So: four posts in first two weeks of January, nothing in the following two weeks – what gives, eh?  Well, leaving aside the incursions of real life and focussing on music-related pursuits, the reasons for my distraction are as follows:

The gig.  I am very excited about the upcoming midwich performance on the 4^th (with Astral Social Club, Culver and The Piss Superstition – details here) and delighted, whilst somewhat concerned, by the number of people who have said that they are coming.  As such, I am spending time ‘in rehearsal’ which translates as leaning on the keyboard for long periods whilst tweaking filters, jiggling leads and dealing with retching nerves.  There will, of course, be a write-up on this blog to follow.

New releases.  Two midwich releases made up of all-new material should be available at said gig: ‘Cut Flowers’ on Phil Todd’s label Memoirs of an Aesthete and ‘October in Yorkshire’ on Paul Walsh’s brand-new label Zanntone (pictured above).  One of the tracks I will be playing is a version of a track included on the latter.  There will, of course, be write-ups of both with ‘buy here’ details on this blog to follow.

Collaborations.  There are another two midwich related recordings in the works as two collaborations I have contributed too – one from the archives, one ongoing – may soon see the light of day.  As my collaborators, who shall remain nameless for now, are both incredibly talented artists who have seen fit to work their magic on my prosaic sound sources I am looking forward to basking in their reflected glory.  There is also the possibility of contributing to a fascinating new venture and webzine being formulated across the Channel in France and being launched in February.  There will, of course, be write-ups on this blog to follow.

The absence of a review pile.  I hesitate to say this, as I hear the creak of the floodgates being opened, but I haven’t been sent or been pointed at very much new stuff since Christmas.  The no-audience underground seems to be taking its time to come ’round from its New Year hangover.  I am not incapable of doing my own research, of course, but should any of you think I am missing something then do feel free to alert me to it.  There will then, should I like it of course, be write-ups on this blog to follow.

Right then, see you at the Fox and Newt!

STOP PRESS!  As I was writing this an email from Miguel arrived containing a link to a drone/doom epic lasting eight hours.  Holy shit!  Be careful what you wish for, eh?  Check this out: La Última Frontera – The Last Border.

• La Mancha Del Pecado – Desde Lo Putrido (ORE 65)
• La Mancha Del Pecado – Viernes 13 (ORE 67)
• La Mancha Del Pecado – En el Festival de la Desgracia (Agorafobia 10)
• La Mancha Del Pecado/Whermacht Lombardo – Devastacion/Debutante (Agorafobia 07)
• Whermacht Lombardo – Departamento de Despoblacion (ORE 68)
• The Skull Mask – Casette Dic. 2010 (ORE 73)
• Enoc Dissonance – Love in Black Shit (ORE 74)

(…plus some untitled La Mancha demos and collaborations and various other examples of metal, jazz, composition and noise from the Mexican underground provided for the education of gringo Rob.)

Ciudad Juárez, which sits opposite El Paso on the US/Mexican border, is a city of some notoriety.  I’m sure its politicians would like the world to focus on its rich history, or the lightly regulated opportunities for lucrative business, but the headlines, alas, have little to do with civic pride.

Instead, as recently as a couple of years ago, this city was the homicide capital of the world due to murderous competition between drug cartels and the enforcement agencies charged with stopping them.  Sometimes this violence had a grisly, Grand Guignol theatricality: severed heads were found in fridges with notes attached warning rivals that they were next (notes!  As if a severed head doesn’t make the point on its own!).  Kidnapping is rife, the threat to the civilian population, especially women, is grave, corruption is endemic.

…and yet life has to go on.  In a city of over one million people not everyone can be a drug baron.  The overwhelming majority of the population are, like everywhere else, just good people trying to earn a living, look after their families and keep out of harm’s way.  As you would expect in a place of that size, a few have turned to artistic endeavour in an attempt to make sense of it all.  For example, it is the kind of town where a noise tape label might choose the name ‘Agorafobia’ not just because the connotations of confinement and paranoia might suit the music but also because, straightforwardly, people are afraid to leave their houses.

The patron of that label is Miguel Pérez.  Miguel has already featured on radiofreemidwich, mainly in connection with releases on Oracle Netlabel which he co-runs with its creator Pablo Mejia of the Dominican Republic.  Over the course of a few months we have struck up a lively and entertaining correspondence.  He has become a cult hero in my office as my work colleagues are amused by the idea that I have a Mexican doppelganger who, like me, slaves at a desk all day only to spend his spare time presenting noise to a tiny audience of followers.

Miguel’s enthusiasm is certainly infectious.  Conversing with him shames me for being lazy and inspires me to get on with my own projects.  However, his boundless enthusiasm and Stakhanovite work rate has caused a hefty pile-up of new releases teetering atop an already daunting back catalogue selection here at RFM Towers.  What is the casual listener to do?  Well, to paraphrase David Simon: “fuck the casual listener”.  I decided to catch up by listening to Miguel’s music on each commute and every lunchtime stroll for a whole week.

So on Monday I kicked-off with the charmingly named ‘Love in Black Shit’ by the exuberantly noisy Enoc Dissonance.  This is a duo of Miguel and his Oracle collaborator Pablo.  Their working method seems to be to pick a theme or idea from the existing cannon of noise music – the last one was about The Haters, this one Power Electronics – and let that loosely inform an hour of destruction.  The first of two lengthy tracks features billowing clouds of distortion pierced with scrapings and hammerings, the second track is a pummelling guitar thrash.  I have an odd connection to this piece as Miguel tells me that…

…while working on a new Enoc Dissonance release doing a big racket with the prepared (with metals, coins, bla, bla) electric guitar at 9:00 at morning … the post man arrives looking at me kind of strangled since it seems he was hearing my noises from the outside for a while since when I got to the door to receive the package he was holding for me he could not stare at my eyes and almost throw it to my hands and took his bicycle and ran away!!!

