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Shutters open, slowly. Dust explosion. Start of a new day.
Sturgess Cafe opposite the intersection with Coolridge Road and Kenton Street, is open for business. That is, it's open, but not for cafe business. Let me explain.
Although the cafe is set for a breakfast serving - knives and forks set out, polished vinyl on plywood tables buffed by the light of the early morning sun, menu and tomato shaped ketchup pot, next to a tall, cylindrical 'brown sauce' bottle – the front door remains locked.
A builder puts his hand over his eyes to peer into the glass window. He walks away shaking his head.
Nyman Chaw-Derek, artist, 31, sicks his head out from behind a faded curtain. Nearly spotted. He spends some of the late evening repositioning tables and chairs, moving menus, placing stains on the lino. Smearing areas of the cafe with grease. Telling the story of the life of a cafe. Without ever opening the doors. He runs the cafe – the project. It was his idea.
A cafe that never opens. But still lives. Part of the street, part of the life of local people, but not really existing.
Here's what Nyman's successful Arts Council funding application said (an extract):
“...this piece of art - Sturgess Cafe, the cafe that never opens - is a comment on the life of ephemera. When is a familiar object an artefact? An artwork? Is it possible to 'corrupt' the street scene - the heart of a local community, the High Street – with an artistic intervention? What question will people ask as they pass by? What questions will the cafe pose and ask of us? Will it impact on our identities, or purpose as human beings? How much of our environment do we really notice?”
“I suppose £50,000 will keep us in wine,” said Nyman's partner, Seeke.
“£50,000 [that's the grant he received per year for the 3 year cafe project, plus an additional £10k from the local council, to “enhance the regeneration of the urban cultural offer.”] is the tip of the iceburg.” said Nyman. “Seeke, if this goes national, I could be the new Damien Hurst, Tracey Emin and Banksy all rolled into one!”
“But why can't we just open the cafe, normally? Throw a big party, sell organic, locally sourced food...” said Seeke, before being interrupted by an uber-patronising Nyman.
“You're missing the point, love,” he said, “I'm a new urban knight, a creator of perceptions, a magician – a modern Merlin.”
“No you're not,” said Seeke, dialling the local bakers for a bacon butty delivery, “you're an ok painter with a creative block. Want brown or red with yours?”
Record Duggie Chop's into, right this moment:
Duggie Chop recommends:
Thursday 28 January 2010
Monday 25 January 2010
It all kinda fell apart...Duggie in '82, plus a little Quo-ology
When Duggie tried to grab a guitar, things kind of fell apart.
Doland, a bit shaky from the dope just cowered in the corner [remember, Duggie's a big lad - even when he was a lad].
Nels tripped over the guitar lead - now taut, as Duggie was pulling the guitar - and demolished the drum kit. This time, rather than a guitar amp, a cymbal crashed out the window. They could hear it land, a distant dinner gong, crash-bonging as it began to roll down the High Street. Some kids were laughing and a police car blipped it's siren.
Matt, lead guitarist to Donald's rhythm [Duggie had grabbed Doland's yellow guitar], pushed down his shades, picked up his Gibson and got ready to battle Duggie in the guitar hero stakes.
"Ready to rock, big man?" said Matt, like a cheesey bit-part in a cliched rock 'n' roll road story, "there's a reason why they call these babies axes, you dig?"
"Balls!" said Duggie, "I know totally why they call 'em axes, big...whatever." And Mr Chop raised the guitar above his head - like Sidney Vicious, all those years ago - and bashed Matt over the head with it.
I suppose dope can make some people violent.
Duggie's mate, on the other hand, was comatosed by the door, sitting in a knackered looking armchair. The dust coming off that thing'll play havoc with his asthma.
[Then again, perhaps this was just Duggie's dope-dream vision - or nightmare]
"Woah," said Duggie, "I mean. What d'ya want to play Matt. I mean Mr Score, I mean..."
"Look my man, just chug along a bit of 12-bar, and we'll take it from there. You know, like Status Quo."
Duggie nodded. Just like the Beatles and the Let It Be film, more like. They just sat about chugging 12-bar. What is it about 12-bar and bands rehearsing? Why can't we jam some of 'Illustrations of Gargoyle'? [simple Duggie, Hair Tom didn't record it until 1985 - you're stuck in 1982!]
[Excuse me! (what? who are you?) I happen to be very much into Quo. And I don't like the fact that you associate Quo with 12-bar. It's as if you are saying that Quo is nothing BUT 12-bar. (a fair assumption Mr Status Quo man). Ah, but that's where you're wrong. It's not a fair assumption. Quo have done a wide range of music in their time. From hoary rockers, Alan Lancaster stylee, to country-tinged-pop, when Mr Rossi lets rip. Rick would always create the poppy, drug-referencing-rock-oriented-ballad. Or things like 'Mystery Song' (1976). But, you know, when it all comes togetheer. Well. Magic. Look, I remember compiling, back in 1986, a C90 (that's an audio cassette to you kids out there) that demonstrated the versatility of the Quo. From the lesser known work on 'Dog of Two Head' (1971) and 'Piledriver' (1972), right through to the classic 'Whatever You Want' (1979) LP tracks like 'Living on an Island'- featuring electro-acoustic guitars and the balls out/head down rockin' of 'Come Rock With Me/Rockin'On' from the same album. (you quite finished? I mean you've had your say) Yes, I'm satisfied - or, in Status Quo speak 'I Ain't Complaining' (1988).(anyway, you've had your say - but who's gonna defend the Beatles? I mean, they were accused of being good for nothing 12-bar-ers, too!)]
