DEADWEIGHT

I was installed in the grubby faded Georgian walk up guesthouse on Britten St. On the Tuesday I woke late and struggled through the lingering fug of some clammy dream, forcing myself from the narrow bed. I stepped onto the landing at the top of the curving staircase, locked the room behind and stumbled into the shared bathroom. Scalding water, razor, deodorant. The morning ritual of stripping, washing wiping, hair, skin, teeth, holes brought me back to myself. I donned clean underwear and shirt and padded back to the bedroom.


Unlocking the door, I dropped the dirty laundry on the floor and took a suit from the open case. Using the mirror, I dressed, combed and straightened. But then, as I looked to check my hair, I involuntarily stiffened rigid and shrieked - for in the reflection beyond, a figure sat in the armchair by the window staring straight at me. I backed to the door fumbling for the handle and lock in panic. But the figure, a man, did not look at me, did not get up, did not even move. He remained angled away - still staring towards the mirror, unblinking. One terror was suddenly replaced by another. I had been here before. He wasn't staring at me, he wasn't really staring at anything. He was dead.

Although at that time, apart from Sonny and my father, I had seen no corpses in close-up, it was something else that was causing my terror - the sheer fact of his presence in my room. How the fuck had he got in there and then died? Or worse, how had he been brought in and killed? I had been gone for ten, maybe fifteen minutes at most and I had heard absolutely nothing. I looked around the room - everything was normal. Nothing was displaced, there was no blood or signs of struggle - just a corpse sitting there.

Hesitantly, I approached. He wore the ordinary cheapish, semi-smart clothes of an average city worker. Tie, bad suit, brogues. He was slightly puffy around the jowls with the beginning of new growth starting to show on coarse, shaved cheeks. Within the penumbra of each nostril I could spy what looked like dried blood as if from a nosebleed. His nails too, though manicured, seemed to have blood under one or two of the fingers of one hand

The other hand dangled at his side. I could see that it held something but I had to inch around him, across his field of vision to see it fully. Ludicrously, I stepped away to do this - afraid he might suddenly re-animate and look up, even seize me. Dread felt heavy in the room, a feeling only increased when I saw that his hanging hand was gripping a small piece of paper between forefinger and thumb. I hesitated - I knew I should not touch him, I knew I should get out of there, call the police, tell somebody - but even as I considered the options, I also knew somehow that I would have to look at the paper first.

Gingerly, I came near, squatted down, lifted the dead weight of his hand and pulled. His grip was strong and the paper began to tear. I had to prize apart finger and thumb to release it and as I did so I could feel the slight warmth remaining in him. The paper slipped free and I jumped back and away to look. It was a page from a book - an old stained book with close curious type - but the reverse was blank or rather it was blank apart from three hand written words.

I looked up at the dead guy, He kind of looked at me. I looked back down at the words:

'You did this'

At that moment, in the Clerkenwell street below a police siren began to howl.

A STITCH IN TIME

Valentine was adjusting his tie whilst standing in front of the mirror in the parlour of the house in Clerkenwell. As ever, he looked impeccable but I wondered, not for the first time, how old he was. Twenty nine? Early thirties? It was difficult to tell and he was always rather evasive on the subject. In younger people that's usually a sign of wanting to appear older and, of course in the old, the reverse is true but he didn't particularly seem of an age when it would matter - or the type to care anyway.

Rudge, his valet, bustled in with the drinks tray. He winked at me in that slightly insinuating way of his. I disliked him on instinct. He related to me as if I was a source of some amusement or as if there were some complicity between us.
"Thanks old man"
Valentine turned from the mirror and took a glass from the proferred tray.
"Why not have one yourself?"
He grinnned knwingly when he said this and the valet looked slightly sheepish. Nevertheless, after offering me a glass he set the tray on the antique sideboard and poured himself one too.
"Chinny Chin!"
We clinked and drank.

