Banksy + Andy + Mandi Vs Bristol...

I went to Bristol this weekend with Andrew to visit the Banksy Vs Bristol Museum exhibition.

He drove, I took a 3 hour 15 minute train journey with two changes. It had been two weeks since I last saw him. You just try keeping the smile off my face as I see him, in the distance, walking towards me. We meet in the middle of the street with wide smiles and open arms. It is two o clock friday afternoon. We check into the hotel.
The four star Ramada. In Andrew's words... "It is basically a holiday inn with a nicer smell!"
Me: "and a swimming pool"
Andrew "and a swimming pool"
Me "and breakfast"
Andrew "and breakfast"
We enter the room. Mostly all I can think whilst in the room is "I wonder how many people have had sex in here?" Surely every couple that has stayed here. And with such great adult movies (At 12.99 a pop) as "smoking ladies" (as in they smoke not they are smoking hot, or maybe both, word play!) and "ladies in rubber", it makes you wonder how much love has been exchanged between a solo man and his hand. Sex has probably been had everywhere in this room... in that bed, on that chair, on that desk, against that wall, in that shower... Then I wonder, after all that sex, how sanitary can this room actually be.

We take advantage of hotel facilities, we go for a quick swim, we take a sauna with a guy convinced that Andrew is Max from Hollyoaks. The guy fills the room with menthol, so it is like sitting in a bowl of vicks. It makes me high, I leave feeling happy, light headed and chatty. I recommend menthol sauna's to everyone. We did not visit the Banksy exhibition as it was late in the afternoon, that is for tomorrow morning. Instead we belatedly celebrate my birthday with a pot noodle and bottle of Moet. (Little did I know at the time, as we were toasting my birthday, we were also toasting my dad, who was made redundant round about the same time. Good bye Audi A5, KIT, The bat mobile. My dad has been a very good dad to me, and if the joys of life were dependent on dad points then he would be living greatly. As it happens the joys of life are dependent on a lot of things out of our control, namely the economy...) We then explore Bristol, stumble upon a Punjabi festival in a park, drink cider, find a busy tapas bar, drink spanish/mexican beer. By this point we are drunk, impatient and unwilling to wait to be seated, we order a selection of meaty tapas and eat at the bar. Whilst we wait for the food I go through the intricacies of waitressing with Andrew. Later we drink more bourbon in the hotel room, attempt to go to a bar recommended by a friend of mine, but instead go to bed. Andrew falls asleep whilst I watch some crap film about a caveman living in the early nineties who befriends a couple of high school 'losers'. I get angry because Andrew will not let me spoon him...


The next day we are up later than we wanted to be (we were aiming to be at the exhibition by 9.30) neither of us set an alarm. We feast upon a full english breakfast and steal some pastries from the hotel to feast on whilst we wait in line. It was 11.00 by the time we got there... the queue was 6 hours long.
"Excuse me, what time do people start queuing up in the morning?" I ask
"Around 7.30... we open at 10." That settled it. We will return tomorrow.
In the meantime we explore more of Bristol.

We walk via the Christmas steps to the Eastside and view some great and not so great graffiti, drink 6.5% cider (this post suddenly makes me sound like I have become dependent on alcohol. But I was on holiday!) in a quaint cafe. It seems that graffiti culture is pretty prominent in Bristol. It makes you wonder what came first Banksy, or the Graffiti. There must be a pretty laid back attitude within both the community and council although, I did notice some graffiti that had been painted over/washed away, next to graffiti that was seemingly there to stay. Who decides what stays and what goes?


On the walk back we call into an antique shop that smells like stale smoke and general dirt, for some reason this smell reminds me of being very little, perhaps the memory of the family room in Rylands Rec or maybe the smell of an old persons home I once went into. We buy some LPs, a pound a go. Star Wars sound track, The Animals, Voyage - a journey through discoid (this was bought for the title and insane artwork) Blondie and Led Zeppelin 1 (This was bought because the Atlantic sticker was plum and green as oppose to the very common orange and green. After a quick consultation between myself and Andrew and a quick phone call to a friend, we decided that it maybe worth something, if not, it was a quid nothing much has been lost. Besides I said I would keep hold of it, as Andrew already has a vinyl copy. We are not geeks in the slightest.)

This is possibly the greatest LP cover I have ever ever seen

Then there was Banksy. It is possible that you began reading this post to read about the exhibition. Instead you got a load of semi interesting dross that has not really too much to do with, well, anything. In way I was trying to build a bit of anticipation, build things up in a round about way, let you experience what we also experienced whilst attempting to view this exhibition. As you read earlier, we decided it would be best to arrive first thing in the morning, in the hope that no one else had had this idea. Of course others arrived at the same time, but far less than four hundred (which is the capacity of the museum.) We sat on the road, in an Alton Towers style queue with two lattes, two cookies, a can of coke, a Big Issue and a copy of Slaughterhouse Five (very good read, must write about it on here some time.) By 9 the queue was more than three hours long. The doors opened at 9.30 (early). And here it is... The Exhibition.

