Postcode Philosophy: A desperate child’s guide to rejecting a post truth world.

In 2014 the newly formed Korschian 8 Pack handed out these leaflets in Sheffield 8 declaring:


This was in response to various diseases of gloopy gangrenous thinking intended to make your head fall off.  Bleached mouths, those responsible for making Marxism so sterile you can buy the Communist Manifesto in the classics section of Waterstones. Those same bore offs you have the phrase “Philosophers have only interpreted the world the point is to change it” permanently holstered in their Karl Marx play mobil pirate gun belts of moral superiority. They misuse and abuse this phrase to reject philosophy in totality, it is true that the glorified recycling bins that are university academics (because having an original thought is too difficult)  suck on the milk of Roland Barthes breeds disregarding any attempt at truth in favour of the tiger that came to tea,  as a laser shield protecting their comfy poof in the division of labour. But as Adorno begins Negative Dialectics  “Philosophy, which once seemed obsolete, lives on because the moment to realise it was missed” The proletariats failure to seize the revolutionary moment of early 20th century and abolish the abstract lingering of intellectuals means the battle of ideas continues to be an arena  that needs contesting. The Korschian 8 pack said “rum to a donkey” if this is going to be fought institutionally.

In S8, the recent closing of the Tesco and Greggs exposed the dribbling academia’s congealed thought  into everyday life. The people of Woodseats decried the loss of their identity with the removal of these big branded shops.  Where now could they buy seductive buttery pastries from crotchety old women  or get pink wafers served by the dead town archetype cashiers chewing gum like they couldn’t give a flying fuck. All that was left was to choose to drink your lager by candlelight or next t0 a large bush. Defining ourselves by our consumerist habits is the harrowing symptom  of the post modern attitude. The response to the commercial decay of the high street emerged with the formation of the 8pack gang whose activities were formed of teenage posturing  and tagging any available wall space with 8p. One toot on a moogi synth and some people no one can even remember decided graffiti had become a wallowment in decay, they turned to the most pounciest  Hegelian Marxist Karl Korsch for a tide of localized philosophical criticism.  Korsch offered explanation of the rotting state of current ideas as a reflection of material conditions in which the working class had been defeated.  It becomes no wonder  with the working class movement at it’s lowest ebb in a century that we are drowning in a sea of robotic Marxists and wish fulfilment crushing post modernists.

The KP8 were inspired in their what  an oranjeboom officialdom on the park roundabout had called  “a silly belief in the outdated notion of truth” by the Psychedelic Bolshevik before there was Psychedelic Bolsheviks Arthur Winterbottom, who misspent his youth recreating the Lettrist International denunciation of Charlie Chaplin, until he realised this was a  Chris Collinson type Napoleonic war re-enactment of no worth. With this he lapsed into worst kind of turtle neck wearing  “Everything is just opinion”. Until as the  The Tale of Arthur Winterbottom goes he had an enlightenment.


As this extract from Arthur’s Self Published Autobiography bizarrely written in the third person shows:

“Frubing from the bureau of abbreviated thoughts thronged by medicinal thick juice bozo’s. Arthur Winterbottom, the co author of the occupational buzzards guide to retna detachment

declogged of hair braiding, Ivan Campo and Love by his annual visit to the glorious ball smackers alleviation of having to care unit, fondant fancied syringing 50p bags of putrified peace and condom flavoured sawdust from his cousins wife of public engagement and discreet danish occasions detergent popping boils. Arthur home situated ruminated on his destation of refabricated bunk ups and all the nozzle fingering it contained “nowadays”

The Wall mounted toshiba squeaked with the bean saturated expectant mother quiz rinsed in vomitous amounts of Ben Shepherd infatuation, the turquoise coloured cackles salvant of orphanising reminded him of the first gay to look at the moon commemorative mechanical prize dispenser. It had awarded his icy cheeks a green letter anal rummage sponsored aversion therapy “for those scared of being obtuse” as a recuperation for winning a contest dressed as Levi Strauss’s 97th best immitator .

