Richard Foreman's Blog, page 8
September 5, 2016
Cambodian Psychedelia
Cambodian Psychedelia
www.worldmusic.net/cambodia
I am a non-musician but a serious fan of a wide range of music from a wide range of cultures and traditions. That said, I don’t get as much time as I once did for listening. Nevertheless, I retain a seemingly unending curiosity about and desire to hear music and set aside what time I can to do so.
Thus, last night I began a serious listen to a compilation in the esteemed and generally excellent Rough Guide series that goes out under the heading: ‘Psychedelic Cambodia’. I’d bought it in part because a friend of mine had played me an album by Dengue Fever and it had produced quite a high reading on the old thrillometer.
Dengue Fever, a mixed race, USA based band, have made something of a name for themselves in the last few years. I hope to find time to hear more of their work, but know that it is based in part on a relatively short lived interlude in the musical history of Cambodia which occurred between the Khmer independence from the French and the arrival of the Khmer Rouge. This was in the late 1960s and early 1970s. And that music is mainly what is featured on this compilation.
Psychedelia? I can’t say for sure.
If you’ve read the ‘Ptoof!’ piece on my website about Western psychedelic music and culture, you’ll know something of the style of music to which I consider the term is genuinely applicable. Whilst it is not necessary to be on or even to have experienced the effects of psychedelic drugs to play it, it is music which is produced with a layering and attention to detail that – when listened to in a psychedelically enhanced or even a simply mindful state of reception – becomes evident and apparent. Psychedelic music works like those ‘Magic Eye’ 3D pictures that on first appearance is but a pattern or random visual ‘noise’ on the page. You hold one close to your eyes, gradually move it away and at a certain distance, with the right degree of concentration, you find yourself looking at a 3D image, previously unseen. Sometimes in the music those ‘hidden’ elements are tricks of the mix, sound effects or vocal elements picked up only if you are paying close attention, sometimes they are contained in the weave of improvising instruments.
This compilation contains a dozen songs from the original era of this music, and three by modern bands, recreating and developing the style. The older songs (several tracks by key singers Ros Seresyothea and Pan Ron, plus a couple more) may or may not have been intentionally psychedelic. In the words of compiler Sean Hocking, they blend ‘elements of traditional Khmer music with the sounds of rhythm-and-blues and rock-and-roll’. They do so with a quality of exotic beauty, combining often-female vocals, delicate and winsome, with a mixture of traditional and rock/pop instrumentation. I’d say that what largely earns the ‘psychedelic’ tag are the instrumental breaks, featuring guitarists who play in a style that clearly resembles that of, say, Barry Melton of Country Joe and the Fish, or keyboard breaks reminiscent of the Doors’ Ray Manzarek.
Well, there I am listening to these songs and thinking: ‘Wow! This really is great stuff.’ It veers between a charmingly dated 60s kitsch pop feel, the purity and ‘folk’ feel of the Cambodian instrumentation, and these wonderful, wild instrumental breaks. Intentional or not, it satisfies many of my psychedelic criteria. Particularly with the strange dreamlike feeling engendered by well known western song tunes that have been co-opted into this music (such as Pan Ron’s ‘Kom Veacha Tha Sneha Knom’ which is credited as traditional but is clearly the tune of ‘Bang Bang’ – as sung in the west by both Cher and Terry Reid). But there’s something that bothers me too. Something that stops being able to enjoy it fully.
I don’t have the same problem with the work of the modern bands – the aforementioned Dengue Fever or the trancey tracks by Cambodian Space Project and the Terence McKenna sampling Dub Addiction. That material all swoops and swerves into my ears delightfully, with the full benefit of modern production techniques.
No, the problem with the original stuff is not its sound but the story that goes with it. The majority of these musicians were to become victims of Pol Pot’s genocide regime. They were executed by the Khmer Rouge. I cannot get this fact out of my mind as I listen. It brings a dark edge to work whose main attribute is a quality of light grace and delightful celebration. A taint I am unable to ignore.
I will continue to listen to it. Maybe that feeling will pass. I hope so. Those musicians would have wanted their music to be heard after their deaths, I’m sure. As did, according to Sean Hocking, ‘the Khmer people themselves who hid records or took them overseas and kept them as treasures of a lost past’. My gratitude is to all of them, those who died perhaps purely for the sake of this music, and those who took risks to preserve the recordings.
As for Dengue Fever et al – looks like I’m going to need more room on my shelves.
Toodle pip to one and all.
www.worldmusic.net/cambodiaI am a non-musician but a serious fan of a wide range of music from a wide range of cultures and traditions. That said, I don’t get as much time as I once did for listening. Nevertheless, I retain a seemingly unending curiosity about and desire to hear music and set aside what time I can to do so.
Thus, last night I began a serious listen to a compilation in the esteemed and generally excellent Rough Guide series that goes out under the heading: ‘Psychedelic Cambodia’. I’d bought it in part because a friend of mine had played me an album by Dengue Fever and it had produced quite a high reading on the old thrillometer.
Dengue Fever, a mixed race, USA based band, have made something of a name for themselves in the last few years. I hope to find time to hear more of their work, but know that it is based in part on a relatively short lived interlude in the musical history of Cambodia which occurred between the Khmer independence from the French and the arrival of the Khmer Rouge. This was in the late 1960s and early 1970s. And that music is mainly what is featured on this compilation.
Psychedelia? I can’t say for sure.
If you’ve read the ‘Ptoof!’ piece on my website about Western psychedelic music and culture, you’ll know something of the style of music to which I consider the term is genuinely applicable. Whilst it is not necessary to be on or even to have experienced the effects of psychedelic drugs to play it, it is music which is produced with a layering and attention to detail that – when listened to in a psychedelically enhanced or even a simply mindful state of reception – becomes evident and apparent. Psychedelic music works like those ‘Magic Eye’ 3D pictures that on first appearance is but a pattern or random visual ‘noise’ on the page. You hold one close to your eyes, gradually move it away and at a certain distance, with the right degree of concentration, you find yourself looking at a 3D image, previously unseen. Sometimes in the music those ‘hidden’ elements are tricks of the mix, sound effects or vocal elements picked up only if you are paying close attention, sometimes they are contained in the weave of improvising instruments.
This compilation contains a dozen songs from the original era of this music, and three by modern bands, recreating and developing the style. The older songs (several tracks by key singers Ros Seresyothea and Pan Ron, plus a couple more) may or may not have been intentionally psychedelic. In the words of compiler Sean Hocking, they blend ‘elements of traditional Khmer music with the sounds of rhythm-and-blues and rock-and-roll’. They do so with a quality of exotic beauty, combining often-female vocals, delicate and winsome, with a mixture of traditional and rock/pop instrumentation. I’d say that what largely earns the ‘psychedelic’ tag are the instrumental breaks, featuring guitarists who play in a style that clearly resembles that of, say, Barry Melton of Country Joe and the Fish, or keyboard breaks reminiscent of the Doors’ Ray Manzarek.
Well, there I am listening to these songs and thinking: ‘Wow! This really is great stuff.’ It veers between a charmingly dated 60s kitsch pop feel, the purity and ‘folk’ feel of the Cambodian instrumentation, and these wonderful, wild instrumental breaks. Intentional or not, it satisfies many of my psychedelic criteria. Particularly with the strange dreamlike feeling engendered by well known western song tunes that have been co-opted into this music (such as Pan Ron’s ‘Kom Veacha Tha Sneha Knom’ which is credited as traditional but is clearly the tune of ‘Bang Bang’ – as sung in the west by both Cher and Terry Reid). But there’s something that bothers me too. Something that stops being able to enjoy it fully.
I don’t have the same problem with the work of the modern bands – the aforementioned Dengue Fever or the trancey tracks by Cambodian Space Project and the Terence McKenna sampling Dub Addiction. That material all swoops and swerves into my ears delightfully, with the full benefit of modern production techniques.
No, the problem with the original stuff is not its sound but the story that goes with it. The majority of these musicians were to become victims of Pol Pot’s genocide regime. They were executed by the Khmer Rouge. I cannot get this fact out of my mind as I listen. It brings a dark edge to work whose main attribute is a quality of light grace and delightful celebration. A taint I am unable to ignore.
I will continue to listen to it. Maybe that feeling will pass. I hope so. Those musicians would have wanted their music to be heard after their deaths, I’m sure. As did, according to Sean Hocking, ‘the Khmer people themselves who hid records or took them overseas and kept them as treasures of a lost past’. My gratitude is to all of them, those who died perhaps purely for the sake of this music, and those who took risks to preserve the recordings.
As for Dengue Fever et al – looks like I’m going to need more room on my shelves.
Toodle pip to one and all.
August 29, 2016
Just Checkin'
Just Checkin’…
This here blog began in January and has meandered on ever since. In what I hope is a relatively bullshit free manner, I followed the hand-me-down advice that having a regular blog would help to establish my presence on the web (which, until this year, was not something I had actively pursued) and that this would help me to sell copies of my book. There is an awful lot of hand-me-down advice just a Google search away, and I’m not sure that any of it is particularly trustworthy, or even that coherent at times. But some things just have to be tried.
At first there were not a lot of ‘hits’ – still less than 200 when Wilful Misunderstandings got published on April 1st. Recently there have been a lot more and now it’s well over 1000. Still not a deluge. And of course, amongst those there will be many who linger for a few seconds and move on. Nor can I distinguish which of them are return visits and which first timers. Google+ provides me with some statistics, but they tend not to tell me stuff I’d most like to know.
