Sdtrk: ‘Live at Brixton Academy 1999’ by Atari teenage riot

For decades, I’ve been considering myself to be an introvert — or, at the very least, an ambivert with the needle deep into the introvert end of the scale — and one of the characteristics that introverts like myself are defined as having is an interest in deep experience, whereas your bog-standard extravert is more keen on broad experience. So although I can’t live without music, I only really gravitate towards a handful of genres, relatively speaking; everything outside of those is ultimately grist for the mill. I enjoy the DiY immediacy of punk; the moroseness of post-punk; the austerity of synthpop; the artifice of new wave; the aesthetics of New Romantics, industrial, and Goth; the continental Sixties fun of yé-yé; the innovativeness of shoegaze; the technological nostalgia of radiophonics; the insidious cultural nostalgia of hauntology; the renegade attitude of electroclash; the consistency of Motorik; the danceability of electro and techno; the dynamism of noise, and the aggressiveness of power-electronics.
All I can say that I like about prog rock is the equipment they used, and even then, it’s like ehhh.

There is no way I can take this seriously

Until I moved out of my parents’ house for the first time back in the late Nineties and relocated to my mate Steve’s three-bedroom townhouse, aka the original Deafening silence, I never knowingly heard any prog. Steve was mates with Mike (of Vulne pro fame), Tim, and Wolfgang, and prog rock is the one music genre that all of ’em really dug, and still dig. Peter Gabriel-era Genesis, Yes, King Crimson, Rush, Pink Floyd, and maybe a few more besides? As stated, I’d never been exposed to prog — up until that point in my life, it was a direct line from classic alternative (i.e The Smiths, New order, The Cure, &c.) to classic industrial (nearly anything on Mute’s sub-label The Grey Area) to noise (Merzbow, Violent onsengeisha, C.C.C.C, &c.), with a detour into shoegaze (My bloody valentine, Lush, Slowdive, &c.).
I’m sure during the first couple of months of living with Steve, I’d expressed this to him, so he had me listen to his Cd copy of Nursery cryme, an album by Genesis, and I can honestly say that it did nothing positive for me. I can’t even remember how any of the songs sounded — which, in a way, is a bad thing; as an artist, one of your goals should be to leave some sort of impression on your audience, as apathy is no reaction at all. I do recall that like most prog, it’s a concept album, so I had to look up just now what the premise of it is on Wikipedia, and it sounds frankly tiresome.

“The Musical Box” was a lengthy piece that described a macabre story placed in Victorian Britain. A young boy, Henry, is accidentally decapitated by his friend Cynthia while playing croquet. Returning to the house, Cynthia plays Henry’s old musical box, which unleashes the spirit of Henry as an old man. Henry has become sexually frustrated and attempts to seduce Cynthia. The nurse enters the room and hurls the musical box at the wall, destroying both it and Henry.

And that’s just one song! Fuckin’ ‘ell. When I hear the words ‘concept album’, I reach for my gun.

There’s exceptions to every rule no matter what the subject is, but one of the reasons progressive rock bounces immediately off me is that the musicians involved all strike me as musos, to a man. It’s obvious that they’re classically trained and have a backlog of virtuosity, but it comes across less as being passionate about what they’re playing, and more like them showing off; a very ‘Look what I can do’ sort of attitude permeates the prog I’ve heard of.
Add to that the level of being up one’s own arse that seems to be a pillar of that genre, and that doesn’t help, either. I believe that if a person is artistically inclined, that some level of pretension is okay, whether it’s in one’s work or even in day-to-day living — as mentioned, I dig classic New Romantic, and I’m a semi-lapsed Goth — but prog strikes me as ALL PRETENSION, ALL THE TIME. The level of SERIOUSNESS as they majestically SING these overwrought LYRICS having to do with FANTASY WORLDS and VICTORIAN ENGLAND over RAMBLING TWENTY-MINUTE SYNTHESISER SOLOS goes beyond escapism for me, and into the realms of you have a very elitist attitude for someone with far too much LSD coursing through your veins. It’s not just unrelatable, it’s also treated as if it’s the Highest Possible Art. Again, music made by blokes who possess a lot of technical know-how, but just aren’t conveying a sense of fun, either in performing their work, or imparting that feeling to their listeners. But then, college rock bands and Weird Al have been called ‘fun’ and they strike me as being unbearably corny, and there are also individuals out there who thoroughly enjoy working with spreadsheets, so what do I know of ‘fun’?