Coached to the leisure spandex playpen of spectacle concocters work time personalities. Forthwith bungled inside a toilet so purple anyone in the business of creating senility would presume the invention of beetroot had been a mistake. Arthur was offered a free complimentary interaction with under tongued Gary, previously a rat hormone smuggler for an unelected governor somewhere over there. This unexpectantly blossomed into a human data analyst with benefits scenario. Post polish using the toilet for a purpose Michael Barrymore never intended for it, Arthur watched as Gaz moved towards him, pulling his foreskin back in one delicious motion, easily creating the historical conditions for a relapse into the previous moments bog roll romp, when Gary shouted with the tenderness of a beep boop modger (Phantasmagorical range)

“Do you think they mop these floors with piss”

Terrified of offending the urine sodden fag end community or sentimental skag shunning chiropodists Arthur replied “they might or might not”. No sooner had the most pointless sentence in western thought (apart from football punditry) been uttered,  fishy hunk gazbo had bodged his fingers into all available nostrils. This was insignificant considering the lavatories engulfment by a narcotically ravaged tortoise who moonlighted as a spinning joy ride. The erecticcally dysfunctional terrapin currently experimenting with a slush puppy of apocalypse now gargled burpesque the aphorism “the surrealists and their gothic marxism were the only bleached bunkers to understand Marx’s desire to have it with ghosts”

The common error in this scenario was to misunderstand the flammability of piss and misapprehend that no exits were actually closed.  After all this was nothing better than a spa resort that had gone delusional. Despite suffering from an impending sense of doom pliable to mechanistic marxism the hegelian massage qualified turtle delivered a cloth fez award winning speech on the question of truth.

“If you continue to bleat on about how everything is subjective and it is up to people to create their own truth in life, don’t be surprised when in the future a group of quasi-fascist types decide to take you up on your offer and begin to disregard what you consider to be facts like “white supremacy is wrong”. So don’t start to complain because they are only embracing their subjectivity like you told them to do, it would be highly hypocritical at this point to decide that your subjective is suddenly a truer subjectivity than the racists you have come to dislike. Wrap yourselves in a philosophy that absolves you from doing anything at all till it’s too late and criticises those who may have failed abysmally but by god least they gave it a good rattle”

Arthur wept uncontrollably, comforted by Gary who had now donned an old Raya Dunayevskaya  fancy dress costume to act as a comfort and further suggested reading”

What Arthur Winterbottom and Korsahcian 8 Pack carry with them is the dual rejection of the truth of dogmatic Marxism and untruth of post modernist despair, that there exists a point at which subjectivity interacts with objectivity, and that point might possibly contain something true.


The End of Reading Groups.

There is bound to be a sausage somewhere in Finnegan’s Wake…….

We have been accused of being obsessed with shit by Steve Lamacq and Chris Wellbeck. what do we actually want? We want Helena Beyonce Carter shot in the crossfire of Marx and Joyce. and Soggy Swanns.

This will take as many meetings as Jimmy Carl Black says man in a half an hour period. Truth being you would never want to enter someone wearing a Disney condom.

Historical necessity says we need to get across when it is:

Wednesday 15th February 7pm

The Three Cranes

Queen Street, Sheffield


and possibly say what it is

the aim is to attempt a fused, pre fused, defused reading group which simultaneously reads Karl Marx Capital Vol 1 and James Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake

to understand there undoubtable dialectical connection.

“Fight Club is Post Modern Bollocks at the Bottom” Finnegan’s Wake JJ

Pants down debrief: Pre coital sword bop review.

The Pre-coital sword bop revealed in absent minded pan scum there festers also crystalized custard crumbs of a higher unity. Unlike fumbling heavy heads our event makes no claim to a floppy snozzled salvation. Amidst ashamed acquaintance embarrassment of ending up at the political equivalent of a Texas yard sale selling bully wee hand muffers, moments (mum’s net) of hot toddie warmth and crack curdled bloodgasms trespassed. Riding on the bards wet wacker intestinal fun slide THF drenching taught us to love hosepipes and hate the clash. A hobgoblin was haunting the doorway with not quite a trumpet tickling the audience to participate. Drenching pancaked music and politics with a dose of much waited hilarity rendering drugs impossibly boring.16402865_1137568746355758_3929516683762734587_o

Finally the call for the jazzification of Mick Beck’s pond to declare against the dog choking antics of the degenerate children of aristocrats in favour of working class decadence was answered by the alcohol troughing antics of day school revelers. In the worlds most bus driver nicotined stained pub this side of a diving board Andy “I don’t listen to myself” Smith prophesied no amount of pink hat wearing can pervert the course of neo liberal decay headlong into international Frosties. The pump for the people sponsored tentacle slapped us with the engraving “it looks like its trump vs non trump”. In answer to your chant in sexual terms we prefer our belly buttons on the out. Is the confidence of the dilapidated suspender inhabitants to greet each other with the phrase  “Whats occurring Hermann Goering” enough to call fascism.

In our last bowl of bed before cereal a semi answer to the question of who it was safe to hold hands with emerged in the tri bird slosh.

