If war were a woman, the word would come before the gun

[ashlyme]

I'm restarting this journal. I've done too much disappearing from social media lately, not posting much or commenting. Mentally I've not been in great shape recently and I let my life vanish. I shouldn't do that anymore.

 

I met cybermule  a week back in Birmingham for a gig at The Edge – it's a little backstreets arts centre. We were staying at the Rowton Hotel just round the corner. It's almost Digbeth's answer to the Overlook – Edwardian Gothic with green copper turrets; it used to be a hostel for migrant workers who otherwise couldn't get lodging. We were both dismayed to find out the mural of David Bowie down by the Rag Market had been vandalised: a strip of his face torn away. Dinner was a great mung bean wrap from Mr Egg. That used to be the chippy of choice if you were coming out of the rock club Edwards No. 8 at stupid am. It's a lot classier now!

 

We got to the Edge in time to catch a set by the English musician Sylvia Hallett, using looped violins and playing a mic'ed up bicycle wheel to produce these eerie skin-prickling drones that wouldn't have been been out of place on T. Dream's Zeit. Ace! Thomas Truax was last on the bill and I can honestly say he was one of the best musicians I've ever seen. He's a small-built man, puckish-looking in a narrow three-piece suit. If David Lynch made gently strange films, Truax would be in them. He makes his own instruments. A mechanical drum machine he calls Mother Superior, a bicycle wheel (notice a theme?) that bangs various cymbals and bells. A gramophone horn (“The Hornicator”) he taps to get looped percussion, with strings that give a sort of wonky rubber-band-blues sound. He also played a handsome resonator guitar, at one point using a pocket fan on the strings, while he sang a messed-up road movie track about a butterfly on the run from a homicidal entomologist. It sounded like a hammer dulcimer. At other points he'd be marching in and out of the audience playing and wearing these goggles with spinning lights on. I could have watched him for another couple hours. I wish I'd had the money to get more than the latest album.

 

The DJ played a lo-fi keyboardy cover of Peter Schilling's “Major Tom” (done by the American busker The Space Lady) between the sets. I liked it so much H told me I should go and see the Lady play Birmingham on Monday. I always used go to gigs on my own in the old days. She was on at the Hare and Hounds. A local keyboardist did a live soundtrack to a UFO-cultist propaganda film from the 70s. Creepily serene bald alien comes to Earth in his disco flying saucer (it was camp as fuck) and seduces – I mean enlightens, sorry – a hapless caveman in leopardskin loincloth into the universal brotherhood. Um, yeah. The Space Lady was fun. A sixties survivor playing covers by Bowie, Steppenwolf, The Electric Prunes on a swirly Casiotone. She wears this trademark Viking helmet with a red light on top. I was down at the front and it mesmerised me. It was like staring at the cherry on a Bakewell tart. The audience was bigger than I expected and I hope most of them didn't come to “ironically” enjoy the gig. One woman nearby kept talking through the set, about how she hated the music, her cruddy love life, blah blah blah. It was just so rude. Fortunately she left halfway through. I bought the Space Lady's new album too.

 

I'm not writing much at the moment but two things by me have come out this month: the story “The Concrete Child” in Not One Of Us #60 and “A State of Emergency” my essay on Jocelyn Brooke's dystopian fantasy The Image of a Drawn Sword appears in Wormwood #31. I found out recently my novelette “Other Voices” is on the recommended reading lists for the Bram Stoker awards in the Long Fiction category. I'm not crossing my fingers too tightly but that's still pretty cool.

 

 

Comments

[ashlyme]

Aw thank you! It's good to be back.