I know a couple of people who have been kind enough to tell me that they read this blog on a regular or semi-regular basis. That’s the limit of the feedback I’ve had so far.
Apparently I should be building up my ‘followers’ – but that implies that I’m attempting to lead them somewhere, and frankly I don’t fancy leading anyone anywhere. What would I do with them when we got there? So, readers, rest assured that I shall make no attempt to recruit you in any way. Okay, I shall attempt to gently cajole anyone who hasn’t yet done so into buying a copy of Wilful Misunderstandings (because, let’s face it, your life is incomplete without it), but that’s as far as it goes.
What I would enjoy greatly would be to hear from anyone who does read this blog. It would be really interesting to know whether the content I put into it (often rather randomly) is proving entertaining and/or at least occasionally thought provoking. Is the mix of content about right, or would readers like to see more or less of certain things? What have been the highlights so far? And, dare I ask, the lowlights?
There appears to be a box at the end of each entry where you can post comments. Do feel free to use it, or if you’d prefer send me a message through G+. It would be lovely to hear from you. Opinions, if they emerge, my well conflict, of course. But all suggestions will be considered and some of them will be acted upon.
Over to you.
In the meantime, here’s a pretty picture.
Toodle pip
This here blog began in January and has meandered on ever since. In what I hope is a relatively bullshit free manner, I followed the hand-me-down advice that having a regular blog would help to establish my presence on the web (which, until this year, was not something I had actively pursued) and that this would help me to sell copies of my book. There is an awful lot of hand-me-down advice just a Google search away, and I’m not sure that any of it is particularly trustworthy, or even that coherent at times. But some things just have to be tried.
At first there were not a lot of ‘hits’ – still less than 200 when Wilful Misunderstandings got published on April 1st. Recently there have been a lot more and now it’s well over 1000. Still not a deluge. And of course, amongst those there will be many who linger for a few seconds and move on. Nor can I distinguish which of them are return visits and which first timers. Google+ provides me with some statistics, but they tend not to tell me stuff I’d most like to know.
I know a couple of people who have been kind enough to tell me that they read this blog on a regular or semi-regular basis. That’s the limit of the feedback I’ve had so far.
Apparently I should be building up my ‘followers’ – but that implies that I’m attempting to lead them somewhere, and frankly I don’t fancy leading anyone anywhere. What would I do with them when we got there? So, readers, rest assured that I shall make no attempt to recruit you in any way. Okay, I shall attempt to gently cajole anyone who hasn’t yet done so into buying a copy of Wilful Misunderstandings (because, let’s face it, your life is incomplete without it), but that’s as far as it goes.
What I would enjoy greatly would be to hear from anyone who does read this blog. It would be really interesting to know whether the content I put into it (often rather randomly) is proving entertaining and/or at least occasionally thought provoking. Is the mix of content about right, or would readers like to see more or less of certain things? What have been the highlights so far? And, dare I ask, the lowlights?
There appears to be a box at the end of each entry where you can post comments. Do feel free to use it, or if you’d prefer send me a message through G+. It would be lovely to hear from you. Opinions, if they emerge, my well conflict, of course. But all suggestions will be considered and some of them will be acted upon.
Over to you.
In the meantime, here’s a pretty picture.
Toodle pip
August 22, 2016
Ambition
Ambition
I wanted to hang the moon and its glowup from my ceiling to brighten my nightsthey said I was foolish and I should knowthat I had no claim to purloin satellites(was I not content with electric lights?)I told them my plans could still reach fruitionand they were the ones who lacked ambition
I required a mountain in my back yardcomplete with eagles, snow, crags and a peakthey said the logistics were far too hardthat my neighbours’ views would be much too bleak(a small rockery is what I should seek)I told them they showed no true intuitionand mountains came to those with ambition
sure my attic could hold a universeone hatchway to some endless diversionthey said: ‘you’re deluded or maybe worseno house could contain such an incursion’(could I not accept a loft conversion?)I told them they had no sense of visioninfinite’s the limit of my ambition
And speaking of ambition, here's one more from th' Tube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BFe7O...
Toodle pip.
I wanted to hang the moon and its glowup from my ceiling to brighten my nightsthey said I was foolish and I should knowthat I had no claim to purloin satellites(was I not content with electric lights?)I told them my plans could still reach fruitionand they were the ones who lacked ambition
I required a mountain in my back yardcomplete with eagles, snow, crags and a peakthey said the logistics were far too hardthat my neighbours’ views would be much too bleak(a small rockery is what I should seek)I told them they showed no true intuitionand mountains came to those with ambition
sure my attic could hold a universeone hatchway to some endless diversionthey said: ‘you’re deluded or maybe worseno house could contain such an incursion’(could I not accept a loft conversion?)I told them they had no sense of visioninfinite’s the limit of my ambition
And speaking of ambition, here's one more from th' Tube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BFe7O...
Toodle pip.
August 15, 2016
YouTube? Blimey! What next?
“So ‘e’s on YouTube, now, is ‘e?”
“Yeah, well, makes a nice change from ‘Keeping Up With the Kardashians’.”
“Come on, there’s no way ‘e’s going to out-viral all them cats playing pianos, surely.”
“’Course not. Going for a niche market, in’t ‘e? A balding old hippie reading stories from this book he’s trying to flog – I mean, it’s not exactly cute or sexy. But, you know… Takes all types, dunnit?”
“Well, what’s ‘e like?”
“Put it this way. George Clooney and Leonardo DiCaprio won’t be losing any sleep. ‘E does his best, you know… You don’t see a lot of the audience, but they seem to be enjoying themselves by and large. ‘E gets a few laughs, and some of them look like they’re actually where ‘e intended them to be.”
“Really. So these stories ‘e’s reading, what are they about?”
“Oh, I dunno… I wasn’t paying that much attention. They don’t make a lot of sense, but ‘e tries to make it sound as if they do.”
“You mean like politicians?”
“I s’pose. Not so scary, though. In fact ‘e’s quite affable, really. An’ he bobs around a bit, does a few funny voices… Like I said, he does his best, bless ‘im.”
“Oh, there we are then. I might get round to watching one of ‘em, if I’ve got nothing better to do.”
“Wait a minute! Forget about ‘im. ‘Ave a look at this one!”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a cocker spaniel… an’ ‘e’s playing the violin.”
“Oh yeah! Aww, look at ‘is little paws… That is so cute. And that’s a Stradivarius ‘e’s playin’, too.”
“You reckon? I thought it was one of the Brandenburg Concertos, myself.”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JWh5i6CRERM
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OP8fMwx_R4Y
_________________________________________________________________________________
The Cult Book of 2016 continues to pick up steam!Don’t be the last one to know – get it now!
Comments are coming in from readers of Wilful Misunderstandings, and so far they've been well positive. Here's a sample:
Just to say I'm so enjoying your book. I've just finished 'Moon Bar Night'. It's mind expanding. How did you come up with that? Amazing. Loved the language, characters, everything about it. Your stories are like dreams half remembered, tapping into a seam (or seeming) of the unconscious mind. (TJ Alderson - novelist)
I'm really enjoying reading Wilful Misunderstandings! I love the feeling throughout the stories of shifting, malleable realities, it is so much fun and encourages thinking in new ways about the world. Love it! (Emily Hinshelwood - poet, climate change activist)
Wilful Misunderstandings.... The book is bloody brilliant. I read it in nearly one sitting. It totally messed with my head. So much so that now I'm going to read it all over again! (Jo Freeman - teaching assistant)
Quite fascinating reading. I'm sure Alan Moore fans will enjoy his stories. (Flavio Pessanha - Alan Moore scholar)
And speaking of Alan Moore, if you've missed it so far, here's what he had to say about Wilful Misunderstandings:
With an unusual oulipo toolkit and a feigned bewilderment at the English language, Richard Foreman strikes a previously undiscovered seam of literary inspiration in this oddly charming compilation of deliberately misconstrued everyday phraseology. Words are the essential wallpaper of our lives and our reality, and when even the word ‘wallpaper’ can suddenly become a thing of eerie, alien beauty we are made uncomfortably aware of the peculiar worlds of possibility that lurk beneath the skin of our vocabulary. A passport to a parallel planet where nothing means quite what you thought it did, this book offers an excursion to a strangely familiar place that you have never previously dreamed of. Get your shots and book your ticket today.
So there we are. Click on this link to Lepus Books (or go to Amazon etc. if you need to economise) and buy it. You won't have any regrets.
http://lepusbooks.co.uk/wilful-misunderstandings/
“Yeah, well, makes a nice change from ‘Keeping Up With the Kardashians’.”
“Come on, there’s no way ‘e’s going to out-viral all them cats playing pianos, surely.”
“’Course not. Going for a niche market, in’t ‘e? A balding old hippie reading stories from this book he’s trying to flog – I mean, it’s not exactly cute or sexy. But, you know… Takes all types, dunnit?”
“Well, what’s ‘e like?”
“Put it this way. George Clooney and Leonardo DiCaprio won’t be losing any sleep. ‘E does his best, you know… You don’t see a lot of the audience, but they seem to be enjoying themselves by and large. ‘E gets a few laughs, and some of them look like they’re actually where ‘e intended them to be.”