Suddenly, I realised Valentine was looking me up and down.
"You're not going out dressed like that are you old sport?"
I bristled slightly
"Er, yes, why not?"
"Oh, it will never do my dear. The place we are going is very particular, very particular indeed and besides..."
He paused delicately.
"Streetware is all very well for Clerkenwell Road and Shoreditch and all that but we'll look a fine pair with me done up to the nines and you looking so..."
He paused again, searching for the right word.
"...so ahem, hip"
I stiffened.
"Well I haven't got time to get home to change now - we'll be late"
"Oh, don't worry about that old sport, We'll fix you up - won't we Rudge?"
I could sense rather than see Rudge smirking behind him.
"Of course , we will Mr Rose, of course we will!"
Valentine could tell I was put out but remained firm.
"Now come on, Pilgrim, finish your drink - in fact, have another - "
he signalled to Rudge
" - and then we'll have you spick and span in an instant"

He turned back to the mirror as if the matter were settled and began to fix his tie pin. I had to admit he looked beautifully elegant and I was acutely aware of the contrast of the creases and fluff and general unkemptness of my own attire. I gave in.
"Oh Fuck it, ok then"
He looked at me via the mirror and grinned. I finished my drink. Rudge put the glasses back on the tray, walked to the door and held it open for me.

We walked down the stone flagged passage to the stairs and climbed to the first floor. On the way we passed Valentine's gallery of ancestral paintings and I noted again how strong the resemblance was between him and his forbears - even the women shared his aquiline features and slightly other-worldly look. But I also noticed something else - something that had never struck me before. Rudge saw me looking and stopped.

"Was that a family tradition - to have their portrait painted at a certain time in their lives?"
"Sir?"
I indicated the painted figures
"They're all the same age aren't they?"
He appeared to be about to splutter with laughter.
"Well, yes, I suppose you could say that sir!"

We climbed to the second storey. There was dark wood on the floor and less panelling than the storeys beneath but there were the same high ceilings and large windows. At the end of a passage through double oak doors lay Valentine's bedroom. I was intrigued to see this room where he slept, dressed, undressed, presumably made love and was at his most private. I suppose I was expecting something exotic - a boudoir perhaps - but in fact, the room was rather simple. There were a few items of old furniture with the odd modern piece here and there and a few objects scattered around - a dog's skull, a single lace glove, an old fashioned hypodermic syringe, the bust of a young girl, a pair of embroidered slippers, a painted ostrich egg covered in spidery hand writing - curious things. By the bed there was a small writing desk with a large diary lying open and on a shelf above were a few of Valentine's ubiquitous travel books. The bed itself looked impeccable - almost as if had never been slept in.

Rudge beckoned me to a corner where there was another door. Through this was the dressing room. This was really more of a corridor leading to what looked like a bathroom at the far end with tall dark doors lining the walls. Rudge opened a few of these and inside I could see rails of clothes in the velvet lined interior. They gave off a pleasant, luxurious smell and I thought briefly and painfully of the mountain of discarded worn items in the corner of my own bedroom.

One particular closet seemed full of fancy dress clothes - albeit extremely expensive ones: a restoration era cape; a Victorian top hat; an ancient cane; riding boots - even what looked like doublet and hose. I reached out to touch.

"Er, no sir"
Rudge coughed and put his arm firmly between me and the outfits.

"Mr Rose, doesn't mean these things."
I looked at him slightly startled. He winked that wink of his.

