Red Shift

Emrming from a memory fog, almost perfectly shaped, this Alan Garner paperback brought back such memories.I remember seeing it on a shelf in Harry Halls bookstore many years ago. Only in my memory I saw it as a lighthouse rather than the folly it actually was. a folly in all but memory I suppose.I first saw the BBC adaption of Red Shift quite some time ago also.It was concieved during an era of great experimentation and innovation on the BBC. An organisation at the height of their creativity, brave and uncompromising. With the power to punch a viewer right in their sensibilities, so to speak.It is quite a complex story, taking place in three eras, with an axe head proving a thread through time as it takes the long path, and we the viewer jump back and fourth.A lot of the complexity comes from the complexity of the dialogue and its differences in the eras used. Rather than from the visually straight forward time shifts. You will not have any problems following this aspect of the stories in play, it has more to do with the tonal shifts in verbal interplay between characters. Especially the modern era, which by now feels a period piece, a story set in a summer long ago, so much time having passed since its original transmission.The soundtrack composed for the play also feels quite period. not dated but from another era. Think Teardrop Explodes, early Bunnymen or The Sound or The Chameleons. Or maybe thats just what I was listening to at the time, showing the world my musical unconcious bias. Enjoyed the book which I read in an old paperback version that smelled like old Smithfield. Not sure what to make of the ghost of a note I found on the inside back cover... Dont think it was meant for my eyes.

modem 2.0.

Startred reading this while sitting at the back of a bus, returning home from a boobie-babble filled day, and had no memory of the bus journey beyond wherever Michael Moorcock took me in his novellette.And yes, that is Michael Moorcock on the cover. On a camel.Merely doing in Rome as the Romans do. Which is to say, easing into his own pleasant abstraction. Jerry Cornelius is back. Or rather, Jerry Corneilius 2.0 is here now so come and see. i cannot use the term "back" as he never went away. Can a fictional character ever really go away? Into the land of fiction perhaps. We all live in the overlap these days anyway, so hold on tight, its going to get bumpy. It always does when Jerry Corneilis is about. This one is tinged with a modern satircal edge. Edging in every sense of the word. Hes always on the edge of something, is our Jerry, just ask his ma. Bouncing aroud having a gasm of one kind or another. In this case anarchogasm, I suppose.There you go, Michael Moorcock driving me to invent a new word just to keep up with him. Always a fish out of water, Jerry Corneilius is really swimming with sharks in this story. A right bunch of pirahnas to be sure. Its become a swirling mass of decadence and moral decrepitude, almost everything stinks. It makes his previous ammoral activities seem almost child like in comparison. And thats only America, sweet Fanny Cradocc. He seems all at sea in this snakes wedding of modernity. thankfully, this small novella is accompanied with a rewardingly recorded interview with Michael Moorcock himself. As he spins fourth from his own personal confession dial, probably through the music press. Its an interview which affords the reader a glimpse into the mercurial master of surreal adventurism working and thinking processes. Which will not reveal the true wizard behind his mind curtain, just another glimpse at a possible reality. Michael Moorcock 2.0. Its a tasty life aint it.

MR Clive And Mr Page.

4 It begins with a house, or rather the building of a house. In Chicago, in the year 1885, a meticulously design of almost cathedral like intent, although not in the sense of the house being dedicated to a God, more a notion of God like modernity, which instantly dates the bricks and mortar. A hundred year gap exists between the building of the house and the death of the big screen American actor and general heart throb Rock Hudson. A man whose passing, and the circumstances of his death, was something that marked a seismic cultural shift as this stars passing as narrated by the entangled mainstream media and red top sensational reporting brought the secret loves and ways closer to that gaurded mainstream. The topic of the disease which affected a generation and which continues to blight the lives of millions world wide was suddenly finding its way into common discourse. AIDS was like no disease which had gone before as it crept its way about the world, generating a hysteria that was so lop sided in its ability to distort the narrative of its progress through a maze of hysteria, misunderstanding and out right hostility. The sex lives of gay men felt itself under a lens of public scrutiny and unearned morally pernicous dread and finger waveing as hundreds of thosaands died. the loss of fathers,brothers sons and lovers would be felt on a scale not usually found outside of warfare. Skillfully, Neil Bartlett moves through time, never making the very modern mistake of projecting prgressiveness where none existed. Almost a hundred years of being a difficult time to be gay, with no end to the persecution for most of that time. Sadly, it was not even considered marginilization, just the way of the world, with such persecution accepted as the norm and harsh penalties for any who dared to seek a love for themselves. His writing proves a compelling yet lyrical witness to events, delicately composed, but manfully so. Sometimes the only weapon we have is to speak truth to power and roll with the punches as best we can. We turned the other cheek and got punched there as well.But as I said, its skillfully done. To the point where I found myself wondering if the central character was the most reliable of witnesses, was he a truthful or fanciful narrator? imagine, in this world as you move through it today, not daring to show public displays of affection for those we love, for those we even liked. Some of the events in the narrative feel cloaked in a weary objectivity, a tale told in front of a flickering gas jet, with the decadent charm of the 1880s giving way tonother century of persecution, of a struggle for civility and tolerance where none existed. Mr Page exists in a wonderfully constructed self isolation, heating his home to a comfortable ambience that is no less a barless prison for him,In his isolation he builds a wall to protect himself, a smartly dressed castaway in an archipelego of secrets, a whimsical Crusoe. Fear of discovery moves him to recet almost unscalable defenses about himself, not wishing to become "that man in the university" or "those two navy boys", he self imposes a scolds bridle about his head and his heart. Its bitterly composed, a poetry of dread., Threads are woven across the decades, not so much a pattern as a familiar sense of societal ennui, of the lethargy brought on by sustained ignorance and why love may not be enough to beat it.

