Lupine Records Blurb

I was asked by Lupine to write about them and their artists for the first release on their label. Here's the blurb I came up with.

Those mad-eyed rangers and damaged strangers gather together frequently in the old North West. Time seems to stand still as those there to entertain ricochet off walls or hang themselves from rafters; sometimes they just sit and weave a mystical vibration from a guitar and speak of the blues or flying fish while some sing of the aftermath of war and of retaining Jobseekers Allowance.

This brings us to where the crowds flock to see Dirty Circus and witness their acrobatic electronics and that gilt-edged sweaty rock and roll they do so well for the plight of the common everyman and his vices. Where we see the debut and subsequent performances of The V.Cs, three outcasts from a mysterious military research centre who proceeded to zap and counteract the public with surf guitars, electronic magic wands and a sinister use of costume and eccentricity.

Dulcet tones from Gerard Starkie were heard at the birth of Lupine on a night that had a threat of a thunderstorm in the air, and again, as summer passes over us with a humidity that is soul-sapping, Gerard returns with a single-minded determination, with a new angle, a new flavour, a new song, coming full circle almost, with Lupine's path to this record.

From there we come across Moco, with their psych-raw, northern-soul, catchy rock and roll, provide a tasting of 'Freaks' and bring up memories of past dark times in the sweaty but swish Lux Club, where the walls would rattle to Mr Jones gyrations and the whole sonic blast of their songs would cause followers of their racket to lose their minds and limbs and make them question the complete notion of what real pop music is and should sound like, coming up with Moco's mantras as the answer.

Cerebral psychedelic blues with twists and charm from Mat Turner, another of Lupine's ever-present artists who beguiles people with his whole philosophy of song writing. He once had some mates who helped him record 'Fresco Blade' but they're gone now, leaving Mat to continue his search for the definitive edge and blur of his thoughts through song.

One of the best singalong parts to a song in the last thirty years pops up on All Your Love by The Loungs, where grown men and sober women have been known to break out into teletubbies speak and join in with bearded dancers and flamenco farmers to their special brand of jaunty joyous pop music that exists in the similar kind of stratosphere as the Flaming Lips and flying pigs. And so the future is still happening right now, with Lupine howling and hollering on in their own unique way, taking the inroads, the back streets and the highways to where they see fit, with the mad-eyed rangers and damaged strangers in tow.

The Fool Who Ate The Gruel

Last night I slept like a log.
Like a log taken from the arse
Of the corpse of Marilyn Monroe,
And kept on a satin pillow
In a shiny glass display case
In a museum of Fetish Bazaars.

This morning I awoke and felt like a dog.
I felt like the Greek dog Cerberus,
With three swaying heads
A serpent’s tail of menace
A lion’s claw of words
And a mangled mane of snakes.
I felt like Cerberus, guarding
The Haides Gate to normality.
To say the least I was a little confused.

But after a drink or three I sang like a frog.
I sang like a frog in the great McCartney Choir,
Then drowned my sorrows in a puddle of spawn
Singing all the while
I’m just a pawn
I’m just a pawn
I’m just a pawn
I’m just a tiny pretty manipulated pawn.

Every part of me has its own little door.
I’d love to let you in,
But I’m afraid you wouldn’t like
The holes I keep in my socks
Or the false name I stitched
In my underwear.
But, at least a man on a passing horse
Wouldn’t look twice my way.

Nevertheless, at the end of the parade
I’ll be the one in the wooden clogs
Dancing amongst the pigeons,
Dodging the marching Mariachi bands
Forever to be acknowledged
As the fool who ate the gruel
As the fool who ate the gruel.

How Great It Was To Make Love To Aretha Franklin [Circa 1970]

Travelling to meet at some motel along
Route 66, or Highway 51,
Passing children swinging tennis rackets
Hitting stones across wastelands,
A snapped string every other strike.

Arriving at the deepest hour,
Smelling the cedar-wood foundations,
As some black cat pours itself
From a fence to a path.

Slipping in, like a delicate, dreamy fish,
Amberlamps glowing and leopard-skin prints,
A baroque clock on the wall melts
Into the fuchsia patterned paper
And the throat of the wind chokes outside.

Seeing her gnaw on the wing of a chicken in bed,
Her nightdress, corners her curves, a silken red.

Moving hands across her sand-coffee skin,
Kissing her rose of a smile and unfolding,
Until we build to
That moment -
The only purest present
That moment -
Of absolute orgasm…

Collapsing, with the birds
Whistling outside, duped into daylight.

Cosmic Pigeon

A Cosmic Pigeon found lying 20ft from my house.

Home & Away

A theme of 'Home & Away' was picked for the Bolton Octagon reading of a few weeks passed. As the date loomed, I sat and scribbled a few lines here and there, finally finishing it on the day of performance. Here is the poem I read:

Home & Away

Home is the dimple I kiss on your cheek
The smile that greets day after day, week after week
Home is the nook and cranny of our familiar love
The soft space between your thighs
Toes touching toes
The smell at your nape
The tangle of your hair in my hands

Home is known
That recognisable shape groped in the dark
The quarterly strike of our Grandmother clock
Home is the citric scent of your piss
Sometimes, I want to give home a miss

To get away from it all
Away away away away
Away is the girl with the soft copper hair
Twirling through the night in her charity shop dress
Away is the bulge of her breast as she moves
The temptation of those unknown bumps and grooves

To explore the landscape of her body
Sends me away, away from home
To a land of false expectation
Where I dance to that French jazz
In the Bande A Part Café
With those two cool and friendly
Cats by my side

As the copper-haired girl
Starts to stare with those evil
Green eyes, her gypsy cotton ears
Twitch in anticipation

But the excitement of away soon fades
And the pull of home plays
A soft inviting tune in my head
And I return
Back to our comfortable habit
Back to our comfortable bed