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/

Jonny Trunk, Wrappers Delight and John Townsend

Trunk Records! Everybody loves Trunk Records, surely? A label that offers such an overpoweringly direct link to the nostalgic ephemera of the British 1970s childhood; whether by collating the wistful folk music of vintage pre-school television on the sublime Fuzzy Felt Folk compilation; introducing a new generation to the unsettling radiophonic sounds of The Seasons (an album so redolent of its era’s school halls that the sleeve should really have come with a “scratch and sniff” whiff of parquet flooring), or reissuing the beautiful, melancholy soundtracks to Fingerbobs and Ivor The Engine.

And this obsession with the ‘between the cracks’ minutiae of the 1970s childhood experience barely scratches the surface of the Trunk oeuvre. Elsewhere, there are long-lost film soundtracks, vintage 1950s jazz and exotica, spoken word oddities, even an archly-voiced album of letters written by lonely (if imaginative) gentlemen to their favourite adult magazine and movie stars.

The latest Trunk project is a belter. A barnstormer. An project so bound up in this joyous love of the little, the lost and the forgotten that it’s deserves to become a keystone of the label’s already prodigious output. A new book, deliciously titled Wrappers Delight, showcases the highlights of a forty-year collection of British ephemera that filled an entire house (and accompanying caravan and summerhouse) in Stockport. We’re talking sweet wrappers here… and crisp packets, cigarette cards, cereal boxes, fizzy drinks cans; in fact, pretty much anything with a branded label that ever graced the shelves of Liptons or Presto or Fine Fare or – indeed – the little corner shop on the end of your street with an impressive selection of Mini Milks and Flash Gordon stickers.

The man behind the collection was John Townsend, and the man collating the book is Trunk Records’ irrepressible Jonny Trunk, who – in collaboration with Fuel Publishing – has launched a Kickstarter crowdfunding campaign to get the project off the ground. Impressively, the target was met within 36 hours, but potential punters still have until 6th July to offer their backing, and claim any number of superb bonuses – including a Planet of the Apes bubblegum print, a striking Space Dust t-shirt, and a pink 7″ single of advertising jingles by British jazzman Kenny Graham. The link is here…

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/jonnytrunk/wrappers-delight

I spoke to Jonny Trunk for my BBC Tees Evening Show. Here’s how the conversation went…

Bob: Can you start me telling me a little bit about John Townsend himself?


Jonny: He was born in Surrey, and he was an orphan. And at the orphanage where he lived, post-war, he realised that every day when the milk arrived, the cardboard bottle tops were all different. So he thought “Oh, I’ll start collecting those…”

By the 1950s he’d amassed a huge collection of what’s called “cartophilia”… cigarette and tobacco cards, that kind of thing, and he became a legend within those circles. He knew all about advertising printed on silk, and anything to do with soap… he was quite a manic collector. I’ve never really seen anyone like him, with that broad scope of interests. For the rest of his life he collected, and then – when he retired – he became an advisor to companies like Lever Brothers, because he knew so much about Port Sunlight! He just couldn’t stop collecting everything. Anything to do with brands… club flyers, phone cards, first day covers, playing cards… honestly, I’ve never seen anything like it in my entire life.

We’re talking about the kind of collection that takes over the entire house here, aren’t we? And the garage, and the shed, and the caravan…

Yeah, when he passed away in 2015, his son took over the house, and pretty much lived in the kitchen and a little bit of the sitting room. The rest of it was just full. I came across it by complete accident, really… I was going to see his son about some advertising flexi-discs, because John collected those as well. Because they were brand-based… anything to do with a brand, he got involved with, and wanted to collect. So Robin, his son, told me all about John… and when I got to the house, there were just these extraordinary piles of… everything. In a box, there’d be another box full of three different collections of cards from Typhoo Tea, from Ogden’s Nut Gone Flake, and from Sunblest Bread. And then, in another bag, there’d be labels from sweet rock going back to the 1950s… but there’d be two and half thousand of them. It was extraordinary.

Your eyes must have lit up…

A little bit, but I was also quite apprehensive. There was quite a strange energy in the house, because of the amount of effort in bringing a collection like that together, and then filing some of it, and not filing other bits… you’d open a box, then have to sit down and say “I just don’t understand this.” There’d be a wrapper from a chocolate bar you’d never heard of, a box full of football pennants from 1960s bubble gum, weird things about the American Civil War that were given away as stickers from a comic… but they’d all be together. You almost had to try and process it, in a very strange way. But luckily his sons were very helpful, and said “anything you want to do… have a go.” So Wrapper’s Delight is the end result.

I imagine it was quite a bittersweet experiences for John’s sons? This was their father’s life’s work…

I think so in some respects, but they’d lived with it… they were the ones who had to eat all the sweets when they were little! There might have been some dental issues going on!

How had John’s family coped with it over the years? Had they ever tried to talk him out of collecting?

No, from what I gather, John Townsend was a very focused man. He had to be focused to collect what he collected, on a level that I’ve never seen before. I mean, it’s extraordinary. He was very single-minded, very determined, hugely intelligent… and they knew he was doing it, and that was it. They had their own lives.

What made him do it, do you think?

I don’t know. I’ve no idea. I mean you could go back psychologically and ask whether it was him being an orphan, and wanting to grab onto something that’s a bit more permanent… who knows. But he was brilliant at it.