Meanwhile, across the road, across the decades to 2010, the shutters were coming up for the first time, from the windows of a cafe that no one had ever noticed before.
Inside, an artist scratched his head and squinted in the sunlight. The first day, he thought. The first day of nothing happening. No one will ever eat in this cafe. No one was ever going to.
Who was he artist? What was he doing? Find out soon.
Doland, a bit shaky from the dope just cowered in the corner [remember, Duggie's a big lad - even when he was a lad].
Nels tripped over the guitar lead - now taut, as Duggie was pulling the guitar - and demolished the drum kit. This time, rather than a guitar amp, a cymbal crashed out the window. They could hear it land, a distant dinner gong, crash-bonging as it began to roll down the High Street. Some kids were laughing and a police car blipped it's siren.
Matt, lead guitarist to Donald's rhythm [Duggie had grabbed Doland's yellow guitar], pushed down his shades, picked up his Gibson and got ready to battle Duggie in the guitar hero stakes.
"Ready to rock, big man?" said Matt, like a cheesey bit-part in a cliched rock 'n' roll road story, "there's a reason why they call these babies axes, you dig?"
"Balls!" said Duggie, "I know totally why they call 'em axes, big...whatever." And Mr Chop raised the guitar above his head - like Sidney Vicious, all those years ago - and bashed Matt over the head with it.
I suppose dope can make some people violent.
Duggie's mate, on the other hand, was comatosed by the door, sitting in a knackered looking armchair. The dust coming off that thing'll play havoc with his asthma.
[Then again, perhaps this was just Duggie's dope-dream vision - or nightmare]
"Woah," said Duggie, "I mean. What d'ya want to play Matt. I mean Mr Score, I mean..."
"Look my man, just chug along a bit of 12-bar, and we'll take it from there. You know, like Status Quo."
Duggie nodded. Just like the Beatles and the Let It Be film, more like. They just sat about chugging 12-bar. What is it about 12-bar and bands rehearsing? Why can't we jam some of 'Illustrations of Gargoyle'? [simple Duggie, Hair Tom didn't record it until 1985 - you're stuck in 1982!]
[Excuse me! (what? who are you?) I happen to be very much into Quo. And I don't like the fact that you associate Quo with 12-bar. It's as if you are saying that Quo is nothing BUT 12-bar. (a fair assumption Mr Status Quo man). Ah, but that's where you're wrong. It's not a fair assumption. Quo have done a wide range of music in their time. From hoary rockers, Alan Lancaster stylee, to country-tinged-pop, when Mr Rossi lets rip. Rick would always create the poppy, drug-referencing-rock-oriented-ballad. Or things like 'Mystery Song' (1976). But, you know, when it all comes togetheer. Well. Magic. Look, I remember compiling, back in 1986, a C90 (that's an audio cassette to you kids out there) that demonstrated the versatility of the Quo. From the lesser known work on 'Dog of Two Head' (1971) and 'Piledriver' (1972), right through to the classic 'Whatever You Want' (1979) LP tracks like 'Living on an Island'- featuring electro-acoustic guitars and the balls out/head down rockin' of 'Come Rock With Me/Rockin'On' from the same album. (you quite finished? I mean you've had your say) Yes, I'm satisfied - or, in Status Quo speak 'I Ain't Complaining' (1988).(anyway, you've had your say - but who's gonna defend the Beatles? I mean, they were accused of being good for nothing 12-bar-ers, too!)]
Meanwhile, across the road, across the decades to 2010, the shutters were coming up for the first time, from the windows of a cafe that no one had ever noticed before.
Inside, an artist scratched his head and squinted in the sunlight. The first day, he thought. The first day of nothing happening. No one will ever eat in this cafe. No one was ever going to.
Who was he artist? What was he doing? Find out soon.
Sunday 17 January 2010
Interlude - My short trip, by Duggie's mate.
[Looking through the eyes of Duggie's mate and using his mind to directly translate the experience as a piece of prose. It's a bit clumsy here and there, but that's what 'stream-of-thought' monologues are like, isn't it?]
(We - me and Duggie - are in the studio in the Torpid Emancipator with Hair Tom. It's 1982 and me and Duggie are 14 years-old again, travelling through time. Just to let you know, our role in life is to fish in the canal [“...don't remind me!” -Mr Stickleback] and tell strangers about the music we are into. At the moment we are giving you - via time travel – the full story of the great 'Hair Tom', a group at the forefront of the 'Sound Of Torpidity' prog-rock movement...So far, Matt Score - lead guitar, Hair Tom - has invited us into the studio to watch a rehearsal and Doland - rhythm, acoustic and percussion - has skinned-up a powerful looking 'funny fag'...)
First I'm passed a joint. Not really seen one in 'the flesh' before. Like a roll-up, but more kind of triangular (conical?). Sort of. It's a bit soggy, too. Doland is laughing as I put it in my mouth and suck a bit.
Sort of cool sensation of smoke and air - like sucking dry-ice through a straw. Tastes like ground up earth - an intense version of the smell of formerly bone-dry pavements, following a cloudburst.
I breathe in the smoke and try to hold it down without gagging. It's an effort. But the more I hold it, the looser I get and the release of smoke, from my lungs into the air, feels like floating down the river on a gondola made of silk.