Ged Colgan  absorbing water

Ged Colgan with his enviable ability to absorb water called out momentum on it’s ironic name and Sisyphus (sissy feet) antics.
Lets leave the boulder where it is and spunk communism into the clp’s and everyday life, instead of reshaping ourselves into endless blobs of ill worth. We should befriend those with cheeky smiles whoever tells the bureaucrat “We want Sex cubicles not life insurance” and take a wee nip of cough syrup to whoever tells his teacher to go back to the cupboard.

The Psychedelic Bolsheviks one theoretical contribution has been to emphasise the rightful place of bodily functions in revolutionary politics. The holy matrimony of the objective and subjective might appear shitting in a plastic bag or projectile vomiting into a shoe. The fill Mitchell idolatress North East Notman funneled us to the man murdering fictions of 3 Maria’s. M M and M literary sprongel splurged writing, masturbation and criticism to melt crispy bummed dictators. Before having understood our uncontrollable liquid seeping bodies as barricades, the Play doh version of Dada’s everyman is his own football Ben Watson,  in self turkey boasting tones attacked the swollen gusset philanderers of structuralism from old MacDonald’s hip hopinest farm. Why ask the charismatic bassey cow what it meant, how did it make your Johnson tingle.

The honorary doll maker of the dead members of Def leopard society Esther Leslie playing herself at a self inducing coma Ping-Pong ravaged us with the latest design in sky carpets. Google frazzles us with an unknowable inexistent place that inadequately stores our dreams. The PB’s stick to their philosophical pants of repeating the words dialectical and Hegel appropriately and inappropriately (Which is dialectical) until we understand nothing and hence everything. We thank everyone who attended our ramshackle barge flapper of a day without you all it would have been just the usual 2 minutes of politics and 7 hours of cock jokes.

15978236_10154210466876409_1994018010_nWe awoke at Finnegan’s Wake with drool hanging from each other, members of blur crying from Steven Edwards eyes, the dialectic was cracked, one of us was cracked, how can we now masturbate without das capital in our blurry minds eye. Hangovers taste most bitter with mackerel sweetness. We understand the next step, to read capital volume 1 and Finnegan’s wake side by side in our locality. Watch out for details!

Psychedelic Bolsheviks


Listen too  Out to Lunch’s Political Mix of the Day School <;

and check out Mordecai Watson’s Vlogs of his time in Sheffield

Creating your own personal abstract button.

48 Hours in Time, the response to the response would of aroused maybe but one grin in me surrounded by the desire that reading was not a thing at all, but we Libertarians do not mind what goes to the blog, all opinion and silliness are welcome , do we have to enjoy it? No. But after draft 1, a shower of democratic feeling reigned we should together look to edit the critique of IWW practice, Sharp political argument shrouded in the ridiculousness

It was voted no less! Those wilsoned would return with the collective power of Rupert Rung. Rupert Rung surely should have been the Jewel of The IWW’s idealist eye. Bill Haywoods Lover. After all he is imaginary either existing or not existing at the same time. As a Worker? He holds 3 jobs. As a person of the world? He muses in Chinese Restaurants and baths in the warm thoughts of the German peoples of Bonn. Primed for non-sensual polemic Rupert did divide her into his constituent’s parts, The Father, The Son and The Hegelgeist and enter reality as the psychedelic Bolsheviks, on this appearance it seems the jagged knife of bureaucracy has plunged inwards and no longer will Rupert Rungs wrath be outwards but instead a delve into his own mind.

There were valid criticisms to be made of the Hippocratic Libertarians, Rupert represented a Working Class core not invented after PHD’S, their employments came at the behest of Capitalism not organisational whim. Controversally The question is correct why would they apolitically reject these young workers from putting on a workshop? How more grass roots do you want it? But how long can the abstracted anger at the left go on as all too fatally The PB’S stand to be a reflection of what they hate. Yes it may have been a Friends gathering but hardly a criticism Rupert can dish out, he does not even have friends only the division of his personality that if pushed can produce 5 and a half distinct characters some of these he represses to become an ever more dwindling set of voices.

What scares them of Rupert? They heard tails of the socially awkward, the deep intense eye contact it gave Bill in the act of fellation, the way he dumped us a free man after his trial, do we carry on a Jilted Love, no room for sex in the economic. Move on or be lost, the angry denunciation of the left were of their time but the words spat out now apply equally to our mind, we do not stand for anything, we are nothing new. There is a place for abstract blog posts, but to believe they constitute any form of political movement is the saddest of the all the lies we tell ourselves. Why don’t we begin with question where does Art and Surrealism fit into the Political Question?