We should be thankful that he did do it, because this stuff is ephemeral, and most people would look at a lolly wrapper or crisp packet, and decide to throw it away

Everyone did!

…which is why collections like this have such nostalgic resonance, I guess. The scarcity of this stuff…

Yeah, but he would also write to companies…. say if you wanted Womble stickers, and had to collect six packets of Womble chocolate to get them, he’d just phone up the company and say “Hi… can I just have the stickers, because I’m a collector”. And they’d say “Yeah, sure!”

Have you been through the whole collection now?

Yeah… I sort of knew what areas of interest I had, which was the stuff I grew up with, or that rang a bell in my head. So I went through all the tin cans, crisp packets, lolly wrappers, bubble gum packets, cards, all sorts of stuff like that. The confectionary… I mean, the sweet cigarette collection. I’ve never seen anything like it. It was mindblowing.

You put a lovely Generation Game-style video together, with this stuff going past on a conveyer belt, and so much of it just transported me. Was there a Star Wars lolly wrapper on there?

Yes!

I actually ate one of those when I first went to see Star Wars in 1978… my dad bought if for me during the interval, from a lady with a tray strapped around her neck… and I’ve never seen one since.

There’s quite a lot of that. And some of it’s not that obvious, it’s a little bit more obscure. So the book’s not full of Mars wrappers from 1972, it’s a bit weirder than that. There are things like Trebor Prehistoric Chews, do you remember those?

Did they have dinosaurs on, by any chance?

Yeah! And he’s not only got the wrappers, he’s got the cardboard box they were shipped in. We found, in the attic, two huge boxes full of flattened Weetabix boxes… which we didn’t realise were worth a huge amount of money, because they’ve got Doctor Who all over them. A cut-out TARDIS on the back of the box, that kind of thing.

So what form does Wrappers Delight actually take? Have you been doing a lot of scanning?

We’ve been photographing all the three-dimensional objects, like the Cresta can, and then anything that’s two-dimensional, like the flattened wrappers, have been professionally scanned. So we need the Kickstarter to produce a 240 page, full colour, magnificent beast of a book.

And you actually reached your Kickstarter target on… was it Day 1?

36 hours. I thought we were going to be pushed to do the whole thing, but I was overwhelmed by peoples’ enthusiasm and generosity. It’s been extraordinary.

It’s your first crowdfunded projecty, isn’t it? Were you nervous?

Yes, of course… you’re throwing yourself out there, and the way that this is crowdfunded, it’s all or nothing. You either get the funding and can do the book, or you don’t get the funding and you can’t do the book. It’s nerve-wracking, but strangely exciting. I think the Generation Game video helped a lot, and I think people saw the humour and the charm in it, and were seeing things that they’d never seen before. I’ve seen a lot of this stuff, and there were still things that I’d never seen before. It’s on such another level, it’s really interesting.

Great to see that Jarvis Cocker is writing the book’s introduction. I’m guessing this stuff struck a chord with him, too?

Yeah, we sent him over the video… we thought “He’s a pop star…” and you know, it’s all a bit pop, isn’t it? And he was up for it. And what’s interesting is that there was very much a sort of… well, I wouldn’t call it a North-South Divide, but there were certain brands that only really appeared in the North. What’s the one I was looking at today… GBs? That’s quite a weird one. A Scottish tinned mineral drink, a fizzy drink that only appeared up there. Bob’s, too… do you know Bob’s Lemonade? That’s quite an odd one.

I feel like I should, but I don’t…

Honestly, there are some really obscure ones that I’ve never seen before.

I’ve only discovered recently that quite a few brands were trailed in the North-East, before going fully national. Wispas, for example. And the one that I’ve really been trying to look into recently is Glee Bars, which I remember eating in the early 1980s. They were a bit rummy. In fact, I’ve seen rumours online that they were actually taken off the market due to their alcohol content.

They do sound highly questionable…

Yes, kids were getting fighting drunk on Glee Bars in the mean streets of Middlesbrough. The only people I can find that remember them are from Teesside, or at least the North-East. 

I’m pretty sure there are some strange regional crisps as well. They’ll all be finally revealed as and when the book’s finally published, in October or November.

Can people still contribute to the Kickstarter?

Yes, we’ve got another three weeks. It’s great… the reason John’s family have been very generous with the collection, and said I that I can do what I want, is that they get a good percentage of the book. So the more we get, the more they get. And the more fun everybody will have.

And on a thoughtful note, it’s a lovely celebration of John’s life, too. 

That’s whole point. And if this goes well, believe it or not there are probably two other books that could also appear. They’re not related to sweets or anything like that, they’re a bit stranger, but they’re still from his remarkable archive. It’s extraordinary what’s in there. Extraordinary. And it’s good fun, that’s the whole thing. It works on a pop level, on a strange nostalgic level, on a graphics level… it’s just brilliant.

Thanks for Jonny for the natter, and please have a rummage through the Kickstarter options on offer… there’s some great stuff available. And, on an entirely unrelated front, the next issue of the Fortean Times magazine (No 381, July 2019) has the latest printed Haunted Generation column, with thoughts on Jonathan Sharp’s album Divided Time; the new A Year In The Country compilation The Watchers; and Mark Brend’s creepy new novel Undercliff. It’s available on Thursday 20th June.