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 Mars‘ Inner 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…
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:
We’d driven along the winding, narrow roads of Salisbury Plain for at least two miles; a convoy of civilian family cars packed with camping equipment, passing countless “Unexploded Military Debris” warning signs in troubled, late summer sunshine, all of us drawn to the cluster of grey concrete bunkers that perodically peered, surreptitiously, from behind a pockmarked horizon.
This was New Zealand Farm Camp, location for the latest extraordinary Delaware Road event, and – when not playing host to a prestigious assembly of artists sharing DNA based loosely in the electronic avant-garde – a site used by the Ministry of Defence to simulate urban combat, the clump of army boots and the rattle of live ammunition echoing around its muddy trackways and fordibbing, brutalist architecture.
“What’s the book?” asked the guard at the main gate, poking diligently through the travel bag on the back seat of my car.
“It’s Suggs’ autobiography,” I replied.
“Very nice. I’ve just started Kenneth Williams’ memoirs.”
Alison Cotton began proceedings, performing a beautifully ethereal and haunting suite to an attentive crowd in the Nissen Hut that housed the event’s main stage. Stephen ‘Polypores’ Buckley and Chris ‘Concretism’ Sharp were amongst the friendly faces I spotted in attendance, and warm greetings were exchanged at the end of the set before I followed them to Bunker B1, where Colin Morrison’s Castles in Space label – home to recent releases by both – had set up camp for the evening. Stephen performed a throbbing, mesmerising Polypores set of seamless, pulsing ambience to a bustling crowd, tightly packed into this shadowy, concrete hideaway. Including Portsmouth’s own psychedelic troubador Keith Seatman, who cheerfully introduced himself and gleefully briefed me on the history of the 19th century sea forts heavily featured in the 1972 Doctor Who adventure, The Sea Devils.
The evening became a blur of music, conversation, cider and the occasional occult ritual. I paid a visit to Frances Castle, whose Clay Pipe stall was ensconced in Bunker 3, and boasted tantalising first glimpses of the artwork for two forthcoming albums: Vic Mars‘ intriguing Edgelands-influenced project Inner Roads and Outer Paths, and Alison Cotton’s Halloween release The Girl I Left Behind Me, inspired by two Muriel Spark ghost stories, and originally composed for Gideon Coe’s BBC 6 Music show. I swapped genial greetings with Push and Neil from Electronic Sound magazine, dishing out freebies from a towering pile of stylish back issues in the basement of a building where, upstairs, the ever-welcoming Robin The Fog was warmly greeting interested snoopers in the midst of a Howlround soundcheck.
It was a delight to catch the professorial figure of Sarah Angliss performing live; her album Air Loom has been one of my highlights of 2019, and she makes for an extremely engaging live performer; funny and self-deprecating, but an expert in building beguiling symphonies from samples, theramin and an ancient clavicymbalum… a medieval precursor of the harpsichord, apparently; these disparate sounds all perfectly entwined around Sarah’s soaring, crystal-clear vocals. I then squashed back into the crowds of tiny B1 to catch Jez and Polly of The Twelve Hour Foundation present a magnificent. feelgood set of John Baker-inspired radiophonica; transporting a bunker filled with grinning fortysomethings back to childhoods soundtracked by the themes to long-forgotten Open University modules and John Craven’s Newsround.
Amongst their number was the effusive Alex Cargill, whose epic debut album as The Central Office of Information is set to become Castles In Space’s debut CD release. It was a delight to meet Alex, who repaid my insistence on playing his tracks on my BBC Tees show with another pint of cider from the impromptu stall outside the main hut. The evening was becoming slightly blurry…
I enjoyed Crass founder Penny Rimbaud‘s spoken word performance on the main stage, accompanied by a plaintive, mournful cello; then found myself caught in the midst of a procession to the woods, where a circle of bemused participants were anointed with oil to the lower lips and encouraged to worship “The Spirits of Place” with a spiralling chorus of animal howls. I imagined the noise my beloved border collie, Megan, would make when I returned home the following day, and threw myself into the maelstrom accordingly. The green-faced Chris Lambert – accomplished mummer and long-term resident of The Black Meadow – was a constant presence in the series of ritual events that sparked up throughout the evening; whenever, that is, he wasn’t leaning against a bunker wall and discussing the finer points of Krull with Stephen Buckley, the pair of them entirely oblivious to the extroardinary double rainbow forming outside, seemingly bestowing its radiant, benevolent blessing on the whole, strange shebang.
