The Monthly Digest includes a clutch of accumulated new music review, and the Social Inter-Generational/Eclectic and Anniversary Albums Celebrating Playlist.

___/THE NEW___

Staraya Derevyna ‘Garden Window Escape’
(Ramble Records/Avris Media) 2nd May 2025

Pulling out of the historic district of St. Petersburg once more to conjure up an amorphous polygenesis-sourced hallucination, the pan-global Staraya Derevyna capture of diverse artists, led by the Israel/Ukrainian musician and sound engineer Gosha Hniu, wheel out the mechanical dream-machine on their latest estranged and avant-garde descriptive album Garden Window Escape.

Imagine Beefheart conducting the Sharmanko Kinetic Theatre, or Faust manhandling a pair of shearing buzzing shavers. Perhaps, the Plastic Beatniks warped mirage vision of Americana coming up against the sound worlds and the alternative pyschogeographic folk of Širom and La Tène. You can imagine the Red Crayola in Eastern Europe during the Medieval times, hanging out with CAN as they dish out their EFS series experiments whilst a languid Einstürzende Neubauten add their signature imaginings and post-punk industrial stirrings.

The imaginative hermitic workings and the transmogrified poetic works of the Russian polymath Arthur Molev that suffuse this latest release of performative and fantasy clockwork circus merges the mysterious with the murky, the atmospherics of alternative pastoral histories with the strained, strangulated and brassy textural wanes of bass clarinet, the flute and the cello, and the hidden source sounds of rope pulleys and cogs and levers that need oiling. For the icon Rus, the holy reimagined Rus is rewoven by the merry-go-round minstrels of Maya Pik, Ran Nahmias, Grundik Kasyansky, Miguel Pérez, Yoni Silver and Andrea Serafino to atheatre of esoteric poetry and dreams.

Who knows what it all means, but this collective always impress with their journeying and deeper connections to a sense of conceptualisation steeped in both the real and fantastical. Through the abstract and most emotive and surreal, every Staraya Derevyna is a revelation. And Garden Window Escapeis just as imaginative and evocative.

Michael Sarian ‘ESQUINA’
(Greenleaf Records) 25th April 2025

On the corner or a “corner”, albeit with a Spanish/Portuguese language entitled twist, the accomplished trumpeter, bandleader and composer Michael Sarian is imbued by the spirit of Miles Davis’s iconic 1972 LP – that and the electrified period that also took in Bitches Brew, Black Beauty and Agharta albums – on his latest album, ESQUINA.

Full of lunar mystery and dreamy mirages, Sarian traverses, hovers, inhabits and floats across a largely improvised vision of prog-jazz and jazz fusion; taking a different direction after a trio of albums that bordered more upon a chamber-jazz and acoustic sound. The same players now venture into territory mapped out so cosmically and exploratively by Jon Hassell, the Soft Machine, Nucleus, Weather Report, Herbie Hancock and the already mentioned Davis. In addition to the long form peregrinations that make up this three track album, the ensemble also transposes Portishead’s classic trip-hop track ‘Glory Box’; an influence for Sarian since he first heard it as a kid on its original release in the mid 90s, and here, transformed into a spacy soul-jazzy lounge vision of Pink Floyd and the El Michels Affair with the smooth melodic trumpet drifts and near sensitive expressions of Chat Baker and Kenny Dorman. 

Back in the fold, now reconfigured and in a freeform mood of prompted celestial and hallucinatory dream experimentation and resonating gauze, noted Argentine pianist and composer Santiago Leibson probes, dabs, sustains Marion Brown bulb-like notes, galactic Davis sounds and Herbie Hancock effects, metallic and vibrating languages from the Hammond B3, the Mini Moog and Wurlitzer, Alaska born, NYC relocated in-demand bassist Marty Kenny offers near cosmic soulful bass lines, prog noodling and swamp funk undertones, and renowned Brooklyn-based drummer Nathan Ellman-Bell makes his way around the kit as he offers the subdued and descriptive and leaps of near d ‘n’ b-like breaks and cymbal splashes. As I said before, this is near lunar in its projection, on the edges of tripping out; at times, and as noted in the PR notes, sounding not too dissimilar to the work of Donny McCaslin. At other times it reminded me of Arve Henriksen. We are of course in the jazz fusion sphere of influence, but not quite indulgently prog enough to put people off.

