Just read a poem by Lee Harwood. Two lines jumped out at me and felt unbelievably poignant. Trains run through a town, he writes, 'staring in at the bare rooms and kitchens / each lit with its own story that lasts for years and years.'* Wow. It just caught me off-guard. Funny how often, when you like the music of a poet's work, you find that they also deal with the sorts of ideas and ways of seeing, too, that appeal to you.
*A Poem for Writers by Lee Harwood
Okay, so it's just an image on a two-dimensional screen, but he can move it around, sketching invisible lines on the mousepad. London. A large, terraced house in N19. It looks much the same. as it did back in 1981. The software won't let him but, in his mind's eye it's easy to walk in through the front door, to make his way upstairs to the second-floor flat they've just rented.
The sun is pouring through the window, through the rainbow sticker they'd recently bought from the local wholefood shop. They were feeling optimistic. Right now, he's alone. His other half is out, working an early shift. From where he stands, he can see the sky and the rooftops of the flats opposite. He can hear the noise of invisible traffic going past, two floors below. The noise is less unpleasant than he'd expected. It's quite comforting in fact. Within a day or two of moving in, he'd come to realise that when he heard it, he knew he was at home. The hum of the cars. The roar of the double-decker buses. Sometimes he opens the window and leans out, looking down on it all and smoking a cigarette. He never smokes indoors. The landlord and landlady, who live downstairs, had only wanted non-smokers but they were young and very easy-going. They'd all hit it off immediately. They were more like friends. They all even take it in turns to cook a shared meal every week. The rent is cheap.
He takes his brown corduroy bomber-jacket down from the back of the door. He feels in the pocket for his cigarettes. Twenty Embassy. Well, a half-full box. That should see him through. Matches. He makes his way back down to the street.
This is the way it was.
He turns right, towards the Archway Roundabout. As he does so, he lights his first cigarette of the day. He crosses a side-road, Prospero Road. He didn't know Shakespeare's The Tempest back then, so didn't associate the name with his favourite Shakespeare play. He carries on round the bend, past the privet hedges which conceal the tiny gardens of the terraced houses. On his left, the long, low block of council flats is still there. As he clicks the mouse, moving on further down the street, he is surprised to see that so little has changed.
At the roundabout, he negotiates the pedestrian crossings that take him across the Holloway Road. It strikes him that he has never, neither back then nor since, actually been inside the Archway Tavern, the pub that still stands marooned on the island, in the centre of the swirling traffic. He turns down Junction Road. He walks past the long shop windows of the Co-op supermarket. Once, when he'd been walking past on his way home from work, he'd had to cross to the other side. A bus had lost control as it approached a bus-stop there and careered into the shop front. There were shards of plate-glass everywhere. The pavement and the shopfront had been red with blood. He'd never seen so much blood. The next day, the windows had been covered over with sheets of plywood.
He finishes the cigarette, dropping it between the bars of a drain cover, keen not to burn the soles of his Doc Marten boots. He feels sure there is a way through the pedestrian precinct opposite but the mouse won't take him there. All it'll do is shift the image from side to side. Figures in a blurred background do their best to create a 3D impression. A virtual no-go zone. The images are clearly from a few years ago as a number of pedestrians are wearing face-masks. He carries on down Junction Road towards Tufnell Park. When he reaches the pet shop he turns right, up Bredgar Road. It's a long, straight road lined on both sides, at first, with more low blocks of flats. He passes Hargrave School, an imposing Victorian building which he has no memory of. He has a vague memory, though, of St Peter's Church, now converted into flats, which stands at the top of the road, at the junction with Dartmouth Park Hill. He remembers how, seen from further down the hill, it plays a significant part in the skyline.
He turns left. He's almost there. To his surprise the building's still standing. He half-expected to discover it'd been bulldozed to make way for some luxury development, but no. He still looks back on that first job with affection. He was often five minutes late although they tended to be tolerant, as he often left late, too. Five minutes was one thing; forty-five years, though, was quite another.
