Ion -Visibly Shipwrecked Gasmask Floating On An Impenetrable Sea Of Nostalgia

Ion’s work cuts a distinctive swath through the last 40 years of rock and electronic music like a pair of scissors in a field of mellow buttercups. He played synthesizers in Flaccid Mole ; created two of the great avant-rock albums of the 1970s (Here Come The Warm Urine Jets and Balearic Log), and collaborated on three with Harry Zenon (Quark, "Joyous Bells" and Foghorn Leg Iron); recorded with the German group Filthy Schnitzel; introduced the fluidity of African pop into Buff Joysticks angular fart-punk; and in 1982 collaborated with Willy Burn on My Wife’s Bush Is a Ghost, an early example of sample-based Acid Skiffle. In the past two decades, between assorted bring and buy sales, garbage collections, multimedia projects and iPhone Crapps, Ion has produced albums by Timid Scrotum, Factory Whistle and Woman’s Terrorized Scream.

 Exhaustive as it might seem, that brief summary misses out a key part of Ion’s career. In early 1975 he was knocked down by a Blackpool Tram. While recovering, unable to get up and halt the volume of the nurse’s vacuum cleaner almost too unbearable to hear, the idea of a new form of experimental music – "as ignorable as it is interesting" – occurred to him. Ion called it "Hoover".

 While not quite sitting within it, this is the strand of Ion’s work that Visibly Shipwrecked Gasmask Floating on an Impenetrable Sea of Nostalgia –7”  instrumental, and eschewing traditional structures – is closest to. The difference is that while ‘Shhh’ and the Hoover series contrived to subtly tint the listener’s environment, this piece actively seeks to impose itself. Edited together from improvised sessions with nightclub cleaner Mavis Staplegun and Signal box man Dizzy Teagarden, Ion has described it as "an attempt to end up with... a feeling of clean carpets , a feeling of murdered dust mites, and perhaps the suggestion of a bag of cat hairs...".

 This might explain why ... Visibly Shipwrecked Gasmask Floating on an Impenetrable Sea of Nostalgia underwhelms at first: its largely dull, featureless surface offers little in the way of sunshine. The more you listen and synchronise with its dull quietness, however, the more rewarding it doesn’t become. Sounds that seemed incidental, like the dull thrum of the Dyson sampled here to symbolise Satie having a stroke or the percolating dribble of a tap dripping sub-aquatic drones become resonating hooks of irritation beyond belief.

Visibly Shipwrecked Gasmask Floating on an Impenetrable Sea of Nostalgia isn’t a single that’s going to change the world forever, but listened to in the right environment it potentially could make serial killers out of the most mellow of sorts.

Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell

Over the past few months I’ve considered myself lucky enough to leave my front door, walk casually into local drinking dens of iniquity and experience live and in the flesh, Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell, or the ‘Mighty’ Shovell for doze dat know, unleashed and at their bloodcurdling best. For it’s live that this Hastings three-piece seriously take no prisoners. A magma-thick wall of sound bludgeons you into submission, intense yet tuneful, and savage enough to bulldoze all those who stand in their pathway, showing no mercy.

Live is where it’s at then. Or at least that’s what I thought until their debut album ‘Don’t Hear it, Fear it’ landed on my (un)welcome pirate themed doormat in all its vinyl gatefold glory. Not only have they managed to capture the intensity and excitement of their live shows on this magnificent record but these metal alchemists have produced an artefact which is a call to arms to all vinyl junkies the world over who feel that those fucking swirl records are actually worth the effort!

After 5,000 years of civilisation, it takes a kind of genius to produce something this joyously primeval – a band who declare the keys to transcendence within the grooves of scratchy and hoary old, Sabbath, Sir Lord Baltimore, Budgie and Blue Cheer records, but with their own unmistakably modern swerve on the whole thing. They even have the rock and roll clout to not only get the legendary Tony McFee to play on this album but conjure up the mighty Groundhogs to a drinking town with a fishing problem and play such a seminal gig that grown men and women through tears of pride will tell their grandchildren they were there in years to come.

