We’ll be having a number of talented folks DJing the night including James of Brave Exhibitions, some members of the electronic group My Elastic Eye and our friend Zara, aka Miss Glitch playing a variety of music that roughly is summed up on the flyer itself: WAVE / SPACE / MINIMAL / COLD / POP / ELECTRONIC / GLAM / MUTANT / POSTPUNK.

After that there will be some writing and then I’m off to Canada for a couple of weeks. We’re then playing October 15th at the Buffalo Bar for the club night Bedsitland. Perhaps we’ll see you around.

Sometime in the early naughties I was travelling through the middle of British Columbia in a beaten up old van. This trip was taken for the purpose physically bombarding patrons at venues with amplified soundwaves. They actually paid money to have this happen to them. During this trip, as with many trips around this period, there was a large shoebox with grungy cassette tapes positioned between the driver’s seat and the front passenger seat. One of my fellow musical travellers had an eclectic taste in music ranging from old delta blues to synth-pop and he pulled out a Xymox (note the lack of “Clan of…”) cassette. The cover was considerably more techno influenced than their 80s dark romantic leanings of previous albums. I don’t really remember the music as that whole time in the van is usually in my head mashed up into one great blur but as we all became victims of “van mouth”, an infliction that causes the infected person to spout non-topical garbage as a result of many long mindless hours in a van, we started wondering what a “Xymox” was? It sounded Greek. Was it greek? Was it a beligerent alien from some foreign planet, covered in scales and slime? Perhaps the letters X Y M O X were chosen for aesthetic reasons.

Timing would have it that this conversation — I think — popped up in our travels through the aptly titled Shuswap region of BC. Co-incidentally there’s a small village — er, gas station and bridge — a little bit east of the town of Chase called Squilax. Similar sounding to Xymox, no? For some reason it was incredibly funny at the time. A band of romantic goths coming from a small intersection of a village; their band’s name a direct reference to their location. I think I accidently referred Clan of Xymox with this name a few times afterward. This is obviously not going to be funny if you weren’t there. The Loopfax, however, is a different matter and perhaps I’ll come to that next time…

www.youtube.com/watch?v=UUQRg0Xz26A

Typing this down upon discovery, San Francisco duo Tamaryn have just released their debut LP “The Waves” on the label Mexican Summer. This is something to look forward to as their EP “Led Astray Washed Ashore” was quite good and was one of the few recordings that I bought last year. This recording was released on the cult (?) indie/underground label Troubleman label — a label for those in the know has been putting out many fore-running records over the last decade or so. Although the many comparisons to such artists as Siouxsie Sioux, Cocteau Twins, etc. are valid; I pick up sounds comparible to groups like Mazzy Star, Bowery Electric, and even contemporary artists like Zola Jesus.

I admit I was a bit biased to this group when discovering them as one of the members, Rex Shelverton, was in a number of bands that I’ve followed for years: Portraits of Past, The Audience, Vue, Bellavista, etc. All somewhat different from one another but tied together by some common aesthetic threads. Portraits of Past’s LP on Ebullition was a hardcore classic in my teenage years and The Audience’s only LP was played quite frequently. I even had the chance to share stages with that band and Vue a number of times in various cramped clubs in Canada and the US. I wasn’t really sure what they were up to in more recent times but I then came across this newer project, recognizing Rex’s name, through their associations with the boutique NYC label, Wierd Records. It’s good to hear that there is still music being made (along with Portraits of Past, who have kicked up again after a decade and recorded a new EP).

Jumping to the final sentence, you can check out a track from their new record here. Have a good evening.

Front and back of the un-released split 12"

During the recording and writing of that particular record, Primes took a stab at doing a cover — one of the few recorded covers that I ever did in a band (actually, I can’t think of any other recorded covers that I have done come to think of it). We did an incredibly trashed out and squelchy version of Nitzer Ebb’s “Let Your Body Learn” with Miss X taking up vocal duties. This was to be on a split 12″ record with another Vancouver synth/electro/punk group at the time called Bakelite. This was recorded along with an album A-side and was ready to go to press. We even had a brief mention on the official Nitzer Ebb site about this particular release coming out. Due to some issues that I don’t remember that arose with the record label, this never actually made it to press and therefore was never actually released. But you know, someone out there might appreciate this more frazzled, haywire version on Nitzer Ebb’s classic track. So yes, they might. Here it is for download and perusal:

PRIMES “Let Your Body Learn” (2004)

DOWNLOAD

P.S. > The artwork that adorns this post is some of the only remnants of artwork that I have from that point in time.

