three little words

it's only us



i've got you



we're still here





not your fault.



P.L.U.

girl singing in the wreckage....

Wed 18th Feb 2009

The Luminaire presents BLACK BOX RECORDER + Guests

Doors 7.30 £8 via WeGotTickets and TicketWeb £10 door

Black Box Recorder first came to national prominence in 1998 when their debut album ‘England Made Me’ – a state of the nation address influenced by the occult, the letters page of the Daily Telegraph, and Limoncello – garnered rave reviews. The fabulously glamorous and sophisticated trio, of Sarah Nixey, Luke Haines, and John Moore, first met at the 1997 theosophical conference in Cairo, Egypt. On their return journey back to London fate intervened when their 737 airbus crashed into the Italian Alps. Moore, Nixey and Haines were the only survivors of this terrible disaster. After 6 months convalescence in a private hospital, the trio found that as a result of the air crash they had developed highly attuned psychic powers. Black Box Recorder were born.

By 2000, the group had honed their ESP to such an extent that their second album ‘The Facts Of Life’ was a worldwide smash hit. The album’s title track rose to the giddy heights of the top ten on the UK singles chart, and the group performed what came to be known as ‘The Great Top Of The Pops Working.’ By 2003 BBR had released ‘Passionoia’ an album so ahead of its time that it predicted things that had already happened. As a result of such far-sightedness the group were forced to take an extended hiatus. Sarah Nixey busied herself with freelance work for the MOD, whilst Haines and Moore continued their studies in shrubbery. They are, to this day, highly regarded in the cactus world.

Presently, Black Box Recorder have decided to continue the mission by kindly agreeing to play a headline date at London’s Luminaire live music venue, on February 18th 2009. If you intend to attend please dress smartly (Fez’s are now optional)

God Bless Black Box Recorder.

when i was the antichrist

it had been planned for months, even before the metaphorical fireworks with the relatives started to kick off around bonfirenightish.

me and b (and later on, d too) were having an Orphan’s christmas at their little flat in south east london. there were two conditions: no presents, and no aggression. i looked forwards to our cosy xmash plans, and for the first time ever, anticipated a truly joyous festive period.

in mid december, b told me that her dad was coming too. as long as he had whisky, he’d be a pussycat. i relished the idea of meeting where she came from. she seemed a little nervous, in an ‘he’s a grumpy bugger but he’s alright really’ way, as though she really hoped it would all go well.

i ended up winding my way to her house on christmas eve, about seven o’clock. i’d spent the day with my pregnant friend, helping her nest, blitzing the kitchen and pottering around with cups of tea and crass records. i went back to east dulwich to find that my neighbour had got my amazon package waiting for me. i’d had some money for the first time in ages, and spent it in an afternoon flat. a bottle of laphroigh, three books (with the ‘deliver tomorrow’ postage option), some makeup, some brazil nuts and a week’s bus pass.

i left from peckham rye, people ambling past my stop laden with carrier bags and santa hats. except i got the wrong bus, figuring that i’d explore my way to new cross.

i got off at telegraph hill park, thinking i might have a scamper around and look at the sights. and then thought better of it – wandering round a park on your own at night may well be romantic but isn’t always the safest path to choose. with my shoes in my bag and my docs aircushioning me, i pendulum-walked to the train station, headphones on and hips swinging, and sat in an almost empty carriage.

i got to new cross gate in minutes, waited for b in the hobgoblin. i had exactly enough change on me to get a pint. she arrived, we hugged and sparkled at each other, quickly drank and launched ourselves into the cold night.

her dad looked like the type of person i’ve met many times. he smiled a lot. we shared some bells. i congratulated him on his daughter. my sister and i frocked up and waltzed around the living room to gentle music. i blissed out.

then i realised there was a silence, the sort that stuns.

b’s dad said, again, “she’s wrong. get her the fuck out of here”

from this point onwards i don’t remember much. apart from holding b, and getting her into the next room where she was safe.

i woke up the next morning, curled up like wolves with my friends, feeling the full effects of overwhisky, and made tea.

