Hold the Novelty

The Green Man Festival

Ville Niemi — Sat, 15 Sep 2012 15:45:02 +0000

A written commentary

by Ashley Moore
photography Ruth Rossiney

I hate talking about the weather. The weather always dominates – and in turn decimates – UK festivals and their write ups and with good reason, especially as the glory of The Green Man is hosted and toasted in the emerald green, tumbling hills of Wales. An array of childhood memories came flooding back: wet tents, sodden sheep and eighties multi coloured anoraks. And it was integral, the way the weather affected the festival. Not in a poignant manner, it highlighted certain aspects. For example there were no sad faces, nobody moaned. The children found joy in sliding down the muddy banks of the main arena. People came together in the real ale tents to small talk… about the weather and also to converse of the acts they were looking forward to seeing.
Rob Bramhill AKA Hairy Mouth had given us press passes and had gracefully given us a further two comp tickets. My parents weren’t usual festivalgoers, however, they were regular rubber tramps and decided to take their motorhome. Ruth and I however bought a festival survival kit; the only thing that we survived on the first night was floating half way down the site, disgraceful water hammering down on us.

We hunkered down; we were drunk and excited, trying not to let the tempest dampen our mood.

There are promising and important times ahead for the first act we encountered at The Far Out tent. Toy, The Horrors psychedelic little brothers (and sister), acting as some kind of nightmarish vision in a drug induced fever dream, were in full force on Friday afternoon. After gaining a sort of mentor in The Horrors creative force, Rhys Webb, things have been on the up for this London based psych rock band. Firstly gaining residency at Dalston’s Shacklewell Arms and then their debut self titled album coming out this month on Heavenly Records makes this quintet one of the most promising and exciting UK bands to come out this year. Front man Tom Dougall floated on stage and commanded into his mic, his eyes intense, and his manner ambivalent. He some times seemed trance induced, other times he looked pre-occupied. Their set consisted of said new album, playing songs such as ‘Lose My Way’ and the melancholic ‘Strange.’ It was all so apparent, their style, sticking to the stigma of shoe gaze by staring at their shoes as their guitar parts fazed from left to right. Maxim ‘Panda’ Barron’s hair and moustache swinging to and fro like Dougall on the Magic Roundabout. It was a stellar performance, moody and thick in texture, so thick you could stir it with a spoon. The most memorable part of the set was ‘Left Myself Behind,’ the way the unison guitar drone pounded its way into the crowd was like being on the Waltzers with the button stuck on full speed, a truly interesting performance and I cant wait to see what the future holds for these doom hounds.

For me, Lower Dens were the highlight of the festival. In this contemporary musical climate I find it difficult to feel the majesty with new bands. That once kindled affinity that I held so dear for artists like Dylan and Zeppelin – when I first started listening to music –I now find it difficult to attach that zest to newer bands. I think it comes down to how bands are perceived, how they are written about. There are Hundreds and thousands of reviews on the Internet and copious amounts of music blogs, with a horn of plenty of opinions, that are all in third person and it is hard to tell (purely from the writing, not the integrity of the listener toward the band itself) that there is no real connection. There are very few personal relationships imbued within the musical press these days.

Jana Hunter (on right) loomed in the darkness of the stage over her Korg synthesizer and switched between that and her guitar. For anyone who doesn’t know of Lower Dens, she may seem the quiet addition to the quintet, when in fact she is the spine and the nervous systemof the band. For anyone who doesn’t know Lower Dens, Geoff Graham (pictured above) may seem the front man donned in a black turtleneck, a hint of higher knowledge, exhuming dominance with his Magnum PI style moustache. The actual facts come down to that each member is as idiosyncratic as they are woven into a soundscape of low frequencies and beautifully textured arrangements. Intellectual and experimental, the Baltimore five piece atmospherically filled The Far Out tent with textured and intricate song writing. Performing songs like ‘Brains’ off their newest collection of arrangements from Nootropics. Drones and overlapping vocal harmonies add to the complex soup that Lower Dens eloquently simmer in unison. I was amazed to be honest, in fact fixated. I haven’t felt this excited about music in a long time, some of you might say, “well why the hell haven’t you heard about them all ready?” I say, because I hadn’t seen them in the flesh till now. We were sat right at the front, and by front I mean the seats on the other side of the barrier while we took photos. At one stage Will Adams sat down to use (what looked like) an array of pedals and gadgets that increased the soaring dynamics.