Tarot Tardis.

Was gifted this Tardis Tarot card by the lovely Jessica. And you know what, Teddy The Timelord Dog approves.

London Bone.

What an intoxicating collection. Michael Moorcock's range is such that I never know what to expect til I jump. Its like finding a hidden pond in an isolated location on a blistering hot day and when you jump in the difference in texture and temperature sometimes just takes your breath away.ell,heres a nice one", I thought to myself "A Michael Moorcock book that will stand quite comfortably next to some work by Iain Sinclair and Peter Ackroyd and the huge undertaking they have set themselves in making some sense of the City of London. A task that has already taken billions of words over the years, as poets, artists and writers try to make sense of this semi-organic region of Merie Olde Englande.2, or something like that., just not neccessarily in those particular words. Here we are though, with a book containing almost ten storiesthat prove to be lesser known threads ina tapestry stitched without end. It is the perfect Summer read. Or the perfect Autumn read. Almost certainly the perfect Winter read. I have no wish to appear seasonist, so I will leave that there to dangle in its own pleasant abstraction. The story that stood out for me was The Cariene Purse. A story set entirely in Egypt. So the paragrapgh proceeding this one already boinks up against this one. And why should it not with so many seemingly randomn ideas in collision. Its main character, a Von Bek in search of his missing sisterhas roots in the Merrie Olde Englande mentioned before so I guess it counts. And even if it does not it remains a lovely piece of writing. As does the story before it in this collection; London Bone. Perhaps the Cariene Purse felt so special to me as it turned out to be the first story I read this year while sitting in my garden at the front of my house. I was not experiencing Egyptian level sunshine but it felt comfortable enough to allow me to mentally travel to that hotter zone. To follow that main charcter in search of his sister to a place I did not expect to find myself in, given I thought these would all prove to be Londoncentric stories. But that is Michael Moorcock for you, with those three ducks on his auntie Flo's wall turning out to be multiversal avatars. Which we all become when we read.

Drawn From The Life.

(From my sketch book. Probably.)

The Final Programme.

Rereading The Final Programme so soon after finishing The Transformation Of Mavis Ming is really just asking for trouble, in a cerabral sense, in any sense for that matter, cause a double dose of Michael Moorcock can rewire the cerabral pathways of any thinking machine that remains organic. Bouncing back from the End Of Time and eternity's mannered demise is like drinking mother's milk with gin mixed in, mother's ruin to be sure.But I felt Ms Brunner and Jerry Corneilius peeking round the open door and wanted to reconnect.

