The Space Music of Doctor Phibes

The music of space. Been on my mind a lot recently, with the thoughts of the poor Philae lander all on its own, batteries dying on a cold and hostile comet before it fell into what seems likely to be a permanent sleep.

What sounds does Philae hear in its sleep out beyond the orbit of Mars. Has The Sandman's sister Death called on it to take it across to the "other realm".

A band that always transports me into other space dimensions is Doctor Phibes and the House of Wax Equations. You almost certainly haven't heard of them, they were a very short lived concern in the early 90s, one that if I remember right very sadly came to an end when their charismatic vocalist Howie suffered mental health problems that ended in tragedy. I saw them live only once, at the 1993 Phoenix Festival, and can vouch for out there their music was. So hypnotic.

They were much better experienced live than on record, although their one album "Whirlpool" is a psychedelic classic. Enjoy their single "Hazy Lazy Hologram" and let those echoing guitars wash over you.

My "Ashes to Ashes" Hair Struggle

Much as looking like Keeley Hawes might be very very jolly for some chaps, it is not of her that I speak, rather David Bowie in his all-time classic "Ashes to Ashes" video, complete with black skies, exploding kitchens and Steve Strange.

I remembered it, vaguely, as a child in 1980, but not clearly, and it took the "History of Rock Video" all nighter on the BBC in 1986 to put it back in my consciousness. There was a half hour Bowie segment, and I was absolutely enthralled when "Ashes to Ashes" appeared and seemed a thousand times better than I remembered.

And then, there was his hair.

 

 

Not the best shot there has ever been, but the best one I could find. It was long at the front, parted, but sort of quiffed over so it was hanging over his (strange) right eye. It was immense to me, the birth of a new Mister Mulberry, the gonk with the terrible curls and waves into the semi-hip teen.

 

 

The hair would be the vanguard of this transformation. That was the plan anyway. But even after the hair was cropped short and the back and left longer at the front, the crucial change away from early 80s mullets, it was still far too wavy to make it look like the suavily weird Mr Bowie.

 

This didn't stop me from standing in front of a mirror for hours with this bizarre round hard toothed brush with a sort of boingy end. I'd dig it in at the front like a gardening fork, pull the hair out straight as I could, then sort of curl it round the brush to straighten it out against the wave.

 

The strands could then be draped across my eye in the appropriate fashion, and so I would look the Bowie part.

 

For all of about five minutes. Ten, if I used industrial amounts of mousse and hairspray (the brand with the sort of Mondrian painting on the cans) and gave my hair the texture of a mummified jellyfish. After that, the curls would spring it back to where it sodding well was, only with the addition of a weighty coating of utter gunk.

 

 

This ritual would persist for months, with the same result. I never learned from this, when David Byrne appeared  in my life, I would go for it again, with more "product" and even worse results.

 

People just don't remember what a trial it was to be a teen with wavy hair in the 80s, they really don't. "Ooooh, perm!" I would have yelled at me, by pocket Bryan Ferries with a girl on each finger.

 

Worse was folk saying "Girls would kill to have hair like yours!"

 

Thanks Granny, for saying my hair looked like a woman's. Thank you very much.

 

Copyright Bloody Mulberry 17.11.14

The Pub Travels Through Time, but Regresses

My former favourite pub is a time machine...

I swear to god it is something to do with the cellar. I caught a glimpse down there once, I didn't see any barrels of beer or spare bottles of spirits or crates of over priced coke bottles the size of thimbles.

Instead I saw a blue glow like Cerenkow rediation, and the sound of some massive demonic device that seemed to be sucking all the power out of the pub and setting off fire alarms, and bringing forth smoke.

This device seems to be some kind of time regression device. It's the only thing I can think of it being, For it is caused evolution, of the human race in particular, to run backwards.

Sometimes, I wonder if that also includes myself.

When I first started going, in the dim mists of (pub) time, the pub was a quiet stronghold of the intelligentsia, and dammit we were proud. The only pub open till 2am, it was our own speakeasy. It got more popular. Students were there playing music. There were lock ins for the chosen few, until 830am in one case.

Then the bad people heard about it, and initimidation arrived, along with horribly cheap coke snorted in the medievally unhygienic lavatories. The lock in bar staff left, and bar staff who encouraged the presence of thugs arrived.

The hairlines got lower, the knuckles began to drag. Faces began to bear the mark of inbreeding, rough voices, IQs lower than the pool balls used on the (sign of doom) pool tables. Fruit machines for the hopeless gambler. DNA decaying, you could see strands of it disappearing out the window, synapses dying just by being in there.

Bouncers on the door. Sub humans now present, girls with cottage loaf bun hairstyles, lacquered so they are hard and shiny, like the crappest bargain hunt antiques. Voice boxes have now de-evolved to the point where they can only make harsh, guttural sounds. As for the men...

Ballards Drowned World...people have lost the need for brains, they are operating with their spinal columns alone. Floodwaters rise, the pub is filled with giant ferns for the rabble to fight in. They spend so much time punching on the floor, the local pub-goer now walks on all fours. They copulate in the pub by masturbating onto the floor, the females then rub themselves in it like a lamprey or hag fish. 4 weeks later flat headed children are born, and she is ready for the next litter.

I'm watching all this. Recording it. Scientific observations from my corner. Taking genetic samples from drool and spittle and breeding fluids.

My once favourite pub is now in the Pre-Cambrian.

BOOKS - 2312 by Kim Stanley Robinson

Having seemingly, and unconsciously, avoided sci fi novels since the death of Iain M. Banks, I found myself reading a work on which he seems to bear a significant influence on.

Another one, in fact.

In fact, I find myself thinking that the work is almost a prequel to Banks' "Culture" universe, with early forms of terraformed planets, terrarium spaceships with evocative names, and a form of AI that has developed well beyond Turing Test levels.

I'm probably a mile out with this assessment, but then again I'm hardly Clive James when it comes to criticism.

The story involves terraforming artist Swan being involved in an apparent accident on her adoptive home of Mercury when her city - which rolls around permanetly out of the scorching sun - suffers an apparent projectile strike that nearly claimed her life; and left her cancerous and wandering tunnels to survive in the company of a new acquaintance, the lanky Wahram, native of Saturn's moon Titan.

As she investigates the incident from one end of the solar system to the other, it becomes clear that the incident on Mercury was no accident, and only intelligences of the very highest order could have arranged the attack, but who? We also see her on Earth, attempting to re-introduce extinct animals to the North American landmass from "space ark" terraria to a flooded, struggling planet where most folk capable of doing so have long since left.

It is a far easier read than Banks' work, and although not possessing the incredible span of his imagination, it is easier to grasp the spaceborne society of the novel. It also acts as a fascinatingly deep study of sexuality and body modification; males and females as we know them are not the dominant genders with many people choosing to have the genitals of both, or neither. DNA from other species, both alien and not so, are also combined with human with varying degrees of taboo.

The world of 2312 is one where people can sing like birds, and have experience sex as a male and a female simultaneously.