bleak house music

Last night's attempt at poetry stank, quite frankly.
I woke up this morning and pulled the chain.
Not being one to flush the baby with the bath water,
I was loathe to disengage for the want of crying.

Spilt milk; gluey sex; oil pastels; empty bottles.
Bleeding containers of takeaway food. Sour spoils.

Ah well. I am inured enough to weekend ill tidings.
Salvation armies march on their stomachs. There is
a circle of concientious objectors stamping on mine:
pantomime sergeants; Presbyterian whingers.

Abandon your instruments of hope all ye who enter.
There's not a dry eye or house around here for miles.

blood oranges

in the court of the crimson orange.


In December 1436, on the occasion of his infant son's initiation into the Order of the Dragon - founded by the Holy Roman Emperor, Sigismund, and modeled on the Order of Saint George - emissaries of Vlad II, Dracul, were discharged over the Western Carpathians from Wallachia on a mission to secure a great gift.

Five years earlier - just prior to the birth of his second son and eventual heir - Vlad II, in concert with a select number of princes and vassals, had been summoned to the city of Nuremberg. Sigismund's primary motivation was self-protection; by eliciting a statutory oath of allegiance to the Cross, the royal house sought strategic defense against potential invasion by the Turks. Vlad Dracul's position was to impose control on those outlying mountain passes between Transylvania and Wallachia.

In return, Sigismund pledged to support Vlad's blood claim to the throne. An ambition fully realized by 1436.

"The original Order comprised twenty-four members of the nobility, including such notable figures as King Alfonso of Aragon and Naples, and Stefan Lazarevic of Serbia."

The insignia of the Order, appropriately, was a a coiled dragon with the red cross of Saint George seared into its back. The blood of the Cross sealed in the blood of battle: blood begetting blood.

Dracul, then - derived from the Latin 'draco' - and the Order of the Dragon was adopted as the family crest. Coins were struck under Vlad II's reign bearing the emblem of a winged dragon. By the end of his heir's reign, however - that of Vlad III, or Vlad Ţepeş (the Impaler) - the name 'Dracul' was synonymous with barbarity and the devil.

Dracul-a - son of the dragon - ascended the throne stained by a thirst to avenge the Order and restore the House of Basarab from which he was descended.

A mere six years into his reign, Dracul was deposed by factions in league with Hungary and was compelled to turn to the Ottoman court for assistance. Reneging on his oath to the Order of the Dragon, Vlad II paid tribute to the Sultan in return for military support and went so far as to send his two younger sons into exile as a token of his loyalty. While his brother, Radu forged a lasting alliance with the Sultan's heir, Mehmed, and flourished in this distant corner, Vlad III felt only disgrace at his father's betrayal and defied all efforts to groom him as a devoted subject.

Imprisoned much of the time and roundly chastised, the young prince brooded and plotted.

in 1447, at the age of sixteen, Vlad learned of his father's death at the hands of boyars in league with the Hungarian regent, John Hunyadi, the self-proclaimed 'White Knight'. His elder brother, the heir apparent, was blinded with hot irons and buried alive in Târgovişte, on the right bank of the Ialomiţa in what is presently southern Romania.

What ensued from there directly as an attempt to expand Ottoman influence by imposing Vlad III on the Wallachian throne is well documented. Dracula was impervious to all efforts to manipulate him from afar.

His contempt for the Sultan ran so deep that he gladly entered into an alliance with his father's assassin to reinstate the old Order. By 1456, Wallachia lay all but ravaged by decades of constant war. Agriculture was ailing, his subjects on the brink of starvation, and crime was endemic. Even as the Ottomans advanced through Constantinople into mainland Europe, Vlad Dracula declared war on the Boyars and refused tribute to the despised Sultan, Mehmed. Desperate to impose stability on the riven economy he inherited, the methods employed were at once necessarily cruel and a product of an all consuming wrath.

Thousands were impaled. Entire forests laid bare as his kingdom burned in a crucible of his own forging. Once clear skies roiled with smoke.


And the Christmas gift for a dragon heir ?

Blood oranges from Italy. A small, tart fruit of crimson flesh; withered on the vine.

Were it not for more recent events in Kosovo and Belgrade, Serbia and Bosnia, it might simply read as some dark elusive fairytale. Personal crusades and genocide.

oranges is not the lonely fruit

What is it with oranges ?