Waiting... Tick followed Tock etc

I had been looking forward to this because, finally, I thought I had found an exhibition that I wouldn't have to drag Andrew around. We first entered a room which was fascinating. A sort of mock up studio full of Banksy's stencils. The beauty of Banksy is his accessibility, almost anyone can get it - whether you like it or not, you get it. And it is witty, and it is fun, and it does poke fun at itself, the art world in gerneral and it's audience. In that sense nobody is excluded. Almost. It is great watching a fifty five year old woman attempting to explain Banksy to her 5 year old grandson. At his age he is still making sense of the world that he see's, he is still accepting things at face value, he hasn't enough experience to value something as a form of artistic wit. So when Banksy juxtaposes a still life oil painting of fruit and meat with a handful of plastic, joke shop flies, he doesn't get it. He accepts it for what it is. At the very least he may appreciate its aesthetic, but he will not understand it in any greater context. He will not associate the flies as being a comment on the age/style of the piece, that they are mocking it's artistic integrity (whilst quite hypocritically posing as art itself - a joke in a joke.) The seven year olds however, have started to become a little more analytical. They have seen a few classic art pieces perhaps, and they are now capable of laughing when they see a portrait with a joke shop arrow in it's center. God help their parents when they get to the landscape picture entitled "Dogging", need I say more?


Banksy's wit left the brick walls and canvases. In the second room it found itself in sculpture and animatronics. Where baby chicken nuggets were locked inside a mock pen and pecked at a mc donald's BBQ dip; where two Tesco's Haddok fingers swam around a fish bowl; where a haggard tweety pie swung slowly and unenthusiastically within his cage. Although a very clever man, and dispite enjoying the work very much I felt that this work was a cheap thrill, I got it, it felt good, I was being let in on a joke. But so was everyone else, and in a way I began to feel a little cheated.There was no challenge to this artwork. But then again Banksy is constantly chanllenging his own integrity as art, and not only that, but the integrity of all art. And this is where it begins to get a little bit more interesting.


I did ask to be challenged. And here it is, a 3D 'Where's Wally?' only it was more of a spot the terrorist. A scale model of Bethlehem featuring 294 tiny model soldiers and one terrorist. I found him with a little help from a few other terrorst spotters. 284 soliders to one terroist, I wonder if that is an accurate figure? Probably not - that would be over analysing. Banksy is instant, you don't need to analyse. He is a form of social awareness.


The whole museum then turns into a form of "Where's Banksy". The regular exhibitions have been toyed with. Taxidermy, pottery/craft, fine art painting (classical-contemporary) minerals and so on. Hidden amongst each of these were Banksy. Suddenly things get very interesting. All other pieces in the museum can no longer be ignored. Everything is looked at and scrutinized. The Fifty Five year old turns to her grandson and asks him, "What is wrong with this cabinet?" Inside the cabinet are plates with traditional patterns hand painted upon them, amongst them, a printed plate featuring a photographic image of two kittens. Sometimes there is an item in the museum that you are convinced is a joke but then you find that actually it is a legitimate piece of art/relic/information. There is not always a hint. In the fine art painting exhibit, Banksy's caption would always say "Local Artist" and little more. In show cases there would be a found object intended as a joke, no explanation or caption. The whole experience completely throws you. The second you let your guard down is the second he pops up again with a new prop, and is ready to trick you into believing that what you are looking at is the real thing. We hovered around the mineral section for a good twenty minutes without seeing any practical jokes left by Banksy. As we were leavng I notice a few falic shaped rocks then placed next to them a subtle dildo. I laugh.
Andrew: "What?"
Me: "Those rocks, look,"
Andrew: "Oh yeah they do look a bit rude."
Me: "You don't know what I'm laughing at do you?" He looks again, we begin to walk off
Andrew: "Yeah I do, it was that last one wasn't it. The pink one, it looked a bit like a willy. It even had veins"
Me: "Are you kidding me?"
Andrew: "No it looked like a willy."
Me: "Andrew, that was a dildo, go back and look."
Andrew: "Oh yeah you're right."
I wonder if any of the practical jokes will be over looked and left in there by the Bristol Museum Staff. I bloody hope so!

It was worth the queue, but it wouldn't have been worth any more than three hours... at a push.

The queue from the afternoon

We eat in Pizza Express, I criticize the waiter. "He doesn't even know what goes on a Sloppy Giuseppe," actually he did, he was right I was wrong. What? I have only been working there two weeks.


Our journey ends with a run to the train station, the quickest farewell kiss you have ever seen (I didn't even get to pop my leg up like I wanted too. a run to the platform, falling up some stairs, reaching the platform, reaching out for the door handle of the train, only to be shouted at (quite harshly he nearly made me cry he was so harsh) "STOP WHAT YOU ARE DOING! IT IS LOCKED! YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED ON!" I take an alternative route home. It takes four hours.

Erm... There's an airoplane wing in the room...

There is this flat in London. It is high rise. It is ex council. It has an aeroplane wing running through it.

We are all invited to view this bizarre meeting of living space and aircraft, you simply need a ticket - naturally not too dissimilar to a plane ticket. There are events you can attend if you are lucky enough to get a ticket, these events are called "Salon", and they include book readings, performance and film screenings. "Nova-Kino" is the name of the film night, in which people sit and watch 5 interesting shorts, then discuss. And all the time there is an aeroplane wing in the room. Imagine that! Film buffs discussing technique, cinematography, nova-kino theory, media, art, with serious faces, deep in debate, and all the time, there is an aeroplane wing in the room! I need to get me a ticket and buff up on some nova-kino theory me thinks...

Check out www.phlight.org

Music would not have happened the way it did...

How amazing it must be to have influenced something so massive and massively.

What an strange/incredible person to place telephone receivers into the body of acoustic guitars at the age of 13. (Actually I am wondering what kind of sound that would make, something quite tinny and awful one should imagine, but interesting. Actually I have had and played guitar down the phone, it doesn't sound too hot!)

Something I will always find interesting is near death experience. Before I was born, my Dad (who is a scaffolder) fell down a lift shaft (it was before health and safety - no harness) and managed to catch hold of the scaffold moments before hitting the ground. Imagine that, a world minus me. Have I even effected anyone so greatly to make that much of a difference? (Andrew surely). Well Les Paul nearly died in 1948 in a car crash, 4 years before Gibson began to make the Les Paul, And two years before he creted multi tracking. Imagine that, a world without multi tracking... If you can't, just believe me when I say music would sound a lot different...