“Really. So these stories ‘e’s reading, what are they about?”
“Oh, I dunno… I wasn’t paying that much attention. They don’t make a lot of sense, but ‘e tries to make it sound as if they do.”
“You mean like politicians?”
“I s’pose. Not so scary, though. In fact ‘e’s quite affable, really. An’ he bobs around a bit, does a few funny voices… Like I said, he does his best, bless ‘im.”
“Oh, there we are then. I might get round to watching one of ‘em, if I’ve got nothing better to do.”
“Wait a minute! Forget about ‘im. ‘Ave a look at this one!”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a cocker spaniel… an’ ‘e’s playing the violin.”
“Oh yeah! Aww, look at ‘is little paws… That is so cute. And that’s a Stradivarius ‘e’s playin’, too.”
“You reckon? I thought it was one of the Brandenburg Concertos, myself.”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JWh5i6CRERM
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OP8fMwx_R4Y
_________________________________________________________________________________The Cult Book of 2016 continues to pick up steam!Don’t be the last one to know – get it now!
Comments are coming in from readers of Wilful Misunderstandings, and so far they've been well positive. Here's a sample:
Just to say I'm so enjoying your book. I've just finished 'Moon Bar Night'. It's mind expanding. How did you come up with that? Amazing. Loved the language, characters, everything about it. Your stories are like dreams half remembered, tapping into a seam (or seeming) of the unconscious mind. (TJ Alderson - novelist)
I'm really enjoying reading Wilful Misunderstandings! I love the feeling throughout the stories of shifting, malleable realities, it is so much fun and encourages thinking in new ways about the world. Love it! (Emily Hinshelwood - poet, climate change activist)
Wilful Misunderstandings.... The book is bloody brilliant. I read it in nearly one sitting. It totally messed with my head. So much so that now I'm going to read it all over again! (Jo Freeman - teaching assistant)
Quite fascinating reading. I'm sure Alan Moore fans will enjoy his stories. (Flavio Pessanha - Alan Moore scholar)
And speaking of Alan Moore, if you've missed it so far, here's what he had to say about Wilful Misunderstandings:
With an unusual oulipo toolkit and a feigned bewilderment at the English language, Richard Foreman strikes a previously undiscovered seam of literary inspiration in this oddly charming compilation of deliberately misconstrued everyday phraseology. Words are the essential wallpaper of our lives and our reality, and when even the word ‘wallpaper’ can suddenly become a thing of eerie, alien beauty we are made uncomfortably aware of the peculiar worlds of possibility that lurk beneath the skin of our vocabulary. A passport to a parallel planet where nothing means quite what you thought it did, this book offers an excursion to a strangely familiar place that you have never previously dreamed of. Get your shots and book your ticket today.
So there we are. Click on this link to Lepus Books (or go to Amazon etc. if you need to economise) and buy it. You won't have any regrets.
http://lepusbooks.co.uk/wilful-misunderstandings/
August 8, 2016
An Oulipian Fragment
An Oulipian Fragment
I've been thinking since I reproduced the piece on the Oulipo for this blog, that I ought to dip into their 'constraints' once more and see where I got to when I went there. Okay, I said to myself, let's write a prose piece of around 500 words, under one such constraint. Here goes...
I look at hills. Jaggy or round in form. Across my horizon and all in a row. Woodland on a small quantity, individual growths on an additional amount. Clouds scud by as a backdrop - hint of indigo, part pink, as sun sinks.
I look at hills. Hills look back. Down on towns in which humans mark land with foundations, buildings, roads and paving. Hills watch us all with profound absorption. A watch lasting as long as humans trod this land, if not for a duration way back past that shaky start. Thinking Gaia’s thoughts of sustainability, I ask?
Hills stay with us. Cliff facings, cascading liquid falls, random rock formations all abound – both at first scan, and also in our minds. Flora and fauna, climbs and slips, arduous trips and languorous strolls, wild winds and slow draughts; all within and without our own banks of thought.
Not simply mounds, big or small, hills stand with dips and undulations. Fractal by way of formation, you can multiply all that hills contain and find infinity, insofar as find it you can with all your mind’s limits in play. Think of hills as worlds if you will, or go as far as you can, anyway, on this thought-form path you follow. Think through hills, into hills. Go down to low strata, and pick up this story of how hills found form. Find hills’ part in an unfolding saga of ground and its contours.
Hills do not show fright - proud to stand, stalwart, without complaint or any form of misgiving. Up on a hill, you look afar and in all ways that your compass can point. Up on a hill, you find a unitary spot at which to join that high continuity, and absorb all that is shown to you. Raptor birds swoop in salutation, bug and dragonfly buzz and flit in comity with your far sight and smooth focus. That’s what a hill can hand to you.
On a good day.
But on a bad and blowy day, as high winds push and drag your body, rain on a slant soaks to your skin and hail hits you hard, it may not turn out that this location suits you so happily. Such days hills wish to hold apart, for a solitary form of inclination that no human can form a party to. And on such days, if you go, you will stand on your own and probably find you will soon turn gladly to part company with all that turmoil that is raging about you. Such days stay days in which to find walls and a roof to hold guard on your body. Hills own rights to that which you do not.
So I look at hills to pick up any sign that I am fit to pass days amidst an availability of drama and on which this insight I always sought will possibly find its way to my mind. I look at hills and know that I may find what I want to find - or just as much of what I’d not truly wish for.
Well, my respect for Georges Perec has just gone through the roof. 500 words without an 'e' and I've only just managed to keep it all making sense (more or less). He wrote an entire novel under that same constraint. And someone else translated it without 'e's too. Hats off!
At first, I thought: 'this is silly, it's gonna take me all day to do the goddamn blog at this rate (it nearly did) and what's the point of that?' After a bit I thought: 'hmm, this is interesting. It's forcing me to find ways to get ideas across without falling back on the obvious words I might have used to convey them. It's steering me away from writing patterns I often fall into, and from cliches. Some of it may be rather inelegantly expressed, but here and there I've come up with some phrases I rather like and might not have found otherwise.' Just writing whilst denied access to words like 'the' is quite enlightening. Amazing too how often I did throw in a word containing an 'e' without noticing until I used the 'find' tool to highlight them. We can write words and be blind to them - that's why proofreaders are worth their weight.
It's good this Oulipo stuff.
In small doses.
Toodle pip
I've been thinking since I reproduced the piece on the Oulipo for this blog, that I ought to dip into their 'constraints' once more and see where I got to when I went there. Okay, I said to myself, let's write a prose piece of around 500 words, under one such constraint. Here goes...
I look at hills. Jaggy or round in form. Across my horizon and all in a row. Woodland on a small quantity, individual growths on an additional amount. Clouds scud by as a backdrop - hint of indigo, part pink, as sun sinks.
I look at hills. Hills look back. Down on towns in which humans mark land with foundations, buildings, roads and paving. Hills watch us all with profound absorption. A watch lasting as long as humans trod this land, if not for a duration way back past that shaky start. Thinking Gaia’s thoughts of sustainability, I ask?
Hills stay with us. Cliff facings, cascading liquid falls, random rock formations all abound – both at first scan, and also in our minds. Flora and fauna, climbs and slips, arduous trips and languorous strolls, wild winds and slow draughts; all within and without our own banks of thought.
Not simply mounds, big or small, hills stand with dips and undulations. Fractal by way of formation, you can multiply all that hills contain and find infinity, insofar as find it you can with all your mind’s limits in play. Think of hills as worlds if you will, or go as far as you can, anyway, on this thought-form path you follow. Think through hills, into hills. Go down to low strata, and pick up this story of how hills found form. Find hills’ part in an unfolding saga of ground and its contours.
Hills do not show fright - proud to stand, stalwart, without complaint or any form of misgiving. Up on a hill, you look afar and in all ways that your compass can point. Up on a hill, you find a unitary spot at which to join that high continuity, and absorb all that is shown to you. Raptor birds swoop in salutation, bug and dragonfly buzz and flit in comity with your far sight and smooth focus. That’s what a hill can hand to you.
On a good day.
But on a bad and blowy day, as high winds push and drag your body, rain on a slant soaks to your skin and hail hits you hard, it may not turn out that this location suits you so happily. Such days hills wish to hold apart, for a solitary form of inclination that no human can form a party to. And on such days, if you go, you will stand on your own and probably find you will soon turn gladly to part company with all that turmoil that is raging about you. Such days stay days in which to find walls and a roof to hold guard on your body. Hills own rights to that which you do not.
So I look at hills to pick up any sign that I am fit to pass days amidst an availability of drama and on which this insight I always sought will possibly find its way to my mind. I look at hills and know that I may find what I want to find - or just as much of what I’d not truly wish for.
Well, my respect for Georges Perec has just gone through the roof. 500 words without an 'e' and I've only just managed to keep it all making sense (more or less). He wrote an entire novel under that same constraint. And someone else translated it without 'e's too. Hats off!
At first, I thought: 'this is silly, it's gonna take me all day to do the goddamn blog at this rate (it nearly did) and what's the point of that?' After a bit I thought: 'hmm, this is interesting. It's forcing me to find ways to get ideas across without falling back on the obvious words I might have used to convey them. It's steering me away from writing patterns I often fall into, and from cliches. Some of it may be rather inelegantly expressed, but here and there I've come up with some phrases I rather like and might not have found otherwise.' Just writing whilst denied access to words like 'the' is quite enlightening. Amazing too how often I did throw in a word containing an 'e' without noticing until I used the 'find' tool to highlight them. We can write words and be blind to them - that's why proofreaders are worth their weight.