“Take another toke, man!” I can hear Doland saying, “The first toke has laid the foundation, for exploration...”
Oh, yeah [exhales] he's right...
I hand the joint to Duggie, or somebody to my left. I'm really not too sure.
Sitting 'in' the chair now. Not on it, coveted by material that shimmers over and around me, like 'the dance of the seven veils', or something.
Bob-bob-bob-bobbing bassline...tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, tinkly-too keyboard. I can actually see the notes coming out of the speakers, quaver by crochet by double clef and treble clef. Oh, not forgetting the bass clef too.
Some of the notes bash into each other, like when there's a distorted note, or something. Then they bow to each other and apologise before continuing. Others dance together and merge, jiggling into shape.
Words are coming out of everyone's mouth. I can see them, written up in the air, as if I was watching some film credits roll by.
The joint returns again, soggier and shorter than before and I have another bit of its cool and earthy substance, feel a little bit queasy with that one. I pass it on quick.
It's sort of dark outside now, though it's about mid-afternoon in the summer. I think. [to explain, he thinks he's looking through a window, when in fact he's staring at a blank frame that used to contain a mirror.] In fact it's totally black, no stars or nothing. Mr Moon, Mr Moon. You asleep, or something?
I've never seen it that dark before. Suddenly a white image appears, at first a little melty, then sharp as sharp. It's an owl. A kind of simple graphic design of an owl. then I recognise it. It's the picture from the label of a 'midnight mint' choc-ice [unavailable these days, by the way. They were a plain chocolate choc-ice filled with mint flavoured ice cream. A premium product]. And then the owl winks at me...
Oh, no. I've messed up my brain! I look up, and the low roof of the studio has attained cathedral dimensions, a cavernous space and I can see my thoughts echoing around.
Ok. Get up. I try. (Need to get away, bed, piss. Both) But my legs won't operate. They're as stiff and heavy as the girders they make Irn Bru out of. Girders. or Grrdrrs (as they might say in Scotland). GrrDuzz. Gurrrdezz. Grrrrrdrrrrs.
[At that point, Duggie's mate passes out. Musical notes flying from his ears like loose wax].
“Guess the kid wasn't ready for a peace pipe, man,” says Doland.
(We - me and Duggie - are in the studio in the Torpid Emancipator with Hair Tom. It's 1982 and me and Duggie are 14 years-old again, travelling through time. Just to let you know, our role in life is to fish in the canal [“...don't remind me!” -Mr Stickleback] and tell strangers about the music we are into. At the moment we are giving you - via time travel – the full story of the great 'Hair Tom', a group at the forefront of the 'Sound Of Torpidity' prog-rock movement...So far, Matt Score - lead guitar, Hair Tom - has invited us into the studio to watch a rehearsal and Doland - rhythm, acoustic and percussion - has skinned-up a powerful looking 'funny fag'...)
First I'm passed a joint. Not really seen one in 'the flesh' before. Like a roll-up, but more kind of triangular (conical?). Sort of. It's a bit soggy, too. Doland is laughing as I put it in my mouth and suck a bit.
Sort of cool sensation of smoke and air - like sucking dry-ice through a straw. Tastes like ground up earth - an intense version of the smell of formerly bone-dry pavements, following a cloudburst.
I breathe in the smoke and try to hold it down without gagging. It's an effort. But the more I hold it, the looser I get and the release of smoke, from my lungs into the air, feels like floating down the river on a gondola made of silk.
“Take another toke, man!” I can hear Doland saying, “The first toke has laid the foundation, for exploration...”
Oh, yeah [exhales] he's right...
I hand the joint to Duggie, or somebody to my left. I'm really not too sure.
Sitting 'in' the chair now. Not on it, coveted by material that shimmers over and around me, like 'the dance of the seven veils', or something.
Bob-bob-bob-bobbing bassline...tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, tinkly-too keyboard. I can actually see the notes coming out of the speakers, quaver by crochet by double clef and treble clef. Oh, not forgetting the bass clef too.
Some of the notes bash into each other, like when there's a distorted note, or something. Then they bow to each other and apologise before continuing. Others dance together and merge, jiggling into shape.
Words are coming out of everyone's mouth. I can see them, written up in the air, as if I was watching some film credits roll by.
The joint returns again, soggier and shorter than before and I have another bit of its cool and earthy substance, feel a little bit queasy with that one. I pass it on quick.
It's sort of dark outside now, though it's about mid-afternoon in the summer. I think. [to explain, he thinks he's looking through a window, when in fact he's staring at a blank frame that used to contain a mirror.] In fact it's totally black, no stars or nothing. Mr Moon, Mr Moon. You asleep, or something?
I've never seen it that dark before. Suddenly a white image appears, at first a little melty, then sharp as sharp. It's an owl. A kind of simple graphic design of an owl. then I recognise it. It's the picture from the label of a 'midnight mint' choc-ice [unavailable these days, by the way. They were a plain chocolate choc-ice filled with mint flavoured ice cream. A premium product]. And then the owl winks at me...
Oh, no. I've messed up my brain! I look up, and the low roof of the studio has attained cathedral dimensions, a cavernous space and I can see my thoughts echoing around.
