Crow Asia Magic Hour (eleventh letter to Lowri)

I got much more black against white football action than I expected last night in Gullivers. The Starlight Magic Hour played quite late. They were not a team in the world cup as I’m sure you know, anyway there weren’t enough of them to take on the bolshy vics of Crow Asia! They are a six man band who play rowdy knees up drinking songs. Sometimes they have a violin, sometimes three guitars. Seb White MP, who has recently been appointed Minister of Rocking after Morrissey resigned in disgust at Bengalis wearing platform boots, also plays in one of Manchester’s best bands The Yossarians and another guitarist also fronts horror glambangers Mold. Their set started at the time the Inglund Crow Asia match should have finished, but our proud team were so upset at the resignation of national Latin prattle hero Boris Johnson they didn’t get enough goals in so had to do some overtime. I expect each one of them got paid enough money to cover the wages of twenty nurses for a year. I was glad Inglund got knocked out during The Starlight Magic Hour because if they’d won the cup the slimy corrupt Tory backstabbers would have just used it as propaganda to obscure their proto-fascist evil. I think the best team won as Crow Asia did a dribble past stint that kept the ball away from the whites’ feet for so long that even I actually began to enjoy watching football instead of just making sarcastic commentator lampoon remarks like “And a man has just kicked a ball!” and “The ball bounces, as usual!” Luckily I was amongst a gathering who didn’t take football seriously enough to get upset by such pseudo-Partridgism. The most interesting thing about the match was the advert for “McDelivery.” I wondered if this is what foul cow murderers McDonalds call their planet raping toxicity in Russia? I imagined a literal muck delivery happening during the match, so the players had to kick the ball about in a sea of slurry: a real shitkicker of a game. The match was projected on the wall at the back of the stage before The Starlight Magic Hour played and I worried that the ball might get kicked through the screen and knock over a microphone stand. Downstairs at the bar I met Louise Woodcont who was also not concerned about football as she told me she’d wasted too much energy on it when she was younger. Brian who I met at the Vital Idles gig was also there and I told him about the strange surprise you gave me at the time of Inglund’s first cup match. I got almost as rowdy as a ball fan to “Safe European Home” by The Clash. I’ve certainly wasted a hell of a lot more energy jumping around and shouting along to The Clash than kicking balls or shouting at men kicking balls and some older friends tell me The Clash were the best band they ever saw. Anyway to take the stage after one of the finest rock’n’roll tunes in existation is a challenge the red boiler suit clad Caroline Rose was up to. Luckily she soon brought the stage back and played some very danceable anthems with her gender balanced band and got everyone down the front doing the Woodcock. She showed us her pussy. I mean she showed us her fluffy toy cat that sat on her keyboard. She also had fake red flowers all over her microphones. I found myself wiggling about just behind Lou and next to the helpful fellow from Fopp who knew exactly which DVD I was after when I asked him if they had “That film about the alien woman who kills men in Scotland.” Just past him was Rivca Burns, who luckily was not literally burning although if she had been we were all close enough to the new fire exit to get out in a hurry.

Some of this letter has been fake news, in honour of the glorious king of the free world, Donald Duck. I would like to credit you and any other nosy parker reading this with enough intelligence to know the difference between bullshit and dog shit. Please click my like button as myself is steam and I only live for likes. Fake news! Fake news!

Bonus points to anyone who can recognise the film about the alien woman who kills men in Scotland.

Vital Idle Plant Mystery (tenth letter to Lowri)

On a Sunday trip to Sale Water Park just past the Chester Road Bridge I was waylaid by a young man with a bike who’d seen something strange in Bridgewater Canal. Bottles, cans, plastic bags, footballs, fish, ducks, swans, geese: these are the indigenous flora and fauna of Bridgewater Canal. How had a cannabis plant ended up a hand span underwater? Obviously he needed advice from a person with longer hair than his, as everyone knows that knowledge of cannabis sativa increases in direct proportion to hair length. We marvelled a moment at this biological conundrum, until I hit upon a possible aquatic sativa hypothesis: someone had feared a police raid and hidden their plant in the canal where they could return later and fish it out. On returning a few hours later, the mysterious hash plant was gone. What really went on there? Had the mysterious plant been rescued by a pot diver? Had stoner swans nibbled it all up? Maybe a disgruntled lover had tried to drown it in a jealous rage.