It's good this Oulipo stuff.
In small doses.
Toodle pip
August 1, 2016
Used Planet For Sale
Originally published in 'And This Global Warming' anthology,Roynetree Press, 2012(& proud I am that it was)
July 18, 2016
Sequestered
Sequestered.
I am drawn to the shore, but it seems I cannot reach it. Sometimes I am so close I can hear the ever alternating ebb and crash, the crack of shoved, impacting pebbles, the hiss, the fizz… It’s just over this ridge, through this last field where sheep or cattle graze, beyond those thorny, scrawny, wind disfigured trees, that patch of tangled bramble or yellow blooming gorse. I only have to find a path. I only have to reach the edge of cliffs and find some track-way down.
I yearn to remove my shoes and socks, tread the slightly yielding sands and place my feet in the path of some cold, incoming surge of froth and water. I long to dance and splash and play the fool, there where land meets sea. To stride out ever deeper, throw my body forward and in that moment of immersion propel myself to swim.
I climb, I descend, I stride a line or zigzag through rougher terrain. I can hear the gulls, their sharp peals seem to echo around me as they circle and swoop above. I can smell the fresh, salty odour of the ocean that awaits me beyond these tangles and slopes that hinder my advance. Oh but the wind that blows it to me, it too pushes me back, making a labour of simple footsteps.
I keep pushing on. The sun, at its highest, seems to scorch my scalp. I am sweating, footsore, my muscles ache with effort. I have nothing to sustain me but the will to reach that ever-moving body of water, whose presence I desire. Surely I will see it soon, I only have find some gap or gate in this stark fence of barbed wire that stands before me now.
There must have been a path. That must be where I started. Others have reached the sea and returned to tell tales of clear waters, sheltered coves, bright and fascinating rock-pools, the passing of pleasurable hours. But, if path there was, it has disappeared, or I have turned away from it in some moment of careless distraction. The fence stretches either way, as far as I can see, the barbed wire new and too taut to manipulate a gap through which I could clamber. And then it turns a corner and I am forced to retreat from my destination. I have no memory of the gate or means by which I entered this enclosure, but if this impedance continues, I will find myself back at that point.
At least then I might find some other route, or perhaps the path I guess I lost - this time to lead me with greater certainty. But the sound I heard so seeming close is fading. The gulls too keep distant, circle higher, their cries drifting out of range. It is blackbird and song-thrush I’m hearing now, in the woodland from which the fence now divides me. Another corner and surely soon I will find the gateway out.
My weariness is now bone deep, each lift of a leg an effort. My spine is a long, dull ache; my stomach a void; my throat coarse with thirst. I don’t know how long I’ve been walking for, pressing myself on in isolation, but I know that soon I can walk no more. Perhaps the way back to wherever I came from will be easier. Perhaps there will be food and shelter there, someone to advise me, to show me the way.
Rest and a good night’s sleep are what I need.
Tomorrow I will surely find the shore.
Won't be blogging next week, away from home. Check me out again start of August.
I am drawn to the shore, but it seems I cannot reach it. Sometimes I am so close I can hear the ever alternating ebb and crash, the crack of shoved, impacting pebbles, the hiss, the fizz… It’s just over this ridge, through this last field where sheep or cattle graze, beyond those thorny, scrawny, wind disfigured trees, that patch of tangled bramble or yellow blooming gorse. I only have to find a path. I only have to reach the edge of cliffs and find some track-way down.
I yearn to remove my shoes and socks, tread the slightly yielding sands and place my feet in the path of some cold, incoming surge of froth and water. I long to dance and splash and play the fool, there where land meets sea. To stride out ever deeper, throw my body forward and in that moment of immersion propel myself to swim.
I climb, I descend, I stride a line or zigzag through rougher terrain. I can hear the gulls, their sharp peals seem to echo around me as they circle and swoop above. I can smell the fresh, salty odour of the ocean that awaits me beyond these tangles and slopes that hinder my advance. Oh but the wind that blows it to me, it too pushes me back, making a labour of simple footsteps.
I keep pushing on. The sun, at its highest, seems to scorch my scalp. I am sweating, footsore, my muscles ache with effort. I have nothing to sustain me but the will to reach that ever-moving body of water, whose presence I desire. Surely I will see it soon, I only have find some gap or gate in this stark fence of barbed wire that stands before me now.
There must have been a path. That must be where I started. Others have reached the sea and returned to tell tales of clear waters, sheltered coves, bright and fascinating rock-pools, the passing of pleasurable hours. But, if path there was, it has disappeared, or I have turned away from it in some moment of careless distraction. The fence stretches either way, as far as I can see, the barbed wire new and too taut to manipulate a gap through which I could clamber. And then it turns a corner and I am forced to retreat from my destination. I have no memory of the gate or means by which I entered this enclosure, but if this impedance continues, I will find myself back at that point.
At least then I might find some other route, or perhaps the path I guess I lost - this time to lead me with greater certainty. But the sound I heard so seeming close is fading. The gulls too keep distant, circle higher, their cries drifting out of range. It is blackbird and song-thrush I’m hearing now, in the woodland from which the fence now divides me. Another corner and surely soon I will find the gateway out.
My weariness is now bone deep, each lift of a leg an effort. My spine is a long, dull ache; my stomach a void; my throat coarse with thirst. I don’t know how long I’ve been walking for, pressing myself on in isolation, but I know that soon I can walk no more. Perhaps the way back to wherever I came from will be easier. Perhaps there will be food and shelter there, someone to advise me, to show me the way.
Rest and a good night’s sleep are what I need.
Tomorrow I will surely find the shore.
Won't be blogging next week, away from home. Check me out again start of August.
July 11, 2016
Working for the DC Dollar - Part 6: A Twisted Season
Working for the DC DollarPart 6: A Twisted Season
Last time, editor Lou Stathis and I, having found at least a few things in common, were starting to look at how we could turn 'Black Orchid' into the kind of comic that both of us wanted it to be. Our cogitations led us back to 'Suzy', the orchidette, and her possible role in what was to come.
We’d put Suzy largely on the back boiler again, but had not forgotten or ignored her. Indeed, at least one of the complete one-issue stories featured her exclusively. A plan was hatching. I can’t remember how much of this was my idea, how much was Lou’s, or whether some of it came from the other folk who were still giving me generous advice and assistance when they could, but whatever… it required us to embark on another multi-parter. In this one Black Orchid would go off the rails, and the story would climax with her complete destruction. Somewhere along the line, Lou and I had agreed that having two Orchid characters was a bit of a pain, and that reducing them to one – Suzy – would make a lot of sense. ‘A Twisted Season’ was the running title we went with.
The fairly apocalyptic nature of the upset would enable us to then revamp the series into a new and different style. I think, even as we embarked on the creation of this six parter, we were already beginning to discuss the intriguing directions in which the title might strike, once we had upset the apple cart.
However, this footnote in comics history is drawing to a close. Whatever it was that we were planning, it was not destined to emerge. The comics boom was turning into something of a slump as the 90s progressed. I’m sure there were some notable exceptions amongst the elite (and deservedly so in some cases), but for those of us who had not set the world alight, sales figures were dropping inexorably, month by month. One by one those Vertigo titles, that had been the great hope of a year or two before, were beginning to wink out of existence, like stars being erased by some cosmic super-villain. (I’m sorry. I’ve been writing about comics for several hours now. It gets under the skin.)
I can’t remember the exact order in which they went, but for a while it seemed the dust was being bitten on a regular basis by ‘Kid Eternity’, ‘Doom Patrol’, ‘Sandman Mystery Theatre’, ‘Books of Magic’ and more. Lou and I hung on in the hope that our slightly better sales count would keep us above the cut-off line (which, I was told, is decided entirely by DC’s accountancy department). If we could make it good enough, the post-Twisted-Season revamp might just have reversed the trend.
In retrospect, I don’t think we really had a hope. Such gloss and glitter as the series had at its inception had long since been sanded off. Where once we had received a fair amount of admiring mail for the letters column, towards the end I’m not sure we had any letters at all. (Mind you, I think I recollect that Lou was not that keen on letter columns, so conceivably he just stashed the last few letters in a filing cabinet and I never got to see them.)
The final issue and last of those lushMcKean covers...
Inevitably the day came when I received the worst phone call of the lot. We were below the line. We would be given the grace to complete our final storyline, but the Orchid’s demise would be the entire series’ end. Strange, it’s only in the course of writing this that I’ve noticed that I began my DC tenure with a story called ‘The Growing Season’ and ended with ‘A Twisted Season’. But let’s not read too much into that. Maybe I was already starting to run out of ideas and was just repeating myself.