Fred D'Aguiar, for those who don't know, was one of the leading writers – along with Linton Kwesi Johnson, Bejamin Zephaniah and David Dabydeen – giving voice to marginalised groups in Britain in the 1980s. As the blurb on the back of his recent pamphlet, Arboretum for the Hunted says, 'what is striking about about this chapbook is how much keeps him dreaming, even in places and situations where many imaginations would stumble and falter in the face of ... relentless violence.' You can read my review of the book here, at Stride Magazine.
Reports from the Deep End is a collection of short stories inspired by the work of J.G. Ballard. Although he's famous for his visions of urban dystopia (his name has even morphed into the adjective 'Ballardian'), there's so much more to him than that. For example, as a science fiction writer, instead of writing stories about outer space, he turned, instead, to the 'inner space' of the human mind, blurring the distinction between SF and literary fiction. Then there's the exotic locations and the non-specific, slightly surreal aura of colonialism you sometimes get, that no doubt springs from his childhood experiences of Shangai and living in a Japanese internment camp during the Second World War.
There are over thirty stories in the collection, which includes work by Will Self, Iain Sinclair and Michael Moorcock (who contributes a new Jerry Cornelius story). You can read my review of the book here, in International Times.
It occurred to me after he'd left that he never told me his name. He looked strangely familiar, though. He had a longish beard that was beginning to turn white. His receding hair was brown with flecks of grey, but looked as if it had once been red. He was at least twice my age. He was dressed much the same as I was, in jeans, trainers and a t-shirt. This surprised me a little: I always imagined – or did back then – people in the future wearing weird clothes. Perhaps I'd been watching too much Blake's 7.
I was sitting on the settee in our flat in North London, staring through the window at the sky, through the colours of a rainbow-transfer we'd stuck on the glass. I was listening to an Ian Dury album I'd just bought. It was 3rd June, 1981. I'm usually hopeless with dates but that one's not one I'm likely to forget in a hurry.
I never got to actually see his time machine. All I saw was a black flash, like a negative of a flash of lightning, and there he was, standing in the corner of the room. He stood for a moment, wide-eyed and open mouthed, looking round.
“New Boots and Panties!” he cried.
A strange exclamation for the first known time-traveller from the future. Speechless and disorientated, I nodded, got up and went over to the hi-fi to take it off. I suppose I thought it was the polite thing to do. He must've realised what I was doing.
“No, no! Leave it on,” he said. “It's one of my favourites. And on vinyl!”
I did as he said, but turned it down a bit.
“These were the days!” he said.
“How did you – “ I began.
“Don't ask,” he said. He laughed.
He made for the chair under the window and sat down.
“It's great to see you again,” he said.
“Have we met?” I said.
He chuckled and smiled knowingly, but offered no further explanation. Perhaps I was too nonplussed to demand one. Somehow, though, we skipped all further pleasantries and settled down to talking as if we'd known each other for years. He told me how all the ecology stuff that was just starting to get trendy in my time was really important and how, in his time, the world was in the middle a climate catastrophe. He said we already were, in our time, only it wasn't public knowledge. People in the UK were getting poorer, too. He explained to me what foodbanks were and how people had to queue at them for food. It got worse: the world, in his time, had been struck by a pandemic and millions had died. And, to make matters even worse, the situation in the health service had been allowed to deteriorate to the point where even the doctors and nurses were going on strike.
“And did I mention the war in Europe?” he said.
“No,” I said. I started to laugh. I must've been watching too many alternative comedians. I thought he was joking.
“Straight up,” he said.
“Really?”
“Really.”
Neither of us said anything for a moment.
“Has anything changed for the better?” I said, finally.
He thought for a moment. He told me how although it'd not all been plain sailing, most people were probably a bit more accepting – a bit, mind you – of people different to themselves. Then he tried to explain how everyone was linked up by computer. He called it the internet. I told him it sounded good.