Instead, we get a band escaping their surroundings, pepped up on electric Davis but not quite breaking out into the psychedelic funk boom-bap of that period. Dreaming and pushing an intuitive bond they conjure up an intergalactic dream of influences, musical genres as they enter another dimension. Tamed but adventurous, this is a group at their playful and inventive best.

iyatraQuartet ‘Wild Green’
11th April 2025

Imbibed by individually strong and impressive classical CVs and a shared experience of study at the Royal Academy of Music, the iyatraQuartet ensemble have previously merged a penchant for India and Arabia with European and closer-to-home influences from across time.

The last time I featured the quartet, back in 2020 with the Break The Dawn album, they gravitated towards India, both musically and religiously. The group’s name, pronounced “ey-at-ra”, is even taken from the Hindu expression for travel, “yatra”. It helps that the quartet’s co-founder and violinist maestro (to name just one instrument among her eclectic repertoire) Alice Barron studied South Indian violin techniques with the country’s star turn duo, the Mysore Brothers. And on this latest empirical and tapestry-come-alive thematic album of nature’s cycles and seasonal graces, Wild Green, you can hear the distinctive bellowed drone of that region’s Shruti box instrument on the title-track. As an indicator of the direction of travel and the scope of influences, this venerable, stirring choral fluctuated voiced sprouting of the pastoral was actually originally inspired by the noted historical European polymath figure of Hildegard of Bingen, better known as the Sibyl of the Rhine, who, apart from being a Benedictine abbess, founder of monasteries, a medical writer and practitioner, philosopher, mystic and visionary was also an influential composer of “monophony”, the simple musical form typically sung by a single singer or played by a single instrumentalist. In choir, or choral form as it is here, it usually means the ensemble of voices all singing the same melody. Incorporated within that framework is a vast swathe of traditional and folk music that counters subtle hints of those Indian foundations with the Medieval.

Either literally woven from a parchment canvas or played in the “wilds”, the garden idyllic, Barron, alongside George Sleightholme on clarinets, Rich Phillips on cello and Will Roberts on percussion (all four pitch in together voice wise), compose a greenery of Orcadians’ prayers, legendary tales of enchanted fish, lunar bound vibrations, Yuletide lullaby and the changing of the calendar seasons.

Beautifully pitched between the romantic languages of old Europe (the music box springs dance and love song ‘Beatriz’ is sung in the Medieval language of Occitan, which poured across borders from France into pockets of Spain, the valleys of Italy and Calabria) and vocalised expressions of the apparitional and banshee-like, the classical and atavistic, life is breathed into a rousing scenery. Celtic, Eastern European, the Baltics, the South American and fantastical are all entwinned on an album of minor rhapsody, the plaintive, yearned and near mysterious; the musicianship first rate as you’d expect, expressive, just as identifiable as it is obscured and used to sound out the growth of branches, seeds and flowers, the atmospheres of antiquity and a present reflection on nature, and the shrills, vibrations, looming arches and mists of imaginative storytelling. The voices, from across the ages, personify historical references and skill; illuminating and beatified in equal measures, with an ear for the classics, the folk-rock of the 1960s and early 1970s, various traditions, and the improvised.

This is living, breathing music that reflects the imaginative surroundings and themes of the ensemble as they mould chamber music, the classical, the pastoral, folklore and folk music to their own unique signature of the felt and stirring.

IOM ‘Spiritual Wastelands’
(Cruel Nature Records) 28th March 2025

Circulating, pulsing and dancing through the magnetic circuits of the inner body and mind, caught up in the chaotic stresses and violence of our current times, the latest album from the Spanish musician and sound designer Iker Ormazabal Martinez is powered by a caustic electricity and metallic industrial percussive tools.    

Under the soloist guise of IOM, Martinez wields his EBM and industrial synth-techno influences to beat out and charge up a physical sonic response to modern existence. Wretched, sometimes near violent, but always with structure and rhythm, the nine concomitant pieces that make up the thematic whole of Spiritual Wastelands move between the darker club music of the German underground and the alien factories of dead industry.    

