uncarved.org blog

Hanging out at my mate Chris’ place this afternoon confirms my thesis!

Cybore / Box Set Go.

Matt owns a lot more boxsets than me:

These Trojan sets, compiled by Steve Barrow, were the most accessible way to get into Black Ark stuff in the late eighties. They foreshadowed Barrow’s later work with the Blood & Fire label – incorporating great selection, sound quality and design. And also the excellent Arkology 3 CD set on Island.

Sort of “Occult Roots of Big Beat” set, featuring mad breakbeat tunes from across the board. I got this ridiculously cheap (I think 6 quid?) from Berwick Street in the mid 90s.

Test Dept’s first LP with grainy photo inserts. This must have been the first box set I ever bought, in the mid eighties. Ordered via the back pages of “Record Collector” magazine. Also the first record I ever picked up from a Post Office depot, something which seems second nature now! Some if not all of this was produced by Genesis P-Orridge. Another Some Bizzare classic.

This used to be ubiquitous – peaking out of people’s record shelves at you when you visited them for the first time. Shorthand for a particular background and all-encompassing worldview which many of us have now jettisoned most of – but the traces remain. Lots of 4o year old anarchopunk “sleepers” out there, biding their time.

This set includes a whopping great booklet featuring the tragic tale of Stonehenge Free Festival founder Wally Hope. And a full colour poster by Gee Vaucher (which mine is missing, boo!)

I had this on tape for years and then finally found a copy in Reckless Records in Islington (RIP) for a good price in the late 90s.

Vagina Dentata Organ
THE LONDON PUNK TAPES
Exhibition
15 JULY – 26 SEPTEMBER, 2010
ARCHIVE

La Ramblas 7, Barcelona 08002

During 1976 and 1977 Jordi Valls recorded live on nine audio cassettes some of the early punk gigs in London. These tapes, featuring The Sex Pistols, The Clash, The Damned, Subway Sect, Billy Idol & Generation X, The Slits and Buzzcocks, capture the true sound of punk — raw, countercultural and subversive — as a phenomenon that had a radical impact on popular music and fashion, first in Britain and America, and then worldwide.

Arguably the most interesting aspect of punk is its vital, visceral energy, and the demonstration that the only thing that really matters is the intention, the power of the imagination, and nothing more. Sound, photographs, an audio-visual with punk iconography by Franc Aleu-Urano Films and an installation combine here to profile a rebellious attitude firmly committed to its time.

More information

Vagina Dentata Organ on Uncarved

previously, on “the first 23 gigs I can remember going to”

16. Suicide, Spacemen 3, Into A Circle, 999. Town & Country Club, 13th December 1987.

It was cold. Sign on the door of the T&C: “Unfortunately 999 will not be appearing tonight”. The general consensus in the queue was that this was fine by everyone. I associated 999 with the uncreative dregs of punk, purely because their logo (a raffle ticket) appeared on the back of leather jackets alongside the Anti-Nowhere League, Exploited and all those other bands I could never be arsed to check out.

So an odd choice for the lineup, but perhaps not as odd as Showaddywaddy supporting Einsturzende Neubauten around the same time. Which I missed out of guilt at my exam fuck ups. Bah. I suppose this gig was like an early xmas present to myself. I think I probaby went along with either Chris (an old school mate) and/or Martin (a mad Ramones fan I had hooked up with doing resits).

Into A Circle were on a psychedelic/pop/goth tip. They had evolved out of Getting The Fear, who had in turn spawned from Southern Death Cult. Bee, their singer, had some connections with Psychic TV which obviously piqued my interest. Their single “Forever” had been on the Chart Show and was pretty good. They had some nice collages as projections and tapes of flowing water between songs.

I picked up some leaflets from the stall and found you could order some demo tapes and collage artwork off them. They also had a pseudo-TOPY magickal group associated with them called “The Game” if I remember rightly. I ordered some tapes and a collage. The former was pretty good and even had a recording off them at the end talking about financial arrangements for a gig. The collage arrived in a clipframe which smashed into a million pieces in the post (it was just in a regular jiffy bag).

There was  buzz about In To A Circle, but they didn’t really get anywhere. Bee was rumoured to be the source of PTV’s “why don’t you just enjoy your own fucking body” vocal sample, taken from an answerphone message. (The other story I heard was that it was the bloke from Bomb The Bass.)

“1987 and all I want to do is get stoned
All I want for you to do is take my body home.”

Spacemen 3 were excellent. I’d first heard them on Peel (he’d faded a 25 minute track of theirs in and out a few times in between other records). I suppose the Spacemen were the flipside of the Butthole Surfers in the eighties psych revival. Dreamy gentle drones and some almost-pop songs with choruses vs the Surfers balls-out chaotic rock. I saw Spacemen 3 a good few times and they were always completely brilliant. They often finished up by taping down several keys on their synth and leaving this huge cavernous drone running. I’ve never really bothered with Spiritualised, though.

