The Irritation of Complicit Agreement

"I'm not sure their fingerprints are on this actually Richard. You know why i think that? First catalogue their initial reaction, as the truth is least stifled in an immediate response, they give this vague statement lacking clarification about their position: WHO exactly they support in the conflict. For a further three days they dithered trying to cement their stance, first defending, then advising and finally resolving to admonish the actions of Muburak's government. Now if they had masterminded or at least gone a way towards instigating the protests, wouldn't their diplomatic response have been slightly more prepared?"

"well i suppose that makes sense"

"but...?"

"No, now that you mention it, it is apparent, i mean i hadn't given the diplomatic reaction much thought if i'm honest"

"Oh Come oon Richard, you actually bought all that? You are actually so culpable to believe that any middleastern revolution, even the slightest disturbance in an area so abundant in the natural resources the West covets, could be free of US orchestration? No, every fressh announcement..."

"But i thought?"

"...Shines a light on the puppet strings that are managing this."

To Whom It May Concern

I

To a poem of mine

(Not quite yet refined)

Last night I dreamt

You were not written

But found as I passed

Through a Volume of

Ezra Pound.

II

Have I the courage

To profess (Half-Moon’s

At rest on my nose

Bridge) that “the second

Is as infinitely rich (if

Not richer)”? In a

Word, Yes.

The Artocracy and Its Enemies

We live in an Artocracy. The artocrats who form the make-up of this society are, let it be clear, accountable to no-one and no-thing except themselves. Following its birth the Reader was outsourced to a Nanny and from that point never spoken of or visited. True artocrats have no checks or balances. They aren’t Public Servants, Employee’s or Knight’s of the Garter in any standard conception and therefore have no views to canvas (if you’ll excuse the pun) vested interests to please or instructions to bear in mind when making their work. If such a lapse of dignity on the unfortunate souls part was made towards considering the ‘reception’ their work might receive, the ‘issue’s’ it should address or the ‘publicity’ it had the potential to generate then, assuming they did not have the basic human grace to conceal this base intention by vigorously denying it (hara-kiri), it would be fitting for the artist in question to be permanently exonerated from the ranks of the Artocracy.

Servitude should at no point infringe upon the creative process and those who do entertain such aspirations of dominion over the Creative Individual, who shamelessly seek to profit from the singular expressions of an artocrat- the productivity of whom is only marginally comprehensible to them- are afforded the same level of enmity we give in civilised society to paedophiles, politicians and serial killers.

The power structure that actually exists between the Craven Materialists and the Artists they are fortunate enough to gain the slightest intimacy with is the absolute inversion of what they naively conceive it to be. For it is plain that if there was nothing to publish, release, exhibit or broadcast then the derivatives of these actions (the publishers, networks, record labels, galleries et al), the whole malaise of secondary exploitation could not exist, therefore depriving their thousands of comfortable employee’s of livelihoods. Although heavily blinkered to the truth in their plush offices, the “CM’s” are wholly dependent upon a replenished and inspired artocracy, for where it ever to enter a state of decline due to malnourishment they too would starve.

It transpires, logically, that the Artocrat is always in control, that the balance of power is always tipped in their favour, and that the only sustainable relationship that can remain between the two hierarchies is an unbroken, unilateral stream of command issuing from the Creative Individual to Craven Materialist (acting here instead as a Facilitator On Request)When they where part of the “CM’s” mass deception these people once placed emphasis upon buzz-terms like ‘100%Creative Control’ and ‘Artist’s license’ believing they where benevolent bonuses bestowed from ivory towers upon the struggling and hard up; some condescending kind of philanthropic welfare. These terms are tautologies. Furthermore they are the Sine qua non of any possible deal brokered with the artist. However as the “FOR” they are humbled and understand now that such statements weren’t exceptions but basic truisms in our Artocracy were there is, and has always been, a singular prerogative and mode of control: the artists.

She leaves and the town is immersed in an indigo dye that inflates and fidgets against the windows. From upstairs i hear my grandad chatting to the answering machine, he's saying

"antonio illness has gotten worse"

his voice has that phone inflection. Then i hear the realisation followed by his own imperfect cadence to every message "okthenbye"

Looking at the melancholy mid-afternoon palette the beer seems bitter. The dubstep on the cd player is all moody atmospherics, manipulated warbling and nuanced sorrow. There are organs that rise and fall like subordinates as a leader enters the room. I feel the weight of the spindly fingers flexing and pressurizing the keys.Trying to shape the sound, to craft and give actuality to the afternoon. I've been neglecting my appetite. The song takes a sequence of octave leaps and is joined by a bass that circulates round the room like an enormous wasp, panning both ears. It's music built on gaps, unafraid to democratise- a symposium of contained energy that allows multiple-authorship. Five second spaces where street noises surges and is saturates, ten second lapses to allow the couple sitting behind on the buses conversation to enter the sonic amphitheatre with the seagulls. These awnings and alcoves remain for enough time to allow cobwebs to gather in the dark- only to sweep them away. The beer is isolating its ingredients to my palette, laying them before me. This wasn't why it was uncapped, i wanted the monotonous frothy warmth of last night, the impression of being blown up through a nozzle like a lilo.