My friend Michelle Matzke, from whose blog I lifted this clip from, used to play the hell out of this track when we used to DJ a little new wave/new romantic/electro/weirdo night years called Movement. I equated Shrink’s tenure in the music scene to those of peers Klaus Nomi, Eddie & Sunshine or Tic and Toc — performance artists who in the late 70s/early 80s used that burgeoning scene as a medium for their art. I believe this may have been one of the few, if not only release he did. A bizarre film: a gold plated glam figure with an almost Flash Gordon flair at some posh dinner club — he looks like he might be in agony… or despair…

Ocean Falls

It was almost a year ago that I scribbled out an ode to Sayward, this little spot of a town (village? clearing of trees with some houses?) that I lived in from when I was born until I was about two years old. At the time I was having some weird dreams about the place as I hadn’t been back there since I was, well, around the age that I left. The whole town had a vibe that can be best summed up as a Twin Peaks vibe; warm and friendly but surrounded by this beautiful yet unknown expanse of old, old wilderness.

This time around my prompt for writing is more physical; more tangible in nature — booking some autumnal flights back to the homeland for a visit with a non-Canadian visitor in tow. In anticipation of the trip the whole question of “what to do?” starts getting tossed around. How about seeing some crazy mountains? How about the cheap sushi? How about splitting a six-er of Kokanee? How about some gnarly old ghost towns? The first coming to mind being Brittania Beach, which is about a 30-45 minute drive north of Vancouver toward Squamish. Atmospheric could best describe the place, especially on a fog-laden day: the old mine (now a museum) looming over the town resembles a decaying staircase possibly used by ancient giants. In the foreground of this monstrosity is positioned what looks like a steroid-enhanced dump truck.

Brittania Beach

And what about other ghost towns? Some with stranger stories? As a young one I remember uncovering an old native village overgrown by moss in the rainforest and at the edge was a little mound that on top of it sat an ominous old well. Images of that and then looking down the bottomless well pop up in my mind from time to time, as well as rotting old mining foundations in the dark woods, passing by Haida burial grounds in the Queen Charlotte (Haida Gwaii) Islands, taking seaplane rides with my late father to random derelict forestry/fishing villages on the uninhabited west coast.

Until recently, I kept forgetting the name of this one town up far north; near Alaska — I remember seeing some amusing newcast about it years ago. “So, do you have two million dollars to buy a town?” was the snappy catch-line for this story followed by shots of a lone man riding a motorized lawn mower on some unkempt grass lining a street of houses that were totally empty. Then it cut to shots of the hotel, the shopping mall, the town hall, the grocery store — all empty. Everything looked “normal” except for the lack of people and the slight decay that was noticeable from the shots, but likely more decay would be evident upon closer inspection.

I’m not sure if two million was the exact figure but it looked like a good place to be to creep yourself out or to cut all ties from people.

From time to time I would humour myself and friends by saying some promoter with some money could drop a cool two million and buy the whole down and do some crusty, DIY music festival: the shopping mall could have the main stage and attendees could go from building to building to see a different show. The empty houses would be done up to house the festival goers or house some of the non-main stage events for the festival. Keeping the derelict look and feel somewhat intact for aesthetic reasons would make it all more chaotic. This all sounded like a good idea except for the two million dollars bit; that and it was only accessible by helicopter, small airplane, boat, or many hundreds of miles driving down a vomit-inducing gravel road.

What the hell was the name of this place? I found it recently. It’s called Kitsault (map location) and its history is interesting. It was built around 1979 or 1980 to provide housing for those employed at a molybdenum mine. The whole valley at the end of an inlet where the there was millions of tonnes of the stuff under the expansive old forest surrounding the settlement. The town at it’s height was about 1,500 people in population. A couple of years later, 1982 in fact, the stock prices on molybdenum crashed and the whole town picked up and moved and the town was abandoned. Unlike other BC towns that would demolish the houses and buildings before departure, this whole town was left intact.

