martin

----
I miss swapping emails with the late Simon Morris. He was a fantastic source of noise scene gossip ((though he never spilled the beans on what William Bennett had told him about Nigel Ayers of Nocturnal Emissions – anyone got a Ouija board?)) and conspiracy theories so mental they had to be partly true. We also shared a mutual interest in parallel universes, alternate timelines, internet rabbit holes and the cinematic masterpiece Joker. A real shame he topped himself: he would have loved 2020-2021. Everything in that 24-month trash vortex – from COVID and ‘Cassie Compton’ to the 5G tower blade-runners and Raytheon BLM ads – would have been right up his street.

In one of our exchanges, he told me he was thinking of dating a Christian girl but was worried she might brainwash him. My opinion was he might as well go for it and see what happened: “Just don’t do a Steve Hall,” I cautioned. He got it straight away…but of course Simon knew who Steve Hall was.

79: STEVE HALL INVENTED JUNGLE OK

Steve Hall was a teenage delinquent from SE London. His first band was The Afflicted, who gained notoriety around London in 1979: not so much for their discordant music and ‘skinheads just woken up in a dustbin’ look but for the fact that two of their members – Glen Bennett and Nicky Crane – were prominent members of the British Movement. Given this, you’d probably expect The Afflicted to have pounded out thuggish, racist Oi! – but you’d be wrong. It was more of a chaotic psychedelia, oversaturated with wah-wah, fuzz and dubby FX. They were more like The Homosexuals or The Apostles, with lyrics like a cross between Combat 84 and Gong.

What’s that effect where you make a sort of ascending/descending swooping sound on a guitar or synth? You know…where it feels like the instrument is sliding up and down on a corrugated-iron see-saw? Is it a ring mod? (see why The Sound Projector deleted my CV?) No, that doesn’t have the ‘up and down’ bit. You can hear it on Screams Of Passion by The Family (the thing I'm talking about comes in at around 0.43):




Anyway, The Afflicted used this effect too on the B-side to their second 7”, Who Can Tell, only they went completely OTT with it, ‘til it sends the entire song into a vertiginous tailspin. Like the menacing Be Aware on the first 7” (nowhere on YT) it sounds like two different songs are playing at the same time in places. Oh, forgot to mention, another thing Steve Hall was notorious for – being completely off his fucking face:



Apparently, the empty space to the right of Steve was meant to be Nicky Crane’s mugshot but they dropped it after Crane was banged up for a racist attack in Woolwich. On some copies, Crane’s name’s been felt-tipped out of a xeroxed news clipping about the band’s forthcoming gigs

Hall found himself in a bit of a pickle: he hadn’t wanted a fanbase that was ‘flyin’ the phoenix’ but saw a small audience of far-right nutters as preferable to playing another gig to a vacuum. Or maybe he viewed his BM support as a temporary blip on the road to packing out Wembley. It didn’t work out and the band disintegrated, being way too ‘weird’/not-racist for yer average nazi but too tainted by their association with Bennett ‘n’ Crane to win a sympathetic ear at Sounds. Releasing a new 7" called Senseless Whale Slaughter didn’t seem to appease either side. Some might say Hall brought his ‘outsider’ status on himself. Either way, he rebranded as The Afflicted Man and knocked out two trashy (but now collectable) LPs, The Afflicted Man’s Musical Bag and I’m Off Me ‘Ead. I find this cosmic squat slop fascinating: feral head music for the few crumbling GLC tower blocks holding out against the wrecking ball.