Ok. Get up. I try. (Need to get away, bed, piss. Both) But my legs won't operate. They're as stiff and heavy as the girders they make Irn Bru out of. Girders. or Grrdrrs (as they might say in Scotland). GrrDuzz. Gurrrdezz. Grrrrrdrrrrs.
[At that point, Duggie's mate passes out. Musical notes flying from his ears like loose wax].
“Guess the kid wasn't ready for a peace pipe, man,” says Doland.
Monday 11 January 2010
Nothing like 'Give My Regards To Broad Street' - meeting Hair Tom in 1982
Going back to the story...click here for where we got to.
[In the corner of the studio, there's a pile of six or seven broken chairs, cheap metal 'bistro' style chairs, with legs bent in impossible shapes. No one knows how they got there or who bent them. It was rumoured that a local 'sneak-sculptor' was breaking in and turning furniture into off-the-cuff artworks. But that may have been the drugs talking.]
Matt brought Duggie and his mate upstairs.
Nels played a walking bassline, booming through at ultra-low frequencies through a 50 watt amplifier: Boong, Bong, Boong, Bong, Boong, Bong [I'm sure get the idea!] Swedish keyboard player [from this 1982 period 'Hair Tom' line up – the keyboard players tended not to last long in the group] Anders Lornsvelg was accompanying Nels with impromptu trills and noodles.
Drummer, Tony Cort sat behind the drums, in half-shadow, eating an orange without removing the skin. Every now and then, a citric acid burst made him scowl.
Doland McGregory, Rhythm Guitar, Acoustic Guitar and occasional percussion, was skinning up on the cover of a Cliff Richard gospel album: 'Now You See Me...Now You Don't'.
For many fans, this early 80s line up was the definitive 'Hair Tom'. Apart from Lornsvelg, this line up recorded the astoundingly successful LP 'Illustrations of Gargoyle' (1985) [more info on this ground breaking album and the biog of the band 'Hair Tom', soon - Steve].
But the band wasn't operating like a unit. As Nels had suggested, bringing Duggie and his mate into this studio would be like taking someone to meet The Beatles during 'Let It Be'.
Like The Beatles [surely the only valid comparison between The Beatles and Hair Tom...] at this time Hair Tom was more of a loose collective of almost like-minded souls (i.e. work-shy musicians) seeking any opportunity to express themselves individually – or take more drugs, while still claiming some social security payment [“Hey, lay off, that was never proven” says Nels, “don't want those anal retentive freaks investigating me now!”]
[“Excuse me for holding up proceedings,” says Herbert Glumm, Civic Servant (retired), former Benefits Agency Administrative Officer, “but it is unlikely that your case would be re-opened after nearly 30 years. Besides, now you would be eligible for an Arts Council England Grant for doing what you're doing. Why, I remember, not too long ago, the so-called 'Arts' Council funded some layabout for setting up a cafe that never opened.
A kind of installation, commenting on the transitory nature of the fast food trade in the UK, the fact that so many cafes and kebab establishments open their doors only to close them again, with no one very much the wiser. The artist was trying to make a connection between this phenomenon and the fact that so many people are unaware if precisely what's going on in their neighbourhoods...and...” “Herbert! That's enough!” (says Steve). “Sorry Steve, it's just that it gets lonely, you know, being retired and all. I don't have many people to talk to, apart from the Blue Tits on my bird table, and a neighbour's cat ate the last one...”]
Tension also developed as each band member, sporadically, wanted to take the 'artistic' lead. Currently Matt Score, Lead Guitar, was the most forceful. He was attempting to stage a coup, taking 'Hair Tom' away from festival-style space rock, and towards the latest craze in guitar twiddling at lightning speeds (soon to be exemplified by the likes of Yngwie Malmstreem).
Others were content to hibernate between gigs, act like kids and waste time.
“It was like, we went in there,” said Duggie Chop to his mate, a little later, “and these people are just sitting around in a dim, smoke-filled room. There was some music, a plonky bass and an irritating load of organ stuff, but mainly it was like being in the school bogs on a wet dinner break. I was expecting a jam session to be in progress, you know, the band getting stuff together.”
“What, like in Paul McCartney's 'Give My Regards To Broad Street' film?” said Duggie's mate.
“Sort of, only not crap.” said Duggie. [I must say, if you're reading this, Sir Paul, that I'm a fan of yours (this is Steve Hill speaking) and take no responsibility for what these people decide to say. What do they know? I went to see your film 5 times back in 1984 at the Picturedrome in Bognor and bought the LP.]
“Things went downhill even quicker after the owner of 'the Torpid One' [he means Fleesey, also Hair Tom's Manager at the time] came in and told them they were rubbish,” said Duggie, “I mean, he was talking to Hair Tom. Hair-bloody-Tom!”
Fleesey did have a point, though. He was riding high after securing Hair Tom a gig at the first WOMAD festival in Shepton Mallet: “this'll raise your profile again,” he told them, “you'll be going on before Echo and The Bunnymen!” [Nels: “Echo and the... bloody hell, did it really get that bad!”]
But, the band was mucking about a wee bit too much. For example, a week before, Doland, after inhaling the smoke of some particularly strong hash, decided to 'defrost' an emptied out, tinned Ox Tongue by pissing on it – before being told that the tongue wasn't frozen but suspended in aspic jelly. [“Piss all over me Mam's rug 'an all,” recollected Fleesey, from his villa in LA (that's Little'ampton, by the way – local joke)].