Disgruntled partner: “Yo love yo spliff more ‘un me!”

Gruntled partner: “Too right, innit bro!”

Disgruntled partner: “I’m drownin’ yo plant in the canal.”

Gruntled partner: “Ha ha ha! No one talks to me like that! No one talks to anyone like that!”

The mystery of how a large cannabis plant made a brief guest appearance in the canal will probably always remain. In the end it’s just another silly story to tell someone in Brazil. It could have been a male plant as the males just don't get you high!

Facebook has been so useful these past few days, reminding me it’s my birthday soon. What would I do without these constant tedious reminders? Maybe watch the world cup final? On Monday Simon the signer-onner wished me happy birthday for next Sunday, and told me it was also the day of the cup final. How fishy that I hadn’t even realised this! Sun Ra’s weird and wonderful “Space is the Place” film is showing at Home and that’s more my cup of Saturnic jazz. If England play Saturn in the final your waters will have been proven half right. Whoever wins, it’s an exciting time for Mediterranean vegetables, as courgettes and aubergines are on special offer at Aldi, or All Die as I call it in a questionable attempt at “black humour.” I’ve never heard people talk of “white humour.” Is this racist?

Through the window of a 15 bus I saw a cyclist with an anti-fracking banner balanced precariously on the back of her bike so I knew I’d got the right day for the protest against frackers Cuadrilla and their appeal to extend an injunction against protesters at the Preston New Road fracking site. It turned out that this was Amy S. Olive who I’d met once before at an Acorn Tenants Union meeting. Minnie Mirshahi had told me about this demo, but she didn’t make it herself even though she lives just round the corner at Islington Mill. She must have been busy Minnying elsewhere. A huge amount of statements in opposition to the appeal had been delivered earlier, so the appeal was going to go on much longer than just that morning. When I arrived at the county court I pushed the number of protesters into double figures. Most of them were dressed in yellow, but I was dressed in red, just like those confusing world cup matches. Fifteen people turned up to protest, and most of us left just after midday for some lunch at the nearby People’s History Museum, kindly bought for us all by a sweet old lady called Julie who was wearing a pro-immigration Paddington bear T-shirt. We all got to know each other a bit better over lunch, and somehow I ended up giving the last four remaining protestors an acapella rendition of “It’s a Heatwave!” A girl called Samar said, “I don’t think I would like this band.” 

It was nice of the government to pay my travel expenses for a day of protesting against their fracking foolishness, but I had to sacrifice two and a half hours to job searching at Standguide on Piccadilly Plaza. This is a company who are paid by the government to help people find work. This amounts to providing a slower internet connection than the public libraries so is a pointless waste of tax money. I amused another job searcher by telling him I might well try to find work by writing an article about Standguide for a newspaper, but I’ve been threatening to do this for well over a year without actually bothering to do it.

Later in Vinyl Exchange Joel the bassist of the excellent Easter sold me two CDs by American psychedelic primitives Carlton Melton and Australia’s most sensitive and philosophical band, Cosmic Psychos. I crossed the road to Piccadilly Records to flip through lots of vinyl I can’t afford to buy and was greeted by the very familiar tones of “The Fifteenth” by Wire. I punched the air and shouted “Yes!” like a football fan whose squid propelled wheelbarrow has just scored a goal, and sang the whole song whilst Andy whooped from the counter. It was the fish teeth! Fifteen people had been protesting outside the county court, and the fifteenth is also my birthday. There was a silent spell afterwards so whether they liked it or not I gave them an acapella rendition of “The Other Window,” the next song from “154.” Great music followed me about as I was slightly amazed that they were playing The Stranglers “Golden Brown” in Nationwide Building Society so I got to do a bit more punk rock karaoke. Outside on Market Street a very good rasta singer was singing reggae karaoke, with a friend on bongos, so I stuck around to listen until he finished his busk by singing Bob Marley’s “Redemption Songs” with an acoustic guitar instead of a backing track. I went for an organic cider in an almost deserted Peer Hat, where it seemed that someone had stolen poor Michelle Woods’ bag with her house keys and other valuables. Aki the artist turned up for the life drawing class in Aatma, and whilst he waited cut out some ugly Donald Trump heads from old flyers for a play so I could use them to make a hideous sign to hold on Friday’s anti-Trump demo. I met Julie again at the anti-Trump mobilisation meeting but was slightly disappointed that none of the speakers mentioned his despicable war on elephants, although Trump is guilty of so much bullshit we’d have been there well into the next day if it all got spoken about.

