very acceptable for kids to have these odd albums. “Here’s a microphone and here’s an elastic band!” Nowadays, it’s all bloody laptops (laughs).

The Seasons, by David Cain and Ronald Duncan, is my textbook example of that. The music is so harsh, and the poetry is often quite disturbing and inappropriate… and yet it was absolutely intended to be played to primary school-age children. I wasn’t actually sure if ‘Speak Your Piece’, Douglas Powell’s spoken word piece on Time To Dream But Never Seen, was a little nod to The Seasons.  

Well, do you know what? I gave him a call on the Dougphone – I always imagine it’s like the Batphone, he lifts the receiver up and says “Yes, Keith!” – Diddleiddleiddleiddledum! [this is Keith doing the Batman music]

I said, “It’s that time again, I’ve recorded something, it’s really quiet… and I don’t want singing!” I said I wouldn’t mind some sort of poem. And he said “OK, leave it with me,” and then sent it to me…  and I can imagine some old sage sitting in the corner by the fire, recounting these tales to the young lad who lives up the road.

They actually reminded me a bit of Kev Oyston and Chris Lambert‘s Black Meadow stuff, especially Chris’ folk stories.

Oh, that’s fantastic stuff. I’ve got all the books now, and I bought a few as Christmas presents! I’ve met Chris a few times now, and I went to Reading to see one of the Black Meadow stage productions, with all the kids…

I saw the same show in Whitby! It was great! [Chris is a secondary school drama teacher, and enlisted his students to perform a Black Meadow play… you can read more about it here]  

It was really, really good. I just sat there and thought – “Brilliant!” It must have been a great adventure for the kids. I’ve only really met Kev once, and I felt very humbled. I’m always like that when I meet people. “Argh! It’s Kev! Kev from The Soulless Party! Can you sign me book please?” (laughs) That was in Reading Library, they put another Black Meadow thing on there, and it was fantastic. I tend to get a bit overexcited.  

Kev’s funny. When The Utopia Strong played in Newcastle, he somehow arranged for me and him to interview Kavus Torabi and Steve Davis  

I met Steve at the Delaware Road event. I was leaving at about 11pm… I’d watched Chris Concretism then made a move for home, but grabbed a coffee before I went. And I bumped into my mate Jez again, and he was chatting to some bloke. He said “This is Steve,” and I said “Alright, Steve, how you doing…”

“No, this is STEVE”!

And then I did a Scooby Doo head turn and went “You’re Steve Davis!” And then I didn’t know what to say. I think I just said “Smart… and really sorry, I’ve got to go!”

Jez said something about me and Castles In Space to him, and I just said “Yes, it’s coming out in the New Year…”

I bet Steve Davis has heard your album. He’s into everything.

I picked up the Utopia Strong album, and it’s frighteningly bloody good. I was chatting with someone a while back, and saying they really had to hear it. I said it’s Kavus from The Cardiacs, and it’s Steve Davis [and, indeed, Michael J York from Coil]. He said “What – Snooker Loopy Steve Davis?” But everyone’s known for a long time, he really is Mr Prog. He knows stuff about Turkish prog-garage bands from 1967.

And he still went “Steve Davis? Snooker? World Champion?”

He sits there with his big synth… it is amazing.

He told Kev and me that it felt like a new lease of life, starting a completely new career at the age of 60-odd. He was really excited.  

I was reading a really lovely interview with him, about how he just drifted into it. And I thought – yeah, imagine being in that position where you’re 60-odd years old, you’ve done all your snooker stuff, and you’ve got this whole second life. He’s a massive Magma fan, isn’t he?

That’s where him and Kavus met, they were at a Magma gig in Paris.

It’s absolutely amazing.  

One more thing about your album… I wrote a review of it for Electronic Sound magazine, and it got a bit florid. But the album really, really spoke to me… and I ended up talking about the “glorious inheritance of arcane weirdness”, and how you tapped into a lineage of strangeness that incorporated The Alberts and The Bonzo Dog-Doo Band, all that kind of thing. Did that strike a chord with you, or was I just rambling?