So, Duggie and his mate, time travellers, Austin Maxi crashers, stepped into the gloom. “Hey kids,” said Doland, “Wanna turn on?”
Duggie looked at his mate and nodded. He nodded a “that's more like it” kind of nod. Nels was laughing in time with her walking bass. Matt cracked open yet another can of full sugar Coke.
Next stop WOMAD? Right on!
[In the corner of the studio, there's a pile of six or seven broken chairs, cheap metal 'bistro' style chairs, with legs bent in impossible shapes. No one knows how they got there or who bent them. It was rumoured that a local 'sneak-sculptor' was breaking in and turning furniture into off-the-cuff artworks. But that may have been the drugs talking.]
Matt brought Duggie and his mate upstairs.
Nels played a walking bassline, booming through at ultra-low frequencies through a 50 watt amplifier: Boong, Bong, Boong, Bong, Boong, Bong [I'm sure get the idea!] Swedish keyboard player [from this 1982 period 'Hair Tom' line up – the keyboard players tended not to last long in the group] Anders Lornsvelg was accompanying Nels with impromptu trills and noodles.
Drummer, Tony Cort sat behind the drums, in half-shadow, eating an orange without removing the skin. Every now and then, a citric acid burst made him scowl.
Doland McGregory, Rhythm Guitar, Acoustic Guitar and occasional percussion, was skinning up on the cover of a Cliff Richard gospel album: 'Now You See Me...Now You Don't'.
For many fans, this early 80s line up was the definitive 'Hair Tom'. Apart from Lornsvelg, this line up recorded the astoundingly successful LP 'Illustrations of Gargoyle' (1985) [more info on this ground breaking album and the biog of the band 'Hair Tom', soon - Steve].
But the band wasn't operating like a unit. As Nels had suggested, bringing Duggie and his mate into this studio would be like taking someone to meet The Beatles during 'Let It Be'.
Like The Beatles [surely the only valid comparison between The Beatles and Hair Tom...] at this time Hair Tom was more of a loose collective of almost like-minded souls (i.e. work-shy musicians) seeking any opportunity to express themselves individually – or take more drugs, while still claiming some social security payment [“Hey, lay off, that was never proven” says Nels, “don't want those anal retentive freaks investigating me now!”]
[“Excuse me for holding up proceedings,” says Herbert Glumm, Civic Servant (retired), former Benefits Agency Administrative Officer, “but it is unlikely that your case would be re-opened after nearly 30 years. Besides, now you would be eligible for an Arts Council England Grant for doing what you're doing. Why, I remember, not too long ago, the so-called 'Arts' Council funded some layabout for setting up a cafe that never opened.
A kind of installation, commenting on the transitory nature of the fast food trade in the UK, the fact that so many cafes and kebab establishments open their doors only to close them again, with no one very much the wiser. The artist was trying to make a connection between this phenomenon and the fact that so many people are unaware if precisely what's going on in their neighbourhoods...and...” “Herbert! That's enough!” (says Steve). “Sorry Steve, it's just that it gets lonely, you know, being retired and all. I don't have many people to talk to, apart from the Blue Tits on my bird table, and a neighbour's cat ate the last one...”]
Tension also developed as each band member, sporadically, wanted to take the 'artistic' lead. Currently Matt Score, Lead Guitar, was the most forceful. He was attempting to stage a coup, taking 'Hair Tom' away from festival-style space rock, and towards the latest craze in guitar twiddling at lightning speeds (soon to be exemplified by the likes of Yngwie Malmstreem).
Others were content to hibernate between gigs, act like kids and waste time.
“It was like, we went in there,” said Duggie Chop to his mate, a little later, “and these people are just sitting around in a dim, smoke-filled room. There was some music, a plonky bass and an irritating load of organ stuff, but mainly it was like being in the school bogs on a wet dinner break. I was expecting a jam session to be in progress, you know, the band getting stuff together.”
“What, like in Paul McCartney's 'Give My Regards To Broad Street' film?” said Duggie's mate.
“Sort of, only not crap.” said Duggie. [I must say, if you're reading this, Sir Paul, that I'm a fan of yours (this is Steve Hill speaking) and take no responsibility for what these people decide to say. What do they know? I went to see your film 5 times back in 1984 at the Picturedrome in Bognor and bought the LP.]
“Things went downhill even quicker after the owner of 'the Torpid One' [he means Fleesey, also Hair Tom's Manager at the time] came in and told them they were rubbish,” said Duggie, “I mean, he was talking to Hair Tom. Hair-bloody-Tom!”
Fleesey did have a point, though. He was riding high after securing Hair Tom a gig at the first WOMAD festival in Shepton Mallet: “this'll raise your profile again,” he told them, “you'll be going on before Echo and The Bunnymen!” [Nels: “Echo and the... bloody hell, did it really get that bad!”]
But, the band was mucking about a wee bit too much. For example, a week before, Doland, after inhaling the smoke of some particularly strong hash, decided to 'defrost' an emptied out, tinned Ox Tongue by pissing on it – before being told that the tongue wasn't frozen but suspended in aspic jelly. [“Piss all over me Mam's rug 'an all,” recollected Fleesey, from his villa in LA (that's Little'ampton, by the way – local joke)].
So, Duggie and his mate, time travellers, Austin Maxi crashers, stepped into the gloom. “Hey kids,” said Doland, “Wanna turn on?”