An 'ttractive guitar... The one above is a Jeff Beck (signature) 1954 Les Paul Oxblood. (oo er here comes the geeky bit...) It is a recreation of Jeff Beck's "heavily modified" 1954 Les Paul. Which went on to make some very iconic music for The Yardbirds and The Jeff Beck Group - because Jeff Beck hasn't always played a Fender strat you know. As if you care... Here is Jeff Back (in the Yardbirds, with Jimmy Page) smashing it up. Well actually he wouldn't smash up the Les Paul so they smashed up this Hofner instead...



Great song, Stroll On - The Yardbirds 1966. The Movie is Blow Up. Must have watched this clip about a hundred times when I was seventeen. Initially Antonininini, wanted The Who to appear here, but could only get The Yardbirds... Lucky, as it is a rare glance at the Yardbirds with both Jeff and Jimmy playing.

(What it has been years since I was a guitar geek I am entitled every once in a while!)

I Am Adam Ant...

From time to time a word (or phrase) in the English language really makes me chuckle. A perfect example of this is adamant. I am currently rewriting a few things in preparation for the Manchester writing competition. Checking sentence structures, reordering, ensuring the messages were strong and so on. I had began reading aloud, getting very carried away. Practicing dramatic reading tones, fast northern sounding John Cooper Clarke style, deadpan slow monotone William Burroughs, a slow sort of flippant John Cale, Under Milk Wood Welsh accents- not that I was very good at that one, practicing should I ever decide to read them aloud to anyone other than Andrew, what would be the best style for me? Then I reached it, a sentence containing that word, I burst into a fit of laughter... "I have always been adamant..." the word always brings the vision of that 80's dandy, prince charming himself, Adam Ant. It is as if revealing a secret identity, "Now I know you may find this hard to believe, especially seeing as I wasn't alive when 'Stand and Deliver' was released, but you may now find that that was merely a convenient guise, and a clever one too. No one could possibly have guessed it but I shall reveal all now you see... I have always been Adam Ant."

It happens every time someone is adamant, I see greasepaint and laugh.
"He was adamant..." Was he really, how fascinating.
"I am adamant..." Oh come on, that's a lie, I saw him on TV last christmas, you look nothing like the man.
Of course this was the joke all along but I just wanted to point out it still resonates...

I once saw a guy walking down Tibb St in the Northern Quarter wearing a red military jacket. This was the only flamboyant element to him. He was quite a generic looking mosh style kid otherwise. Not quite the dandy his coat would have him seem. Anyway, it must have been around ten on a saturday morning. Two rough drunk lady's, one with red hair the other yellow, grey roots four inches thick on both, pointed at the boy. "Ay look. He's Adam Ant!" Poor sod I look over. He ignores them. They burst into 'Prince Charming', dance and all. Poor poor Adam Ant. "Ridicule is nothing to be scared of," I utter as if consoling the fella, even though he was out of earshot, and didn't really give a toss. I chuckle at myself and the sad state of 'Adam Ant's' current
affairs, then wonder if the boy actually knew what they were talking about. How many people remember Adam Ant? The boy was probably 15. When is the cut off generation for Adam Ant? When will he become forgotten? What is the cut off age for any time specific piece of knowledge/nostalgia?

I was, I am and always will be Adam Ant.

"Can I Have Your Autograph, He Said To The Fat Blond Actress..."

I am inclined to disagree with autographs for a number of reasons. The main one being I don't really know what to do with them once I have them. They are a little pointless. A scribble barely representing any letter form, let alone a name. ("Sign and print please" is what I will ask in future). I adore hand writing, I really do. It is unique to the individual. In fact when my grandad died the thing I wanted most of all to treasure was a piece of his handwriting. There is something personal there, something that can be emulated but will never be the same. The idea of someone putting a pen to a piece of paper and writing out whatever is in their mind. A document of a moment of thought. I am not talking about signatures. They are something different. They are something that suggests identity, a piece of evidence that we are indeed who we say we are. And so the autograph is a sort of proof that you met someone. A sort of back up file for the memory. (There is a similar point to be made about photographs, photographs are taken in the place of a memory that you didn't actually experience because you were busy taking a photograph, but I love photographs so I can't stay mad at them.) It differs from a piece of hand writing, it is much more banal and repetitive. It has no meaning. And after you have met with your idol you become euphoric, but it wears off, and then you need something to remind, some proof it happens. You look to that back up file, that peice of paper and you smile momentarily, but then there is something unsatisfying about it.
The first autograph I ever received was in my teens, a signed autograph of Brian May, Queen guitarist, my then hero. This was a good autograph to have because it has a point... it was proof to me, at that age, that things don't just happen, you have to alter things however you can to make things happen. In this case I wrote a letter and received a small token in return. Today I am almost positive that the letter did not actually reach Brian, but his fan office had a stack of fan letters and a stack of these photos that they were sending out, like a factory line. It is convincing though, you can make out the form of the letters, there is definitely a B there a sort of M and a Y. Yes time and effort has been put into the writing out of this signature, yet you have to question whether or not he has seen that letter, because if so much time and effort has gone into the writing of his name why not bother to write out the fans name. It is a factory line! Back then, through my naivety I was more than elated to see the envelope was hand written, clearly a personal touch from the man himself. My name and address written by the hand I was so inspired by (that has got to be the cheesiest thing ever written, but it is generally how I feel about the hand writing of those I admire...)
Another autograph I have, I do not know why I have, I am not that bothered about having and do not have a damn clue what to do with is that of Bryan Adams. I am not a fan of Bryan Adams yet I have his autograph in a program of a charity event I attended. At least here effort has been made, you can make out my name, but less effort was put into his own (sign and print please). What am I supposed to do with that? I cannot throw out this programme as it has the autograph of Bryan Adams in it, but at the same time I cannot do anything with it. If I were my mum, I may have framed it... but I am not.