Anthony Burgess and 'A Clockwork Orange'; Jeanette Winterson's 'Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit'; Mark E. Smith's 'I Am Kurious Oranj'.

Save it for evengelists high on fuzzy felted sadism. Bursting segments of citrus heresy.

Orange is Ludwig ripening in the sun. Jaundiced droogs and rapists. Pez dispensers and marching bands; orange is the colour of bigotry.

Well. Tangerine is a different matter, a connotation lacking in orange; a hint of marzipan and the exotic. Open your lips to speak of tangerine and one is carpeted away on an Arabic odyssey. An oud or its distant cousin. Tangerine sparkles with Christmas. Of cleavage and all the trimmings.

And then there are clementines. Blood red and faintly obseidian, whispering of Marrekech. The suspicion of inherited wealth. Paul Bowles and Bill Burroughs asleep in the garden.

It is a thin family line. The intermarriage between one fruit and and another. High yeller and damson orange.

I am a pallid Celt with Slavic leanings. Iberian appetites. Wan would be too polite.

silver tongues and crosses

Recorded in the studio and live at Filmore East and West - with el capitán, Dino Valente conspicuously in or out of the frame and serving a two year stretch for marijuana possession - "Happy Trails" is a saturnine tour de force of worming guitar and flowering intent.

Kings of the Bay Area, "Maiden of the Cancer Moon" is second guitarist Gary Duncan's crowning achievement; building seamlessly into the epic, "Calvary", which is given its definitive 'reading' live in the studio coming up on acid, laid bare at Golden State Recorders, San Francisco on November 19th, 1968.

Reap it and weep.

This is communion with more concrete seals than wafers or fish on the tongue.

John Cippolina: guitar;

Gary Duncan: guitar;
Greg Elmore: drums;
David Freiberg: bass.

▼ QUICKSILVER MESSENGER SERVICE: MAIDEN OF THE CANCER MOON from "Happy Trails" LP (Capitol) 1969 (US)
▼ QUICKSILVER MESSENGER SERVICE: CALVARY (LIVE 19/11/68) from "Happy Trails" LP (Capitol) 1969 (US)

TA-DA!

Four minutes, give or take, of transcendental triumph or trash. Take your pick.

This is where I pause and wish my wife many happy returns. Pounding on the keyboard while she sulks in the kitchen; not because I forgot her birthday - I didn't - but because it is Sunday and I am pounding on the keyboard.

There is precious little to say on this LP, save that Third Bardo also covered their "My Rainbow Life" and production is credited to Rusty Evans. Oh. And the sleevenotes, compiled by David Rubinson, make for some entertaining reading.

▼ PSYCHEDELIC PSOUL: ROSE OF SMILING FACES from "Psychedelic Psoul" LP (Columbia) 1967 (US)

spilt milk in rubber city

A mere two years after Booji Boy stiffed in their native US, and an overseas deal with Stiff Records soured in the UK, Ohioans Devo signed on the line with major league hitters, Warner Bros. The rest - as some say - was almost history.

Produced in Cologne, Germany, by Brian Eno on the recommendation - in part - of chums Bowie and Pop, "Q: Are We Not Men ? A: We Are Devo", the resulting album, eschewed the pummeling Geiger guitar mystery of Clevelanders, Pere Ubu in favor of instant self-gratification. Fiscally motivated, or just commercially astute, "Come Back Jonee" more than amply demonstrated that Devo shared no midwestern manifesto with those neighboring pioneers of "The Modern Dance " and "Dub Housing". Slick, disposable. As kitschy as David Lynch on the Autobahn.

Bob Casale: rhythm guitar, additional keyboards, backing vocals;

Gerald V. Casale: bass guitar, additional keyboards, lead vocals;
Bob Mothersbaugh: lead guitar, backing vocals;
Mark Mothersbaugh: keyboards, occasional guitar, lead vocals;
Alan Myers: drums.

Produced by Brian Eno and Chuck Statler.
Engineed by Patrick Gleeson and Conrad (Connie) Plank.

▼ DEVO: COME BACK JONEE from "Come Back Jonee b/w Social Fools" 45 (Warner Bros. / Virgin) 1978 (US)

tits, clips, whips and chains

john cooper clarke strikes a ridiculously cool pose, 1977.



inner sleeve, "suspended sentence" ep. TOSH 103.

This, as the BBC was once quick to retort, is little more than a lachrymose repeat.

