FoolishPeople

Your Turn.

When asked to write and post a piece that sums up Dark Nights of the Soul my initial reaction was 'kiss my arse, absolutely no fucking way in hell'. Gradually, I began to entertain the idea - 'I'd be writing for days and fucking days', then as I finally began to persuade myself it morphed again into 'Oh fuckit, I'll just do it and if it gets me in the shit I'll just hide'.

Dark Nights began as a bland old self-promotional tool well over a year and a half ago, at a time when I was still Producer and John was physically at breaking point after Ruined Steel. We had a meeting with Chris Goode (the then creative director of Camden People's Theatre), in in which he advised we make regular small appearances in galleries and the like to up FP's local profile. The brief was to create something small-scale and simple to showcase FP for larger works in the future.

What came next certainly did not fit that remit, far from it. It's been, creatively, FP's biggest undertaking and I'm having difficulties putting together an account of it that won’t bore the objective peruser to tears with in-depth analysis of the matrix of infinitesimal synchronicities that make this working so powerful as a piece of undeniably awesome artistry.

So, what follows below are some words that fell out of my head onto the page, three hours or so pre-show, on the 8th December 2006, the night of the last cycle.

'I'm listening to the same melodies, in the same stark and void-like, bitterly cold room as I did precisely 13 months ago. There are few familiar faces but nevertheless the same inevitable characters that re-occur in every cast and crew structure; the actors stretching and exercising their voices or tending to one another's needs like a travelling circus family. Some confident, some nervous and all with nothing but the next three hours running through their mind, over and over again.

Sitting amongst the rich, the poor, the sane, the insane, the giving and the not-so-giving lends itself to a wide sense of apprehension when considering the necessity of a cohesive unit of artists during a performance.  But throughout this anthology, if one thing has been made irredeemably clear it's that these shows would still have ran without any cast at all, without the screams of the many trampled emotions that lay in it’s wake and without the flesh and blood of the first kiss.

The six cycles of Dark Nights of the Soul have been ones of metamorphosis for everyone involved both voluntarily and involuntarily and has likewise fed from the energies of these changes to create a snowball effect of such velocity you had no choice but to hold on as tight as you and pray for the ride to stop, now it has.

The future is, most certainly, perpetually changed for those touched by this wave of invention.  I, for one, have learnt more of the human disease than I ever thought I would, could and perhaps more than I ever wanted to.'

What remains to be seen is how these nuances of discovered skill are applied, post Dark Nights of the Soul, to the planet and society it was created to effect positive change upon.

I hope you were all listening very carefully during the cycles, because now - it's your turn.

I couldn't resist.

Radiation

By general consensus I seem to really fucking suck lately. In the past week I've managed to upset and/or offend most people close to me, insult a recently deceased genius' memory accidentally (thus causing more upset and offence), shout at a cripple in a public area (thus being cautioned for disturbing the peace), I've been dribbled on by a Hep B looking fucking hippy and accused one of the worlds best loved children’s charities of laundering money. I really must remember to shut the fuck up when I’m in a bad mood.

However, as much as I feel  society’s pressure to beat myself up about this, if the truth be told I really don't care, the apple rotted a long time ago - after I lost for good that which was closest to me and gained that which I cannot distance myself from.

A multitude of apathy is borne by my broad shoulders as if it where a cross to bear, and yet this is when I seem to pull it together and shake off the bumbling idiot clambering to get out of me. Thus, I have now decided that, actually, living in a world gone frankly – fucking insane, gives one certain autonomous grace to make your own choice about what you should be giving a fuck about and what you shouldn’t. For example;

‘I should be giving a fuck that a Russian spy was actually assassinated by radioactive poison administered using nanotechnology in a restaurant next door to where I’ll be dining tomorrow evening.’

‘I shouldn’t be giving a fuck about upsetting the pretentious sector of society still bound by archaic ethics.’

‘I should give a fuck billions of animals are routinely tortured to satisfy our putrid need to shovel genetically modified rotting corpse into our faces.’

‘I shouldn’t give a fuck that yelling at a cripple is deemed inappropriate, or indeed using the term ‘cripple’ – it’s a whole fucking lot better than ‘flid’ – I’d never use that word.’

You can see a pattern emerging can’t you?

The Journey of the Non- Creative Creative.

The Non-Creative Creatives path is a difficult one. We are assumed to be not much more artistically capable than Jeffrey Archer because we are found to be lacking in the ability to wallow in the attention of strangers.  Our need, however, to showboat an over inflated sense of self-worth is much less than most traditional artists which creates this perpetuating cycle of 'can't be arsed', 'can be arsed', 'can't be arsed' and finally 'can be arsed...ish'.

It's a special breed of human being unweighted by the impulse to convince everyone who will listen that they are indeed worthy of fame, glory and recognition. Instead they just sit back, comfortable in their position, smug almost, and watch the tryers perfect new ways in which to bore the living fuck out of all stupid enough to nod and smile in the right places and not just say at the first opportunity 'Excuse me I believe I can hear Lassie outside woofing a message that little Jimmy has fallen down the quarry well - so really must dash, sweetie'.