And into the naughties the town was again in the spotlight, on sale again — no buyers the first time around — but this time for seven million. And to make things even more interesting it was bought by an Indian Canadian businessman/health care scientist called Krishnan Suthanthiran. His angle was to re-juvenate the town as a hot eco-tourism destination. Visiting the website, it seems like there’s an attempt to but a new-age meditation vibe into the town with its tagline “Heaven on Earth”, sections on “Wellness” and the managing body of the town named Chandra Krishnan Kitsault. Here are some photos (links from originating sites at bottom of this story) :

KITSAULT

Ocean Falls receives so much rain each year that residents are called “Rain People”.

Massive apartment complexes rotting away in the trees / Old mill floors covered in rust and eroded bits of metal / Paint peeling on the walls in dozens of buildings / Roots ripping apart foundations / White mist floating through the leaves and windows / Bears rifling through collapsing cupboards / The nearest town being many many miles away

There is a great atmosphere here — a great unshot photo essay — a great commentary on the industrial world forgetting a bit of itself and letting that bit get reclaimed by the remoteness of nature. There is one online presence for the town, a great archive, that gives the impression that it is a friendly and unforgettable place to visit, despite the eeriness the endless stockpile of photos — most of the following photos I have found from this particular site — would suggest.

OCEAN FALLS

After a number of months of a hazy transition out of one old shell into a brand new shell, some clarity was found in regards to where my world of design was heading. The old hat that I was part of, The Wax Museum, is no longer and I have gone on my own to start anew under a more personal moniker: JJD Works. I thought about how to condense over 10 years of work under a number of different names and guises into something that was to-the-point and conveniently accessible, as well as being really easy to update as my track record tends to filled with eons of site neglect when the classification of editing gets anywhere out of the realm of “fast” and “lazy”.

I’m also happy to announce, at least in a pre-liminary form, that Savage Furs are going to be debuting the live show in September. The date and venue are set but just banging out the details right now so announcements will come soon. Thanks go out to Del Jae and Chris Flatline for spending numerous hours in a cramped Limehouse rehearsal room working out the musical points and maxing out a very small PA.

Finally, there’s been word buzzing around about the Texan video artist (just straight up artist?) Tommy Boy and curiousity led me to a mix he recently did with Vice Magazine. I highly recommend it; a wide variety of outsider electronic music from now and then, including Houston-based Indian Jewelry, who are quite good. You can find this mix here.

Dear Friend,

THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER.

I am delighted to contact you on a private note based on your contract/inheritance funds claim, which has been programmed for transfer into your designated bank account through my department. I hereby apologize to you for the delay in releasing these funds into your account, which was caused by Prof. Chukwuma C. Soludo because of breach of agreement between Prof. Chukwuma C. Soludo and your so called partners in Nigeria who introduced you into the business.

Your Nigerian partners approached Prof. Chukwuma C. Soludo that they want to present you as a beneficiary of this fund as it was an OVER-INVOICING made when transferring contract/inheritance funds into various bank accounts abroad. So after the negotiation, we unanimously agreed that they (your partners) would give Prof. Chukwuma C. Soludo the sum of US$400,000.00 (CASH) on acceptance to assist them to transfer the fund into your account.

When he accepted the offer, they forwarded all your banking particulars to him for onward transfer. Immediately he made some fruitful effort on the business and demanded his US$400,000.00 as agreed. Your partners deviated from the agreement and decided to go through the International Remittance Department at his back and make a change of some vital documents in other to disappoint him and you also not knowing that the International remittance Department is also under his control. Then he got the knowledge of their evil plans and proves their illicit efforts abortive.

That is why you may have to been pursing this payment, spending unnecessary funds to some fraudulent individuals and impostors in Nigeria who claimed to be in charge to release your fund. Though they now parade themselves as staffs and managements of various banks, some even claim to be a Barrister of different types and some also go as far as claim staffs of the Central bank Of Nigeria; they are all deceiving them selves and will not be able to get the fund out of the Central Bank for you.

I want to re-emphasis to you that the fund of which you are the rightful beneficiary as acclaimed, is still with CBN and under my control as the new governor Central Bank. Now with my whole heart I want to enter into real business with you on a sincere agreement since your partners have disappointed you and the fund is still floating in your name waiting for a proper documentation and claim.