Here’s Survival In The 80s, Hall’s morbid guide to staying alive in a world of shadowy squats, populated by skinhead mugger gangs who’d throw you head-first into a council bin for your last Tuinal, relayed over a repetitive sludge bassline that sounds like a depressed Steve Hanley pacing up and down in a secure unit. The lyrics sum up Hall’s mental state at the time. Sleeping with one eye open in rat-infested abandoned hospitals with no running water, facially tattooed schizo runaways for ‘housemates’ and the ever-present threat of a firebomb through what was left of the window can do that to a lad…especially if he’s lived on Kwiksave orange juice and speed for seven days:




The final Afflicted Man release was the colossal psych-fuzz squid Get Stoned Ezy. Dunno if I’ve told Dissensus this already, but I’ve never been one for weed. I once smoked a White Widow in Amsterdam– what a fiasco that was. I ended up hugging a Miss Pacman machine, watching the ghosts go round on a loop, entranced. WHY had NAMCO named three of the ghosts Blinky, Inky and Pinky – but the fourth one Sue?? What did it mean? “Martin, your eyes are totally red,” a disgusting voice cackled from the Moon. I tried to turn my head but couldn’t – Sue had me trapped in her electric maze of death. I’d forgotten how to speak. At 1.30am, I decided to cut my losses and spent the next three hours walking in circles around the city, looking for my hotel. I finally found it but then suddenly started worrying about plaque, so spent 90 minutes meticulously brushing my teeth until my gums bled. Then I checked my Nokia: it was 1.45 am. I didn’t want to lie down in case I got the bends, so I walked to a pub and stared into a bald bouncer’s dead eyes for an hour (a real hour this time)…

ANYWAY, my point is, even a non-stoner like me loses his shit when the solo on Get Stoned Ezy kicks in:




And then in 1983, Steve Hall formed a new band called The Accursed and completely knocked British youth culture off its axis. Yep– this was the year Steve Hall INVENTED JUNGLE.

Yeah, you read that right. I’m the only person on Dissensus who’ll give you the truth. Don’t tell me a pre-pubescent Shy FX wasn’t caning this to death after school. Don’t pretend DJ Rap wasn’t taking notes. Fuck the revisionists. Jungle Committee? I shit ‘em. Drum and bass was playing and the beer was open…back in ’83.




It’s a good album – but, when you’ve opened it with the world’s first ever jungle tune, how can the usual drugged-up punk shit satisfy? There’s some fun footage out there of The Accursed miming to this entire LP in someone’s flat: I especially like the bit where Hall leaves the room to put on a hazmat suit and gasmask while a faux-posh voice reads out a fake BBC report about a nuke strike on London, and then runs back in through the door for the song Nuclear War. If you thought Kevin Tomkins being upstaged by a milk float while expounding on the ‘right to kill’ was ‘80s VHS tape gold, this'll blow your mind. Nuclear waste/Is going up my arse indeed.

You know what's weird? Numerous times during that video performance, Hall really reminds me of Simon Morris.

A few years later, Hall was sent to prison. I don’t know what for, but something smack-related might be a good guess. Somewhere along the line, he found God and formed a new act, The Called, who I’ve never heard. There used to be some bullshit on dodgy punk forums about him dying in the early 2000s but he’s still around, playing charity gigs and doing prison ministries, and reminding people that there’s always Christ after drugs. Well, he was into Amen breaks before everyone else, so why not? Print this post off and staple it inside your copy of Energy Flash.
 

Corpsey

bandz ahoy
These are always really worth waiting for.

Esp. love the memories/evocations of scuzzy 70s/80s London.

I was watching a netflix doc about the cold war recently and it made me wonder about the influence of nuclear Armageddon on post-war/pre-Berlin wall fall music. Not just the obvious stuff, either. How did that feeling of potential imminent catastrophe bleed into pop music, for example? If it did.
 

version

Well-known member
What’s that effect where you make a sort of ascending/descending swooping sound on a guitar or synth? You know…where it feels like the instrument is sliding up and down on a corrugated-iron see-saw? Is it a ring mod?

Sounds like a flanger.
 

martin

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78 (stop the hate): MILITANT BARRY – “PISTOL BOY” 12”


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In June 1976, during a blistering British heatwave, the Sex Pistols played a now-legendary concert at the Lesser Free Trade Hall in Manchester.