They are wicked company, that pair. You really have to stay on your toes, not get too distracted or absorbed, because thats exactly how you could end up.I think we have been here before, an earlier post. I cannot say for sure as I never look back. And There is always plenty to talk and think about about when ruminating on Michael Moorcock. If that is what it can be said that we are actually doing her; ruminating. That said, some reading this(If there is anybody reading my boobie-babble.) may be more familiar with the 1970s movie version with Jon Finch as directed by Robert Feust (The "Abominable" Robert Feust!) There are a number of differences between both but you will have to read one and watch the other to learn what they are. Imagine all the fun you will have as your brain melts and pours out your ears. One thing I will say, in warning to anyone coming to the film before you read the books and that is that it is very hard to see anyone as Jerry Corneilius after you see Jon Finch's smoking performence. He is just fantastic, as Jerry is not easy to like, he does the most terrible things, and yet...Well, the heart wants what the heart wants. The 2Been here beforeness" of it all feels quite comfortable, in this instance. Jenny Runacre servrs as a fascinating turn as Ms Brunner, a sort of anti-Ms Peel, if you will. Prowling in an equally formiddable fashion as any of Steed;s assistants, but more dangerous than all of them combined. Her ability to assimilate, to absorb others who presents traits or abilities she may wish to aquire, makes her so very dangerous. She does so in such a seductive fashion too. I remember her turn as Elizabeth the First in Derek Jarman's Jubilee and tyhought she carried that role off with a haunting sensitivity. Derek Jarman cast his films with precision and it is easy to see in her case the duality that goes into a Ms Brunner.In fact, I prefer what Jenny Runacre channeled than the less ambigous figure in this book. I recently read a review of The Final Programme movie and it described it as a disaster from beginning to end. I cannot help but think the reviewer may have seen a different movie from the one I saw. But I had intended to just talk about the book here, please forgive my digression, or dont, we will not fall out over it.

Victoria.

Mark E Smith in a sketch inspired by The Fall song Victoria. (From my Sketchbook.)

the Transformation Of Mavis Ming.

The blurb atop the cover of this novel suggests "A poet Of Science Fiction" and if that description is to rest in merit it is surely a poetry birthed in the stars. It is true though that Michael Moorcock is a writer at ease in the court of The Faerie Queene, lending veracity to the flattering and deserved claim. Being as shallow as get out I was quite taken with the cover art on this paperback from Star Books( See, I told you, birthed in the stars.)I thought that if Hieronymus Bosch ever painted a Triceratops it would have looked like this. And to further that truth, I have consistantly found Michael Moorcock's stories set at the end of all things to be remeniscent of Bosch's most famous work, his tryptich featuring The Garden Of Earthly Delights, detailing the good and the bad in all and everything. This lovely wee novel felt to me like a trip to Milliways; The Resturaunt at the end of the universe.As though Michael Moorcock had mixed and matched a table for us that would on first glimpse suggest it was the worst company to be in , in any resturaunt, much less one hovering at the edge of eternity. A table to be avoided if successful digestion were to be achieved. And what a mistake that avoidence would have proved to be as I would have missed a feast of folly, with dishes you would never have contemplated mixing turning out to be a very enjoyable meal.It is a witty and entertaining book that is just short enough to make you wish for more. On a seperate note, but getting back to the cover art and its possible inspiration, I

would suggest to anyone reading this to check out the hinged doors gaurding the Bosch Tryptich to appreciate what those doors concealed. When at various times the doors would be spread wide and the breath taking vision within would be revealed. Talk about never judging a book by its cover...

Georgian On My Mind.

Alack,Alack, what merry hijinxs do these images portend? Delightful mystery abounds. Wish it were ever so.

Spoilers!

The lovely Amanda as River Song. And me as just daft old me. She has her book of heavy spoilers and knows whats ahead for all of us. She just tries her best to make sure it all happens in the right order.Timey Whimey, Bloopy Moopy. So to speak.

The Lives And Times Of Jerry Corneilius.