Geoff Graham bathed in blood red light as he kinetically orchestrated with the highly talented Jana Hunter. The two newer members, drummer Nate Nelson and Carter Tantonsolemnly performed, entranced in their instrumentalism. Everybody in that tent shut the fuck up for five minutes and truly appreciated something they may have not seen before. It was an uplifting experience to see contemporary music moving like liquid.
Michael Kiwanuka (below) is slowly becoming a British singer-songwriter titan and is bridging the gap between soul, rock and folk music, pulling together influences from Dylan to Otis Redding to Hendrix. The subtlety in which this influx of styles are created is as soft and as titillating as watching the original three themselves. Such grace, a fantastic vocal both commanding and delicate all the same. You just can’t help but like the guy on stage, double denim, sunglasses on and Fender in hand. For someone who intended to be a session musician, appearing on TinieTempahrecords, tonight the stardom was on his side and he looked truly comfortable up there playing songs of his debut album. It’s quite interesting to note that Kiwanuka played most of his songs electric, even though most of the album is acoustic. It’s almost as if he is following in the footsteps of Dylan, at the albert hall, plugging in and breaking out however he did at one stage turn to his acoustic side to do a rendition of Hendrix, which is irony at its best.

We had pitched up a bivywack on top of the hill over looking the Mountain Stage, so that we had the best seats in the whole arena to watch Michael Kiwanuka and then Van Morrison straight after. The main stage isn’t called the Mountain Stage for no reason; behind the stage is an idyllic scene, colossal hills winding across the skyline, a huge green wall surrounding the whole festival. We joked about the idea of having the Green Man logo shaved into the hill behind, maybe a thought for the future. Van arrived in style, flying in on a chopper. The reason being that he had another event in Ireland that he had to leave as soon as he performed. There were other aviation spectacles that day also, a paraglider was atop the mountain and headed straight for the festival, we also joked about it being the best way of sneaking into a festival ever, and by jobe he did. Flew straight in like a giant nylon crane.

We weren’t waiting forever for the great northern Irish titan and it wasn’t like the horror stories we had heard about him, Van Morrison was here in the flesh to play for us.

Chatting to a chap sitting next to us as we drank red wine, he spoke of Van Morrison stopping the whole of his band and restarting the song if they got something wrong, I just hoped for the best. Van opened up with an extended jazz rendition of ‘Brown Eyed Girl,’ without a doubt one of his most prolific songs.
When thinking of such huge musical entities such as Van Morrison and Bob Dylan in this day and age, it’s hard not go to one of their shows without some form of worry of disappointment. When considering Dylan’s croak, it is quite easy to think of Van Morrison in the same way, can he still sing? Can he still do a whole set? As soon as that man opened his mouth, all of those doubts left my mind. I used to own a collection of his early tracks like “In the Backroom” and “T.B Sheets” and on those tracks his voice is pure and wholesome. And nothing had changed, sure, he might have gained a rasp and a huskier vocal, but my god he still used it as an instrument.
He also instructed his band, like a composer. It was hard to think of his music as pop, it was more than that. I was waiting for the title track from ‘Astral Weeks’ and the improvisation on that specific song confirmed my thoughts. Van reaching for his sax for a duo with the other saxophonist, treacle tones filled the atmosphere. They then carried on to a real crowd pleaser by playing two songs from Van’s early band ‘Them’ speeding up the tempo with ‘Jackie Wilson Said’ and the illustrious blues ballad ‘Baby Please Don’t Go/Gloria’ the crowd danced joyfully in the sun, which had come out.

A girl of maybe no more than ten had a whole row of adults choreographed into a whole series of shapes and moves that would put any silly dance troop to shame. As soon as he had finished he had vanished into the clouds in his helicopter.