Using myself as an example, I have over run my life with artists to such a point in the past I needed a detox.

Seriously, forget the blights of sugar, nicotine and alcohol on your system - they've got nothing on ego, careful conversation management and PSSTSS (Post Stage School Traumatic Stress Syndrome). Common side effects of over exposure to the above-mentioned qualities include excessively dry damaged and fragile skin (basically feels like your face has been sand blasted with tiny beads of arrogance), intense migraines and the unstoppable urge to gauge out the eyes of the 'very next muthafucking wanker with the audacity to tell me that I have bad anger management skills!! I wouldn’t need anger motherfucking management skills if you'd all fuck off and grow just one ounce of fucking humility between you'.

*NB Please bear in mind that this list is by no means exhaustive, any additions you'd like published here can be added to the comments section below.

So, six months away and I'm feeling remarkably refreshed, all things considered.

Now it's just a case of navigating my way through the media industry avoiding these types of lobal leeches and steering around other assorted muppets to seek the true forces in art today and try to bring them here, to FoolishPeople for your reading pleasure.

One such ray of light is Stella Damiana, author of Sex Spells; The Magical Path to Erotic Bliss, there'll be an interview up here at the beginning part of next week.

Much love, botox and air kisses to you all.

RIP My Girl.

Throw it away, the luminesent glow of your parked will haunts you. Deliver the fate you dream of when you wake and when you sleep it will all become clear, because I'm not me anymore. Because she's going to be gone.

What Women Want

A study conducted by top academics has revealed that the kind of assets a woman finds attractive in a man can differ depending on where she is in her menstrual cycle.

For example: If she is ovulating, she is attracted to men with rugged and masculine features.

However, if she is menstruating, or menopausal, she tends to prefer a man with scissors lodged in his temple.

Further studies in this area have been cancelled.

I've had an OK weekend, not bad by any standards. Met old friends, new friends, not yet friends and a whole world of possibility.

Possibility is good. For a long time it's felt as though it had all disappeared into a big black vacuum along with my sanity and my other black and red sock.

I have three, possibly four, interviews lined up for fp.com with some really special people So if you know me, please, for all that is good and holy, email and hassle the fuck out of me to pull my finger out of my arse and get on with them.

Oh and also a public apology to John Harrigan; I yield, I yield, Two Ton Boa are very good and by no means as shoddy as your usual taste in bands.

When The Levees Broke - Video Montage of Spike Lee's Film

 

Spike Lee's latest film, When The Levees Broke: A Requiem in Four Acts, is documentary evidence of how the US Goverment so disgracefully failed their people.

It appeared to be online for a while, but the videos have all been taken down sadly. Please check out this video montage instead, then go see the whole film.

The film is Lee's best non-fiction work without doubt, it's in four parts, each looking at a different aspect of the events.

Bla.

Currently watching Batman Begins again with my flatmate; attire this evening consists of track bottoms, an old faded FP t-shirt, and a Hellboy hoody - proper fangirl styley. I have a cup of tea, a purring cat shaped hot water bottle snuggled beside me and I'm still not fucking happy. Seriously, I can't help it. Some ov us are just born to fucking bitch and moan, the rest are just, well, dull ;o)

FLA - The Scala, August 28th.

Front Line Assembly (FLA) began when Bill Leeb, decided to part company with Canadian Industrial pioneers Skinny Puppy under alleged controversial circumstances and set out of his own musical quest. Whilst Bill trading under the pseudonym Wilhelm Schroeder had real little influence in Skinny Puppy, it was a place where he learnt his trade and saw the germination of some of the ideas that would form the backbone of FLA.

I did have a review all penned and ready to go, then I found the bio linked above and thought 'fuckit, mine's really shite', anyone with more than a passing interest in industrial music will love it.

Front Line Assembly seem to be one of the outfits that have many praising them but more often than not forgetting them if they take a moment away from the circuit.

Their show at the Scala on the 28th August only supported my theory that I was born 10 years later then I should have been. There were moments of pure euphoria, but these were peppered with Bill Leeb disappearing for a minute or so to, I assume, catch his breath. I don't think I've ever seen a more punishing set.

For those of you who aren't aware the Scala holds something in the vicinity of 800 tops, and that I'd say is an over-estimation. We're talking close enough to see nostril hairs, but that still wasn't close enough for me - a great night and all the more reason why a good band should keep fucking going until they all drop dead, or something.

Babysitting.

Vittoria: So. Uh, are you comfortable? No straw in your ear or anything?

Baby Jesus: No, I'm good thanks.

Vittoria: So, er...

Baby Jesus: Yeah?

Vittoria: Did you know you were going to have to die for our sins and stuff?

Baby Jesus: Fuck no, wouldn't have bothered if I did.

Vittoria: I wish you fucking hadn't.

[Pause]

Vittoria: So,

Baby Jesus: Yeah?

Vittoria: Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Beer?

Baby Jesus: No thanks, I just had some juicy nipple.

Vittoria: Right. Of course.