I’ll say this for Lou Stathis, once you’d gained his trust he was loyal and supportive. I met some very nice editors during my time at DC. Tom I’ve mentioned, but I have fond memories of Stuart Moore and Art Young amongst others. Youthful (then), interesting guys with a real zest for what they felt comics could be, a distinctly un-nerdy sophistication and a good sense of humour. But with Lou, I genuinely think it went deeper. For all his objections to what had been done with it before his editorship, he was – as far as I could tell – upset about the way Black Orchid ended. And though he might understandably have dropped me at that point, like the proverbial ton of bricks, this did not prove the case. He’d sussed, I’m sure, that I was no genius, no future Alan Moore (there never will be), but he knew that I worked hard, met my deadlines, took criticism – and that kind of stuff he valued. We moved on to discussing ideas for what I would do next. We both favoured the idea of the ‘mini-series’, stories that would be told over the course of two to six monthly comics and that were not part of any DC ‘continuity'. After one or two duds, I came up with something he could see potential in and we began to work on the synopsis.
And then something awful happened.
The phone calls stopped. I checked in with someone else at DC and discovered that Lou was off sick. He’d begun to suffer severe, debilitating headaches and they appeared to be getting worse and more frequent. In time I heard the reason why. He had developed an inoperable brain tumour. Within a few months, he was dead. RIP Lou Stathis.
To speak of the negative impact of this event upon me seems entirely self-indulgent. It should be pretty obvious how the land then lay and I don’t want to go there. The fact is that, over twenty years later, here I am still alive, still relatively healthy and enjoying it. This option was not on offer to Lou. He was 45 years old when he died. That’s way too fucking young to go.
I daresay there was a bit more toing and froing ‘twixt me and DC after that, but essentially it was over. And those years of immersion in the world of comics had done something a bit funny to my head. Comics weren’t the pleasure they once were. With the exception of the very best, even reading them was beginning to feel like a bit of a chore.
And I felt – wrongly or rightly – like I’d failed. Okay, in my account I’ve presented some of the decisions made that appeared to be outside my control. It’s conceivable that things might have turned out healthier for me if those decisions had not been made. But I can’t be sure of that. The fact is that I made a lot of wrong decisions myself. And there is no doubt that the writing I did at that stage of my life could and should have been better. End of story.
All of a sudden I felt like it was time to move on. Pastures new and all that.
I wrote a novel. ‘On Earth, As It Is’ started life as a comic strip for a small press publication called Blaam!. Only two episodes appeared, drawn by the estimable and charming John McCrea, before Blaam! winked out of existence (that villain again, I think he was called Doctor Lowsales). But I’d always liked the story and had quietly developed it over the years as I felt it should be continued. So I wrote it as a prose novel, on the old Amstrad word processor I used throughout my time writing comics. I sent it to a bunch of publishers and now and again got some good and encouraging feedback. Editors wrote back to say they’d enjoyed it but couldn’t see its place in the market. Editors don’t have to say things like that. They don’t have to say anything at all, beyond the standard rejection slip. So I took it that there was some quality in my writing.
Then a film came out. I forget the title but it starred Kevin Spacey as a man who could be from another planet, stranded on Earth, or who could be a human being with a powerful delusion. Pretty much like the central character of ‘On Earth, As It Is’. I think it was quite a good movie.
It was time to move on even further. I had a life. There was a new relationship that had come into it, and that was full of promise. My dearly beloved partner had a yen to move to South Wales, just as soon as she’d taken early retirement from a demanding job as a special needs teacher. All of which takes us on to, as they say, ‘another story’. A good one too – I wouldn’t have missed those years in Wales and still feel a strong connection with ‘Twin Town’ Swansea, the Gower and the Brecon Beacons.
I pretty much stopped writing for a while, for a slew of reasons that I won’t bore you with here. But the bug was dormant and had no intention of leaving me for good. An encouraging prod from the direction of Northampton got me thinking about what I might offer to the newly launched ‘Dodgem Logic’ magazine. Although what I was to contribute to that publication turned out to be something else entirely, it was that very prod that also kick-started ‘Wilful Misunderstandings’. (For anyone new to this blog, ‘Wilful Misunderstandings’ is a book that you really ought to have bought by now. It’s ever so good, and you can find out how to get it in the ‘Brexit Blues’ post)
As for comics… A few years back, as you do, I decided to Google myself and see what presence I had on the internet. What little came up concerning me - rather than namesakes - led me to a comics review site. I forget what it was called and have no idea whether the posting remains, but there was a bunch of reviews of my early ‘Black Orchids’. I think they gave the benefit of the doubt to the first 1 or 2 issues, thereafter it made for some pretty excoriating reading. Ouch! Well fair enough – I’m not here to argue with the opinions expressed and even agreed with much of what was written (though the reviewer did make some seriously off-beam guesses about me personally, which was kind of fascinating). I think it was about then that I came up with my ‘footnote in the history of comics’ epithet.
Well, thanks for reading. You have reached the end of the footnote!
Last time, editor Lou Stathis and I, having found at least a few things in common, were starting to look at how we could turn 'Black Orchid' into the kind of comic that both of us wanted it to be. Our cogitations led us back to 'Suzy', the orchidette, and her possible role in what was to come.
We’d put Suzy largely on the back boiler again, but had not forgotten or ignored her. Indeed, at least one of the complete one-issue stories featured her exclusively. A plan was hatching. I can’t remember how much of this was my idea, how much was Lou’s, or whether some of it came from the other folk who were still giving me generous advice and assistance when they could, but whatever… it required us to embark on another multi-parter. In this one Black Orchid would go off the rails, and the story would climax with her complete destruction. Somewhere along the line, Lou and I had agreed that having two Orchid characters was a bit of a pain, and that reducing them to one – Suzy – would make a lot of sense. ‘A Twisted Season’ was the running title we went with.
The fairly apocalyptic nature of the upset would enable us to then revamp the series into a new and different style. I think, even as we embarked on the creation of this six parter, we were already beginning to discuss the intriguing directions in which the title might strike, once we had upset the apple cart.
However, this footnote in comics history is drawing to a close. Whatever it was that we were planning, it was not destined to emerge. The comics boom was turning into something of a slump as the 90s progressed. I’m sure there were some notable exceptions amongst the elite (and deservedly so in some cases), but for those of us who had not set the world alight, sales figures were dropping inexorably, month by month. One by one those Vertigo titles, that had been the great hope of a year or two before, were beginning to wink out of existence, like stars being erased by some cosmic super-villain. (I’m sorry. I’ve been writing about comics for several hours now. It gets under the skin.)
I can’t remember the exact order in which they went, but for a while it seemed the dust was being bitten on a regular basis by ‘Kid Eternity’, ‘Doom Patrol’, ‘Sandman Mystery Theatre’, ‘Books of Magic’ and more. Lou and I hung on in the hope that our slightly better sales count would keep us above the cut-off line (which, I was told, is decided entirely by DC’s accountancy department). If we could make it good enough, the post-Twisted-Season revamp might just have reversed the trend.
In retrospect, I don’t think we really had a hope. Such gloss and glitter as the series had at its inception had long since been sanded off. Where once we had received a fair amount of admiring mail for the letters column, towards the end I’m not sure we had any letters at all. (Mind you, I think I recollect that Lou was not that keen on letter columns, so conceivably he just stashed the last few letters in a filing cabinet and I never got to see them.)
The final issue and last of those lushMcKean covers...Inevitably the day came when I received the worst phone call of the lot. We were below the line. We would be given the grace to complete our final storyline, but the Orchid’s demise would be the entire series’ end. Strange, it’s only in the course of writing this that I’ve noticed that I began my DC tenure with a story called ‘The Growing Season’ and ended with ‘A Twisted Season’. But let’s not read too much into that. Maybe I was already starting to run out of ideas and was just repeating myself.
I’ll say this for Lou Stathis, once you’d gained his trust he was loyal and supportive. I met some very nice editors during my time at DC. Tom I’ve mentioned, but I have fond memories of Stuart Moore and Art Young amongst others. Youthful (then), interesting guys with a real zest for what they felt comics could be, a distinctly un-nerdy sophistication and a good sense of humour. But with Lou, I genuinely think it went deeper. For all his objections to what had been done with it before his editorship, he was – as far as I could tell – upset about the way Black Orchid ended. And though he might understandably have dropped me at that point, like the proverbial ton of bricks, this did not prove the case. He’d sussed, I’m sure, that I was no genius, no future Alan Moore (there never will be), but he knew that I worked hard, met my deadlines, took criticism – and that kind of stuff he valued. We moved on to discussing ideas for what I would do next. We both favoured the idea of the ‘mini-series’, stories that would be told over the course of two to six monthly comics and that were not part of any DC ‘continuity'. After one or two duds, I came up with something he could see potential in and we began to work on the synopsis.
And then something awful happened.
The phone calls stopped. I checked in with someone else at DC and discovered that Lou was off sick. He’d begun to suffer severe, debilitating headaches and they appeared to be getting worse and more frequent. In time I heard the reason why. He had developed an inoperable brain tumour. Within a few months, he was dead. RIP Lou Stathis.
To speak of the negative impact of this event upon me seems entirely self-indulgent. It should be pretty obvious how the land then lay and I don’t want to go there. The fact is that, over twenty years later, here I am still alive, still relatively healthy and enjoying it. This option was not on offer to Lou. He was 45 years old when he died. That’s way too fucking young to go.
I daresay there was a bit more toing and froing ‘twixt me and DC after that, but essentially it was over. And those years of immersion in the world of comics had done something a bit funny to my head. Comics weren’t the pleasure they once were. With the exception of the very best, even reading them was beginning to feel like a bit of a chore.