The final act of the weekend for me was Willy Mason (above), late at night on the Walled Garden Stage. We had to hit the road the next day as we both had to get back to London on the Sunday. I had seen Willy Mason the year before at Bestival. A friend and I watched him on their bandstand stage; a bassist and a drummer accompanied him, which was a wonderful experience. The entire crowd sitting down looking up to this humble figure felt authentic, but at the back of my mind I knew it was just hyperrealist, as we could never bring back Newport Folk Festival or the unity of the sixties. However this is where I contradict myself and explain to you how from listening to his material in the early noughties, especially paying attention to his lyrics, it wasn’t hard to see what this guy was trying to say. However still keeping to the confines of the unpretentious suburb sheik.
Lyrics from songs such as ‘Oxygen,’ “we can be stronger than bombs, if you’re singing along and you know that you truly believe” captivated me in the same manner that Dylan’s lyrics had done also, but this time, in our time. So naturally I started to obsess over them, going through each song looking for a little wisdom that I may apply to my life, to make me a better person. It sounds silly but it’s honest. If you don’t look for something in the music that you can take away, then what is the point in listening to it – it can’t all be kitsch. There needs to be some kind of unison, it sounds cheesy but music is the glue that we use to keep our shit together, without it, you might as well sail that paper sailboat straight into the street gutter.

So, this time he wasn’t performing as a three piece. He had a whole gang with him, three females and another guy. They had a whole bunch of different instruments, the gent was playing a piccolo trumpet, his two female backing singers had a viola (Nina Violet) and some kind of square guitar that was plucked like a harp (I’m sorry I just didn’t know what the hell it was). It was a strong set; they played songs from both of his two albums ‘Where the Humans eat’ and ‘If the Ocean Gets Rough’ as well as the five song EP, which is the build up to the new album that was released on the 3rd of September.

My particular favourites were ‘Where the Humans Eat,’ simply because the lyrics give me goose bumps ‘you don’t belong, where the human’s eat, you don’t belong, you don’t belong to me.’ I also enjoyed ‘Restless Fugitive’ from the new album because it takes on a more serious topic, and it has undertones of Dylan’s magical song writing. However I do feel that at times, it was wasted on the crowd, people shouting in between songs and making noise in the softer more acoustic focused performances, but it all came together when the whole crowd sang ‘In the end they couldn’t sell me grace and they can’t sell me tomorrow, can’t sell me tomorrow, we can be strong.’

Which brings me to the close of this festival write up and leaves me with one thought. That it may be hyperrealism or golden age fallacy, to use music and the coming together of people as a tool or even a weapon, to influence and change the way things are going in the world at the moment. And that may still sound like an archaic thought from the sixties and to some people lame, but deep down those who really believe in music still think this is a possibility and I hope for all our sakes, that it is.

Stained White

Hamish Wirgman — Fri, 07 Sep 2012 11:02:37 +0000

If you were playing a word association game, and someone said white, what would be the first thing you think of?

Clean, crisp, clinical? Well for this shoot I chose to oppose these views and replace them with my personal thoughts when the colour is mentioned.

Initially when I think of the colour ‘white’ I see pain, discomfort and impracticality. These thoughts were later developed into three main stylised characteristics that ran through the shoot. The large hand crafted limbs symbolised the impracticality, the binding which contorted the models bodies, thus resembling discomfort. Finally the sweat, which tapped into an obvious sign of illness which can be translated into pain.

So what at a glance looks like a white soft and fluffy shoot really reflects something much the opposite.

— Hamish Wirgman

Green Man Pre Party… On a Boat!

Ash Moore — Tue, 14 Aug 2012 10:04:46 +0000

With less than a week away from the grand opening of the Green Man festival, HTN’s Ashley Moore recalls his invitation to the Green Man pre party aboard the Dixie Queen on the river Thames.

I knew that Bestival had a pre party, however I wasn’t clued in about the Green Man’s. They pull a few of the bands off the line up, stick them in a venue and invite all the big wigs to get together, get drunk and generally act like they wouldn’t when in the confines of the office. It’s a little slit in the working year where interns can try and get to the other side by badgering high rollers. Where mild romantic gestures can be given and received without somebody calling the police about a harassment charge and everybody can let their hair down for five minutes. A friend of mine, Rob Bramhill who was doing an intern in their office, invited me to this monumental event.

We watched from the banks of the Thames, Britain’s so-called military might in this monarchist year of our lord 2012. And what a site it was: cannon’s firing across the Thames, a huge a-wax plane firing overhead like a gloomy giant vulture. They even threw in the red arrows and the backend of the navy’s out of commission battle ships, which cut through the green sludge; atavistic to say the least – one huge show (or distraction for other words) to make us believe how prosperous and powerful our country is, propaganda relayed throughout the day, but I digress. The inside of the ship was grandiose, gold piping and dark mahogany wood made up most of the interior. On entrance, the stairs twist left to right and onto the main hull of the ship, which is where the main acts of the day would perform.