To my amusement, it turns out that the parcel in question was from me and the track he was working on at the time is the one described above.  This is not an easy listen, obviously, but the nostrils-flaring verve with which it is executed induces a state of hypnosis.  It carried me to and from work effortlessly.

Tuesday was Whermacht Lombardo day.  The Oracle release listed above is, basically, balls-out noise.  The aesthetic is bleak, nihilistic: the title means ‘Department of Depopulation’ and you don’t need Google Translate to figure out a track title like ‘Vasectomia Obligatoria’.  The music is that roaring push with no apparent source.  Is it guitar distortion?  FM radio static?  A heavily over-amped field recording of wind in the trees?  It doesn’t matter.  There are occasional minor changes in texture but mainly this is a warm bath: dip in for a few cleansing minutes or wallow in it for hours depending on your mood.

Interestingly, the Whermacht Lombardo side of the split tape with La Mancha Del Pecado is a moveable feast.  Miguel says:

By the way the split of Whermacht Lombardo can be anything.  Sometimes I use that side and fill it with static, a field recording and yours is filled with odd electronics, vocals and other metallic percussions.

…and strange and compelling it is too.

Wednesday and Thursday were a two day celebration of Miguel’s main solo project: La Mancha del Pecado.  An interesting tape of demos and collaborations charts its development as Miguel’s (heavy) metal drones and thrashed out ragas gradually smear and blur into a Culver-esque growl.  Miguel is a great admirer of Lee Stokoe’s work and it shows in his use of volcanic rumbling and overloaded guitar.  La Mancha, however, is not a mere copy of the monolithic stasis and tunnel vision of Lee’s recent output.  It contains more variation in atmosphere: sometimes the music is meditative, echoing around cyclopean ruins, sometimes it is as sharp and sparkling as shards of broken mirror.  Miguel’s natural enthusiasm grates up against his attempts to be disciplined and this molten magma under the cool, dark surface gives the music a fascinating tension.

And why not end the week with a treat?  Friday was the day for my favourite of Miguel’s projects: The Skull Mask.  I’ll let Miguel explain this one:

The Skull Mask – is my acoustic improvisation project with no one else. This is influenced by Hindustani music, Arab, Jew and free improv. I am taking more and more a minimalistic approach and doing it solo guitar…. is something that I love doing…..will see more releases in the future to come.  This is mostly inspired on my trips to the Sierra de Chihuahua, to the mountains and valleys south Mexico, my visit is to mystic Indians in the desert, etc….is a sort of tribute to the wilderness in Mexico…… good to read that you cared about it!!! No one does!!!!

Well, I care about it a great deal as this is where Miguel’s verve and brio is at its most ego-dissolvingly hypnotic.  These pieces spin and mutate from thrashed riffs through contemplative passages to droning ragas.  For two minutes you think ‘whoo boy, do I really want to listen to 46 minutes of solo guitar?’ then 44 minutes later you come out of your reverie thinking ‘Aww… man, that isn’t long enough!  Again, again!”  This is not slick – Miguel is not trying to be Ry Cooder or Jack Rose – he is just letting fly and the raw energy with which he does so is irresistible.

And that was the week that was.  I thoroughly enjoyed it and will no doubt do it again sometime.  All of this stuff is available for free or for trade so why not check some of it out?  Agorafobia tapes has no web presence and is trade/gift only – contact Miguel directly at lamancha@rocketmail.com for details.  For brand new releases by all these projects your one-stop shop is the Oracle Netlabel site where they are free to download.  For older releases the files are stored at archive.org so click on these links to investigate: La Mancha del Pecado, Enoc Dissonance, Whermacht Lombardo, The Skull Mask.

OK, a short, sharp review for a short, sharp release.

Before Christmas a chap called Ronnie from the borough of Brooklyn in the fabled city of New York sent an email inviting me to download his debut EP.  As his message was full of flattery directed at me and this blog I found myself inclined to do so.  I am nothing if not vain.  Anyway, leaving my character flaws to one side, I’m glad I did as the peopling EP is very smart indeed.

Three highlights:

1. ‘regprog’ which features an irresistible percussive splurge that somehow sounds both wet and abrasive at the same time – as if the sample buried under all the filters is a recording of someone dropping a huge glass jar of peanut butter onto a stone kitchen floor.

2.  ‘summer such and such’ which (stay with me here) is the sound of a forlorn farmer trying to calm a shed full of agitated turkeys by plucking an acoustic guitar.  However, the gobbling of the birds is getting increasingly strange and metallic as, unbeknownst to the poor guy, the creature from John Carpenter’s The Thing has broken in and is replacing the real turkeys with horrific alien pseudo-animals.  Tremendous.

3.  ‘fiji’ which is my personal fave and stand out track.  The gurning industrial psychedelia and distorted, glossolalia vocals (also effective on opener ‘come home eccentric’) call to mind early Butthole Surfers (high praise indeed) or perhaps a hip, American take on the psychiatric underground of my beloved Ceramic Hobs.

I’ll leave the rest for you to discover.

Six tracks are whipped through in 16 minutes.  Points are made with a get-in/get-out brevity and sureness of purpose that is most refreshing.  The snack-size running time makes it easily digestible and the unusual after-taste it leaves behind encourages further consumption.  Treat yourself at bandcamp here, or search for ‘peopling’ on iTunes, or for physical objects have a word with Ronnie himself via thepeopling@gmail.com

It seems fitting to begin this year’s reviews with the latest from last year’s best label, especially when the release in question is of such impeccable quality.  Take note everyone: Andy Robinson’s Striate Cortex has not only set the bar ridiculously high but also nonchalantly hopped over it whilst the rest of us were taking off our tracksuits.

