As well as this weekly 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 381, dated July 2019.
THE HAUNTED GENERATION
Bob Fischer rounds up the latest news from the parallel worlds of popular hauntology…
“I think that ‘fuzziness’ contributes to the nostalgia factor,” says musician Jonathan Sharp, founder and guiding light of The Heartwood Institute. “Honestly, it’s like looking through a slightly oblique window onto a different world. And really, it was a completely different world in so many ways…”
We’re talking about the faded quality of the 1970s family photographs recently discovered by Jonathan amongst his mother’s belongings. The photos are touching snapshots of a childhood spent primarily amongst the woods, hills and languid seaside towns of his native Cumbria, and have yielded the inspiration for the new Heartwood Institute album, Divided Time. It’s a wistful evocation of blissfully indolent days passed amongst occasionally mystical landmarks… “The opening track is inspired by a really early photo from 1970 of me looking at Castlerigg Stone Circle, a place I just keep going back to,” muses Jonathan. “I actually have no memory of that photo, so I was surprised to find I’d been there as such a small child. Maybe that’s where my obsession with the place started…
The album is a beautiful collection of elegiac piano and synth-led pieces, with hints of glockenspiel that occasionally conjure up daydreams of long-ago school music lessons. It harks back to an “analogue” childhood still shaped by family traditions: “Cherry Woods…” ponders Jonathan, referring to the album’s mid-point track, and its accompanying picture of his childhood self, framed in silhouette amidst twilit trees. “It’s a wood close to where I grew up. It’s not on any map under that name, that’s just what we called it… and how it had always been known to my parents’ generation. But obviously in the world of Google Maps, it doesn’t exist under that name. Which says a lot about how digitalisation has reshaped our lives…
Divided Time will be available on limited edition vinyl, and via download, from the Castles In Space label. The label’s other recent releases have included the Visage Pale album Holistic Love, a moving collection of gentle, electro-pop songs, performed in both French and English by Lausanne-based Lars-Martin Isler; and Civilian Leatherby The Home Current, which evokes memories of Factory Records’ earliest dabblings with post-punk electronica. Visit castlesinspace.bandcamp.com.
Pondering Jonathan’s beloved Cherry Woods led me neatly onto enjoying a new collection of music from Stephen Prince’s ongoing project A Year In The Country, a multi-media exploration of “otherly pastoralism; the flipside of bucolic dreams.” The Watchers is a compendium of tracks by eleven different artists, all reflecting on the nature of our native trees as, effectively, time travellers. Britain boasts over 3,000 trees that date back at least 400 years, and over 100 that can claim to be have rooted in our soil for 1,000 years or thereabouts. All the while, quietly observing the passage of time… of (as Stephen puts it) “invasions by wooden ships, sword and arrow, the passing of the old ways and the times of witchcraft and magic, the coming of the industrial revolution and the dawning of the digital age.”
Individual trees provide very personal inspiration for some of the artists participating… Vic Mars takes Hertfordshire’s 900-year-old Eardisley Oak as the muse for his gentle, pastoral instrumental The Test of Time, and The Winter Dream of Novel’s Oak, by Howlround, is created from field recordings of an 800-year-old tree in Tilford, Surrey. It’s a warm, touching tribute to the receding wild woodlands of the British countryside, and – for maximum listening pleasure – perfect for an early summers’ evening constitutional through the copse or thicket of your choice. It’s available from ayearinthecountry.co.uk.
And any of the above recordings might provide the ideal soundtrack to reading a new novel by journalist and occasional Ghost Box Records collaborator Mark Brend.Undercliff tells the story of divorced writer Martyn Hope, who – in the summer of 1972 – finds himself alone in London, and drawn into the increasingly sinister cult of The Olive Grove, a religious community steeped in that distinctly 1970s combination of born-again Christianity and post-hippy New Ageism. When his girlfriend Amelia vanishes, he suspects answers are to be found at the cult’s ramshackle retreat Undercliff, a rambling country home on the very edge of Devon’s crumbling coastline. It’s a languid, leisurely tale, rich in character and period detail, and the darkness creeps in almost imperceptibly. I enjoyed it enormously, and – in my mind – have already cast Robert Powell and Anouska Hempel in the lead roles, with Pentangle providing the music for the Olive Grove’s in-house folk-rock group, The Flock. Mark is at minutebook.co.uk.
Issue 382 of the Fortean Times is out now… the next Haunted Generation column will be in Issue 383, available from 15th August.
In February 1971, Fleetwood Mac guitarist Jeremy Spencer, fragile and exhausted, left his hotel bedroom in Los Angeles, intending to browse a nearby bookshop before performing with his band at the Whisky A Go Go club that same evening. On the way, he met a man called Apollos, who apparently convinced him – on the spot – to join the freshly-formed religious group, The Children Of God. The gig was cancelled, it was days before Spencer was located, and – after steadfastly refusing to return – he remains affiliated to the organisation (now rebranded as “The Family International”) to this day.
