DOWN THE RABIT HOLE:

Know what I mean?

(K)

ON THE STOOP:

Walked out alone into the fields, sat on the stoop of an
old caravan & got quiet. Birdsong, rabbit hop, pigeon swoop.
The world is crazy busy underneath a sky of languid clouds
that have no time for frenzy. I’m somewhere in the middle,
feeling the pull of ‘manny-things’ calling me to jump in
& jiggle. At the same time what I need is clarity & that
only comes when I pull back, sit quite & listen. A lot going
on here right now, most of it good-to-fantastic. A major
turn-around from not too long ago, but I wont bore you with
that. What you’ve been seeing & hearing is a direct result
of darker times transporting us into the light. I’ve sat at
the cross-roads a few times in my life, made the wrong choice
more than once & took the consequences. Here on the stoop
it’s like being at the confluence of giant rivers, relentless
yet beautiful. I’m watching them from the shore, checking out
the way they flow, the undercurrents, the whirlpools & rocks.
It’s good to step back just at that point when everything is
screaming for you to keep running. ‘That’s’ the best time to
‘stop’ & put the kettle on, breath & see what happens.
Some great work being made out here in the sticks & deep in the
city. Underworld, Rick, Tomato, Simon Taylor, John Warwicker,
artists we’ve grown with, but also the team around us, guiding,
feeding us, supporting us, letting us play in ‘the sand pit’,
which is all I ever really wanted. Now at last we have an
environment that gives us what we need & adapts daily to
changes in the weather. It’s fast on it’s feet & yet able to
laugh, really laugh & enjoy life. This is a frantic & yet
fabulous time, the time I must’ve wished for when I was a kid,
where grown-ups get to be children even when they’re being
responsible – the confluence of two giant rivers.
This weekend I would’ve liked to have been at the first ever
LAKE festival in Berlin. Our friends Efterklang, re-invernted
as a journey into the imaginations of artists getting off on
the energy of exploration, Yes, wish I was there. Tell me
how it is.

(K)

LIVING IN THE PROBLEM:

Didn’t get to porridge & poetry today & tea came much later
than the body needed. Brown bread & honey on the run, a
mug of water. Walk in the fields in the sun, the sweet smell
of green. Dog walkers stop to pass the time, their tiny companions
wipe their noses on our knuckles. People smile & wave, pull over,
wind down their windows, chat. We walk between the fields at the
back of the world hoping something good will happen,
when everywhere around us it’s already here.

(K)

THE OTHER BLOKE:

The phone rings, there’s an Irish voice on the other end,

“Hello, is that Keith?”

“Er,…no it’s Karl”

“Ah yes Karl, I’ve got your name down here in front of me.
Are you ok to do this interview?”

(K)

HIJACKED TABLE BABY:

A woman in a raincoat with a handbag reads the local rag
at ‘my table’. Yesterday it was a suit with a lap top
full of facts so of heavy he needed it more than me. Yesterday
morning all my facts were light – fair swap. John Martyn plays
Solid Air for my porridge, tea & poetry. Pulling the tea bag out
with bare fingers ’till the hot water burns I know I’m still
alive. Having nightmares every night, waking with gas clouds of
disconnected stuff bouncing round my head, but I’m sober, walking
straight, no desire to deviate. It’ll be ok – right?
If this is as bad as it gets I’m quids in. Pass the porridge

(K)

BACK ON TRACK:

Sunlit porridge, black tea & poetry. Some suit from out’ve town
has stolen ‘my’ table but it won’t bring me down, it’s only
castles burning. Glancing over his shoulder at his lap top
I wouldn’t want his day, so he can borrow the magic table. I’ve
got this pen & note book, a telephone receiving messages of
good will & energy direct from source. I feel the beat
of the kick drum, see rick’s face in my mind’s eye grinning
in the spotlight of a roaring crowd, 106 decibels & climbing.
Check shirt, bathed in the pink light of ‘REZ’ as I stand at
stage side, body spasming uncontrollably to his groove.
On the other side of the storm, in the light at the end of
the tunnel, what don’t kill you makes you stronger, lighter,
laugh-er. Still sober & alive I found a brother I never knew
I had.

(K)

PEACE, THE FINAL FRONT EAR:

A day drowned in screaming, resolved in gentle reconciliation.
Started sunny, got very dark & brightened up around sunset.
Fortunately all the tools fit, a spanner for every nut & there’s
no bigger nut than I captain birds-eye.

(K)

WHAT HAPPENED?:

Back on the island enjoying gentle rain & clean air after three days
of heat & sleepless dust. Two gigs beyond belief, two roaring crowds
free-flowing energy back to us as the kick drum drops. Watching the
bands that took the stage earlier in the day I was unsettled by the
screams of their crowds, uncertain if we could raise a response even
half of what they all got. But the second we stepped out on both
stages, both nights, the noise coming to us from the crowd tore
the roof off. The fact that no one left & everyone left smiling
was reward enough for the sleep deprived travelling, showering with
borrowed gel, towelling off with t-shirts & breathing air-conditioned
dust for three days. When the stage crew & security shake your hand
you know something special happened, but I don’t know what it was
& it happened both nights. Was I there?

(K)

ON THE BEACH:

So I walk into work this morning, first thing hits me is the wiff
of last night. Rancid beer, cheep wine, sweat, dust, diesel fumes,
the usual cocktail of smells in a morning after dance hall.
The house crew looks drawn, hunched, an army after battle,
I’m guessing no one’s slept. There’s an air of fragility devoid
of humour. Down to the left, in front of the stage a young couple
is lying on the bass bins wrapped in an old blanket, bombed ragged,
that look in the eyes. She’s asleep, but he’s still awake, at least
eyes open, looks up at me forlorn like a street beggar. The debris
of the night is strewn around them, beer cans & screwed up fag
packets. When we start up they shuffle off like old people leaving
a clearing in the debris the shape of their bodies.
Directly in front of me a geezer in a backwards cap watches over
a woman in pink & shades. She lies dormant, but when I start
singing her heads lolls in my direction. I can’t focus on the job,
she looks too damaged, like she fell out’ve the rigging last night
& was abandoned to die, broken. It must have been a good night.

(K)

SPREAD A LITTLE:

Awake in the bus bunk at 06:00, everyone’s out cold, snoring,
talking in their sleep. Dress (prone), sit alone, pondering
breakfast without water to make porridge, no internet connection.
Forgot to bring a towel & shower gel & the fact that we’re
parked right next to the showers with the jump on everyone
who’s coming for a scrub just winds me up – I start to spiral
down. 07:30 can’t wait any longer, no porridge, no cuppa,
no clean skin. I shave behind black glass in the chill of an
air conditioned throat scour, grab a spare t-shirt, decant
hand soap from the toilet & slip on the only truly important
things I remembered…flip-flops. The shower cubical is clean,
just reward to an early riser. Someone’s scrubbing in the one
next door as I strip & find shower gel left by a previous
occupant, hmmmm, smells nice too. With that first hit of hot
clean water the head begins to shed it’s dark cloud & creeps
back on line. By the time I’ve towelled down with the t-shirt
(remembering those special hidden places that must be kept dry
at all times) I’m a new man (the old one was too self-centred-dark
to allow on stage). Walk across the festival site, very nice,
very nice. Happy dutch people going about their business,
in the business of spreading happiness, exactly what
I’m looking for.

(K)