By now I am quite aware the reason I have Bryan Adam's autograph, and perhaps the reason that Autographs exist, is because when there is a celebrity near by (regardless who) I go a little bit funny. I simply have to go over and stare. Then what? Well I have to say something... What? I dunno, anything. My hand will automatically reach into my pocket/bag, find something that either represents the event I have just attended or at least resembles a piece of paper, and say "Excuse me, would you mind?" They are more an excuse to harass famous people than a keep sake. Even then that isn't enough for me, I want to harass them more. If I stand around long enough they will definitely think, hey, she has determination, I want to befriend her. I find myself either saying something dumb or loitering around until they leave... (Adam and Joe did a great 'text the nation' based around embarrassing things you have said to celebrities. STEPHEN!... Just Coming... ooh feels good to get a bit of Stephenage into the blog!)

(for all you know a child may have scribbled this one.
In fact it was scrawled by the hand of Lou Reed (blue)
and Laurie Andreson (pink) two greats!)

Another point to make on this subject, missed opportunities. One purpose of getting an autograph could be to sell it. You stand to make a bit of cash depending on the caliber of Celebrity. I very much disagree with the purchasing of autographs, it make everything extra pointless. If you have not met the celebrity for that autograph, what is the significance of owning it? It's only possible meaning could be you are a crazy! If you have a mass reproduced LP of the Lou Reed classic 'Transformer' it is worth nothing, a fiver tops. Get that signed, you have a fortune, a small fortune, you will probably make it into three figures on ebay. So then, Mandi, (yes me) if you plan on spending £15 on watching Lou Reed at the intimate venue of the Palace theater, where his only escape is through the stage door, why not take that Velvet Underground, White Light/White Heat LP, you so treasure (but haven't played for so long as you cannot be bothered to set up the turn table, besides I have it in MP3 format so why should I), get it signed and earn yourself a little money. Or you know, you could at least keep it on show then. That would be fairly cool, White Light/White Heat signed, leaning up againest you bedroom wall. A real talking point. You could tell everyone that enquirers about it how, when you received that autograph Lou Reed grunted at you. No, instead fluff it, pull out the crumpled up, dog eared flyer! That isn't even worthy of a frame.

(the black corner is due to placing straightening irons onto it by accident)

The same happened with Mick Rock. I met him at a workshop the Urbis was running. (A photography masterclass. Everyone turned up with professional SLRs, me, who at that point had no idea about anything photography, turned up with the smallest most useless point and click. It was great! We went out, took pictures, returned so that Mr Rock could give everyone a lovely group crit. My turn, he didn't say too much, when I got up to leave, he grabbed hold of my arm and said "At least you are trying." All I could think was that hand has most definitely touched David Bowie, who, as a consequence, has just touched me!) I could have spent £30 on any one of Mick Rock's books, they were all there in the Urbis shop, beside the man himself, all there, just buy one, sell it, make yourself a lovely profit. Everyone else was doing it. In fact people were buying four books, having him sign the lot. Ebay... Or the postcards I had just bought, have him sign one of them... No. Get your ticket out love, have him sign that instead. Then leave it out on your desk, burn it with straightning irons, tac it to your wall, let the sun bleach it a bit before deciding, it is best out of direct sunlight. It finally resides in my purse folded, near death! But at least if i feel like showing off I can pull it out. I just don't know what to do with autographs once I have got them.

The thing I like is the touching aspect of it. To have someone who works with their hands touch you or something you now own, is a privilege. To have someone speak to you who regularly inspires through their voice, is an honour. So to have someone you admire, who plays an instrument and writes down lyrics of beauty, touch that damn flyer and scribble out, very clumsily and half heatedly, an autograph... that has to mean something right? Perhaps. It is great to own such objects but they are all end up pretty vacuous. The only significance they have is a moment in time, and more often than not, that too is brief and meaningless.

The Devil Makes Work For Idle Hands...

Thank God for youtube....
(Not so many words today I have work to do)

Darkness/Light/Darkness - Jan Svankmajer
I have spent most of the morning procrastinating, the internet is a terrible thing. But how can you stay mad at such technology when holds such glorious nuggets.



At first I thought this was going to be a gathering of the senses. It turns into something much more profound. A fascinating creation... Man... It is amusing to see him built but there is a sinister shift. A now what? He becomes trapped, isolated, scared. It could be solipsism, nothing can be known outside the self. The room representative of the mind (to become trapped in ones own mind.) Or it could be the confusion of the unknown out side of life. In the end we are left in the dark...

George Harvey Bone...