As I pointed out in a previous episode, I spent a large chunk of the summer of 1987 rinsing valve casings in paraffin:

1. Pick up one casing in each hand from the dirty pile on the left.
2. Rinse in small vat of paraffin.
3. Place carefully in the clean pile on the right.
4. Repeat.

To help pass the time I’d think about the records I was going to play when I got home. It only helped a bit, I was completely isolated without anyone to talk to and was probably going a bit mental. Possibly the actual records I was listening to didn’t help very much. “Industrial Music For Industrial People” sounds very evocative if you’re on the dole or in an office, I guess.

One of the records I was caning was the first Suicide LP:

“Frankie teardrop
Twenty year old Frankie
He’s married he’s got a kid
And he’s working in a factory

He’s working from seven to five
He’s just trying to survive
well lets hear it for Frankie
Frankie Frankie”

I probably tried to kid myself that I was having a really hard time of it like Frankie but the reality was that I was living with my Mum and Dad and was spending virtually everything I earned on records and gigs. But that Suicide LP is perfect – from the lush ambience of “Cherie” to the timeless astro-rockabilly of “Johnny”, it really has it all. The debut has been a staple of my late night listening for the last 22 years. In fact it is so perfect that I have studiously avoided hearing anything else by Suicide in case it detracts from my enjoyment of them.

They were awesome live. Martin Rev (basically Dr Teeth from the Muppet Show in a squatted space station) and Alan Vega (one of them androids out of Blade Runner channeling the ghost of Elvis) ruled the stage like they were a 32 piece ensemble. I’m not sure if Suicide or Sparks can claim to be the first synthpop duo but Rev held it tight, barely moving from his minimal equipment, yet conjuring up walls of incredibly rich sound. Vega prowled the stage, every inch the superstar.

Such was the iconic minimalism of the Suicide schtick that Vega decided they’d make up a song for the encore. How cool is that?

This was a Sunday night gig, so I think the place was half full. That didn’t stop me getting completely immersed in it all…

expletive undeleted.

New address! Update your bookmarks and check  the latest entry on Frankie Goes To Hollywood.

» Blog Archive » Alien Kulture – R.A.R. Records – 1980.

Alien Kulture were a (largely) Asian punk band in the late 70s and early 80s. More info and a download of their single are over at the Kill Your Pet Puppy site. Well worth checking!

The band’s own website is at http://alienkulture.org/

UNITED COLORS OF BLAGGERS ITA – RE-RELEASE – Blaggers ITA’s MySpace Blog

Classic album now available again with bonus tracks.

Blaggers ITA on uncarved.org

Previously, on “the first 23 gigs I can remember going to”

14. Alien Sex Fiend, Psychic TV, Steven Wells. Hackney Empire, 30 September 1987.

Doing our bit for Biafra. Jello Biafra.

This was a benefit for the Dead Kennedys’ No More Censorship Defence Fund – the group were being done for “distribution of harmful matter to minors” when someone’s Mum had called the police after seeing some HR Giger artwork they had used. There was a fair bit of coverage about the trial in the UK media if you knew where to look. I recall the NME’s “Censorship” issue being especially good and to give them fair due they ran regular news updates about the case as well. I assume that this was largely down to the insistence of my favourite ranter Steven Wells, aided and abetted by Stuart Cosgrove (see what happened to him in a previous entry).

Rehberg struck up a conversation with Paula P-Orridge by the merchandise stall. She seemed fantastically nice, but I just lurked about in the background. Grinning like a moron.

I probably picked up a shit load more live LPs and other merchandise.

The crowd was a motley punky/crusty collection – more dyed hair than my previous time at the Empire when PTV were headlining, but actually less diverse. Swells was compering and was characteristically in our faces from the off. He dispatched some hecklers with aplomb, correctly identifying them as being try-hard punks with hilariously fake cockernee accents.

There was a small bunch of us down the front for PTV, who launched into a rendition of “My Old Man’s A Dustman” and complained about Alien Sex Fiend demanding a sack of cash for expenses. It ended up being a nice intimate set in a venue which was slightly too big. I was still fascinated by Psychic TV fans at this point.

We watched about five minutes of Alien Sex Fiend and fucked off back home in Peter’s car. I could just about tolerate their electro-crusty-gothness, but this was all a complete no-go zone for my designated driver. To give Alien Sex Fiend their due, it looks like they did a two night stint at the Empire. I have developed a soft spot for their drongo-disco anthem “Smells Like Shit” over the years.

After my exam failure I was trying to stay in my parents’ good books. They were very pleased to see me back so early. After all, I had work the next day…

NOT THE REAL BEYOND THE iMPLODE: BTi Anti-Art Department presents…2009, IN RUBBISH CARTOONS – pt 1.

Martin clearly had a good time at the Big Chill House in August. Proof positive that DJ set from me is an unforgettable experience!

