And the Rest is Silence

What I've been reading and listening to this past while -:

MUSIC:

When it became public knowledge that the Shunyata Improvisation Group were disbanding, I was bereft. I have been a devoted fan since we first crossed paths in 2021, though I admit I haven’t been in attendance at all of their live performances since they formed in 2018; not by a long chalk. I first saw them at TQ Live in Ryton, when Martin was absent through Covid and, while I didn’t make any of their Saturday afternoon events at The Globe, each based on one of the 7 principles of aesthetics they philosophically founded their work on, as cricket or football always take precedence on that day, I did see them whenever I could at a wide array of venues from Saltwell Park’s rose garden to Tyne Bank Brewery by way of a community centre in Shieldfield and, of course, the Cullercoats Watch House, where ill-fitting windows in a howling storm made it appear they had invited an orchestra of comb and tissue players to join in. As a result of all my past encounters with Shunyata, I knew I had to go to both of their final performances at Gosforth Quaker Meeting House and Hexham Trinity Methodist Church, with the returning NofC and poet Alex Reed on board, where they would be addressing Herman Hesse’s A Hymn to Old Age.

John Peel memorably described The Fall as being “always different; always the same.” So it is with Shunyata. Whatever the iteration, the song remains the same. Calm, spacious, quiet improvisational music, composed in the moment and created for the purpose of allowing the listener to contemplate, and perhaps meditate, at an intellectual level far above the mundane. Shunyata allow you space to think. They make you consider the world, but in a good way. With the addition of Alex Reed’s poetry and the multi instrumental input of NofC, Martin Donkin (guitar), John Garner (violin, shakuhachi) and Kate Oswell (voice, percussion) were able to take this transcendent musical oeuvre to a whole new level that proved to be a fitting conclusion to one of the most satisfying projects I’ve been blessed to absorb this past half decade.

Gosforth Quaker Meeting House used to be a Masonic Temple, and it hosted Weight Watchers 20 years ago, which helped me lose 4 stones back in the day. It was the first time I’d been back since 2005 and the first time I’d seen Shunyata in their entirety since the marathon December solstice performance at The Globe last year. I had seen John Garner in another of his multifarious projects, in collaboration with John Pope at Elder Beer the month before, with Martin in the audience, while I’d last seen Katie to talk to at Mogwai in February.  The Garner / Pope duo gig was the second time I’d seen them together, though I’ve obviously seen them in other settings on numerous occasions. This was the first gig I’d seen at Elder Beer, which is one of my favourite pubs, so it worked out well. Sitting in the beer garden with a Steady Rolling Man, I enjoyed the evening in the company of Harry Pearson.

The 2 Johns did 2 sets, comprised of lesser known pieces by the modern jazz greats; Ayler, Cherry, Davis, Rollins and so on, plus a really rather lovely version of You Are My Sunshine. Thoroughly enjoyable and it provided me with a chance, courtesy of Harry’s generosity, to fill a hole in my collection by getting a copy of Absence of Marx by another Garner / Pope project, in conjunction with Gabrielle Heller and Tobias Sarra, the Anarchist Reading Group. It’s a tremendous howling vortex of free jazz experimentation that I look forward to revisiting again and again. I might even search out their first album at some point.

The Shunyata gig at Gosforth was a bit quieter than that. Although, from the free gratis and for nowt merch table, I did pick up a cassette of Shunyata live at Shipley Art Gallery in September 2018. This was recorded long before I was even aware of them and involving an iteration of Martin and NofC with Jamie Cook and Tobias Illingworth, making a very different sound than later versions of Shunyata. Electronic drone is prevalent and NofC’s basso profundo voice is very much to the forefront. It’s an excellent listen and I regret not being aware of them at the time, but at least I was here for the two final performances. At Gosforth,  with an audience approaching 50, in a fitting, median demographic skewed towards 60, I felt myself captivated from the very beginning, as usual. In announcing their disbandment, Shunyata feel they have come as far as they can, but I don’t know if I agree, probably for selfish reasons. The crescendos, pauses, pure harmony and dissonance, augmented by NofC and Katie’s amazing diglossalic scat, worked perfectly as a fitting epitaph for Shunyata.