Joyful times on the Dixie Queen, my first real brushing shoulders with the cream of the musical press. All bearded and dressed to kill, but there shall be none of that today… no sir. Just rags to riches, I being the former. There’s an appreciation of being poor, down and out and a great feeling of joy in being naive and fresh faced. Before the ship even set sail, the white exterior contrasted with the drunken interior, a lovely little vessel. The Moshi Moshi DJ’s were playing Leonard Cohen – a song I couldn’t quite recall – but there was no way that little doom hound was going to rain on our parade. With that cheery little note we were off at ten knots, slow to say the least. But I thought if it went any quicker, we’d be washed off board by the amount of vomit cast from the foamy mouths of the crew on board, vomit? Yes, the damn thing was swaying to and fro like King-Kong’s hammock. The music buffs were getting restless and I couldn’t help but feel if there was free booze, the whole situation might be amplified and we would have witnessed the biggest muso boat free-for-all in history, one can only wish for these things.

The Dizie [sic] Queen had to turn 180 degrees in order to sail south of the river. Looking through the portholes, it was as if viewing a zoetrope, made up of the riverbanks. A carousel of static images: a pathetic excuse for a pebble beach, accommodation that would cost the earth, HSBC and City Bank, the (pointless) millennium dome as well as Westminster. To be fair, inside that boat was a hoot but the outside was daunting and if I admit it to myself, poignant. There was no way of explaining it, it was the countries most patriotic weekend in decades; the Diamond Jubilee. Yet I didn’t feel an iota of respect for the monarchy and I could only feel futility when witnessing the back-end of Britain’s military entourage, it was like watching the last days of a prize horse that had gone lame (just put it down, put it out of its misery). And I thought of the young men, who were risking their lives for this country. And I thought about their loved ones and how much they wished they were home. I thought of the dust in their boots and how much of it was made up of their brothers.

It was time for the first act, Tom Williams and The Boat. Tom reminded me of Listener, not as heavily poetic and not as heavily mustached. But the performance was full of heart. Honest music beautifully orchestrated; I particularly enjoyed the hints of The Cure in the vocal melodies. I feel, at this moment in time, that good song writing is few and far between. But Tom Williams and his entourage of instrumentalists are just that, excellent songwriters. Geri Holton was a particular favorite of mine; her multi instrumentalism gave the performance variety. Her strawberry blonde hair cascading over her shoulders while she swayed to and fro with the ship, adding mysticism to the arrangement. Half way through the performance I decided to head out to the bow to get some air, what waited for me there was a jug tooting, kazoo hooting, banjo twanging five piece Jug band. All dressed in suits and pork-pie hats to match, (except for Helen Mcgrath – on fiddle – who was elegantly attired in a dress). I thought these Irish rambler-gamblers were the sharpest dressed vagabonds I had ever seen. They were the toast of the vessel, meandering their way through the ship, playing their ragtime melodies to the joyful crowd. Led by the charismatic Pete Doherty. He later told me a story of how the old jug bands would play anywhere as long as there was a constant flow of hooch and hunnies, he told me also of how he loved to play one of his favourite songs, The Cocaine Habit Blues. We exchanged slurs and he gave me a t-shirt, which was good of him to do so, in exchange for a good write up. But I’m not dishonest and if I don’t like something, I will say so. I am however, a sucker for a jug band.

We were at the middle of our mini voyage and they burst into a sea shanty ‘what shall we do with a drunken sailor, early in the morning,’ cliché, I hear you say? It was a perfect ramshackle performance paralleled by the chugging of beer foam and slurred reactions, “shave his belly with a rusty razor!” and “put him in bed with the captain’s daughter!” I was thinking more along the lines of “put him in front of the queen with C4 strapped to him,” in times before I might have been hanged; drawn and quartered for even uttering such treasonable words, but this is the 21^st century and that only happens in places like Thailand. If you have never seen a musician use thimbles to play a wash board, or watched someone blow into a jug to add dynamics and bass to a song or witnessed a kazoo solo for that matter, then you have never truly seen it all, where music performance is concerned.

