Author Archives: karlhyde

Tuesday 19th February

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IN A CAGE OF PURPLE THORNS:
 
I met a man from Norway who smiled & asked,
“Excuse me but are you karl?” I’d walked in off the street
to buy a pairs of ACNE’s & knew his face, his familiar friendly 
greeting. 
“Only on a good days” I replied, he smiled, so I returned the 
generous gift & grinned – clearly this was a good day. 
The Emerald City had let the sun in early, put on it’s party dress 
& was dancing for me when I slipped out the tube-hole,
a little bleary, maybe even ‘edgy’, but the light had done the 
trick, dis-armed me, turned my head around & the greeting I got 
stepping in off the street set me up for an inspired production 
meeting that made me glad I’d made the effort.
The coffee flowed, I fizzed & popped, it felt good to be in
such benevolent company. I work with gifted & selfless people,
the kind who lift your spirits on dark days & make you laugh.
The room was hung with the knowing eyes of acrylic nudes,
I pointed to one, “Shoulda used that for the album cover”.
 
Thick frost & a red sun to light the road to rehearsals today,
good to be back with the band. 
Futura 2000 (The Escapades of Futura 2000) ft the Clash from the 
Celluloid Records comp on the stereo.
 
 
 
(K)

Monday 18th February

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WHEN THE LIGHT CAME TO DANCE:
 
Yesterday felt like Spring, walking dirt tracks 
towards sunrise, so I let go & let the light in. Woke
this morning to Essex as a watercolour in greys & muted 
greens. A gift, a good place to think, find a train & go 
hang with the angels in the Emerald City. The charm of all 
it’s vulgar rhythms jars (too long in the fields), but I’m 
a sucker for the music of it’s streets, it’s poetry speaks 
louder to me now than ever. Got a new pre-release from 
Celluloid Records:
playing loud on the system as I write to you. 808 beats,
Wild Style, The Clash, Hendrix, my favourite 
godfathers of rap cross-talkin’ with stripped down European
electronics – a little piece of Heaven. Time to dance, slip into 
your struttin’- shoes & cruise with me between the cracks. 
Feel the groove of rust recalling even the most fabulous of 
stary darlings to the dirt – life on earth – spread the love.
 
(K)

Sunday 17th February

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ANY OTHER DAY:
 
Starting at Barking Wimpy, coffee & Tuna toasties, cellphone 
to the ear, fielding calls from the far side. Barking market,
Barking Creek, River Road. Squeezing between bent & rusted 
gates, dubious items of clothing scattered along paths 
to the river. A twisted pair of jeans next to a park bench, 
a sports glove impaled on a security fence, walking boots
scattered drunk between discarded milk containers. Polish 
fishermen smile in passing, wave, climb the sea wall & disappear 
into the tidal mud flats. Rust, decay, razor wire, blistered 
graffiti, the beautiful marks you leave for me to find.
A chemical wind we breath all day, grows stronger with time.
Dagenham market, deserted except for a yellow digger scratching
holes in the black earth. Lunch at the Bata shoe factory 
post office, something wet with something sweet. Drive to 
Coalhouse Fort, meet a Pilot of the river, smiling, shaking hands, 
generous, looks good for the camera standing at the river’s edge
telling stories as huge chunks of metal float out to sea.
Bell Buoys ring their lonesome chimes out in mid stream,
black dogs bark, fast walking husbands dressed as security guards, 
shaved heads uncovered in a freezing wind, hard stares, 
Plastic things washed up along the shore, eroded wartime 
concrete, rotting timbres held together with wedding bands 
of rusting metal. Standing in the marsh, our feet sinking 
into ooze, counting Piebald ponies grazing ferrel on 
landfill next to the power station. We slip our heads through
holes torn in chain link fences & listen to the wind.
Gulls glide onto the surface of the river at sunset. 
River like glass where concrete barges languish like the 
half sunk carcasses of animals at the end of war. Birdsong like 
Trim phones, sun set like a Rave Laser, graffiti masterpieces
stenciled onto brutal concrete flood defences & a luminescent 
light that makes everyone smile. We gasp, standing at the 
river’s edge, looking back up to the lights of the 
Emerald City, chill to the bone, but happy.
 
(K)

Saturday 16th February

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BLACK MOUNTAIN COLLEGE BOY:
 
Rode the early into the Emerald City listening to stories 
from skinny girls with Scandinavian hair & sunken
cheeks – must be the new look season. The light was
stark & bright, so I flicked on the latest app turning
colours into shapes, disarming the violence of the 
morning, everything sculptural, inviting in Black & White.
Down in the tubes they got posters for Merce, John, 
Robert & Jasper, the clan of the Black Mountain College
laying paper trails, telling me I’m on the right road.
 
Popped out the hole at Oxford Circus, cut down to 
Soho by back alleys, dodging the vibrations of pretentious 
coffee bars selling luxury discomfort.My hungry phone doesn’t 
want to receive emails any more,it just wants to take pictures 
in Black & White inspired by the masterpieces brother Warwicker 
captures of abandoned dust on the shop windows of New Oxford Street. 
A master’s eye, a genius of subtlety, drives a silence car
through barricades of derivative graphics up the street of
crocodiles. 
 
John & me drink Black Coffee with the famous in a Berwick Street 
coffee boutique, talking machine gun poetry. He looks electric, 
more alive than I’ve seen him in years, living north of the 
equator suits him. Ninety minutes later I’m on another train
to another city where the boy in the Apple Store restores my faith 
in humanity with a little simple kindness, from the look in his eyes 
I could tell we were from the same tribe. I shake Dave’s hand & head 
in search of Music & coffee, somewhere to write the conversation 
I witnessed on the Emerald City tube – two boys remembering they were 
young bucks once, shaved heads on the street, wild & loose.
 