"Try these."
He held out a couple of jackets. They were sixties style, mod cut, single breasted with a ticket pocket. They were beautifully made in expensive fabric and seemed my size. I chose the darker and tried it on. Rudge helped me - his hands darting here and there, straightening, adjusting, brushing me down. Seeing the liver spots on his skin and thinking of my earlier reflections, I suddenly asked him:

"Rudge, how old are you?"
He paused a moment
"Oh getting on sir, getting on"
"Yes, but how old exactly?"
He looked up reluctantly.
"About seventy five"
"What? You are not. No way. Come on - tell me the truth."
He looked down again.
"Maybe I'm even older."
He seemed sincere and I was astounded.
"Well you don't look it. I never would have had you a day over fifty"
"Thank you sir."
"Well what did you do before you were with Mr Rose?"
"Before Mr Rose sir? Oh that was a very long time ago!"
"Well he's about the same age as me right? So it can't have been that long ago - were you around when he was a child or something?"
"A child sir?"
He laughed as though the very thought were ridiculous.
"Well then, when?"
"Oh Mr Rose was quite grown when we met sir, quite grown"

I found his evasiveness and hints more and more irritating. He bugged the hell out of me and even though it wasn't really appropriate, I thought I would just keep pressing until I got something definate from him for once.
"Ok. Very specifically then. Tell me. How.. do .. you .. know .. him?"

He picked up two ties from a rail and flicked away an imaginary piece of dust from one. I waited. He handed me the tie.

"Very well sir"
He looked drectly at me.

"He's my great grandfather."

LAST LOVES

I walk through the ruins one last time to the house in the little alleyway behind the church in Clerkenwell. Everybody is gone now and I know that I will not survive another winter here. I believe that you're still out in the ether somewhere but there has been no blip on the radar, no distant ship smoke on the horizon for so long.

The house is silent. In an upper room, I take a spool of tape (the last one) from my case and cut and splice enough to make a loop. I thread the loop into the Studer - one minute, no more, is all it will need. I connect the radio microphone into the old amplifier and the amplifier into the Studer. I climb the spiral stairs to the roof and step out onto the parapet. Outside, the smoke has cleared for once and through the darkness, stars shine down brighter than they have seemed for years. I thought this house might survive but it still feels a miracle to stand here. I make some adjustments to the solars and connect them to the batteries powering the transmitter and the equipment below. There is not much direct light anymore but then not much will be needed. I rotate the transmitter like a giant gramophone horn toward the direction from where I last heard your voice. Other transmitters and receivers teeter on nearby remaining rooftops calling and listening for signals that will never now come. I look around for one last time at the broken horizon and the shadowy fragments of city that remain and climb back inside.

In the lamplit room, I make final preparations. I take the microphone, press the record on the Studer and speak. A single take and it is done - but then I have rehearsed this moment for so long. I stop the tape, connect the Studer to the transmitter and switch it to play. I gather my things, shoulder my bag, blow out the lamp. I step into the corridor and descend the staircase to the ground floor. For a moment, I pause, remembering the rooms as they were, full of lights and beautiful things, books, maps, dancing guests, the sound of laughter, voices.
All gone.

I step into the night and close the door behind me. There is no need to lock. I look up to the roof where I can see the transmitter silhouetted against the stars. One day the tape will break, the panels fail, the roof fall - but not yet. One day, this will not matter anymore, there will be no one to care - but not yet. For now, I can almost hear the voice broadcasting out in an infinite loop across the distance and the years between us:

"I loved you, I loved you, I loved you, I lo..."

LAST WORDS

I dreamt that the city was dying and yet that did not seem an entirely unhappy thing. As with any fading conciousness, the barriers between past, present and future, between dream and reality became blurred and indistinct. Walls of concrete and stone seemed permeable and insubstantial. The ground beneath me throbbed and hummed like a giant machine breathing in and out. helicopters and black birds criss-crossed the darkening sky as huge lights pulsed slowly on and off. On Fleet Street, an old woman in a bonnet approached me with out stretched hand. I stopped but she walked up and passed right through me. I felt a brief sensation of warmth and on turning, saw a young man in a tall hat walking away.