We are presented with an opportunity as Working Class peoples to create something genuinely revolutionary, as we are in Unique position to raise the questions in Practice of how we break down the separation between Work and Life, Artist and Worker, Manual and Mental not from a position of privilege where we choose to take low pay work. We never explore the key challenges we find have arisen, example how to act in work as a revolutionary and break down the veneer of small talk social conservatism.


But if the first track is to be continued where we console our irrelevance in stomach lining of our bourgeoisie equivalents, one section of Rungian mind will wither away (Probably the most unproductive part anyways) Lets see the one year publication as An end to one section of our history and Tuesday evening to be the beginning of a serious Political force to spread silliness, ridicule, surrealism into the left and the working class. The IWW rejection is ridiculous social politics and laughable libertarianism but we the parts of Rupert’s mind are no less guilty and the latest action of releasing the statement undemocratically angers Haribo.


There is room for everybody In Rupert Rungs One Big Love Machine and Let it never be forgotten.

In this bar, all the bugs light up …. A open letter to the IWW

Last weekend the psychedelic contortionists attempted to revisit the public circle through a small purple door fitted at an obscure angle at the bottom of  a wall that’s half falling over, in the form of the IWW’s  Libertarian festival. 

What you will witness here is the Psychedelic Bolsheviks being “Andy Wilsoned”  as they are banned, no platformed (or any other more polite phrase you’d like to use that implies it was more innocent than it was)  from the festival ….. as the IWW displayed the true unshakeable strength  of their “libertarianism”   (oow there’s too many cows standing on my shoulder)

At the approach of this kind of syllogism we are at once seized with a feeling of boredom.

jump down here , there’s stairs or a ramp if you desire it… here are the original exchanges , followed by the pb’s open letter to the IWW (Incongruous wind waffles)… :

PB original workshop proposal 

The revolutionary subconscious: Breton hour and the Dictaphone

Against the separation of art and politics. Against the separation of mental and manual labor.
Which jammy dodger would you be?
What motivates us? How can we develop it? Is multitasking progressive?
Careerism and where can we find it?
Some upside down bins on wheels with whisks for faces.
What does the way we act at work tell us about ourselves?
Join us for social awkwardness, inorganic forms of communication, an attempt at automation painting and creating our own art.
either that or finger painting.

IWW reply

Thanks for your event summary. The committee organising the festival has had a look at it and we feel that this is not a suitable event for the festival. We appreciate the effort you’ve gone to in putting together a workshop for the day. However, with Libfest we are aiming to present a very accessible and engaging form of community organising and libertarian politics. Much planning has gone into this to keep the political aspect rather minimal and laid back, so we feel that a workshop with ‘social awkwardness’ and ‘inorganic forms of communication’ does not fit with the angle of the festival.

We apologise for the disappointment and hope that perhaps we can co-operate in the future in a different context.

When we want to see an oak, we are not satisfied to be shown an acorn instead.

You ( a foot extends down from the sky and from beneath the toe nail  the Psychedelic Bolsheviks appear) as the Industrial Workers of Wokingham held a libertarian festival, giving your own bands a stage on which to perform in front of your mates and migrating birds for those 13 hours. As an attempt to reach out beyond your tight-knit red-brick sect, you put a call out for stalls and workshops. We responded and offered you a workshop. So we move on, not too swiftly as we want to be able to pull faces at each other as we pass,  but not as slow as some people would like either. 

Iron onion shillings .

Down with social conservatism … The swirly things that squash inwards , burlesque granary Fridays , can you pick up YOUR plate with YOUR chopsticks? No more squeezing baby …

flake hog peal my skin, if i don’t get my cream on it, i’ll blister

I’ve just been thinking about the subject of selecting ties (not that it’s something we’re particularly accustomed to. i knew a man once who had a tie built up of novelty pigs in a grotesquely intense collage, he was my dad) . The idea was if all the ties had little mouths and did simultaneous speeches and chants about why they should be picked while you’re in the middle of deciding which to wear,  trying to influence your choice with their proposals and promises…

Ties with mouths

(Ties with mouths)

If you paint this frogs brain i’ll polish all the cutlery in your manor

Big dreams and cannelloni (vegan of course) were on the menu for a festival of libertarian;

Instant Ubik has all the fresh flavour of just-brewed drip coffee. Your husband will say, Christ, Sally, I used to think your coffee was only so-so. But now, wow! Safe when taken as directed.