Which brings me to the real performance of the night, Three Trapped Tigers. It’s hard to find a band whose name really nails the bands ethos however with TTT, this is certain. When they perform, they do so individually, three musical titans fusing together their might to create a soundscape so powerful that you will piss your pants when they play the first note. And I nearly did, it was difficult to follow which songs they were playing because it seemed they improvised a lot of it – like robotic jazz musicians – they blasted and buzzed their sound through the ship. My whole body immersed in this fluid filled with electric, Tom Rogerson head banging over the top of his synthesizer like some kind of electronic zealot at the altar. I was truly impressed by drummer Adam Betts who thrashed at that kit at break neck speed without missing a beat, an iron lung in overkill almost. He managed to keep up this energetic performance while also using what looked like triggers and a drum machine, an eclectic set up and unique in sound. The crowd didn’t know whether to dance or fornicate, it was mesmerizing, everyone’s eyes glued to the Three Trapped Tigers on stage. Their rage bound to their instruments and their thoughts cemented on breaking out. I couldn’t wait to see this on a larger scale at the actual festival on the 17^th/18^th/19^th of August.

There were other hijinks taking place throughout the day, such as the Green Man beard contest. The boat had two tiers and the lower half looked like a craft fair. There were pipe cleaners, different coloured paper, confetti, sweets and sequins. Basically all the stuff you can find at The Works. All this was in aid of creating the best beard and whoever did so won tickets. It was to the delight of the crowd that toward the end of the trip Fiona Stewart, the festival director, decided in a wonderful drink induced gesture, to give everyone who had took their time to make a beard, tickets to the festival. And that was the spirit of the day, generosity, generosity and harmony (and of course drinking). It was truly a wonderful experience and I implore you to join us next year and if you were not at this illustrious shin dig, we will see you in Glanusk Park for Green Man Festival 2012.

The Holloway Jug Band – The Cocaine Habit Blues

The Holloway Jug Band – Angel From Heaven

The Holloway Jug Band – My Baby’s Arms

The Holloway Jug Band – Drunken Sailor

A playlist of The Holloway Jug Band bootleg recordings from the Green Man Festival pre party.

• The Cocaine Habit Blues
• Angel From Heaven
• My Baby’s Arms
• Drunken Sailor

No Church in the Wild

Drew Wills — Wed, 18 Jul 2012 12:36:31 +0000

Hemp: A Resource of the Future

Drew Wills — Fri, 06 Jul 2012 07:00:23 +0000

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PREFACE
Our first instalment of a study we will be undertaking on the natural resource of Hemp. We will explore and analyse the subject in as much depth as we can, in return providing an honest and scientifically sound insight into the many uses of this all round miracle plant. This print details some of its basic functions as a renewable source of production.

SOURCES

Ecological Agriculture Projects. (1996). Environmental Benefits of Hemp.
Available: http://eap.mcgill.ca/CPH_3.htm.
The Information Distillery. (n.d.). The Many Uses of Hemp.
Available: http://www.informationdistillery.com/hemp.htm.
Leizer, C; Ribnicky D; Poulev, A; Dushenkov, S; Raskin, I. (2000).
The Composition of Hemp Seed Oil and Its Potential as an Important Source of Nutrition.
Journal of Nutraceuticals, Functional & Medical Foods. Vol. 2 (4).
Available: http://198.173.87.127/Pages/Botanicals/Leizer_2003.pdf.
Leson, G. (2003). Nutritional Profile and Benefits of Hemp Seed, Nut and Oil.
Available: http://www.drbronner.com/pdf/hempnutrition.pdf.
McDermott, M. (2010). Amazon Deforestation Down 16% Over Past Year, New Data Shows.
Available: http://www.treehugger.com/natural-sciences/amazon-deforestation-down-16-over-past-year-new-data-shows.html..
Vantreese, V L. (1998). Industrial Hemp: Global Operations, Local Implications.
Available: Industrial Hemp: Global Operations, Local Implications.

Live review: Sun Araw & M. Geddes Gengras meet The Congos

Ville Niemi — Wed, 04 Jul 2012 14:30:47 +0000

There is only one concoction to be made when you take natty dread Rastafarians and Southern Californian mind-expandingness quite a lot like The Doors; a collaboration called ‘Sun Araw & M. Geddes Gengras meet The Congos.’ You can imagine our curiosity of seeing this act live and personal when we frequented the East London venue Village Underground. It was The Barbican that offered this chance of venturing into somewhat of an unknown territory, this extraordinary performance at the heart of Shoreditch’s live music scene.