From Basque country Vitoria to Catalonia Barcelona and a relocation in recent years to London, the granular guide of frazzled and force field gated electronica has merged his experiences as a keyboardist and sample-instigator for pop and rock groups, a musician with a company of Butoh dancers (originally a Japanese “dance of utter darkness” in which performers, usually covered in white paint makeup, intentionally use slow body movements and confront themes of darkness and transformation, but also far more radical and taboo subjects), and experimental electronic artist to create a vaporising density of tubular, barracking sheet metal dance music. Through the distress and clang of the pipes, the fizzled and machine reverberated, glimpses of trance-y light are found, and on the mystical voiced ‘Light’, featuring The Seer no less, there’s an obscured hint of Middle Eastern horns and a shrouded spiral of the Sufi against a darker churn of laboured drones and resonating steel.       

Vocals sound near Germanic, or of that school, or go deep and near sinister; reminding me in part of Front 242 and NIN but put against sounds and rhythms and beats that err towards Basic Channel, Pan Sonic, Cabaret Voltaire and CABLE. The futuristic computerised and iterated saw brushed ‘Somatic Response’, sounds almost Kraftwerkian in comparison: perhaps a little Kriedler.  

Mind and body yearning for spiritual guidance or a way out, react to the modern furnace on an album full of oomph and fried electricity. Does After releasing a variety of works on a myriad of labels, IOM finds the perfect pitch with Cruel Nature ever seldom put out an uninteresting or intriguing album.

Conrad Schnitzler ‘RhythmiCon’ and ‘Drei Kugeln’
(Flip-Flap) 29th March 2025

A leading, if often overlooked, progenitor of the Kosmiche and Krautrock eras, Conrad Schnitzler’s various stints as a founding member and instigator of the inaugural Kluster (forming the trio with fellow Zodiak Free Arts Lab stalwarts Hans-JoachimRoedelius and Dieter Moebius in 1969) and Tangerine Dream groups (an early member in 1970, he featured on the group’s debut LP Electronic Meditation) would reverberate throughout his solo and collaborative work, right up until his death in 2011. After more or less setting in motion an entire field of sound experimentation in the 1970s, by the 1980s Conrad had accumulated a strong body of work and was once again forming new bonds and ideas with Germany’s post-punk generation: integrating some of the more interesting ideas into his synthesizer-based modulations and soundscapes that would both echo and inform the German new wave and techno.

A Berlin stalwart and co-founder of the already mentioned and famous Zodiak Arts Lab, it would be Conrad’s contact with the leading performance and installation progenitor of that era, Jospeh Beuys, that helped form his early thinking and ideas of free play and experimentation. Leading, an admittedly amateur musician, to a both conceptual and playful method of exploration within the circuitry, cables, soundboards, switches and apparatus of electronic and analogue fields of sound development and rhythm. None more so than with this double-bill of unearthed album selections from the Flip-Flap label; a special platform set up in 2021to release a limited-edition series of selective works personally chosen by Conrad himself. A while back, it was the Hamburg-based, all-things German electronica, label Bureau B that seemed to have the role of releasing his recordings from the vaults and lab; some of which featured reworks, and finishing touches by the artist/musician/producer Kurt Dahlke (a founding member of D.A.F. and Der Plan of course), under his Pyrolator alias. But, seemingly, picking up the baton, this enterprise revives that body of work, previously left dormant or sealed behind closed doors.

The first album of which, Rhythmicon, is, as that title suggest, a selection of tracks focussed on the play and kinetic chain reactionary experiments of prompted, set in motion and manipulated rhythmic constructions. As part of my research, I’ve looked that album title up and found that it actually references an electro-mechanical musical instrument of the same name, designed and built by Leon Theremin for composer Henry Cowell. It was intended, so the Wikipedia entry goes, “to reveal connections between rhythms, pitches and the harmonic series.” A further description: the Rythmicon “used a series of perforated spinning disks, similar to a Nipkow disk, to interrupt the flow of light between bulbs and phototoreceptors aligned with the disk perforations. The interrupted signals created oscillations which were perceived as rhythms or tones depending on the speed of the disks. It generated both pitches and rhythms and has been described as a precursor of drum machines.”

I take it that this apparatus signals Conrad’s own idiosyncratic rhythm productions, created over an eighteen-year period from 1982; now collected together for an hour-plus album of strange, modulated shapes, reverberations, chemistry, neutrons, rays, bounces and tubular metallic cosmic dances and playful techno visions made on some orbiting spacelab.