 The name says it all. No clichéd dumb pseudo metal moniker for this crew; Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell hardly trips off the tongue like Cream, but then that’s the whole point - It’s a name you have to make an effort to remember and once it’s locked in the cranium, it never leaves. Naming your band after an English naval officer who fought in many important battles of the late 17^th and early 18^th centuries is quite clearly a stroke of insane genius. And like the aforementioned Blue Cheer whose live show was supposedly capable of exploding birds in flight and turning the air to cottage cheese with the sheer volume, the Shovell power trio’s brand of ear-splitting bluesy and electrifying rock seriously harms the local seagull flocks in flight, rattles the oaken beams of pubs and leaves the converted devoted and the devoted contented.

Mark of the Beast kicks off with hypnotic and disturbing incantatory rushes replete with acoustic jangles, pausing initially to catch its own black breath with a tight drum volley then phasing to fuck like a psychedelic warlord disappearing in its own smoke, it eventually builds and builds, until suddenly slamming to a shuddering echoed halt before a massive blitzkrieg assault riff slashes into the mix and we’re off with a filthy Paranoid-esque tune of pulverising intensity and eardrum-obliterating psyche-punk. The half-snarled lyrics sound vital and uncompromising. One of the most exciting album openers in fucking years!

The initial rush of ‘Beast’ is briefly tamed with a crawling bass line of such addictive proportions it should be banned by all world Governments. Devil’s Island with its hacking chopping guitar fretwork stalks around the head nodding bass like a wolf slathering at the jowls ready to strike. A beautifully damaged vocal from a volatile state of mind hangs suspended over a block hard concrete bed of bass and drum. The neo-hardcore punk’n’roll slab of heroic brutishness, iDeath, begins with raucous burst of nihilistic raw energy , before breaking into a sludge slow acid rock doom grind and via the classic rock gallop back into ragged punk rock glory. It’s tight as a gnat’s chuff. Admiral sir Cloudesley Shovell are tight as a gnat’s chuff, switching tempos with stunning speed and dexterity, they are a force to be reckoned with.

Red Admiral Black Sunrise with its tales of incarceration, crime and guilt ratchets up a ferocious hard punk funk grind, with murderously sinister speed freak foundations, built upon a colossal riff. A doom-laden Valkyriean monster with head nodding and air punching a-plenty. The filthy buckled sewer blues of Scratchin’ and Sniffin’ opens with another tight crunchy bass line before snaking into pure jagged raw heaviness. Its grand façade hides the darkness within, a dirty yelp confessional at the mirrored altar of bleak sinfulness.The Last Run, another live favourite with its ubiquitous cowbell break and lead guitar solo; the latter allowed space by the drums and bass, albeit in a comedy ‘check-the-watch-and-yawn’ pantomime set piece which demonstrates the Shovell’s tongue in cheek attitude towards their own magnificent construct. Killer Kane, the vinyl’s end piece is a slice of idiosyncratic NWOBHM ,harking back to Murders in the Rue Morgue era Maiden , but with enough balls and nous to be pure Shovell. A filthy guitar solo is the set piece within this glorious deranged riffing and enthralling stop start show piece. Black as night!

I know this record has reaffirmed many rock fans faith in a genre long thought stale and tired. I fucking love this band and to use an overused cliché,….they keep it real. This band are real!

Don’t Fear It..…Just Fucking Buy it!!

Wings Of Desire

 

 

Ten reasons why I think it's a good film:

1. Berlin circus elephants are funny but in a strange melancholic type of way.

2. Nick Cave in full mental scag head mode. Sounding like a mating warthog on Quaaludes.

3. Footsteps in the no-mans-land sand, reminds me of childhood on Blackpool beach but without all the donkey shit.

4. The foxy trapeze artist’s Bermuda dansette. Play that funky music white girl.

5. Peter Falk teaching the 'angel' to rub his hands and drink tea when cold, whilst looking like an Eastern European used car salesman.