1. On an agreement, I assure you that I will transfer the funds US$35.9 million into your account. (Thirty Five Million, Nine Hundred Thousand US Dollars). That is the original sum, not previous as mentioned by your so called partners.
2. You will assure me of keeping my dealings with you to an utmost secrecy because of my position in the government.

3. You will promise to give me 40% of the total fund as soon as the fund gets into your account with a written promissory note signed by you.
4. I will assist you in making a proper documentation to make your claim genuine as a bonafide foreign beneficiary to the said fund.

5. You are to Re-forward me your contact address, phone and fax number, along with an account where you would like the fund to be transferred, if possible a virgin account.

I am also aware that some fraudulent individuals have been impersonating this office to contact you and other beneficiary as reported by the Central Bank of Nigeria security department.

I henceforth advice you to suspend any dealings from any group of person(s) either from the CBN or any other financial institution / prostates in Nigeria or overseas that might be contacting you in this purpose and endeavor to keep this information confidential until we finalize this transaction to avoid them using it as an advantage to scam you again or even make you lose your money.

Also on no account must you contact these partners any more, this is for my own safety and for the security of the funds. Because they will not get this fund and also on no account must you let them know of my contact with you.

Please reply this message urgently for further details.

Thanks for adhering to this instruction.

I await your favorable response.

God bless you.
Dr. Sanusi Lamido Sanusi
New Governor, Central Bank of Nigeria (CBN)
Reply to:slmyprivatebox1@gmail.com

My leisurely stroll got me to the aforementioned slope within a minute or two. On my right past the benches I saw a man approaching the pathway. A large, bloated hiker’s rucksack choked his filled out frame which almost seemed to burst out of his ugly green knit jumper. His face was read and sweaty and despite being in what seemed to be his late thirties or early forties, somehow the affects of weathering did not age him entirely well.

The main thing I noticed, and I tend to observe people from a distance quite often, is that he seemed to have singled me out in this park. Perhaps I was a bit more approachable than the more stuffy business types or aloof tourists that tread the park. His eyes were set on me. Of course I knew that within a few seconds some sort of interaction was going to take place.

“Excuse me, are you local around here?” he said. Fair enough question. It was common to be asking a tourist for directions. The blind leading the blind.

“Sure I guess.” I said, hesitant of my somewhat short time in this city.

“You sound American.”
“I’m actually Canadian.”
“Hmm…” he said. No comment there. “Ok, do you know how I’d get to Hammersmith from here?”

Well fuck. Not a part of town I’m in regularily. I think… “…if you’d go St. James’s Park station,” at this moment I point in the direction of “you’d be able to get the Tube to…”

“Nah, I’m going to walk.” he interrupts, shaking his head as for some reason regular city transport was not an option. This seemed to be all fine at first. One could mistake him for some sort rugged cross country type.

“Do you know where the Isle of Wight is?” he says.
“Sure do.”
“Well, I’m from Scotland and was visiting down there for a bit. I’m now heading to Hammersmith to meet a friend to go to Oxford.”
“Ok.” At this point I’ve got places to be so I let the tourist go on his way but he puts his hand out and says: “Come on, walk with me for a bit.”

I start getting a bit suspicious but am a bit curious where this is going to go. I’ve been in places like this before. An elaborate courtship for financial favours. An overtly friendly stranger. The strange predicament this man is in. In this case it would seem to be his refusal to take the tube.

“By the way,” he says. “My name is Gary McDermott*”
“Mine is Jack.” I say. The use of only the first name was intentional.
“So yes,” he continues “I’m on my way to Oxford and have to get to Hammersmith. I’m having one bitch of a day, I tell you. I got my wallet swiped and had to cancel all of my credit cards and bank cards…”

There was a bit of a silence as I was still walking forward, looking for the point where my path would diverge from his. He seemed pleasant enough but sadly I know that humans aren’t beings of absolute optimism and in this case this man was obviously setting me up for request of assistance, but in a really roundabout way.

“Jack, what do you do for a living?”
“I’m a graphic designer.”
“Well, that’s quite nice.” he says, acting out a gesture of feigned enthusiasm. “Do you mind if I ask how much you make a year?”