Returning briefly to The Musical Box, there’s a Québec-based band of that name that is a tribute act to early-Seventies-era Genesis, and they perform the same songs, in the same costumes (replicas, I would assume), with the same light and slideshow that Genesis employed. Steve invited me to go with him to see them when they were at the Motor city Casino back in 2018, along with Wolfgang, Mike, and Tim. As I have zero reference points, it all looked to me like they knew what they were doing! It struck me as very theatrical. All I can really say is that the other lads absolutely got more out of it than I did!…
My ticket was free, I should add.

There is no way I can take this seriously

Many detractors of progressive mention that one of the reasons they dislike it is cos the songs go on far, far longer than they should. They’re not entirely wrong, but I can’t completely agree with that complaint as some of the music I enjoy can have long tracks, too. Like Askern’s lamp by Golau Glau (25min 48sec), or Video 586 by New order (23min 23sec), or even Hard lovin’ man by Merzbow (41min 49sec). Obviously those are from some of my favourite genres, but with a lengthy song, it should capture and hold my attention through interesting lyrics, musical dynamism, or both. If you’re singing about some silly prog faff, then my finger is going to inevitably creep towards the Next Track button.
Length, though, is an issue, particularly when you’re being subjected to a song that you’re already somewhat averse to to begin with. I kinda look at it the same way I look at the works of Stephen King, whose catalogue I have zero interest in, as my attitude towards both him and prog is basically ‘this really could have been shorter’.

I will state that at one point I actually purchased a prog album: Burning stone, a 1992 release by the Japanese group Ruins. It was marketed as prog crossed with noise, and I figured for me that’d be the musical equivalent of giving your dog a pill wrapped in bacon. To my chagrin, Ruins usually performs prog crossed with improvisational jazz; two genres that make me wince. The two points in their favour was 1) the fact that they sang in Kobaïan, which is the fictional language created by Christian Vander, the supermuso and possibly racist founder of French prog rock band Magma, and 2) Ruins, at least for that album, consisted of a drummer and a bassist, which is a combo I admire. Much like Death from above 1979, who I loved until I found out they were also problematic! But DFA79 isn’t prog, so they’ve at least got that going for them.
Also, I did go out of my way to get a *coughbackupcough* copy of the BBC Four documentary Prog Rock Britannia: An Observation in Three Movements years ago. The Britannia series, or whatever it’s called, was a cluster of documentaries that BBC Four released back in the early 2000s, with several excellent programmes like Synth Britannia, Punk Britannia, and many others. As ambivalent as I am about psychedelia, I found that even the Psychedelic Britannia film was fact-filled, well-directed, and incredible. I’m the sort of person who, even if I dislike something, I try to learn a bit about it, so I can have a more solid basis for my dislike…

That’s another thing: prog contains quite a few elements that, taken separately, I either don’t mind or I genuinely like! Analogue synthesisers! An appreciation for the literary arts! Seventies England! Being too artistic to be practical! But much in the same way that I would not take eel sushi, some potato chips, mint chocolate, and bacon, dump them all into a blender, and drink the chunky and uneven slurry that resulted, the combination of things which result in prog rock makes me want to lie down in the grass until the earth reclaims me. By its nature, music shouldn’t bore or irritate a listener, but with me, prog hits both of those goals exceptionally well.

I shouldn’t be entirely harsh; after all, it took me two albums each to get into both Throbbing gristle and Merzbow, so perhaps all I need to do is listen to a couple of releases by The Mars Volta or Dream theatre and it all may well click with me! Maybe then I’ll not only gain an appreciation and understanding of the musical aesthetics of progressive rock, finally being able to grasp its intrinsic beauty, but I’ll also be eager to devour more!
Nah, I honestly don’t see that happening. Life’s too short for constant 20min keyboard solos, mate

Sex pistol Steve Jones and his infamous/inspirational ‘I HATE PINK FLOYD’ shirt

Sdtrk: ‘Incubation’ by Joy division

This is the sort of nonsense you get up to when you turn fifty:

Behold: baby’s first tattoo

As of the 14th of this month, I have spent fifty years on this blighted earth, this wretched demesne, this cursèd vale. It’s not really an unending torrent of horrors, though; there’s Synthetiks, and cats, and there are a few places with really good wifi. About three or so years ago, knowing that my half-century mark was rapidly approaching, I’d decided that I was going to get my first tattoo. You’d think someone such as myself with a flair for ostentatious decoration that I’d have more on my person, but I have an understandable aversion to physical pain. Well, pain of any kind, really. But I said to myself that getting a tattoo was something I not only wanted, but needed, to do, so I’d do my best to endure the process.