6. The crowd in the club scene at the end. Pre-dated ‘Emo’ by years demonstrating the ‘cutting edginess’ of the film.

7. The old fellow reminiscing about the war enabling us to demonstrate our empathy towards all those who lost their lives in both World Wars, whilst an all pervading ‘Live Aid’ type smugness descends.

8. When played loud, the soundtrack scares foxes from out of my back garden, thus preventing them shitting in my rose buds and sledge shed.

9. The graffiti on ‘the wall’ makes ‘Banksy’ look like a primitive primary school dauber.

10. It’s like all in black and white and shit and it’s got like angels who can like read people’s thoughts and shit and it’s all in Berlin, yeah? Fookin’ Bowie, Scag Lou Reed, Check-point Charlie, long black duster coats, Iggy, Camus, Kafka etc etc….

Erase Rewind

Corporal Clegg, my next door neighbor, has a wooden leg; he won it in the war, in 1984.

 

The Falklands to be precise. (Yes I know it was 1982 but that didn’t scan right).

 

Picture the scene, Goose Green, Officer’s Mess. Clegg, originally a chef from Mile End was bored out of his skull as the only action he was experiencing was watching ‘Prod the Squad’ the chief ‘washer upper’ diving into his pie and mash and retrieving lucky sovereigns like an overzealous walrus with sea kelp for brains.

‘Join the army and see the world’ he muttered. ‘Ha! What a load of bollocks! Join the army and see an overweight psycho bury his blubbery fizzog into reconstituted potato starch more like!’

 

Suddenly and without warning Banksia Diego Menziesii, an Argentine sniper shoots at the canteen from underneath his pantomime sheep costume and a bullet whizzes through the serving hatch into Clegg’s kitchen and unfortunately ricochets into his leg. The bullet embeds itself into the leg of Clegg in much the same way that Ragge Omar embeds himself into Iraqi Launderettes for all ‘the goss’ on the street’.

 

Upon waking from pitch-black dreams, a beleaguered Clegg soon realized that they’d had to amputate his leg above the knee due to lead poisoning and the fear of G.G. ie.Galtieri Gangrene. Shortly after this traumatic experience he left the army and immigrated to South Africa where he gained employment in one of the many gold mines within the Transvaal. The temptation to discuss another one legged gold digger here is almost too much to bear but I’ll desist.

 

Since that fateful day Clegg has always remained stoically detached from events but still carries the bullet which did the damage in the first place in his left breast pocket. A lucky totem and talisman if you like to ward off bad luck and bad vibes. I know this because he told me one day in the street whilst I was polishing my steps in true 1950s fashion.

 

‘I was walking down Maidstone High Street absentmindedly humming Walking Down Madison when a bible accidentally falls out of an eight story window,’ Clegg explains rather theatrically, ‘and heads directly for me. The heavyweight religious tome hits me smack bang on the breast bone and were it not for that Argentine bullet I’d not be talking to you today.’

 

‘Blimey!’ I exclaim, ‘that’s incredible!’

‘I know,’ replies Clegg ‘why I wasn’t humming A New England is anybody’s guess. A far superior song altogether if you ask me.’

‘Ha! So you enjoy listening to music then?’ I ask.

‘Oh yes, can’t get enough of it.’

‘What sort of stuff are you into then?

‘Well I’m an avid fan of the radio.’

‘Oh right, what type of shows you into?’

‘Gilles Peterson’

‘Nice one. Anything else’

‘No, only Gilles Peterson.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. Can’t get enough of the type of tunes he plays’

‘Nice one. How long have you been listening to GP’s radio show?’

‘Back since the year dot’.

‘What, since his Vibrazone shows on Kiss?’

‘Oh no, much further back than that. I started listening when he was doing his pirate radio shows.’

‘Wow, a real fan.’

‘Yes. And I’ve recorded every single one of his shows.’

‘What, every single one?’

