BARBARA BARBARA BERLIN:

Busses parked up on the black top between the freshly painted
facades of classic brutalist architecture. Caught on camera in
a well of sunlight beneath a crystal clear blue sky. Good food,
soul food, the steels slip off the back of trucks, erected in
transformation dedicated to the imaginations of a touring
family, the faces you never see, around since the days when
we were a footnote, an afterthought, an add-on at the
bottom of the bill. Still, ‘People’ make the difference, the
electric stuff is just toys, tools, inanimate until blood & bone
& skin arrive, directed by synaptic connections coupled in
curious magic.

(K)

NIGHT BUS, CAT BUS, ALL OF US:

Essex to Berlin

(K)

PRINCE DRIFTER:

Production rehearsal in the deep south, people & cold & the
random rhythm of constant buffeting & a wind so bitter it
nested in the bone & left me shivering hours after I’d come
indoors. The lights were the fist sign that everything was
returning to normal. The conversation of light on skin,
on retina, building sculptures in the air, talking directly
to the unconscious. I’ve missed it. More than the sound &
the groove, more even than the kick-drum. It’s the conversation
of light that I miss most when you’re not around.

(K)

TRAWLING ESSEX:

Golden, beautiful, heat of the sun strokes the face of Mother Essex.
Salads & Cakes & Mugs of tea, Western exotics to heal the pallet.
Red skies at night, shepherds rest easy.
Something vast & gloriously languid yawns & stirs beneath the earth.

(K)

TRASHED & DRIBBLING:

Body good, head rewired again. Jumping through the sky-hole in a
metal box, breathing someone else’s breath. Body gas & aftershaves.
Humour diminished until the tea kicks in. At the same time –
tranquil – happy. Forgive the face, the dribble & drool.
No offence intended.

(K)

TRASHED & TALKED -OUT HAPPY:

Played on the roof of Parco Shibuya to 200 people wearing B&W
headphones & radio receivers. A ‘silent’ gig with lights, projections
& mirror balls, broadcast to another place where people experienced
UW via Oculus Rift – a gig in virtual reality. In the same room
entire walls were video screens, delivering the show in surround
vision. At the same time we broadcast to Shibuya radio & to
speakers attached to lamp posts in the shopping streets below.
Finally, the last ten minutes of tonight’s concert were pumped
live onto the big screen at Shibuya Crossing. A great, if
challenging night, that sent people home happy & the rest of us
knackered/smiling. Five floors below, the tomato exhibition opening
night was rammed as we wandered down to take our places alongside
our brothers & founder members. Cameras clicked & flashed, hands
were respectfully shaken & speeches made before wandering off into
the night un-noticed, hats pulled down over eyes, clutching carrier
bags full of gifts.

(K)

ON JAPANESE NATIONAL TV:

Live ‘very’ live!

(K)

TOKYO STREET POEM:

Woke up before asleep, sleeping when walking. Body shaking, all the
head wires disconnected, a thin wining sound emanating from a ragged
hole between the ears. Dark light spills out the mouth on the days
when I’m drowning. No explanation on the box, no words to describe
this sensation other than ‘fighting for air’. Just work, tick things
off lists & keep moving. Keep the mouth shut when it wants to speak.
Make art, smile, move around, make the limbs do the talking. People
are pleased, happy, shake hands, smiling, nod, make approving sounds,
sign off. This is good, the best use for a black hole.
The installation is installed. Just waiting for speakers from B&W to
carry Rick’s soundscape & then we’re done.
A hand written message on a wall left behind to let people know
we were here.

(K)

TOKYO STREET POETRY:

I’m a Pollock Doll, drenched in black acrylic, arrived at the dance
with fat loaded bristles, a book of words scraped off the street,
sheltered beneath a dirty towel leaps onto walls.

(K)

TOKYO TRAWLING:

Hunting poetry in back alleys, Tokyo delivers Spring early,
chilling time warped travellers into puppies of dribbling grins.
Tomato rockin’ at the PARCO gallery, covering walls in retrospective
art-scrawl. The gurns & grins of jet-lagged faces, sagged beneath
sleepless weight. The foot drag, the slur & mumble, glazed expression,
dazed drifting in erratic lulls between conversation. I smell fish,
aromas promising noodle…following. Now the world turns psychedelic
as the jet-lag really kicks in, just as we start five hours of
interviews. Sleep is a myth.

(K)