As any MOJO bludger will tell you, this was a landmark event attended by anyone who was anyone in the Manchester ‘scene’ – a cast including Ian Curtis, Mick Hucknall, Pete Shelley, Mark E Smith, John Cooper Clarke, Jon The Postman, Johnny Marr, Howard Devoto, Peter Hook, Frank Sidebottom, Bez, Liam Gallagher, Ian Brown, Robbie Williams, Eric Cantona, Robert Elms, Steve Coogan, Jilted John, Shaw Taylor, Kenneth Grant, Terry Christian, Dani Behr, Trevor Francis, Nick Kent, Nick Cave, Nick Zedd, James Whale, Bob Crow, Sam Fox, Mad Dog McGlinchey, Slaughter & The Dogs, Tom Vague, Yellowman, Phil Hine, Ian Bone, Jayne County, Guy Debord, Gilbert & George, Beverley Allit, James Anderton, Peter Schmeichel, Michel Prigent, Astrid Proll, Charles Bronson, Betty Boo, Mel & Kim, Ray Winstone, Fred Vermorel, David Tibet, George Galloway, JH Prynne, Pat Tate, Mary Millington, Divine, Steve Hall, Brian Rose, Barry Prudom, Adolf Chip-Pan, Roger Cook, Boyd Rice, Lydia Lunch, Isabelle Adjani, Stewart Home, Zdenka Kovačiček, Karl Lagerfeld, Jackie Collins, Ryuichi Sakamoto, Cynthia Payne, Gerry Gable, Charlie Harper, William Kent, Ronnie Lee, Yasmin Le Bon, David Icke, Idi Amin, Mike Mareen, David Myatt, The Woman On The First Black Sabbath LP Cover, Ghislaine Maxwell, Paul Sykes, Laurie Penny, Purple Aki, The Great God Pan, Harry The Dog, Bobby The Wolf, Mad Pat and Winkle.

That same night, I was busy being born in a hospital in Edgware – fuck my luck. My next sibling up had been born in 1962, so…you can blame the Vatican for me being here. The other three had all been born premature and underweight, with my brother so sickly he nearly died, so the GP wasn’t too optimistic about my chances - especially as my ma was in her late 30s by now. He advised her to have an abortion but she ignored him and turned to Catholic magic instead. Every night, she drank a bottle of Guinness and did a novena to St Jude, the patron saint of hopeless cases, for me to emerge intact.

Whaddyaknow: I damn near tore the woman apart! Fattest baby the midwife ever saw. A screaming space-hopper, bawling for a shawarma. Turns out Guinness really is a food group. So, that’s how I got Jude as my middle name and became an alcoholic. I mean, slag off SPUC all you like but they saved my hide…


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Sorry, Crass purists...only someone who loved the Pistols could have made this

It’s trendy now to slate the Sex Pistols as a 'boy band'. Don’t get me wrong...I like obscure anarcho-punk as much as the next hunt saboteur, and the whole legacy obsession surrounding the Pistols is sad…but this is such a weird argument. SEX was a tiny shop on the Kings Road, flogging studded belts and T-shirts of gay cowboys, run by two absolute lunatics. We’re hardly talking Versace. You know London shop rents weren’t Dubai levels of stupid back then? Incensing rabid monarchists to the point they chase you round the pub car park with machetes sounds pretty 4 REAL to me. And anyway, if the Pistols helped Vivienne Westwood flog some tartan bondage trousers, so what? It’s a step above Crass wearing all-black because they couldn’t be arsed to sort their washing into different loads. Even I’m not that lazy (well, a bit).


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Better than "Sid Sings", I reckon

Sid Vicious’ spikey-topped shadow doesn’t loom over my life like it used to. Why would I ever have venerated this notorious North London junky? Because. Sid was a cliché and an idiot, but he was one of us. The refuseniks you scorned because we didn’t want to spend Saturday afternoons down the garden centre, supping a can of John Smith’s and enthusing about lawnmower torque while picking out plastic Greek deities to stick in our Barratt Home gardens. The filthy few who dunked our Kit-Kats into our mugs and sucked the chocolate right off the wafers, then dropped the wafers into the brew as a fuck-you to the concept of ‘high tea’.