Here is his latest rendition of the night. (I should perhaps point out for the record that I have never owned a Crass t-shirt, let alone worn one while playing out…)

Make sure you check Parts two and three also.

previously on the “the first 23 gigs I can remember going to”

13. Butthole Surfers, Shamen, AR Kane. Clarendon, 6th August 1987.

Me and Wal were spending our hard earned at Record and Tape Exchange in Camden one sunny day when they started playing this insane freaky noise over the stereo at ear splitting volume. It was all screaming and deranged swamp funk guitars and mad samples and a whole bunch of other stuff that we didn’t even know what it was. It was ace.

Wal was considerably braver than me, so went up and asked the notoriously bullish staff what it was. He came back a few minutes later, looking chuffed. “It’s the Butthole Surfers! But they haven’t got anything by them for sale here!” Wal got his copy of “Locust Abortion Technician” as soon as was humanly possible (I suspect we scoured London for it that same day) and taped it for me. He gradually amassed a little stack of similarly wackily named albums like “Cream Corn From The Socket of Davis” (click that link for my man over at expletive undeleted and his take on all this).

We spent a short time trying to figure out what the hell it was all about before our earnestness dissolved in fits of giggles. The Buttholes were fucking mental and they rocked. Even saying their name out loud was fucking brilliant – annoying parents and rugby playing twats in equal measure. Only freaks liked the Butthole Surfers – and that was fine by us.

Inevitably Peter Rehberg had got there before us and played me the Buttholes video “Blind Eye Sees All”. From what I can remember it featured chaotic live performances mashed up with certifiably insane dialogue. “They’re playing soon – do you fancy going?”

AR Kane I can’t remember anything about. We were more excited at the prospect of having seen both John Peel and Coil lurking about the venue. With hindsight I should have payed more attention.

My cassette version of The Shamen‘s debut LP “Drop” (official release, not TDK business!) hasn’t aged well, so I can only check out the first two tracks on each side before terminal tape wobble sets in. But tunes like “Something About You” have aged remarkably well – partly I suppose because of the debt they owe to “timeless” influences like Syd Barrett. Most of their songs were either about drugs or women or both, but there is a good one tearing into Thatcher and the tabloids also.

Between songs The Shamen berated us soft southerners for re-electing Maggie a few months previously when their native Scotlandhad rejected her. The group were still in pre-dance indie psychedelia mode. It’s easy to forget this incarnation in the face of their later chart success, but as Paul Meme says in the comments below – 1987 was something of a crucible for alternative UK music. In retrospect it is clear that some people were yearning for acid house before it was invented, almost willing it into being.

My regular readers will recall that the NME’s “Steal It” issue had appeared about a month before this gig. Copyright-violating anthem “Pump Up The Volume” by MARRS was released a few days before the Clarendon bash. MARRS included members of Colourbox and… AR Kane! The tune would be a seminal point in the pre-history of UK acid house. “Pump…” is also rumoured to be a key influence on The Shamen’s evolution. Backstage chats that night may have been interesting…

Whilst writing this I also dragged out their 1989 indie/acid crossover album “In Gorbachev We Trust”. It’s a weird hybrid with guitars sharing space with 808 bleeps. “Rasberry Infundibulum” could be off “Drop”, but the sampledelic single “Jesus Loves America (But I Don’t Love Either)” points to the way forward, controversial lyrics with biting pop backing. I’d forgotten how great they were pre-”Ebeneezer Goode”.

The Butthole Surfers did not disappoint. They were properly deranged. Sweat, strobes, smoke and a slideshow featuring all manner of strangeness. An emaciated woman dancing about naked. Surreal banter. Walls of whacked out psychedelic noise. Much weirder than Big Black, and the condensed sweat rained down off the Clarendon ceiling just as hard. Cathartic.

A few months later Wal and I were in the Virgin Megastore. The in-house DJ was having a charity-thon in which he’d do requests. We scratched around in our pockets for some loose change for a donation. Then Wal (still the braver half of our intrepid duo) took him the shop’s copy of “Locust Abortion Technician”. We could barely conceal our glee when the announcement rang out over the Megastore’s PA: “This is dedicated to the young man with red hair who just popped in and didn’t give his name. He’s assured me there’s no bad language in it…”

Around this time I also found out that I had completely fucked up my ‘A’ levels. Partly because I’d spent too much time sitting in my room listening to music and reading books out of the library, and partly because I’d ended up on an academic treadmill of hard science and just couldn’t hack it.

My mates generally did a load better and were flush with the excitement of heading off to Universities in big cities while I lurked in suburbia. Uncertainty had been injected into my life in large doses. With the prospect of an indefinite period of time in the parental home stretching in front of me, some things started to snap.

I began to have a lot more arguments. I got more politicised. The increasingly strange array of post I was getting was also a source of concern. The shelf of records got longer, the pile of fanzines got higher. Walls I built up around myself. I wasn’t going anywhere.

See also:

Recollections of a Butthole Surfers gig in New Jersey, 1987. (link courtesy of Agent Bauer).