John Cooper Clarke first released an EP on the Manchester based label Rabid Records in 1977, backed by a coterie of musicians named the Curious Yellows. Produced by Martin Zero for the "Criminal Gramaphone Company" - with artwork by Kirk Van Gough Studios - "The Innocents" EP first seized my ear like a fish hook whipping off the indecently turned cheek of a small boy on a weekend fishing trip. Casting off. A sinking feeling as feathers and lure sail out from the end of the pier and the line snaps.

☚ this is what happens when you pogo round your bedroom without due care and attention.

In equal measures punk poet and stand-up comedian, Clarke had few peers. In hindsight, he probably did more to ignite an enduring fascination with words than a classroom full of yellowing paperbacks. His modest three minute observations often packed more of a visceral punch than a Ken Loach film. And where Loach sometimes stumbled under a banner of self-righteous indignation, Clarke exhibited a lightness of touch more imperfectly aligned with the origami unfoldings of Mike Leigh. Not so much delicate as human and robust. Engagingly open ended.

As a result, I suspect, of HBO's clever placement of "Evidently Chickentown" over the closing credits to an episode from the final series of "The Sopranos", Clarke has enjoyed something of a renaissance of late. Deservedly so.

▼ JOHN COOPER CLARKE & THE CURIOUS YELLOWS: PSYCLE SLUTS (PARTS ONE & TWO) from "Innocents" EP (Rabid) 1977 (UK) [R]
▼ JOHN COOPER CLARKE & THE INVISIBLE GIRLS: THIRTY SIX HOURS from "Snap, Crackle & Bop" LP (CBS) 1980 (UK) [R]
▼ JOHN COOPER CLARKE & THE INVISIBLE GIRLS: SLEEPWALK from "Snap, Crackle & Bop" LP (CBS) 1980 (UK) [R]

PURCHASE WORD OF MOUTH: THE BEST OF JOHN COOPER CLARKE
JCC PREVIOUSLY ON ART DECADE
JOHN COOPER CLARKE: OFFICIAL WEBSITE

degenerative valve disease

ATV's fifth single release proper on Depftford Fun City - not including their "Love Lies Limp" flexi distributed free through issue #12 of fanzine, Sniffin' Glue, the last - "The Force is Blind" parts company with all time-served apprentices with the notable exception of Dennis Burns, but continues in the experimental vein carried over from the fractured mess of "The Image Has Cracked" onto "Vibing Up the Senile Man (Part One)" and their split live LP with Gong veterans, Here & Now.

More of the same messy fare. Dislocated and abrasive.

A chilly post-punk vibe genuflecting puddled bus shelters and urine spattered underpasses. Industrial ghettos navigated on crutches from South London to Manchester and beyond; the corrosive soundtrack of half lives played out in sips. Endless cups of milky tea. Dogs, hot or cold. Benefit cheques and betting slips.

Dennis Burns: bass, synthesizer;
Dave George: guitar, chimes;

Anno: vocals (a-side);
Wally Bril: organ (b-side);
Mark Perry: vocals, knocks, violin.

▼ ALTERNATIVE TV: THE FORCE IS BLIND from "The Force Is Blind b/w Lost In Room" 45 (Deptford Fun City) 1979 (UK)
▼ ALTERNATIVE TV: LOST IN ROOM from "The Force Is Blind b/w Lost In Room" 45 (Deptford Fun City) 1979 (UK)

C.S.I. [sic] van dyslexia, k.o.

Well. There is no ire like that of an angry mod. And maybe I am no angry mod.

▼ THE WHO: SUBSTITUTE from "Substitute b/w Circles" 45 (Reaction / Track) 1966 (UK)
▼ THE WHO: THE KIDS ARE ALRIGHT from "My Generation" LP (Brunswick) 1965 (UK)

why i refuse to twitter #2

"...ha-ha. Oh, Jesus, that's so f@cking hysterical!"

why i refuse to twitter #1

" A ha-ha-ha-ha-ha...."

sack full of silver, or sugary shit

a rather antique silver teething spoon.

On a somewhat rancorous note, I would like to lend a word or too of support to fellow Glaswegian, and stand-up comic, Frankie Boyle, recently censured by the BBC Trust.

By the same token I would like to register mild disgust at Stephen Fry's reaching for the smelling salts on quite jocularly being rebuked for Twittering like the ex public schoolboy that he is.