Duggie looked at his mate and nodded. He nodded a “that's more like it” kind of nod. Nels was laughing in time with her walking bass. Matt cracked open yet another can of full sugar Coke.
Next stop WOMAD? Right on!
Thursday 7 January 2010
Biography Spot # 1: The Torpid Emancipator
[Following a request, by Mr Stickleback, in a previous post, Brinfield Copse (Chief Fact Checker for Duggie Chop) will take us through the background of places, people and things that feature in the story. Brinfield will start with 'the old torpid one'...]
Greetings people, my name is Brinfield Copse and I'll post the occasional entry to help you understand what on earth is going on in this story.
Duggie and the others have been extremely lazy, not posting enough to keep you entertained during the holiday period, therefore I feel this is an opportune moment to tell you more about an element of the story [for pity's sake get on with it! I didn't realise you had such a boring style of writing Brin], 'The Torpid Emancipator'.
The Torpid Emancipator first appeared in this story on 15th November 2009
But it's been around for a long time.
Founded in 1971 by Davey 'Ringold' Crew, The Torpid Emancipator, known as 'the torpid one' or 'the old torpid one' is a record shop/studio/cafe and place for young people to 'hang-out'.
It's in a town called 'Chadlesome', situated in the middle of nowhere south of England.
The town of Chadlesome and The Torpid Emancipator became famous during the early 1970s, and remained so until the mid-1980s, as home to a progressive rock movement known as 'The Sound of Torpidity'. 'Hair Tom' is probably the most well known (and notorious) band to emerge from the movement.
Since 1979 (following the unusual death of founder 'Ringold'), the torpid one has been run by Ricky Fleese, or Fleesey for short. Fleesey's a chancer and a self-promoter, but there's no doubt that The Torpid Emancipator would be but a shadow of it's current self without him. Fleesey's like a poor man's Richard Branson, with a bit of Peter Stringfellow thrown in for good measure. [I like how your writing's improving as you go along, Brin]
What does 'The Torpid Emancipator' look like? Built in the mid-19th Century, with a double shop frontage, it has ornate plaster work in cream and white on the facade. At least it was cream, white and ornate in 1860. Now it's a little grubby - more grime-grey and battleship - and plaster flakes off as if the building had eczema.
[You know, once they thought that kids in the town - particularly teenage lads - were suffering from a mass scalp problem, as they all walked around with large showers of white stuff on the shoulders of their black school blazers. The local paper and the BBC news programme (the one that comes on the telly after the 6pm news) was always going on about it. Turned out that the dandruff was just plaster falling off The Torpid Emancipator. Chandlesome's young men, and some women, spent so much time standing outside the front of the crumbling building.]
The Torpid Emancipator is tall, at least five floors, including a suite of eerie rooms in the roof [I'm sure they'll feature in a future post].
Downstairs it's new records at the front (CDs too, of course and now video games, I think Duggie Chop went on about this a couple of months ago), second-hand music at the rear with the more specialist stuff, rarities and the like, on the first floor.
Fleesey's 'office' including some kind of sauna is to the rear of the first floor, overlooking a kind of courtyard in front of a modern office block (where everyone comes outside to smoke and eat their lunch).
There's loads of musical instruments - guitars, drums, keyboards, you name it - for sale in a large portacabin that's attached to the rear of the building adjacent to the courtyard and accessible through the second-hand music area. [Many bands have started using instruments bought from this almost sacred space.]
A small cafe, always full to bursting is situated in the front left hand window of the ground floor, right next to the new music. You can always get the people running the cafe to spin your newly purchased discs, results in an eclectic [hey, big word alert!] mix of music played while you sip your tea and eat a cake (another speciality of the torpid one).
The thing I haven't mentioned yet is the studio space, the real sacred space in the building: the place that gave birth to the Sound of Torpidity. Its all on the second floor and above. There are rehearsal rooms, digital studios, the lot. I could reel off bands that you would have heard off who either had their first session or recorded their best music up there. It's got a great feeling to it. But a musician will give you the lowdown, soon [It'll be me probably, Nels from Hair Tom - I'll let you know! Busy drinking cider at the moment...]
Oh, another thing, there's no opening times at The Torpid Emancipator. It's open all the time, 24/7, before they even invented the phrase.
[Phew! Thanks for that, Brin. Speak soon.]
Greetings people, my name is Brinfield Copse and I'll post the occasional entry to help you understand what on earth is going on in this story.
Duggie and the others have been extremely lazy, not posting enough to keep you entertained during the holiday period, therefore I feel this is an opportune moment to tell you more about an element of the story [for pity's sake get on with it! I didn't realise you had such a boring style of writing Brin], 'The Torpid Emancipator'.
The Torpid Emancipator first appeared in this story on 15th November 2009
But it's been around for a long time.
Founded in 1971 by Davey 'Ringold' Crew, The Torpid Emancipator, known as 'the torpid one' or 'the old torpid one' is a record shop/studio/cafe and place for young people to 'hang-out'.
It's in a town called 'Chadlesome', situated in the middle of nowhere south of England.
The town of Chadlesome and The Torpid Emancipator became famous during the early 1970s, and remained so until the mid-1980s, as home to a progressive rock movement known as 'The Sound of Torpidity'. 'Hair Tom' is probably the most well known (and notorious) band to emerge from the movement.