It was an era when an interest in such “new” religious movements seemed to exist almost as a an adjunct to the prevailing pop culture ot the time: the Beatles were famous early adopters of the Transcendental Meditation movement, decamping to the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi’s Rishikesh retreat in early 1968 alongside Donovan, Mia Farrow and the Beach Boys’ Mike Love; The Who’s Pete Townshend became a devout believer in the teachings of self-declared “Avatar” Meher Baba. Disillusioned creative types the world over sought solace, reassurance and inspiration amidst the spiritual free-for-all that flourished in the wake of the hippy revolution.
Mark Brend’s debut novel Undercliff offers a very English take on the phenomenon. Its tired, dispirited creative comes in the shape of listless, recently-divorced writer Martyn Hope, who – alone in London in 1972 – finds himself drawn into the world of the Olive Grove, a tiny cult with a weekly meet-up in a disused bingo hall in Nunhead. Initially finding comfort and company in the cloistered environment of the group’s meetings – and indeed romance with fellow worshipper Amelia – he finds himself feeling increasingly fraught and powerless when his new girlfriend disappears, and beings to suspect the motives of cult leaders Simon and Magnus – known to all as “The Two”, and with an alarming propensity for speaking in perfect unison.
I enjoyed the book enormously: I found it rich in both character and period detail (as a fun distraction, try imagining the 1970s band with the sound closest to the Olive Grove’s in-house folk-rock group, The Flock. My money goes on Pentangle, but I imagine them looking more like Pickettywitch) and with an encroaching sense of dark foreboding that bleeds almost imperceptibly into the story, before enveloping events completely. The bleak environs of early 1970 London provide an ideal background for the book’s early stages, before events lead us inexorably to the Olive Grove’s retreat on the Devon coastline, and the rambling country house that gives the book its title.
I spoke to Mark Brend about Undercliff‘s origins and inspirations:
Bob: Can I ask a little about the background to writing Undercliff? Was there a single spark of inspiration that made you want to start work on it?
Mark: There wasn’t a single spark, no. Looking back on my first notes I see that the location was there from the start, and I also had a good idea of the ending (which I won’t reveal here). The idea of evil being disguised as good so effectively that it is hard to tell the difference took root early on. There’s a quote from Matthew’s Gospel at the beginning pointing to that notion. Much of the plot and the detail of the characters developed as I wrote, though.
(“For there shall arise false Christs, and false prophets, and shall shew great signs and wonders; insomuch that, if it were possible, they shall deceive the ver elect”)
More than anything the inspiration was a desire to write a particular type of book. One with a strong sense of location, and an essentially good, if flawed, lead character who gets caught up in things that he struggles to control. Geoffrey Household’s Rogue Maleis an archetype, I suppose.
That sense of location, particularly the Devon coastline, plays a large part in the books’ events… what’s your connection to the area?
I grew up in Devon,
and moved back 13 years ago after many years away, first in Manchester, then
London. I actually live about 15 miles from the coastline where much of the
book is set. It’s an area I’ve often visited throughout my life, and with which
I’m very familiar.
Was it important to you that the book had that very specific, “real” location?
Yes, it was – though in my case the notion of “real” requires some qualification. I think characters can come alive if the location is plausible and real. Or at least, a location that seems real. Real towns, pubs, beaches and so on do feature in Undercliff, but many are adapted to some extent to suit my purposes. The village of Kingcombe Vale, where the titular house is located, isn’t a real place. It started out as Salcombe Regis, which is a small village near Sidmouth, but I changed it so much as the book progressed that by the end it didn’t seem so much like Salcombe Regis anymore, so I thought it needed its own identity.
It’s interesting how
unreliable memory is. There’s one scene in the book where Martyn, the lead
character, looks down on Branscombe beach from his caravan. The beach is real
and it does have a caravan and chalet park near it, which in my memory
overlooked a particular part of the beach. I’ve been there dozens of times, but
when I was there the other day I stood where I imagined Martyn’s caravan to be
and realised he wouldn’t have been able to see the part of the beach I
describe, but another part entirely.
The book is set during 1972 and 1973… is that an era with which you feel a particular affinity? Why did that era lend itself so readily to the events and characters of Undercliff?
I wouldn’t say I feel a particular affinity with the era. I was about 10 then, so I remember it, but any sense I have of it as an era is derived retrospectively. It suited my story because in the late 60s the hippie movement challenged all sorts of orthodoxies – political, social and religious. If you hear standard-bearers from that time speaking about how things were – people like David Crosby – they really did think they were making a new world. By the early 1970s, reality had set in and the dream had turned sour, but a lot of the cultural trappings – communes and so on – remained. So it seemed like the right time. I imagine it as a post-Utopian dream era – though that’s my retrospective labelling of it. Whether it actually felt like that to live through I can’t say. At the time I was occupied with Airfix kits and Commando comics.