Live too long and you will witness the hero become the villan.In social media that time is shortened to minutes, as a body bleeds from one insight to another. Jerry Corneilius never had to contend with such notions, born an anti-hero he was and is immune to the changing vagaries of societal or cultural approval. Cor Blimey hes a good boy is Jerry, not."The creator of Jerry Corneilius has been compareds by reviewers to Tolkien and Raymond Chandler, Charles Dickens and James Joyce. I could throw in Nabokov and Borges" so said the Sunday Times, brackets; Lomdon. (Huh?) I do not know if this reviewer pointed these authors out because he had read them and could see parrelels or if it was because he ran his eye down the book shelves of a better read pal. I could make no such comparison, I am not that well read. And also because reading Michael Moorcock's work is really like nothing else I have read. take for instance, this collection alone; eleven contributions, just shy of a dozen, the lives and times Jerry Corneilius lived through.All the changes he saw and the changes he caused. And what a mind bending mis-mash of ideas these stories are. Not so much breaking all rules of narrative construction as not even noticing such rules are even necessary. All literature seems to exist in the liminal spaces between what we are and that which we make. The written word not much more than a visual code producing noises in our minds. Yet, there is no point handing someone who cannot read or right a book and intructing them; "Now appreciate this work of art." You have to understand something about basic form before you celebrate deconstucting it or smashing it against a wall. Is Jerry Corneilius an assassin with a heart of gold? In short, no. He is a killer who revels in what he does as he knows all the world is a fiction and that rules only come into their own when they are being broken. He does so with all the aplomb of someone who could pull off the charm of wearing a safari suit choose he to do so. "Zaphod Bedelbox is just this guy" for want of a better expression. So thats assassin , physicist, rock star and cosmic sly boots. Jerry Corneilius is many things but forgettable is not one of them. From weapon of class destruction to cosmic greek chorus, this collection is like a message sent bouncing back through time from the library at the end of all things. From his appex as beautiful murderous youth to his chaotically charged older age, we see Jerry Corneilis stagger as he grows up and grows down. Its weird and surreal and resonates from humour perhaps found at the end of some olde schoole Pier. If the pier was on fire at both ends and wobbled on glass stilts over an acid sea. "Its into the sea we go, Flo." When I finished reading it I felt as though I had arrived at a mad party and found myself in a corner of the kitchen, next to the rattling bottles of wine and trays of chocolate buscuits. Eaves dropping on a conversation between William Burroughs and Nick Cave. Only to be noticed by Nick Cave who not trusting my feeble awkward grin promptly punced me in the middle of my face. Egged on by William Burroughs; "Thats it, Nick my boy, show that sum'bitch not to eavesdrop on his worsers". Michael Moorcock kindly picked me up and dusted me down and I thanked him in a coy embarrassed fashion. Only after he left did I realise he had lifted my phone and my wallet. The money in the wallet he left with me, seemingly only interested in the peripharils of this word, all that does not define but mirrors our frantically groping along our own DNA spiral, trying to fake sense. As Jerry Cornelius once said; "I used to think I had all the answers, now I know I am only beginning to understand the right questions..." Or was it Jon Finch who once said it. Or perhaps it was Michael Moorcock who actually said it.

The Black Corridor.

I heard this song playing in the background as I sorted through some old paperbacks, it was called The Lord Of Misrule and was performed by Marc Almond with Ian Anderson on flute. It was a song I once heard Marc Almond describe as an alternative Christmas song and it may well be so in whatever world the mercurial Marc has constructed about himself. there has always been a touch of the pagan about Marc Almond so he might well be thinking about some bleak midwinter festival to see off the dark.As this is one song Bob Cratchitt was not likely to sing around the Christmas Tree And this is one dark little song, bouncing back from the last days of the world, especially as you may have also seen the accompanying video made to go with the song, as some pagan entity played by Marc Almond literally gives the world a roasting. Or rather, smiles as we do so ourselves, as you might justifiably suspect,the world as we know it might come to a smokey end. This song set the tone for the book that followed as I settled on The Black Corridor by Michael Moorcock.

The Blackest Streets; The Life And Death Of A Victorian Slum

Oh the humanity. I once heard a commentator say that, weeping in shock, not for himself but for the lives lost as a burning Hiddenburg came crashing to Earth, in smoke and in flame. And he was moved to speak in this way, hopelessly trying to express his own shock and awe, as words seemed to fail. Only they did,nt. His words have echoed down the decades, a coda for the sense of enormous shared cultural grief we can at times share, for there is not surely one of us who has not at some point bemoaned our wretched state, or witnessed the fallout from hubris, when we grasp all too infrequently that;"There, but for the grace of God, go I."That is one of the many emotions I felt as I read through Sarah Wise The Blackest Streets. As whole marginalised populations were squashed into Victorian slums not fit for purpose. As though there were ever such a thing as a viable slum. Its terrifying and heart breaking in wildly unequal measures.Its investigative, for such, but grasps at fistfulls of thorny nettles and strips away Most of the book takes place in an area of London, around Bethnal Green known as The Old Nichol. Known as one of East London's roughest, and thats saying something, areas, it was not a place for the fool hardy to go for a dander. Theres no beast so fierce as man, and when that same man becomes hungry and desperate, well you better watch out. By cruel neccessity many who lived there turned to criminality, a not uncommon response. There were those who had, others who had not and many,many who would never have anything at all, hanging on to life by the spindliest of threads. People would sell anthing, including each other, for the pennies that could save one from the most cruel penuary. Dickens merely scratched the surface, the reality of life for the poor owed nothing to heavenly hosts. The war in heaven was long over and those who fell to Earth had mastered the building of class trenches, where the daily grind recognised no age or gender in its war on the poor. This is not for the faint of hurt, this record of unprecedented cruelty and predation. this history of exploitation, how landlords charged impoversihed families to live in filthy locations never intended for human habitation. Sunless underground thorough fores intended for easy passage became chambers where human suffering sweltered in a fever of lice and vermin. As below, so above with overcroded unsanitary tenements with humans sharing space with their animals, not pets but lives stock, pigs and chattel. Take a dive below the blackest streets, you will scarce believe what you learn to be the truth. That in an an empire of afluence and historically unprecedented wealth its saddening to hear so much of it was based on cruel exploitation. Twas ever so.