The ones you wrote off as indolent trash for not turning up to see the careers advisor, ‘cos we knew there was more to life than getting coshed for Securicor or necking valium in a school staff room. The upstarts who’d go on to knock out late-night Dissensus Top 100 entries enthusing over reggae MC Militant Barry defending the name of Sid Vicious – which is a damn sight more than Don Letts ever did for the poor sod.

I really want to know if he’s guilty of the killing,” Barry demands, advising his fellow dreads to consider the bullshit Babylon spreads about Rastafari before blindly accepting the media’s verdict on Sid. I guess we’ll never really know if Sid stabbed Nancy to death, or if it was an intruder, or a dope deal gone wrong. Me? I think he was innocent, but I don’t have a scrap of evidence to back that up. Either way, it was decent of Barry to lend his support. In contrast, here’s Don Letts on his brush with ‘punk’, from Lydon’s biography Rotten: “Once, on my own, I put on one of those gold rubber T-shirts upstairs…I couldn’t get it off, but I was too embarrassed to tell anybody… I’m in this bedroom with this rubber T-shirt and it’s up around my neck” (© Alvin Lucier).

Militant Barry also did a song slagging off the Ayatollah Khomeini, so that’s two song topics he had in common with The Exploited.

By the way, is there a more WANK song on Earth than Punky Reggae Party?? Bob Marley promises “No boring old farts will be there”. Cool – I always hated those geriatric fucks. But then: “It takes a joyful sound / To make the world go ‘round” 🤢 Is this a ‘70s Coke ad? So please don’t be naughty??!? And who the fuck invited Dr Feelgood?? Why not invite those punk shockers The Carpenters while you’re at it? Just don’t offer Karen a sausage roll.

Produced by Keith Hudson 'n all:

 

william_kent

Well-known member
MILITANT BARRY

I don't want to hi-jack @martin's thread and I've posted this before, but here's the late Penny Reel's account of a night out with Militant Barry, Tappa Zukie, jah Lacey, and "King Saul" ( aka Ranking Dread?, body count approx 41? [0] ), but this is always worth a read - a classic piece of music journalism

Keith Hudson: A Dread Tale

(NME 14/10/1978 )

ONE NIGHT I AM standing outside the Jamaican pattie shop in Portobello Road partaking of the same when a car pulls up on the street and from it emerge certain characters from Kilburn by the name of Militant Barrington, Tapper Zukie and Jah Lacey, which is by no means an unusual combination to see, as these are very intimate idren and frequently keep each other's company, except that now there is a fourth person with them in the rear approach, one known as King Saul.

Now if I know in advance that this King Saul is stepping in my direction I will not even be there at all, for King Saul is a guy I do not require to share an intimate relationship with whatever. Furthermore, nobody else in this town requires the immediate co-existence of King Saul, except sometimes in the capacity of bailiff or bodyguard, as he is known locally and far and wide by one and all as an extremely callous integrity indeed.

Many citizens express wonder that King Saul is not a deh in boneyard already, alongside such infamous Back O'Wall rude bwoys as Two Gun Keith, Ryging, Lance Scott, Woppi King and Bur O Boy, as he is generally implicated as being no backward participant in the Western Kingston war effort – let me tell you say! – and is known often to hold a gun on his person, which he will sometimes produce to shoot at people if, for instance, he does not like the political party they favour.

The word is King Saul shoots many an innocent victim back in Jamaica, as well as others not so innocent, and it is not unknown for him to practice his skill with a hatchet in this man's town either, and the reasons he is usually to be found around artists of musical disposition is that some of the individuals in this field are as notorious wongdoers as himself, and besides, King Saul allows it to be understood that he finds the escort of creative persons like Militant Barrington and Tapper Zukie and Jah Lacey a very agreeable and glamorous pursuit.

Well here am I disposing of a Jamaican pattie and debating whether or not I can cross the street and vanish into Tavistock Road before I am spotted when I hear a large "Wha' 'appen Jah Reel!" and suddenly Militant Barry is striding over to me and pumping my right hand down and up in greeting.

"Irie" I reply, very tasteful, "The man cool?"