3 workshops a drag of dirt and sand,  marshmallowed into absence, no more or less precarious than it was before. 

Great opportunity to meet others and get involved, but not for those we deem outside the parameters. Face something new or go home, go home it was resolved. Thank god Sheffield graduates stay around the city, it makes it easier to ignore the communities that exist before. Not that we’re arguing that people shouldn’t have a bird’s eye view photograph of the Millbank “riot” in their bathroom in a light blue frame that matches the nautical theme that they’re really trying hard at.

That’s it; I’ve had enough , i don’t want to see anything else about biscuit boffins on social media… I’m sitting with Lol Coxhill for the rest of the night … sometimes there is a need to smoulder restraint

Ill soap cherry dream

Ignore the poor, carry on as before.

“He who integrates is lost”.

Did the IWW manage more than the gathering together of it’s members and friends for a brief glimpse for what it might be like at the audacious art space, but a little less crowded and a lot less audacious?


“Cup Tea, rakes all to withers”

What fear did our description of a workshop set rolling in your heart?   Our Id dances as we are refused, perplexed and rotated by your formal belated response, failing as you did to say much in your email beyond; we do not want you. You fell between the boneless flaps of finger with the mild-mannered diplomacy correctly associated with bureaucrats, that we simply can not trust. We have little time for the practice of being “tactile”,  whereby we conceal our true opinions in favour of respecting the social etiquette of bourgeois society to appease everything , instead lets just say nothing and walk around nodding .

This middle class fear of truth, not wrapped in candy floss, pats on the back and compliments, bores us. Get to the point and show us something new. Tic-Tac-Toe is harder than naughts and crosses, any level-headed individual could tell you.

It is on that basis that we really couldn’t keep our britches on, feeling that we had to defend our delinquency.

“What the hell is that?” (my Brothers girlfriends’ review of this.)

The truth is it must be the task of the revolutionary to degrade conventions that keep us at arm’s length from each other , pretending we find fulfillment in talking about our favourite supermarket products …”i prefer coconut milk with a high level of coconut extract”… oo yeah . The forms of thought are, in the first instance, displayed and stored as human language. As well as a critique of the political, a damming of the cultural malnourishment, we’re expected to suck with a content smile and a rejection of the subdued “sensible” basis we’re expected to interact with each other on .

A proposal where people dare to suggest creating art through improvisation?..get out your squatters lubricate them in your uncles armpit marinade, bash them ,kick them , quote Bakunin at them…a dastardly thought; that we should be open to new forms of meeting structures , after all the left is doing just fine as it is … ah wait


We’re not trying to recreate the Cabaret Voltaire , but something new …

By no means do we hold ourselves up as oversized beavers with golden pocket watches entangled in our teeth that claim to have an unlimited wealth of  knowledge concealed in a capsule stored under the eye lid, but, with the little we do understand of the world it occurs to us that the idea of  “keeping politics to a minimal”  is a  fucking ridiculous one.

Being ridiculous is promoted in the fridge that we’re inviting you into, but only in the extreme as a means of pointing at the point. We support ridicule, ridiculousness and the ridiculous. but not this.

Tofu na-nan , your sleeping in my crochet

Unique global warning you’ve got on your spoon…. if you haven’t figured it out yet, this is a rant about the unreliability of public transport .

Reducing our analysis and opposition to the structure of capitalism purely  to economics ignores the fact that it permeates every aspect of private and public life (pubic log flume? eeewww). Without our idea’s containing an understanding of the totality and how everything relates to everything else , we find ourselves trying to blow bubbles, with no bubbles.

We’ll fix all the holes on this wooden ship together

what happens, says

“that’s what a kitchen is really, just a conglomeration of squares and cuboids with different functions, this one shoots fire out of it’s top”- Sam “the last duck tape on the roll” Boon

We can talk about anything we want,  really we can , Napoleon Murphy Brock , asteroids, decimals and tentacles . Not just the narrow lines drawn up in meetings of the left that we’re encouraged to repeat , so we’re consistent and singing off the same hymn sheet . It becomes important to turn the hymn sheet upside down and add your own notes in crayon.

We’d rather have all the workshops be the IWW’s than “be a showcase of the vibrant ideas, music, culture, film and organisations of the libertarian left.” The IWW is the show, they will answer all your questions , replying to each one in a different accent , developing a new character every time.