“It is, I think,” he said. “But if you put it another way and tell people computers are taking over the world, it sounds a lot less attractive.”
“And you've invented time machines,” I said.
“Well, no,” he said. He went on to explain how he'd stolen his from a quadrillionaire entrepreneur from the 2060s who'd happened to materialize in his living room. He'd told him that in 2060, spaceflight was old hat and time travel was the latest thing.
The guy had made the mistake of putting his remote control box down on the table and my visitor, on impulse, had grabbed it and pushed the button on it. It seemed the right thing to do, he said. And here he was, in 1981. He'd left the quadrillionaire stranded in 2023. Not something, he said, he was likely to lose any sleep over. I noticed, for the first time, that he was holding a device like a TV remote control in his left hand.
“I felt I just had to come back and warn you,” he said. “Don't fall for the 'jam tomorrow' scam. If you do, things just get worse. Tomorrow never comes.”
Then he told me he had to leave. The quadrillionaire had mentioned, in the brief time they'd spent talking, that you could only spend so long in the past before your material integrity began to deteriorate. He stood up and stepped back into the same corner of the room he'd appeared from. He fixed me with an earnest stare.
“It's been wonderful seeing you,” he said. He sniffed a little. He seemed to be fighting back emotion. “But you've got to do something!” he said. “All of you!” He looked around as he said it, waving his arms in a helpless gesture to all the people who weren't there with us.
I saw his finger close on the button on the control-box and then he vanished, just as he'd appeared, in a black flash.
The way much of the poetry that matters is written has changed very little over the last few decades. It generally conforms to ways of writing that evolved during the course of the twentieth century and which became the stylistic norm in the second half of it. Of course, many things have changed – the sexism of some poetry once thought radical now seems cringe-worthy, for example – but in many stylistic and technical ways, the way poets write what they write is much the same. Many of the poets whose work was included in Michael Horovitz' 1969 anthology, Children of Albion, say, could submit the kind of work they were writing then, more or less, to a literary journal today, without the editor raising an eyebrow.
The situation was very different one hundred years ago. In 1935, Ezra Pound coined his often-quoted Modernist imperative, 'make it new' (1). Before that, in 1921, TS Eliot and Virginia Woolf had been discussing the relationship of their work to that of their predecessors. Woolf suggested that their work was 'not as good as Keats'. Eliot demurred, suggesting that he and Woolf were 'trying something harder.' (2) The world they were writing in had changed massively since the days of Keats and they needed to find new ways to say the things that needed to be said. It was an era of groups and movements in the arts and creative manifestos. Few writers today would feel a similar gulf existing between themselves and the generation of writers represented by Woolf, Eliot and Pound (although they might feel more affinity with other writers working at the same time – Bertolt Brecht, André Breton and Tristan Tzara, to name but three). Like them, though, they would still feel a gulf to exist between themselves and the world of Keats. (One could argue that avant-gardists are often Romantics at heart, but that's another discussion).
In relation to music, people sometimes talk about hauntology, a nostalgia for futures that never came to pass, leaving the ghosts of imagined futures to haunt the present, in the form of musical styles from the past and the technology used to produce them. Could the same be said to apply to poetry? Movements in the arts don't change simply because it's 'time for a change' but because the world changes. The brighter future many saw to be promised by the ideas, social movements and technological advances of the twentieth century has not yet materialised. If poets in 2023 still find themselves writing poetry in ways that would not have seemed out of place forty years ago, it may be because they still find themselves working, in many ways, in a similar milieu. The poetic toolkit in use back then may still have a lot to offer. And a poet has a job to do. As Gael Turnbull said:
All that can be willed is to give oneself as fully as possible to what is going on, to try above all to be true to the closest instinct of the moment, at each moment. Even when its pattern or its meaning may appear utterly lost. Then, later, from another vantage point, we may see what has happened... The very language we use is not 'mine' but is only 'ours'; and what we would say, of any material, is shaped by those others both past and present; as it is also shaped by the meanings which are in the material itself, meanings which perhaps we discover rather than create.(3)
So there you have it. If what the poet discovers today bears a strong resemblance to what poets discovered half a century ago, so be it. Poetry today might express a nostalgia for futures that never came to be, but not because the poet is by nature nostalgic, but because the tool of poetry exposes reality for what it is. Digital technology and the internet have massively transformed the world but can mask the fact that, in many other ways, the world has not changed a great deal in that time. When it does, it may be that the way poets make poetry changes with it.