I buy more Dylan, Joni & a bunch of eye candy covers, reminds me of 
a time I couldn’t afford more than one album a month. I dip into the 
record shop, clock ticking on the last of the physical palaces of
recorded music,nod to the lad behind the counter & ask the usual,
“Any news?” he shakes his head.
There’s a look in his eyes that’s the same as the guy
in HMV Oxford street earlier,
“Thanks for asking though man” he smiles, like he 
always does, a fellow traveller on the uncertain road.
This is my tribe.
 
(K)

Friday 15th February

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DAY OF HATS:
 
Floods of phone calls & meetings interrupt the flow 
of rehearsals but we get there. Where it is we get 
is somewhere different to where I thought it would be 
but the view is just as sweet. Trying out new amps
for overseas, Fender Blues Juniors to replace my
Fender Musicmaster Bass combos. The Juniors ring 
like bells, a little bright for me, but with some
tweaking & the calm voice of Gaz we achieve a 
workable sound. The Musicmasters make my Telecasters
sound wiry & woody the way I like them, but these
new combos are a good compromise. May talk to Fender
about building valve amps with only a volume & tone,
I don’t like so much stuff on my amps. 
At sunset we gather outside in the rain to watch 
a giant pink crocodile go sailing through the sky.
There’s a thread running through our time together,
something about this band looking up at the stars.
Snatching an escape to London to see brother 
John Warwicker, up from Oz on a whirlwind to talk 
at D&AD. Coffee in Soho with a mate, both out on 
parole for good behaviour.
 
(K)

 

Thursday 14th February

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VIRTUAL GIRLFRIEND/BOYFRIEND:
 
The earth is thick with rain, rich brown near black.
Dirt tracks look healthy, alive, their edges dusty 
like gravy powder.
Something in the ground is dancing, preparing rhythms 
for Spring or is it that I’m just in a good mood?
Fingers crossed it’s good news from the hospital, 
the music becomes secondary to the welfare of friends.
The phone rings, connecting us to the land of the rising sun,
familiar voices of loyal friends on the other side of the 
world making sweet vibrations in our ears – Q&A’s with the 
papers & online brethren to start the day – breakfast mouthfuls 
between calls. Sending love & good vibrations from 
the prairies of Essex to the nations of the world.
 
(K)

Tuesday 12th February

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THE ROADS ARE MADE OF SLATE:
The charcoal marks between the fields turn grey,
frozen black looses confidence, becoming less bold about
town.
Green fields & the browns of succulent mud hide beneath
thin blankets of snow again, peppered by holes for
the earth to breath. This latest deluge isn’t so bad,
won’t disrupt rehearsals so I’m happy. It even looks
familiar, like the drawing winter always was to me.
Perhaps I found my muse again, watching late night
documentaries on Dr Feelgood, images of of Canvey Island,
the seductive curves of concrete sea walls along
the Thames Delta. Wilko Johnson sends me to bed,
wide-eyed staring, on surfboards of staccato
telecasters. I never thought I’d be a Fender man,
loved Marshalls & Gibsons too much. The 335’s & 330’s of
Big Brother & the Holding company, The gutterral
confidence of Eric Clapton’s sound at Cream’s farewell.
Clipped & confident distortion of overdriven valves,
Alvin Lee’s ‘Goin’ Home’, Stevie Marriott’s bar room stadium,
the Beatles waving goodbye on the roof. Terri Kath’s SG,
‘Freeform Guitar’, ‘I’m A Man’, on the ‘Chicago Transit Authority’
album, Tony TS McPhee’s Cherry Red SG on the ‘Spilt’.
Aspiring to own a Les Paul, knowing that I’d never have the money,
being allowed to hold one as a boy, a ton weight in tiny hands.
Going into the Manny’s, New York for as SG & asking the shop assistant
if I could compare it with,
“Maybe that white Les Paul next to it”, shocked I could afford it,
walking out onto 48th street like a king.
I never thought I’d be a Fender man, but then again, once heard,
Steve Cropper’s solo on ‘Green Onions’, was forever in my blood.
So clear the road, load the Telecasters in the car, book of words,
diagrams of chords, faith in fingers & throat. Start the engine,
get the coffee on, I’m looking forward to rehearsing with the band
& the smiling faces.
(Start the day listening to Splashgirl’s new album –
‘Field Day Rituals‘, out soon on the Hubro label)
(K)

Monday 11th February

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WHEN WE ROCK WE RISE:
 
The boys at Dagenham Roundhouse gather on Friday night,
dress sharp for the part & ready for action, celebrating 
the glory of rock n roll – strongly recommend that when 
we wake we start every day with: ‘Wash Machine Boogie‘ 
by the Echo Valley Boys.
I’m not about to argue.
 
(K)

Sunday 10th February

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TRUST:
 
A favourite photo app didn’t keep the images I made.
Macs consume my life, eat time with updates & things 
that no longer work unless I hand over pieces of my 
life to download versions that often do less then they
used to. The boys in the Mac shop smile & say,
“You can get a PDF receipt of your purchase if everyone’s
busy. There’s an app to scan in bar codes, you don’t even
have to wait to be served.” One more app. in the encroaching
dependence on the invisible, more more step away from 
human contact. I tell him, “I have so much in my life
that’s virtual it’s important that I have a little 
hard copy now & then.” He looks at me baffled, like 
he just heard a disembodied voice in the either,
I’m talking in tongues, communicating in a foreign 
language. He says, “One day all purchases will be made
by phone. I look him square in the eye & say,
“I sincerely hope you’re wrong”.
 
(K)