My emails are read from the fluorescence of the screen in the darkening room, they offer me

'rewards today'

As their subheadings ask of me whether I

''need 750 GBP?"

and don't give me time to respond before adding

"OK!"

Spam breeds. Junk has been allocated to the wrong folder whilst the vital and long awaited is relegated to JUNK. My life in part governed by this ineffectual, impersonal algorithm. Taking subject headers that promise too much, that smile too earnestly, as outright false, as too dramatically at odds with authentic relationships.

Outside is now veridian and the dubstep has segued into piano balladery, the beer continues to put its ingredients in separate dorms and she's still in Bristol.

November

The best and worst of days drip like stalactites from her whole.

Cursing the indefatigable soul,

and spots congregate beneath my hair.

I can sit here for days and watch my hair grow,

Listening for the tree

Calling in the silent forest.

Bodies that lie in the path of trains of cognition

Staging a coronation of my mystery aches with

Grand Names.

I'll sit and let the entropic room decide my fate.

To be pacified or roam, my skins gained a

Mahogany veneer after my trip away i'm told.

Days of serving eclairs to the old have me

Entertaining byronic flights around the continent,

Their faces creased as used tissues and just as sanitary-

Hair Growth dipersed in the gardens by their looping ears and tunnelling nostrils.

The state box tells me that the french are striking,

As does page 25 of sentimental education.

Oh Well,

I think,

Let them

Roast cars

Served with

Molotov's on the

Platter of the

Tarmac!

The suburbs are an inferno tonight.

Here amongst the retired i'm catching the tails of fancy-

Climbing aboard towards an exploration of the soul-

Its facets, the beeches, the mist urge in

wist for my departure.

Check In

Tudor facades, mocked as we crept from the crypt

Beneath Maples that cradled Phosphor.

Suburbia, napping, yawns and allows

Tintoretto to drape over the scene

A Venetian sky’s light pollution,

St Mark’s body brought to Venice.

Bound In tandem with the estuary

A needle stitching the seam of dusk,

Where it seems a comfort to be free,

Brush the strewn paper along the aisle,

Sit idle, and draft

The tableau of my arrival.

press release for the bland tangerines

The Black Tambourines, are not:
A group of percussionists
A beck cover act or
A plural of the seminal 80’s noise band

What they are is Cornwall’s premier surf-rock band. The lineup is: Jake Willbourne, the formidably creative punk Buddhist who croons, yelps and plays bass, Paddy Staccpoole the taciturn guitarist who catcalls, paints, sings and rarely smiles, Jim Sibley the urbane drummer and keen cyclist who defies every tub-thumping stereotype going and Josh Spencer the languid hip-hop enthusiast who’s wall of guitar noise unifies the group.

The fourtet emerged in a puff of weed smoke from the primordial soup of Truro College’s music course and began to notch up regular appearances at gig’s put on by the tireless promoters at Duelling Kazoo’s and Dirty Sunday’s. After only a series of gigs the band began to generate real excitement amongst local music fans, as people flocked eager to witness the risk and energy of genuine rocknroll. For too long the Cornish had been limited to yawning through sets of either post-hardcore macho posturing or banal surf-songwriters at local gigs, so the arrival of the BT’s sent a strain of enthusiasm through the college populations.

Having recorded their eponymous first EP themselves in a hazy week last summer and finished college they set about consolidating the attention that surrounded them in more hectic performances. The songs on the ep deal with: unwanted attention ‘I don’t want to be yr lover’ the affectations of a local hipster ‘tommy’ and sticking two fingers up other peoples expectations ‘I can’t surf’ (and wishing happy birthday to paddy’s dad) All of this wrapped up in their rad and raucous blend of lo-fi garage. Achievements to date include their split seven inch on up and coming south-west imprint ART IS HARD RECORDS with like-minded Exeter dudes New Year’s Evil, with whom they shared a ferocious gig at Exeter cavern and are planning a Spring tour. Having shared a stage with acts like Jeff the Brotherhood and The Automatic (in steeply descending order of brilliance) and hosted their own smoky/strobe-lit gigs emblazoned in projected visuals of skateboarding, the band rarely turn in a dull show.

Perhaps the best crystallization of the disparate influences that are fused in the Black Tambourines circuits is their most recent ‘HOMBRE’ Ep (again self-issued & recorded). The EP does away with the murkiness of its predecessor to reveal the sheer strength of their current set of songs that now share triple vocal duties between Spencer, Jake and Paddy. As the songs clearly show, the BT’s don’t shy away from melody- and songs like ‘Vitamin D’ with its final emphatic refrain demonstrate their love for the likes of Brian Wilson. This isn’t a band likely to buckle to musical orthodoxy or one that can’t evolve. No, this music defies the homogenization of your standard listening experience to present you pure, undignified creativity at its most intact, affecting and downright fun.

FUCK SHIT UP 2K11