NOTES
1. Ezra Pound, Make it New: Essays by Ezra Pound, Yale University Press, 1935.
2. Virginia Woolf, Diary, 22nd March, 1921.
3. Gael Turnbull, Kuchur 7, 1962, quoted in Children of Albion: Poetry of the 'Underground' in Britain, ed. Michael Horovitz, 1969, pp. 319-320.
Everywhere you look
you're reminded of the passage of time. Everything from the way the
pebbles that make up the shingle have worn smooth and the evolution
of the plants that grow among them (the sea cabbage especially) to
the sheds people have built, then abandoned. One, on a rise just
behind the shingle, barely hangs together, its rotten planks burst
apart by the wind exposing tea, salt and pepper still sat on a shelf,
a rusty bicycle. Another, its door come away, is full to what is left
of its rafters with brambles, the leaves pressing their eager faces
up against the window.
There are few buildings. Most of those
there are are strung out along the top of the rise behind the
shingle. A few yards inland, there is a small cluster of bungalows,
built in what once must've been a 'cheap and cheerful' style but
which now haunt us with visions of a world for which we can find no
modern equivalent. Mod cons – principally, the internet – have
had to be grafted on.
There is a road down to the sea that
ends in a car park. People come here to walk their dogs, entertain
their children or just sit and look. The tracks down to the shingle
are lined with pebbles people have painted and left there. This is a
pebble painter's paradise.
Sometimes, from here,
you can see the Isle of Man on the horizon. When you can, it's a
mirage: if the conditions are just right, the atmosphere refracts the
light, making the distant island (which lies way beyond the visible
horizon) appear surprisingly close. You can see its principal hills
spread out from left to right. I've never caught it in the act of
appearing or vanishing, though, although, the other evening,
conditions were such that you could only see the tops of its hills
poking above the milky obscurity. One can see how myths arose of
magic islands that appear and vanish and, scanning the horizon to see
if you can see Man from Silecroft, it's easy to start doubting the
science that tells you that what you're witnessing is no more than an
atmospheric effect.
Jumble Hole Clough's creator, Colin Robinson, describes it as 'music influenced by the landscape, industrial remains and experiences around Hebden Bridge in West Yorkshire. Forgotten things half-hidden beneath the undergrowth.' Robinson has now created forty-three albums under the Jumble Hole Clough name, the latest three being a trilogy based on written-down dreams ('the minor transient documents of everyday life', as he describes them). Over the previous forty, Robinson had moved gradually away from his self-imposed local brief. This trilogy, however, brings the world around Hebden Bridge back into focus: the calls of the curlews the crows and the sound of the church bells rising up from the valley (everyday experiences for anyone living around Hebden Bridge) mingle with more exotic, surreal dream-images. For example, someone – in one of the catchiest songs in the trilogy – has mysteriously filled the back of his car with riot-shields. I can't explain why I like that song as much as I do any more than I suspect Colin Robinson can explain why he dreamt it.
The first album of the
trilogy, with its ambiguous double-negative title, Don't Say Nowt
(and other dreams), contains conventional songs. Correction:
conventional JHC songs, which is not quite the same thing.