What we have here is a square, black presentation box – the sort of thing a piece of jewellery might come packaged in – encircled with a sash bearing the title and name of the band.  Sliding this off and removing the lid (decorated inside with gold marbled paper) reveals a square of fluff.  This secures two mini-CDrs decorated with inky abstractions and housed within their own dinky black paper wallets.  There are also three card inserts decorated with similar patterns on one side and the details of the release on the other.  It is a remarkable object.  I opened it gingerly, with a slack-jawed sense of wonder, knowing that Andy constructed each of these packages himself.  All one hundred of them.  Fortunately, the care, attention to detail and beauty evident in the packaging is justified by the music.

Star Turbine is a long-distance collaboration between ubiquitous force-for-the-good Sindre Bjerga and similarly busy multi-instrumentalist Claus Poulsen.  The first of the two discs contains five shortish tracks of droning atmospherics augmented by guitarish scrapes and found sounds dropped in, looped and left to abrade each other.  Whilst neither dubby nor minimal, these tracks contain a convincing evocation of space.  Whether this is abyssal blackness or infinite sky depends, I guess, on the mood of the listener.

The second disc contains two long tracks that explore similar territory but do so in a darker, more circumspect way.  The emptiness remains but the agoraphobia is pitched a little higher in the mix.  Could that hissing sound be a leak in your spacesuit?  As with many of Andy’s releases, the compelling depth and mystery of this music is revealed on repeat listens.  It stands up to scrutiny, in fact it benefits from it. 

The track titles invoke science terminology – ‘wave detector’, ‘molecular cluster’ etc. – in the same way that early techno used to do: to add a futuristic sheen rather than to refer to anything concrete.  I suspect this is knowingly tongue-in-cheek as the game is given away both by the title of the track ‘Chromatic Underwear (Polyatomic Molecules)’ and by the burst of muted ‘Jupiter Jazz’ style joy-synth that makes a surprise appearance at its conclusion. 

Whilst the track titles can be put to one side, the concept of ‘equilibrium’ has more interesting structural consequences.  This is not equilibrium in the sense of the solid-state, unchanging drones championed by, say, the underrated band midwich.  This is equilibrium maintained by the delicate balancing of competing forces, made possible by a combination of seemingly coincidental factors, the removal of any one of which would send the marbles crashing down like a game of cosmic Kerplunk.  There are various ‘quantity theory’ games that can be played by combining the elements of this release: are the two discs in equilibrium?  The tracks on each disc?  Each track within itself?  Over the whole track length or does every moment have its own balance?  It is an enormously impressive act, like a snail crawling up the blade of a knife. 

Aside: this is something that I actually saw happen back when I kept an allotment and grew some of my own fruit and vegetables.  Enjoying a break from my labours, I was amazed to spot a snail ascending the cutting edge of a foot-long knife I had plunged point-first into the soil at my feet.  This slow, death-defying glide was hypnotising – a living metaphor I knew would come in handy some day.  The mud-filled cuts on my hands attested to the blade’s sharpness.  When the snail reached the handle I did not throw it over the fence onto the road (the usual fate for such creatures) but, impressed, placed it on a cabbage leaf in the compost bin instead.

*Ahem*, anyway – to conclude: the fact that Equilibrium can be had for a mere five quid plus postage strikes me as a fantastic bargain.  In these straightened times we are all after ‘value for money’ and, whilst it might seem an odd concept to apply to art, I have to say this release has it in spades.  A beautifully packaged object that will repay your attention many times over.  Need I go on?

More details here.  Buy here.

Hello again, dear reader, and a happy New Year to you.  I trust that you had a splendid Christmas and that you proved sufficiently nice throughout 2011 to warrant a visit from Santa.  All was lovely here at RFM Towers.  The internet was put away in a cupboard and shameful acts of gluttony were followed by equally delicious periods of languorous torpor.  I waddled back to my desk today satisfied, content and humming ‘Damage Case’ from the best of Motörhead double CD I found in my stocking.

Quite a pile has gathered during my absence and I am enjoying the latest Ashtray Navigations LP (and their Cosmetic Penguin mixtape), grooving on downloads originating in New York, looking forward to others from Texas and Ciudad Juárez, tapes and CD-rs from that same Mexican location and something rather special from Striate Cortex, RFM’s 2011 label of the year.  I will write more about some/all of the above once the seasonal brain-fug has cleared.  But first some shameless self-congratulation and promotion…

RFM is delighted to announce that, following last year’s archive releases, the first wholly new midwich recordings for years are now available.  Faraday Cage comprises three tracks totalling 44 minutes presented on one side of a C90 cassette.  This punk-as-fuck release is issued by Lee Stokoe’s legendary tape label Matching Head.  It is packaged in the house style: minimal lettering typed on a manual typewriter then pasted onto a monochrome photocopied image – this time a disconcerting film still.  It’s perfect.

The music was recorded with Matching Head in mind and is thus dirtier, noisier and perhaps darker than the crystalline and (I hope) humorous and life-affirming fare to be found on my other soon-to-be-revealed efforts.  The three tracks in short: ‘part one: magnets’ is an industrial folk drone, corrosive for a refreshing brain-scouring effect, ‘part two: f4jb’ is a bristling, high voltage asymmetric throb that smells of ozone and ‘part three: feathered machinery’ is a 20 minute epic of digestive rumbling and guttering arc lights.  At the time of writing all five people who have heard it agree that it is (and I quote) “fucking great”.  Short clips can be heard by clicking here.

So how to get hold of it?  A word about Matching Head.  There is a partial (“65 submissions pending” – one of which presumably being #81, my first MH midwich tape) discogs page but otherwise Lee’s label has no significant web presence at all.  His catalogue is an A4 sheet of paper distributed samizdat style with orders and amongst those in the know (pdf of latest version I have to hand here – consider yourself one of the elite).  I’d suggest dropping him a line at lee_stokoe@hotmail.com and entering into correspondence about paypal etc.