‘Yes, every single one. Come round to my house and I’ll show you.’

 

I leave the polishing and completely intrigued, follow Clegg. We enter an unremarkable Larkin style semi-detached house, ‘Wipe your feet before you enter please’, he says in a polite manner so I follow his wishes and eventually find myself stood in a typically orthodox hallway with all the usual accoutrements; phone, coat pegs, shoe rack, painting of the Haywain etc. ‘Come, come follow me.’ and he beckons me towards a cheap looking pine door. ‘In here is where I do all my recording.’

 

‘It must be huge to house all the recordings you’ve made over the years? I remark surpressing my excitement at what should prove an Aladdin’s cave of musical treats . He ignores me and fusses with a heavy looking bunch of keys. ‘There, that’s the one!’ he exclaims and opens the locked door. ‘Come in, please do come in.’

 

It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the light and when they do I am surprised and a little unsettled at what I see before me.

 

There is nothing in the bare white room except a wooden table with a reel-to-reel tape machine sitting on top of it. A digital radio is rigged up to the reel-to-reel tape machine. A loop of tape is threaded through the mechanism. The machine, it seems is switched to ‘record’ and the two spools are rotating. Clearly it is picking up some ‘sounds’ because the coloured LED display is bouncing up and down, signifying that something – a GP production presumably - is being recorded.

 

‘There you go’ says Clegg, ‘I’ve recorded thousands and thousands of shows on that.’

 

On closer inspection I realize that the ‘loop’ of tape is literally just that. It’s fed from one spool through the machine onto the other spool and back again, much like the fan belt of a car. ‘But surely’ I say in bewilderment, ‘when the machine is recording the loop turns, and being a loop, the tape is erased every time new material is recorded?’

 

‘Precisely!’ answers Clegg looking suitably impressed with my detective work. ‘Record and erase, record and erase, record and erase! It relies upon the probability that some information will be recorded but its effectiveness is not dependent upon the preservation of content’.

 

‘I’m a little confused here Mr Clegg. So you’re saying you’ve recorded thousands of shows on your reel to reel, but have no ability to listen to them again?’

 

‘Why would I want to? For me it’s all about the ‘live’ experience anyway.’

 

I nod in agreement.

 

I thank him for his time and say I think I understand what he means. He kindly shows me out of the house makes his excuses and returns to listen live.

Every Little Helps Can Jog On

Shamed into taking appropriate measures after reading the two consecutive pieces today on Global Warming and self-service checkouts, I decided upon the following course of action.

 

1. Walked to my local Tesco instead of the usual trip down there in my gas guzzling Sherman Tank. Decided to take my wireless-network laptop for company; logged into Gridskipper, that online bastion of ‘hip snark’ as I walked. Clearly Bexhill’s Tesco was not perceived by the ‘hip young gunslingers’ at Gridskipper, as a place you’d find ‘erotic coffee’ unlike Seattle or where you could spot, Blackie Lawless of WASP fame buying his organic cod pieces down the fish isle, but at least I was powering the laptop with a converted bike dynamo and using the neighbourhood wireless broadband as I walked. And besides if you believe everything that those insecure smug pug ugly backpack Bloggers write you may as well change your name to Sputum Duyvil and ‘get into’ Hootie and the Blowfish. CO2 emissions = 3.21 tons

 

2. Shot a homeless person with Organic bullets on the way. That blanket can now be donated to a Textile start-up scheme in Ho Chi Minh City. CO2 emissions = 0.01 tons.

