Scarred For Life, Kev Oyston and Memories of 1970s TV

All hail Stephen Brotherstone and Dave Lawrence… the square-eyed Liverpudlian duo who, staggered that nobody had yet written a book about the welter of disturbing TV shows, films and – ahem – ice lollies that traumatised our collective 1970s childhoods, set out to fill the gap. The resulting doorstep-sized tome, Scarred For Life, has become a sales sensation, and a follow-up volume, detailing the Cold War-infused minutiae of their 1980s adolescence, is due in 2020.

And the book has now inspired a compilation album of original music, all inspired by those lingering memories of childhood disquiet. It includes new tracks by the likes of Vic Mars, The Home Current, Pulselovers, The Heartwood Institute and Polypores, and has been compiled by musician Kev Oyston, who – in his guise as The Soulless Party – also contributes the title track. It’s the start of a busy period for Kev, whose multi-media Black Meadow collaboration with writer Chris Lambert, detailing the dark folk stories of the North York Moors, also sparks back into life in early 2020.

But the Scarred For Life album, released this week by Castles In Space, comes first, with all proceeds heading to Cancer Research UK. It’s a beautiful collection of evocative music, and I asked Kev about the inspiration behind it…

Bob: Where did the idea for the Scarred For Life album come from? I assume you bought the book, and enjoyed it?

Kev: Yeah, I bought the book. It appealed massively to me straight away. Although I was born in 1975, a lot of the early to mid 1970s Public Information Films, schools programmes and children’s programmes were still being re-shown throughout the late 1970s and early 1980s, so a lot of the content of the book rang a big bell with me. I’ve always been fascinated with the dark, weird and ambiguous output of 1970s TV.

Which TV programmes or films from the era really scared you?

My earliest memories are basically from Doctor Who and those Public Information films. Being rather mesmerised by Tom Baker, who himself was pretty scary. I actually remember the reveal of Scaroth at the end of the first episode of City of Death – that absolutely terrified me. I was four! The other Doctor Who cliffhanger that traumatised me was the end of the first episode of Logopolis, where the Master shrunk Aunt Vanessa and the policeman, and left them like lifeless dolls in the car.

The Public information Films that got to me were the ones with the drivers’ faces being smashed through the car windscreen in very weird slow motion. There was also one with a mother and her little boy, where he runs out into the road and she drops her eggs as he gets run over. I used the think the eggs were the contents of the boy’s head!

And the infamous Apaches, which warned of the dangers of playing on a farm, absolutely gave me nightmares… especially the shot of the boy sinking and drowning in the slurry pit. It was just so lifelike! But that was the idea wasn’t it? To scare you away from doing daft and silly things on roads, or swanning around near farming equipment.

Did other things get to you as well? I found it hilarious that the book’s writers, Stephen and Dave, were scared by “Dracula” ice lollies and “Horror Bags” crisps… 

I can remember this quite vividly, and it still gives me chills now… my parents used to threaten me with the rag and bone man, saying he was going to take me away if I didn’t behave. Honestly, that worked a treat because every time I heard him at the bottom of our street shouting, “RAGBONE!!” I’d be off like a shot! In fact I’d hide under my bed!

I think it was his voice, the way he shouted. It was quite snarly and bellowing. I really do still shudder thinking about it.

When, and how, did it strike you to make an accompanying album?

I hit it off with Stephen a long time ago, over our love of the movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind, and we talked on and off for a while about different things. It wasn’t until we actually met, at their first Scarred For Life show in Eaglescliffe about a year ago, that we talked quite excitedly about the idea of doing a compilation album. I found the subject of the book to be really evocative, and thought it would carry the weight of a concept album quite well.   

At first we toyed with the idea of doing covers of old 1970s and 80s TV themes, fitting in with the Scarred For Life ethos. But after much pondering and research, I discovered that it would end up being a huge copyright headache, so we parked the idea for a bit. 

It wasn’t until I heard that the lads were working on a sequel to the original Scarred for Life book, this time covering the 1980s, that my interest in doing something was piqued again. So I spoke with Stephen and asked what he thought about a compilation album of music “inspired” by the TV and film output of the Scarred for Life era. He loved the idea, so I went away and rallied some artists.

Did you draw up a hit list of you wanted to approach? Are a lot of these artists people that you’ve known for a long time?

It all seems a bit of a blur now, but I think it was quite organic. The first person I approached, more for advice, was Colin Morrison from the Castles in Space label. I already had something on the boil with him, and thought it would be good to run this idea past him too. Before we knew it, he’d signed up to the whole thing, lock stock and barrel, and wanted to promote and push it all! I was absolutely bowled over.

A lot of the artists I approached, I’d known forever… Vic Mars, Monroeville Music Center, Pete Hackett – aka Cult of Wedge – Keith Seatman and Swimming Lesson. They all jumped at the chance to be on the album. I’d always admired the other acts too… The Twelve Hour Foundation, the achingly lovely Jonathan Sharp from The Heartwood Institute, Listening Centre, Rob from Handspan… in fact I admire everyone we have on there!

It was nice, because I proposed the idea to each of these artists, and immediately there was a mutual understanding of the premise, and the important cause that the album was for. Not only that, each individual who took part was just massively likeable, and easy to get along with. I had everyone in a Scarred for Life private group and we all just clicked. Honestly, it was really lovely. Most of the artists were already aware of Stephen and Dave’s wonderful book and were really keen to take part.

What was the remit you gave them all as a starting point for their tracks?

Because the Scarred For Life books are about to hit the 1980s, I gave them the remit of creating music that reminded them of that kind of “off kilter”, not quite right, TV shows or movies that they’d watched as kids in the 1970s and 80s. But not just the TV shows… other things besides.

Can you give us a little rundown the tracks themelves, and the inspirations behind them?

Well, I thought I’d let the artists speak for themselves! I managed to coax this out of them all the other day… here’s what some of them have to say on each of their pieces:

Vic Mars: The Time Menders

Vic Mars: The Time Menders was an early title for Sapphire and Steel, and I was aiming for a psychic paranormal investigator theme.

The Heartwood Institute: Women Against The Wire

Jonathan Sharp: The Heartwood Institute track is a direct reference to the women’s peace camp at Greenham Common, and that’s also where the sample is from:  “We are women, we are strong…”

The Twelve Hour Foundation: Belmont

Jez Butler: Our track is named after the TV transmitter near my old home town in Linconshire. Rather than being based on a specific theme tune, it’s a more generic radiophonic-inspired thing, with the focus on the sudden start – in the style of a scary 70s kids’ drama intro – and the the cliff-hanger at the end. If that makes sense!

Keith Seatman: Words From The Wireless

Keith Seatman: Words From The Wireless was inspired by the 1972 series Escape Into Night, and the book that inspired it, Marianne Dreams.  “Not the light!” 

Swimming Lesson: Superhighways

Darryl Wakelin: Mine was inspired by the excitement and dread – in equal measure – of what computing in the future would be like. A mix of Tomorrow’s World, and the machines that would destroy us, control us or be used for war. Think 2001: A Space Odyssey, Demon Seed, UFO, Space 1999, etc…  

The Home Current: Summer In Marstrand

Martin Jensen: Summer in Marstrand is inspired by growing up with the Moomins on Danish TV. I was part fascinated, and part scared senseless, every time an episode aired. Some of my childhood summer holidays were spent on the Swedish island of Marstrand, and apart from it being where I saw my very fist White-Tailed Eagle, I also remember thinking the Moomins could easily have come from there.

Handspan: Fear Follows Shortly

Rob Colling: Mine came mainly from the fact that I’d been listening to Clannad’s Legend, the soundtrack album from Robin of Sherwood, quite a lot in the weeks running up to this project. That’s why so many of the modular synth noises sound a bit like Celtic harps. It actually ended up in more of a Look And Read kind of place, somewhere between Dark Towers and The Boy From Space, hence the track title, but my initial idea was much more about forests and mist and standing stones. And terrifying early digital video effects.

Cult of Wedge: The Gamma Children

Pete Hackett: Originally I’d written an actual song, words and all, but I couldn’t sing it due to the stupid key, and time was running out, and everyone else’s tracks were instrumental… so I recorded a theme tune! It’s pretty much on a theme of The Tomorrow People, but has time travel / indigo / psychic children ideas going on. Hence the kid at the start seeing dead people…

Pulselovers: Nice View From Up Here

Mat Handley: Nice View From Up Here is my take on the theme tune for a sitcom starring Joe and Petunia from the Public Information Film series made between 1968 and 1973. I imagined a particularly un-PC studio comedy in the style of George and Mildred, but with a theme more inspired by the brilliant Ronnie Corbett vehicle, Sorry!

Monroeville Music Center: Hack and Slash

Craig Storm: I sat down trying to make an homage to Knightmare, and instead ended up with what seems like the end credit music to an educational programme’s Halloween episode, if it had spliced in eight-bit voice actor samples from a third-rate medieval adventure game. It’s no Knightmare, but it’s a show I’d like to watch.

The Central Office of Information: Puzzled

Alex Cargill: Puzzled is loosely based on the 1970s and 1980s BBC kids TV show Jigsaw, which featured the infamous character of Noseybonk. Genuinely disturbing for a young child. I tried to imitate the generally upbeat feel of the original, along with the childish sound effects. The laughter snippet is actually a sample of my late Grandad – it seemed to fit nicely and I thought it’d be nice to have him immortalised on a CD. It’s what he would’ve wanted. However, as is often the case, I couldn’t help myself from adding a little bit of acid squelch to the proceedings.

Quimper: The Runner

Johnny Vertigan: I think I was gleefully ripping off the slightly sinister library themes that would sometimes find their way onto Pages from CEEFAX. Or the kind of thing that would be used for either a forgotten, warped 1970s BBC drama, or perhaps a schools’ programme about maths. Same difference back then, I suppose.