I passed down through the inns of court. Throngs of people appeared and disappeared. I could hear seabirds and smell a tart reek from the river. In a corner I saw a child lying but when I approached, it was only a dead hare garlanded by wild flowers. The blare of horns blended with the barking of dogs and the noises of horses, laughter, and wild singing. Suddenly, I was alone standing on a boggy moorland sloping gently down to a wide river. The sun was setting and in the middle distance campfires glowed and flickered as dark figures passed between them and me. A mother called to her children but with words which sounded foreign to my hearing. The background changed again and I stood in Covent garden. The world was spinning, holes opened in the sky through which I could see other places, other cities...

LAST DAYS

These were the last days.
I wasn't sure whether it was the war and if we were dead or just that the city had entered a different, final phase. In some ways it seemed to be going about its business as usual, in others it seemed more like a ghetto in Warsaw in the 40s. Law and order were breaking down, bartering and black markets had sprung up, privation and confusion had taken hold. A door had opened and something had changed. Perhaps the strength of the explosions had ripped something apart, disrupted the fabric or the collective psyche, the complex interaction between matter and conciousness.

I myself seemed relatively unharmed, free from pain and able to wander at will without suffering hunger or thirst. Occasionally I ate or drank when the opportunity arose but more out of a sense of duty and habit - or even just out of curiosity. My body seemed, like the city, to have become transparent in some way - not that you could see through it, more that it was made of energy or just the idea of solidity, opacity, colour, size, weight and form - like a collection of properties stored in some digital file.

Suddenly normality would take hold again, reassert itself as if the city had shaken its head free of some confusion. Taxis pulled up to the pavement, families on day-outs nonchalantly shopped. An effiminate, Italianate young man stepped from a cafe to smoke a cigarette and good naturedly eye a passerby. An old man sat nodding at a table by another cafe. A young mother pushed a pram whilst another child ran alongside tugging at her arm. Lovers touched, Shopkeepers chatted. In the distance I could see a funeral procession of mourners headed by a priest. I was filled simultaneously with sadness and admiration at this normality. The very ordinariness of existence - something I had always feared - seemed beautiful after the strangeness I had witnessed.

The old man suddenly woke and looked up. My heart skipped a beat. He looked exactly like my grandfather, dead these ten years. Then the skipping child stopped and gazed at me too - it was my neice lost to us two winters back! How could this be? What was this place? I looked around - more and more faces seemed familiar. The old man held out his arms. It was my grandfather! I rushed toward him laughing with my own arms outstretched to meet his embrace.

"STOP!"

I obeyed the command but spun to see the speaker. There was no one moving near me. In fact, there was no one moving whatsoever. The street was frozen. A bird hung in the air, forever about to swoop on some scrap of food. The traffic lights were stuck between amber and red. The ordinary street folk I had admired were stiff - caught between postures - my grandfather awkwardly so with eyes partly closed, a foot raised. The smoke from the waiter's cigarette was fixed in a plume of exhalation as if caught in the freeze frame of a film. There was complete silence.

Then again:

"Stop!"

The voice, though quieter now, was increasingly familiar. But still I could see no one speaking.

"This is not yet the time!"

Suddenly, I DID recognise the voice. Amongst all this confusion of images and experiences, this was perhaps the strangest of all - for in fact, l knew the speaker well

In the stillness, it was my own lips that were moving...

UP, UP AND AWAY

It seems that there are birds all around these days. There's all this stuff with Alex and Big Bird going on (and you really should see what he's working on now..). Then, a couple of weeks ago, we picked up a new blackbird from the Taxidermist. My friend Lou found him dead in her garden and now he is sitting in a little glass case in the library looking very happy. On top of that, I just came back from the Orkneys in the far North where I briefly joined the ranks of those strange folk called 'Twitchers'. I had the great pleasure, amongst other things, to see several unusual and beautiful winged things and the absolutely extraordinary sight of an Arctic Skua flying backwards. I kid you not.

When we were children, there used to be little fat men in Trafalgar square selling packets of seed. Tourists would buy them to feed to the pigeons who would flock around in grey thousands much to their mutual delight. Of course the grey would soon turn to white - to the great chagrin of Westminster Council and the more long term residents - and so the Mayor banned them (the little fat men, not the pigeons). Rather a shame I've always thought.

