The following is from https://cowsarejustfood.wordpress.com/
scene opens on the doulton fountain,
soundtracked by post-summer shirtless dickerry; tar-lung yellowed
bellowing from some east-end prolapse full of do it yrself tattoos, a
gnarly invigoration of buckfast and sectarian odium.
(score fades in. hammer of hathor: via
america / japan / scotland. hijikata tatsumi carouses with charles
gocher; la monte young’s in costume; pärson sound nods off / out)
our rancorous protagonist atop, betwixt and almost pornographically inside this album. and it’s so fucking working.
i take a seat amongst the huddling,
baffled travellers, their tourist chatter hushed, set on edge by the
unanticipated advent of violence.
(the first track’s wandered into view,
something approaching riff on something approaching guitar stumbles
around, gestures spastic before it all klangs and clatters percussively
down the bloody stairs)
he’s all sinew and strain, ectoplasmic
with some random rage. butoh, detourned and random and alive and right
in my goddamn face.
(it’s wheezing asthmatically into itself;
a rubbery metronome, a fizz of thin reeds moulded into low rent ‘jazz’
and death throe noise. it starts, looking for a little lick or two but
finishes with fists, a sweaty yuzna-like back ‘n’ forth shunt)
i’m waiting expectant for the third
engorged act, a flail or swing at the ghosts in his head at his feet but
this bastard, reduced to mutters, crouches and curls hisself all
foetal.
(what feels like an interlude when i
wanted climax, stillness when i wanted movement. there’s willing
coaxing, ethnologically teasing one gentle jangle out as things bend and
rattle. a minute meander, remaking/remodelling fourth world music and)
he contorts. coiling and uncoiling, flickering with nmda receptor antagonism.
(looping back through the crackle and hum of a bad connection to more loose string / percussion flaps)
he climbs to his knees now, gargantuan effort, buckled, garbled gabbling, the colour red, teeth and whatnots.
(the narrative arc’s all askew, as sun
cut-throated sparks, huffing wildly too-late to life. let’s call it
blooze, a splashing construction of re-de-tuned ur-rock. great clunks of
noise, birthed and (s)played, obvious)
the people’s palace looms, menacing as
the past and a historyless future can be. this is the afterbirth of
fag-end sixties experiments and the mucked-out shed of the eighties.
fifty pence for the electricity meter, alex harvey spitting out willie
the pimp, bible john, bad speed cheap cider, neu! and knives knives
knives…
(yes! heathen music! pagan music! jesus
music! everything’s a / on show, a performance. fluxus jams till you
want to do better yrself. and we’re reaching ecstasy too late, too soon
as it whispers itself away. the ritual skree dies down, ears ringing)
no resolution, no explanation but yr man wanders waywards away innardly raging still. shirt tossed aside in dis-fucking-gust.
(emphasis on the wave in no-wave coz i
stammer to my feet, seasick from absurdist warbles and atonal wobbles,
crude scrapes against my lugholes. it ends, post-coital, lacking
clarity, cohesion but i’m relieved, like i lived through something. this
was corpse pose)
fade out.