For a fleeting moment I had a thought that this man might be the stereotype of those entrepreneurs from the old days. The ones in the old black and white films that show up in some American city with only a small wad of cash, a grand idea, a suitcase and a pair of fine pressed slacks. Say Sonny, why don’t you and me and you go into business together? We’ll be partners. Whaddya say, pal?

I at this point explain I do alright and do not divulge any numerical answers.

“Well,” he says “I’d think that working in this part of town can’t be treatin’ you too bad.”
“Nope, doing fine.” I say. “Well, I’m heading off this way. The way you want to head is down that way toward Hammersmith if you’re walking.”
I point in the direction of Hammersmith. I think it’s that way. I lift my thumb and point it over my own shoulder to indication the direction I’m going. The almost total opposite direction. I can see the man starting to tense up a bit, needing to advance the conversation a bit further in bigger, swifter steps.

“Jack, can I ask you a question?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Rather, can I ask you a favour?”
I sigh: “Well, what’s that?”

“Do you trust me?”

That was a bold step forward. Flashbacks of some sort initiation to the Church of Scientology come to me. Or worse off, Jim Jones. This is perhaps an over-reaction but hell, the prologue to this whole courtship dance of favours was a bit much. I came up with a reply:

“Well, considering I’ve gathered about two or three pieces of information from you in about a couple of minutes that would be ‘no’.”

This was not the answer this man was expecting but how else would you answer this?

“What do you mean?” he says.
“It’s a bit of tall order to trust someone I’ve just met.”

At this instant the man gets irritable and defensive and his best new friend, that being me, is no longer his friend. Without even saying another word he’s quickened his pace in the direction that I had pointed out him all of but a minute ago. Despite my lack of engagement into this weird little social interaction, I’m feeling a bit displeased with my being “used”.

Perhaps the man was going to ask me for money; for help. I’m an empathetic person and one that understands the plights of folks needing a hand. A more socialist approach sitting on the other side of the more conservative fence where every person fends for themselves. The mindset of only helping yours truly or anyone else that might be worth knowing to get a leg up in the big pyramid that is western society. Thinking how I might have approached the situation if I was in his shoes: perhaps contacting a relative or going the police or a traveller’s help centre may have been more effective than skulking around the park like a sweaty nomad. It would have also perhaps been more effective to make his point in about 4-5 sentences or less.

I think about it for a couple of minutes more on the return journey to the office; better ways I could have handled it. Perhaps I could have been frank and told him if he was hard up there were places he could go. Perhaps he thought I was a mindless money minion like a lot of the people buzzing around the area.

It took me about four minutes to get back through the doors of my building. He may have just been rounding the north side of Knightsbridge. Another two hours to Hammersmith perhaps? It would give him plenty of time to think about it.

* GARY MCDERMOTT IS NOT THE ACTUAL NAME OF THIS MAN IN QUESTION.

My leisurely stroll got me to the aforementioned slope within a minute or two. On my right past the benches I saw a man approaching the pathway. A large, bloated hiker’s rucksack choked his filled out frame which almost seemed to burst out of his ugly green knit jumper. His face was read and sweaty and despite being in what seemed to be his late thirties or early forties, somehow the affects of weathering did not age him entirely well.

The main thing I noticed, and I tend to observe people from a distance quite often, is that he seemed to have singled me out in this park. Perhaps I was a bit more approachable than the more stuffy business types or aloof tourists that tread the park. His eyes were set on me. Of course I knew that within a few seconds some sort of interaction was going to take place.

“Excuse me, are you local around here?” he said. Fair enough question. It was common to be asking a tourist for directions. The blind leading the blind.

“Sure I guess.” I said, hesitant of my somewhat short time in this city.

“You sound American.”
“I’m actually Canadian.”
“Hmm…” he said. No comment there. “Ok, do you know how I’d get to Hammersmith from here?”

Well fuck. Not a part of town I’m in regularily. I think… “…if you’d go St. James’s Park station,” at this moment I point in the direction of “you’d be able to get the Tube to…”

“Nah, I’m going to walk.” he interrupts, shaking his head as for some reason regular city transport was not an option. This seemed to be all fine at first. One could mistake him for some sort rugged cross country type.