Part futuristic, part tribal, part alien, part chemistry, part hypnotically entrancing and part new wave, Conrad sometimes leads and sometimes absorbs the current trends, the evolution taking place within electronic music during the pivotal 80s and 90s periods. And so, you can hear echoes of Luke Slater, Rob Hood, Autechre, Populaire Mechanik (the brainchild of fellow Berlin-based musician/drummer Wolfgang Seidel, who actually collaborated with Conrad during the Zodiak Lab days and was inspired to form the mechanic group as a consequence), Kriedler, Basic Channel and on the “7:51” track (all tracks are named after their duration in minutes and seconds) a touch of OMD’s debut album.

Intentionally made to be simple, there is however a lot of sophistication and skill in these often off-kilter rhythmic reactions; the art and skills of constant movement and drum machine-like patterns really mesmerising and spacy, but near skeletal industrial and machine made too with particles bouncing around and various symbiotic shapes forming.

By contrast, the second album to transmit from the Flip-Flap facilitators, Drei Kugeln, is more about the soundscape and the atmosphere. A continuous soundtrack in a manner, the thirty tracks that make up this both mysterious and alien visitation from the reaches of some science-fiction evoked off-world, subtly build or change a thematic sound palette of hidden metallic sources, force fields, paranormal activity, reversals, signals, lost and found transmissions and near choral passages of space awe and venerable breath.

Channelling past experiments with Tangerine Dream and other such congruous nebula searching and invoking kosmische music projects, but mythology and technology too, Conrad brings mystique to his deep investigations and chilled solar wind breathed vortex transformation of inner and outer space. Aboard a supernatural space freighter, or sucked into the very machine itself, Drei Kugeln is a very rare sonic immersive experience with plenty of interesting, explorative changes and feelings of both the uncertain and dreamy.

This is a great package and showcase for an innovator who is sadly missed and often forgotten in the story of electronic and analogue evolution. Proving just as fresh, alive and futuristic as the day they were recorded, these experiments perfectly balance out the more rhythmic encounters of the first album. Both releases are perfect examples of Conrad’s art form and constant motivation to explore and experiment. Nothing short of revelations from a back catalogue and library of electronic play and inventiveness that needs to be in the public realm and celebrated. Don’t choose, but put both releases on your wish list.

___/THE SOCIAL PLAYLIST VOLUME 96__

The Social Playlist is an accumulation of music I love and want to share; tracks from my various DJ sets and residencies over the years; and both selected cuts from those artists, luminaries we’ve lost and those albums celebrating anniversaries each month.

Running for over a decade or more now, Volume 96 is the latest eclectic and generational spanning playlist come radio show from me – the perfect radio show in fact, devoid of chatter, interruptions and inane self-promotion.

Each month I mark the passing of those artists we’ve recently lost, and during the last four weeks both Clem Burke (an oft Mod Ramone for the kicks, stalwart and force behind Blondie, and numerous collaborations, sit-ins) and David Thomas (the iconic frontman of the cult Pere Ubu).

In the Anniversary albums category, there’s tracks from Joan Baez’s Diamonds & Rust (released 50 years ago this mont), Roland Haynes2nd Wave (another 50th), Prince’s Around The World In A Day (40 years old this exact week), the Aphex Twin’s …I Care Because You Do (30 this month), Pavement’s Wowee Zowee (also 30 this month), the Tindersticks celebrated self-titled LP of 1995, and The BooksLost And Safe (20 this month).

Amongst a selection of tracks from across the ages, the genres, and from across the world, there’s a smattering of recentish tracks from MC Paul Barman, Che Noir, Marcelo D2, Eiko Ishibasi and Leah Neal.

__/TRACKLIST____

Blondie ‘Dreaming’
Pere Ubu ‘Modern Dance’
Leah Neal ‘Down On The Freeway’
Joan Baez ‘Simple Twist Of Fate’
Eiko Ishibasi ‘Trial’
Che Noir ‘Bow And Arrow’
Erick Cosaque ‘An madam cadimalade’
Roland Haynes ‘2nd Wave’
MC Paul Barmen ‘Pearl Of Light’
Prince ‘America’
Pavement ‘Fight This Generation’
Pere Ubu ’49 Guitars And One Girl’
Aphex Twin ‘Next Heap With’
The Books ‘Vogt Dig For Kloppervok’
Marcelo D2 ‘LUCIDEZ
Agincourt ‘Going Home’
Tindersticks ‘No More Affairs’ The Anderson Council ‘Do You Remember Walter’
Kak ‘Electric Sailor’
Suburban Studs ‘PUTIN’S BOMB’
Blondie ‘Love At The Pier’
Autosalvage ‘Rampart Generalities’
Buffalo ‘Ballad Of Irving Fink’
Robert Dick ‘Third Stone From The Sun’
Blondie ‘Kung Fu Girl’
Chandra ‘Get It out of Your System’
Pere Ubu ‘Love Is Like Gravity’
Thee U.F.O ‘Kranke Schussel’
Romeo Void ‘Six Days and One’
Teisco ‘Vision of Shore’