Listening Center: Nowhere, Nowhere, We Should Have Known

David Mason: My offering is inspired by the multiple layers of uncanny-ness and the fractured parallel realities reflected in Sapphire and Steel. The title is borrowed from the final episode of the series, where (Spoiler Alert!) Sapphire and Steel find themselves trapped in a cafe, in the void, for eternity. 

Panamint Manse: Leadfield Intoxicants
 
WP Ulmer: I was channelling Harry Forbes watching The Finishing Line

The Bentley Emerald Learning Resource: Programmes For Sick Days

Benjamin Green: Programmes for Sick Days takes inspiration from “Programmes for Schools”, generally the only television available to watch for children who were too poorly to go to school that day. Quite dry programmes that perhaps seemed dead boring in a classroom would become extraordinarily fascinating and eerie in the cosy setting of the living room. My track tries to evoke the images and sounds of a morning of school programming, through the woozy haze of feeling unwell. Dosed up on children’s medicine, and safely bundled up within blankets and quilts to make a bed on the settee.

To temper the cosiness, I will add that while experiencing a proper bout of influenza for the first time as a child, I had a morbid thought during an episode of Zig Zag that I might end my days on the sofa, and these would be the last visuals and sounds I’d ever experience. And I’ve since often wondered if, for some poor souls, that may have been the case….

Polypores: Memorabilia

Stephen J Buckley: My track, as with most of my music, wasn’t really planned or thought out as such. It’s not really up to me what I write on any given day. I simply made myself available, open to suggestion, and coaxed it from the strange ether from which music comes. Basically, I was led down a Scarred for Life ether vortex, and the track just came out!

And Kev, your own theme music, the opening track to the album?

Yes, it was the main Scarred for Life theme that I tasked myself with, and I just wanted to encompass sounds and layers that echoed the likes of Denton and Cooke, and Peter Howell… with a cheeky nod to John Carpenter, too.

What’s your own background as a musician? Can you give us a little potted history, please?

I was massively into music from a very young age. I used to spend a lot of time round at my cousins’ house, and they were quite big into electronica, post-punk and ska. I was basically a sponge, and I loved everything they listened to. They had a loft conversion with lots of old synths in it, and wrote their own material as well as doing cover versions for a college band they were in. Again, I was hooked. By the age of 12 I had my first synthesizer, a Korg Poly 800. I also had a four-track tape recorder to lay down any ideas I had. I got a few more synths in my twenties, and chucked out a few demos of instrumental tracks to various people. One of whom told me that I’d be good for TV adverts or soundtrack work… however, being very young, idealistic and quite naive, I was quite put out by this! I went off to form a synth-pop band with my cousin, Rob.

I wrote all the tracks and did some of the vocals and we set out round London gigging on the – then – underground electronic music circuit for a few years. We had a nice little following, and released an album… which maybe ten people might have in their collection.

As the years progressed, I started getting into Ghost Box Records. Their output totally blew my mind and took me back to my childhood in very strange ways… to the classroom, or to a cornfield or a forest on a warm, hazy day. I just loved what I was hearing. That inspired me to go down a similar instrumental route, trying to come up with something that reminded people of the past. New music that sounded like vintage music. I think I achieved that with the Black Meadow project.

I was going to ask about the Black Meadow project. Can you tell us a little bit about this?

While I was trying to find that sound of the past, I wrote a track which I just randomly called Beyond the Moor. It ended up on the Tales from the Black Meadow album, but at the time I wrote it, I had no idea what it could be for… why did I call it Beyond the Moor? But the more tracks I wrote with a similar vibe, the more it organically fell into place. The concept came to me.

As a child, we used to drive regularly over the North York Moors to Pickering, to see relatives. We’d always pass the three huge, golf ball-like radomes that belonged to RAF Fylingdales, and – being a kid with his head in the clouds – I always imagined strange alien craft being housed there. Or something akin to Quatermass, that kind of thing. My imagination ran wild. I recalled all that as I wrote the music for the first Black Meadow album and it just gave me the impetus to keep going. I had an idea of a story, or of strange folklore, attached to this place called The Black Meadow, which was slap bang right next to RAF Fylingdales. It was to be a place of mysterious fog, creatures and a Brigadoon-type village that appeared only under certain atmospheric conditions. The village is full of weird monsters and people, and is just downright creepy.

My old partner in crime Chris Lambert took an interest in this project and my ideas, and basically wanted to put them all into proper folklore-style stories, and have them published along with the album. I got carried away with the idea, and pushed for something else to go alongside the music and the book, and that was… why don’t we “dig up” an old BBC Radio 4 documentary from 1978, all about the Black Meadow, and add it to the album? So we did.

The original Tales from the Black Meadow CD – with the music and the documentary – was released in 2013, along with the book. The book still sells well today, and sometimes I  re-release the album and it always seems to do OK. 

And there’s some new material coming in January 2020?

It’s taken a long time, but we’ve just completed the second Black Meadow project, The Black Meadow Archive: Vol 1. Again, it’s an album of music, this time on vinyl, again on the lovely Castles in Space label. And there’s also a new, jam-packed book too. We’re quite excited to release it to the world. We just hope everyone likes it! 

In the meantime, Scarred For Life is out this week, and all proceeds are going to Cancer Research UK… is it a cause that’s dear to your heart?

Absolutely. Sadly, someone very close to me was diagnosed with cancer in May and it’s been a very tough few months. Happily things are looking positive, as the treatment has done the job, and we’re hoping everything will be clear come the New Year.

Its funny how you can appreciate, yet still take for granted, some of the work these charities do. It’s not really until something affects you close to home that you start to really appreciate their work. Cancer Research UK are a hugely proactive concern… they’re a positive power for good in the search for a cure to cancer, and they provide fantastic support to those who may be suffering. They were the first charity I thought of when we were putting this album together, and it’s been brilliant to see people buying the album also getting behind the charity too.

Thanks to Kev for his time, and thoughtful replies… and to everyone else on the album for contributing, too. The Scarred For Life album is available here…

https://scarredforlife.bandcamp.com

…and it concludes on a poignant note; the closing track, Be Like A Child by Carl Matthews, is a genuine piece of beautifully melancholy 1984 electronica from an artist whose own life was cut tragically short by cancer. It’s a fitting conclusion to a wonderful collection of music.


I asked Jonathan Sharp, of The Heartwood Institute, about his memories of Carl. He replied…

“Carl is one of the great lost voices of UK synth. He started releasing cassettes from 1980 via the Mirage label – all very DIY – and continued up to 1991. You can find a big list of his output on Discogs. He was incredibly well-respected, but largely unknown. I got to know Carl around 2001 when he started making music again, and we became good friends. I encouraged him into making library, music at which he became very successful. More recently, there’d been a real interest in his old music, and he’d had Call For World Saviours released on CD and vinyl, and had appeared on several high-profile compilations too. He’d also started releasing new music via bandcamp. Sadly he died a few months ago, just as the Scarred For Life compilation was coming together. As soon as I knew it was raising money for Cancer Research UK, it seemed natural to have a track of his on the album. His family agreed, and it’s so lovely to have that track on there.”

David Cain, The Seasons and the BBC Radiophonic Workshop

I was extremely saddened in October this year to hear that David Cain had died. A stalwart of the BBC Radiophonic Workshop from the mid 1960s to the early 1970s, he worked on music and sounds for high-profile BBC radio dramas – including famous adaptations of The Hobbit and The War of the Worlds – as well as creating a plethora of gloriously inventive radio stings, stabs and jingles. When the BBC rolled out its exciting network of local radio stations, from 1967 onwards, each was provided with a radiophonic theme intended to reflect the area’s identity, culture and landscape. David’s music for BBC Sheffield was arguably the pick of the crop; its rolling metallic rhythms effortlessly evoking the heritage and history of the city’s steel industry.

But it’s almost certainly for The Seasons that he will be remembered most fondly. This extraordinary 1969 marrying of David’s harsh electronic music with the unsettling poetry of one-time Benjamin Britten libretto-writer Ronald Duncan, all narrated by BBC Schools Radio regular Derek Bowskill, makes for an overpoweringly evocative reminder of a very particular era of British schooling. A period when educational influences collided; when post-war austerity – all boiled cabbage and morning hymns – met a new breed of Guardian-reading, corduroy-sporting teacher, and cold, parquet floors and breezeblock school halls began to echo with the sound of post-hippy singalongs and, indeed, the experimental avant-garde of albums like this.

With 21st century hindsight, The Seasons seems staggeringly inappropriate for the primary school-age children for whom it was intended. It boasts seventeen short tracks; twelve of them dedicated to the months of the year, plus one for each season, and then a concluding instrumental piece entitled The Year. It is darkly macabre, and oddly sensual. Strength is drawn “from the earth’s thighs”, and May “teases with all the orchards of her eyes, and leans with apple, tempts with peach”. There are gaunt elms shuddering “within the groin of grief”, and those of us who had previously associated October with merely the advent of the conker season and the occasional dodgem were startled to be presented with somewhat darker imagery: “Like severed hands, the wet leaves lie flat on the deserted avenue”.

All of this was intended to inspire children as young as five to express themselves via the medium of interpretative dance, almost certainly in a freezing dinner hall, with the whiff of oncoming spam fritters wafting aimlessly amidst the musty smell of unwashed C&A vests. When Trunk Records reissued The Seasons in 2012, I contacted Jonny Trunk to ask if David might be available to be interviewed on my BBC Tees show. I was naturally delighted when David agreed to do this, and we had a fascinating chat over the phone from his new home in central Poland. He was charming, funny, and eccentric… a genuinely warm and welcoming man who was clearly incredibly proud of his groundbreaking work with the Radiophonic Workshop.

This is how the conversation went…

So David, you’re living in Poland these days! Whereabouts?

I’m near Łódź and nobody ever knows where it is… or can actually pronounce it properly! Or can even get there actually, because communication is desperate. But it’s right in the middle. It’s sort of what Manchester would have been like if they hadn’t sorted it out…

Is it good to have The Seasons back out there, and to be “official” again?