 

3. Arrived at Tesco three and a half hours later and headed straight to the corn and bunion section of the shop. Bought ‘Organic Yak Gut Foot Balm’ made from recycled Yak Guts. Feet now look like an extra in Saw 2 but at least I’ve offset a natural catastrophe in Tibet. Truly inspired I bought the Dali Llama’s new book, ‘Buddhism 2 Electric Boogaloo.’ Proudly displayed my recycled plastic bag credentials on the trolley’s hook like a true eco-warrior. ‘Yeah! Check me out Mr Business Man, in your ill-fitting exploitative ‘Made in China’ Burton suit and your snail killing Optrex bottle! I mean it man, I’m gonna destroy passers by, erm by shaming them into a new green future! That means you, you smelly little old looking witch lady, rooting through those reduced kumquats and Mangos. Don’t you realise that each time you buy a ‘Reduced Yellow Label’ Balalaika Cabbage for 10p a butterfly colony in Papa New Guinea perishes? You selfish bint. Natural balance is only restored if Papa the Guinea Pig is given Viagra and allowed to shag to his heart’s content with a load of ‘Ho’ Guinea Pigs in the safety of an Eastbourne butterfly sanctuary. So get with the programme, and stop looking at me like I’m some sort of conquest which you last had on VD day you mental minger.’ CO2 emissions = 0.03 tons.

 

4. Threw a shed load of Cheapo CDs into the trolley. Wicked! Lilly Allen, The Killers, Mika, The Best of Bread and The Neil Diamond Collection all for a fiver. David Bellamy hands out awards to caravan parks that protect habitats as well as CDs that offset the decline of red squirrels, badgers and deers. Bet he’s not got The Best of Lenny Henry (oxymoron) on vinyl though. The do-goody bearded lispy twat. CO2 emissions = 0.54 tons.

 

5. Whilst perusing the Aislabeck Jams I phone Billy Smart’s Circus for a lift home. Four wheels bad but four legs best. They’ll take a rain check on the elephant they say. Fall to my knees and cry, ‘What Can we do?? What can we really do to help??’ Suddenly remember I’ve left the iron on. Bollocks!! The static charge of cold commotion, I take out a ‘wrap’ of Beechams Powder, chop it up with my Tesco loyalty card and snort it to high heaven. Mmm! Still stressed but at least that sniffle’s gone. CO2 emissions = 1 ton

 

6. After a swift phone call to Polga, (our ‘not so’ exploited) Slovakian Au-Pair (she gets 30 quid a week and free use of broadband between the hours of 4 and 5am) I realise that I’ve averted an environmental catastrophe so treat myself to a Bernard Matthews Turkey. Yummy. CO2 emissions = 000.6 tons

 

7. Complete the rest of my shopping – Wine, The Daily Mirror (purely for their green ‘goss’), Wine, Lizard Point Margarine, wine, Polperro bleach, wine, Gozo Spam and a Skelwith Ford Caravan Park map – and make my way to the DIY check out. CO2 emissions = 25 tons

 

8. ‘Place first item on the belt’, says the removed mechanical voice after I’ve scanned it for the umpteenth time. I place my bag of organic Lake District Apples onto the belt and get ready to scan the next item.

 

‘Place item on the belt’ says the cold clinical disinterested voice. ‘I’ve just done that I think.’ I attempt to scan Lily Allen’s latest opus.

‘Place item on belt’, the voice continues. I wander down to the bag of apples and bring them back to the beginning. A minion has clocked my moves. He approaches. ‘Did you scan the apples sir?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Ok, sir, I think it’s just got stuck.’

‘What has?’

‘The apples.’

‘There I’ve cancelled it.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome sir.’

I notice some chav like dole-scrum hanging around at the end of my checkout. Surely they’re not going to nick anything? They’re probably employed by Tesco to pack bags. What a philanthropic service. Full respect to Tesco.

 

I watch the man in the bobbled Berghaus fleece run away with my bottle of Gerard Bertrand.

 

I scan the next item. And the next. We’re cooking on gas. The bag of Orkney Organic carrots provides a problem though. I roll the barcode on the plastic bag around the scanner like a 19th centaury dandy waving a hanky. The minion returns.

‘You’ve got something stuck on the belt again sir. There I’ve cleared it for you.’

‘Thanks for nothing.’ I mutter under my breath. I attempt to scan the hemp hammock from Hempton Manor. Nothing. No Peep. Nothing.