And I felt – wrongly or rightly – like I’d failed. Okay, in my account I’ve presented some of the decisions made that appeared to be outside my control. It’s conceivable that things might have turned out healthier for me if those decisions had not been made. But I can’t be sure of that. The fact is that I made a lot of wrong decisions myself. And there is no doubt that the writing I did at that stage of my life could and should have been better. End of story.
All of a sudden I felt like it was time to move on. Pastures new and all that.
I wrote a novel. ‘On Earth, As It Is’ started life as a comic strip for a small press publication called Blaam!. Only two episodes appeared, drawn by the estimable and charming John McCrea, before Blaam! winked out of existence (that villain again, I think he was called Doctor Lowsales). But I’d always liked the story and had quietly developed it over the years as I felt it should be continued. So I wrote it as a prose novel, on the old Amstrad word processor I used throughout my time writing comics. I sent it to a bunch of publishers and now and again got some good and encouraging feedback. Editors wrote back to say they’d enjoyed it but couldn’t see its place in the market. Editors don’t have to say things like that. They don’t have to say anything at all, beyond the standard rejection slip. So I took it that there was some quality in my writing.
Then a film came out. I forget the title but it starred Kevin Spacey as a man who could be from another planet, stranded on Earth, or who could be a human being with a powerful delusion. Pretty much like the central character of ‘On Earth, As It Is’. I think it was quite a good movie.
It was time to move on even further. I had a life. There was a new relationship that had come into it, and that was full of promise. My dearly beloved partner had a yen to move to South Wales, just as soon as she’d taken early retirement from a demanding job as a special needs teacher. All of which takes us on to, as they say, ‘another story’. A good one too – I wouldn’t have missed those years in Wales and still feel a strong connection with ‘Twin Town’ Swansea, the Gower and the Brecon Beacons.
I pretty much stopped writing for a while, for a slew of reasons that I won’t bore you with here. But the bug was dormant and had no intention of leaving me for good. An encouraging prod from the direction of Northampton got me thinking about what I might offer to the newly launched ‘Dodgem Logic’ magazine. Although what I was to contribute to that publication turned out to be something else entirely, it was that very prod that also kick-started ‘Wilful Misunderstandings’. (For anyone new to this blog, ‘Wilful Misunderstandings’ is a book that you really ought to have bought by now. It’s ever so good, and you can find out how to get it in the ‘Brexit Blues’ post)
As for comics… A few years back, as you do, I decided to Google myself and see what presence I had on the internet. What little came up concerning me - rather than namesakes - led me to a comics review site. I forget what it was called and have no idea whether the posting remains, but there was a bunch of reviews of my early ‘Black Orchids’. I think they gave the benefit of the doubt to the first 1 or 2 issues, thereafter it made for some pretty excoriating reading. Ouch! Well fair enough – I’m not here to argue with the opinions expressed and even agreed with much of what was written (though the reviewer did make some seriously off-beam guesses about me personally, which was kind of fascinating). I think it was about then that I came up with my ‘footnote in the history of comics’ epithet.
Well, thanks for reading. You have reached the end of the footnote!
July 6, 2016
Working for the DC Dollar - Part 5: Bonding Over Can and Don
Apologies for late appearance of this week's bit of bloggery. It's been a hectic few days, gorblimey guv'nor.
Working for the DC DollarPart 5: Bonding Over Can and Don
Last entry's cliffhanger will hopefully have chalk biters everywhere on tenterhooks. So, without further ado, here's what happened next...
I can’t quite remember my first encounter with Lou Stathis. It was probably on the phone.
In those pre-internet years, communication between UK creators and US editors took place through the media of fax, phonecalls and Fed-Ex. I didn’t have a fax machine so I was restricted to the last two. Fed-Ex was fun: the feeling of relief when you finally got a script packaged and sent off; the feeling of excitement on receipt of a bundle of new artwork. Phonecalls were, by and large, not so much fun.
I’ve always reckoned that, just as Marmite (or Vegemite or whatever yeast extract gets called elsewhere) divides the world into those who like it and those who loathe it, there is a distinct divide between those who relax into and enjoy phonecalls and those who dread them. I’m one of the latter. Even when I phone close friends I get nervous. What if it’s a bad time to call? Will I remember the stuff I really wanted to say? Perhaps I should just leave it for now. It’s all completely irrational. (You thought I was sane?)
Owing to the time difference with New York, these phonecalls tended to occur between 9pm and midnight here, when the DC editors were starting their working days there. Being of the larkish disposition rather than the owlish, this did not suit me particularly well either. I was usually knackered and ready for bed when the phone rang and I’d find myself having to discuss fine details of plot, dialogue and artwork with some sharp young American, fresh from his coffee and waffles.
I think I’d heard a few things about Lou before that first encounter. He liked to come across as a hard case, a man who didn’t suffer fools gladly. Diplomacy was apparently not a strong point. He had some radical ideas about what he thought was wrong with Vertigo comics during their early years, and he was on a mission to stir things up. And he had some clout. He’d had extensive previous experience in an editorial capacity with the somewhat prestigious ‘Heavy Metal’ magazine, which ran high gloss, adult oriented comic strips along with some journalistic content. So as you can imagine, that phonecall (if phonecall it was) was faced by me with the usual trepidation, enhanced to the power of ten (or possibly a Nigel Tufnell style ‘11’). I had visions of a quick dismissal and the end of my barely begun career as a comics writer. Lou Stathis would see right through me to the hollow man at the core.
Actually, he wasn’t so bad. Remember ‘Black Orchid’ was still selling at least slightly better than the majority of its Vertigo contemporaries. So I got some respect for that, and of course I kept quiet regarding my doubt about deserving it. I think he wanted to sound me out and was prepared to give me a chance – so long as my ideas blended with his for the development of the character and the style the comic should adopt.
For a man who had to walk past Superman bursting through that wall every morning on his way to the pokey little offices in which DC editors laboured, it was perhaps rather unfortunate that Lou hated super heroes. He was steeped in the work of the underground comics artists, and that of the European writers and artists whose adult oriented science fiction and fantasy had been featured in the pages of Heavy Metal for years. As regards the former, so was I. And I had a working knowledge of the latter, though I didn’t quite share Lou’s enthusiasm. I think it became clear, even in our earliest encounters, there was some hope that a working relationship could yet ensue.
That said, his complaints regarding ‘Black Orchid’ as it had run so far were copious. Tom Peyer, if you ever read this, forgive me – but I shifted the blame onto you for quite a few of them! Lou loathed all those super-hero elements that had gone into the story so far – and you made me do it, Tom. You made me do it. And the Children’s Crusade related stories I’d done (one of which had flashed back to the original 70s Black Orchid super heroine) – boy, did he particularly hate those. I could almost imagine him taking copies from his office and ritually incinerating them.
But of course, to back up my craven shirking of the responsibility, I had my original outline for the first twelve issues. Ironically the very idea that had been so firmly rejected at the time of the comic’s genesis was pretty much of the sort that Lou hoped to see in Vertigo Comics. When I described it to Lou, I felt a distinct warming of his attitude. Maybe I could be an ally in his mission.
Two more things aided our developing relationship. Lou was editing Jamie Delano’s work on – I think – ‘Animal Man’ (another obscure old super hero who’d been given a revamp). Jamie tends to effect a hard-bitten, frequently cynical persona, which chimed quite well with Lou’s brusque approach. That Jamie and I had a good friendship lent me at least a little more credibility in Lou’s eyes, or so I think. Along with a shared appreciation for the work of writers such as William Burroughs.
The other thing was music.
I took a quick look at his Wikipedia page before I wrote and didn’t spot any mention of this, but I’m pretty sure that Lou had been at least an occasional contributor to US rock magazine Creem. He was certainly a massive rock music enthusiast and had interviewed a number of musicians of whom I was in awe, including Don ‘Captain Beefheart’ Van Vliet (the interview can still be found on the Beefheart.com website). And it was the edgier, more challenging music that he was largely drawn to, particularly German band Can. I too was a serious enthusiast for both Beefheart and Can. Over this we bonded. Phone calls became just that bit more tolerable with the occasional digression onto some rare Can live bootleg or similar that one or the other of us had acquired.
But what to do with Black Orchid? How could we effectively change its direction to something we both thought would be more in keeping with whatever a Vertigo comic should be? We couldn’t just change horses in midstream. The threads I’d established in the opening issues had to be honoured and I’d come up with a few single-issue story ideas that, in the short term, met with Lou’s editorial approval. He could be sharply critical but I often found his suggestions well worth incorporating. Alternatively, if I made a strong enough case for something he initially disapproved of, he was prepared to listen and modify his views.
During that period I remember that I was enjoying the writing a lot more. In many ways, when reading as well as when writing, I preferred stories that were complete in one issue to sprawling multi-part epics. One story at least remains in my memory as a decent achievement. Some research had led me to a creature of folk lore in the UK county of Leicestershire, a kind of hag figure known as Black Annis (aka Black Agnes) who had certain features in common with the Orchid herself, not least the similarity of name. Because she was known as a ‘child snatcher’, a bogeyman, I blended the material I’d gleaned about her with stories of ‘phantom social workers’ that I’d read in Fortean Times. I then contrived a way to bring the Orchid to England and wrapped it all in what I remember as a tight, tense storyline. One of my better ones.