I showed that to my friend Greg that night, we were having a few drinks. And I said “I’ve got something to show you…” He said “Is it Mr Fischer’s review?”

And he read it, and looked up, and said “That’s pretty much nailed it!” (laughs). You mentioned Tommy Cooper…

It’s just that whole lost scene of strange British variety acts. Your album reminded me of that tradition. And, for some reason, him in particular.   

I enjoy a bit of Tommy Cooper. Greg and I always end up discussing old episodes of Dad’s Army, or Steptoe and Son. And the sadness of Steptoe and Son. We’ve sat there and analysed it, half sloshed, about how absolutely tragic it is… this grown man lives with his Dad, who’s so needy and won’t let him escape. He’s an absolute bastard.

And I very much like Ivor Cutler too, things like that. There’s a few Bonzo tracks that I like, but also – I have a massive love of The Cardiacs. Again, it fits in with that strange quirkiness. So yeah, I read it again, and Greg read it again, and said it had hit the mark.

And bearing in mind he’s from Stalybridge in Lancashire, he didn’t even say anything derogatory about North Yorkshire!

At this point we ended up rambling about my beloved North York Moors, but lost our train of thought when Keith knocked an empty beer bottle onto the kitchen floor (from the previous evening’s recycling – he was keen to point out that he hadn’t been drinking that lunchtime). So I’ll just say thankyou to Keith for a delightfully entertaining conversation, and point out that Time To Dream But Never Seen can be ordered here…

https://keithseatman-cis.bandcamp.com/

And sod it… here’s the full review I wrote for Issue 62 of Electronic Sound magazine. Which is well worth subscribing to, you can do it here.

KEITH SEATMAN
Time to Dream But Never Seen
(Castles In Space)

“Owner of some synths, and always a tad lost.” So goes Keith Seatman’s self-effacing description of himself, and both are apparent in this utterly magical concoction, an album steeped in the sweetshop mysticism of a stranger, gentler England. Certainly the wistful tootling of ancient keyboards are present and correct, conjuring delicious images of topsy-turvy fairground rides, of wonky, body-bending mirrors and clanging Ghost Trains. With Seatman himself marooned in the throng, bemused and out-of-time, a static observer in a stop-motion crowd scene.

Write his name in the centre of a crumpled notepad, and – as this extraordinary musical adventure unfurls – let the comparisons explode around it. You’ll end up with Syd Barrett, The Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band, the BBC Radiophonic Workshop, even Tommy Cooper and the remnants of Music Hall. But they’re not influences, nor inspirations. It’s more than that. It’s genetic. This is the sound a man of whose DNA is infused with the spirit of what the Alberts once described as “British Rubbish”. It’s the glorious inheritance of arcane weirdness, and it’s painfully touching to acknowledge that such a thing even exists any more. It’s like finding a beloved, elderly relative, long assumed dead, living in a disused lighthouse on the South Coast, surrounded by wheezing harmoniums and stuffed puffins.

You need actual proof? Try the zig-zagging, end-of-the-pier Wurlitzer of ‘Tippy Toe Tippy Toe’. The spectral, skeletal waltz of ‘Compact Bedroom Circus’. Or ‘Speak Your Piece’, in which poet, songwriter and regular collaborator Douglas E. Powell invokes the spirit of Ronald Duncan in his Seasons pomp: “Where the acorn lands upon the ground, the hare, mouse and pig are found.” We’re now six albums into the career of this Puckish troubador, this mercurial genius on the fringes of popular hauntology. But, like those old Nationwide weirdies who would row to abandoned sea forts in the Solent and declare them an independent state, Seatman has become the king of his own beautifully bespoke realm.