And here is a little bonus for readers of this blog.  I realise that tape has been enjoying a renaissance over recent years but, for all its charms, the format is no longer convenient for some.  If you find yourself in that sorry category then do not fret.  When you buy the new midwich tape from Lee just ask him to forward your email address to me and I will then use the magic of WeTransfer or mediafire or the like to provide you with a high quality mp3 version of the album.  Thus for your few quid you will get a physical object and files playable on less romantic devices.  What service, eh?

RFM is delighted to announce the first live midwich gig in about, what, seven years?  Don’t look at me like that, I’m as surprised as you are. For many years my reaction to the question ‘will you ever play live again?’ was a Gallic shrug and a protestation that the volume control on my long-suffering Roland MC-303 was broken.

However, discovering that I could use a little Korg Monotron not only as a filter but also as a way of regulating the 303′s output caused a rush of blood to the head and before I knew it I found myself touting my ‘act’ around the promoters of quality happenings here in Leeds.  My dream gig was soon realised and it couldn’t be more low-key or cosy: fourth on the bill of a ‘group hug’ (as described by Neil Campbell) organised by the tireless Kieron Piercy at the Fox & Newt (of course).  The details are as follows:

• Astral Social Club
• The Piss Superstition
• Culver
• Midwich

Fox & Newt (9 Burley Street, Leeds, LS3 1LD), Saturday 4th February 2012, £4, doors probably 8pm-ish

These acts should be familiar to readers of this blog but tradition dictates that a gig listing should include blurbs.  So here you go. Each paragraph, apart from the midwich one where I talk about myself in the third person, is paraphrased from stuff previously published on RFM so apologies if much seems familiar:

Midwich

The first live appearance in many years from house band of the radiofreemidwich blog.  Expect nervous performances of tracks from Rob’s new releases on Zanntone, Memoirs of an Aesthete and Matching Head.  Industrial folk drones, neo-radiophonic throbs and the finest in Yorkshire nothing music will be delicately teased from wonky kit.  Hearts will be melted and egos dissolved by lovely, enveloping noise.  Or nothing will work, in which case there will be 20 minutes of swearing.

Culver

Like the background radiation that has been humming since the Big Bang, Culver is ubiquitous yet mysterious and indicative of something ominously apocalyptic.  Culver’s noise is predominately a bass-heavy rumble, a slow-motion fire.  Your attention is demanded – changes in tone and texture reveal themselves like a giant sturgeon moving slowly at the bottom of a lake.  Tuning in to Culver is like waking in a seemingly pitch-black room and gradually distinguishing unnerving objects – a clown doll, a bloodied knife – as your eyes adjust to the dark.

The Piss Superstition

Julian Bradley has found a way of cutting and pasting music into Google Translate and has amused himself by pinging it back and forth between languages.  Once the entropy of the process has removed meaning and context altogether, once all that is left is an incommensurably strange residue, he then offers it to us.  The Piss Superstition live – beefed up to a power duo by the addition of Paul Steere of Mob Rules – is an unmissably alien experience.  Scorched wrong with genius.

Astral Social Club

ASC is a joyously uplifting, billowing cloud of psychedelic noise constructed with wit, subtlety and a sure hand keeping it just the right side of chaos.  Apart from when that sure hand mischievously lets go to see what happens.  Transporting you from nostril-flaring delirium to blissed-out meditation and back again, the theatricality of the racket disguises a satisfyingly tough emotional core.  ASC return you to the world with your senses sparkling.

What a terrific line up.  It is also near enough to my 40th birthday for me to co-opt it as an unofficial birthday party too.  Come and celebrate!  No need to buy me drinks or shower me with presents (or indeed shower me with drinks, though you may be tempted to after my set) just roll up, give Kieron your money and get your groove on.  Good to have something so wicked awesome to look forward to in the New Year, eh?

So on to culture outside the confines of the no-audience underground…  Again, I remember the equivalent post from last year being quite long and comprehensive and again, this year I may try and keep it more to the point.  Frankly, I’ve been so busy with music and with writing this darn’d blog that my experience of culture at large has been relatively meagre.

Television has passed me by completely.  I didn’t even watch the adaptation of The Walking Dead, preferring to keep it on the pages of my beloved comic.  I’m not against TV – what a tiresome position that is – we just use it as a sedative, an analgesic or a window through which to watch sporting events.  Comics I trimmed back on for financial reasons and, apart from the aforementioned soap-opera-with-guns-and-the-undead-in-it I haven’t missed the medium at all, which surprises me a little.  Well, to be fair, my heavily-thumbed collection of Maakies books is rarely off the bedside table…

The best film I saw at the cinema this year, by some distance, was Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy which, despite having an arch style that occasionally overwhelmed the content, was pleasantly close to being proper adult entertainment.  In fact, I was so impressed that it inspired me to read the other two books in John Le Carre’s ‘Karla’ trilogy: The Honourable Schoolboy and Smiley’s People, both of which I relished despite an almost Dickensian wordiness (they total 1000 pages in the editions I have) that would put me off a story less gripping.  And seeing as we’re talking about the written word…

Here are the books that I read in 2011. Far fewer than last year, and mostly polished off in the first few months.

The best book I read this year was Wuthering Heights, with Madame Bovary running it a close second.  There is obviously no need for me to write another word about these universally acknowledged classics, so instead I will draw your attention to my favourite book of the year: The Conman by Laney Salisbury and Aly Sujo.  This is an intriguing account of a systematic, large-scale and long-term art fraud conducted by charismatic liar and fantasist John Drewe and his unwitting – at first at least – stooge John Myatt a talented ex-teacher with a knack for fine art forgery.  I am fascinated with ideas of provenance (the word used as title of the US edition of the book) and authenticity and this is an irresistible window onto the art market where those notions are at their most mystically powerful and philosophically interesting.  It is written in a pacey, journalistic style and, in its way, is as exciting as the Le Carre spy thrillers.  Very funny in places too.