Well, I don’t know about “official”… I’m not sure it was official in the first place, really! The programme was official, of course; it was a schools programme, and I was given some lovely poetry. Brilliant poetry, I thought. Beautiful. Not easy, and not the first thing you’d choose for eleven-year-olds, but I was asked to do the music for it. And that was my job, so I did it.

And now it’s quite amazing that I’ve suddenly come into contact with… one or two slightly strange people, and I mean that in a very positive way, actually! When people start saying “Your cult music”, I say… “Pardon?”

“People are asking for this…”

“Are they?”

And then I saw that somebody was asking £260 for it on eBay!

Yes, the original vinyl became a very collectable album…

Well, mine’s not collectable. The first two tracks, January and February, disappear under a rash of scratches. But now I’m OK, because I’ve got a beautiful CD, and the beautiful white vinyl that Jonny Trunk has done. It’s absolutely fabulous.

How did you get involved with making these recordings, back in 1969? Obviously you were working at the BBC Radiophonic Workshop… did the commission just come in, and get passed onto you?

Yeah. With the Workshop… you sort of sat and waited for people to come and ask you to do things. And I hadn’t been there very long, actually. I’d done some stuff – some radio drama – and some BBC Schools, which was a big department in those days, they did a lot of stuff. And there was one producer, David Little, who I did a few things with.

David came and said “Listen… I’ve got these poems about the seasons, there are twelve for the months, and four for the seasons, and I’d like you to do some music.” For a drama workshop… it wasn’t Music, Movement and Mime, that was something else.

And I said fine. OK. And we talked about it, and what he wanted… and he wanted something to get kids to move about and do things, to respond to the poetry and also to the sound. So that was it, really.

I’d worked with David before. I had great respect for him, I thought he was a super producer. One or two other people didn’t like him very much, because he knew what he wanted. Ha! Which meant that if you thought that you knew what he wanted, and it wasn’t what he wanted, you were in trouble. Ha ha!

But no, super… that was it. I was asked to do it, and I did it. There you go. And maybe a year or so later they said “Well, we’d like to produce a record because quite a lot of schools have asked to have a copy.” Because in those days you couldn’t copy stuff… well, you could I suppose, but you did it on all sorts of funny little tape machines with reels of tape. I don’t think there were even cassettes in those days, were there?

Not the mini cassettes, no… I started school in 1977, and it we still had the big, reel-to-reel tape machines.

Well there you go, goodness me! So in 1969 people just had to turn on the radio, and wait for it to happen.

So the poetry was written by Ronald Duncan, and voiced up by Derek Bowskill. Were the recordings of the actual poetry just given to you as a fait accompli?

Yeah. I got the poetry, and then was asked to do it. If you haven’t got an enormous amount of time, it’s probably the best way to do it, I would think. Because the poetry stands by itself. And the idea was that what I did would not only stand by itself too, but – together with the poetry – would maybe offer some kind of stimulus to the kids.

Did you have any contact with Ronald or Derek?

Ronnie Duncan, no – never. Derek Bowskill, yes. I knew Derek… not that well, but I knew him because I was more widely involved with drama in schools, and educational drama, and Derek was also very heavily involved with this. He was then down in Devon, but he was linked up with people that I knew in London. I met him, and we talked about it… but he’d done it, you know. He didn’t do it with me there, doing any kind of production. I just got the tapes.

The music has a very earthy, rustic, almost Pagan feel to it. Was that something you were aiming for?

[Laughs] I dunno! Remember, this was the 1960s… everyone was being Pagan then! 

There was a lot of it about, then?

We were all wandering around in wonderful Afghan coats. I had one of those! It was brilliant. Pagan? I dunno… maybe sort of earthy. Different. Slightly disturbing. That was definitely there. I think David Little wanted that, because if you’ve got kids wandering around in shorts in very cold gymnasiums in schools, then you need to get them stirred up a bit, otherwise they’ll sit down and do nothing!

I’m glad you brought that up, as I’m intrigued to ask… a lot of books and music and TV for kids in the late 1960s and 1970s have a kind of creepy quality. There’s a darkness that I find incredibly evocative now. I’ve often wondered if that was something you were aware of at the time, making this stuff?

I was. I was aware of that, because there were one or two writers… the obvious one being Roald Dahl. You can’t call Roald Dahl a laugh-a-minute man! I mean he was, but in a slightly creepy way. There was Doctor Seuss, and then there was a Polish guy whose name I can’t remember now… doesn’t matter, not important, we mustn’t go into all that! And then there was The Wicker Man… I’ve jumped to films all of a sudden now.

It’s all part of the same feel, though…

It was, and maybe these kinds of things go together with the sort of music that was very upfront and… “WAFFF!” You know, if you’ve got The Rolling Stones and The Beatles going on at the same time, maybe also there was this feeling that kids can cope with a little bit more than Enid Blyton. Remember Enid Blyton?

Of course!

They were a bit creepy actually, but in a slightly different way. But yeah! It was meant to provide something that was not “Oh yeah, we know music like this, we can dance about…”

Did you ever take into account the age of your audience, and what might be appropriate for them? Or did you just make the music that you thought worked?

I did the second one. I didn’t actually think, “I must write this to appeal to…” No, I didn’t. Absolutely not. I have enough trust in them, especially now that I’ve been involved in education… I can trust kids like that. If it works, it’s gonna work. You don’t write down to them, you write up to them.

How was the music for The Seasons created? Were you using exciting things like wave generators?

Exciting things? Hahahahah!  

They are to me! But OK, maybe not to someone who had to work with them every day…

Ha! I know what you mean! Exciting… what was exciting…? We had a lot of ex-MOD stuff like oscillators, things like that. They were just basic things, they’d got “WOOWEEEWOO” That was all it was, you got different frequencies.

And then we had all these things that we pinged and panged, and banged and binged, to provide sound sources. And those gave you notes, which you then played… it was a fairly primitive system, really. We didn’t have any multi-track machines, we didn’t have any synthesizers, so it was all basically… you made a note, stuck it on a piece of tape, and then you sped it up and slowed it down.

We did have a machine that changed the speed, and that was it, really. You filtered it, played it backwards, forwards, upside down, whatever… and then you did the mathematics, which was OK for me, because that’s actually my first subject. It was 15 inches per second, so a lot of things had “Crotchet=120” because that made the maths easier! If you had “Crotchet=77” you were in real trouble…

And therefore you knew that that note was going to have one and a half inches of tape.

So you’re literally sitting with bits of tape, cutting them up to specific measurements, and piecing them back together?

Yeah! Stupid really, isn’t it?

No, it’s fabulous!

Haha!

How did you first come to join the Radiophonic Workshop in the first place, were you recruited?

No, they didn’t recruit. That was MI6.

There wasn’t a press gang, then?


Oh no! I worked as a studio manager, a sound engineer at first… in 196… oh, God… 1963 it was. Bloody hell, it’s nearly 50 years ago. Right, OK! And I very quickly got into radio drama, which was really where I wanted to work. Doing sound and all those things, and working in the studios with actors. And from radio drama, it was possible to apply for a sort of three-month attachment to the Workshop, to see how it was. And I’d been in touch with bits of it, because I’d done some plays where there was Workshop material.

So I went there for three months… maybe longer in the end. This was about 1965, 1966, and it was great. I really, really loved it, because there was time to do what you wanted to do, and to talk to producers and directors and create sounds that they couldn’t create… for dramas and plays that you couldn’t direct. So you had mutual respect for each other. I loved it, and I went back to radio drama as a studio manager, and then a job came up… so I applied, and I got it.

It just seems like the most extraordinarily creative place to be working. Cards on the table here, I’m a Doctor Who fan, so for me hearing things like the work that Delia Derbyshire did in those very early days… and Dick Mills, and Brian Hodgson… they seemed to be just left to make the music that they made without any kind of outside interference. Was the culture really as nice as the picture I have in my mind?

The word is trust. It doesn’t exist much any more, does it?

I don’t think it does unfortunately, no.

I think Mr Birt has a lot to answer for that one. Basically, we were employed to do what we had to do, and there was a trust that we were going to do it. And if we hadn’t done it, they would have thrown us out, it was very simple! But they didn’t check what we were doing by being there all the time, looking over our shoulders. And obviously if the producers kept coming, and wanting more and more and more, then it seems to me that we were doing what we should be doing.

And that’s what happened. It was only later that it turned the other way around, and well, you know… the problem was that razors, sticky tape and so on are a bit extreme in terms of primitive systems. But I think what happened later was – of course – that the synthesizers came, the keyboards came, the multi-track machines came, and suddenly it was a completely different situation.

And my theory is very simple. When we were there in the 1960s, the creative impulses and ideas were far ahead of the theoretical technical possibilities. But what happened later was that it turned the other way around, and the technology started to drive the system. You only had to press a button and you’ve got… “dumdumdoodledoodledumdum”. You’ve got it! If you don’t like it, you can change it a bit. But what it means is, before you do anything, you don’t have to think very much about what you’re going to do. Whereas with what we were doing… if you didn’t plan very carefully before you started, you were in real trouble!

That’s my deep theory, that there was a moment when the technology went past the creativity.

Are you still making music at the moment?

Nope!

Nothing at all?

Well no, that’s not true, actually. What I’ve done for the last few years is one kind of music-making, at mathematical conferences. Ha ha! Which means that I write some bits of music, do an arrangement of some kind, and then I write parts out for all the people who say they’re going to bring an instrument. And then for an hour and a half I send them off with bits of music, and then they all come together and play it. So it’s not really a great composition job, but it’s good because some people say… “I’m going to bring a wind-up torch.” You know what that is? They’re brilliant, there’s no batteries, you turn the handle very fast…

Like a clockwork torch?

Yeah! The point is, this is the Radiophonic Workshop… because if you turn the handle slowly, it goes “zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz”, if you turn it fast it goes “ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ”, and if you turn it really fast it goes “ZZZWWWWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE”! This is the Radiophonic Workshop, isn’t it?

This is fabulous! You have to compose a symphony for wind-up torch!