Now For The Pleading:

Hi, my name is Dominic Valvona and I’m the Founder of the music/culture blog monolithcocktail.com For the last ten years both me and the MC team have featured and supported music, musicians and labels we love across genres from around the world: ones that we think you’ll want to know about. No content on the site is paid for or sponsored, and we only feature artists we have genuine respect for /love or interest in. If you enjoy our reviews (and we often write long, thoughtful ones), found a new artist you admire or if we have featured you or artists you represent and would like to say thanks or show support, than you can now buy us a coffee at https://ko-fi.com/monolithcocktail 


Fiction/Selection/Dan Shea






The Monolith Cocktail has coaxed a number of guest spot contributions from the impassioned and adroit musician/writer Dan Shea. Roped into his family’s lo fi cult music business, The Bordellos, from a young age, the candid but humble maverick has gone onto instigate the chthonian Vukovar (currently working through a trio of ‘greatest hits’ packages here) and, with one part of that ever-shambling post-punk troupe, musical foil Buddy Preston, the seedy bedsit synth romantics Beauty Stab (who’ve just this week released their second single ‘French Film Embrace’, here)

An exceptional talent (steady…this is becoming increasingly gushing) both in composing and songwriting, the multi-instrumentalist and singer is also a dab hand at writing. For his debut, Dan shared a grand personal ‘fangirl’ purview of major crush, the late Rowland S. Howard (which can be found here), on the eve of Mute Records appraisal style celebration reissue of his highly influential cult albums ‘Teenage Snuff Film’ and ‘Pop Crimes’. This was followed by an often difficult, unsettling, potted with dark comedy, read on Dan’s friend and foil Simon Morris (of the Ceramic Hobs infamy; the piece can be read here), who took his own life last year.

Now, from his lockdown quarantine, Dan has been providing us with a weekly series of ‘imaginary film screening jukebox’ selections come loose horror and increasingly unfathomable Lynchian, cloaked autobiographical, fictions.



#5

Xiu Xiu – The Wrong Thing

 

Ronnie was dead to begin with.

I dunno if it was years or days or weeks between the resurrection and her disappearing into the plug hole. Truth be told I remember it being a bath and I may have had one for a while but I don’t know. I just know that me and Gretchen always look into the drain in case she catches us at it. That’s also why I stand G over the drain: so R could peer straight up and maybe consider that I was right and that heterosexuality is just a lie.

“It’s just a lie she tells to her friends”

I move then she moves. An electric purple shuffle stains my eyes and fingers. I told her the Back To The Future nonce joke. She told me the only crowd I’d ever attract was flies.

I told her about the yellow dog then we discussed whether or not dogs could be blonde. This woman will make me a better human being even if I’m not sure that she exists and the feeling is mutual. I don’t want to chance putting Lynch films on around her. Xiu Xiu is close to the bone enough given the connections.

“(My name redacted)”

“Yeah Gerst?”

“Do you remember the princess who lived on the hill? Who loved you even when she knew you were wrong?”

I take her hand and look into her eyes but they’ve gone and she is looking back at me with my eyes. I hate it when this happen. I attempt to stick my fingers through my eyes into my brain to change the channel. She prevents me from doing so with an offhand murmur of “fuck’s sake”.

Performative support aside no one is “always there for you”. It’s a truth that should be more widely spoken. Sleep, death and things more important than my whining will always take precedence. I get it. And it’s a two way street, obviously. I can’t possibly always be there for you. I can try but it’s unlikely in the extreme. Even if I could, would you actually want that?



Tindersticks – A Night In

“I know you’re hurting, and I can’t be there for you”.