World Vinyl Day; Amazing World Of Doctor Who.

Its a bourgoise indulgence, off course but its also the only form of Time Travel I still believe in. Its an aural trip and requires no drugs. Just an open mind and a desire to do so. Plus a magical reading, as provided by Loise Jameson, Geoffrey Beavers and Dan Starkey. Doctor Who royalty, by Jago! Great readings of bonkers adventures aside, I would have paid for the sleeve artwork alone. Well, just take a look at it!You want to worship at the High Church Of Who , then you have to travel to its Sistine Chapel.... Er,actually you dont. Just Just let the needle find its grove. So to speak.

Judge Harpo Marx.

Hes hard but fair. Fairly sure hes not going back to Mega City One.

Firing The Cathedral.

..In which Jerry Corneilius and a number of familiar entities traverse time, space and history just one step ahead of annihilation.Its the only time one gets to use that expression. This is a beautiful edition. Nicely packaged with a sterling introduction from Alan Moore, pointing us in the right direction, which is to say everywhere, all at once. This perfectly formed little novella felt like a Justice Society comic to me. All the very best of the multi-verse gathered round an oval table with a nicely framed picture of old ma Corneilius in the centre. Who else would exert the necessary gravity to hold them all in place.

Magdalena.

Was arrested by the sight of a book I worked on sitting on display with some other graphic novels. Oh Blimey, I thought, Good Company.

The Legend Of Luther Arkwright.

Set fifty years after the events of the most recent story arc, Heart Of Empire, Luther returns, although he never really went away, in yet another cross dimensional, parrelel smashing historical. Luther must face down a newly evolved threat, one which steps between worlds, shaping world events to its own end. Bryan Talbot has been writing and drawing the adventures of Luther Arkwright since 1978, another time and place away, a previous century. All these years later he continues to channel his own visionary festas and events, sprawling a multiverse of possibilites. The sheer expanse of his self authored vision has always displayed the creativity of an artist possessed of real girth. thats not a word to get bandied about much these days in any medium, but Bryan Talbot's powerful abilities to spin ideas into being warrent it. After the splash of colour for Dark Horse' Heart Of Empire its back to black and white for The Legend Of Luther Arkwright. A big sturdy black and white volume 240 pages long, that has utopian and distopian cultures and political dogam wrestling in violent collision. Heroes rise and fall and we get to witness the whole pantheon of humanity at its very best and its very worst.History is a dirty business,a detail which has never escaped Bryan in his storytelling. Happy endings are hard to come by and although his main characters may well be standing knee deep in the filthy excesses of humanity their eyes are always fixed firmly on the stars. this volume is a gripping one, with massive ideas in violent conflict with the notion of accelerated evolution where short cuts to the future most often lead to hell.The violent new birth of a path not taken is a bloody mess not meant for the faint hearted, but birth never is. The meek might well inherit the Earth but what will they do with it? When you consider how long Bryan Talbot has been telling these stories you cannot help but marvel at how he also continues to make these same storiesfeel so freash. This latest instalment is in every way a newly trod path through his own multiverse. In short, it is as though Bryan Talbot has drawn a ragged door on the walls of reality through which his readers may step.

James Mc Bryde.

Came across this copy of Mr James Ghost Stories Of An Antiquary which has been reissued quite recently. This edition has a very interesting foreward by David Morell, the best selling American writer who is something of an authourity on the field of writing. This edition also features the art of the artist James Mc bryde who was also a close friend of MR James. He only managed to complete four contributions to this story collection before his untimely death. apparently the publisher wished to have another artist step in and contribute their work to bolster the collection, give it a more commercial appeal.Mr James dug in and wanted only James Mc Brydes work to accompany his. Monty had led a long respected life in his field and had many people he could welcome into the circle of his aquaintance but I suspect there was a smaller number he might consider friends.James Mc Bryde was among that number and I think he wished to respect his legacy in would the best way that he could. He had no idea if his own work would last, whether future generations would discover the pleasing thrill of his own brand of scholarly terror, but if the work did indeed last then so too would this memory of their collaborating. Their own brand of pleasing fear. Any book collection lacking a contribution by MR James is an impoverished one. Enrich your library.It will love you back.