I also chose it because my lead character, Martyn, is just a little too old for the social revolution that started with rock’n’roll in the 1950s and then into the hippie/free love era of the 60s. He’s 36 in 1972, meaning he was 20 when Elvis had his first UK hit. He did national service. He was already in his thirties in the Summer of Love. So he is somebody just outside of that culture – close, but not quite fitting in.
Ever had any experiences yourself with groups like the Olive Grove?
No personal experience. I did a little desk research.
What’s your background as a writer? I know you’ve written a lot about electronic music…
I’ve written several non-fiction books about music, and have worked – intermittently – as a music journalist for more than 20 years. Writing wise, my main interests are US singer songwriters from the 60s (Tim Hardin, David Ackles, Phil Ochs etc) and very early electronic music. By very early I mean pre-synth. I tend to drift off a bit by the 1970s. My most recent music book is Sound of Tomorrow, about early commercial electronic music (film soundtracks, TV adverts – that sort of thing). When it was published I did an associated Radio 4 documentary with Stewart Lee about early British electronic music. Undercliff is my first novel.
And what have you worked on as a musician?
I’ve been active since
the 1980s, with various bands including the Palace of Light, Mabel Joy and Fariña,
recording for lots of indie labels (in the old, real sense of the term)
including Bam Caruso, Second Language, and Static Caravan. For a while I
recorded as Ghostwriter, which was a loose association of collaborators helmed
by me, making mainly instrumental music, with archive spoken word collages.
Under that name I collaborated with Jim Jupp, of Ghost Box, on an EP called Dimensions, which was released on
Chaffinch Records a few years back. I’ve collaborated with a few other people
over the years, too – including Michael Weston King and Darren Hayman.
Fariña was originally active in the late 90s and early 00s, in which time we released two albums on Picked Egg. We reformed last year, and our first release is an EP of incidental music for Undercliff, which will be released by Hanky Panky, a Spanish label, later this year. The label has previously reissued my 80s and 90s bands, Palace of Light and Mabel Joy.
Whenever I read a novel, I can never resist casting it in my head… and I went for Robert Powell as Martyn, and Anouska Hempel as Amelia. Do you ever do this when you’re writing? Am I anywhere near your mental images of the lead characters, or am I way off the mark?
I can’t say I do cast people when writing, no, but several readers have proposed actors for various characters in the book. Miles Jupp as the vicar, George Parsons, is a favourite. Robert Powell? Yes, maybe, in the sense that I think of him as the definitive British actor of the 1970s. He might be a bit too dashing and handsome for Martyn, though – who I think of as a sort of humdrum everyman. Anouska Hempel? Yes, with a short haircut.
I found a blog post today where you wax lyrical about the influence of a writer called Phyllis Paul on your work… and I’m totally unfamiliar with her! Can you tell us a little about Phyllis’s work, and why it means so much to you?
Most people are totally unfamiliar with her. I am, too, almost. The little I know of her comes from the Wormwoodiana blog and the writing of the literary critic Glen Cavaliero. I’ve only actually read two of her 11 novels, and seen a copy of one other in a National Trust house in the Cotswolds. Her books are incredibly hard to track down. She was English, and published from the 1930s to the 1960s. She died in a road traffic accident in the early 1970s. All of her books were published by mainstream publishing houses, and some were published in the US too, so she must have had some kind of profile, but they couldn’t have sold well because you just don’t see them around now.
Cavaliero considers her to be similar to Charles Williams, the autodidact Christian mystic writer and Inkling, who was much admired by CS Lewis, TS Eliot and WH Auden. I like his novels, though find his other writing (poetry and theology mainly) pretty impenetrable. He and Paul wrote what you might class as literary supernatural thrillers – if an Amazon-style category is required (though to my mind Paul is more ‘literary’ than Williams). What I like about Paul’s books – or at least the two I’ve read – is an atmosphere of ambiguity: something is probably not right here, but exactly what is hard to say.
In a sense I think I
like the idea of her as much as her books (because I’ve read so little of her
work). It’s the perpetual fascination with the obscure genius working on alone
– a story that always appeals, whether it’s a writer or a musician. The second
Ghostwriter album, Morrow, which I
made with Michael Paine, included several pieces inspired by her, which
borrowed the titles of some of her novels. There’s also a piece on it called
the Death of Phyllis Paul, which is
an attempt to musically recreate this description of her death, by Cavaliero
in The Supernatural and English Fiction (OUP, 1995):
“Phyllis Paul died on 30 Aug. 1973, in Hastings [England], as a result of being struck by a motor cycle while crossing the road. The account at the inquests suggests that she was not known locally as a writer, being only identified by the Cash name tag on her handkerchief. A neighbour commented that ‘Miss Paul kept herself to herself. When she walked she had a habit of looking quickly to one side and then the other, and then she would look down again.’ A witness to the accident was more graphic still, remarking that what he saw was ‘an old lady going across the road like a sheet of newspaper.’
Thanks to Mark Brend for his time… he’s @MinuteBook on Twitter, and his website is here.