b came in and apologised for the night before. i told her it was fine. she replied that being punched is never fine, and she couldn’t be sorry enough.

her dad had a psychotic episode, and thought i was the antichrist.

he punched me, and then d.

we threw him out immediately.

i slept better that night than i have in weeks.

the three of us had the most perfect christmas day ever. we spent it with our family.

happy hicksmas

stolen from godhaven part 3, published in 1995


we here at godhaven ink are pleased to announce the inception of a new public holiday..

hicksmas: a sacred time in which to gather our loved ones around us & raise a few substances to william hicks, hereby canonized as patron saint of truth, campaigner against banality & master amusement engineer. the celebrations start on the sixteenth of december, his birthday, and continue for twenty three days. this seems to get rid of that tricky x-tian dilemma once & for all, leaving us free to send toys & drugs & chocolate to our friends at the turn of the year. make your own hicksmas cards. seriously. (we’re not joking – put a bit of effort into it… let’s get back into the pagan spirit of things again.) jesus christ may well have been a good bloke, but the christians stole our festivals.

some of you may be asking yourselves, “gee, why so much fuss over the one guy?”; as well you might. he was only human after all. but people, the man had vision where the rest of the world wore bifocals. if you haven’t seen or heard him yet we think you may just have missed the second coming, folks (started preaching at 13, died at 32; his mothers name was mary… are any bells being rung here? huh? huh?).

bill hicks was born in 1961, in georgia, & died last year, of cancer. he began performing early on at school, where he would steal his class away from the teacher (who would seldom get it back), & at church camp (he had a religious upbringing) where the other boys would report home that the young bill was “the funniest thing they’d ever seen”. then onto selling out comedy clubs he was still too young to drink in, to the surprise & horror of the older comedians.

from the beginning, it seems, he was on a different route from the average comedian – what he ended up doing had so much more to do w/ the role of the shaman than simply entertainment. to him, the stand-up comedy was not just a means to an end (as in a safe career, a sit-com and perhaps a couple of movies), but an end in itself. his idea was not just to make people laugh but to WAKE THE FUCKERS UP, make them THINK & question it all - & yet (incredibly) still be funnier than practically anyone else on the planet – he would summon up caricatures of all our flaws & grotesqueness, our frailties & pettiness; a hall of mirrors that shout back your own weakness; your own blinkered & manufactured “opinions” on war, politics, sex…. whatever. this was not ‘whose line is it anyway’, but true, deep down CATHARSIS. He was “taking on fully the role of the witch doctor”, as eric bogosian would say, later on. & also the fool; the sacred clown, just as the court jester in times of old could get away w/ proclaiming that the king liked little boys, bill hicks could say whatever the fuck he liked about whatever the fuck he liked, tossing hidden fears & incendiary lines into the audience & GET AWAY W/ IT… because that was his job; these people had paid good money to enter this big darkened room & watch the funny man talk. &, as he was always pleased to announce, the best part of his job was that he had no boss (read company//publisher/whatever) to answer to.

as well as being no ordinary comedian he was no ordinary man – he described both on & off stage how he & two friends had been taken up in an alien space-craft – “w/a 5 minute UFO experience i got a taste of holiness i never got in 20 years of religion” – he dealt instead w/ “the inner light that exists in all of our hearts: that middle man stuff;’ it’s wacky, & i appreciate it, but i got to run – there’s a voice ‘a calling me…”

from a young age he explored altered states of consciousness via flotation tanks, meditation & hallucinogenic drugs. these had an obvious influence upon the central theme of his act/life, which was: we are all one… until we realise this we are hardly alive to fight at all. to fight amongst ourselves is to fight ourselves – what we should do is get our shit together, get out there & explore space (both inner & outer) instead. all these petty hates & needless limitations & separations are not only destructive but silly when the possibilities, the potential in humanity is so great. very, very silly.