Yes, check it out, (issue 14) you can probably pick up an old back issue for a song, if you sing sweetly enough. Or get in touch via my website, I've still got a copy or two left - though a fairly lengthy instrumental break will be a required part of any song you care to offer.
Next time, this epic winds towards its close, as we look at what Lou and I cooked up and, despite this, the subsequent demise of Black Orchid. Which was followed by a deeper sadness, the death of Mr Stathis, a man I'd come to hold in high regard.
I will, I hope, resume normal service next Monday. Til then, may all your horses win their races...
Working for the DC DollarPart 5: Bonding Over Can and Don
Last entry's cliffhanger will hopefully have chalk biters everywhere on tenterhooks. So, without further ado, here's what happened next...
I can’t quite remember my first encounter with Lou Stathis. It was probably on the phone.
In those pre-internet years, communication between UK creators and US editors took place through the media of fax, phonecalls and Fed-Ex. I didn’t have a fax machine so I was restricted to the last two. Fed-Ex was fun: the feeling of relief when you finally got a script packaged and sent off; the feeling of excitement on receipt of a bundle of new artwork. Phonecalls were, by and large, not so much fun.
I’ve always reckoned that, just as Marmite (or Vegemite or whatever yeast extract gets called elsewhere) divides the world into those who like it and those who loathe it, there is a distinct divide between those who relax into and enjoy phonecalls and those who dread them. I’m one of the latter. Even when I phone close friends I get nervous. What if it’s a bad time to call? Will I remember the stuff I really wanted to say? Perhaps I should just leave it for now. It’s all completely irrational. (You thought I was sane?)
Owing to the time difference with New York, these phonecalls tended to occur between 9pm and midnight here, when the DC editors were starting their working days there. Being of the larkish disposition rather than the owlish, this did not suit me particularly well either. I was usually knackered and ready for bed when the phone rang and I’d find myself having to discuss fine details of plot, dialogue and artwork with some sharp young American, fresh from his coffee and waffles.
I think I’d heard a few things about Lou before that first encounter. He liked to come across as a hard case, a man who didn’t suffer fools gladly. Diplomacy was apparently not a strong point. He had some radical ideas about what he thought was wrong with Vertigo comics during their early years, and he was on a mission to stir things up. And he had some clout. He’d had extensive previous experience in an editorial capacity with the somewhat prestigious ‘Heavy Metal’ magazine, which ran high gloss, adult oriented comic strips along with some journalistic content. So as you can imagine, that phonecall (if phonecall it was) was faced by me with the usual trepidation, enhanced to the power of ten (or possibly a Nigel Tufnell style ‘11’). I had visions of a quick dismissal and the end of my barely begun career as a comics writer. Lou Stathis would see right through me to the hollow man at the core.
Actually, he wasn’t so bad. Remember ‘Black Orchid’ was still selling at least slightly better than the majority of its Vertigo contemporaries. So I got some respect for that, and of course I kept quiet regarding my doubt about deserving it. I think he wanted to sound me out and was prepared to give me a chance – so long as my ideas blended with his for the development of the character and the style the comic should adopt.
For a man who had to walk past Superman bursting through that wall every morning on his way to the pokey little offices in which DC editors laboured, it was perhaps rather unfortunate that Lou hated super heroes. He was steeped in the work of the underground comics artists, and that of the European writers and artists whose adult oriented science fiction and fantasy had been featured in the pages of Heavy Metal for years. As regards the former, so was I. And I had a working knowledge of the latter, though I didn’t quite share Lou’s enthusiasm. I think it became clear, even in our earliest encounters, there was some hope that a working relationship could yet ensue.
That said, his complaints regarding ‘Black Orchid’ as it had run so far were copious. Tom Peyer, if you ever read this, forgive me – but I shifted the blame onto you for quite a few of them! Lou loathed all those super-hero elements that had gone into the story so far – and you made me do it, Tom. You made me do it. And the Children’s Crusade related stories I’d done (one of which had flashed back to the original 70s Black Orchid super heroine) – boy, did he particularly hate those. I could almost imagine him taking copies from his office and ritually incinerating them.
But of course, to back up my craven shirking of the responsibility, I had my original outline for the first twelve issues. Ironically the very idea that had been so firmly rejected at the time of the comic’s genesis was pretty much of the sort that Lou hoped to see in Vertigo Comics. When I described it to Lou, I felt a distinct warming of his attitude. Maybe I could be an ally in his mission.
Two more things aided our developing relationship. Lou was editing Jamie Delano’s work on – I think – ‘Animal Man’ (another obscure old super hero who’d been given a revamp). Jamie tends to effect a hard-bitten, frequently cynical persona, which chimed quite well with Lou’s brusque approach. That Jamie and I had a good friendship lent me at least a little more credibility in Lou’s eyes, or so I think. Along with a shared appreciation for the work of writers such as William Burroughs.
The other thing was music.
I took a quick look at his Wikipedia page before I wrote and didn’t spot any mention of this, but I’m pretty sure that Lou had been at least an occasional contributor to US rock magazine Creem. He was certainly a massive rock music enthusiast and had interviewed a number of musicians of whom I was in awe, including Don ‘Captain Beefheart’ Van Vliet (the interview can still be found on the Beefheart.com website). And it was the edgier, more challenging music that he was largely drawn to, particularly German band Can. I too was a serious enthusiast for both Beefheart and Can. Over this we bonded. Phone calls became just that bit more tolerable with the occasional digression onto some rare Can live bootleg or similar that one or the other of us had acquired.
But what to do with Black Orchid? How could we effectively change its direction to something we both thought would be more in keeping with whatever a Vertigo comic should be? We couldn’t just change horses in midstream. The threads I’d established in the opening issues had to be honoured and I’d come up with a few single-issue story ideas that, in the short term, met with Lou’s editorial approval. He could be sharply critical but I often found his suggestions well worth incorporating. Alternatively, if I made a strong enough case for something he initially disapproved of, he was prepared to listen and modify his views.
During that period I remember that I was enjoying the writing a lot more. In many ways, when reading as well as when writing, I preferred stories that were complete in one issue to sprawling multi-part epics. One story at least remains in my memory as a decent achievement. Some research had led me to a creature of folk lore in the UK county of Leicestershire, a kind of hag figure known as Black Annis (aka Black Agnes) who had certain features in common with the Orchid herself, not least the similarity of name. Because she was known as a ‘child snatcher’, a bogeyman, I blended the material I’d gleaned about her with stories of ‘phantom social workers’ that I’d read in Fortean Times. I then contrived a way to bring the Orchid to England and wrapped it all in what I remember as a tight, tense storyline. One of my better ones.
Yes, check it out, (issue 14) you can probably pick up an old back issue for a song, if you sing sweetly enough. Or get in touch via my website, I've still got a copy or two left - though a fairly lengthy instrumental break will be a required part of any song you care to offer.
Next time, this epic winds towards its close, as we look at what Lou and I cooked up and, despite this, the subsequent demise of Black Orchid. Which was followed by a deeper sadness, the death of Mr Stathis, a man I'd come to hold in high regard.
I will, I hope, resume normal service next Monday. Til then, may all your horses win their races...
June 27, 2016
Working for the DC Dollar - Part 4: On the Crusade
Working for the DC DollarPart 4: On the Crusade
The Orchid is under way, but whoops! Duck! Here comes the next glitch...
I forget exactly when it came along, but the next spanner in the works was in the form of what DC called a ‘crossover’ series. This had worked for them pretty well, I gather, in the super hero comics. Comics fans, you’ll know what I’m talking about so you can skip the rest of this paragraph. For the rest, here’s how it worked. It was, essentially, a marketing exercise to sell more comics by running a major must-read storyline across a range of titles, including some of the less popular ones. So a Batman loyalist would start reading this as a Batman story, but then realise that he’d have to buy a copy of … I don’t know… Aquaman or something in order to find out what happens next. The classic one was ‘Crisis on Infinite Earths’, and, well, I guess that doesn’t leave an awful lot out. Except infinite non-Earths, I suppose. And come to think of it, there’s probably quite a few of them. Hey ho. Anyway, the fan would buy the copies he needed of the titles he didn’t normally buy, and then – maybe – stick with them, as collector mentality kicked in. Something like that, anyway.
So someone, perhaps in the accountancy department, decided that this principle should be applied to what DC at some point started calling the ‘Vertigo Universe’. What were they thinking? Wisely, as far as I know, they only tried it the once.
Perhaps because he had developed a close working relationship (and I think some degree of friendship) with Karen Berger at the time, they roped Neil Gaiman in to set up a framing concept and write a couple of one off comics to top and tail this impending saga. I’m sure that he, like most of us, has a bunch of ideas in his notebooks that he knows are not his best – but that might come in useful for something or other one day. Enter: ‘The Children’s Crusade’.
I won’t attempt a synopsis. Much of it is forgotten. Suffice to say that Gaiman wrote (or maybe just plotted) his two comics and the rest of us had to recount the various plot threads, following the breadcrumb trail from the first to the last, in each of our various titles. Well, once again, with the benefit of hindsight…
But you see, there was this jolly. Dangling, a lure… Oh lord, the sirens called me and I should have resisted… Expenses paid trip to New York city. A visit to the DC offices, where Superman forever bursts out through a wall in the foyer. (Well he used to, anyway. Maybe he’s had to shoot off and rescue Lois Lane from a burning building by now.) A few days in a swanky conference centre at a place in upstate New York called Tarrytown. I think I still have a stationery pad from there, lurking in a drawer somewhere. Perhaps most interestingly, a chance to meet some of the then fellowship of Vertigo writers – Ms Collins, Ms Pollack, John Ney Reiber. And, as it turned out, less interestingly to discuss with them, some editors, my good friend Jamie Delano and Mr Gaiman himself the ins and outs of this now barely remembered storyline. A creative summit, if you will.