Now I do enjoy good minimalist design; some of my visual favourites would be the logos and trademarks created by various graphic designers and artists, particularly throught the late Fifties up to the mid-Eighties. Top tier designers in my book would be Saul Bass,

Paul Rand,

with my hands-down graphic design god being Peter Saville. Peter, in case you’re unfamiliar with his work, was responsible for the visual aesthetic of Factory records, his heyday arguably being during the late Seventies to the early Nineties.

I’d been listening to New wave and alternative bands, mostly from the UK, during the Eighties, but I hadn’t heard New order until maybe 1986, when my best friend Sean dubbed a copy of their 1983 cassette release of Power, corruption & lies for me, and not only was I enthralled by the music, but the minimal artwork really gripped me. Granted, the US Qwest records version ruined it by putting the name of both the group and the album on the front, but the concept of a band who simply had art and design studies for their covers and were averse to using photos of themselves on any of their releases — up until 1985’s Low-life, of course — and were making synthesised electronic dance music that seemed generally divorced from humanity struck several chords in me. They were struck quite strongly, as they’re still resonating nearly 40 years later. That’s almost as old as I am!

Looking into Peter Saville back then, I discovered he was the art director and graphic designer for Factory records, a record label located in Manchester, the North of England, and New order were arguably the biggest group on the label in the Eighties (I regrettably have yet to hear more than a couple of songs by the Durutti Column; I’ll get that sorted one day). Over time, I learned that New order were formed in the aftermath of the dissolution of a previous band, Joy division, none of their material I’d heard until their 1988 compilation, Substance. Coincidentally enough, the lass I had a thing for back in highschool bought me a cassette copy for my 16th birthday! And that, dear reader, is when I fell in love… in love with Joy division.

Without getting into tremendous detail, I’m a bit of a Joy division fan, so — bringing us back to the present — it only seemed natural to me to get a tattoo related to them. Joy division is one of those groups where everything they’d released in their lifetime, which would be two studio albums, two Peel sessions, and the first of many compilations, are damn near flawless, and since they’re no longer recording (see link above), there’s never a chance of them making any releases that edge towards the Not Good end of the spectrum. Y’know, like Laibach, who I still have a great fondness for, but anything they made after 1994 simply isn’t as good as their older stuff. Or, y’know, like New order post-Technique, for that matter.

In April, I’d asked MontiLee where she had her pieces done, and she recommended Ed DeLoney of Royal oak tattoo, so I’d made a consultation with him one day after work in early October, bringing a couple of examples of the design I wanted on my phone, to be done in blackwork, two inches in diameter. It’d be on the inside of my left forearm, which, due to the way I dress, is one of the few places where you can actually see my uncovered flesh. Ed said that wouldn’t be an issue, and we arranged an appointment for November. Now, ideally, I’d wanted to get my tattoo on the actual day of my birthday, but this year, it fell on a Monday, and that would’ve been dire. Who celebrates a birthday on a Monday?? Instead of the 14th, I’d enquired about the 18th, which he pencilled me in for.
With the exception of my oft-mentioned friend Amber Hawk Swanson, I didn’t really tell anyone that I was slated to get all inked up… I’d mentioned it a couple of times over the past year or two in reference to my fiftieth birthday, but I didn’t go on about it recently. Generally speaking, I’m the sort of bloke who doesn’t like to reveal major plans unless I’m 98% sure they’ll come to pass; that way if they don’t come to pass, I don’t look like some kind of idiot for talking about this or that that I want to do, and it ends up not occurring.