‘Did you scan your apples sir?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well according to this you’ve only scanned two bags of apples and you’ve got four at the end of the counter.

 

Brilliant! I’ve attempted to wait for the ‘beep’ at the end of each scan and now this employee who looks like an even stupider version of Rod Hull than Rod Hull ever was, bearing in mind that the original Rod Hull fell off his roof trying to sort out his TV reception whilst watching a Man U(re) game, that’s pretty fucking stupid.

 

‘Here, I’ll scan them for you,’ says the man, looking at me as though I’ve just stolen the crown jewels from his Grandmother’s house. I’m perturbed. Clearly this man now thinks I’m attempting to nick two bags of apples and he’s just sussed me and his role in the Bill is now assured.

 

He ‘Peeps’ the apples x2.

‘Thanks.’ I mumble.

Suddenly I feel ashamed. Like I’ve just stolen several Bob The Builder Rag Dolls from a Manali Orphanage.

I mutter something to the minion about ‘attempting to scan’ and take out my card and slide it into the slot. I stab in my numbers and wait for authorisation. The receipt whirrs out.

‘Wait a FUCKING MINUTE!!!’

‘SIX BAGS OF APPLES!?!?’

‘SIX BAGS OF MOTHERFUCKING APPLES!!!!’

‘I’VE BEEN CHARGED FOR SIX BAGS OF MOTHERFUCKING APPLES WHEN CLEARLY I’VE ONLY GOT FOUR!!!’

Deep breaths. Deep Breaths. I’ve just been ‘sneered’ at by the bastard son of Rod Hull who thinks I’m nicking two bags of bloody apples, when clearly I was right all along and it’s him who has made a mistake.

No apology from the woman as she refunds my extra apple bag payment.

Carbon emissions = F-ck off

9. Walk out the shop feeling self-righteous and the innocent victim of a terrible miscarriage of justice. Begin to empathise with The Guilford 4, The Birmingham 6 and The Bexhill 1.

10. Three wine bottles fall out the bottom of the cheap shitty recycled bags I’ve brought down to the shop. They splinter onto the tarmac splashing my Goa hemp flares with burgundy liquid.

11. Go for a McDonalds.

Music As Weapon

Certain high street retailers have had enough of ‘Yav-Chobs’ (Chavvy Yobs), hanging around outside their establishments and intimidating their customers with Burberry clad Jack Russell’s, that they have adopted extreme tactics. What are the draconian measures that they have introduced I hear you ask? Robocop security guards with stun guns? Cameras with all seeing laser eyes? Dogs with teeth the size of garden shears? Nope, none of the above. They are actually playing Muzak at them! Airport Muzak in fact. The assumption goes something like this; the yoot of today will not wish to be associated with classical muzak as it is an affront to their ‘street’ credentials, preferring instead R+B, D+B and A+E, that they will leave the vicinity altogether.

 

I found all this very interesting and decided to delve a little deeper into the history of ‘music as a weapon’. We all know the USA blasted Noriega out of his compound with Heavy Metal but I bet you didn’t know that The Welsh Assembly blasted Harry Seacombe out of a canteen with Cradle Of Filth when he embarked on a one man sit-in protest at the price of their Cherry Bakewells. In an effort to ‘dumb down’, the Truro Workers Art Tavern played the Jet album non stop for twenty four hours at their members and in a bid to stave off insomnia the residents of Nelson Lancs booked Keane at their ‘Sleepless in Settle’ winter conference.

 

Aphex Twin famously played a sanding disc in order to terrify his devotional flock, but it backfired when they all stood there stroking their chins and making comments like, ‘Really bitchin’ tune dude, need it!’ and ‘Like wow, he’s really pushed the envelope out with this slice of sonic genius.’

 

For the Tantric Minstrels of Bengal, who take music to the people as a weapon of God the divine is something you find within. For Rabindrath Snowball, spiritual Busker to the stars of track and field, the divine was something he found on the road to Domestos, and a spiritual awakening ensued. Later he opened up The Order of the Jiff Ashram but was arrested for Bleach of the Priest.