Where the all brick-walled venue lacked relations in how/what the soundscape of the evening was to be, it gave way to a spacious and relaxed atmosphere, fitting surely more people in than it seemed. The size of the crowd was appropriate, thus making it comfortable to follow the gig. As can be expected from London gig-goers, people from all walks of life came to Village Underground for a Friday night treat, rather than a sole collection of indie rockers and/or reggae heads. Before the gig, the conversations held with the people waiting outside revealed some long-term fans of The Congos, who were intrigued to see how the Californian input would sound live alongside the legendary reggae group.

The gig starts. If one was like myself, unable to distinguish who was who, the first impression was a stage full of separate sorts. However, the roles were soon to be more than obvious, as the show started by the group singing: “get together rastafari!”

The vocals instantaneously featured amazing four voice harmonies (The Congos) lightly supported by a prolonged, dreamy and abstract soundscape created by the band (Sun Araw & M. Geddes Gengras). Not only did it sound incredibly beautiful, but this beginning also set the stage for the audience; the spirit of the evening would be exactly this. We were to be one – enjoy our surroundings, one another and ourselves. Blatantly some of the crowd already knew what this was all about, yet the diverse crowd did seem, by and large, to confess the notion of One Love faithfully. At least for the night; cheerful phrases such as “The Congos ona di radio, bless!” were said to us with sincerity, connecting the audience with the performers as well as with each other.

The Congos’ uplifting rasta chants felt genuine, since the get-go working as an outstanding foundation for the gig. To elaborate how the warm vibes came across; later on a full-on rasta mister bumped into me as he skanked, but after realising gently patted me on my whiteboy head with the utmost humbleness.

The Congos’ was on the radio, the peace was set. No feelings negative from anyone towards anyone; even if you were 7 feet tall and took a confident step to fully stand in front of some standard shorties – no antagonising. This episode as usual did happen, but only aroused confusion and giggles amongst the neglected.

An initially attention-catching figure was the all-impressive vocalist Watty Burnett, a man whose white dreadlocks were, to absolute, enchanting and awe-inspiring. Burnett’s appearance communicated life-long dedication for Rastafarian dogmata, and his deep sound was exquisitely contrasting with the falsetto’s (Cedric Myton), whose voice was to not surprise unique and heartfelt as well.

Above baritone Watty Burnett, below Cedric Myton.

It was the line of elders that filled us all with compassion, which made the gig remarkable, as the Angelenos for some reason chose to stay further back content with less attention. Fair enough though, and please do keep on producing an extensive sound world that succeeds in strengthening the dub-reggae legends’ harmonic performance with soulful ambience. Their collaboration (live at least) forms a solid output of a deep, dubby and spaced out atmosphere.

Sound-wise, and this is the part where we talk about Sun Araw & M. Geddes Gengras; the show contained refined detail throughout. They had a sound that as mentioned, generally worked superiorly with The Congos, but they also effectively used the room the vocalists left for them. Well-thought-out subtleties of the guitar and the keyboard counteracted with the singing, and all three high-tone elements were every now and then (as characteristic for reggae) heavily reverbed. This filled the venue with a penetrating delay that would echo in the audience’s ears until the drums sharply took over control. The bass all in all was completely tight. Perfectly working with the drums, there was no lack of foundation for the singers to rely on.

The overall feeling that remains in me, is as if I was in Africa in slow motion, yet aurally in a separate uber-dubby and laid-back world, at times confidently guided by the control-taking vocalists. This, no doubt, can only be experienced through an act such as this. Seeing and feeling the positive energy of the LA hipsters combined with authentic Rastafarian legends cannot only make one smile from ear-to-ear out of amazement, but also give the audience trust into what experimental joint (pun intended) work can bring out. Merging two generations from two very different cultures makes this collaboration contemporary and inherently interesting, worthwhile of attention and appreciation.

No less than a dream-like experience full of soul – a performance with nothing shallow, an unfrivolous and honest hour-long show. This hour was a magnificent, semi-spiritual journey guided and filled by blazed out rasta atmosphere that the audience completely absorbed and went along with. One was to leave the venue with a true Jah blessing, colours of green red and yellow flashing in their eyes, head all stoned from only watching the amazing elders, and sons of contemporary psychedelia perform.

