Saturday, September 25, 2004


Just watched Roberto Succo on BBC4. What a great little film: strange and disturbing, yet also funny (peculiar, not ha-ha). The violence, when it comes, is brutal and sudden; almost unwatchable in its unstaged natural-ness...people squeal and swear and stagger and roll around on the floor when they're shot. And it's almost always in stupid, non-lethal, randomly painful places like knees and groins and calves. Also: great, realistic-looking car chases involving old Renaults and Fiats; almost surreal in their banality.

But the real horror is not in the violence, but in the documentation of its consequences: blurred polaroids of blood-sprayed bath-tubs full of icky non-determinate meat, coffee-stained pathology reports and grainy photoscans of murder victims, their stab-wounds raw, dark and open like obscene little smiles; an endless parade of sad, blotchy grey faces, distorted by the chemistry of death.


Apologies to Loki, but I couldn't resist this:

A poster done on a dot-matrix printer: how cool is that? Designer's Republic watch out.

Techno Tyrant DJ Alan Flint: Flinty never quite lived that one down; people were calling him Techno Tyrant for months afterwards, as in: "Oi, Techno Tyrant, fancy another pint...?"

"Rural Acid in the area. Nice one: sorted, matey." Sorry for the blatant nostalgia-fest, folks, but here's a selection of homemade/inkjet/photocopied Eddson party-fliers from that era:

The Montecute Tower Party was the first one, I think. Our Cru didn't even have a name at that point: but, basically, we decided to have party where we could burn an effigy of Guru Josh (ostensibly for crimes against music, and against us in particular) and it snowballed out from that. Our loathing for Guru Josh was a result of attending the Baby Ford party hosted by Decadence:

The Decadence and Synergy/Shamen Sound System parties (not to mention Tribal Dance in Bath) were as big an influence on us as Punk Rock. We lived in a small town and were bored, so we thought: why the hell not? None of us could DJ or nuffink, so Flinty was officially nominated Techno Tyrant; everybody else mucked in on lights, smoke machines, ticket design, flyposting, handing out fliers, etc: it was a Kollective in the truest sense of the word. And it worked: first party, we got 400 through the door in a small rural market-town. Other people, it appeared, were as bored as we were.

Profits were pumped back into other endeavours, and not just parties; some, like The Eddson Brainaway Project are almost too ridiculous to relate (though I'm sure I will one day...) Within months, we were performing live remixes of tracks during our parties, using tapes, samples and synths; we built sculptures and made backdrops and abstract paintings. We had the best lighting gear in the area. Money was made and donated to charities like Amnesty. Like all great things, it eventually imploded, but by the end we were using PCs linked to video-projectors to generate fractals, and making Ray-Traced posters the size of a house. At one point we were seriously discussing setting up a Pirate TV-station because we had the money and the technical know-how as well as potential access to some (nudge-nudge) kit. In the end, we downsized and settled for a radio station.

For a while, at least, it seemed as if anything was possible. And, of course, when you think about it, it is.

At its height, there must have been a dozen or more members in the Eddson Posse; we had printed membership cards and everything. A few months after it fizzled out, Tim Goldsworthy (brother of Dave) moved to Oxford with his parents and met a guy called James Lavelle. Together, they set up a label called Mo' Wax and the rest, as they say, is history.

These days, Timmo is one half of the DFA Records production Crew in New York, so the spirit of Eddson, in essence, still lives on.


I think this is the party that Loki is refering to (a clipping from The Western Gazette circa '89/'90?):

Click to enlarge. There's some very funny on-the-spot witness accounts. Shame we never quite managed the '...of Civilisation' bit, but we certainly gave it our best.

Local Hero and Sub-Celebrity Alan 'Flinty' Flint was off his tits and dressed as Col. Tom Parker (or was it Col. Sanders?). Despite these considerable disadvantages, he had successfully negotiated with the police to allow the party to continue, when a pane of glass (and possibly a fire-extinguisher?) missed one of the coppers by inches. "That's it!" snarled the officer in charge: "We're going in!" And they did.

I remember being up on the top floor in Flinty's living-room, which was unlit except for a particularly vicious strobe, having an epileptic fit to Baby Ford or Suburban Knights or something similar when the shadowy, ill-lit forms of four police-officers crashed through the door. At first I thought I was having double-vision as Spike had been picketing a circus earlier in the evening dressed as a copper with a gorilla mask (a pig had been considered too inflammatory), so I just assumed I was having vision problems until I was grabbed (still dancing) and 'assisted' down the stairs. As the last handful of us were removed we got a cheer and a hearty heroes' welcome from the large crowd that had assembled in the street at well past one in the morning.

Outside, it was total chaos. There was glass and household utensils all over the road. The police looked completely baffled by events. This was Yeo-PD's first encounter with Acid House Madness. People had pushed a sofa out through a second-story window, put it on the marquee of West Country Tiles and were sitting on it.

Ah, so that's who nearly killed Flinty. He still has nightmares about that. But he got off lightly...

Brendan Holden of The Chesterfields was found the next morning in one of the flats, naked and rolled up in a transparent shower-curtain. His clothes and glasses had been stolen. Clenched in his fist were the remains of his dentures. Someone had snapped them in half.

He was never quite the same after that.