“the feet of every single dancer were bleeding, even though they were all experts” – O C

it’s quite a response this, isn’t it?  Kevin Coster wasn’t as great in Robin Hood as you thought… cloud muser . we all liked it when we  found out that Tony Blair was being operated by an out of date egg that sat in an arm chair inside of his brain with levers to move his arms and legs, a type writer to feed him his terrible speeches and a contraption that you blow into, to  control his eyes (eggs aren’t very good at blowing). It was all satire, by an egg.

“Hey let’s all read Kant in the top of my Grandmothers mill….”   “Fuck off!”

One of the most stink out loof rock things about your statement is your opposition to “social awkwardness” and “inorganic forms of  communication” ,  all we were really conveying is the forced nature of these kind of events, facing the material reality that “awkwardness” is inevitable and we’re not going to get over that under current conditions no matter how good our “people skills” are (and ours sometimes lean towards unacceptable).


summer time situationism in Barbados .

tina's teeth , buckle foundry

welcome to the Ray Collins mercury bookcase have a good look around, don’t be alarmed if you find jam on some of the pages , people round here eat and read, in the craters lies the best stuff….

Don’t you ever forget: libertarianism is forming committee’s to debate which political groups qualify to be given a chance to discuss their philosophy alongside ours, uphold that mantra and you will carry the tradition far.

“Don Van V really set the standards, man”

Our epoch is a birth-time, and a period of transition. The spirit of man has broken with the old order of things hitherto prevailing, and with the old ways of thinking, and is in the mind to let them all sink into the depths of the past and to set about its own transformation.

janitor disc, your sat on my orchestral pillow

we leave you with this final thought, does humour belong in politics?

A slice of Marmite for a slice of toast : a review of Eugene Chadbourne

(I was under the impression that the Solar Eclipse that occurred yesterday was scheduled as a 7 day anniversary of Eugene Chadbourne playing Café Oto , but apparently that wasn’t true so I made the decision to produce the following)

*Warning :the Psychedelic Bolsheviks are not “professional critics” and some of them refused to wear trousers as children*

waaaaa wwoooooooo

Let’s share germs , that’s how we’ll develop our idea’s ..

“1,2 ….. fuck that…. 5”

Derek looks spooky in that deck chair.

the process of getting to London was a difficult one in itself, it felt similar to what I envision bathing a python in cream may feel like ….slippery with odd textures. A coach that was overcrowded , late, as the coach started out and had wheeled on pavement for several time units the sound of an orgasm rang through the coach, presumably from a technological device followed by the arguably less sensual tone of the drivers Scottish accent who informed us that we had to go back to where we’d just come from due to two passengers forgetting to get off. ..

skipping some….

a young American couple sat in front of me with thoroughly shampooed heads , flopping over each other in a moon formation , I spent the majority of the   j  o   u   r  n  e  y  starring at their scalps while in my peripheral vision I experienced brown and green tree’s flying into each other some bizarre shit lofi time lapse .

At last my back don’t hurt..

I hadn’t heard Doctor Eugene until late 2014 , it’s to my own embarrassment that I admit that , though the problem here is really so many people haven’t heard of Eugene. Proof that the flan whoopers who are most prevalent in their genre’s or popular music in general do not get there from simply being the most talented , original or unpredictable but from something else… I think you know what …. ..  (the voice whispers: marketing and a cleverlymanaged commodity)

When I did finally hear him it felt as if it was something bigger , more significant than just listening to another musician that repeats a similar formula to dozens of others that have found that to be what people want to hear . It felt like quite the opposite , a musician who played what he wanted to hear and allowed music to be a vehicle to experiment  in a way “your not suppose to”  ( just had a thought about Rib Eye Steak, having a food called such a thing makes me wish that we had eyes in our ribs , faces for eyes have become tedious) …  Eugene pushes boundaries and mocks genre without the pretentious annoyances and pointlessness of things like “Sound Art”  (Out of Lunch did a rant about this recently , you should read it if you want to) . He plays with sausages and farts out moons , incorporates silliness to be a radical tool that challenges the monotony and etiquette of music’s standards , he ridicules boredom with unrestrained movement on his guitar , throwing all the most inappropriate ingredients into the cooking jug , without plastic wrappers removed  , out of date and still in bottle, jar and basket.  Scribbling all over my mind with all the fun of blowing raspberries on a cow’s stomach  on acid while it gently strokes your head with its hoof … o yeah, hoofs everywhere with Chadula’s sound ..

Country music for people with a impatient “Punk” kind of attitude , Country music that will make you scream “yes , you just fucking did that,yes” at your record player ,  scrambled improvisation and sincerity that the bourgeoisie want banishing from culture. An attack on the conservatives grip of the Country tradition in both idea’s and form , music that threatens to expose all previous preconceptions of “far out, man”. An obsessive that constantly uses music to represent that he believes in turning the world as we know it upside down, a socialist who was accused of “being a direct threat to the American way of life” by the Reagan administration .