(Grumpy Aside, 1 of 2.  The worst book I read this year is World War Z by Max Brooks.  It is an account of a Zombie plague and, despite the promising subject matter, is relentlessly boring.  This is a structural problem.  Being an oral history, collated after the ‘war’, we know that every person being interviewed survived. Thus, although the situations described may appear perilous there is no actual jeopardy, that is: no danger of death. So what you have is a book about a zombie apocalypse that affected the whole of humanity for ten years during which time millions died yet none of the dozens of characters we are introduced to are among them.  What kind of bullshit ‘horror’ story is that?  The other issue is, given that we spend no longer than a few pages with each person, we have no time to get to know them.  Thus all we have is a catalogue of one damn thing after another featuring people we don’t care about and who survived it anyway.  I dragged myself all the way through it and ended up thinking: who gives a shit?  This failure is currently being made into a film starring Brad Pitt.  Whoo boy.)

Now onto some unarguably genuine visual art…

The best exhibition I went to was the Henry Moore at Leeds Art Gallery in the Spring. At the risk of stating the bleedin’ obvious: it was a joy to examine these sculptures in three dimensions.  To see, for example, the exquisitely carved back of a mother and child piece familiar to me only from reproductions, and thus only from the front, was almost magically moving.  Likewise the grain of the wood or the texture of the stone never comes across adequately in pictures and the light reflected by a bronze, immutable in a photograph, is alive ‘in the flesh’.  Further thoughts on this topic, plus a ‘sublime-to-the-ridiculous’ comparison with the Damien Hirst show that replaced it, may appear in a short article for The Jackdaw in the New Year.

(Grumpy aside, 2 of 2.  Some people are surprised that I am so dismissive of contemporary visual art, especially conceptual, award-winning gallery art, given that I am so keen on sometimes difficult experimental music.  Are not the scenes akin?  I would argue: absolutely not.  Whilst the music I write about is inventive, emotionally resonant and created by a crowd of clever, irreverent, self-sufficient polymaths purely for the joy of it, the art scene is stuffed with venal, pompous idiots creating ‘work’ of no aesthetic worth that is meaningless without reams of accompanying verbiage.  Not only that but they demand subsidy and praise whilst they do so.  The two scenes are polar opposites.)

Finally, the best, as tradition dictates, has been left until last…

Our trip to Venice provided all the greatest visual art experiences of the year.  In fact, it isn’t an exaggeration to say that, as a whole, the city was the greatest visual art experience of my life so far, nor can I imagine it ever being bested.

As with Wuthering Heights, I wonder if there is anything I could possibly add to the millions of words already written about Venice.  However, the experience was so wonderful that I feel compelled to offer a little at least.  My bit of guidebook-style advice is to go for as long as you can afford.  Most visitors seem to come for a day or a long weekend but we decided on a week and that allowed us the time to acclimatise to the rhythms of the place, to figure out its mazy geography and to take in a sizeable number of the main attractions at a pace leisurely enough to thoroughly soak it up.

Next, if a place charges an entrance fee then pay it gladly and, if when you are inside there are additional little fees to see extra bits and pieces then pay them too.  It is an expensive city but this is not the area in which to scrimp – the return on your investment can be huge and any kind of fee, even a couple of Euros, cuts the number of visitors sharing the experience exponentially.  We wandered through parish churches the size of English cathedrals filled with exquisite Renaissance art and we had them more or less to ourselves because either a) they were more than a few minute’s walk from the tourist hotspots and/or b) they charged a few Euros to get in.

And what masterworks.  As well as visiting must-sees such as the Byzantine mosaics of the Basilica di San Marco (the pre-booked queue-jump – at one Euro each – was the bargain of this young century), the unrivalled collection of pre-19th Century art at the Gallerie dell’Accademia and Titian’s ‘Assumption of the Virgin’ in the Basilica di Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari (pictured above, possibly the most perfect man-made object I have had the privilege of seeing) the luxury of being there for a week allowed us to seek out less renowned marvels.

We wandered about the Sala Superiore of the Scuola Grande di San Rocco using the handheld mirrors provided to view the terrific Old Testament scenes painted by Tintoretto on the ceiling.  We visited the Chiesa di San Sebastiano to see the paintings by Paolo Veronese, went through an unobtrusive side door and found ourselves in a sacristy filled with his work.  So stunned were we that we sat in absolute stillness and silence, completely alone, until the movement-sensing light went out and we had to wave our arms around to get it back on.  We sat on the steps of the Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute and marvelled at the view of the Grand Canal (see photo above).  We took the waterbus over the lagoon, through the hazy sunshine, to the eerie remains of the Cattedrale di Santa Maria Assunta on Torcello and walked past a restaurant hosting a noisy convention of gondoliers.  And so on.  A series of near-perfections, perfected by sharing them with my beloved. 

On that happy (soppy!) note, I’d like to officially call Radio Free Midwich’s 2011 to a close.  I may write one more post with some details of a live show and new midwich product to look forward to in the New Year but aside from that the reviewing and commentary will recommence after the festivities.  Have a lovely Christmas, comrades.  Ho, ho, ho.

An end of year list is irresistible isn’t it?  No matter how fallacious and arbitrary, it is nigh on impossible not to flick forward or scroll down to the number one slot.  And who am I to deny you that festive pleasure, eh?  They can also be incredibly useful.  For example, The Wire assigning top spot last year to that awful album by Actress finally freed me from any obligation to read that silly publication again.  What a time-saver!