And a tad lost? Yes, but wonderfully so. Stay lost Keith, and keep sending us postcards like this. Assuming he’s on the same calendar as the rest of us dreary mortals, it’s barely February. But he might already have made the album of the year.

Musty Books: “Jill Graham and the Secret of Druids Wood” by Lesley Chase (1974)

Perhaps the most intriguing mystery for intrepid teenage detective Jill Graham to investigate is this: who was Lesley Chase? And how does the author of six novels, all published within the living memory of anyone over the age of 50, vanish without a trace? It’s perhaps reassuring, in an age when the the internet has removed almost all of the mystique from our information-drenched lives, that the enigmatic Lesley has somehow managed to remain firmly off-grid. I can see that she (or he? Even the name is tantalisingly ambiguous) wrote half-a-dozen “Jill Graham” books between 1974 and 1980, but – as far as I can ascertain – no other work has ever been published under that name. And that’s it. Neither Google nor the books themselves offer any further clues as to the author’s identity.

Thankfully, I can tell you more about Jill Graham. She’s an endlessly optimistic 16-year-old school-leaver in the midst of a long, lazy summer holiday whose life, by anyone’s standards, appears to be nigh-on perfect. She lives in a rambling cottage in the tiny village of Shayle, tucked into the corner of some fairly non-specific rural English idyll. She has two loving parents; her father being the editor of the local newspaper, and her mother a cheery, stay-at-home mum seemingly happy to provide wholesome, home-cooked meals for anyone who passes through the house at any time of day or night. Her older brother John is an tousled trainee journalist, and his best friend Geoffrey is Jill’s dashing would-be suitor. And Jill has a best friend of her own, Susan, who lives in the neighbouring village of Fallowfield and works for a local estate agent.

Jill also rides a horse called Conker. Of course she rides a horse called Conker.

There’s something almost weirdly timeless about all of this: so much so that I have a nagging suspicion that the book might not actually have written in the 1970s at all. Jill, Susan, John and Geoffrey all seem to exist in a bubble entirely divorced from the experiences of ordinary 1970s teenagers: there are no mentions of TV, pop music, fashion, or films. And the escapades that follow feel more like 1950s derring-do than swinging 70s adventures, so it possible that the enigmatic Lesley Chase had been sitting on these stories for some time before finding a publisher?

Either way, it’s a gentle, straightforward ramble through a crime caper worthy of the Childrens Film Foundation. Jill, while cutting through the sun-dappled trees of the local Druids Wood, chances upon a red-bearded and vaguely untrustworthy-looking sort of chap (“He was a shabbily-dressed man, short and broad of chest”) acting suspiciously around a dilapidated woodland hut. As she peers from behind the bushes, he sinks a metal box of used lightbulbs into a dank pond, and arranges a midnight tryst at the same location with Susan’s creepy boss, Mr Mostyn.

Much to-and and fro-ing through the woods commences, as the intrepid Jill takes it upon herself to prevent the unspeakable crimes that she seems convinced are an inevitable consequence of these dastardly actions. After all, what good could ever come of a man with a lop-sided eyebrow sinking a tin of lightbulbs into a woodland pond? As it happens, she’s right – there is, of course, a murder plot to uncover, and an impromptu kidnap along the way, too. All of which Jill faces with the unshakable confidence and righteousness of… well, a well-heeled Home Counties girl who rides a horse called Conker. If there were hockey sticks involved here, they would – we can be assured – be far from sullen.

It’s interesting to read a story clearly targeted at a young female readership of the 1970s: the female characters are strong and undaunted (Jill is never afraid of the dangerous situations in which she is placed), and the males remain fairly peripheral. The pleasures of domesticity are heavily stressed too, and it has none of the “wyrd” trappings that I suspect might have been included had the publishers been attempting to attract an fanbase of teenage boys. It’s a perfectly pleasant read, concise and tightly-plotted with likeable characters, and left me with the nagging suspicion that teen fiction for female readers has been somewhat overlooked in the great 21st century audit of 1970s ephemera. I look forward to discovering, in some musty bookshop of the near future, the little-known seventh book in the series, Jill Graham and the Mystery of Lesley Chase.