Conventional in JHC terms means short, sonically diverse and full of
tongue-in-cheek surrealism. These are the dreams you were dreaming
the moment you woke up: brief, vivid narratives with a logic of their
own, which seemed perfectly reasonable while you were dreaming them.
The second album,
You're Our Prisoner Now (and other dreams) is less conventional. All
the tracks were 'based initially on aleatoric methods: generative,
serial, Euclidean, tape loops and other such systems'. JHC produced its first album using generative music (...and I think the little
house knew something about it; don't you?) almost exactly a year ago.
One of the interesting things about that album – and this – is
that even when relinquishing control of the music to algorithms, it
still manages to sound like JHC.
The third album, The
Sunken Chapel (and other dreams) goes even further in this direction.
Listening to it for the first time, I immediately found myself
thinking of it as a series of sound-tracks to dreams, like an album
of the music for a film which only one person – in this case the
dreamer, Colin Robinson – has ever seen.
If you've never heard the music of JHC before but enjoy listening to these albums as much as I do, you have a treat in store: you've still got the forty other albums in the JHC back catalogue to listen to.
I recently had a short story, Genius Loci, published at The Milk House, an online journal that focuses on rural writing.
Just had a short story The Tower (4 minute read) published by the Lothlorien Poetry Journal. It's an idea I had kicking around for a while and which has been through various previous incarnations. It's now probably time to let it stand.
Had three poems published in International Times this January. Great to be sharing a page with silent screen star Theda Bara.
https://internationaltimes.it/?s=rivron
Just had a short story, The Caves, published in SETU Magazine. I suspect it's the kind of first-person story which gets people wondering, is it autobiographical? To which the answer is, no. However, where autobiography and fiction are concerned, I'd say this: fiction tends to bear a similar relation to the life of its author as the cut-out letters pasted onto a kidnapper's note bear to the articles they were cut from.
Cosey Fanni Tutti's latest album – a solo album – is based on the soundtrack she created for the film Delia Derbyshire: The Myths and the Legendary Tapes. The film, directed by Caroline Catz (best known for her role as the headteacher in the TV series Doc Martin), is about the life and work of the electronic music pioneer Delia Derbyshire, who worked at the BBC Radiophonic Workshop in the 1960s. CFT gives a fascinating account of how she created it in the book, Re-Sisters. Having spent time talking to people who knew Delia, she then visited the John Rylands Library in Manchester to listen to digital recordings of the 'legendary tapes' themselves, which are held there (tantalizingly, they're not freely available because of copyright complications). I get the impression that the tapes are a kind of 'sound diary' of Delia's working life. CFT managed to assemble a collection of old, analogue equipment, which allowed her to explore Delia's way of working:
I'd made copious notes on how I'd go about composing and finding the right sounds that would reflect Delia's style while staying true to myself and to Delia's ethos of obtaining previously unheard sounds. Re-Sisters, p.119
She also had access to Delia's VCS3 synthesizer 'patch sheets' (diagrams showing the positions of the controls and the ways different parts of the machine were interconnected to produce a particular sound). As she said, recreating one of Delia's 'patches' was unlikely to produce the same sound but was at least an interesting starting point. (Elsewhere in Re-Sisters, she talks about Keats' idea of 'negative capability' and the importance to artists of just letting things happen). One should stress that the end result is very much the work of CFT and definitely not a recreation of Delia's music. I suppose one could describe it as a dialogue with Delia's ghost.
I've been a long-time fan of Throbbing Gristle but, until now, I'd not taken the time to get to know the work of Cosey Fanni Tutti outside of the band. It's a voyage of discovery for me, it's still in progress, and I'm enjoying every minute of it.
I've just written and posted a free e-book. 'Microwalking' is a pamphlet about short walks. It includes descriptions of several examples taken from Swaledale in the Yorkshire Dales. As it says in the pamphlet: 'A 'microwalk' ... contains, in microcosm, the kind of experience one can enjoy in a far longer walk. Scrambling up a stream-bed, enjoying a panoramic view, negotiating tricky terrain, encountering a waterfall or a hidden valley.'