"Hurrah for curry" ? Just wash it down with lashings of ginger beer and keep on taking the Prozac.

Say what you like. Frankie is very often an wildly entertaining c*nt.

Fry, on the other hand, is a dull approval seeking cretin with Wildely tedious delusions of grandeur. Too polite to ever get into such a scrape over an ill-considered remark.

anorak or fishtail savagery; let sleeping dogs lie

... and

before the skies cleared over Boomland, there briefly existed a sometimes growling sextet, Bulldog Breed. Featuring all three key members of T2 - in what I gather was a fusion of two minor league English collectives, Gun and Please - Bulldog Breed lived long enough to see the release of one long player on the fledgling Decca subsidiary, Deram Nova.

Rationing nuances of the sort which would catapult ...Boomland beyond the run of the mill, the material here is a far more derivative distillation of live circuit blues rock fare studded with an occasionally brilliant facet of pure mod pop, informed by the ever excellent Small Faces and The Who; some very Keith Moon drum patterns, especially, on the track "Reborn", with guitar from Keith Cross which wanders from classic Townshend windmilling into some - briefly - glorious Ron Asheton riffing.

Nice on uppers but largely unremarkable.

Believe it or not, too - given my previous observation on T2's "History Man" stylings - the album even features a harp laden instrumental called "Top of the Pops Cock ?!?!"; a John Mayall piece of tired effrontery which almost put me to sleep. Alas. That was my bleeding eared wish.

And suitably, given Pete Dunton's uncanny resemblance to Dougal from "The Magic Roundabout" (circa T2), there is even a throaway slice of whimsy with the same working title - complete with "Laughing Gnome" faux jollity - which would not be at all out of place on a children's tv show. Lyrically ham-fisted and all the more baffling since side 2 ends on the pseudo penny dreadful which is "Austin Osmanspare"; an overblown slab of gothic posturing which not even Syd would have been able to salvage. Saucer-eyed on Mandrax, melting centre stage.

Made in England, with everything bar the kitchen sink included at a discount.

Peter Dunton: drums, vocals;
Keith Cross: guitar, keyboards, vocals;
Bernhard Jinks: bass; vocals
Rob Hunt: flute, vocals.

Luis Farrell: bass;
Rod Harrison: guitar;

▼ BULLDOG BREED: YOU from "Made In England" LP (Deram Nova) 1969 (UK)

tea for two. or three.

(l to r) keith cross; peter dunton; bernard jinks.

To more or less quote Johnny Thunders verbatim:

"Do you want the 'lectric shit ? Or the hippie shit ?"

I had not heard T2 previous to the inclusion of "No More White Horses" in Emmett's October playlist. From their sole album, "It'll All Work Out in Boomland", released through Decca in 1970, it would appear this overlooked London trio have been kicking up a gentle storm ever since drummer and songwriter, Pete Dunton rediscovered the original reels in his attic and remastered the LP for CD reissue in 1992 with three bonus cuts originally recorded at the BBC.

Incorporating some exceptionally fine guitar from Keith Cross, T2 have been favorably compared to Cream and Procol Harum elsewhere on the net, but to my ears there is more of a Space Oddity vibe to the group in their more reflective moments; faint mellotron laced echoes of a shared fascination, perhaps, with Syd Barrett's Pink Floyd, and a healthy tendency to flirt with some popular motifs more commonly touted on the Franco-European charts between 1968-70.

And there lies the crux.

Had David Bowie not been quite so persistent, we might just as easily be waxing lyrical on the overlooked gem which was "Hunky Dory". Studiously maligned and dismissed by serious progressive types, were it not for shrewd market placement "The Man Who Sold the World" might have found himself fitting shoes somewhere off the Kings Road. Were it not for Mick Ronson and the Spiders from Mars, there quite possibly would have been be no third Stooges album.

Or über selling "Transformer".

And were it not for "Ziggy Stardust" there might feasibly have been no triumphant collaboration with Brian Eno in the shadow of the wall.

So.

"Do you want the 'lectric shit ? Or the hippie shit ?"

The existential angst or the bubblegum ? It all tastes good to me.

Word to the wise, though: it might seem a mere trifle, but never underestimate the damage a bad hair day can inflict on a career. David Bowie learned that lesson quicker than most. Or Faust. That which was acceptable on a geography teacher or social worker in 1970 did not book one a gig on Top of the Pops.