We stand there exchanging responses for a few moments, where I learn that the parties are out in search of food prior to negotiation of a Fat Man Hi Fi session at Phebes, but decline the patties upon discovering that these are filled with meat. Tapper Zukie speaks for all with his declaration that he does not nyam deaders and describes a supermarket in Queensway from where ital vegetable samosas are obtainable and to which he proposes we proceed, myself included. It is also arranged that I am accompanying the said quartet to Phebes later on, in order to pay my respects to Keith Hudson who is just arrived in town from JA and scheduled to be in attendance at the venue with a selection of his new music.

Now of course, I do not desire to go to Stoke Newington's Phebes Club, even to pay my respects to Keith Hudson. More pertinently, if I do desire to go to Phebes I do not necessarily desire to go with Militant Barrington and Tapper Zukie and Jah Lacey and King Saul, particularly King Saul, as it is written: blessed is the man that walketh not in the council of the ungodly, and anyway, a guy is sometimes judged by the people he is seen moving with, especially around sound systems, and King Saul is likely to be considered careless company. But since my fellow travellers are of sensitive temperament and may easily form the impression I am putting the old birds eye on their unquestionably generous invitation and take offence, I profer not argument nor resistance as I am squeezed into the back seat of Militant Barrington's car and we head off.

Now this Phebe's Club is a large, ungainly foundation, some three stories high, that complies in every respect with the provisions of the Town and Country Planning Act 1962 and all regulations or orders made thereunder. It boasts a somewhat uncertain patronage – on many occasions the place is funerally empty, with less than a score of citizens swelling its interior; at other times, particularly when a name act or top sound is billed, the house gets so ram up that ordinary breathing becomes an extraordinary feat. On this night of which I am speaking, Phebes is doing very brisk trade indeed. Fat Man controls a vast youth following in this part of town, where he is hailed the most celebrated Tottenham talent since Mr James Greaves. In the upstairs lounge his No 2 set is regaling its crowd with more cut variations on the currently popular 'Get In The Groove' rhythm, like Gregory Isaac's 'Slave Master' and Big Joe's 'Natty Dread A The Curnal', as well as other commercial and lovers rock pliants, such as customs approval with the close moving couples that inhabit the dance floor.

Downstairs in the basement the No 1 sound, as toasted by A Roy the Humble Lion, is mixing up the medicine in most Phensical dispensation and bawling a woah fe poor Ramses. It is a very large room and full of smoke, with a small stage at one end and the sound system perched on the edge of this stage, and around the sound, and in a frenzied display of natty locks, is the entire population of North London's roots and culture brethren, as well as a great number of transportine dreads from Brix and Lewisham, and various militants in the army of Ras Tafari. They include personalities such as Pepe Judah, Festus, Coxsone, Moa Ambassa, Sir Fray, Jah Superior, International King, Bro P, Scorcher and Moody Judah, plus a proportion of characters of musical calibre like Errol Dunkley the Man, Gene Rondo, Ason Gayle, Ras Elroy, Byron Otis and Kelso Christian, and these are wedged up against a mesh of samfie men and soul vendors and other stepping razors such as Bootleg Sammy, Pretty Bwoy Patrick, Keen Kenny, Freddy the Cat, Screwface, Oliver and many other high shots. They are all compressed together and intent on this single figure cavorting stage centre, twixt A Roy and Fat Man himself, the man from Shooter's Hill, Mr Keith Hudson.

Now the object of this collective curiosity, nay homage, is a hatless individual with shoulder length locks and hirsuite chops described in an immaculate three-piece suit of delicate pastel, Mafiatone style, the inevitable red, gold and green belt casually dangling around his waist, beringed fingers, and wide-soled dub shoes protruding from the helm of his bandalou-cut strides and with, on closer acknowledgement, a variety of mutable expressions gleaming from his proud, sometimes red eyes.

Well, as I say, Phebes is well ram up on this particular occasion when I walk into the room with Militant Barrington and Tapper Zukie and Jah Lacey and King Saul. King Saul lets loose a hearty wha' 'appen as we enter, and the dreads all look around, and the next moment there is space cleared alongside Fat Man and company not only for King Saul but for Militant Barrington, Tapper Zukie, Jah Lacey and me, too. it is really quite uncanny the way there is suddenly room for the five of us when there is no room whatever when we come in.

