Thursday, February 01, 2007




The Friday Group Universal Illumination Orchestra play "Meat Science 1 & 2"

Sounds pretty good to my tin-plated cloth-ears. Face front, Troo Believers!

Tom Carter assembles a bunch of Merry Free-Form Trixtahs in the back yard and hands out toys, kitchen implements, guns etc. Someone puts their elbow on an organ, which pulses innnn-n-n-n-n an-nn-nd out of the mix. People talk, tell jokes, mutter into their soup somewhere in the distance. A cat gets stuck in a tree. Someone builds a small boat. Pixies visit. An old piece of furniture gets sanded down. The organ continues to play well on into the night.

Bumps. Bangs, scratches, scrapes. The soup gets stirred. And drunk. An animal roar builds below the surface, slowly emerging until it dominates the mix. I close my eyes and see a large ball rotating slowly in space-time: there are flashes of sandpaper-textured surface, windsmear, animals fighting in slo-motion. The listener loses skin. Ghosts chase each other at impossible velocities. Malignant imp-voices ripping holes in the air. Spectres spinning and twisting past me like curtains flapping in a gale. And still the fucking organ plays.

Ghastly church interiors: I can almost smell the pin-mould. Worshipers gossip in French while the organist finds a chord. No, wait, it's a French minstrel levitating over the altar; a solarised Parisian singer from the 60s trying to find his way back to the world of the living, his face horribly scalded by hot coffee. (Someone strums n picks at a guitar, then thinks better of it) The sun goes out and he glows in negative. People leave the church, complaining, and it's like an old TV program that I can't get out of my mind. Static drifts on a brittle breeze.

A gang of horrible children, almost feral, follow us up to the corner-shop. We throw them scraps of food.

A looped woman's voice repeats, mantra-like, over and over and over again: "A wobbly cunt...a wobbly cunt...a wobbly cunt..."

Burial didn't invent hiss, y'know.

Elsewhere, the chord-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d grows ever larger, yet it now sounds unaccountably furry. Animal hair on the keys, y'see. The unbearable crimson squawk of the living. It's like a bad dream. Layers of sound fall away, suddenly; aluminium blinds clatter on the floor. An ape-like creature scratches its claws on marble while the tape bends and bow and breathes.

It ends as suddenly as it began. But in tears.

Here. And Here.


Meanwhile, Lurch gets to hang out at The Cockwell Inn.


They're over here. Incl. Peverelist's "The Grind", Monkeysteak, etc.


Antwerp, tomorrow night.