 I couldn’t believe I was actually at a musical concert for the first time since Friday. It had been so long I’d almost forgotten what gigs were like: the roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd. This was actually a relatively small crowd who were not at all smelly. The upstairs room in Marble is quite small and hot so we were all glad about that. According to my friend Vicky Middles, Dinosaur Jr fans are the smelliest. I think she may be wrong and Stranglers fans might be smellier. The only person I know in Manchester who might possibly make it to more gigs than me is Cath Aubergine and she was there, as was Laurence who occasionally puts on nice quiet gigs where he gives everyone cakes he bakes. Downstairs at the bar I got talking to a guy called Brian because he was wearing a Sonic Youth “Confusion is Sex” T-shirt. It turned out he was just three years old when I saw Sonic Youth for the first time, supported by Mudhoney at Kilburn National on the “Daydream Nation” tour. I told him it was the most excited I’d ever been at a gig, yes, even including Hotpants Romance gigs!  I am so sorry. How can you ever forgive me? We exchanged opinions on the relative merits of various Sonic Youth albums and it turned out we both liked Lee’s songs the most. The extraordinary drummer Andrew Cheetham of Easter was there too, along with Nick Ainsworth of Former Bullies and Secret Admirer. The always amiable RL Perry had put the gig on and even after a few drinks he was still Comfortable on a Tightrope. It was the second time I’d seen Wurms and the first time I’d seen Vital Idles. Both bands sing out of tune so I think you would have appreciated them. Vital Idles remind me a little of early Wire, but much more ramshackle. The drummer of Vital Idles seemed quite familiar but I couldn’t place him at first until I realised it was Matt, who used to go out with our firm friend Kate Armitage. It was uncannily funny that I was carrying my important papers and water in the Hotpants Romance shoulder bag that Kate gave me when I went round to her posh flat for an emergency shower, as for the rest of the anti-leather jacket heatwave I’d been using a Talk Normal shoulder bag. It was nice to see Matt again even without his beard, and it struck me as funny that the night his band were playing Manchester Kate was playing a gig in London. Then again maybe I am just easily amused. 

I am now using the free newspaper with a picture of that relentless incompetent bozo Boris Johnson wearing a silly helmet and waving a Union Jack to mop up water that leaks from my fridge, drowning him in effigy.

A Half True Story (ninth letter to Lowri)

Friday night was time for a Beauty Witch gig put on by Sammy Powell who can always be relied on to pick a quality ear battering bill. Before Cattle stampeded through Soup Kitchen I met Penfold Kowalski outside who gave me a nice big hug then chatted with Miriam Ma Ve and Sam and his sister Amy inside, as another confusing game of reds vs yellows screened. It would be so much easier to understand football if one team always played nude. Said hello to Nick Georgieu, Karl Astbury and Al Wilson. Look at me name dropping in a pathetic attempt to get more people to hit my “like” button. This was the fourth time I’d let Leeds noise punks Cattle do battle with my hearing. Their double drummer dynamism always gets me moving, and they were my favourite band at this year’s Sounds from the Other City. Every time I’ve seen them the screamer has worn a black MC5 T-shirt. I wonder if he always wears it or if he has a wardrobe full of black MC5 T-shirts?