She lies her almost translucent head on my lap and asks me about the parts of that film she can’t see that keep sluicing into my brain. The kindness of her smile makes me feel less sick than usual. I feel instant nostalgia for this moment knowing that it will rush through our minds when one devours the other that final time while still admiring the Other’s beauty.

I tell her it as it unfolds with no forethought. How the film troubled me when he found a tape in a fridge abandoned behind his flat. Well, he’s American (albeit of Polish extraction) so he said apartment. But whatever the point was it stands. The girlfriend was then insistent that he transcribe what was on the tape.

He did in this long florid monologue that contained a lot of songs that meant a lot to him and his girlfriend. Then turned over the content of the words between the songs to Ellroy Steers. The guy who did himself in in the movie and bled on my fucking carpet. Lucky it’s a red carpet.

“Hey Tom this is just a voicemail I’m leaving so I can ask for your number so I can phone you. It’s important. It’s about the factory, and what’s left.”

That was the first entry on the tape and it’s the same in the Pulaski movie strangely. It’s the same voice: maybe it’s a prank call using a soundboard. Maybe whoever made it on the tape liked the film so used it as an intro. Maybe they related to this film as much as I do. Who can say?

I despair at the fact I can’t get Riesling from the corner shop anymore.



Cindytalk – Circle of Shit

 

“So many people are too loud. Needlessly so. Over enthusiastic about the fact they’ve remained unmurdered another day. Servile, simpering, unthinking and incapable of thinking beyond that which is in the interests of their “betters” who make in a week what we do in ten years. Every workplace I’ve had the misfortune of exchanging my precious time for money in its been the same. People who create nothing, produce nothing, and consume a steady diet of nothing. Surrounded with them. Substitute one for another and who would even know or care?”

I’m listening to goth records and drinking in the shower again as I spew this pointless angry screed into the plug hole. I’ve not even turned the water on: why pretend it’s about cleanliness? If you’ve been the places I’ve been you know you’ll never be clean again. Trust me, I’ve been places you wouldn’t shit.

Dylan had been locked in that bathroom for a long time but time has ceased to have any meaning. It was a strange thing. He had no need to eat or drink. Not that there was anything to drink: you turn the tap and all you’d get is shadows. Outside the window BLACKSHEETSOFNIGHT BLACKSHEETSOFNIGHT BLACKSHEETSOFNIGHT BLACKSHEETSOFNIGHT. I break the glass til I bleed shadow. The darkness seeps into the bathroom and I am drowned in black milk, briefly comforting me with its reminders of her velvet void.

Tried to drown himself in the bath and woke up again on the floor, as if it matters anymore. Tried to drown himself in the toilet and woke up back in place. Tried to hang himself with his belt and woke up in the same place. Downstairs the mask on the wall kept screaming and he screamed along with it. Smashed his face through the window bleeding shadow into BLACKSHEETSOFNIGHT BLACKSHEETSOFNIGHT BLACKSHEETSOFNIGHT BLACKSHEETSOFNIGHT.

The mask was a gift from Farrow for the work he’d done on Thomas Communication. Strange gnarled smile that out of the corner of his eye he noticed twitched when he didn’t think it was looking. How long need I wait for my angel? Every second yawns open for her prize. The apple I stole rotted before my eyes. I blink and I see a dignified old man with his hands folded. I smell disinfectant and the familiar stabbing pain returns in my very core.

The only way to soothe this pain is to use a vibrator: I never put it in fully just let the pulse soothe and numb til I no longer feel him inside me. But as I do this, lay on my mattress with my eyes closed I can’t but help think of Dylan stuck there. And I’m ashamed of the physical response the thought of him produces.

“If I cum thinking of a dead boy is it necrophilia?”

My art is bleeding into my surroundings again. Muttered obscenities under my breath. Thinking of that smug balding prematurely midlife faggot and his simpering entreaties to open my legs. Of the coke fuelled unpleasantness with the mole woman. Of that evening I lost my favourite jacket. I lost two notebooks, my favourite jacket and a sleeveless t shirt. Cunt.



Ceramic Hello – Binary

 

How about this one? You’ve not heard it before. I’m so jealous that you get to experience this for the first time! Such a beautiful song. My romantic ideal to both listen to minimal wave records with a headphone splitter. In a stupor in a hotel room somewhere. Eating pastrami sandwiches, naked in bed as a mute TV shows the end of a documentary on railways. We will put the sound on when the Bowie doc comes on and I’ll bore you, G, when I won’t stop going on about his cheekbones.