The woman who brought it was chuffed to bits, because I wrote her a part! So that’s what I’m doing… but it’s not composing, I did that! If you are a down-the-line, 100%, super-duper composer, then you can keep going until the end of time. But you know… I did that. I composed, I composed for kids later, I kept writing stuff for the BBC, and then I thought “Well, I’m into maths now.”

So I got really heavily, heavily into mathematics as a teacher. And I still am, so I’m now lecturing at a teacher training college in Poland, to young students. It’s a joy. I’ve got ten hours tomorrow, and it’s going to be really good! So I’m doing that, and I’m digging the garden, walking the dog, and I go occasionally here, there and everywhere, travelling about. Sinking into the twilight of my days, really.

It sounds like a lovely life…

It is, actually. The weather’s a bit dodgy, but other than that…!

You do it, and then you’ve done it. I think it’s actually quite important, once you reach a point, to say yeah… you stop. The dangerous thing is to try and hang onto it. I didn’t do that. But I’ve still got these reels and reels of tapes sitting here, some of which I’ve transferred, and Jonny Trunk has played one or two.

But I’m delighted to sit here and hold this vinyl disc [of The Seasons], Mark 2, and think that it’s very nice to know that somewhere there’s a small group of people who enjoy listening to it.

I’ve played the whole album on the radio now, night by night, and had some lovely comments from listeners.

I think that’s amazing, I really do. I’m really chuffed to bits. There’s only one thing I can say… most of my music, because it was written as instrumental music for radio drama, and I’ve got about 60 hours of it, I suppose – you can’t play it because it was done for one programme. And if you want to play it again, you’re going to have to pay lots of money.

This is the BBC here, you know what it’s like…

In that sense it hasn’t changed!

Honestly David, thanks so much for doing this.

It’s been a real pleasure. In my life, you sit down and you think – “I can ‘blah blah blah’ for ten minutes about what I’ve done, and that’s really very nice, and somebody might be interested.”

So thank you very much for asking me.

Heartfelt condolences to all who knew David; we swapped the odd e-mail back and forth for a little while after our conversation, and he was always incredibly friendly and flattered that I was so interested in his work. And The Seasons will stay with me forever as a wonderfully inventive and stirring encapsulation of everything that was strange and beautiful about the 1970s childhood experience.

And it’s still available to download from Trunk Records, here…

https://trunkrecords.greedbag.com/buy/the-seasons/

The Haunted Generation in the Fortean Times – Issue 385

As well as this regular blog, the Haunted Generation is also a bi-monthly column in the Fortean Times magazine, rounding up new releases and forthcoming events. This was the most recent feature, from issue 385, dated November 2019.

THE HAUNTED GENERATION

Bob Fischer rounds up the latest news from the parallel worlds of popular hauntology…


“In The Girl I Left Behind Me, the narrator tells her story from the grave,” says Alison Cotton, discussing Muriel Spark‘s 1957 short story, the inspiration for her new album of the same title. “The story is about a girl who works in a London office, her first job after a long illness. As she leaves work one evening, she is struck by a strong conviction that she has left something important at the office, but can’t work out what it can be…”

The opening side of this beautiful 10″ vinyl release was originally commissioned and recorded for Gideon Coe‘s BBC 6 Music Show in 2018, to accompany a Christmas reading of the story itself, by actress Bronwen Price. A single, thirteen-minute suite of melancholy viola captures perfectly the downbeat, rain-soaked ambience of austerity-era London, underpinned by a fluttering murmur of dread that escalates as the narrative speeds towards its chilling conclusion. “As I was playing, I imagined myself as the main character of the story,” continues Alison. “I composed an eerie melody, following the structure of the story, and building up the suspense with my wordless singing…”

The flipside is inspired by a later Spark tale, 1966’s The House of the Famous Poet, and Alison’s ethereal vocals feature even more prominently here, amidst a wash of drone-like omnichord, and an elegant, spiralling viola recital recorded – impressively – in a single, improvised take. Set in wartime London, the story is the surreal tale of an “abstract funeral” sold to the narrator by a mysterious soldier that she meets on a delayed night-train journey from Edinburgh: “An aspect which fascinated me,” admits Alison, going on to enthuse further about her recent discovery of some of Spark’s lesser-known stories. “I’d only read The Prime Of Miss Jean Brodie, which I remember I enjoyed when I was younger,” she says. “But I bought her collection of Ghost Stories. I thought they were all so well-written and chilling… and I loved how they were mostly written from the ghost’s perspective.”

The Girl I Left Behind Me is released by Clay Pipe music on (of course) Halloween, the second of two releases in quick succession from this beautifully consistent label; the other being Vic MarsInner Roads and Outer Paths, an album influenced by the writing and photography of Herefordshire ley-line pioneer Alfred Watkins, and by Vic’s own childhood explorations of the same county’s various abandoned houses and factories. Gently-plucked guitars, shimmering strings and woozy, old-school synths evoke an emotional connection to the British countryside… think Ralph Vaughan Williams with a Korg Monopoly. Both albums are available, on vinyl and as downloads, from claypipemusic.co.uk.

Also taking inspiration from a classic spooky text is Neil Scrivin, whose album This House Is Haunted, released under his new nom-de-plume of The Night Monitor, provides an eerie radiophonic soundtrack to Guy Lyon Playfair‘s famous late 1970s account of his investigations into the notorious “Enfield Poltergeist“. The album is strong on verisimilitude: there are knockings, white noise and tantalisingly indecipherable hints of electronic voice phenomena, amidst slabs of atmospheric music concrète that Doctor Who fans will find deliciously reminiscent of Roger Limb‘s percussive, synth-drive compositions for the show. A limited edition cassette release on the Bibliotapes label will be followed by a digital download… head to bibliotapes.co.uk, soundcloud.com/thenightmonitor, or follow @TheNightMonitor on Twitter.

Meanwhile, irrepressible composer and “sound archaeologist” Drew Mulholland has used his 20-year-old field recordings, recorded onto old-school magnetic tape at locations used in the filming of The Wicker Man, as the basis for The Wicker Tapes, a delightfully left-field sound collage. “There was still about five foot of each leg, both set into a concrete base with ‘WM 73’ carved into it”, recalls Drew of his 2002 visit to Burrowhead, in Dumfries and Galloway. A very limited release in August saw each cassette coming with a sliver of wood from the remains of this legendary prop, which also played a major role in the sound manipulations that shaped the album. “I built a Heath Robinson device that allowed the tape essentially to be destroyed by an actual piece of the Wicker Man,” he continues. “After that I set the wood alight, and – when cooled – crushed it to ash and coated the near-destroyed tape with it.”

The results are an album of dark, disquieting ambience, peppered with fleeting, folky motifs that evoke disturbing images of the film’s own climactic and merciless procession. Although the original cassette immediately sold out, the album is available for digital download from drewmulholland.bandcamp.com/track/the-wicker-tapes.

The next printed Haunted Generation column will be in Issue 587 of the Fortean Times – the Christmas edition, no less. In the meantime, Issue 586 is on the shelves now, and looks like this…


Alison Cotton, Muriel Spark and The Girl I Left Behind Me

There are joyless souls out there who will attempt to convince you that the traditional British Halloween celebration is a modern affection, imported from the United States at some indeterminate moment in the mid-1980s, somewhere between the red-carpet premieres of E.T. and The Goonies; a festival previously as alien to British children as Thanksgiving or Independence Day. “It didn’t exist when we were kids!” they chant in unison, rolling their eyes at the shelves of pumpkins and rubber spiders that cast a delightfully gothic pallor across our favourite supermarket aisles.

They’re wrong. In 1978, my friend Lisa Wheeldon and I dressed as vampires – complete with fangs from the Saltburn joke shop, and dripping blood courtesy of my Mum’s Max Factor – and knocked on random doors in the streets around my Grandmother’s bungalow in Acklam, a new-estate suburb of our native Middlesbrough. “The sky is blue, the grass is green,” we chanted in unison, “can you spare a penny for Halloween?” I have no idea who taught us the rhyme; it seemed to have been passed down as a race memory, and the inclusion in a later line of the humble “ha’penny” certainly suggested distinctly pre-decimalised roots.

Nobody reacted with bafflement or bemusement… they laughed, and pressed ten or even fifty-pence-pieces into our tiny hands. They knew the deal. In the North-East at least, this was a long-standing tradition. In 2016, I brought up the subject live on my BBC Tees radio show, and was rewarded with listeners’ memories of proto-Trick or Treating stretching back to the early 1950s. Some of the surface details have evolved; and certainly smooth, Peanuts-style pumpkins have now all but replaced the gnarled, warty faces of traditional British turnips, but the principle remains the same.

For me, at least, it was an evening of magic and danger combined; the whiff of coal fires and the sparkle of first frosts, alongside the thrill of monetary gain (those Star Wars figures in Romer Parrish’s toyshop weren’t going to buy themselves) and a genuine fear that the stories of supernatural Halloween malevolence that had permeated our classroom activities all week might actually be real. In a school assembly the previous year, Mrs Parker had spoken carelessly of “the dead rising from their graves”, a prospect that disturbed me enough for me to express my concerns to my Mum later that night, over teatime arctic roll. “If the dead were rising from their graves, your Grandad would be walking around in the garden, and he’s not,” she (not entirely) comforted me. As the evening wore on, I repeatedly cast furtive, nervous glances through the gaps in our front room curtains, seeking constant reassurances that a legion of deceased grandparents weren’t striding purposefully across my Dad’s herbacious borders, trailing a flock of assorted witches, vampires and spectral beasties in their wake.