For me it is all about the character. Real or fictional. Something in the air surrounding a person that pulls me in, then something in the way they behave holds me there. If you interest me or intrigue me I am forever yours and you will forever be within me. I will forever be tied to you by an undetectable string. I will give the string slack from time to time but I will be back. Congratulations if I am your friend and/or am perpetually bugging you, you have succeeded. Your character is a fascinating one! I guess I should appologise to everyone else, or should they appologise to me. That isn't important. For me it is good to be classed as a 'creative' as I am surrounded by beautiful, interesting people (or should that be was...) Being tied to people like this is not always an advantage but lets just say I am kept on my toes and things tend to remain interesting. (or should that be used to remain... I am still adjusting to Warrington.) It is easier in reality, face to face. A person sometimes doesn't need to speak and you can become attracted to them (by attracted I do sort of refer to physically, but on more of a sort of chemical or perhaps even spiritual level, one that arouses intrigue and mans natural curiosity.) They can stand casually, unaware of their effect. That has happened, is happening, and will continue to happen to me. I remember the first day of university in '06, I was drawn to two people, these two are naturally very good friends of mine now, perhaps because I perpetually bugged them, but more likely due to the air surrounding and attracting us. Perhaps this is how friendship works. But I am getting carried away. I love the people that I am tied to, even the ones I hate... I wanted to talk about fiction. With fiction it is harder, there is no air, it is all written down...

Over the last couple of weeks of University I became completely drawn into the life and obsessions of one George Harvey Bone. If you amazon this name you will find that some cretin chef has stolen it. (Although "Cooking with Booze" does link to aspects of Bone's life, or at least the booze does.) The book is "Hangover Square," by Patrick Hamilton. I would like to place into this blog all the pages with their bottom corners folded over, my way of marking of a page that contains a passage that I have particularly enjoyed or been inspired by, but I would spoil some truly beautiful moments of the book. George has his quirks. He is consumed by obsession and love for Netta, a woman happy to lead him on, use him, we could all see it written before us, but what chance did George have. Love had already swung at him, he was on the floor letting it kick at him over and over. And I could relate to many moments like this.
His 'dead moments', moments described as a "Click" and then "Watching a movie with no sound," moments where he had blacked out with no recollection of anything that happened in these periods. George is still there somewhere, still a part of the world, but the world is no longer a part of him. These 'dead moments' are pretty representative of his reality, even outside of them George is detached, isolated and living in his own separate world, a world dictated by Netta. There are many cultural references to Hitler and his early rise, when Britain was truly captivated, obsessed by him. Netta adores Hitler (as did the majority of the country) George however, knew he was trouble, a matter of time before war begun. Symbolically the book ends with the beginning of the war and a dramatic end to Bone's personal war.
Love, even when it goes no further than obsession is a battle. Once you let your guard down the attack begins. This was true for Bone. I could relate to him on many levels, perhaps we all could. I urge you to read it. Hell, if you ask nicely I will lend you this book. It has gained a firm place as one of my favorites. But how? It is true that this book is a great read (if my recommendation isn't good enough check out the amazon stars...) but there is not a lot that happens regarding story line. You keep the pages turning because of the character, because you feel for him, you have felt like him, you want him to get out, you feel as he does, you enter (sorry let me correct that...) I entered the final part of this book, (not wanting to it finish, not wanting to bid farewell to old Bone) chanting his name, routing for him. Because of the character not the story. And that is true of many books I have read (and films I have watched). Therefore it also occurs where I enjoy the idea of a book, it's story, that I do not fall in love with it. Because the characters are scumbags or dull or I am unable to connect. (Most of) My favorites are favorites because I tied an undetectable string from myself to George Harvey Bone, to Winston Smith, to Raskolnikov, to Alex, to Yossarian, to Miller, to Josef K, to Burroughs.
Wow I seem to be holding onto a lot of string here! I hope I effect people in a similar way.

This passage is a favorite from early on, it is amusing and quite familiar. The ability to link his obsession to anything...

Lately I have been, breaking glass in your room again..."

My sister and I were always keen on a good old horror film. Throughout Stephen King season on channel 4, when I was a lot younger, my sister would tape the films, whilst I was in bed and we would watch them together the next day. The only film she would not allow me to watch was IT. I have still never seen it but think I would find it much easier to watch now that I know Tim Curry plays 'it'. The point of this thread is not really linked to Stephen king at all. It is just a nice way to get around to talking about Candyman. Candyman being, when I was in primary school, my favorite childhood film. Yes I know. I watched it again for the first time in years a couple of months ago. Yes, horrific stuff. Well, this post doesn't have a great deal to do with that film either. But growing up there were two things that stuck in my mind about that film. Firstly the deep brown rumble of the Candyman's voice when he appears to Helen for the first time. The tone, bass and melody as it vibrated through the living room and rattled my eardrums. "He-len. He-e-e-len." Secondly the sound track. Always filling me simultaneously with joy and fear, a thrill, an anticipation of excitement, a playful tingle at the base of my spine. A tune is a difficult thing to put across on a computer screen. (When I was younger, had no great ability on any kind of instrument, no tape recorder, I would write down song lyrics accompanied with a whole lot of: doooo-duh-do-du-du-dooo scrawlings. They were my musical notes, supposed to conjure up some kind of recollection of melody and tempo!) Thankfully this is the internet. Also, thankfully, I am now reaching my point. The greatest modern day composer. Whose soundscapes regularly fill cinema screens. Whose music evokes all kinds of vivid emotion. His tunes haunt me constantly. I am never surprised when I stick out the closing credits of a film (merely to see who wrote the beautiful music (when I worked at the Odeon this was a particular perk to the job, when clearing out screens I would listen to some great closing tracks and would discover some fantastic musicians) that his name should appear so frequently. Philip Glass. Oh beauty. Oh divine. Over and over. This one's for Philip Glass. A modern day composer that I hope stands the test of time! Beauty beauty beauty.

I personally cannot recall a more terrifying soundtrack. This is Candyman's opening:


This is the tune that I have carried with me since childhood.


Most of my Youtube inspiration revolves around Sesame street for some reason. This is a cool Philip Glass thing I found entitled 'Geometry of Circles'



There is much much much more Philip Glass out there, check him on spotify. Sit in a darkened room with your eyes closed and await the visions and emotion it evokes.