You can view it on Scribd in an easily printable version:
I've just finished making a short film - the first for a while. Coming across a cornfield when out on a walk reminded me of a childhood experience...
Brandon López and Gerald Cleaver have been working together for some years as a duo making innovative improvised music. Both are established figures in the New York Jazz scene. On this album they've come together with American poet Fred Moten. It was recorded during the pandemic, in the wake of the George Floyd rebellion.
Combining poetry with jazz goes back a long way. The idea, however, while retaining curiosity value, has never become mainstream. The Beats and, later, the Black Arts Movement tried to develop it. Some of the results have become iconic. This album, which has been compared to the work of Amiri Bakara with the New York Art Quartet, may well be up there with the best.
The problem – according to detractors – is that one is never sure what to concentrate on, the music or the poetry. This is a mistake, I think. As TS Eliot said, 'genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.' One can think of the poet in this context as just another musician, only a musician playing with words. If one is paying the right kind of attention to the poetry, there is no need to be preoccupied with trying to understand it. The words work like notes, the phrases like musical phrases. Just listen and you'll find out what you need to know. This doesn't mean the meaning of the words will be lost on you: Moten is poet who writes powerfully about the politics of being black in the USA, of how – referencing the death of George Floyd – “somebody black and poor can't breathe”. The title of the first poem/track on the album tells you what it's standing up against: “the abolition of art, the abolition of freedom, the abolition of you and me”.
Moten's poetry is ideal for this kind of project. Its phrases live for themselves, like the latest thought of an improvising musician. Derek Bailey once said of improvisation words to the effect that improvised music was like music without memory. This quality of living in the moment, shared by Moten's poetry – on one level – and musical improvisation, is what I think makes this album work so well.
I don't think it'll be forgotten in a hurry. I don't buy much vinyl but I'm tempted to buy it for that reason - and because, if I do, I can sit it next to my Iskra 1903 double LP (1972), which it reminds me of, possibly because that, too, hit me between the eyes when I first heard it. Bailey, Rutherford and Guy released that album of improvised music fifty years ago, in a different country, in a different context. Hopefully people will still be listening to Moten/López/Cleaver fifty years from now, too.
I always keep a look out for any new releases by Jumble Hole Clough. If you don't know it, it's the brainchild of Colin Robinson of Big Block 454, which describes itself as 'making exploratory, highly individual music that encompasses rock, funk, electronica, folk music, Dadaist collage and much more besides.' Jumble Hole Clough seems to have grown out of this. It started out, as Robinson puts it, 'to produce music influenced by the landscape, industrial remains and experiences around Hebden Bridge in West Yorkshire'. I would respectfully suggest that although JHC retains some of the eldritch oddity that I associate with that neck of the woods (it was once my stamping ground, too), it has, over the 39 albums now produced under the name, gone beyond it.
Of the 38 albums produced prior to this one it's hard to single out a favourite but mine is probably Answers on a Postcard. They're all more than worth a listen.
...and I think the little house knew something about it; don't you? is something of a departure – but less of one than might appear at first glance. It's a collection of generative music, an approach which has certainly not openly figured in JHC's music so far. As Robinson explains, 'you set up a system and some rules... A variety of probability and aleatoric functions are used, such as Turing Machines and nested Bernoulli gates. The probability process means that the music gradually changes over time.' Reading this, it was hard not to think of the work of Brian Eno. However, I was reminded of something someone once said of John Cage, that however much he used processes and aleatoric techniques to put distance between himself and his music, it still, somehow, managed to sound like John Cage. For all the processes, this album still manages to sound like Jumble Hole Clough - but in new and unexpected ways. The quirky, eldritch quality still shines through.
Jumble Hole Clough -as Cage once said of Satie- is indispensable.