L showed up and was magnetic as usual. One of the few people who just the appearance of makes me a bit happier. I keep having dreams where I’m pregnant somehow and she’s delivering my baby. Well I say it’s a baby. She is kind enough to always look amused by my prematurely senile rambling but I get the feeling she’s worried I may try to kidnap her at some point. Lunch with her and the swastika girl.

I brought up the ritual to her and she ushered me out into the smoking area where we sat nursing pints of Cwtch. Inside the bar a live Van Halen drum solo played: the place was really going downhill since it changed management. The bar staff were sartorially disappointing. We talked about this for a bit and I again mentioned my enjoyment of her Jessica Fletcher t shirt then we returned to discussing the ritual.

“So Dan what did you do in this ritual? This is all very vague. Reminds me of the story about you drinking two bottles of white wine, staring into a scrying mirror and the woman from some 80s goth band showing up in your living room.”

“You know full well that happened you came round to check I wasn’t lying”

“It sounds like you got pissed and took the wrong dosage of your meds, which you shouldn’t be drinking anywhere near the amount you do with, then started having hallucinations again. It’s like when you shaved all your hair off, kept it in a box and then covered every reflective surface.”

I described what happened, the bloated foetal figure that raped my mind forcing me to submit to the ritual. The floor of flesh criss-crossed with veins. And other things around the same time. The hairless inside-out dogs that prowled outside in my back yard when they thought no one was looking. The swollen faced children that I saw washing Carter’s car. And how I had no choice but to lose her again down the plug hole.

She sat watching me explain this with a curious expression. Sphinx like. Then she calmly unbuttoned my shirt, put her cigarette out on my chest and kissed me harsh as barbed wire. Told me I’d kill for her and I agreed. A kiss that drew blood. She forced me to kneel under the table, twisted her fingers round my hair and then right then and there I ate her out in the cold sea air.

That didn’t happen. I wish it did. A crazed public sexual encounter would have been far less troubling. The curious expression part was true. She leaned in close:

“When did we first meet?”

“When I moved here two years ago. I walked into this bar because Lou Reed was playing.”

“No. It was in the snow. You lay your head in my lap and you bled to death. When you mentioned Carter then”

A pause.

“It took me back to that classroom. 2008. Do you remember?”

“You tell me, Ariel”

“In that reality the holes opened wider than ever in the sky. You lay with what was left of your head in my lap, bleeding. I kissed what was left of your face then blackness. We began again.”

I draw a line under the rest of that evening. Even as naked as I leave myself writing this there are some secrets need to be kept.

That Ceramic Hello track isn’t on the CD reissue copy I’ve got, annoyingly.



Psychic TV – The Orchids

 

Her winter kiss won’t leave my skin.

4

1

5

Don’t come home with that smell on your breath. Don’t beat your head over and over into walls out of self loathing. Don’t blame me for your sickness. I’m ill too. I’ll always be there for you as the unbearable closeness becomes a prison limbo as desire is gone.

Her winter kiss imprinted bruise. Monochrome preferably a room almost empty. We turn the volume up. Double knot, double cross. I’ll show you loss.

The smell of incense in the air the smell of her on my finger tips. I pull back the curtain and I see him there. Carter. A swollen, red faced man. In beige slacks and a blue shirt, buttons strained by his fat hairy stomach. Look I need you to see him in your mind’s eye. Slip ons. Grey thinning hair, strands falling onto that baboon face. He “speaks” in bestial groans, grunts splatter the world. The bruise faced kids in their underwear cleaning his car, til he smacks one of them and they all file back into his house.

I think of what he was in the Other World and what he is in this one two and know what I need to do. This is an important decision I do not make lightly. Please don’t understand me too quickly.

I confided my intentions in her but I did it silently and I cannot be sure she knows what I mean. This is a common issue.

3

4

3

 

30

-24

4

L/G slides into view. Her winter kiss won’t leave my breath.

“Dan?”

“Yeah.”

“The world is growing louder”

She saw the holes widen in the sky. She knew all that had happened. Once I broke the barrier of her resistance she believed me about the ritual. Something is happening here. Something new. Her name meanders through the echoes of mine. She’s seen the movie, you know? She’s seen it.