Howlround’s performance – in cahoots with audio-visual artist and Psyché Tropes supremo Merkaba Macabre – was typically hypnotic, and equally typically packed, the audience nestling shoulder-to-shoulder. I had to watch from the stairs, while a succcession of vintage washing powder and detergent advertisements flickered on the bare wall behind me. And then it was back to the Castles in Space hut, where Chris Sharp presented an hour-long Concretism set, a mesmeric evocation of delicious Cold War austerity, to another attentive gathering.
Back in May, Chris spoke live on my BBC Tees show to both myself and the show’s resident electronica wizard, Kev Oyston. This seems like an appropriate moment as any to transcribe it…
Tell us a little bit about your background… when did you start making music as Concretism?
It was around 2010. If I remember, about a year before, I’d discovered Boards of Canada, and they were a massive influence on me. I’d always written music, but I got bored and despondent with it. But I remember hearing Boards of Canada, and they absolutely blew me away, and I thought… I want to make music like that. What really fascinated me was how they can evoke and create the feeling that you’ve gone back in time. That’s what I wanted to do, and that’s kind of how it started, but Concretism – when it began – was quite different to how it is now. It was more of a drone project, and it wasn’t as Cold War-influenced. For the first few years, it was more inspired by things like Public Information Films, and a lot of 1970s documentaries. But for the last few years it’s gone in that Cold War direction, which is only a good thing! As a kid, and then a teenager, in the 1980s, the Cold War seemed to permeate every aspect of my childhood, and the prospect of nuclear armageddon was something I thought about every single day. Was it the same for you?
Absolutely, yeah. I remember the Star Wars programme… that’s what I think made the 1980s such a scary time, with regards to nuclear confrontation; Reagan’s stance against the Sovet Union, with the Star Wars programme being a big part of that. And then obviously Chernobyl, in 1986… and although that wasn’t nuclear war, it was still nuclear. I used to watch the news as a kid, because I was a strange child, and I remember seeing all the Chernobyl stuff and thinking “Oh my God, that’s terrifying… what if the radiation gets over here?”
And the other thing… when I was about nine or ten, my dad took me to the cinema to see When The Wind Blows, which I’m sure is not a film you should really take a nine-year-old to see.
No! I can’t believe you saw it at the cinema!
I did, and I was so depressed and upset. And to this day, I haven’t seen it since. I’ve only seen it that once. Even as an adult, I refuse to watch When The Wind Blows. I will not watch that film. It upset me so much.
I bet your dad thought he was doing a really good thing… come on Chris, it’s by the same guy who made The Snowman!
Yeah! And it’s funny, I can watchThreads… I can watch Threads a million times. I never saw it as a kid, only as an adult. And I just think it’s quite a funny film…
Oh, come ON!
No! Because the characters in Threads are a bit two-dimensional, aren’t they? You don’t really care about the characters in Threads, whereas if you watch When The Wind Blows, you really care about this old couple.
I care about the characters in Threads so much that the last time I watched it, I got half an hour in, and the feeling of impending doom was so much I had to turn it off. I didn’t want to see Reece Dinsdale die! I like Reece Dinsdale!
We all like Reece Dinsdale, honestly! But no, I can watch Threads and it doesn’t bother me at all.
Did you have any sirens close to your house? Anything that might – for example – have been mistaken for the four-minute warning?
I live quite close to the Thames, in the south of Essex. I live in the house I grew up in, I bought it from my dad, and I’ve lived here forever. And we still, to this day, have flood sirens down on the Thames, which are basically just repurposed World War Two air raid sirens. And every Thursday morning at 11 o’clock, they test them… they give them one blast for about thirty seconds. So quite often, if I’m working at home and I have the window open, I’ll hear “Mmmmmmmmmmmmm….” and it’s not rising or falling, it just rises then drops down again. But it’s pretty scary. Luckily I know what it is, but if anyone was in the town and didn’t know that they test the flood sirens every week… they would soil themselves, I think!
Have I seen somewhere that there are no nuclear sirens in the UK any more? They’ve all been decommissioned?
I think, during the Cold War, a lot of stuff was repurposed. So they just used air raid sirens that had been left over from World War Two, and also bunkers… generally, they didn’t really build a lot of nuclear bunkers, they just used old World War Two bunkers, and reclaimed spaces. So there must be some kind of attack warning now, but it’s probably a text message! They had that thing in Hawaii didn’t they, about a year ago? I think it would be that. Or a WhatsApp message. Or a tweet.
I saw you in 2017, performing at the Delaware Road event in Kelvedon Hatch Nuclear Bunker in Essex, the underground facility that would have housed the British government in the event of a nuclear attack. What did you make of the place?