Last year my round-up was all encompassing and fairly hefty.  This year I’m keeping it to the point and, as far as music goes at least, well within the no-audience underground.  This adds a bonus frisson to proceedings as many of you reading this will have reason to take my meaningless judgements personally.  Mmmm… what could be more delicious?  Maybe a warm mince pie with brandy butter…

And hasn’t it been a cracking year?  Along with the people and releases detailed below I have to mention a few other non-categorizable inspirations.  The consistently great writing to be found at Idwal Fisher is such a huge influence on this blog that I’m hoping Mark believes imitation really is the sincerest form of flattery.  I’ve been delighted by the return of the paper fanzine to my doormat in the form of indescribable packages from Spon and Hiroshima Yeah!  I have been awestruck by the all-or-nowt work ethic and decision making of Simon DDDD who not only created DDDD’s unfathomable online presence but then deleted the lot in a breath-taking act of self-immolation once he decided it had run its course.  There then followed the even more jaw-dropping New Luddite Tapes project during which he created 72 releases – all recorded himself – within four months.  This has now also imploded, though some remains can still be picked over at the website.  Who knows what will come next?  Not me, that’s for sure.  And on that bewildering note, on with the show… 

(Methodological aside: the music mentioned below may not have been released this year, although most of it was.  To qualify it just had to be heard by me for the first time in the calendar year 2011.  There are five award categories ending with a prize, yes you heard right: an actual prize, for the album of the year.)

5.  The “I’d never heard of you 10 minutes ago but now desperately need your whole back catalogue” New-to-RFM Award is shared by…

Plurals and Eyeballs

Of Plurals, RFM said: “…one of the most striking things I’ve heard this year…” (full review here) and the verdict was similar for Eyeballs “…intelligent, wryly humourous and unashamedly ambitious…” (see here and here and here).  If you ever feel inclined to pay attention to what I say, I urge you to check these guys out.

4.  The “Astral Social Club” Award, given for maintaining quality control over a huge body of work making it impossible to pick individual releases in an end of year round up goes to…

Astral Social Club

Of course it does.  Neil’s ability to crank out such class at such a fierce pace remains inspirational.  Honourable mentions must also go to those snorting workhorses Culver/Inseminoid, Andrew Perry and Posset.

3.  The Special Contribution to Radio Free Midwich Award is shared between Andy Robinson of Striate Cortex, Seth Cooke of Bang the Bore and RFM’s North East correspondent Joe Posset.

Andy has generously provided review copies of some of the most intriguing and involving music that I have heard in years.  His brain food has nourished a selection of my most baroque, gushingly lyrical and borderline nonsensical reviews.

By agreeing to publish the lovely article Pete Coward had written about FFR then expertly conducting the interview that followed, Seth Cooke not only helped me put that era to bed – the definitive account is now on record – but inspired me to reactivate midwich too.  New releases and live appearances are in the works and it is, to a large extent, his fault. 

Finally, I would like to officially acknowledge the work of Joe Posset, RFM’s North East correspondent.  As well as providing a stream of his own terrific recordings, Joe’s tiggerish enthusiasm and selfless generosity have hipped me to many great acts and labels, including Fuckin’ Amateurs and Andrew Perry.  His efforts have been very much appreciated.

2.  The Label of the Year Award

Well, given what I said above, it will come as no surprise to hear that the winner is… Striate Cortex.  I needn’t say any more.  Everything I have written about Andy’s enterprise can be read by clicking here.

Honourable mentions must also go to: Sanity Muffin (on hiatus, but I’ve heard some great stuff due up next), Memoirs of an Aesthete, Medusa (more great tapes), Bells Hill, Infinite Exchange and our Mexican cousins Oracle.

1.  The Album of the Year Award

This is the biggie so I’m going to do a proper reverse-order run-down for added anticipation.  It goes without saying that everything by the artists mentioned above automatically makes the longlist for this award.  In addition to that cavalcade of excellence honourable mention must also be made, in no particular order, of the following:

• Seabuckthorn – A Mantra Pulled Apart
• Waz Hoola – Multiply Reality by Infinity
• Perpeteia – Music for Mesmer
• Foldhead – Drugs Paint Alcohol
• The Zero Map – Felis Cattus Domesticus

All terrific.  Click on a title to be taken to my review.  Now on to the big three:

The 3rd best album of year is:

The Piss Superstition – A Themepark for Whatever Happened Before

I wrote:  ”For me, Julian’s work has always called to mind machinery, often on an unimaginable scale, working to some forgotten purpose, on the brink of being overwhelmed by entropy and halting altogether … It is an absolutely brilliant way of conveying the devastating effort it takes to feel something - anything - in this alienating world we live in.”  Full review and article here.

The 2nd best album of the year is:

Ceramic Hobs – Oz Oz Alice

I wrote: “This band is not only ‘going there’ but doing so willingly and, whilst there, using some voodoo power to create this music for the rest of us.  My mind boggles - rather them than me.  Simon suggests that this might be the last Ceramic Hobs album.  I very much hope it isn’t but, if so, it would be a magnificent way to bow out.”  Full review and article here (wierdly, still my most popular post ever).

..and finally, The Zellaby Award for Album of the Year goes to:

Ashtray Navigations – Cinderella Stamps

I wrote (in a post titled, fittingly, ‘ashtray navigations are my favourite band: empirical fact’): “…it is almost comical to me how perfectly it ensures that I get my groove on. Pretty much every musical element I dig is there, distilled and combined.  One finger piano?  Check.  Expansively tangerine wob-wob synths?  Check.  Red-hot tropical guitar?  Check … Imagine Phil and Mel soundtracking the adventures of an interstellar Buddha, preaching the eternal truths to bewildered alien races on Chris Foss style space-arks…”  Full review and article here.