Shall we talk about the gig?

Sure , why not man ..

o yeah right

shall I start now?

yes, stop hesitating this is foolish

ah yes oo , here goes

The sweet stuff went down at Café Oto , before arriving I had great hope that this was a posh way of saying “Café Otter” and that there would be free roaming otters staggering around the premises that interact with the music and the audience could place them on different parts of Eugene’s body while he  played , upon arriving to the venue there wasn’t a Otter standing by the door moodily smoking a cigarette and giving me hostile glances as I had hoped. Statistically there was no Otters to be seen at all. ..

Chad-bear was sat behind his desk with out his signature glasses  but with all new  piercing eyes selling cd’s In socks along with own dreams that he’d preserved, upon first seeing him I felt that he’d probably be a great storyteller , the kind that could retell experiences in a way that would be valuable and engaging about alligators and absurd situations in some wooden shed with cushions and old magazines all over the floor (although I can’t guarantee that seeing him would produce the same kind of feeling in you)

Onion Plumbers, surround me …

there was sounds produced for around two hours broken up with a talk with Hegelian wizard cobbler Dave Black (no relation to Bob black, thank fuck) who told me he thought the guitar was all real groovy and Owen Jones was a swinging vicar (undeniably true). Waiting for him to start I felt such a genuine excitement that I could feel my toes juicing up and worried that I might throw my dick through the crowd while he played . When he started his Banjo introduction to the lullaby chamber I was caught up in the contrast between his blue shiny shirt (I wanted to get up and rub the shirt through my fingers while the banjo acted as a theme track to me doing so ) and his silver head whirls.

I felt my head heading pulling from side to side as he went through his Friday 13th set about needle dropping and cold gravy without hesitation we can claim that Chabourne is the best guitarist on the green and blue ball, it’s not hard I just did. The way he does covers of songs that have no interest to me and makes them incredibly  refreshing and off the radar of its original form makes me shake me head violently from side to side with my tongue throwing saliva all over your dinner..

He did Beefheart’s hearts mirror man or at least  the lyrics with what seemed to be a unrelated made up  guitar which was delightfully confusing , though apparently a member of the audience said he was very “Beefheart”, what does this mean ? A pathetic attempt to make sense of it all through a poor comparison, Chadbourne sounds like Chadbourne , there’s really so little  imitation that it becomes needless to group the sounds he produces with other musicians, he stands as something by his self (as does the Captain).

Perhaps the most absurd point in the set, the pinnacle of the absurdities was a medley that combined 1967’s psych roulade with detestable modern pop , with Love’s, “Red telephone ”  and Katy Perry’s “Roar” , ah the unity of opposites yes, Marx had something to say about that didn’t he…. Eugene did it in the most genius of fashions , all while wobbling side to side alternating feet like a baby struggling for balance amongst it’s feet.

He sprayed a similar kind of magic when he covered popular girl group TLC , with a rendition of their song “Unpretty” with a broken guitar solar system and angular improvisation in the middle where he repeated their lyrics “can’t believe I’m tripping” over and over as he elongated the song and flew it out of its original proportions , to an uneasy ditch of string squeaking and staggered leopard dodging .

the whole set was full EC’s ten finger banjo rumbling ,cartoon faces and twitches ,honest sweat that requires two shirts, voice changing and him licking his fingers to rub the base of his guitar to produce mouse song, yet I couldn’t help but feel disappointed that for Eugyular it seemed to be more tame than I had prepared my myself for , I expected more of an explosion that opened up the music and manifested itself all over my body and face , more  of the abstracted tangents that jump from tree’s into countryside ponds throughout Eugene’s records , even though at points I did find my eyes creasing and widening in amazement , such as when he seemed to interact with noises in the environment to shape his music improvisation around the bar noises and the percussion of heels walking across the floor.

From the perspective of a sic year old Mordecai wrote on a sheet of paper that he thought the songs were too similar , too long,  though considerations should be made that this is the kind of six year old that refuses to except being bored , constantly grappling  it , the kind of six year old with no time for the diplomatic mincing of words, the kind that will tell you to get out of his fucking house when he’s had enough (the kind of honesty that the left keeps in the wardrobe). What I see as one of the fundamental brilliances of EC is that he produces the kind of  fun that is impossible not to engage with because there’s no way of ignoring it’s ever changing erratic ridiculous nature, the kind that can successfully like up to the enhanced imagination of a child . At the Oto it just seemed there was more of a singer / song writer approach, though, the very fact I felt disappointed with this only highlights that Chadbourne has no intention of trying to impress the consumer and that his whacky balloon , electric rake, falling off a cliff speed antics aren’t something forced to make himself look “Avant-Garde” but are absolutely genuine … those monkeys gunna be dancing all day.