Keith Cross: guitars, keyboards, harmony vocals;

Peter Dunton: drums, lead vocals;
Bernard Jinks: bass guitar, harmony vocals.

Recorded at Morgan Studios.
Arranged and produced by T2 and Peter Johnson.
Engineered by Mike Butcher.

▼ T2: J.L.T. from "It'll All Work Out In Boomland" LP (Decca) / CD (SPM) 1970; 1992 (UK)

saturday maybe

ahhh...

Recorded on the 9th September, 2009 - 9/9/9 to those of you with a morbid fascination for emergency services numerology - "The Grass is Always Greener" is the second EP release from Nashville's Max and the Wild Things. Something of a minor cause for celebration in my own household, it further cements my partisan allegiance to siblings Aidan and Cole Traynor, and third man, Clint (Max) Wilson; replacing one-time wild thing, Brendan Leahy, on drums.

More than merely a celtic thing, listening to these Aidan Traynor compositions is a bit like being blasted back in time to the Pixies 4AD debut release with the mushrooms poking their crowns through the short grass; a chill dew on the collar.

Spare and electric and temporarily unhinged, the sound is at once as exuberant as a puppy digging for ribs, and as amnesiac as a pirate mining for azure on a cloudy weekend.

Stripped to the bone and confusedly eloquent.

As with their first release, "Hands Down Mans Down", the four songs featured were recorded at Welcome to 1979, "utilizing only analogue equipment manufactured in the mid-seventies as the perfect antidote to compressed digital orthodoxy". To quote myself.

That alone is enough to make me prick up my ears. Produced and engineered by Chris Mara, Mickie Martel, Bert Stone, Neil O'Neil and The Wild Things, it also leads off with a brand new studio outing - with brass ? - of the sublime "Without a Sound" featured here this summer, live in The Basement.

Last time around, zero siblings commented. Leaving me in a minority of one. I must reveal I was inordinately disappointed. Until. My friend Gus brought it up at my wedding reception. Somebody, clearly, was listening in after all; for a moment there I felt almost on a par with John Peel. Without the salary and pension, of course. Or a f@cking radio show even.

An odder Tennessee Waltz, it would be hard to imagine. Buckle up your leg.



▼ MAX AND THE WILD THINGS: SATURDAY IN MAY from "The Grass Is Always Greener" EP (WT1979) 2009 (US)

MAX AND THE WILD THINGS @ MY SPACE

white horses

The act of wielding even a virtual pen can be cathartic, for sure. The act of discharging it like a weapon - a greasegun - might even be exhilirating.

But. We all pay allegiance to a nominal form of self-censorship at the very least. I falter with a foot in both camps; less is more, undoubtably, and sometimes less is worse than nothing at all.

I constantly hover - like the best of us - on the dial. I am as prone to prevaricate as a motherf@cker.

And still. It is that act of wavering which lets the worm off the hook even as the net hoovers up the innocent. I have had a bellyful of the sanctimonius - anonymous - in recent weeks, let me just say; enough third form juvenile chest-beating to tempt one to pick up a cosh. Where the f@ck do these c*nts find the nerve ? Between choosing to stand up in the stirrups and mouthing off a liturgy ?

F@ck 'em and the pristine white horse they rode in on.

I didn't get to my age - pardon my rat's whiskers - without confronting arch self-righteousness when it raises its contorted head. Dress yourself up like Sid Vicious and I might just kick you in the f@cking face. Clad yourself in robes and I might piss all over your sackcloth.

The high ground is not secured through weekend free minutes. You don't fortuitously land on it by leaping to conclusions; you don't f@cking scale the perimeter by playing go-between. And I don't relish being sermonised at, 2nd or 3rd hand, by an ill informed novice stuffed full of certitudes.

Don't be too hasty in raising the blade. In the end even Robespierre jawed off his head.

Go f@cking hug a tree the next time you want to get off. I've hugged several, we all think that we're the first, and I'm still waiting for the grass to grow. Over my hooves. Under my shoes.

To summarize - in the clearing, after burning - suck my crushed white chalk.

▼ JACKIE LEE: WHITE HORSES from "White Horses" 45 (Philips) 1968 (UK)

POSTSCRIPT: T2: "NO MORE WHITE HORSES"; EMMETT'S OCTOBER PLAYLIST @ ART DECADE

not a leg to stand on...

you've got a lot of nerve...