It was a gig of two halves where anything could happen. In the break between the first and second half of the Soup Kitchen gig, I headed over to the Peer Hat just in time to see Heather Glazzard’s short film about the “True Story” of a beautiful funny woman with pink hair buying a sea fish to carry around. The soundtrack was silly burps and grunts, and there was a surprise guest appearance from a cheeky naked lobster. The pink haired woman seemed a very charming and stylish person, and I predict this will be the high fashion statement of the season. By the end of the summer I expect to see Ely Grey, Heather Glazzard, Jen Wu, Simon Morris, Rachel Goodyear, Martin Warmwidow, Stuart Calton, the facebook free Kate Armitage and everyone else who watched stripping naked and carrying fish around. If England win the world cup all the fans will surely strip naked and carry fish all over Russia to show how much they care!

The second half of the gig had just kicked off when I made it back to Soup Kitchen basement and the Cosmic Dead were taking off on a heavy psychedelic trip to the extreme frontiers of loudness. They’d recently lost half the band, but had luckily found another half who seemed even noisier. Afterwards the prolific Vacuous Otiosus gave me a couple of CDRs he’d recently recorded, “Elitism for the Masses” and “The Burning Mountain” which has a drawing of a squid in a wheelbarrow on the cover. Sample lyric from Squid Treatise: “If I was 98 % chlorine I’d be less happy than I am. Fish identifies locust container. Could a squid in a wheelbarrow propel itself? If so, a staggering invention! Replace all professional footballers with squid in wheelbarrows: much cheaper and probably infinitely more entertaining!” The bouncer bounced everyone up the stairs and out before I could buy a Cattle or Cosmic Dead record. I hung around a while outside Soup Kitchen with Isadora Darke, Jamie Robinson, Sophie Bee and Al Wilson before heading back to the Peer Hat for more cider and chat. And more cider and chat. And more cider and chat and some dancing. I’d better also mention Michelle Woods, Anne Louise Kershaw and Maria Gutierez in a cynical attempt to increase the “like” factor as I definitely spoke with them on Friday night. I ended up heading upstairs to Aatma with Andrew Guest and a few other people where Dom Jam and Liam Farr kept going until 9am. I started to walk home, but instead found myself wandering aimlessly around Poundworld. I was very disappointed to find they had no worlds for sale in their sale. No wonder they are closing down. After buying a chocolate soya milk sugar fix and booking my face at the library I felt like strolling pointlessly around the city centre and eventually found myself in Vinyl Exchange where for a fiver I bought a CD from Rae Donaldson called “mmmr” by guitarists Loren Mazzacane Connors, Jean-Marc Montera, Thurston Moore and Lee Ranaldo.

I walked home along Bridgewater Canal just after the England Sweden world cup game began. I wanted to get out of the city in case England lost and drunken fans turned nasty. People were crammed together in and around pubs straining to see the digitised match. “Get out of the way you prick,” shouted one drinker repeatedly at a possibly E’d up grinning guy who was prancing about in front of a screen at a pub near Castlefield Arena. I made sure I squeezed past behind the angry fan to avoid any unnecessary trouble on my way to the nearby bridge over the canal. As I headed towards Cornbrook the uproar of men in ball kicking ecstacy receded, replaced by the whooshing of trams. From a distance it sounded like a choir of intoxicated lads were singing, “She’s coming home! She’s coming home! Lowri’s coming home!”

A gang of kids had gathered under a bridge and were sitting on the towpath, completely blocking it, except for one girl who began repeatedly shouting, “Get up! There’s someone coming!” as I approached. As I reached the bridge she told me I’d have to jump over her friends as they wouldn’t get up, but then they all stood up to let me past, laughing. I told them they were lucky I didn’t try to jump over them as I might have landed on one of them and injured them. Perhaps they are sporting innovators who will grow up to introduce Kid Leaping to the Olympics. Just past Old Trafford football ground a dead fish about the size of a tennis racket was floating on its side slowly towards the city centre. Its head had almost been cut off and drifted at a right angle to its silvery glinting carcass, on which seven bright emerald green flies were feasting. I’d already stripped half naked for the first time this heatwave. You can probably guess which half. No, I was not carrying my black jeans. If I’d fished the fish out of the canal and carried it home, then I could have made my own “True Story,” but I’m just not stylish enough to carry it off. It was very hot and I didn’t want to smell of that damned fish! A relevant fish song:

The Damned – Fish

Lowri wrote that she was surprised but not surprised that I saw a dead fish in the canal. I replied:

Surprised but not surprised? A rational fish response dictates that I am choosing and editing experiences that relate to earlier experiences. If Lowri had carried a dead heron around for “True Story,” I would instead have mentioned the fish eating heron that landed on the opposite side of the canal when I sat down to cool my feet off. The rational response would also say that a dead fish in a canal is in itself not a particularly rare or special thing, but where’s the magic in that? Had Lowri never invited me to watch “True Story” I may well have still seen that dead fish and thought nothing of it. I’d never have described it, or counted the flies on it and would probably have quickly forgotten 

Aphex Tot Revelation (eighth letter to Lowri)

Three days ago I had no idea I’d be sitting in a church with a colourful psychedelic stained glass window of Jesus standing on a rainbow over a yellow brick road whilst a four year old boy played his techno track. “This is my song. It’s called Ready Penny,” said the happy child with big yellow ear protectors. I thought he’d said the song was called Bawdy Pepé but I’d have been surprised if that was what he actually said! From where I was sat I could only see his head over the table on which his laptop perched. I think he might have had a little help from his dad who was sat nearby. I’d never been to St John’s Church on Ayres Road in Trafford before, and the reason I’d walked there was to hear Noise Orchestra, the duo of David Birchall and Vicky Clarke who play self-built light activated synthesisers and samplers. When they played techno boy stole the show by running up the aisle with a phone to take a couple of pictures. I should have asked him to send me a copy as some say a picture is worth a thousand words. I suppose that depends on which picture and which thousand words. Vicky waved a torch over a light senser to make rhythmic noise. Maybe it was a magic torch as I zoned out for a while and started hallucinating that I was on a train and could hear a conductor talking. I’d had my eyes closed for a while so afterwards had to ask Alexa Kruger and Kelly Jayne Jones if there had been some vocal samples. Indeed there was and afterwards Dave showed Kev Craig and I the wooden boxes with basic samplers and varispeed loopers that they’d used. I’d actually used one of these at Seed Studios which is nearby in Trafford Wellbeing Centre and had organised this church gig. Dave and Vicky had held a workshop there, showing people how to make a small light activated synthesiser. From now on I would like to call people who play techno on a laptop techtoppers. The last techtopper played from the pulpit which reminded me when Kev sang for Last Harbour from the pulpit of Sacred Trinity Chapel in Salford. I wonder what St John would have made of all this. Maybe it would have given him another Revelation?

A Beautiful Place (seventh letter to Lowri)