Final note. Do not listen to too much of that Candyman stuff when in a darkened room with nothing but the glow of a computer screen for company. It gets pretty creepy actually.

Don't forget to look... www.mandigoodier.co.uk

I want to be a genius...

Great innovators, musical composers, visionaries, boundary pushers, literaries, mathematicians, artists, philosophers, lunatics.
What defines the genius?
Genius is something that is happens within a person. Something that is bursting to get out by whatever means. It is something that must happen regardless of situation or circumstance. Then it takes something extra, once it is starts to heat up, just before it boils, it takes mental stamina and motivation, talent, knowledge, concentration and intelligence. To become a genius you must struggle with genius. You can not sell out, give up nor can you let it evaporate. It is worked at and the it is kept at a perfect temperature. To be genius you have to think differently to everybody else. Originality, is key. But how do you become an original? How do you become a genius? It is a mental illness, an obsession. Genius IS madness.

Is a genius defined by it's audience? for example I would not class George Best as a genius but many would. I would be tempted class David Bowie as a genius millions wouldn't. Then there is that controversial observer 100 living genius list, where clearly the west is dominating the genius scales. I would like to debate whether genius is common enough for there to be more than say fifty geniuses (or a much smaller number even) alive at one particular moment of time. Perhaps the term genius is used too loosely, perhaps regulations on the word need to become tighter, so tight that it is almost taboo. That way when you use it it will truly have the desired effect. As it stands there is no scientific basis for genius. Nothing can offically define genius beyond individual interpretation, which means for anyone to be classed as a living one can be highly controversial. Perhaps no one can become a genius until they have stood the test of time (possible exception of scientists). It is the likes of Homer, Socrates, Plato, Dante, Milton, Shakespeare, Goethe, (incidentally, discovered the correct pronunciation. Quite suprising (because I would never have guessed.) Is in fact (not entirely easy to pronounce at all with a British tongue, especially my screwed up one! But at least sounds a little like) Ger-tuh) Dostoevsky, Kafka, Orwell, Einstein, Darwin, Mozart, Beethoven, Bach, that spring to our mind rapidly because they are all very much standing that test of time. (How many of these can be linked to mental illness/human struggle? Autism, isolation, loss of hearing (to a musician this is torture) tourettes, OCD)But I am always a fan of the underdog, the genius vanished into obscurity. The one that was racing through my mind when I realised that I will never have the vision, the muse, nor the mental illness to become a genius. Nikola Tesla. I will list interesting points: experienced intense visions that would blind him momentarily, similar to syesthesia I guess, obsession around the number three, multiples of three, OCD, for a time would not touch anyone unless he was wearing white gloves, celibate, GENIUS! He could create a lasting supply of energy without need for fossil fuels, he created wireless technology, he had plans (but no funding due to a right bastard of an investor) to supply the whole world with wireless electricity for free (hence the no funding - money being the great oppressor of the world!)and much much much much much more. All before the turn of the 20th century. Genius right? Unless you have seen/read The Prestige my guess is you have never heard of him. He did much more on top of that too. I am currently in the process of searching for more geniuses slowly vanishing into obscurity, just about as difficult as it sounds!
The closest I get to visions surrounded by light come from the glow of my mac's screen. Hmm.
You never know...

'A man possesses talent. Genius possesses a man,'

Not much chance of survival...

I am unable to get over Arcade Fire. Probably the most beautiful band in the world. Here they are performing in a lift. Note their resourcefulness. And so continues my love affair with Canadian Supergroups....

Give me a new album damn it! I may also be a little bit in love with Win.

If your breasts are too big...

My friend Sinead has these parents who you sometimes forget are her parents. We sit in their kitchen in a sort of music corner, in clouds of smoke, drinking cheap wine, listening to amazing music (which Sinead hates) Discussing anything really. It is really very hard to remember that these are Sinead’s parents, you really do let go of the regular restrictions on behavior you have around other peoples parents. So in the middle of whatever subject, and at the mercy of the iPod shuffle, the music will occasionally get interrupted by speech and a strange instrument. At which point we are all hushed and asked to listen. It is Ivor Cutler, the poet. I purchased the CD as sometimes I enjoy listening to spoken word when designing (other things I listen to include Adam and Joe, Under Milk wood (weird as I wrote that it came on the iTunes shuffle - what are the chances) Bill Byson A Brief History of Nearly Everything (I got a bit bored of that though) I plan on listening to Flight of the Concords radio series soon, when Andrew cares to lend me the CD) Ivor Cutler’s poems are really nice, they are strange and witty and a little surreal. He is also full of great wisdom such as the following:

“If you have big Breasts, you will fall over, unless you wear a rucksack”

and

“The best thing about being dead is you no longer have to say ‘I wish I were dead.’
The best thing about being alive is that you can still say ‘I wish I were dead’”

And the man with the nuance.

And then really nice things, beautiful things like “I heard a daffodil break its skin”

And amusing anecdotes about being little.

If you are into that sort of thing (not everyone is I know) but if you are, get some Ivor Cutler. And if you are after something a little more dirty why not get some John Cooper-Clark, true for punk poetry try ‘Twat’

I am the hunter who actively tries to seduce someone else...