Incredibly, they outdid themselves on the second night in Hexham. In a very different room, with austere parquet flooring rather than Scotchguarded Axminster underfoot and a vaulted ceiling, the music seemed to float high in the air, hang and then overwhelm an audience of 40. While Alex used much of the same text as the night before, the music was entirely different, as is the case with skilled improvisers who instinctively know what their companions are trying to express. The vastness of their restraint. The dramatic intensity of their practice. Pastoral and elegiac interplay between John and Martin that was an honour to witness. Katie’s almost Wagnerian swoops like Diamanda Galas teaming up with AMM. NofC’s laughter like something from the later Samuel Beckett. A pizzicato solo up the violin neck by John. Martin using his guitar as a percussive device. It was one of the most uplifting experiences I’ve had in years, but also one of the most profoundly upsetting, as it will never happen again. I admit to having tears in my eyes when I saw Martin replace his guitar on its stand as I knew not just this performance, but the whole existence of Shunyata would soon be over. Then again, as the cliched nostrum has it, don’t be sad it has ended, be pleased it happened. And the rest is silence.

On both nights, Shunyata had been the opening act before Playback Theatre Company gave performances. I missed the Thursday night one, as I opted out to watch Spain 3 Austria 0, but caught the one on Friday, as I had to hang around because I was getting a lift back from John and Martin. Playback did their best to retell the stories the audience volunteered, but they were dealt an unpromising hand by the paucity of volunteered contributions, and their valiant efforts didn’t fully engage with me. I must see them again.

Probably the most interesting musical release I’ve acquired in the last while was Sound Garden 1 by Paul Wormhole. It’s not a matter that’s even up for debate. The plain facts are that Wormhole World is the most diverse, the most challenging and the most rewarding label in this country at this time. Not just because it is an independent, underground operation, that focusses almost exclusively on the avant garde, however you wish to define that term. In all the years I’ve been buying Wormhole World stuff, eclectically curated by a one man band, operating high in the Lancashire hills, I’ve never once been let down by the quality of outsider, left field sounds (including, but not necessarily restricted to music) I’ve investigated and this is certainly the case with this magnificent solo release by label founder Paul, which I obtained the same day as the decent, if rather tame and dated, Inferno by Boards of Canada. I’d enthusiastically purchased the Boards of Canada album, on the back of some stellar reviews, but frankly it left me a little underwhelmed. If going back 20 years to the quieter moments of The Chemical Brothers or Royksopp is your thing, then I’d recommend this to you, but I’d consider it far from an essential purchase. Unlike Sound Garden 1.

Is it music? Good question. Is it an album? Definitely. There are 9 titled, separated and distinct pieces on the CD, which makes for a coherent, exhilarating and addictive listen. But is it music? Very good question. Same as Boards of Canada, there were no musical instruments used in the making of this record, that is for certain. Although on the Paul Wormhole album a computer does produce a few of those little cute Windows’ jingles. There are no vocals, though there are several discernible, individual human voices, speaking almost audible words. Indeed, there’s also quite a lot of sniffing at one point on “Openreach workers while I’m trying to work.” That title, and the content therein, is a major clue as to what Sound Garden 1 is actually about. The disc comprises 9 different slices of ordinary human existence and the sounds involved. If you like, you can call it musique verité. Bird song in the back garden. Construction noise in the front street. The ecstatic pealing of church bells. Laughter and relaxed chit chat accompanying the sound of heavy horse hooves on a tow path, while what sounds like a steam train chuffs past, blowing its whistle, on “Llangollen horse drawn barge.” Unlike Boards of Canada, which is intensely rhythm driven, this unique combination of the equine and the mechanical is about the only nod to a regular beat on Sound Garden.

The titles tell you exactly what to expect and what is involved in each piece. And it’s absolutely wonderful. Like a BBC Sound Effects vinyl from the early 70s, rather than the arcane experimentalism of the Radiophonic Workshop, this is ordinary life; an artistic celebration of the humdrum and workaday world. As Paul describes this release on his Bandcamp page; “Sound Garden re-presents everyday sounds that may not always be appreciated. I hope it teaches everyone to listen to the beauty that is in the natural world - conversation, nature, workmen or indeed silence etc.”