It was pretty cool. I didn’t actually get to see much of the bunker, because it took me about an hour to set my gear up, and then I did my gig and played for just over three hours, and then my mate – who is my roadie – had to catch an early flight in the morning. So as soon as I finished, I packed all my gear up, got in the car and left! But I briefly had a very quick look around the bunker, just after I soundchecked, and what I saw of it was really impressive, and really big. And creepy… I found it very creepy. There’s something very unsettling about it, even though it was never used for real. Not helped by the fact that there are mannequins and dummies all over it!
Talk us through your album, For Concrete And Country. There are some interesting references amidst the track titles… Microwave Relay was the one that really fascinated me. Can you explain that?
It’s a reference to the Microwave Tower Network, which was codenamed “Backbone” during the Cold War. They built a lot of these big wire mesh towers, and many of them are still standing now… and some of them are concrete, too. Part of the Backbone Network was the Post Office Tower. But again, I think a lot of it was repurposed, or even used at the same time for TV and radio broadcasts. So BBC Tees might well be using mouldy old Backbone masts!
It’s more than likely…
So Microwave Relay is a reference to that Backbone Network, which would have been resilient to nuclear attack… far more so than other systems.
There’s a track called Pye Green Tower on the album too, was that part of the same network?
That was one of the towers, yeah. That one was concrete, and it’s in Staffordshire. I’ve never been to the Pye Green Tower, but it looks pretty impressive!
Given that all of this stuff traumatised us so much as a kids, why are we looking back on it with a sense of almost rose-tinted nostalgia? We’re like Monty Python’s Four Yorkshiremen…
I think it could be the fact that nuclear war never actually happened. There’s a sort of relief, isn’t there? We can look back at these horrific things like Threads and When The Wind Blows – well not me, obviously, because I won’t watch it – with a kind of relief, as adults, that the war never happened. It would have been absolutely horrific. And it could still happen, but I think what we need to worry about more in the 21st century, going forward, is Artificial Intelligence. Which I think a lot of people are saying is a bigger threat to the future of humanity than nuclear weapons. But it doesn’t have the same cool factor, does it…?
In twenty years time, when nothing has happened, the musicians that were teenagers in 2019 can make albums about that…
Yes, there’ll be a hauntology movement about Artificial Intelligence!
From midnight onwards, Ritual and Resistance took on increasingly surreal (well, more surreal) proportions… I watched Natalie Sharp, in her Lone Taxidermist persona, perform a disturbing but captivating set, accompanied by what appeared to be two suspended human spines. And then, outside the camp’s Water Tower, I bumped into Jez and Polly of the Twelve Hour Foundation for a final time, and we whiled away the early hours by discussing the alluring qualities of their home towns; Cleethorpes and Scarborough respectively. I then capped off the evening by dancing (alongside journalist and Modern Aviation owner Will Salmon, who has some sensational moves) to a pounding DJ set by former World Snooker Champion Steve Davis, who had been an affable preseence throughout the day, and who spoke passionately to a small, assembled throng of us afterwards about his love of the Delaware Road project, and his lifelong passion for underground music and electronica.
It was 3.40am before I collapsed into my spider-infested tent beneath a rustling oak tree, but not before I’d grabbed the picture below…
As a wonderful addendum to an incredible evening… on the Sunday morning, as fragile heads were being soothed by gentle conversation and coffee, it became apparent that a fleet of vintage Routemaster buses were transporting campers to the nearby abandoned village of Imber, requisitioned by the MOD in 1943 for wartime training, and uninhabited ever since. With a long journey back to the North-East ahead of me, I uncharacteristically decided to forsake its haunted pleasures, and set off in the car… but, as three double-decker buses bobbed on the horizon ahead of me, I couldn’t resist. I followed them, and spent an hour poking around Imber’s deserted buildings and (surprisingly busy) 16th century village church, joined by blog-reader Richard – who records as Caveat Auditor – and ever-genial electronica and Early Music enthusiast Rolf, who I’d last seen in June, at 3am in Shoreditch High Street, at the climax of the State 51 Conspiracy/Ghost Box/Trunk Records Midsummer Night’s Happening.
As Steve Davis had emotionally proclaimed at the end of his wee-hours DJ set, “It’s like a big family, isn’t it?” He’s right, and I look forward – as ever – to the next gleefully dysfunctional reunion.
Thanks to Delaware Road and Buried Treasure supremo Alan Gubby for all his extraordinary efforts in making Ritual and Resistance such a memorable event… and to Alison Cotton, Colin Morrison and Andy Collins for their photos.