I’d go into the bottom of a rabbits burrow , listen to some one talk about Zizek (urgghh la ) to see him again, as many times as the opportunity existed, his music turns Zebra’s into candy and I’m never stopping taking it.

After the gig there was shouts of “Penis” in the tube station then as  Whiskey laced my intestine I was shown a Chad record I was yet to have heard before “Country Music in the world of Islam” ,my brain turned the opposite way around within the confines of my Skull I felt like it had some how built on my previous understanding of Eugene , I wanted to sink into a grapefruit with him inside that grapefruit with me , playing as he plays.

Crumple me up Cindy, I’m ready for the bin!

You can’t really expect me to lay on Beefheart’s moustache all day, I need to grow spots for a new form of fish, they just put in the order , Crumbs.

Let the liberals keep Dylan, the revolutionary freaks got  Chadbourne .

Tune in, Queer it , Organ- ise



Spontaneity : the cauldron Melvin made his soup in

Nathaniel sit down,

                                        you can eat the chair your sat on ;

                   its made out of delinquent creativity and cream, you can play the guitar backwards if you want ,

                                                                               the rules of “professional artistry” are bollocks in any case …

The morning has been spent this far fantasising about what the outcome would be if James Chance and Swamp Dogg were to collaborate , I can only imagine that the result would be the creation of a new planet or listeners turning purple and developing horns on the stomach that sporadically spat out different forms of the egg . With the restraint of time being against us on pondering such questions a report is due, scrapp slarrkk ar ca….. I always thought of storing my radio in cous cous but then i felt that this was being eccentric.

A January evening where the book about Marx and Christianity went above the book about Christianity and sex, though the decision was made based on the title of the chapters……………I’m about to. After fleeing the scene of discussions around Luxembourg and Lenin a chat was chased down the stairs and under a bench as the members of the PB’S attempted to share Guy Debord quotes with it , the cats unwillingness to form a united front for such a purpose outlined the political climate we found ourselves in , we did a temperature check among members but ,non of us really understanding the purpose or implications of this autonomist tool and lacking a thermometer nothing happened . In search of an outlet for our activity that was less distasteful than a stage invasion of Ed Millibands speech at the Labour Party conference dressed as Ralph Milliband , we found our selves at Montgomery Hall, a institution reserved for people with “talent ” , unapologetically breaking this notion we made an unauthorised entry to the premises , we found a stairwell with a picture of a mushroom and a zig zag where we were bunged up a plenty and took aim on structuralists , what followed was a 7 minute improvised sound reading of society of the spectacle and notes on dialectics spliced and fumbled on our chins and under our toes , a performance with no audience, a performance for the producer not the consumer . This continued until the point where we were interrupted by the enemy of the noppy nakar and the public improviser  , the Private Security guard , the following conversation took place:

SG: “Errr what are you doing ?”

PB NN : “Reading…”

SG:” are you here with the pantomime group upstairs?”

PB NN:” We’re here with the reading”

SG: “You can’t just be in here “

PB NN: “Where can we read then?”

SG: “You can hire a room”

PB NN: “How much?”

SG: “£25 an hour”

PB NN : ” We’ll give you 90p?”

***At this point we were escorted from the site of our creative bumble ,condemned to the cold, ostracised  when all we wanted to do was read (over the top of each other in loud and quiet ways , experimenting with delivery and intonation) instead we went for Funky Pie and confused our politics further. 

With the intent of perpetuating an already existing feud, let us flick a bogey in a U shape that reflects the nature of “Nine different types of Industrial Pollution ” and create a new slogan that we’ve spent months in the lab breeding , a complex formula for the Higginsian Sun Raists :

“Fuck Seymour, Yes to Chadbourne !”

Until next time wear your hair, Like Rod Sterling or Jeanne Lee, you can do it, its your hair ,we shall be distracted trying to develop a  orchestra of improvisers based solely on teeth squeakers and the rattles of toddlers…

The article in Pictorial form for those who find it more accessible (you’ve got a vegan accent, I have?) :

rupple end elk

“Why wasn’t I born with Orange skin and Green hair…” Swamp Dogg