But is it music? Paul himself delves into the aesthetics underpinning his philosophical approach in great detail, but I’ll let you research that yourselves. Of course Sound Garden features no score, nor standard use of notation and you’d probably struggle to dance to it (although interpretative swaying is one of my default responses to it). Debate as to the artistic merit of this release reminds me of the hysterical public furore created by Carl Andre’s Equivalent VIII when the Tate Gallery acquired it in 1972. Yes, it was a pile of bricks. Yes, it was also a wonderful piece of modern art. What changed it from bricks to art? The artist’s inspirational vision. That is also the case with Paul Wormhole’s Sound Garden 1. Yes, it is simply a series of random field recordings of ordinary life. Yes, it is also a profoundly important reflection on the role of sound and its importance to or impact on human beings. Is it music? Paul Wormhole says it is and I agree with him 100%.  Bloody marvellous.

Also coming out of left field, is the Belpunk compilation CD, curated by Tony Van Dorst, that accompanied issue #80 of TQ. This is a genre of music about which I was entirely ignorant and, in the case of some of the chugging pub rock and visceral hardcore on here, I’m happy to leave it that way. However, there are some gems from the Belgian genre of Darkwave, which slows things down, saddens the mood and embraces a post punk minor key, which were my favourite bits. Whatever the merits, this is another excellent project from the ever innovative TQ. If you don’t already, then please subscribe.

I’ve invested in a couple of pieces of vinyl too. Avoiding Record Store Day, I did subsequently skim through the racks in RPM, where I found Debris, a Stewart Lee endorsed compilation of lost gems from the late lamented former Swell Maps drummer Epic Soundtracks, who left us far too early. As with all of Epic’s solo stuff, plus many of his piano based pieces from Swell Maps, it’s more Nick Drake than New York Dolls. Wistful, poignant and enticing; it is an album I’m glad I’ve bought. The same is true of Horroble, a dub reimagining of The Mekons’ stellar 2025 album Horror, by producer Tony Maimone. The same songs, in a different order. Some tracks don’t really benefit it from this, such as the furious “War Economy,” but slower, spacious numbers like “Before the Ice Age” and “Fallen Leaves” really do hit the spot. Another very important project and one I’m glad I’ve taken possession of.

On Saturday 13^th June, I did something that is normally alien to me. I attended a one day festival of local bands at Anarchy Brewery. With about a 500 capacity, though nowhere near full, it’s a good spot to see live music, as the beer is spot on, even if served in those awful squashy plastic pots. Entitled Breakthrough, it was ostensibly intended as a showcase for The Pale White and newly-released their third album, it also featured some young talent from the region. First up were noisy lads Wool, who made a tremendous Dinosaur Jr meets Sugar racket. Loads of feedback and crunching improvisational solos. I really hope to see them again. I must admit to missing the next act, Cutscene, as the rarity of finding the adjacent Almasty tap room open and selling great beer in proper glasses, was simply too much of a draw.

After a refreshing pint of Almasty Green, it was back to see the more melodic Snowdrop, who’d travelled up from Macclesfield for this gig. More McFly than Mogwai but held back by a ponderously agricultural drummer. After this, Almasty called again and so Burnout went unseen. However, I was then back in for the long haul. Scott Hepple & The Sun Band, who used to include my pal Tom in their ranks, took us back to the 1968 to 1972 era of psychedelic prog rock and great it was too. They’ve already got 2 albums under their belt, though I only picked up their 7” “Smoke & Frown.” Very good it is too, if agonisingly brief for a proper proggy wig out. Second top of the bill were Idle Hands. Very tall musicians. Very angular music. These lads like Editors and Franz Ferdinand quite a lot I’d guess. Alright, but not stunning. I was, however, very impressed by headliners The Pale White. A proper power trio who could justifiably claim to be NE28’s answer to Nirvana, even if their harmonies are closer to Big Star and Teenage Fanclub.  All in all, a very good day with a lovely, safe vibe, though it was a bit sad to note not a single female made it on stage.