The most beautiful place I know in Manchester is Broad Ees Dole nature reserve, between Sale Water Park and the River Mersey. On Wednesday afternoon I walked there and ended up staying there until 7pm. I walked along Bridgewater Canal, turning off at the path that doubles back under the canal and tramway and leads to Stretford Ees. There I headed across “A Field In England” which is what I call the grassy field between the footpath running alongside the tramway and the Mersey, because it reminds me of the film of that name which I watched shortly after moving to Streford. Crickets were making enough leg rubbing racket to almost drown the rumble of the trams. Electric blue dragonflies hovered and butterflies fluttered in the tall grass. At the pond in the corner a moorhen scuttled into the water, looking like it was running on water. Maybe it was a Jesus moorhen. I climbed over the damaged fence and got onto the river path, following it back to the footbridge and tram bridge where I could turn right back to Stretford or left to Sale Water Park or follow the Mersey upstream. I took the high path upstream, and this is where there are three openings to footpaths through Broad Ees Dole. All but the signed path are hard to spot, and even that isn’t obvious, so I hardly ever see anyone in there. The people who do walk there often stop and talk, like we’re part of some special club who know a secret place. Inside Broad Ees Dole is thick woodland and the trees shelter the animals from the hot sun. I’ve seen a stoat darting about there in the past, but this time the only mammal I saw was a squirrel. Soon there will be small brown frogs crawling about and I’ll have to watch my step to avoid squashing them. It’s quite marshy there but the muddy ground had turned hard from the heatwave so it was possible to walk to parts normally inaccessible, and I found a huge fallen tree with roots exposed and a little grotto where the tree cover was lighter and the sun shone through turning the leaves bright green. The stagnant water nearby had attracted clouds of mosquitos, and one bite on my right arm is about the size of a peach stone! If it wasn’t for the mosquitos I could have stayed there for hours, looking at a different view of natural beauty each time I turned my head. I always lose sense of time there and spend much longer than I thought I had listening to the birds singing, the wind rustling the leaves and the distant drone of the cars on the motorway. There are always a few reminders of human activity, but I take a plastic bag and pick up all the litter. I am the bane of future archaeologists. When I first cleared the litter a few years ago there were a lot of very old cans full of earth and I made them into a pyramid near the signed entrance. I pinned a note to the sign explaining that it was art installation. It was literally a pile of garbage, and that might have been what I called it, but I don’t remember. The most interesting thing for me was seeing how long it would stay there before someone destroyed it. Some of the cans in the pyramid had been dropped a long time ago as they had old style corporate logos. In the end it took a few months before all the cans were kicked down. I really didn’t expect it to last that long, and the writing on the note had faded completely before the pyramid was toppled. I gathered the strewn cans, washed them in the Mersey and put them in a recycling bin. As I walked back downstream along the Mersey, a heron flew over making a loud squawk. I picked up all the litter I saw on my way home. I stopped at the side of the canal to watch a mother duck and seven tiny ducklings nibbling at moss, then on the far bank of the canal I saw something I’d never seen before in Manchester: a nightingale. What a rare bird!

Jali and Minnie (sixth letter to Lowri)

Monday was mundane but Tuesday was great, full of last minute plans that all worked out very nicely. Jali the kora player was out busking on the hideous brutal concrete concourse of Piccadilly Plaza. I first heard Jali busk with the brilliant drummer Charles Hayward of This Heat at a more unorthodox Fat Out event: an improvised busk in Piccadilly, Manchester. Jali was there with his dancing friend the same time last week and brings much needed beauty to the dreary architecture. I’d love to pull down those big concrete barriers and replace them with trees. The old Piccadilly Gardens was so much nicer, a sunken walkway past flower beds, but old tramps gathered there so they had to be modernised away by the council. At least little kids love splashing about in the fountains when they are actually working, especially in this heatwave. I got a sugar fix as chocolate soya milk was selling for just a pound on the other side of the bus stops. It’s such a shame there are so many homeless people baking in the sun. Even if I gave every one of them money it’d make no difference and I really can’t afford to do that anyway. There was a film about young DIY music promoters at Deaf Institute, and Minnie Mishahi and I took full advantage of the free drink and food. Minnie’s always finds all the free arty events with free booze’n’gnosh! Minnie was one of the seven people who witnessed “True Story” not involved in creating it. She’s a vivacious funny person and it’s always a joy to hang out with her. I wasn’t even bothered by her Italian friends’ expositions on the benefits of meat eating! Downstairs the reds were kicking balls past the yellows, so I got a much more conventional glimpse of world cup action than “True Story.” Well cidered, I jumped on a 43 bus to Piccadilly and rushed to Peer Hat where I’d only missed one band but there were two Scottish emo-punk trios yet to play. I only listened to Carson Wells for the first time that afternoon on youtube and hadn’t heard Please, Believe! before so it was a nice surprise how much I enjoyed the latter. I enjoyed them so much I even shelled out a fiver for a CD. I love hearing a great band for the first time at a gig. Upstairs the regular Peer Hat crowd were celebrating the reds winning. Let’s hope the reds win the next general election and save us from the blues, even though I prefer the greens.