Fleetwood Mac – Gypsy

 

“SHOUTING. I was. In the street. I had no idea what was going on. I went to the Conti for a beer and it was shut. At 2 in the afternoon on a Saturday, I ask you. I mean last time I went there I did get my dick out and have a widdle on Hugh Cornwell but my shoddy behaviour is no reason to punish everyone else”

G/L laughed.

“Is that a woman laughing? You could’ve told me. I shouldn’t be on speaker phone with a young lady present. I’ve no trousers on! It’s not right!”

She laughed so much that if I really studied her I could see individual muscles contract. I did and I did yeah She is saving my life.

“So I checked at the Ferret as well. Beer Snob Billy told me they had Cwtch on and the jukebox is pretty good. It’s a digital bitch, you can have Nina Simone or Skullflower on. All sorts of loud penis music like your band. That was shut as well so I went home. Then I looked at my neighbours doorstep paper. There’s this disease that makes people act like poofs and not leave their house.”

 

LIGHTNING STRIKES MAYBE ONCE MAYBE TWICE.

I told Mad ‘Mad’ Tony about the ritual and he told me about his latest imaginary girlfriend. He said he was going to have an imaginary affair with Gersten. He told me he’d have an imaginary threesome with us then I could hear him raising his eyebrows as he dropped his burner phone in the bath.

“One day we need to meet Mad Tony then go to Lonely People. You can do your Gordon Cole voice and yell at people pretending to be a tourist.”

She did that “expectant canine” expression American women do at you and then smiled, half her face first then the other half warming up when I laughed and told her how cute it was. Bless her she always looks confused. I wish I was an American. An American woman in particular. Everything’s new to them. Showing a Yorkshire pudding to an American woman is the most fun you can have legally.

A middle class family sat in their dining room talking in hushed tones of the horrific injuries the survivors had sustained. Talk of fissures and gaping, horrific injuries. Fog is slowly filling the dining room. A Duke Ellington record plays but the needle is stuck so it sounds like NON. They don’t seem to notice the noise or fog. They prattle on in stilted RP tones about how awful the whole thing was but they can’t stop talking about it, cunts.

G wakes me up.

“Carter. You know what you have to do don’t you?”

I have to pause as it’s a big decision. But if this is what is necessary to keep Louise/Ronnie/Gersten then I’ll do it. Fuck it. I’ll do it twice. While she watches. Then we’ll go home, still a bit bloodied, and watch a rerun of a mid 80s Top of the Pops in her bed. Just another hit and run.

“Do you want to be there when it happens?”

Her eyes go full circle and her grip on me tightens. Every breath a silent movie heroine. Trust me enough to deem me translucid. Your eyes widen and I’m snagged in your leopard print and wide eyed enthusiasm. I can’t face watching you disappear.



Tom Waits – Alice

 

I told her about the dreams where I’m pregnant and she asked was it with her genius or what? Reality moves faster than experimental fiction. Sometimes slower but if you know you know.

Suddenly I feel the pain pulsing in my head as I lay my head in Ariel’s lap. The blood gushing rushyrushrushyrush from my wound as the CRISP CLEAR snow falls. She strokes my remains before the moment of calcification. She tells me I did the right thing and I’ll do it again. I flash forward to her drinking a gin sour in leopard print before Ritual Night.

Addiction is the anus of art.

Death is the absence of work.

L pegs me in my living room. Whispering in my ear “he has to go”. She puts cigarettes out on my nipples when the moon talks. She refills my glass. When we’re out of booze she pisses on me, as delightful as ever. I yawn for her prize.

Shambling unshaven neurotic wreck. But she sees something in me.

Burn me again and again.

The sun spills over her in all her eye popping enthusiasm. I normally hate this but I’m being suckered in. Has she seen what I have? I believe she has. I believe she has. The dogs pace rotting back and forth. She’ll stroke them. Til Carter is gone and, presumably, they disappear. Then we will harness the frozen moon til delirium kills me.

I crawl through the passages under Dylan’s home. I bleed shadows into insignificant interior. No one and nothing is unforgettable.

Sometimes in my mind’s eye she is cowering and shivering at the sounds I pull from her. Inciting silence, compassionate construction. Nothing is granted my Mermaid but my submission. Crash in and take over my life. Let’s do this.

Previously 

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four