January 23rd, 2012 | brainjuice
Are now live at the store, since a few people asked for them.
January 23rd, 2012 | stuff2012
|This collection of old interviews with Alan Moore has been great fun to flick through. The very earliest one, I’d never actually heard about. There’s a few early ones that are sadly omitted while arguably being richer pieces (the ARKENSWORD interviews, for instance, or the Eddie Campbell dialogue in ESCAPE), but the selection generally feels strong. And I’m particularly enjoying finding herein interviews that I haven’t read before.
I’d recommend this book to anyone with more than a passing interest in Moore’s work over the years, because it does quite wonderfully illustrate the evolution and mutation of the thinking behind the work over… christ, thirty years or so. It’s a nice bit of curation by Eric Berlatsky, and a joy to read.
January 22nd, 2012 | spektrmodule
36 minutes and 29 seconds
4. “So-So” - KaitO (album: You’ve Seen Us… You Must Have Seen Us… )
5. “Untitled”- Skirt (EP: Horizontal Ground 10)
6. “Not That I Am” – Throbbing Gristle (album: The Third Mind Movements)
7. “A Generation Of Spiders” - Exuviae (album: Swallow The Ghost)
8. Me. Been having some lung problems for the last couple of weeks, as you will hear. Please forgive the heavy breathing. More talky stuff next time, probably, if I still have lungs.
9. “Innerspace Laboratory Program” - Saturn Finger (album: Saturn Finger)
10. “Round In Circles” - Nocow (album: “G5TAPE01: Ruins Tape”)
11. “Dancing With Friends” - Julianna Barwick (album: Sanguine)
12. “Harmo” – Nudge (album: As Good As Gone)
13. “Slipped” - Diane Kensington (album: …And Her Ministry of Digital Devotees)
14. “Untitled” - Luke Abbott (album: Holkham Drones)
15. Me again.
16 “Marconi’s Radio” – The Secret Machines (album: September 000)
January 21st, 2012 | brainjuice
January 20th, 2012 | stuff2012
|Partway through Iain Sinclair’s GHOST MILK and finding the wading hard, I commented to a writer friend that it read like an auto-obituary. The friend recommended I persevere, even though he found himself in agreement. Which didn’t bode well. But here I am at the other end of the book, and my initial impression remains. It’s like watching someone give his funeral audience a lengthy disquisition on his life while digging his own grave and knocking together his own coffin in front of them.
The “grand project” of the subtitle is nominally the Olympic structure being imposed on east end London for this coming summer’s games, and all the other airdropped corporate constructions attempting landings across the country. But there’s a clear double meaning: the project being called in is Sinclair’s own.
If there is a next Iain Sinclair book, I will buy it automatically on sight, as I bought this one, because the man can write like Promethean fire when the drive is there. And perhaps, if there is a next Iain Sinclair book, he will do so again. But GHOST MILK feels like a last Iain Sinclair book. I hope I’m wrong.
There’s an awful pall of failure over the whole thing, thicker and deader than a modest blanket of self-deprecation. He trots out his friends as a parade of doomed losers, sketching out a difficult and often charmless eulogy for his generation of wasters in the arts. He carefully balances the milestones of a somewhat buggered career by the roadside for us and plots his own course into irrelevance in neat little chapters. And there’s a lot of “back in my day, all this round here were
fields and trees wastegrounds and condom dumps and canals wi’ bicycles sticking out of ‘em.” There’s a sense that the life of the deep urban flaneur closes when corporations and governments can do in concrete and steel what the derive can achieve only in air and ink – remake the streets according to their own will.
Also, there’s only so many snotty comments about new buildings you can commit to print before you start to sound like the sort of inverse-snob who preferred Hackney when all the toilets were outside. The book has the tone of a man who’s done. It’s a tired and miserable monologue. His prose has, for the most part, lost its arcane crackle.
In 2002, Sinclair said: “London gives you anonymity, you can spook about the place like a spy with no problems at all.” Not any more, mate. And, worse: when, in GHOST MILK, he gets spotted trying to spook around, he’s not spotted as a writer, a filmmaker, London’s last lost mythologiser. He’s assumed to be an unemployed indigent and pointed at a nearby hut where he can get a proper job.