A DAY AND A NIGHT AND A DAY

I've been reading the manuscript of Glen Duncan's latest novel "A Day and a Night and a Day".

What has struck me, apart from the distillation of his style down to its essence, is his ability to unflinchingly describe the darkest and most tragic situations in a way that is often positively thought provoking and sometimes inspiring. He shares that quality with Cormac McCarthy I think. I've made my compromises and generally regret them so I'm always impressed by artistic integrity - and Glen's never gone for the easy option, even when it's there begging on a plate. I remember with 'I, Lucifer', that it was intended to be knocked off in three months as a commercial ruse to get him 'out of a hole' - but he just couldn't help himself and it became a thoughtful, literary work (perhaps to the chagrin of his publisher) as well as a rather cracking yarn.

This book is political - or at least, topical. I was initially concerned about that when he told me - I mean it's easy to get that sort of thing very wrong  - but reading it has revealed it as not only a brave move but a masterly one. I think it will do very well - possibly not commercially (although who knows?) but hopefully in terms of a prize. It's that good. And, despite all the darkness, honesty and intensity,  a very enjoyable read.

But I've known Glen most of my life. We became friends in a provincial town early on - not least because it never really felt like home. We were in-situ cultural refugees so to speak and we've been egging each other on ever since. By the way, in case this all sounds horribly back-slapping and self-congratulatory, you should know that l could tell you the most terrible things about him and he's definately seen me at my shameful worst.

Anyway, the book will be published in the new year - first in the US and then in England. I don't really read fiction and of course I'm partisan,  so make up your own mind. But don't say I didn't tell you..

LUNA PARK

Last year Yuliya - another ex-patriat Russian friend living in Brooklyn -asked me if I would write something for her graduation animation about the old theme park at Brighton Beach. I did and here it is - a wonderfully strange creation don't you think?

I heard that the theme park is gone or going or being re-developed into blandness. Inevitable I guess- but it still seems a shame.

HALF HORSE - HALF DREAM

A couple of years ago I had a very strong dream about being on the South Bank of the River Thames in a kind of glade of trees - a landscape as it probably would have been before the city existed. Across the water came floating a kind of barge and on it were a family of half human - half horse-like creatures. They disembarked and I watched them for a while before we engaged in some sort of communication. They told me something important or imparted some kind of wisdom which of course on waking I couldn't quite recall. The dream itself continued in a strange and fairy tale sort of way and it inspired some music I later wrote called 'Epitaph for a Dream'.

Then I kind of forgot all about it until, with the strangeness of things, during some research, I recently came across a wonderful animation from 1921 by the American Winsor McCay in an archive. Surprise, surprise I thought I recognised the dream there.

Did I see it as a child and just forget?
Is it is a well-known myth?
Is it an unconcious archetype?
"What does it all mean Steerpike?"

I've no idea - but anyway, here are both.

Mad Hair

I often consider myself to have been rather fortunate and to have been the beneficiary of many happy accidents. A nocturnal meeting with Valentine Rose in Clerkenwell, reading about Dreamy records in London Time Out ten years ago, discovering a copy of Jung's "Memories, Dream and Reflections' in the carriage of a deserted train somewhere in West Wales and so on.

Another of these serendipitous events was receiving a letter one day from an animator called Alex Budovsky which sparked a friendship and a collaboration that has now gone on for several years and has produced some wonderful work. Alex also introduced us to Russia and to various extraordinary people there who we now work with too and some of whom have also become friends.

Amongst them are the amazing folk from the late, great Alexander Tatarsky's animation studio 'Pilot'. They have been engaged in an epic work to create two animated fairy stories for each of the ex states of the USSR - some of which I saw in progress and was duly blown away by. So, it was with great pleasure that i was invited to work on their latest project "Mad Hair'. This is a kind of trailer for a feature based on drawings and ideas left by Tatarsky before his untimely death last year and it truly is a gorgeous, eye-poppingly surreal tale of espionage, lunacy, baldness and sausages set in a re-imagined wartime London. You will rarely have seen anything like it and I look forward to being able to show more soon.

At a time when a kind of cultural (or at least Bureaucratic) Cold War has arisen between this country and Russia again, it feels rather happy to be engaged in such a cross-border collaboration.

BONNE ANNIVERSAIRE

My friend Gina reminded me that today would have been Gainsbourg's birthday. Can you imagine what he would have been like had he lived to be 80? No?- "moi non plus" as he might have said. And it's seventeen years since he died in Paris - rather reduced but still pretty stylish - and smoking - almost to the end.

These days with the slightly irritating ubiquity of Jane Birkin, it's easy to forget how forgotten he actually was during his lifetime - well outside France at any rate.

Anyway, I was reminded of an afternoon round at Clive's a few years ago when we sat around and recorded this. It's a bit out of tune and francophone's may quarrel with the translation but it felt right somehow.

Happy Birthday Serge.

LONG LIVE THE DEAD SONGWRITER

I have been much preoccupied of late but I was awoken from my reverie by the arrival of the wonderful film below - another made by George and Monica of Giant Squid Eye. As ever, I'm flattered and quite bowled over by the opportunity to collaborate with such wonderful artists. I'm sure I'm using up all my good Karma but in the meantime I remain astounded and grateful.

Speaking of collaborations, attentive US readers of the credits for the song ('Kix' from The Real Tuesday Weld album 'The London Book of the Dead'*) might notice that it is attributed to myself and a certain deceased star of the Great American Songwriting Tradition. It may not be obvious why to some - but personally it feels as if I have realised a once-thought impossible dream.
Yes, that's right - I have co-written a song with Cole Porter.

I do hope he wouldn't mind..



The year is already tripping on - faster and faster it goes - but there is a lot to tell and I hope to be here more often from this time onward.

*The album, along with 'The Clerkenwell Kid Live at the End of the World', will be released by Six Degrees throughout the rest of the world and in the UK by the new boutique label 'Antique Beat" in Summer.

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...