So Halloween has always been a special time for many of us, and it’s a delight to see the ever-reliable Clay Pipe Records – and new recruit Alison Cotton – honouring the tradition. Alison’s mini-album The Girl I Left Behind Me – timed perfectly for this year’s Halloween celebrations – is an immaculate 10″ vinyl edition of two musical suites inspired by short ghost stories written – in 1957 and 1966 respectively – by Muriel Spark. The first of these, the title track, was originally recorded for BBC 6 Music’s Gideon Coe, and his annual “Ghost Story For Christmas” slot. The other, The House of the Famous Poet, based on a 1966 tale, is new to this release. Both pieces boast a genuine haunting beauty; mournful, spiralling viola recitals weave around spectral choirs of multi-tracked choral singing and washes of unsettling electronica to create the perfect soundtracks to two tales of austere, post-war eeriness. I asked Alison about the process of writing and recording the album…

Bob: Talk us through the two Muriel Spark stories that have inspired these recordings… first of all, The Girl I Left Behind Me?

Alison: In The Girl I Left Behind Me, the narrator tells her story from the grave. The story is about a girl who works in a London office, her first job after a long illness. As she leaves work one evening, she is struck by a strong conviction that she has left something important at the office, but can’t work out what it can be. There’s a twist in the tale as the story draws to a dramatic and unexpected conclusion…

And The House of the Famous Poet?

The House of the Famous Poet is set in 1944, in wartime London. On a delayed train journey, the narrator meets a soldier and a girl named Elise, a maid. She invites the narrator to stay at the house where she works, as the owners are away. The house turns out to be the home of a famous poet who the narrator greatly admires. The following morning the story takes on a surreal, nightmarish quality, when the soldier from the train turns up at the house with an enormous box that he says contains an “abstract funeral”, which he proceeds to sell to the narrator. Later that day, both Elise and the famous poet are killed when a bomb hits the poet’s house…

Have you always been an admirer of Muriel Spark’s work?

I’d only read The Prime Of Miss Jean Brodie, which I remember I’d enjoyed when I was younger. I’d like to re-read that, and more of her work. Gideon Coe’s producer, Henry Lopez-Real, sent me the story of The Girl I Left Behind Me when I was asked to soundtrack it for the show, and I bought her collection of Ghost Stories after recording that soundtrack. I thought they were all so well written and chilling, and I loved how they were mostly written from the ghosts’ perspectives, really focusing on those characters.

How did you end up recording these for Gideon’s 6 Music show? Did they approach you?

Yes, Gideon’s producer Henry approached me. My band, The Left Outsides, had played several sessions for shows that Henry had produced, and Gideon regularly plays us, and had played tracks from my solo album on the show, so they were both very familiar with my work. I was sent the story to read, and asked to record a fifteen-minute piece inspired by it which was then used on the show at Christmas. Alongside the story, narrated by Bronwen Price.

The idea of “A Ghost Story for Christmas” is a great BBC tradition… was it one that had some resonance with you? Had you seen some of the M.R. James TV adaptations?

It certainly was, and it was such an honour to be asked to record this. I think those M.R. James TV adaptations were a bit too early for me… or at least I’d have been too young. But I’ve seen them all in recent years and I think they’re amazing. In fact, I was in Norfolk not so long ago, and I recognised a church in a village we visited as being the one from A Warning to the Curious… it’s in Happisburgh. It even felt quite eerie on the day I was there, with only an elderly man wandering around in front of the church. And no-one else in sight. The hotel we stayed in nearby could have easily originally been the inn from the film too, going by the internal structure of the building… but I looked it up and it wasn’t!

I also really enjoyed a Nunkie Theatre reading of that story, a few years ago.

How did you go about adapting these stories into musical form? Were there any particular sounds or instruments that you felt particularly captured their feel?

I read both stories quite a few times to try to gain a better understanding of them, and I guess also to feel closer to the characters involved. I’m accustomed to singing from a character’s perspective, as that’s what I’m doing with most of the lyrics I write for The Left Outsides, in the same way that I do when I sing traditional folk songs. So, with The Girl I Left Behind Me, I tried to do this instrumentally, and I imagined myself as the main character of the story as I was playing. I composed an eerie melody for this piece, following the structure of the story and building up the suspense with my wordless singing as the story draws to its conclusion.

I chose The House Of The Famous Poet to soundtrack because an aspect of it fascinated me, and I wanted to focus on it with the feel of my piece: the strange and surreal concept of an “abstract funeral.” This “abstract funeral” is sold to the narrator by the soldier she meets on the train. The viola has a naturally mournful tone and I endeavoured to capture the mood of how I’d imagine an “abstract funeral” march would sound, with my layered vocals enhancing the melancholy, and the crescendo of cymbals adding to the solemnity of the drama. 

So you tried to follow the structures of the stories with the music, and reflect events in the narrative accordingly?

With The Girl I Left Behind Me, I did try to follow the structure of the story, particularly with the overdubs I added. I felt the story had a steady pace and it suited a structured viola melody, which I composed in advance. The overdubs mainly followed the storyline, with a very dramatic ending.

Was your musical approach quite improvisational? I’m told the wonderful viola on The House of the Famous Poet was done in one take!

Yes, it was completely improvised, and recorded in the first take. I played a drone in A minor and improvised over the top of this. When I’d finished the take, fifteen minutes later, I just didn’t think another take would have that same intense feel. It was also clear from that viola line that this piece needed to be minimal. It didn’t call for many overdubs, I just added some wordless vocals and the cymbals. I felt the starkness of the piece made it more eerie…

How did the collaboration with Clay Pipe come about? Do you go back a long way with Frances?

We were introduced a few years ago by a mutual friend, and got on really well, as we had similar interests. Frances heard The Girl I Left Behind Me on the radio and really liked it, so asked if she could release it, along with another soundtrack from me. And it made sense to choose another Muriel Spark ghost story for the B-side. I really love the label and Frances’ artwork is incredible – it’s an honour for me to have a release on Clay Pipe.

You played at the Delaware Road event in Wiltshire in August, and I really enjoyed your set! How was it for you? Any other experiences or performances that really stood out for you?

I thoroughly enjoyed the Delaware Road event. Such an exciting event in such a unique and eerie location, with lovely people in attendance and great music. It was clear how much work had gone into it and it’s an experience I’ll never forget. I was really happy to be asked to play and I loved playing in that Nissen Hut! It was only the fourth solo gig I’ve done and I was happy with how my set went. I’m glad you enjoyed it, Bob! I saw so many good performances but also missed a few people I wanted to see. I think my favourites were Penny Rimbaud, Natalie Sharp, Sarah Angliss and ARC Soundtracks.

Any idea what your next musical project might be? Another solo work, or something with The Left Outsides? Or your other band, the Trimdon Grange Explosion?

I always have so much going on it’s difficult to keep track sometimes. I have a few solo shows coming up. I’ve also started recording the next solo album. We’re about three-quarters of the way through the next The Left Outsides album and I’ll be recording my parts for the next Trimdon Grange Explosion album soon, too.

Thanks to Alison for her time and thoughts… The Girl I Left Behind Me is available from Clay Pipe music, here:

https://claypipemusic.greedbag.com/buy/the-girl-i-left-behind-me-1/

Usborne’s Ghosts, Christopher Maynard and Bosworth Hall Hotel

I can remember exactly where I was sitting when the Spectre of Newby Church first froze the blood in my unsuspecting eight-year-old veins. I was in my tiny, North-Eastern home town of Yarm, in the corner of Levendale Primary School library: a makeshift enclave of plastic shelving units between ‘Middle Band’ and ‘Upper Band’; an educational liminal space packed with Target paperbacks, encyclopaedias that fell suspiciously open at the ‘human reproduction’ pages, and an unseemly collection of Willard Price novellas.

“Look,” said Christopher Herbert, his customary aroma of guinea pigs and acute flatulence filling the room with a wafting, beige haze. “It’s a ghost”.

I peered at the book that lay open on his bony knees, and every vital fluid in my body instantly evaporated. My limbs felt cold and lifeless, my senses numbed in a split-second of sheer terror. It was a ghost. Unmistakeably. A towering spectral monk, thin and hollow-eyed, staring straight back at me from a bank of steps beside an austere church altar.

I barely slept for almost a week. The Spectre of Newby Church had looked directly into my soul. He knew me. Had seen me. My card was marked, and he would come for me during the night; floating up the stairs, passing effortlessly through my Star Wars-stickered door, and laying a bony hand upon my trembling forehead to claim me as the latest denizen of his dark and tortured netherworld.

Had I know at the time that Newby Church was barely thirty miles from Yarm, I might still have been awake at Christmas (Which, admittedly, I was anyway… 1980 was the year of the Palitoy Millennium Falcon).

And the book? It was, of course, Usborne’s legendary Ghosts book; alongside Monsters and UFOs, one third of a magnificent triumvirate of worryingly factual paranormal-themed volumes issued by this nascent childrens’ publisher under the umbrella title The World of the Unknown. This pivotal totem of the original “haunted” childhood was published in 1977, its 32 pages packed with stories of infamous visitations: from Black Shuck and Gef the Talking Mongoose to the specture of a decidedly deceased mother-in-law, lurking on the back seat of her unsuspecting son-in-law’s 1950s Hillman Minx. There were, of course, thorough debunkings as well… but naturally I paid less attention to those.

When I discovered – via Usborne’s Anna Howorth, and bookseller Tamsin Rosewell – that the Ghosts book was being given a 2019 reissue following a concerted fan campaign, I immediately pitched an accompanying feature to the Fortean Times. The resulting article, in which I met up with the book’s delightful (if somewhat bemused) writer Christopher Maynard, is the cover feature of the current issue, No 385, dated November 2019. It’s available now, and looks like this…

…. and on Saturday 19th October, I was delighted to be invited to a launch party held by Usborne and Haunted magazine, in the splendid location of Bosworth Hall Hotel, a rambling (and, of course, notoriously haunted) country pile nestling amidst the winding, shadowy lanes of Warwickshire. A treacly haze of autumnal sunshine was slowly descending as I arrived, and – as I rounded the corner – I was delighted to discover a blue plaque marking the birthplace of one of my favourite folk guitarists, Davey Graham. Awaiting me on the wide, winding staircase down to the hotel bar were Usborne’s Anna Howorth, the (still bemused but utterly charming) Chris Maynard, and writer Edward Parnell, whose new book Ghostland – an evocative travelogue of landscapes that inspired some of Britain’s most prominent writers of supernatural fiction – has an extract serialised in the same issue of the Fortean Times, a chapter exploring the Cardiganshire locales of William Hope Hodgson.

