Friday, 26 June 2015
It contains 3 tracks which were improvised and recorded live on the afternoon of 25:06:15
Pentode Accumulator ( 6.41 )
Condenser Instability ( 5.56 )
Temperature Coefficient Fluctuation ( 11.15 )
It exists in an edition of one which has been given as a gift to Takanobu Hoshino of Fukushima, Japan in return for his gift of a beautiful original photograph and two maps showing the extent of radioactive contamination around Fukushima.
It is unavailable in any other format.
Wednesday, 4 March 2015
On the roadside, close to Teesport and a stone's throw away from the Black Path, stands this rather impressive electrical facility, humming to itself a song of untold voltage. I thought I'd firstly photograph it (here's the result) and then record the sound of its low thrum. Unfortunately as I aimed the camera, carefully attempting to get the 'Danger of Death' sign bang in the centre, a police car pulled up.
The policeman said he'd passed me earlier on wandering around the vicinity, and as it was an industrial area with few pedestrians, could he have my details as there was a high risk of terrorism in such an area? He also wanted to know why on earth anyone would be taking pictures of these things and he asked what was in my bag. I showed him the black boxes, microphones and wires I was carrying around and he contacted North Yorkshire Police to check out if I had any history of nefarious acts.
Explaining to the constabulary about just liking sounds for their own sake, and that the recordings might well be amalgamated into compositions which some people consider almost like music, might seem a fruitless task. To give him his due though, the chap (who said he was in the armed response team) listened, didn't smirk, and said 'its good to have a hobby'. I quite liked him. He was courteous throughout and the police car was warm and had a christmas tree air freshener in.
When he let me go on my way, I moved away from the road and onto the Black Path. Unfortunately my intention to record at the abandoned Grangetown railway station was thwarted. The gate which had previously been open was now chained and double padlocked. As if to rub things in, the batteries on everything ran out, the replacements didn't work (duff batch), so I cut my losses and drove home.
On the upside, I can now go into any police station in Cleveland and ask to see my personal dossier. I now consider myself a bona fide sound terrorist.
|The Black Path near Grangetown station|
Thursday, 5 February 2015
The Wanderer by Timothy J. Jarvis is a novel, or a found manuscript, or a dream. It tells of those who have seen through rifts in the thin veneer of our superficial world and entered into a deeper, unfathomably dark meta-reality. The story (or stories, as it contains many) spans vast swathes of time, and equally traverses the geography of our globe's cities, shadows and far flung desolate spaces to tell its story of impending, unassailable terror.
The fact that the manifestations in The Wanderer are in the main very flesh and blood, solid, non-ephemeral, that they exist of matter and not some ectoplasmic, ghostly material is appalling. There is a lot of pain, viscera, fluid and bone to navigate, but all is set within tightly detailed and concrete evocations of real (at least to those of us who have never scraped the surface and seen the void) earthly places.
The work is complex, although by no means impenetrable. The writing is always interesting and has a whiff of Victoriana about it, although I can't quite put a finger on why this is. I can tell within a couple of paragraphs whether a book will get its hooks into me, and this one bore sharp barbs. Maybe it was the spattering of arcane terms or the conceit (if indeed it was a conceit) of the manuscript being found in the room of an author who had vacated this world in such mysterious circumstances.
Writhing at times with numerous unresolved threads, often fleetingly minor characters that appear trivial and unconnected reoccur at particular nodes of confluence where disparate strands meet, and a pall of eldritch machination impregnates the proceedings with deep reaching tendrils.
The Wanderer himself is bound into a purgatorial eternity of existence, and an interesting philosophical question is posed: What would it be like to live forever? Religion pushes this prospect at us and holds it up as the glittering prize for a life well lived. Infinity is the longest time you can imagine multiplied by the biggest number you can imagine, and then when you've lived that long it all starts again, and then repeats itself. Infinitely.
People regularly get bored on a dull Sunday afternoon when there is nothing much on television, so how can we be equipped for extreme longevity? Clearly our thoughts, our frames of reference, our memories, our emotions are bounded by the capacity of that grey lump of jelly in its protective, bony dome. We are not wired up mentally to exist for aeons. To see the ages stretching before us in a never ending landscape, where the horizon continues to move away at the same speed as we approach it, is not something I crave.
This is the kind of novel that demands to be read again, and surely new aspects will then surface to delight and disturb. Who knows where I'll find myself re-reading this in the future though? In a cosy pub, on board a founded ship, at a Punch and Judy show, in Glasgow, London, or somewhere beneath them all?
The Wanderer is published by PERFECT EDGE BOOKS
Inspired by this, I am now reading The Purple Cloud by M. P. Shiel.