Since 1979 (following the unusual death of founder 'Ringold'), the torpid one has been run by Ricky Fleese, or Fleesey for short. Fleesey's a chancer and a self-promoter, but there's no doubt that The Torpid Emancipator would be but a shadow of it's current self without him. Fleesey's like a poor man's Richard Branson, with a bit of Peter Stringfellow thrown in for good measure. [I like how your writing's improving as you go along, Brin]
What does 'The Torpid Emancipator' look like? Built in the mid-19th Century, with a double shop frontage, it has ornate plaster work in cream and white on the facade. At least it was cream, white and ornate in 1860. Now it's a little grubby - more grime-grey and battleship - and plaster flakes off as if the building had eczema.
[You know, once they thought that kids in the town - particularly teenage lads - were suffering from a mass scalp problem, as they all walked around with large showers of white stuff on the shoulders of their black school blazers. The local paper and the BBC news programme (the one that comes on the telly after the 6pm news) was always going on about it. Turned out that the dandruff was just plaster falling off The Torpid Emancipator. Chandlesome's young men, and some women, spent so much time standing outside the front of the crumbling building.]
The Torpid Emancipator is tall, at least five floors, including a suite of eerie rooms in the roof [I'm sure they'll feature in a future post].
Downstairs it's new records at the front (CDs too, of course and now video games, I think Duggie Chop went on about this a couple of months ago), second-hand music at the rear with the more specialist stuff, rarities and the like, on the first floor.
Fleesey's 'office' including some kind of sauna is to the rear of the first floor, overlooking a kind of courtyard in front of a modern office block (where everyone comes outside to smoke and eat their lunch).
There's loads of musical instruments - guitars, drums, keyboards, you name it - for sale in a large portacabin that's attached to the rear of the building adjacent to the courtyard and accessible through the second-hand music area. [Many bands have started using instruments bought from this almost sacred space.]
A small cafe, always full to bursting is situated in the front left hand window of the ground floor, right next to the new music. You can always get the people running the cafe to spin your newly purchased discs, results in an eclectic [hey, big word alert!] mix of music played while you sip your tea and eat a cake (another speciality of the torpid one).
The thing I haven't mentioned yet is the studio space, the real sacred space in the building: the place that gave birth to the Sound of Torpidity. Its all on the second floor and above. There are rehearsal rooms, digital studios, the lot. I could reel off bands that you would have heard off who either had their first session or recorded their best music up there. It's got a great feeling to it. But a musician will give you the lowdown, soon [It'll be me probably, Nels from Hair Tom - I'll let you know! Busy drinking cider at the moment...]
Oh, another thing, there's no opening times at The Torpid Emancipator. It's open all the time, 24/7, before they even invented the phrase.
[Phew! Thanks for that, Brin. Speak soon.]
Tuesday 5 January 2010
Interlude for New Year 2010 - Duggie's Dreamy Pub night
People think I'm not a deep person [who said that, Duggie?]
But the truth is, I experience things in a strange way, but don't usually tell anyone. I'll give you an example...
[by the way, Duggie is sitting on the train as he writes this, directly on the blogger site, via his laptop. Train travel always trances him out. Duggie gazes at the crispy, icy, passing countryside, complete with frosted grass that sounds like crushed tinsel when you walk on it. He tends to let his imagination run a little, maybe you get to see the true Duggie Chop at times like this. He's certainly surreal, that's for sure.]
...from New Years Eve, a couple of days ago.
So, I was sitting in the pub. Bored. New Year's for kids isn't it? Best thing to do when ya bored in a pub, is watch people, try to suss them out.
I'm looking around the bar, some people are in fancy dress, others are twitching around, ready to nip out for a fag. The rest are boozing and some are looking bored like me.
There's a disco at the end of the bar, playing crap music. The kind of music they sell in supermarkets with tins of beans and magazines. One fifty-something saddo is jigging around, as if she was worth looking at [harsh Duggie, very harsh! You're no oil painting these days, you know.]
And a buffet, laden with pre-crimbo cold meats and pasta salads (the pub is a carvery the rest of the year), complete with food poisoning of all kinds and ready to be off-loaded on the unsuspecting, pissed, New Year crowd. A girl sitting near us had already sicked up a plate full of prawns. I mean, who'd eat seafood from a buffet like that!
You can tell the kind of mood I'm in. I'm starting to label the people I'm watching as different characters. I can just about tune into their conversations.
One woman is crying to her mate about her hubby and the way he treats her. A young lad, dressed as a woman, is kissing all the blokes who come into the bar. They all look like rugby players or something. There's alot of that (rugby) that goes on round here. My guess is confirmed later on when they all start singing bawdy songs.
Two really skinny girls, dressed as maids, are flirting away with all the guys and girls. It's gonna be a wild night for some. There's a few totally wrecked 16 year-old lads walking around, looking threatening, mouthy, after a punch-up. They actually look about 13, wearing the latest in sports clothing, but they could easily be 17. Difficult to judge the age of youngsters. I notice that they shut up when the landlord (a huge man, looks like a muscled up darts player) gives one of them a slap and shows him the door.
One lad arrives late. He's carrying a rucksack. Comes in and is accosted by the 'trannie' lad, but takes it in really good faith. I don't reckon he's a rugger type, looks more like the one they pick on. But you can tell he's no mug. I decide to call him: 'the force for good'
After a while observing the 'force for good', I'm drifting back in time, back to school. I remember other kids that were like 'force for good' - the kind of kids that never had a side to them, could handle social situations honestly, even though the other kids seemed to be taking the mickey out of them. At the time I didn't think much of it, but recently, I've realised just how important these people are. and how successful they seem to be in later life [bloody hell Duggie, you are being deep!]