To be honest, given the quality of their work, Ashtray Navigations and associated projects could have featured heavily in every category (except ‘newcomer’, of course) but I kept ‘em out of it knowing that the most glittering of prizes would be theirs in the end.  Speaking of which…

The Award Ceremony

Some background: in early November I gave up drinking diet coke and in late November it was my dear Grandmother’s 92nd birthday and the combination of the two factors led to the first Zellaby Award for Album of the Year.  Now, I realise that last sentence doesn’t make any sense at all, so allow me to join the dots.

For years I have drunk at least half a litre of that nastily acidic, highly caffeinated ‘delicious beverage’ (original phrase removed at the insistence of RFM’s legal team) every day.  Finally, I convinced myself that this was a foolish thing for a grown man to be addicted to and ‘may have been’ (lawyers again) detrimental to my health.  So I went cold turkey.  The caffeine withdrawal not only gave me a bitchin’ headache for days but also led to a few decaffeinated moments of clumsiness and doziness.  For example: I dropped a load of eggs on the kitchen floor whilst attempting to open the fridge with my elbow, I put some delicate bedding in the tumble drier and it is now no longer King size (or even Queen or Jack size, more like Nine of Clubs size.  The pillowcases look like crocheted iPhone covers.) and then I made a mistake in Marks and Spencers…

I was in the process of assembling a parcel of birthday goodies to send to my Grandmother.  It was to contain a long handwritten letter, some photos, a birthday card and some easily postable presents, one of which was to be a M&S voucher.  I dutifully trotted down to the shop, made my purchase and it wasn’t until I got on the bus home that I realised I’d picked a card that said ‘Merry Christmas’ on it.  “Bollocks,” I said out loud to my fellow passengers and went back the next day for a ‘Happy Birthday’ one.

My grump lifted when I decided that it might be funny to award the spare token as a prize to the artist responsible for RFM’s album of the year and, when I realised I saw that band in the pub most Thursday lunchtimes, the possibility of getting a photo of the ‘ceremony’ for the blog was irresistible.  So here we are.  I handed over the prize at lunchtime today and the reaction of bewildered delight was exactly what I was aiming for:

The official photo, Phil & Mel remain a little suspicious as to what I’m up to…

…the realisation that they have actually been given something of worth…

…the descent into emotional delirium as the moment proves too much for Phil.

And on that happy note I’d like to call the 2011 Zellaby Awards to a close.  Thank you all for being such a beautiful (no-)audience.  Goodnight, comrades.

I wonder: does my telling you to ‘buy here’ ever result in you buying there?  Anecdotally, I’ve heard that a little money has changed hands as a result of my wittering, which is very exciting, but I suppose the answer is usually a sheepish ‘no’.  Hey, don’t sweat it – I’m just the same myself (and I still think that my ‘articles written to purchases made’ ratio is probably better than The Wire).  I read thousands of words about music in an average month and how much of it leads to commercial transactions on pay day?  Almost bugger all.  This state of affairs is only partly to do with my poverty or apathy, however.  I rarely have to spend much money as I ‘earn’ my trinkets through ‘contributing to the scene’ or benefit from the generosity of my talented friends.  Allow me to expand…

Joe Posset, RFM’s North-East correspondent, recently completed a sell-out tour in which he took his improv-dicta-madness to the alterno-stadia of the UK (Posset live in Café Oto can be heard here).  After returning home and enjoying a vigourous rub down from his Ukrainian masseuse, Joe lit a cigar and relaxed by catching up with the RFM articles he’d missed whilst on the road.  My comment quoting Andrew Perry on trades – “it’s our way of shaking hands” – really rubbed his Tibetan singing bowl and he dictated the following to his beautiful Turkish manservant:

As ever, I read your last post with interest.  Perry has a knack of hitting things bang on eh?.  The trade thing is a bit like  ‘our way of shaking hands’.  It’s also a great way to keep the filthy lucre out of the equation.  I sold one CD-R on that last tour.  Just one; and if I ever find out who bought it I’ll give them the next posset slop report just for showing so much faith.  But I came back with a stack of CD-Rs, tapes and vinyl the height of medium sized milk jug through trades with other bands, DIY labels and well-prepared punters.  They will keep me spinning & smiling until December and I’ve spread the p-word to a bunch of homesteads and families across the UK.  Everyone is a winner.

I found myself nodding in vigorous agreement and murmuring assent.  I mentioned that I have become one of those ‘well-prepared punters’, already in the habit of slipping a few midwich/Truant CD-rs into my pocket before venturing out.  Joe replied as follows:

Sociologically ‘alternative economy’ is one of the many interesting things about the n-au.  I know this is a wild stereotype but how come everyone is really clever too?  I’ve seldom met a thick or obnoxious n-au participant. They tend to be clever, well read, open-minded, polite polymaths…but usually skint too.  The trade off between riches (or at least the established ideas of success) and building up a killer collection of tapes and CD-Rs.  Ah…maybe that’s why we trade!!!

Leaving aside the self/scene-congratulation (momentarily – I’ll be coming back to it), and the shortening of ‘no-audience underground’ to a groovy academic acronym, Joe is obviously on to something.  Trade is, of course, the lifeblood of the scene in both of the senses that Joe uses the word: ‘trade’ to mean barter and ‘trade-off’ to refer to the choice between different standards of success.

The swapping of object for object is only the most straightforward type of barter/trade.  It saves everyone involved money and provides a risk-free way of picking up something new.  For punters it is a reward for generosity and open-mindedness, for distributors a way of circulating stock.  More interesting is the object for services rendered trade.  For example, the promoter of a successful gig may be ‘tipped’ by a grateful act with a pocket full of product.  Likewise, sometimes I have written about something I like on spec only for the artist to get in touch offering a no-strings selection from their back catalogue.  This is a good example of the joy and reciprocity in the scene: an attentive and appreciative punter is worth nurturing.  To be a member of the family all one has to do is express kinship.