Smells Like Improvisation (fifth letter to Lowri)

I like the fact that almost every time I go to Chorlton I bump into someone I know. In Stretford the only people I tend to meet who I know are David Birchall and his partner in love Helen Brealey who live quite close to where I live. On Saturday I bumped into audio-visual artist Andrea Pazos on the till of Unicorn Grocery and improvising drummer Richard Harrison outside Chorlton Bookshop just as it was closing.  Richard told me he was going to see Sam and the Plants at St Margarets Church in Whalley Range that evening. I had a plan to go to see Real Terms at Aatma, but I was so tired from the heatwave I slipped into a late siesta slumber and didn’t make it out of the flat again that day.

I made it back to Soup Kitchen on Sunday for that rare thing, a very well attended improv gig, put on by Emer Emer of Fat Out. It was also the first time I’d seen chairs set out in Soup Kitchen, although my friend Martyn Walker had been to another seated gig. Not everyone got a seat as there were probably more than twice as many people as chairs. I suppose half the people could have sat on someone else’s knee, but that would have probably proved impractical for three hours. There were probably more people I know at this gig than any other I’ve been to for quite some time. Britanny Hoie was on the door and told me she’d cut all her trousers into shorts because of the heatwave. It was nice to see a few people I hadn’t seen around for a while. Alex Macarte of Gnod opened his solo set under the name Ahrkh by lighting a couple of joss sticks which was a good idea as Soup Kitchen was even smellier than Friday. It smells of cleaning fluid mostly. Alex sat cross legged in front of the stage like some yogic noise guru with a suitcase of gadgets to mutate his vocals and found sounds. He started out with quiet countryside ambience and birdsong that soon rose to a textured roaring, almost like a plane taking off. It made me think of Sale Water Park where you can hear the sounds of nature but always with the cars on the motorway in the background. It would have been easy to believe he was using multiple speakers but it was a stereo mix. The roar receded to reveal some gentle radiophonic beeping, like a rainbow over a river. More vocals transformed into layered drones, but these were not as engulfing as the initial roar. It was beautiful and violent, like nature. After he’d cleared away his gadgets the duo Mếsange appeared in front of the stage both wearing dresses, guitarist Luke Mawdsley wearing red lipstick and yellow eyebrow glitter and violin player Agathe Max with a painted on black moustache that made her look strangely like Salvador Dali. I just tried to tag Salvador Dali but I think he’s been deleted. Their music was not improvised, as Luke Mawdsley said one tune “The Cake” was from their album. Agathe mostly bowed but also plucked the violin and looped it, playing over the loop. Luke was funny to watch, pulling daft poses. Their music was elegant, intense and beautiful, and made me forget I was in a dingy smelly basement, suggesting vast mountainous landscapes. The stage had been set up with two drum kits facing each other at either end. These were played by Susie Ibarra on the left and YoshimiO of Boredoms and OOIOO on the right. YoshimiO also sang through a headset microphone and played a small synthesiser. Standing between them behind an open suitcase was Robert Aiki Aubrey Lowe. In the suitcase were the magical gizmos that transformed his vocalisations into strange new shapes whilst Yoshimi and Susie interacted with each other’s scattery clatter. Behind them was a slowly shifting projection of coloured lines. It was a unique performance that had me in a trance state for a while. Martyn had also seen them at Supersonic and said they were even better tonight. I’ve heard their recording of their first performance “Flower of Sulphur” and it’s a mere shadow of how they played tonight. Improvised music is always best heard live and documentation in the form of recordings rarely gives more than an impression of the impact of actually being there and experiencing it in the moment. They’ve also had longer to interact and get to know each other now, so consequently their playing has become more sensitive, nuanced and interesting. My friends Miriam Ma Ve and Sam told me they’d walked eighteen miles that day and they still made it to the gig! Lucky for them they arrived early enough to sit on chairs. When they left I asked them if they were going home to die. I doubt I’d make it out to a gig after walking eighteen miles in a heatwave.