One thing that amused me while we were up in Tarrytown. Back in super hero land, DC were running a 'death of Superman' storyline. They've probably killed him off and resuscitated him a few times since then, but at that time it was actually making the news in the US of A. So once the people who were serving us with food and stuff found out we were part of the DC outfit, they were on to us like a ton of kryptonite. Was Superman really for the chop? They seemed genuinely concerned at the possible imminent destruction of this icon. Of course, none of us had any more of a real clue than they did. But we were able to point out that it was a tad unlikely that DC's cash cow would be sacrificed for good. Phew.
Then, back in NY city, there was a comic convention to attend, situated in some huge, soulless industrial unit. Those two astute Scotsmen who will forever be associated with the heyday of 2000AD comic were there and full of the joys of flying over Manhattan in a helicopter. I remember a trip to see some pretty weird metal sculptures in a little gallery in some trendy place that I’ve forgotten the name of (SoHo?). I remember getting but one afternoon’s free time. I walked the streets in search of hip record shops; maybe finding somewhere I could get my hands on whatever was still being published in the way of underground comics; and buying myself a black beret in the mistaken belief that it would make me look as cool as Alan Vega out of Suicide. Or was it Martin Rev who wore the beret? I remember being almost completely unable to sleep in 40th floor hotel room. Good times. I think.
But as regards the development of Black Orchid as a comic, it all proved somewhat counter-productive. In the mini-series, preceding my work, Gaiman had created a second Orchid, who took the form of a child and for some reason I now forget was called Suzy. An Orchidette, you might say. In the spirit of at least selective honesty with which I write this account, I must now admit that I’d had no idea what to do with Suzy. So I’d left her in a sort of limbo until I figured out what to do with her. Maybe she would come in useful for something or other one day.
The clue’s in the title. For ‘The Children’s Crusade’ I had to do something with the Suzy character, fish her out and give her a role. This, it seemed to me in my by-then bewildered state, necessitated building new layers to the Orchid mythology – in order to connect with the various mythological realms that were being utilised by other writers in the crossover project. I think at that point I got bogged down, and produced a kind of myth structure which – at its worst – was a second rate imitation of Neil Gaiman’s ‘The Dreaming’.
Having set up this future cross to bear, and having worked my way to the end of that first too hastily conceived ‘story arc’ (as the in-house terminology had it), I now had to contemplate where next for the Orchid. And where next for Suzy, now that my hand had been forced and she was back on the scene.
Even as I began to tackle all this, I was notified of a change of editor. I forget what pastures Tom Peyer first went onto, before he eventually withdrew from being an editor and went back to writing. I didn’t read his super hero comics, but I do remember reading ‘Cruel and Unusual’ – a darkly satirical look at the death penalty in the USA, written in collaboration with the estimable Mr Delano. Sharp and biting, if I remember rightly.
Meanwhile, with some trepidation, I contemplated the creation of a working relationship with my next editor. A gentleman by the name of Louis ‘Lou’ Stathis. If Tom was cheese, Lou was to prove a particularly tough form of chalk.
Yes, when next we meet bite into the chalk that was Lou Stathis, the former 'Heavy Metal ' editor who saw 'Black Orchid' through to its final issue.
The Orchid is under way, but whoops! Duck! Here comes the next glitch...
I forget exactly when it came along, but the next spanner in the works was in the form of what DC called a ‘crossover’ series. This had worked for them pretty well, I gather, in the super hero comics. Comics fans, you’ll know what I’m talking about so you can skip the rest of this paragraph. For the rest, here’s how it worked. It was, essentially, a marketing exercise to sell more comics by running a major must-read storyline across a range of titles, including some of the less popular ones. So a Batman loyalist would start reading this as a Batman story, but then realise that he’d have to buy a copy of … I don’t know… Aquaman or something in order to find out what happens next. The classic one was ‘Crisis on Infinite Earths’, and, well, I guess that doesn’t leave an awful lot out. Except infinite non-Earths, I suppose. And come to think of it, there’s probably quite a few of them. Hey ho. Anyway, the fan would buy the copies he needed of the titles he didn’t normally buy, and then – maybe – stick with them, as collector mentality kicked in. Something like that, anyway.
So someone, perhaps in the accountancy department, decided that this principle should be applied to what DC at some point started calling the ‘Vertigo Universe’. What were they thinking? Wisely, as far as I know, they only tried it the once.
Perhaps because he had developed a close working relationship (and I think some degree of friendship) with Karen Berger at the time, they roped Neil Gaiman in to set up a framing concept and write a couple of one off comics to top and tail this impending saga. I’m sure that he, like most of us, has a bunch of ideas in his notebooks that he knows are not his best – but that might come in useful for something or other one day. Enter: ‘The Children’s Crusade’.
I won’t attempt a synopsis. Much of it is forgotten. Suffice to say that Gaiman wrote (or maybe just plotted) his two comics and the rest of us had to recount the various plot threads, following the breadcrumb trail from the first to the last, in each of our various titles. Well, once again, with the benefit of hindsight…
But you see, there was this jolly. Dangling, a lure… Oh lord, the sirens called me and I should have resisted… Expenses paid trip to New York city. A visit to the DC offices, where Superman forever bursts out through a wall in the foyer. (Well he used to, anyway. Maybe he’s had to shoot off and rescue Lois Lane from a burning building by now.) A few days in a swanky conference centre at a place in upstate New York called Tarrytown. I think I still have a stationery pad from there, lurking in a drawer somewhere. Perhaps most interestingly, a chance to meet some of the then fellowship of Vertigo writers – Ms Collins, Ms Pollack, John Ney Reiber. And, as it turned out, less interestingly to discuss with them, some editors, my good friend Jamie Delano and Mr Gaiman himself the ins and outs of this now barely remembered storyline. A creative summit, if you will.
One thing that amused me while we were up in Tarrytown. Back in super hero land, DC were running a 'death of Superman' storyline. They've probably killed him off and resuscitated him a few times since then, but at that time it was actually making the news in the US of A. So once the people who were serving us with food and stuff found out we were part of the DC outfit, they were on to us like a ton of kryptonite. Was Superman really for the chop? They seemed genuinely concerned at the possible imminent destruction of this icon. Of course, none of us had any more of a real clue than they did. But we were able to point out that it was a tad unlikely that DC's cash cow would be sacrificed for good. Phew.
Then, back in NY city, there was a comic convention to attend, situated in some huge, soulless industrial unit. Those two astute Scotsmen who will forever be associated with the heyday of 2000AD comic were there and full of the joys of flying over Manhattan in a helicopter. I remember a trip to see some pretty weird metal sculptures in a little gallery in some trendy place that I’ve forgotten the name of (SoHo?). I remember getting but one afternoon’s free time. I walked the streets in search of hip record shops; maybe finding somewhere I could get my hands on whatever was still being published in the way of underground comics; and buying myself a black beret in the mistaken belief that it would make me look as cool as Alan Vega out of Suicide. Or was it Martin Rev who wore the beret? I remember being almost completely unable to sleep in 40th floor hotel room. Good times. I think.
But as regards the development of Black Orchid as a comic, it all proved somewhat counter-productive. In the mini-series, preceding my work, Gaiman had created a second Orchid, who took the form of a child and for some reason I now forget was called Suzy. An Orchidette, you might say. In the spirit of at least selective honesty with which I write this account, I must now admit that I’d had no idea what to do with Suzy. So I’d left her in a sort of limbo until I figured out what to do with her. Maybe she would come in useful for something or other one day.
The clue’s in the title. For ‘The Children’s Crusade’ I had to do something with the Suzy character, fish her out and give her a role. This, it seemed to me in my by-then bewildered state, necessitated building new layers to the Orchid mythology – in order to connect with the various mythological realms that were being utilised by other writers in the crossover project. I think at that point I got bogged down, and produced a kind of myth structure which – at its worst – was a second rate imitation of Neil Gaiman’s ‘The Dreaming’.
Having set up this future cross to bear, and having worked my way to the end of that first too hastily conceived ‘story arc’ (as the in-house terminology had it), I now had to contemplate where next for the Orchid. And where next for Suzy, now that my hand had been forced and she was back on the scene.
Even as I began to tackle all this, I was notified of a change of editor. I forget what pastures Tom Peyer first went onto, before he eventually withdrew from being an editor and went back to writing. I didn’t read his super hero comics, but I do remember reading ‘Cruel and Unusual’ – a darkly satirical look at the death penalty in the USA, written in collaboration with the estimable Mr Delano. Sharp and biting, if I remember rightly.
Meanwhile, with some trepidation, I contemplated the creation of a working relationship with my next editor. A gentleman by the name of Louis ‘Lou’ Stathis. If Tom was cheese, Lou was to prove a particularly tough form of chalk.
Yes, when next we meet bite into the chalk that was Lou Stathis, the former 'Heavy Metal ' editor who saw 'Black Orchid' through to its final issue.