It ain’t exclusively prelapsarian bliss though – sometimes this exchange is more calculated.  “Hey I dig your blog,” says label boss, “would you be interested in receiving a parcel of our stuff with a view to writing a label review?”  “Sure,” I reply, “on the understanding that I only write about what I like,” and we shake on the deal.  This is as close to ‘promotion’ as it gets but there is, hopefully, no possibility of it creating rancour as expectation is managed and, crucially, no money changes hands.

If there is a currency in circulation amongst us it is goodwill.  A certain amount of goodwill capital can be amassed but it can’t be hoarded in Scrooge McDuck-style coffers.  It needs to be fed and nurtured otherwise it will shrivel and wither.  Maintaining a stock of goodwill is more like tending a garden.  Thus, for example, when Rob Galpin tells me he created his charming tape ‘Like a Diamond in the Sigh’ by Crochet with the express purpose of using it for trade I get exactly what he is up to.

So why is goodwill so important?  Because money isn’t.  And here we need to consider the idea of trading off the standard indicators of success against others which may be more philosophically interesting.  Fame and wealth, as commonly understood, are not available to those pursuing fringe interests.  There is no screaming mob of fans to be milked dry of their pocket money with Astral Social Club 2012 calendars, there are no oligarchs wishing to be our patrons and, annoying as it may be when the rent is due, I suspect we sort of like it that way.  It means our ‘art’ and our ‘scene’, for the want of better words, can groove their own way uncompromised by non-artistic concerns.  I don’t want to come over all Bill Hicks here but money does tend to corrupt what it touches and its influence is insidious.  Whilst it would be nice, of course, to be able to sell-out a meagre run of CD-rs, if only to fund the next forlorn project, garnering the commendation of our peers can be way, way more important and satisfying.

Now on to us (almost) all being ‘clever, well read, open-minded, polite polymaths’.  Again, and at the risk of sounding incredibly self-serving, Joe is correct.  I think the only time I have encountered anyone really unpleasant and/or with money is at the power-electronics end of things which, especially on Continental Europe, seems to attract dilettantes and would-be decadent trustafarian idiots who feel they have to put on an air of misanthropy to impress their inexplicably beautiful, porcelain-skinned girlfriends.  Otherwise drone/improv/noise/whatever seems to be full of exactly the type that Joe describes in such flattering terms.  There is plenty to find maddening if you are the easily maddened type: individuals may be ripe with preciousness, woefully disorganised and/or ambitious to the point of delusion but I don’t consider those flaws to be unforgivable.  Much noise is the sound of its participants struggling to chew the unwieldy lumps they have bitten off and there is something hilarious, charming and heroically noble about that.

So why are there so few arseholes?  My guess is that there isn’t that much in the scene that an arsehole would be attracted to, or get off on.  There is no fame to abuse, no hierarchy to enforce, no money to waste, no club full of beautiful young things* to enthral with shallow glamour.  Not much room for an arsehole to really flex its sphincter.  Now, it would be wrong to say the scene is without vanity but prestige and respect are earned from a down-to-earth crowd of hard-working and dedicated artists and punters and any attempt to assign it prematurely, or hype it up to unwarranted levels, will be met with a scoff.  Ridicule is used to puncture pomposity but not in a sneering, back-stabbing, hipster way.  Instead wry amusement is used to call shenanigans on any attention seeking behaviour.  In short: our standards of success are unfathomable to the average fuck-knuckle and instead attract the fine, upstanding citizens who see the value in sharing their book-smarts and fancy-pants ideas with other fine, upstanding citizens.

Don’t it make you feel proud, eh?

–ooOoo–

*Aside: our Mexican cousin Miguel – of Oracle Netlabel and La Mancha del Pecado – has been perusing online photographs of eminent participants and has noted a no-audience underground equivalent of the Innsmouth look.  He wondered, tongue in cheek, if there could be such a thing as ‘genetic drone disorder’.  Admittedly this notion is hilarious, almost irresistible, but I don’t think that there is a biological reason for us being a bunch of oddballs.  I suspect instead that if we were all tall, handsome and cut like a freakin’ steak we’d be too busy being idiots and/or ruling the world to worry about booking the Fox & Newt and struggling to get a nine volt battery into that fuzz pedal…

(Cover and selection of inside pages pictured above – click on thumbnails for full size scans)

The venerable Dr Adolf Steg, oft mentioned in these august pages, has truly surpassed himself with the latest issue of Spon.  By taking his usual working method of collage and appropriation to some sort of logical end point he has produced a meta-fanzine that is part scrapbook, part time-capsule and part snapshot/print screen of Steg’s mental state.  This satisfyingly hefty tome elevates a traditional fanzine format – stapled A5 booklet – to the realm of handcrafted outsider art object.

When poring over this compendium of magazine articles, comics, letters, photographs, drawings, pages cannibalised from other fanzines with post-it notes and other detritus ‘tipped in’ it is tempting to reach for metaphors like ‘a core sample revealing the layers in sedimentary rock’ but this is inappropriate for something so chaotic and atemporal.  A child’s (baby Steg?) drawing dated ‘May 1971′ is stapled to a Judge Dredd comic from the 80s which in turn rubs up against a letter from Simon Morris which must have been written in the last few weeks which is overleaf from a fanzine review of an early 90s Seefeel record etc. etc.

Remarkably this stuff is not copied, you are looking at the actual ephemera itself.  As such, each of the 25 copies that Steg tells me he has assembled is unique and can contain scraps that have been in his possession for much of his life.  Some parts seem even more poignant for having the years of accumulated meaning shorn away by juxtaposition, some are mysterious, some fascinating, some dull and/or nonsensical.  It is an intriguing, hypnotising object. 

I have no idea if any more of these are available, nor whether the good Doctor might want anything in exchange, but there is no harm in asking.  Contact details can be found on The World of Steg website.