I remember reading somewhere, vaguely, that Bob Dylan once attempted to make a go of it peddling bespoke wooden legs.

Handcrafted prostheses, to be more precise.

Is there even a splinter of truth in it, does anybody know ? Or is the tale entirely apocryphal ?

I admire the idea of it, the screwball absurdity of the very thought; the monocular attention to detail.

Had Dylan not gone stellar on the back of a purloined, well-timed lyric or two, I can envision our sage hobbling into such a entepreneurial cul-de-sac. Squirreled away; ornately skulking in the sawdust of his folly.

Had Zimmerman not come over all electric, we might have had prosthetic:

A rabid mob on pogo sticks on the fringe of a motorcycle accident. Baying for blood as the carpenter hops in the wings, knock-knock-knockin' and chalking on his board.

▼ BOB DYLAN: MOTORPSYCHO NITEMARE from "Another Side Of Bob Dylan" LP (Columbia) 1964 (US)

ticket to ride

II. I am LAYZEE BOY, lionhearts; crusaders. Furious as a pope. Flaccid and prone.

occasionally rampant.

# 1 with bass from Albert Dennis.

# 2 performed with friction:

Sue Schmidt: Guitar, Violin;
Peter Laughner: Guitar, Vocals;
Debbie Smith: Bass ;
Anton Fier: Drums.

▼ PETER LAUGHNER: BAUDELAIRE from "Take The Guitar Player For A Ride" 2 x LP (Tim/Kerr) 1993 (US)
▼ PETER LAUGHNER: DEAR RICHARD from "Take The Guitar Player For A Ride" 2 x LP (Tim/Kerr) 1993 (US)

transcendentalist

ohm

It has been a while
since I had any truck
with gurus.

The wheels
came off, then, and
I don't intend
to begin fiddling with
a socket wrench now.

Not in this lunchtime.

ohm


Of course,
I am not suggesting that
not one of those fΩckers
can be trusted.

(we all need a little help,
from time to time,
just to join up the dots...)

ohm


On the whole,
I am inclined to observe
though, it does not pay to
hitch a lift with strangers.

Most of the time
it is a good deal safer
just to keep on walking,
raw soles on terra firma.

ohm


Then again.
I am often full of shit.

anybody got a purple ohm ?

illustration by ib.

chicken little & the morning which wasn't

Right now I am hanging out my window, gasping for air.

Well, alright. Not right now, eggsactly, but somewhere between pulling on a cigarette and banging on this keyboard.

The still life looking west along the river is cast in grey. If it were not for the ever incipient rain I might describe it as ashen.

I got up this morning to make a toilet trip in the dark and guessed it to be 4 or 5 AM. It was 7:28. My alarm went off before I got one foot back into bed. I am glad I no longer work the night shift. I am glad I have not been forced to so for close to a decade. Cursing under my breath and lurching this way and that like a drugged hippo, I admit I felt bad for those habitually compelled to rise well before dawn: postmen; bus drivers; bakers and janitors. Schoolchildren with their hair on end chasing the milk round.

All manner of early risers and the plain nocturnal.

We are not designed to withstand such abuse. There is no benefit beyond the monetary in turning night into day or defying the biological clock. Unless it be to get the jump on the assassin creeping down one's hall; blade drawn and knotted with resolve. Fight or flight, in short.

Empirical evidence points incontrovertibly to the negative impact on long term health engendered through the night shift. I am aware of a handful of scientific papers which attest to as much; none commissioned in China - I am given to understand - the tiger which has forgotten how to sleep. At the mercy of party stimulants, restlessly pacing, its veins have all collapsed.

Still. Nobody lasts too long in China anyway. Serf or emperor, prole or government official.

Leaving aside the fact that the Chinese have demonstrated a knack for sewing a silk purse out of a pig's ear and making chicken noodle soup out of what's left, there is little on their agenda that one might seriously want to emulate. We are already drowning in our own pollution. We don't need any tips.

This brings me back to the dread I experienced when I stirred to find my morning snoring. Everything is back to front.

I am busy playing hooky and I know it can't last.

illustration by ib.

▼ POPOL VUH: MORNING SUN from "Nosferatu (Soundtrack)" LP (Brain) 1978 (Germany)
▼ DAEVID ALLEN & EUTERPE: GOOD MORNING from "Good Morning!" LP (Virgin) 1976 (UK)