On 18 November (a Friday), I’d taken the day off. Half due to the tattooing sesh, and half due to that being the first day of this year’s Love and Sex with Robots conference. Which was utterly fantastic, by the way; each year, they’ve been getting exponentially better. But I’d gotten round to Royal oak tattoo for my appointment at 4pm in due course. Apart from Ed, I was the only one there. Ed’s an affable bloke in his eighties whose thick and lengthy white beard, the bottom third of which was braided into a thin plait, makes him resemble an alt-rock Father Christmas. The studio featured, among other things, various actual swords on the walls, a shelf full of Star wars ephemera, a dentist chair from the Fifties, and a fish tank with no visible fish. I told him I was a bit nervous, as I was a tattoo virgin, so he put my mind at ease by discussing various subjects. We ended up talking at length about film photography: whereas I learned ages ago how to develop black and white film during a photography course at Wayne state university, he was taking photos of wildlife in northern Michigan. Loves Canon cameras, isn’t too keen on Hasselblad. Admittedly, with a Hasselblad, you’re paying for the name.

What did I think of the physical sensation of having a tattoo, you ask? I wouldn’t say it was painful, but it definitely wasn’t pleasant. ‘Getting repeatedly jabbed by a needle’ doesn’t really convey the feeling… I’d say it was more akin to someone Dremeling me. Rather like a sandpaper sensation. Sandpaper Sensation — that’s not a bad band name! Kinda Sixtiesy.
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Ed advised me, noticing that I was in some discomfort. ‘Not breathing causes your nervous system to tighten up’. To be honest, I think that’s what he’d said, as I was too focussed on nice thoughts to be able to concentrate on putting the buzzing from my mind. I’ve had worse experiences, like when my painkillers wore off after a root canal back in 2007, but let’s just say that one of the reasons I went with a small design was less flesh scraping.
Overall, though, Ed did a professional and fast job of it — I was out of there after 90min — and was amusing and helped put me at ease through the process. I’d highly recommend him, but if you want him to work on you, you’ll have to be quick, as he’s retiring at the end of this year!

Speaking of design, Davecat, you ask, exasperated by this point in the narrative, what the hell does your tattoo mean?? It’s related to Joy division, yes, but unlike most people who have Joy division tattoos, I wanted something that wasn’t the famous CP1919 pulsar diagram, aka the design from the cover of Unknown pleasures. If you type ‘joy division tattoo’ into Google, you’ll see what I mean. Plus, that would be an AWFUL lot of linework.
Factory records had a publishing arm called Fractured Music that only released music from the latter half of Joy division’s catalogue, as well as New order’s first single, and that was their logo. It also references the f-holes you find in the bodies of violins, cellos, and guitars, and in musical terminology, 𝆑 means ‘forte’, or ‘play loud’. Still was a compilation of various otherwise-unreleased songs by the band, posthumously released after lead vocalist Ian Curtis took his own life, and the Fractured Music logo is one of the only two elements on the cover.
It’s common knowledge that I tend towards the obscure; I love instances where 98% of people seeing or hearing a reference I make are like ‘lolwut’, but the other 2% are like ‘AW JEAH I SEE WHAT U DID THAR’, those 2% are my people.

So there you have it! I love my tattoo, as it’s pretty fucking amazing.

One thing Ed mentioned is that it’d be odds on that, like many of his customers, I’d be back to have another piece done. He told me that he’d had a lass in a while ago who was convinced that she only wanted one, and that’d be the end of it. Shortly after, he said, she returned for four more tattoos in as many days; she’d be there waiting for the crew to open the studio.
*admires tattoo again*
I’ll give it some thought, Ed

David Bowie, the iconic rock star whose career spanned more than half a century and whose influence transcended music, fashion and sexuality, has died aged 69.

Admittedly, the first Bowie album I ever owned, bought in the mid-Eighties, was ‘Changesonebowie’ on vinyl, and as that’s a compilation release, it doesn’t officially count. There was a reference to that exact same thing in an episode of The Venture bros, which isn’t surprising, as creators Doc Hammer and Christopher McCulloch are Bowie fans, like any sensible person would be. But apart from the varied range of music he created over five decades — including the dodgy pop phase he was in between 1983 and the mid-Nineties — and the unique sartorial sense that was equally his hallmark, I think the greatest takeaway that I got from Bowie is that his non-stop inventiveness made it okay to be unusual and left of centre, and if for some reason the world doesn’t catch up with you, then you can still stand apart and be your own person.
Clichéd as it is to say, but there will never be anyone like David Bowie. Everyone else will always be in his shadow