“I’m on the page after you,” smiled Edward, enigmatically.

Chris helpfully opened the copy that remained proudly tucked under his arm for the rest of the evening.

The party was a delight; an eclectic mix of the Haunted team – with editor Paul Stevenson an effervescent presence all night – eager ghost-hunters, writers, film-makers and dedicated enthusiasts of all matters spooky. I found myself sitting with SFX magazine stalwart turned novelist Nick Setchfield for most of the evening, as we discussed (of course) the nature of the 1970s haunted childhood, the oddly beautiful photographs of mushroom-coated graves that he’d taken in the hotel grounds, the lost 1984 single ‘London Story‘, and his new supernaturally-tinged Cold War novel The Spider Dance.

Also present was film-maker Ashley Thorpe and his Nucleus Films team, whose new feature Borley Rectory documents the somewhat chequered history of this notorious Essex vicarage, famously described as “the most haunted house in England” by 1930s psychic researcher Harry Price. We were treated to an after-dinner screening of this fascinating piece of film-making, preceded by a few words from its director – who explained the influence of the Usborne Ghosts book on his lifelong interest in the supernatural – and a specially-filmed introduction from star Reece Shearsmith. The film is boldly shot as a hugely evocative homage to the 1930s German Expressionist style, and tells the story of the rectory’s disturbing history concisely and entertainingly; Shearsmith plays diligent Daily Mirror reporter V.C. Wall, and I was delighted to spot Richard Strange, frontman with 1970s proto-punks Doctors of Madness, turning up as the house’s original Victorian rector, Henry Dawson Bull.

Afterwards, Edward hosted an entertaining Q&A with Ashley, Anna and Chris Maynard himself; still bemused that one of the eighty books he wrote during a twenty-year career penning childrens’ non-fiction had exerted such an influence, and gleefully signing copies of the reiussed version (with an effusive new Reece Shearsmith foreword) all evening. And then we decamped, en masse, to a darkened, upstairs function suite, where a random word generator on a laptop brought traditional table-rapping firmly into the 21st century, with requests for communications from beyond the veil being met with responses that included ‘PSYCHIC’, ‘CONTACT’, and – intriguingly – ‘KEITH’. A lively discussion about the nature of supernatural investigation could probably have thrived without my rambling thoughts on the hypnagogic hallucinations that occasionally blight my bedtimes (I usually see giant spiders, but on one occasion a World War 2 airman stood patiently at my bedside before fading into nothingness) but then I’d had a few bottles of the complimentary Peroni by this point, and had thrown caution to the wind.

There was still a bottle in my jacket pocket when this photo of Chris Maynard and me was taken at 1.35am…

Thanks to Haunted magazine and Usborne Publishing for a hugely entertaining evening. The reissued World of the Unknown: Ghosts is available now, from – as ever – “all good booksellers”. And congratulations to Edward Parnell, who – the following day – revealed on Twitter that his other favourite supernatural childhood tome – 1975’s Haunted Britain by Anthony D. Hippisley Coxe – has a chilling entry on Bosworth Hall, urging visitors to be mindful of an “indelible red stain, which unlike most stains is said to remain damp.”

In the absence of any evidence to the contrary, let’s blame Keith.


Pulselovers, Mat Handley and Cotswold Stone

I’m aware that my childhood memories are fading. Once razor-sharp recollections of sun-drenched (and, indeed, rain-soaked) escapades – the grubby friends, the mud-spattered tanktops, the lolly sticks on bicycle spokes – have become thin and hazy; drifting together into a cloud of indistinct vagueness… so that day, that day when that thing happened? Was that 1978 or 1979? Or was I even older than that? I can’t remember any more. The relentless march of middle-age erodes detail, yet magnifies longing… not just for the specific places and people of our youth, but for our distinct memories of them. Memories that we know we once had, but have now left… oh, over there somewhere. I think. Didn’t we? I don’t know, when did you last see them?

Doncaster musician Mat Handley – recording as Pulselovers – has poured these feelings into his second album, Cotswold Stone. It’s a beautiful musical evocation of his early 1970s school summer holidays; of times spent visiting his maternal grandparents (and the obligatory hordes of cousins that seemed to form a vital part of every 1970s childhood) in the picturesque Oxfordshire town of Burford… and, indeed of the deliciously fuzzy and elusive qualities that his memories of the period have now assumed. An album where woozy electronica meets the sounds of the school music room; flutes, xylophones and recorders. I asked Mat about his family background, the idyllic summers that inspired the album, and the musical adventures and inspirations that have informed his output over the last four decades…

Bob: Congratulations on Cotswold Stone… it’s a lovely album. Can you tell us a bit about Burford? Where is it, and what kind of place was it?

Mat: Burford is a small town in Oxfordshire. commonly referred to as the “Gateway to the Cotswolds”. According to legend, it’s the place where the King of the Mercians, Æthelbald, was beaten in battle by the Saxon King Cuthred in the year 752. Burford church was also used as a temporary prison in 1649, when 340 Levellers were incarcerated before being either pardoned or executed. The church still bears evidence of this incident, there’s ancient graffiti carved into the very font where I was baptised. For me though, Burford is the place where my maternal grandparents lived, where my mum and her sister grew up and married, and where my siblings and my cousins spent a lot of time during the 1970s, particularly during those long hot summer holidays.

It was a place with big family connections for you, then?

My grandparents made their marital home in Burford, although they both originated from other parts of the country; Grandad was born in Grimsby and Grandma in Leicestershire, though both families eventually ended up in or around Daventry in Northamptonshire, which is where they met. I’ve no idea what made them choose Burford as a place to bring up their children, but they must have moved there in the mid-1940s. I only know this thanks to my sister’s tireless family research on one of those family tree websites! I’m fascinated as to what you can discover when you start digging into these records, but it really raises a lot more questions than answers. There are many occasions where I’ve just logged on in the early evening to see what my sister has unearthed, only to look at the clock to find it’s 3am and I have to be up for work at six!

The album feels very upbeat and “summery”… was it particularly the feel of those childhood summers that you were keen to evoke?

Absolutely. I guess the timeframe for this album is the early 1970s. I lived in Daventry then with Mum, Dad, my brother Simon, my sister Naomi and Sam the dog, but school holidays were mainly spent in Burford. Memories are hazy, but… long walks down country roads, feeding the ducks at Bourton-on-the-Water, helping Grandma in the kitchen – or Grandad in the garden – and having death-defying fun on the “Witches Hat” down in “The Rec”. Those memories are like sun-scorched Polaroids that linger in my head. It’s these inconsequential but happy snapshots that I tried to evoke when I was making the album. Certain smells can transport you back to a certain time or place… and that’s what I attempted to do with sound.

I’ve seen you mention “Auntie C’s ramshackle Bradwell Grove cottage”, too. Can you tell us a bit more about this? Who was she, and was the cottage a particularly special place for you?

This memory is pretty hazy. Mum’s sister Auntie Carol, Uncle Tony and my cousins Estelle and Claire lived in a small cottage within the grounds of the Cotswold Wildlife Park… my Uncle worked there in the kitchens. The only tangible memory of the place that I have is the crumbling pig-sty in the back garden, which was a fantastic place to play… although there were no pigs! I say the memory is hazy… it may actually be entirely false or misremembered. I could actually speak to Auntie Carol or my cousins to confirm one way or another, but to be honest I’d rather keep what I have. The truth could potentially spoil something which is comforting.

In fact, the same could be said for much of the inspiration behind the album. When I told my sister recently about it, she told me that she doesn’t remember spending that much time in Burford at all. Now… during the timeframe I’m referring to, she would only have been between four and five years old, so of course she won’t remember as much as me, but even so I guess it’s possible that some of these snapshots have been filed away in my head incorrectly.

It’s this potential loss of recollection that made me want to make this album in the first place. My Mum now suffers from dementia, and no longer has a memory at all. Much of the music I make is steeped in nostalgia, real or imagined, and I’ve tried to understand why that is, but with no success. I know the catch-all description of music with the hauntology tag is that it yearns for lost futures, but the music I make hasn’t been designed that way, that’s just how it materialises. When I’m playing in other projects like Floodlights, or particularly with the band Vert:X, I come at the material from a completely different angle. I think Pulselovers is just too personal for me, and I  can’t escape the melancholy!

So there’s a nice ‘”fuzziness” about your memories of the era? I’m the same. Lots of my early childhood memories aren’t specific events, more just a “feel”… a kind of vague, cosy melancholy. But a nice melancholy, if that makes sense!

I couldn’t describe it any better myself. There’s nothing specific about my memories… and I wouldn’t want there to be. They’re simply images that can be viewed, like an internal photo album.

I’ve seen you say that your memories of names on road signs played a big part in the album… Cleeve Hill, Shipton-under-Wychwood, Bourton-on-the-Water, Stow-on-the-Wold. They’re all wonderfully evocative names. When you hear them, what images do they evoke?

They just remind me of the excitement and anticipation I felt on car journeys during that period. I don’t think I’ve even visited some of these places, but seeing the names in black on white as you pass them, on the winding B-roads of the Cotswolds, triggers mini fireworks of memory in my head. This isn’t exclusive to Burford and the Cotswolds, though. I find the same thing happens when I drive close to places where I used to live, or have some other connection. In fact, last year I happened to drive close to my childhood home of Daventry, and as the names of Towcester, Braunston, Staverton and Everdon flashed by me on the A45 – names I’d not even realised were stored up there in my head somewhere – similar pangs of nostalgic giddiness flooded through me, like it used to as a child.

This might just be me, but I thought the album had a curiously Transatlantic feel in places! There are saxophones, and synth-funk rhythms that evoked memories of some of the glossy US TV shows that we watched at the time. Was that a deliberate move? Did you have any memories of TV or film music in mind when you were making the album?