All the while Hudson is selecting from his assortment of slate – and to which A Roy prefaces each choice with a "Humble Lion" refrain – the man from Shooter's Hill is dramatising the fruits of his genius in gymnastic exposition. Breathing ital earthhquake, fire and brimstone from his nostrils and clenching his fist skywards in defiance of oppressors, the elegantly attired dread steps and struts before the acolyte fraternity like the proverbial best dressed chicken in Phebes, declaiming the wicked.

This continues for a number of hours until around 6.00 am the patron of the establishment, a large guy by the name of Big Lance, squeezes his way through to the sound and announces that he is compelled to close the club at this time as Babylon deh pon street and would the idren please leave in peace and love and remember, each and every night all roads lead to Phebes, in tune to entertaining sounds from this sound, Sir Fray sound, Jah Shaka sound, One aim One God One destiny.

As we file into the bitter dawn Hudson stops me in the corridor and offers his own explanation of the Vernon's Yard affair (in reference to the eight LP deal with Virgin Records which commenced in 1976 with 'Too Expensive'). "They tried to make a Bob Marley out of me," he harangues, "But Bob Marley is not me and I am not Bob. Bob Marley is my elder brother, he is a Reuben and I am a Joseph so Bob mus' come first. It is written I am given to go forward in my own way, not as Bob Marley but as Keith Hudson."

[0] according to the author of "Judas Pig", Ranking Dread ( "King Saul"? ) was actually a "pussyhole" who his crew "bitch slapped" and humiliated in a Soho massage parlour...
 

version

Well-known member
@WashYourHands @william_kent

Saw this last night and thought, 'Surely not?'. Unbelievable if it's not someone having fun with the Wiki edits.

In 2001 Myatt was granted the freedom of the city of Lincoln. In a service officiated by the Lord Mayor, Myatt was awarded the honour due to the success of his youth rehabilitation scheme "Back On The Map", which took disadvantaged children from the Lincoln area and educated them in the ways of hermetic magick, in order to boost their confidence, and help them into the adult workplace.
 

william_kent

Well-known member
@version @WashYourHands

some virgin media customer is having some fun on that page - a previous version of the page has this gem:

Involvement in Kings Cross Redevelopment

In the wake of the London 2012 Summer Olympics, Myatt worked with both
Eurostar and Transport For London on the extensive redevelopment project
that took place in and around London King's Cross railway station and St
Pancras railway station in 2013. In lengthy live-streamed videos he said
that he envisioned a "sort of huge paddling pool" with several bars in
the centre of it to serve as the main thoroughfare between the two
stations. This was quickly abandoned and he was let go from any future
collaboration. Transport For London cited safety concerns, but more so
they didn't have faith in Myatt's conviction that the bars should serve
solely Beavertown Brewery products, as this was during the company's
relative infancy.
 

william_kent

Well-known member
there's more...

Between 1991 and 1992 Myatt was employed as an independent consultant
for the Alton Towers ride "The Haunted House" (now called "The Curse").
Drawing on his vast knowledge of esoteric writing, Myatt worked with
special effects creator Rob Bottin to create the attraction. Myatt said,
"The challenge, which I enjoyed immensely, was to make something that
was fun for all ages, but also harrowingly frightening." This would be
the first and only time Rob Bottin would work on a theme park ride,
citing difficulties working with Myatt, whose fear of the dark made the
project "farcical". Myatt was reportedly unable to enter the Haunted
House himself without experiencing debilitating anxiety episodes.

====Work on software synthesiser "Wubbage"====

in 2008 Myatt created a "revolutionary new type of soft synth" called
Wubbage, primarily for use in dubstep and Electronic dance music|EDM
music. Upon release it was roundly criticised for its hefty retail price
of £225, as well as the "weak and flimsy" quality of the bass it
produced. Myatt would later say they he had made it in an "awful hurry"
and that it didn't "represent his true potential in the world of
bass-heavy music production."
 
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