I enjoy looking at Louise bourgeois’ drawings, and sculpture, but I do not think I can understand the full impact of the sculpture unless I was to see it in person (in sculpture?). Being unable to connect with the images in a book I decided to read about her. I picked up a good book with great insight to the lady. I felt a great connection with her, the way she thinks, her philosophy, her approach. She is a truly beautiful person. The things she says about fear, the past, isolation, it all made a lot of sense to me. I found her words to be inspirational and even helped to inform/describe some of my own writings and thought. Here are some quotes that will stick with me:

With the emotions there is always physical reaction - the heartbeat, breathing, perspiration. The body always takes part... To make art is to wake up in a state of craving, a craving to discharge resentment, rage... Art is the privilege of insight into craving. The craving is not cured, but it is acted out, indulged and in someway understood... I am the hunter who actively tries to seduce someone else.

Nothing protects you like anonimity

I am not terrified of you... I am terrified of something you take the place of. Your visit is a repetition of something that happened in the past.

Sky scrapers reflect the human condition, they do not touch.

My early work is the fear of falling, later on it became the art of falling. How to fall without hurting yourself. Later on it is the art of hanging in there.

I find the past terribly painful tthough I am tied to it. It’s unresolved. Yet I have no taste for re-visitation. It’s landscape you have gone through and explored, and outgrown. Only tomorrow is interesting.


The move from the passive to active is life itself. It means Survival through your own will. I am not the victim, the other is. I am alive. I dispise victims; I refuse to be cast as a victim, even if I admit that I don’t know how to play the game.

With the emotions there is always physical reaction - the heartbeat, breathing, perspiration. The body always takes part... To make art is to wake up in a state of craving, a craving to discharge resentment, rage... Art is the privilege of insight into craving. The craving is not cured but it is acted out, indulged and in someway understood... I am the hunter who actively tries to seduce someone else.

How in the world are they making that sound... Velvet Underground...

This is mostly for Lucy 'The Vann' Vann. What do you think he's dancing to? I'd love it if it was Velvet Underground, as in the song he wrote about them not a song by them.

Notable (proto) punker
This is Johnathan Richman
Modern Lovers
Velvet Underground Fan
Amazing words (words that make me feel ooo, and rewind so I can hear it again.)

(This bit is especially for Lucy...)Album covers, they just don't make 'em like they used to!

Torn Curtain...

Yes, Yes, Yes, Yes, YES.

Ding Dong...

FACT, Liverpool. The Future of music. Music reflects our individual tastes and allows us to 'fit in' with certain, tribes/genre of people. It is a thing that people often use to define their self. A branding that when worn will attract some and repel others. It is almost an instinct. The future is a because of it's uncertainty. Because of the possibility of going backwards instead of forwards, to once again have to rely on instinct instead of electricity. The ding dong exhibition, to me, reflected this uncertainty. The futuristic instruments (crude and uncertain of what they were supposed to be) ignore traditional aspects of music composition such as melody, tempo, bars, key, pitch, instead opting for interaction and layers which throw out an array of noise, distortion and confusion with particular emphasis on spontaneity. A perfect metaphor for the future, but not necessarily the future of music. The instruments were too crude, to unreliable and too spontaneous. At least to me. Music has to be a reassurance, something to lean on and sink into, to become lost, relate to and engage with. It can be challenging. I am trying to define music here. I am trying to say what it absolutely is and what it absolutely isn't, only every time I come to write down what it isn't, I stop myself. This is because music is challenging. I cannot say it is not spontaneous, I cannot say it shouldn't disturb the soul because that is the kind of stuff I agree with. I bought a kraftwerk album because the noices absolutely terrify me (used to, not anymore). I used to blast out the noise in such classics as "Sister Ray" and just listen incase something should a rise. I listen to Sonic Youth, even though a lot of it is just noise and confusion (hey but not all of it, they are pretty much awesome!) Because there is a reason. There is a sense. There are not boundaries. So I take it all back. Music can be whatever. But one thing I will say is that it must be evoking and memorable, it must be something that can be recreated. That is something that these instruments were not.

Peter Saville had made a film for this exhibition. Electro soundtrack against a familiar setting, Fiddlers Ferry. It was showing the process and the landscape of the music quite literally, electricity being made to produce elecrtronically made sounds. Did that last sentance make sense? It was kind of hypnotic anyway. There was also a collabrotive piece set up. A room full of speakers, the source of the output, recording studios across the country. All the noices feeding to each other then back here as an epicentre. The idea was something quite huge, and appealing although, nothing was really happening when I was there. A couple of speaks let out a couple of groans, but nothing much behind that.

(I couldn't find any images.)

McSweeny's Quarterly Concern...

Sue Platt (a tutor at my universtiy) very kindly lent me a book. A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. By Dave Eggers. I was reluctant. It is an autobiography. I rarely read biographies (Ol' Russ' was good though). I used to read rock biographies, they were all cliched, and the celebrity biography really is a turn off. I have been meaning to read James Frey's A Million Little Pieces, although I think it was revealed that that book is not entirely true and lies somewhere between biography and fiction. Anyway. A.H.W.O.S.G is really good. I recommend it to anyone. It is an inspirational story but not in the way you'd expect. It is honest. It is real. It is self aware. It is the story of someone living.
It was only half way through the book that I realised. Dave Eggers. This is someone I already admire without knowing who he is. It is Dave Eggers of McSweeny's Quarterly Concern. The literature publication that I keep meaning to submit to. The publication I always pick up because of its innovative forms. Always different, attractive, something you want to pick up regardless of the content. It is always an inspiration to hold, have and look at. McSweeny's 24 was a particular favourite. Dos-e-dos. Inspired the identity lost/found book I made before christmas.
I do not have an image of it dos-e-dosing at present...
The illustration on the cover continues through the endpapers and across to the back cover, meaning no matter which way you open it the image joins and follows through with a nice continuity.
The nicest thing about McSweeny's, other than it's many formats and the fact that it is encouraging to new and developing writers, and it's strange content, other than all that, it is how it began. Now I think that this is true, I remember reading it somewhere but cannot actually source it. I believe it was posted out to friends and family, and friends of friends, and so on. Now it is international. Now even if that is not true I am going to pretend that it is as it is truely inspirational.