The standout gig of late was The Beta Band at the Boiler Shop and what a performance they gave. I went expecting nostalgic, off-kilter indie pop, which we got with “She’s the One,” “Dog’s Got a Bone” and a storming “Dry the Rain,” not to mention an anthemic encore of “Squares,” but there was so much more to this set. Incredible, syncopated percussion-driven numbers like “Brake” and a final, fabulous “House Song” that brought forth comparison with A Certain Ratio, as they seamlessly swapped instruments while never dropping a beat. Tight musicianship all the way through. Also, it was really nice to see so many people I’m hardly ever in touch with these days, out on a school night and enjoying themselves. Possibly the only negative, save the usual endless queues for bar and bog, was the fact the gig took place in daylight, on account of the uncurtained picture windows at the side of the venue. Full marks to security for opening all the side doors though to allow some ventilation on a steamy evening. Just a shame we’ll probably never see The Beta Band in these parts again as they show no inclination to come up with new material. Shame.

BOOKS:

I was asked to write something commemorating the imminent 50^th anniversary of the release of Second Annual Report by Throbbing Gristle for TQ, so as part of my research I read Art, Sex, Music by Cosey Fanni Tutti, Wreckers of Civilisation by Simon Ford and the frankly appalling Non Binary by Genesis P Orridge, which made me reflect as follows. Friday 14^th July 1978. Bastille Day. The start of my summer holidays at the end of third year seniors (Year 9 in modern parlance). The Saturday was the Rock Against Racism Northern Carnival in Manchester, with The Buzzcocks headlining, and there was a bus going from The Bridge Hotel at the end of the High Level, organised by the Tyneside Anti Nazi League. My dad wouldn’t let me go, not for ideological reasons, but because I was only 13, even though my cousin John was going with his mate Big Wilka, but they were two years older. To make up for my disappointment, the Auld Fella slipped me a couple of quid to “go and buy yourself one of those punk rock records.” Considering he only ever listened to The Dubliners and The Clancy Brothers, this was a major surprise. Thus, soon as school kicked us out early Friday afternoon, I got the bus from Felling Square to Worswick Street by myself and headed for the much missed Listen Ear on Ridley Place. The only place in town to get thoroughly obscure and cutting edge music.

Despite the previous reference to punk, it was a genre, certainly this side of the pond, that largely left me cold. Of the first generation, only Wire and The Buzzcocks appealed; the rest seemed to be glorified pub rockers or glam wannabees cashing in on the New Wave by attaching safety pins to their clothes and singing in a mockney sneer. I still hold by that judgement, but luckily by this time I’d started to read the music press to help broaden my horizons. My periodical of choice was Sounds, as I wasn’t clever enough for the NME until I reached sixth form and Melody Maker seemed obsessed with Barclay James Harvest and desperate drivel of that ilk. In Sounds, the likes of Sandy Robertson, John Savage and Dave McCullough championed weird, underground acts that were utterly uncommercial, totally uncompromising and seemingly innovative. However, unless you chanced upon a random John Peel airing for one of these outfits, there was no way to hear their music.

One act that had stood out in press coverage was Throbbing Gristle. They seemed to be scary and beyond anything that had gone before. Serendipitously, when I stepped into Listen Ear, the strange sound that assailed me was the rerelease of Second Annual Report, the debut TG album. Specifically the track “Slug Bait,” which was genuinely shocking in terms of both lyrics and sounds. It was abrasive, confrontational and unique to my tender ears. I didn’t buy it though, because the disc was about six quid.  I inquired if there were any other TG products available, which is how I bought, unheard, the 7” single “United” / “Zyklon B Zombie.” I still have it, in the original austere monochrome sleeve that depicts a row of council garages, and it’s in pretty good nick.  “Zyklon B Zombie” was an unintelligible stream of distorted vocals and guitar abuse that reminded me of “I Heard Her Call My Name” by The Velvets. However, “United” was something else entirely, a hypnotic plodding, minimalist synth driven love song that got inside my head from first play and, like “Do The Mussolini (Headkick)” by Cabaret Voltaire has remained there as the original and best examples of primitive industrial electronic music. Jean Michel Jarre they were not.