A Poem for the Dreamers

Ville Niemi — Mon, 02 Jul 2012 03:20:24 +0000

Come to me,
Let’s have a dance or an evening stroll around the block

Let us see what love is.
Let us shape ourselves,
our minds to be one in happiness.

Able to form us into three,
You, me, and the greatest love there is.

Let us feel what love is
As the morning sun shines on your face.

Fight Club – Film Poster #2

Drew Wills — Sun, 01 Jul 2012 12:20:15 +0000

Play of the Five Senses

Jake Yarwood — Fri, 29 Jun 2012 05:00:54 +0000

An ongoing photography project that has evolved out of the love I have for nature and all the beautiful complexities it holds.

Having been raised in some of the worlds most incredibly diverse places I wear my heart on my sleeve when it comes to nature and all it encompasses. Despite such experiences there is no doubt that (most) of the human race bedevils a huge percentage of the land on which it walks.

Strongly believing in living harmoniously with the environment and all other species we share this life with. I think one should always try and find as many ways as possible to conserve the little that remains of the natural world, for who are we to jeopardise its prosperity and future? Taking photographs of these places is one of the many ways I put forth my efforts in the conservation of biodiversity.

The photographs elucidate the common knowledge that whilst walking between trees, in the open plains or at higher altitudes our bodies become more attuned to the properties of the cosmos, both mentally and psychically. As one moves further away from built up areas the more enhanced one’s senses become, being free of the various contaminants that subdue daily life amongst such an amorphous society.

This body of work will serve as a constant reminder for both myself and hopefully to all who come across it; to pursue and deepen one’s own cognition of the subject in question through mindfully understanding the importance of ecology.

For the wild…

hover for image controls. click for full screen

Live review: Gonjasufi

Saorla Houston — Thu, 28 Jun 2012 14:28:19 +0000

Before we were even through the doors of Village Underground, it was clear that the night’s performance we were about to witness was going to be an unpredictable one. Gonjasufi’s sound check had run on longer than expected, meaning he was due to start at one-thirty am rather than the original time of eleven pm. A snake like queue had wrapped itself around the side of the building and was growing as much in anticipation as it was in length and the last person rattled their way in just before one. The air of unpredictability continued inside after local DJ Blue Daisy had done his best to warm the sullen figures that had waited so patiently…

Being drawn into Gonjasufi’s set from the beginning was unavoidable. To our surprise his manager was the first on stage along with the two backing DJ’s and without hesitation prepared everybody for what was ahead. The sheer spirit and enthusiasm we got from him was immediately entrancing for he danced on stage as if nobody was watching. This guy was no manager in the traditional sense of things. Appealing to those who like to watch from afar, it was apparent that the whole audience were rapt, even those who like to take a more physical approach. It was refreshing to witness someone so sporadic, natural and instinctive about the way they physically interpret music. His dancing at points resembled an apocalyptic shaman infused with the archaic souls of his tribal predecessors, which possessed him to, almost effortlessly move to in-sync with the beat and earned the respect of the crowd. It was obvious that this gig was going to be nothing but an honest and enthralling performance.

Gonjasufi then appeared, framed by dreads and totally in tune with his surroundings. Each of the DJ’s seemed to be just as in tune with each other as they were with their equipment, despite the unpredictable nature of Gonjasufi would mean continuing without the front man at various points throughout the set. This was while he sat at the back of the stage to give himself a little time to revitalise his energetic being. It felt like we as an audience, were discovering and exploring with them rather than the experience being dictated or fed to us by Gonjasufi. This feeling of freedom continued throughout the gig, as a stream of disjointed songs were blasted out in what seemed to be a result of impulse rather than a set playlist.

The lack of structure to the gig meant that a raw energy was constantly present. The compelling nature of not quite knowing what was going to happen next kept us on the brink. Songs were interrupted with “hold up, hold up, hold up”, as Gonjasufi addressed the rest of his musical companions to halt, followed by, “you wanna [sic] hear some good shit? You wanna [sic] hear some good shit?!” due to a sudden urge to play a different song. Strangely enough the rest of the group never seemed fazed by this; clearly used to his erratic nature. However irregular and unconventional the performance, the intrinsic nature of Gonjasufi prevailed throughout.