Mustiness Report: A wholesome 4/10. A book with the odour of a fresh breeze, gently wafting across the Fallowfield meadows on a bright, August morning.

Musty Books: “The Third Class Genie” by Robert Leeson (1975)

At first, this feels like a curious slice of whimsy from a writer I associate with grittier fayre: Robert Leeson’s series of Grange Hill spin-off novels from the late 1970s and early 1980s perfectly captured the ‘Thatcher’s Britain’ grimness of the TV series. And his 1983 sequel Forty Days of Tucker J was a pivotal part of my pre-adolescent reading, with the eponymous Jenkins given the titular deadline by his impatient father: forty days to prove he can escape the spiralling dole queues before being forcibly marched back to school to gain further qualifications.

The Third Class Genie opens with a lighter touch. The hero is skinny, hangdog schoolboy Alec Bowden, who keeps a constant running score of the disasters and triumphs that mark his days in Bugletown, a fictional suburb of Manchester. Here, he lives in a crowded family terraced house between the railway line and the allotments (poor Granddad is even relegated to a caravan in the back yard), and spends his schooldays avoiding the attention of resident bully Ginger Wallace. Wallace, we learn, lives on nearby Boner’s Street (settle down at the back, there) and – as the story begins – is forbidding Alec from taking his usual shortcut home past the Wallace household, or “you’ll get a thump.”

Alec’s fortunes change when he discovers, in the grounds of derelict local factory “The Tank”, an abandoned beer can that plays host to the 975-year-old Abu Salem, “Genie of the Third Order of rank and merit in the courts of Baghdad, Damascus and Cairo”. Initially, typical Genie-based hilarity ensues: Alec exploits a seemingly endless supply of wishes with flawed attempts to gain new plimsolls, clean schoolbooks and even an extension to the family home. But as the story progresses, Leeson’s clear interest in contemporary 1970s social issues comes more and more to the fore.

Events turn with Abu Salem’s desire to aid Alec’s school project on the Crusades, encouraging him to document a perspective on these historical events that has previously been eschewed by his school textbooks. A perspective from which King Richard I is seen as “chief of the Frankish bandits”, the leader of foreign “barbarians” who came to slaughter. This approach earns him a rebuke from traditional schoolmaster “Tweedy” Harris, but praise from schoolroom pin-up Miss Welch… inevitably nicknamed “Raquel” by her students.

And then the crux of the book is revealed: Ginger Wallace is part of a West Indian community on Boner Street, a community under threat from eviction by a racist coalition of local councillors keen to redevelop the area. There are bigoted slurs and misinformation being spread around the neighbourhood, including ludicrous rumours of poor hygiene (“they keep their coal in the bath”) and a fictional illness “brought into the area, perhaps by an illegal immigrant.” And when Abu Salem – previously a disembodied voice inside the beer can – assumes physical form, he is revealed to be a black African slave, in danger himself of being branded a dangerous outsider in a town where tensions are clearly running high.

At this point, Leeson – a Cheshire man himself, with a background in left-wing politics – shifts the book into a higher gear, and it becomes complex, thought-provoking and remarkably progressive for an era when the politics of race were frequently exploited for comic effect. Schoolyard differences are set aside, and the battle becomes convincingly real. As a white North-Easterner, I perhaps feel a little self-conscious commenting on the accuracy of the depiction of black communities in the North-West of England, but the story felt both heartwarming and well-intentioned to me, and I enjoyed it enormously.

Mustiness Report: A disappointingly fresh 1/10. Barely any must at all to disclose, although my copy appears to be a 1987 reprint, so perhaps another ten years of solid, damp neglect are required for the book’s full musty potential to be fulfilled. No names or addresses inscribed on the inner pages either; 1980s children were a trusting bunch.