I will submit to McSweeny's this year. Here is a link to my writing blog. Any suggestions on what I should submit would be appriciated...

WORDS ETC...

"I want to be your friend..."

Speaking of low budget music videos/lifestyles...
Andrew and I set up 'Bar Mandi' over the summer as going out out was proving too expensive. Same faces. Same music. Nothing changes in Warrington. Not worth it. Anyway 'Bar Mandi' basically involved making up cocktails, eating doritos and exhausting the Virgin Music On Demand facility on my tv. Which is like watching MTV but better because you choose the videos. Now Virgin weirdly had some really obscure stuff on there last summer. This was a favorite.
Late of the Pier's Focker.
Even if you do hate the music, it's sort of tongue in cheek electro pop punk and camp in all that, stick it out! The video is too good!!! It is so aware that it is low budget. It is unashamed and if anything goes out of it's way to look more low budget than it actually is. It is just a fun video.
Have I sold it yet? I think that is enough. Watch it...

"Relegate our dreams to hobbies..."

On the L train in the morning...
Williamsberg Will Oldham Horror is probably my favourite Jeffery Lewis song (Oh but If You Shoot The Head You Kill The Ghoul. I do like a bit zombie stuff.) I am not usually all that into folk and when I am it has to be clever rather than pretty. And that's what Jeffery Lewis is. Anyway this is great because it is the ultimate in low budget film making and it is funny. It is a very literal music video. It's a long song and if you don't like the lyrics/wordy songs (as oppose to the actual music, same with Dylan and Cohen too) then you may not like it. But for now, this moment of change in my life, anxiety, uncertainty, this song is perfect. It sums it all up! Perfect (I also really love Artland that is a really good song too! Jeff!)

"If that's a victory I'd hate to see what I look like defeated."

"It's fascinating to observe what the mirror does..."

Notable Punk.
This is Richard Hell.
The Voidoids
Television.
He has nice links on his site too.

Death Needs Time Like a Junkie Needs Junk...

This was an exhibition in GSK contemporary in London. It wasn't just Burroughs. It was the following:
Sudden White. Dark Materials. Burroughs Live. Apocalyptic visions. All crying out 'No Future, No Future' in both surreal and uncanny manners. It was good in a "we're all doomed" way. I drag my sister along. I am using her house as a hotel (House ain't a motel) after all. It's all doom. She takes note. I explain how once upon a time it was all utopia. All robot slaves and floating cars. This is the antidote to that dream. The children of this vision (50/60's born?) grew bitter and raised their kids with no expectations for such a future. Instead. Today, their children are faced with nothing. Back to basics. Hand made do everything for your self and use as little energy as possible (I am not referring to manual labor) the opposite to the futurist dream. Cut down now else face nothing. Actually we already face nothing. We know that whether nature destroys us or whether man gets there first (why is man and nature always so separate? We are one and the same. We are not above it. It controls us, we cannot control it. Nature is God.) we are destined for destruction. So where as once upon a time you had futurism, now we have apocalyptic art. This unnerved her. It unnerves everyone. This is what the art is telling us. It is neither a warning nor a prediction. It is Fact. One day everything that is here will no longer be here (thus deeming everything pointless. Miller told us to live.)
It is reassuring hearing it from so many different voices. Calming in fact. Just think how little these words actually mean when there is no future. It used to make me sick. Now it liberates me.
William S. Burroughs. Everything is permitted because nothing is true...
A license to act out, to be exciting, to live. It was good to see images along side Burroughs work. I hadn't realised he was a painter too. It was all erratic. Words drew into abstracted strokes. Collaborations with artists and filmmakers, pushing the surreal, reflecting confusion, characters and chaos in his books. I watched him read. Dead pan. Funny real funny. My sister laughed too! I couldn't believe it! She laughed at Burroughs. In all the right places too!
A little out of place with the other two exhibitons (they were meant to combine to form something collective entitled Collision Course). The dystopian beginnings mixed with Burrough's humor, satire of the human condition. His apocolyptic view much different to the others. Burroughs knows that apocolypse mixed with humanity means that everything is possible (permitted because nothing is true). We are unpleasant. We are grotesque. We push things too far. He predicted the sale of organs. This is his point. We go too far. And it is funny, but it is terrifying. Everything is possible! We aquire, we think, we gain some kind of perverse purpose, or idea of purpose, when really we should be aiming for freedom. We all think that we are free. But we are not allowed to be truely free. Whether it is abiding be a set of rules created by government and enforced by police (brutality) or whether it is living by a set of rules, instilled, conditioned, a little voice inside of us. Call it morals. We are not ever truely free. There is always consequence. No one notices the difference. Of course we are free. All this insanity remains, it is allowed. It is permitted.
There was nothing on cut up. Nothing at all.
I first read Naked Lunch when I was living in Sheffield. I was alone most of the time. It was my only true friend for a few months (don't feel bad). It took me a year of putting down, picking up, reading, re reading, reading again. It was an experience sometimes grueling and difficult, mostly humorous, sick, dark. I had never read anything like that before, never. It was mind altering. I felt like I had been let in on a secret. I never had anyone to discuss this book with. I tried ringing Lou Reed but he wasn't interested in talking that day, he was running late for his Tai Chi lesson.
Everytime I walk down the street and I see a guant, lived in old man, with a hat and glasses, I say William Burroughs. No one knows what I mean.He isn't wearing glasses in this picture.