Nothing deliberate there at all from me… though subconsciously, there may be some influence. I think you’re referring to the track In the Grove, and that combination of funky guitar and tooting saxes came entirely from my pals John Alexander and Harriet Lisa, who played them. There’s a host of talented people who have contributed to this record. John appears all over the album, mainly playing guitar. His project is called Floodlights and you should have a listen to it. His stuff is much more sophisticated than mine and really deserves to be heard.

Harriet only plays on that one track on the album, though she also plays clarinet on the accompanying single On the Green. Then there’s Mark Taylor on bass, Sarah Parton on flute, recorder and clarinet, my son Raven on acoustic guitar and Graham Sutherland who plays the beautiful lead on the album’s closer On the Wold. Colin Bradley of Dual/Spleen also played guitar on the single and my pal Wayne Ulmer of Panamint Manse totally reworked the album track In the Marsh, for the B-side of the single. I’m humbled to have had all these talented and – apart from Wayne – local musicians helping me realise this project.

Did you leave Daventry – and indeed Burford – at quite a young age? I think you’ve been in Doncaster since the 1980s. Was it a big wrench to leave? Leaving town and moving school during that period was a big thing… it was much less easy to keep in touch with school friends after you’d gone.

My grandparents left Burford in – I think – the mid 1980s. After my great grandmother passed away in 1987, they inherited and moved into her bungalow in Woodford Halse, near Daventry. As you can probably tell, nostalgia, melancholy and family history informs much of what I do with Pulselovers, and with the tiny tape label – Woodford Halse – that I run. My Dad was born and bred in Doncaster and we moved up here as a family in around 1978. The move was a terrible wrench for me, as I think it is for most kids who leave friends behind for a new life. It also meant that visits to my grandparents became much less frequent, too.

I actually visited Burford for the first time since the mid-1980s quite recently… on the trip back north after attending the wonderful Delaware Road event on Salisbury Plain. My partner and I spent an afternoon wandering up and down the High Street – which doesn’t seem to have changed in the slightest – and sitting in silent contemplation in the churchyard of St John the Baptist, where I was baptised in 1966. Although in Lou’s case, it could well have been simply boredom!

Had you already started to experiment with making music in the 1980s? I’ve seen you talk about sitting “in the cupboard under the stairs with my Jen SX1000 and Roland SH101”! When did you get them? And why did you sit in the cupboard?

Haha! The cupboard under the stairs was no Harry Potter-esque exile… we were a family of five, living in a small three-bedroomed council house. In 1982 or 1983, soon after staring my first job in a cable factory, I bought a couple of synths and a drum machine to try and emulate synth-pop heroes like the Human League, John Foxx and Fad Gadget. I failed miserably, but had a lot of fun making a racket. The cupboard was the only space available for these toys and I had to share the space with the ironing board, the vacuum cleaner and all the other household crap that doesn’t have a real home!

Does any of the music you made during that period survive in any form?

There are a couple of Bandcamp compilations (Virgin Territory and Bedroom Cassette Masters 1980-1989) where I submitted a single track for each, but I really wouldn’t recommend them! Both of those submissions were recorded in the cupboard under the stairs, directly into the boombox’s built-in mic. Then there’s Soundtrack V from the first album… that was written in that same dusty cupboard, but re-recorded with better equipment and a little more experience, thirty-odd years later.

Doncaster is not a million miles away from Sheffield, which was a hugely exciting place to be for electronic music in the 1980s! Did that make a big impact on you?

A massive impact! The Human League – Mark 1, of course – and Cabaret Voltaire were, and continue to be, a big influence. The long version of Toyota City (the B-side of Only After Dark), The Dignity of Labour, Music for Stowaways and The Voice of America are pieces of music that I never get bored of hearing.

Sheffield has a great musical heritage, and even now there’s a lot of great music to discover. Bishop’s House is a tiny Tudor building that I regularly visit to see intimate folk or experimental gigs by the likes of Sharron Kraus, Pefkin or Bell Lungs. On the electronic side, there’s Saif Mode, Isis Moray and loads more… record label-wise, I’m an avid collector of Sonido Polifonico and Do It Thissen. There’s so much to be inspired and entertained by.

Tell us about the history of recording as Pulselovers… when did you start?

As I mentioned before, I bought a couple of synths, a drum machine and a delay pedal in around 1983, and made a lot of unproductive noise for a couple of years. They were joined later by a Tascam 244 four-track. Then the familiar story of real life happened… with relationships, weddings, kids, divorces and bankruptcy taking priority over any artistic endeavours. There was always a desire to create, but often not the time or the opportunity. Then, in about 2015, I started to present a radio show on the local community station Sine FM, initially with the idea of playing the music of my youth… post-punk, industrial, synth-pop and the like. Through doing this show I started discovering new music that I’d never been aware of… labels like Ghost Box, Polytechnic Youth, Cardinal Fuzz, Folklore Tapes, Reverb Worship, Rocket Recordings and Castles in Space were all putting out music by new artists which reignited both my love of vinyl, and my desire to make music of my own again.

A copy of Propellerheads’ Reason software, a laptop and a midi controller keyboard were purchased, and I soon started working out how to use this stuff… initially by recording some dodgy cover versions (you can find them online too, but I’m not telling you where to look!) and then on the original material that eventually became the first Pulselovers album. The name Pulselovers comes from a piece of music by The Future – Ian Craig Marsh, Martin Ware and Adi Newton in their pre-Human League days – which appears on the fab collection The Golden Hour of the Future. Originally it was Pulse Lovers, I just joined the words together.

Has the music you make changed since then? You’ve mentioned elswhere acquiring a load of analogue synths in 2016… was this a deliberate move to create something a little more “vintage” sounding?

I still use the computer to make most of my music, but more just as a multi-track recorder now. The addition of standalone instruments has allowed me to write in a more improvisational manner. Also, I’ve found that restricting myself to three or four synth parts works better than the unlimited nature of working with everything that the laptop offers… when you’ve been working on a track for a week, adding layer upon layer, sometimes you listen back and find that you’ve lost what you were trying to come up with in the first place, or that the original five-minute demo with its simple baseline, crappy drum machine and naive melody sounds so much better.

I think the music I make has developed and matured a lot since that first album. I’ve contributed several tracks to Steve Prince’s A Year In The Country themed compilations over the past three years, and I’ve found the specific themes and guidance you receive as a contributor has changed the way that I approach writing and recording. No longer do I follow the bassline, melody, beat formula of my earlier stuff. I’ll now write a piece around a tape loop or a field recording made at a specific location… whatever it takes to find the feeling I want the piece to invoke. Two of the tracks on the album – Badby 80 and The Green Leaves of Shildam Hall – originally appeared in different forms on two of these compilations.

I meant to ask about Badby 80… where does the title come from?

On an excursion from my adopted hometown of Doncaster to Daventry in 1983, I took photographs of old school pals, my primary and secondary schools, and the various haunts where – as a child in the mid-1970s – I played football, rode my bike and collected newts, frogs and other pond life. One such location was a subway which went under the main road. I had to travel through it to get from my council house to the then-swanky and modern comprehensive school. On the wall was a piece of graffiti which intrigued me enough to want to capture it for posterity. In black spray paint, with letters a foot high was the inscription, “Badby 80 – 8 arrest, 8 innocents”.

Badby is a tiny village around five miles from Daventry, located within the boundaries of the nearby Fawsley Estate. It was a magical place where my parents and siblings would spend many a Sunday afternoon exploring the woods… they were famous for the deep carpet of bluebells that covered the entire forest floor every Spring. I could never comprehend how this little hamlet, with its idyllic and mysterious woodland, accessible only via a broken down stone archway, could be the setting for anything where eight innocent people could be arrested. I tried to find out the details behind this incident from friends and family, but without any success. Who were the eight? What was their crime? Nobody knew…. or if they did, they weren’t talking.

The photo lay in my box of memories untouched and ignored for decades, only springing back into my consciousness when working on a track for the Year In The Country collection, The Restless Field. The result is my interpretation of an incident that I know virtually nothing about, but it’s one that still intrigues me nearly forty years later.

A little word about Castles in Space, a label I love… how did you end up releasing Cotswold Stone with them, and how have they been to work with?

It came completely out of the blue! I’d linked up with the label boss, Colin Morrison, on social media because of the radio show and because I’m a fan of the label. I think Colin was one of the few people who actually bought the first album when it came out, and I’d always assumed this was more down to Nick Taylor having done the artwork… I got to know Nick outside of music through our mutual membership of a small and now defunct cinema club here in Doncaster. I found Colin a friendly chap who had impeccable taste in music…. those early singles are fab, but when Akiha Den Den and the Concretism albums came out.. just wow!

Anyway, around a year or so ago, without warning, he just messaged me and asked if I was working on anything interesting. I told him I was working on a follow-up to the first album and my jaw dropped through the floor when he asked whether I’d be interested in working with him to release it. It’s clear that Colin is really passionate about what he puts out, and luckily that includes how the finished work is presented. He’s not happy to just wrap the record in a pretty picture and put it out there; a lot of thought goes into the relationship between the music and the visuals. The inserts, extra totemic additions, the colour of the vinyl…. right down to the way the record is mailed out. It’s all done with a sense of care, and attention to the inspiration of the music.

I don’t know whether you’ve seen it, but the video he commissioned for the album track Autumn Arrives Again was something I had not expected… but it absolutely adds to the overall vision. I was always a big fan of 4AD and the close relationship the label had with Vaughan Oliver, and one of the reasons that I love Castles in Space is their idea that the creative process doesn’t stop once the music has been recorded. Having Nick on board for the artwork was a no-brainer of course, and I think he’s excelled himself with this project. The look, the feel and the colours he used are better than I could have hoped for. Obviously, without this connection to Castles in Space, I may not have come across the wonderful Twelve Hour Foundation either, and Jez Butler’s mastering of the album is perfection.

