Broaching inhibition to inhabit a fait accompli

Concentration, concentration, concentration, that’s what you need. Life is more full that it has ever been before with distractions, with other voices, wills, needing, craving, demanding attention. And yet writing is yours only, in some way, some way that perhaps those who don’t write much or don’t write often, or don’t write ‘seriously’ don’t encounter (sorry, that’s a lot of don’ts).

It may be difficult, even impossible to write in a careless, non-attentive way. To do so would, it seems, require a certain care and attention. To write carelessly would also be to strive to produce something of no value, and, perhaps you can see that this is unlikely to work either. If I consciously write what the English call ‘gibberish’ the consciousness will provide a context for the gibberish by means of which the gibberish becomes valuable, at least ‘interesting’ as something testing the limits of the value of various forms of writing.

I don’t think of this as a diary, and so I try to avoid sentences that begin with the words: ‘This week I …” but this week I, among other things, continued my recent obsessive indulgence with and attention to what seems to me to be a very healthily burgeoning new-punk scene in British Indie music. ‘New Punk’ is not an adequate name, and I would love to be the one who eventually names it, but I am not there yet.

Aside from the music and the particular kind of delivery used by the vocalists in this scene (which seems to revolve around Radio 6 Music DJ Marc Riley) I came to focus on their lyrics, and therefore on their writing. It’s tempting to extract the lyrics and claim that they stand up on their own right as indicative of this vibrantly progressive and experimental subculture, but in fact the music and the particular kind of delivery used by the vocalists is inseparable from the way their lyrics will be read/interpreted/inseparable from what they mean.

This thought seems to plunge me back into the very heart of all I have ever wanted to do as an artist and writer, or artist/writer. This synthesis or fusion of what we mean to say and its dependence upon how we say it (whether you be a writer, painter, video maker, performer, installation artist, sculptor etc.) is the core it seems to me of our mission, our motive and our aspiration.

The great thing about the artists I’ve been listening to on the radio is that they’ve found that synthesis – invariably by working with others – and it’s worth noting that they’ve found it by stepping over a certain edge of inhibition, forcing themselves to fly (or we might say ‘swim’) by removing their own safety harness or going purposefully ‘out of their depth’.

I have experienced this myself, and on occasions in my long and winding career, breached or broached my inhibitions to release my voice and my body from who I supposedly ‘am’ into becoming something or someone other – yes, the artist. On one occasion I even changed my name to mark the fact, and thus made a fait accompli of my metamorphosis.

In more modest ways I can also recall ‘improving’ and progressing as the player of a musical instrument by realising that I had to let my hands do what they were capable of, not trying to make them do what I wanted them to do or thought I could make them do. By releasing my own power over my hands they started to do something that neither I nor they could previously do, and that was a profound lesson. It reminds me of another lesson that a first year undergrad taught me, her teacher, and taught the rest of her peer group. When I asked the group what they or ‘we’ might believe in today, the student I am referring to said: “I believe in my hands!”.

Now, I am not currently planning on changing my name, and I am not regularly gigging, rehearsing or writing in a burgeoning new-punk band, but I hope that some of the lessons I have learned from the above experiences nevertheless feed into my writing on a daily basis; that, in my Blog here and in the many other forms of writing I am involved with, I do somehow, step out of my comfort zone, broach my inhibitions and allow my hands and mind to produce something that I neither intend nor govern.

If you don’t mind, I will partially illustrate this Post by pasting below lyrics from two current songs that really impress me. Perhaps, having read them you might be able to go and listen to the way in which they are performed by the artist in a relevant YouTube video.

‘Scratchcard Lanyard‘
by Dry Cleaning

Many years have passed but you’re still charming
Rose falling and exploding and you can’t save the world on your own
I guess
Don’t send me it
You keep it
You keep it
You keep it
Weak arms can’t open the door, kung fu council
It’ll be okay, I just need to be weird and hide for a bit
And eat an old sandwich from my bag
I’ve come here to make a ceramic shoe
And I’ve come to smash what you made
I’ve come to learn how to mingle
I’ve come to learn how to dance
I’ve come to join your knitting circle
I’ve come to hand weave my own bunk bed ladder in a few short sessions
It’s a Tokyo bouncy ball
It’s an Oslo bouncy ball
It’s a Rio de Janeiro bouncy ball
Filter, I love these mighty oaks, don’t you?
Do everything and feel nothing
Wristband, theme park, scratchcard, lanyard
Do everything and feel nothing
Do everything and feel nothing
Pat Dad on the head
Alright, you big loud mouth
Thanks very much for the Twix
I think of myself as a hardy banana with that waxy surface
And small delicate flowers
A woman in aviators firing a bazooka
A woman in aviators firing a bazooka
I’ve come here to make a ceramic shoe
And I’ve come to smash what you made
I’ve come to learn how to mingle
I’ve come to learn how to dance
I’ve come to join the knitting circle
That’s just child chat
Why don’t you want oven chips now?
It’s a Tokyo bouncy ball
It’s an Oslo bouncy ball
It’s a Rio de Janeiro bouncy ball
Filter, I love these mighty oaks, don’t you?
Do everything and feel nothing
Wristband, theme park, scratchcard, lanyard
Do everything and feel nothing
Do everything and feel nothingYou seem really together, you’ve got a new coat, new hair
Well, I’ll tell you one thing, you’ve got it coming
One day, you’re gonna get it
Ha

‘SCIENCE FAIR‘
by Black Country, New Road

I met her accidentally
It was at the Cambridge Science FairAnd she was so impressed I could make so many things catch on fire
But I was just covered in bubbles of methane gas
And you ended up burning
I’m sorryI have always been a liar
Just to think I could’ve left the fair with my dignity intact
And fled from the stage with the world’s second-best Slint tribute act
Okay, today, I hide away
But tomorrow, I take the reins
Still living with my mother
As I move from one micro-influencer to another
References, references, references
What are you on tonight?
I love this city, despite the burden of preferences
What a time to be alive, oh I know where I’m going, it’s black country out there

I saw you undressing
It was at the Cirque du Soleil
And it was such an intimate performance
I swear to God you looked right at me
And let a silk red ribbon fall between your hands
But as I slowly sobered
I felt the rubbing of shoulders
I smelled the sweat and the children crying
I was just one among crowded stands
And still with sticky hands
I bolted through the gallery
With cola stains on my best white shirt
And nothing to lose, oh, I was born to run
It’s black country out there
It’s black country out there
It’s black country out there

Advertisement