'Force for good' changes into a Superman outfit, drinks some strange bottles of blue booze (I'll let him off, he's only about 18), then changes back into his 'normal' clothes about 20 minutes later.
Where I'm sitting it's like watching telly, seeing all the comings and goings in the pub. When I get up to buy a drink, I'm suddenly walking among these characters in my own telly show. It's like I've walked into the screen. Every one is here in 3D. I'm part of the drama. A drunken kid tries to talk to me and I retire to the bogs as the queue to the bar is too long.
In the bogs 'force for good' comes in to take a leak. And it's like I know him, but when I try to talk to him he doesn't react like a friend, more a confused and distant individual.
I think I've drunk too much.
But the truth is, I experience things in a strange way, but don't usually tell anyone. I'll give you an example...
[by the way, Duggie is sitting on the train as he writes this, directly on the blogger site, via his laptop. Train travel always trances him out. Duggie gazes at the crispy, icy, passing countryside, complete with frosted grass that sounds like crushed tinsel when you walk on it. He tends to let his imagination run a little, maybe you get to see the true Duggie Chop at times like this. He's certainly surreal, that's for sure.]
...from New Years Eve, a couple of days ago.
So, I was sitting in the pub. Bored. New Year's for kids isn't it? Best thing to do when ya bored in a pub, is watch people, try to suss them out.
I'm looking around the bar, some people are in fancy dress, others are twitching around, ready to nip out for a fag. The rest are boozing and some are looking bored like me.
There's a disco at the end of the bar, playing crap music. The kind of music they sell in supermarkets with tins of beans and magazines. One fifty-something saddo is jigging around, as if she was worth looking at [harsh Duggie, very harsh! You're no oil painting these days, you know.]
And a buffet, laden with pre-crimbo cold meats and pasta salads (the pub is a carvery the rest of the year), complete with food poisoning of all kinds and ready to be off-loaded on the unsuspecting, pissed, New Year crowd. A girl sitting near us had already sicked up a plate full of prawns. I mean, who'd eat seafood from a buffet like that!
You can tell the kind of mood I'm in. I'm starting to label the people I'm watching as different characters. I can just about tune into their conversations.
One woman is crying to her mate about her hubby and the way he treats her. A young lad, dressed as a woman, is kissing all the blokes who come into the bar. They all look like rugby players or something. There's alot of that (rugby) that goes on round here. My guess is confirmed later on when they all start singing bawdy songs.
Two really skinny girls, dressed as maids, are flirting away with all the guys and girls. It's gonna be a wild night for some. There's a few totally wrecked 16 year-old lads walking around, looking threatening, mouthy, after a punch-up. They actually look about 13, wearing the latest in sports clothing, but they could easily be 17. Difficult to judge the age of youngsters. I notice that they shut up when the landlord (a huge man, looks like a muscled up darts player) gives one of them a slap and shows him the door.
One lad arrives late. He's carrying a rucksack. Comes in and is accosted by the 'trannie' lad, but takes it in really good faith. I don't reckon he's a rugger type, looks more like the one they pick on. But you can tell he's no mug. I decide to call him: 'the force for good'
After a while observing the 'force for good', I'm drifting back in time, back to school. I remember other kids that were like 'force for good' - the kind of kids that never had a side to them, could handle social situations honestly, even though the other kids seemed to be taking the mickey out of them. At the time I didn't think much of it, but recently, I've realised just how important these people are. and how successful they seem to be in later life [bloody hell Duggie, you are being deep!]
'Force for good' changes into a Superman outfit, drinks some strange bottles of blue booze (I'll let him off, he's only about 18), then changes back into his 'normal' clothes about 20 minutes later.
Where I'm sitting it's like watching telly, seeing all the comings and goings in the pub. When I get up to buy a drink, I'm suddenly walking among these characters in my own telly show. It's like I've walked into the screen. Every one is here in 3D. I'm part of the drama. A drunken kid tries to talk to me and I retire to the bogs as the queue to the bar is too long.
In the bogs 'force for good' comes in to take a leak. And it's like I know him, but when I try to talk to him he doesn't react like a friend, more a confused and distant individual.
I think I've drunk too much.
Saturday 2 January 2010
Duggie says...2010
[Tap, tap, tap...Duggie Chop tries to get your attention through the invisible screen] Hello! You lot out there! This is Duggie Chop.
Sorry we've not been around for a couple of weeks. Been on holiday. Forgot to leave a message.
Apols all round from me, my mate, Mr Stickleback, Nels, all the Hair Tom guys and that guy called Guy...
Back in a couple of days...
(phew, glad that's over, it's like writing thank you letters for Crimbo prezzies...)
Love Duggie!
[thanx for doing that Duggie, love Steve. Hope you didn't get too drunk at new year...]
Sorry we've not been around for a couple of weeks. Been on holiday. Forgot to leave a message.
Apols all round from me, my mate, Mr Stickleback, Nels, all the Hair Tom guys and that guy called Guy...
Back in a couple of days...
(phew, glad that's over, it's like writing thank you letters for Crimbo prezzies...)
Love Duggie!
[thanx for doing that Duggie, love Steve. Hope you didn't get too drunk at new year...]
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