And a really obvious question… Cotswold Stone itself. The title… why that? Is there a particularly evocative kind of stone that’s unique to the Cotswolds?

Essentially, it’s the golden-coloured limestone that you see in the miles and miles of dry stone walls that cover the South West… and in many of the historic buildings too, like Burford Priory. There’s a quote from J.B. Priestly: “The truth is that it has no colour that can be described. Even when the sun is obscured and the light is cold, these walls are still faintly warm and luminous, as if they knew the trick of keeping the lost sunlight of centuries glimmering about them” That perfectly describes the attributes of the physical stone itself and maybe – hopefully – similar words could be used to describe the individual tracks on album.

Thanks so much to Mat for his time… and his family photos! Cotswold Stone is available here…

https://pulselovers-cis.bandcamp.com

Dick and Stewart, Richard Littler and Scarfolk

The crackly, rustic theme tunes; the muted colour palettes; the crude but charming animated styles, the gently-clipped narrations by honey-voiced character actors, their fruity tones steeped in sugary tea and the pallid smoke of untipped cigarettes. The short cartoons of our 1970s childhoods – from Mr Benn to The Magic Ball, from Bod to Mary, Mungo and Midge – had a very distinctive style, and a very special place in our hearts; broadcast ‘for our younger viewers’ in the five-minute run-up to Pebble Mill at One, or sandwiched between Blue Peter and the unsettling headlines of the 5.40pm news. One final, daily hurrah of childhood innocence before Kenneth Kendall or Richard Whitmore arrived, and our cosy front rooms were once again subsumed by news of international arms races and imminent industrial action.

Richard Littler – who, since 2013, has been the benevolent overlord of Scarfolk, the dysfunctional North-Western town trapped in a perennial, authoritarian late 1970s nightmare – has combined many of these evocative factors to create Dick and Stewart. While re-creating perfectly the gentle trappings of those teatime institutions, it’s actually a nightmarish, satirical look at 21st century surveillance culture, seen through the eyes of a very 1970s schoolboy – the trusting, innocent Dick – and the living eyeball that he carries everywhere; the last, living remnant of his friend Stewart, who – we learn – has died in a playground accident.

Narrated by Julian Barratt, of The Mighty Boosh and Flowers fame, it’s a disturbing but beautifully-made piece of animation, with the pilot episode – I Spy With My Little Eye – available to watch, in full, on Youtube…

I asked Richard about the process of making Dick and Stewart, and the inspirations behind it…

Bob: Congratulations on Dick and Stewart… it’s wonderful. Can you tell us a bit about the process of getting it made, and how difficult that might have been?

Richard: Thanks a lot. I was flying blind a bit because, although I’ve worked in motion graphics before, I hadn’t done any kind of character or narrative-based animation. It took me a while to find my feet and develop my own process. I ended up creating Dick and Stewart with a mix of open source software and Adobe After Effects, which I don’t think is typically used for this kind of production. There weren’t any deadlines so I just took my time. On my own, it took months to complete.

As a graphic designer, had you always harboured ambitions to try your hand at animation?

In addition to Disney, Warner Bros and Tex Avery – which was my favourite – I was also brought up on Terry Gilliam’s Python animated inserts. It was seeing his rudimentary style that first made me think that animation may be possible even for someone like me. Gilliam didn’t need a studio of Disney animators, nor did he care about the kind of slick refinement you’d see in a film like Fantasia or Sleeping Beauty. He just did it all in his bedroom, even when he was making it for the BBC. Gonzo or punk animation. Low-budget, daytime kids’ animations were also similarly simplistic.

Yes, it’s clearly very much inspired by the 1970s animations that we all saw as children… the likes of Mr Benn and Mary, Mungo and Midge. Can you talk us through your memories of watching these, and other shows of the same ilk, and how they made you feel as a child? Which of them were your favourites?

I loved the cartoons you mention. I also liked The Magic Ball and anything by SmallfilmsIvor the Engine, Bagpuss etc. Looking back at the cartoons before I started Dick and Stewart, I was surprised how technically crude – albeit charming – some of them are. You can frequently see pencil marks, rubbings out and felt-tip pen strokes. Rostrum cameras were also used extensively, so thirty seconds might go by and the audience would only see a zoom or pan of a static illustration. 

This slower pace gave many of the animations a dreamlike quality, which I responded to. I wasn’t as much a fan of noisier cartoons like Roobarb – as much as I love Richard Briers – or American cartoons like the Hanna Barbera stuff. I also preferred hypnotic narrators such as Ray Brooks and Oliver Postgate, the co-owner of Smallfilms.

The trance-like quality was compounded for me because I was always off sick with colds, flu or fevers, which cast a surreal and sometimes dark shadow over the programmes. I still remember that, during one fever, the weird, unblinking eyes of the background characters in Mr Benn unsettled me.

Interesting that you mention dreamlike qualities, as we’ve spoken before about your childhood inability to distinguish between reality and the horrible nightmares you suffered from… does that remain a motivating factor in your work?

I don’t think it’s a conscious factor, but I have always preferred art, music and books with dreamlike, or rather unexpected or out-of-place elements and qualities, though my interpretation of whether something is dreamlike or not is probably subjective, rather than the intention of the artist in question.

People often talk of the 1970s as being a decade of bright, clashing colours, but my memories are of everything being rather washed out and pale. And the colours of Dick and Stewart really capture that… was the colour palette something you thought about carefully?

You’re right, 1970s cartoons were quite washed out. Or all our TVs were on the blink! The colours were very important, so I spent some time extracting colour palettes from programmes such as Mary, Mungo & Midge, The Magic Ball, Mr Benn, Bod and Joe. The latter of which I’d never seen before, but I liked the thick, black, rough lines and distinctive period colours.

(Curiously, I’d never heard of Joe either, but it was broadcast on BBC1 throughout the early 1970s, with the second series – from which this episode comes – being narrated by Colin Jeavons…)

The themes of surveillance and authoritarianism are terrifying… is this a reflection of how you feel about the 1970s, with its powerful state, or more how you feel about the present day?

Although I loved the black-domed, in-store surveillance CCTV cameras in the 1970s, which resembled Dalek heads or the torture droid in Star Wars (I still want one!), the surveillance in Dick and Stewart is inspired by contemporary issues. Brits sometimes appear quite complacent about encroaching surveillance, more so than in other countries I’ve lived – Germany, for example. Last year, the European Court of Human Rights ruled that the UK government’s bulk interception of data was against human rights. It’s an issue we need to… well, keep an eye on to ensure that civil liberties are not impinged upon, or worse. I’ve also completed similarly-themed design work for organisations such as the Open Rights Group. For example, a while back, I created a series of surveillance images parodying Fougasse’s wartime propaganda posters.

The normalisation of control is the most disturbing element of Dick and Stewart for me – as epitomised in the song, with its “watching is normal and healthy” refrain! Is this a road we’re being nudged down, do you think? Our everyday activities in 2019 are easier than ever to track and record…

We’re frequently at risk of signing away our privacy. I don’t think law has caught up with technological advancements yet, so there’s a constant tug of war between what is legal and what isn’t or shouldn’t be. Many companies (and the Government itself) sustain some of their activities via loopholes and/or with the hope that any wrongdoing hasn’t been detected, partially because it has not yet been clearly defined. Reality TV and phone cams have also normalised the idea of constantly being filmed and broadcast, and even that it’s desirable.

The idea of Stewart being the last remnant of a dead friend really struck a chord with me… my childhood seemed to be filled with rumours and urban myths of children that had died in terrible ways, and their stories were often presented as a lesson or a warning… ‘do you want to end up like that little boy?’ and all that. Was it the same for you? Any stories that have stuck in your mind?

Yes, the 1970s were full of well-meaning but horrific cautionary tales that involved the maiming or killing of children: Public Information Films about the dangers of pylons, railways, canals, farms, fireworks, electricity. When I was in infant school, rumours spread in the playground that a fellow pupil had suddenly vanished because he had been taken by a witch. At the same time, Public Information Films warned children not to go with strangers, so I took this as tacit confirmation that witches abducted kids from suburban playgrounds. The pupil hadn’t disappeared, by the way, his parents had moved house. Well, that’s what they say; I’m pretty sure it was witches. I hadn’t really thought about it until now, but it’s possible that Stewart came about because of the ubiquitous childhood warning, “Be careful or you’ll have your eye out with that!”

Julian Barratt’s narration is perfect… how did you get him on board? Was he someone that you always had in mind for this, and if so – what was it about his voice that made him so suitable?

I always knew that I wanted a soft “Ray Brooks type” narration, though for quite a while I was contemplating a female narrator. When I heard Julian’s narration, however, I knew that he was the perfect choice. He and Andy Starke, the producer, had worked together before, which made it easier. I’m very grateful that he did. I don’t recall that we discussed Ray Brooks specifically; I don’t think we needed to because Ray Brooks is such an icon in this field.

And needless to say, I love Chris Sharp‘s music… and he’s an artist that lots of readers will know from his work as Concretism. Do you go back a lomg way with Chris?

Chris was one of the first people to like Scarfolk so we’ve known other since then. I was an instant fan of his music and our respective creative projects come from the same well of early experiences. It captures the period perfectly and I’m so delighted that he let me loose on his album design. The Dick and Stewart soundtrack will be released soon, so people should look out for that.

This episode of Dick & Stewart is labelled as a ‘pilot’… are there further episodes in the works? What are your plans for it?

Five further episodes are already written and cover a range of contemporary topics including propaganda, civil defense, ‘fake news’, gaslighting and various forms of governmental corruption. Additionally, much of the artwork for the next two episodes is complete, but of course these things cost money and time and, ideally, the series would find a home on a platform other than YouTube.

Thanks to Richard for his time, as ever… and for providing the screengrabs in this feature. While we await further Dick & Stewart, it’s worth mentioning that Richard’s new Scarfolk Annual is released on 17th October, and is available for pre-order here…

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Scarfolk-Annual-Richard-Littler/dp/0008307016