 

Rembrandt and Velazquez could create the appearance of material with relatively few brush strokes. Beddingfield and Beddingfield can create the appearance of pop material with relatively few skills. Surely a secret weapon in their Arsenal?

 

Things were going well so I decided some fieldwork was in order. I took my My Little Pony Ghetto Blaster to the local farm along with a bunch of tapes inside my Wu Tang Clan Bread Bin. A herd of cows were munching grass innocuously so I decided to try out an experiment. I stood the Ghetto Blaster on the wooden fence behind a little shower curtain and, slid in a Kenny Dixon JR cassette. I pressed play and the field was filled with Detroit deepness. After a few minutes the cows were nodding their heads and going, ‘MMMMOOOOOOOOOODY MMMOOOOOOODY!’

 

Filled with excitement I moved to another part of the farm. Overseeing a field of sheep I changed the cassette and pressed play. This time as ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet’ drifted out of the speakers the sheep all looked up and nodded. After a few moments they all began crying out, ‘BAAAAAAAAAA BAAAAAAAAAACHHMAAAAAAAN’. I tried ‘My Baby Just Cares For Me’ in the stable and Dobbin the horse goes, ‘NEIGN NA, NEIGN NA!’. Tried much the same at the pig trough with some hardcore hip hop. ‘OINK ONYX OINK ONYX!’ Tried the Re-edit of ‘Sky Can You Feel Me’ at the little red rooster, ‘COCK-A-DOODLE-YAM-WHOOOOOOO!’ came the response. Finally dropped the Whiffenpoof song next to Old Shep. His ears pricked up and he howled, ‘WOOF WIFFEN WOOF! WOOF WIFFEN WOOF.

 

I’m approaching the Polytechnic of Battersea with my findings in the vain hope of funding for a Phd

Madman Running Through The Files

An elderly record shop buyer was ready to retire. He told his employer of his plans to leave the vinyl purchasing business and live a more leisurely life with his wife enjoying his extended family, embroiling within capes and playing plenty of deck quoits. He would miss the pay cheque, but he needed to retire. They could get by.
 

The record shop owner was sorry to see his good worker go and asked if he could buy just one more collection of very rare vinyl as a personal favour. The record buyer said yes, but in time it was easy to see that his heart was not in his work anymore. He resorted to shoddy workmanship and bought inferior records. Instead of rare Sun Ra ‘Horo’ pieces he bought Steps; instead of Mellow Candle’s Swaddling songs he bought Leo Sayer; instead of Jason Crest’s Turquoise Tandem Cycle he bought, The Best of Jim Reeves; instead of The Madman Running Through the Fields by Dantalian’s Chariot he bought Mrs Mills; instead of Fire’s Father’s Name Is Dad he bought Now That’s What I Call Music 16, and instead of Rainbow’s Ffolly Sallies Forth he bought Chris de Burgh ‘A Retrospective.’ It was an unfortunate way to end a dedicated career. When the record buyer finished his work he placed all the pieces in a flight case and the employer came to inspect the vinyl.
 

His boss handed the flight case back to the record buyer, and said, ‘My Gift to you’. The record buyer was shocked! What a shame! If he had only known he was building his own collection, he would have done it all so differently. So it is with us.
 

We build our record collections a day at a time, often putting less than our best into the construction. A bit of mediocre Nu-Jazz here, a Charity shop Funky House 12” there; A bargin bin badly pressed bruk comp here and a dull ambient noodle there. Then with a shock we realise we have to live with the collection we have built. If we could do it over we’d do it differently. But we cannot go back. You are the buyer. Each day you nail a tune, score a piece of vinyl, or erect new shelves for more pieces. ‘A Record Collection is a do-it-yourself project someone has said: ‘Your selections and the choices you make today, build the collection you’ll live with tomorrow.
 

Let’s be careful out there.