i wish we had more room to fully explain him but i doubt we could do that anyway (or would even want to). just check him out, that’s all… you will not be dissatisfied. he was a true hero, & there are not nearly enough heroes around these days.. so few people w/any kind of vocation (we’ve herded who we can into godhaven…) “now everyone’s luke-warm & they stick around forever…”
not him, sadly; he dies & bush still walks, manilow still records. perhaps some astonishing cosmic blunder has occurred. there was noone around quite like him before but for lenny bruce &, as yet, noone since.

happy holidays & merry hicksmas.

p.s. for the more devout amongst you, why not celebrate “hickster” too, starting on the 26th feb for five days.
i know what i’ll be doing.

p.p.s. if any of you out there have any bootleg tapes, or videos, or anything else, please send us a copy; we’d much appreciate it & you shall be copiously rewarded.






ppps really do send them hicksmas things. they'd appreciate it :)

she

she

she is always here.
she'll never leave.
she went five days ago but she's still around.
she might come back. she might not.
i don't care either way.

i still have the
taste of her name on my tongue, the
smell of my breath in my
hair.

my skin remembers the sensation of her.

i got her under my skin. i've still got
her skin under my fingernails
her teethmarks on my shoulder
her bruises on my heart.

i can't sleep
i can sleep really but don't want to.
i'm scared that i'll wake up
and realise that she was just a dream.
worst nightmare of a wish come true,
i couldn't tell you.

but she was mine, i was hers,
we were against the world
together.

her wild ideas and jagged humour
silver tongue, sharp teeth.

i used to joke that she had fangs
would one day suck me dry.
she tried her hardest in all the right ways.

left me gasping for air
clutching at nothing
reeling at the force of her.

beloved, begotten, beholden, begone.

i hear the sound of her bike coming up the path
the clattering beads on the spokes that make her laugh
and my teeth
grit.

she knocks on the door.

i've taken to sitting not on, but behind the settee
assuming the position normally reserved for the bailiff or jehova's witnessees.

lights on but no-one's home.

when she left i realised a lot of things.
mainly that i didn't love her. couldn't love her.
the object of my affection, my affliction, was an illusion.
the perfect mimic of her, transparent enough to reveal it was unreal.
she'd open her mouth and my image would shatter
ugly words pouring from perfect cupid bow lips.

i prefer the version in my head
the silent woman,
who wouldn't hurt a fly
let alone crush a heart.

i let her carry on knocking on the door.
it's no use.

i cannot be removed
and
i will not
be
moved.



(possiblyreposted)

another one bites the dust

r.i.p. mr postgate

more than just bagpuss

i've just finished up reading oliver postgate's autobiography, 'seeing things'. it's one of a few books that have made me go'oooooh!' and want to shove into any suspecting strangers' hands recently

others include: the electric michaelangelo, things snowball, corporate watch's excellent and chunky technofixes report, margrave of the marshes, toast...

but back to oliver. i've not yet started reading him up further - i no idea (but would like to find out) if he's still alive, or if he's done more anti nuclear/solar power stuff. i've joined a biiiiig library with the added bonus of interweb access, so i could get my arse into gear and google a wee bit. i think i might like to.

he's so full of love and sense and joy and the like; it's all so warmly and genuinely told. it's a really really charming book, and reminded me a lot of tom baker's who on earth is tom baker?.
i loved the odd ramble in which he'd go ambling around with no/lots of purpose, his legs telling him where to go and what would be good:
"my legs told me they wanted to walk.
'OK,' I said, 'which way?'
They said 'Towards the sun.'
'All right, then. Get on with it!'

....

The February air was cold and in dark places under the trees and hedgerows a faint bloom of white
told of last night's frost - there's nothing in the telling of this that could impart the huge sense
of freedom and escape that I and my legs felt that morning.
I said, 'It'll be a long walk.'
They replied, 'Just leave it to us. Leave it to us, and sing.'
So I sang, and on they went, rejoicing."



i'm certainly getting a fair bit of walking in at the minute. i think i might start listening to my legs a bit more and singing too. not in the middle of peckham high street, like, but...