Anyway it's a great pleasure to bring you this twist on the theme of man feeds bird by our new friend Tina Roland. Lovely!

As I write, there is someone looking over my shoulder. An old friend who I thought long gone has unexpectedly re-entered my life and I have a foreboding that things are about to change..

OUT THERE IN THE BLUE

Alex Budovsky, an all round good egg and the the man who, if he could, would cool Global Warming with the flapping of many birds' wings, has been hanging out with Big Bird himself and hatched this flight of fancy. I accompanied them although my musical contribution is, er, rather featherweight.

I remember being a child and watching the birds collect on the telephone wires, gathering themselves before they just mysteriously decided one day it was time to leave. I'm off to the Orkneys now. I finished one record (and also, a second with a certain Mr Valentine Rose). It was an intense couple of years - birth and death and all sorts of things between and I am happy to have been here. I feel like I'm done with something but I don't know what it was and I don't yet know what's next.

FROM A WINDOW

This is from a friend's apartment in an old, tall, granite mansion block on a hill in Edinburgh. Last night we played with the Berlin Cabaret goddess Ute Lemper in the beautiful Usher Hall. Proper grown up stuff. Perhaps not our best show but Ute was extremely nice when I burst into her dressing room and fell over by accident. A romantic friend from the past turned up too - reviving certain memories and causing some interesting reflections - that was nice, if rather strange.

Another friend found and sent this funny thing from somewhere on the web. It features an half old forgotten track used without permission - I suppose I should have been outraged and complained or something but I liked it so much I couldn't be bothered. Nice one Nev.

More films, music and a new website soon.

FOR ROTHKO WITH LOVE

The music for the Rothko room is in place at the Tate Modern. It can now also be heard on line - song for mark

It was a pleasure to do - those paintings have long been a favourite but it was a curious thing too - his intentions seem to have been quite mixed. He started off wanting to intimidate the wealthy diners at the Four Seasons restaraunt in New York's Seagram building (the original commission) but changed his mind. Now they are generally seen as being contemplative, peaceful - even sacred.

Anyway, he ended up doing himself in like so many other artists, and so, partly, this was also meant as an elegy.

FOR RUSSIA WITH LOVE

I just returned from Moscow again. We were playing at the Golden Mask Theatre Festival - a very wonderful thing and a great pleasure to attend. It was probably one of our best shows - with Jacques back in the saddle and Eyal creating a magical dream world around us. The Berlin artist Jim Avignon joined us on stage for some live action painting and a whole posse of Alex's friends from the animaiton studio came to hang out.

On Saturday, our friends Marina and Serezha had asked us to play an acoustic show at a hospice for the terminally ill. So we arrived at a very peaceful little building on a quiet street somewhere as the snow started falling. It was an unusual event - no samplers, no projections, no electricity. There was a small audience of patients and staff from the hospice and some little birds in a couple of cages. Some of the patients were in beds and barely concious - one man in particular sounded as if he was about to go at any moment. When Jacques started to play 'La Bete et La Belle', the birds joined in too. I felt moved - just to be there at all and have the opportunity to do this sort of thing - although I confess felt some awkwardness at singing these songs, many of which refer to death, in a situation where mortality is very present. There were a couple of kids there and that really tore me up. Afterwards, just before we had tea and biscuits, I completely lost it for a few minutes in the loo. How do you tell children they are dying? - how do they understand that and how can they still smile and be so pleased to see you?

Back on the street, with the city noises and the snow falling more thickly, we wandered back into our lives and that stupid feeling that it couldn't happen to us - death is for other people right?! Despite everything that has happened, I find it really hard to not imagine I will somehow go on for ever. Anyway it makes you think doesn't it? - and one of the things I always think is how connections with people matter more than almost anything.

So, hello to all friends - but particularly this time to my Russian ones - old, new and however brief..