Following that, I counted Throbbing Gristle as one of my bands. I bought DoA: Third And Final Report at the end of 1978 and the magnificently titled 20 Jazz Funk Greats when it came out in 1979. I adore both records and have near played them to death, much to the disgust of my cousin who then championed such aural excrement as Cockney Rejects and UK Subs and tried to persuade me that TG weren’t musicians, but actual murderers. He almost echoed the words of the bibulous Scottish Tory Sir Nicholas Fairbairn, who had described TG as “wreckers of civilisation,” which they took as an enormous compliment.

To be fair, TG were an odd bunch, who were clearly more than the sum of their parts. I’m not being glib, but the phrase used by criminologists for the collective evil of The Moors Murderers and the Wests is folie a deux. For TG it was folie a quatre, as some kind of alien chemistry bonded Genesis P-Orridge, “Sleazy” Peter Christopherson, Cosey Fanni Tutti and Chris Carter, allowing them to make such challenging music in their initial iteration. In fact, it was something of a menage a quatre as rehearsals and recording sessions often began with a rampant sex session, “to break the ice.” Quite. You can’t see The Dubliners doing that can you? I mean, I’m a tolerant sort of person regarding what people do in the privacy of their own practice room, but these lot were proper deviants. “Sleazy” was well nicknamed and you can get an insight into his predilections from the title of his subsequent project Coil’s album Scatology. Cosey made ends meet as a porn actress and stripper, but claims never to have been exploited as it was all performance art. I’m not sure I accept that, but it’s her body and her call I guess. Her life partner Chris just seemed to be the geeky one who made all the gadgets, but he was an enthusiastic participant in the art film After Cease to Exist, the soundtrack to which is on Second Annual Report, that climaxes (pardon the word) with Cosey seeming to castrate him.

And then there’s Genesis. Born to an indulgent middle class family in Cheshire and given the birth name Neil Megson, other than his work with TG there’s little to recommend him as a human being. A vain, narcissistic sociopath. A gaslighting, misogynistic control freak who modelled himself on Charles Manson and helmed the bizarre Temple Ov Psychick Youth, before undergoing body modification along with his final wife, a dominatrix called Jaye Breyer, that saw them attempting to be body doubles, as part of their pandrogyne project. He’s dead now. So is “Sleazy,” whose heart conked out at 55 from a life of decadent drug excess. Chris and Cosey are still going; DJing and releasing records under the Carter Tutti moniker. I’ve never heard any of them. Not interested, same as I never investigated Psychic TV and Coil, or even the reformed TG. As far as I’m concerned, TG existed in a specific period (1976-1980), before imploding. Anything else they did, singly or collectively, could never match their original oeuvre.

In addition to reading Art, Sex, Music by Cosey Fanni Tutti, Wreckers of Civilisation by Simon Ford and the frankly appalling Non Binary by Genesis P Orridge, I finally bought a copy of Second Annual Report on CD. Almost half a century later it remains a chilling, inspirational record that is as important as it is angry. The use of homemade synths, broken instruments, tapes and effects was genuinely groundbreaking and the results stand the test of time. The horrific imagery of “Slug Bait” and “Maggot Death,” the ambient menace of “After Cease to Exist,” as well as subsequent albums and singles such as “United” and “Discipline” tell the story of a band like no other. This is truly music for the ages by one of the most important avant garde outfits ever.

Meanwhile, I also continue to make my way through the pile of books I bought from my pal Matt a few months ago. Because of the Throbbing Gristle detour, I’ve only managed another 2 since we last spoke. Dave Thompson’s Wall of Pain is an arms-length chronological biography of the truly awful Phil Spector, which seeks justify the murderous Svengali’s atrocious conduct by contrasting it with his, admittedly, glorious golden period of girl groups in the early to mid-60s. An utter absence of interviews, second hand or otherwise, makes this a bathetic, boring read. In contrast, Paul Whitelaw’s fawning hagiography of Belle & Sebastian, Just a Modern Rock Story, has pages of interviews with a band I’ve never believed to be as good as they think they are. It was an interesting read I will concede. Now only another 24 of Matt’s books to go, plus imminent new arrivals from James Ellroy, Paul Hanley and Irvine Welsh to keep me busy, cataracts permitting.