“Do you know where the Isle of Wight is?” he says.
“Sure do.”
“Well, I’m from Scotland and was visiting down there for a bit. I’m now heading to Hammersmith to meet a friend to go to Oxford.”
“Ok.” At this point I’ve got places to be so I let the tourist go on his way but he puts his hand out and says: “Come on, walk with me for a bit.”

I start getting a bit suspicious but am a bit curious where this is going to go. I’ve been in places like this before. An elaborate courtship for financial favours. An overtly friendly stranger. The strange predicament this man is in. In this case it would seem to be his refusal to take the tube.

“By the way,” he says. “My name is Gary McDermott*”
“Mine is Jack.” I say. The use of only the first name was intentional.
“So yes,” he continues “I’m on my way to Oxford and have to get to Hammersmith. I’m having one bitch of a day, I tell you. I got my wallet swiped and had to cancel all of my credit cards and bank cards…”

There was a bit of a silence as I was still walking forward, looking for the point where my path would diverge from his. He seemed pleasant enough but sadly I know that humans aren’t beings of absolute optimism and in this case this man was obviously setting me up for request of assistance, but in a really roundabout way.

“Jack, what do you do for a living?”
“I’m a graphic designer.”
“Well, that’s quite nice.” he says, acting out a gesture of feigned enthusiasm. “Do you mind if I ask how much you make a year?”

For a fleeting moment I had a thought that this man might be the stereotype of those entrepreneurs from the old days. The ones in the old black and white films that show up in some American city with only a small wad of cash, a grand idea, a suitcase and a pair of fine pressed slacks. Say Sonny, why don’t you and me and you go into business together? We’ll be partners. Whaddya say, pal?

I at this point explain I do alright and do not divulge any numerical answers.

“Well,” he says “I’d think that working in this part of town can’t be treatin’ you too bad.”
“Nope, doing fine.” I say. “Well, I’m heading off this way. The way you want to head is down that way toward Hammersmith if you’re walking.”
I point in the direction of Hammersmith. I think it’s that way. I lift my thumb and point it over my own shoulder to indication the direction I’m going. The almost total opposite direction. I can see the man starting to tense up a bit, needing to advance the conversation a bit further in bigger, swifter steps.

“Jack, can I ask you a question?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Rather, can I ask you a favour?”
I sigh: “Well, what’s that?”

“Do you trust me?”

That was a bold step forward. Flashbacks of some sort initiation to the Church of Scientology come to me. Or worse off, Jim Jones. This is perhaps an over-reaction but hell, the prologue to this whole courtship dance of favours was a bit much. I came up with a reply:

“Well, considering I’ve gathered about two or three pieces of information from you in about a couple of minutes that would be ‘no’.”

This was not the answer this man was expecting but how else would you answer this?

“What do you mean?” he says.
“It’s a bit of tall order to trust someone I’ve just met.”

At this instant the man gets irritable and defensive and his best new friend, that being me, is no longer his friend. Without even saying another word he’s quickened his pace in the direction that I had pointed out him all of but a minute ago. Despite my lack of engagement into this weird little social interaction, I’m feeling a bit displeased with my being “used”.

Perhaps the man was going to ask me for money; for help. I’m an empathetic person and one that understands the plights of folks needing a hand. A more socialist approach sitting on the other side of the more conservative fence where every person fends for themselves. The mindset of only helping yours truly or anyone else that might be worth knowing to get a leg up in the big pyramid that is western society. Thinking how I might have approached the situation if I was in his shoes: perhaps contacting a relative or going the police or a traveller’s help centre may have been more effective than skulking around the park like a sweaty nomad. It would have also perhaps been more effective to make his point in about 4-5 sentences or less.

I think about it for a couple of minutes more on the return journey to the office; better ways I could have handled it. Perhaps I could have been frank and told him if he was hard up there were places he could go. Perhaps he thought I was a mindless money minion like a lot of the people buzzing around the area.

It took me about four minutes to get back through the doors of my building. He may have just been rounding the north side of Knightsbridge. Another two hours to Hammersmith perhaps? It would give him plenty of time to think about it.

* GARY MCDERMOTT IS NOT THE ACTUAL NAME OF THIS MAN IN QUESTION.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=vB7mMRsIGaU