Review: AZWAI - Aszerosweareinfinite

It's a good feeling when something you've been working on for a long time comes to fruition. After months of hard slog for very little gain, you might finally feel as if it has all been worth it, and you can allow yourself a pat on the back and maybe a few drinks down the pub. For Malvern-based hardcore quartet AsZerosWeAreInfinite, or AZWAI as they are more colloquially known, that drink should be at least three fingers, and the hand should belong to a big sweaty gorilla.
You see, their self-titled EP was recorded over a year ago, but only now do you, the lucky public, get to sample the fruits of their labour.
The opener, 'God, By Any Other Name', kicks in with the lyrics “between my crooked teeth and self-prophesied lies, you will discover salvation for your ache”. This could be as much a comment from anybody who has found their way to the front of the stage during one of AZWAI's shows as it is about the actual subject, one Wayne Bent. Bent, also known as Michael Travesser, is the charismatic leader of the Lord Our Righteousness Church in New Mexico, a religious community who were featured in the Channel 4 Documentary 'The End of the World Cult'.
It's a belter of an opening track, driving home with the force of something big and forceful and un-clichéd as possible. You might be surprised that there is only one guitar at work here, as the entire band works hard to create a ferocious, full-bodied sound. Vocalist and lyricist Adam Murkin is great at taking a perspective and writing intelligently from it, no matter how bizarre or convoluted the perspective of that person might be. The clout with which he delivers his lines is unrelenting across the board, too, and conveys in part his mighty stage presence (both in front of and mid-crowd).
Next up is 'Snakeskin in the Shape of a Wedding Band', which claims the crown for the longest track on the EP – marginally. And that's one of the great things about AZWAI's refined style. The tracks are long enough to have enough substance to hold your attention (I'm looking at you, Ampere), but aren't so long that the onslaught becomes wearing. I know that this will be a firm crowd favourite – enough breakdowns and catchy lines for them to really get into.
Closer 'Poor Syntax' stands out as my favourite. I am still in awe as to how drummer Dan Taylor can manage as many stick-clacks in the space of a single second as he does to bring in this track, but this is by no means the highlight of the track. The influence of The Dillinger Escape Plan is clear from the outset, but it's no mere consummate rip-off: the guys know how to build on their influences, rather than rehashing existing songs.
The EP may only clock in at seven minutes and thirty-one seconds, but it's more than enough. It is an unrelenting juggernaut, devoid of unnecessary trimmings or lyrical waffle. Hear me; salvation is coming - and its name is AZWAI.

Band website: www.myspace.com/aszerosweareinfinite

Review: Stella Dawes - Contrasts

Seriously, why have Stella Dawes not been signed yet? A clutch of glowing reviews like theirs, and you might have expected someone major to have taken notice by now.
I first received my copy of 'Contrasts', their debut full-length in the summer of 2008. Boy was I excited. I'd been keenly following this band for a while, ever since vocalist Mike Shakespeare, ferreting his way around Myspace one day, politely messaged a bunch of like-minded people in my area asking us to check out his band. Words such as 'Mare', 'Eden' and 'Maine' were bandied around, and I've been in love ever since.
I had known the album had been in production for a while. Mike and guitarist James Barter were taking on the entire process themselves, fitting it around day jobs, so a delay was to be expected. But when it came, I was stunned. Two tracks, 'Dichotomy' and 'Everything Happens to Eeyore' had been favourites for a while, and the recently previewed 'Happy Ever Afternoon' and 'The Unspeakable' had satiated my desire for new material, but even these didn't prepare me for the majesty of the beast.
You see, with a lot of albums, and ones of this genre in particular, the songs – the lyrics and the heartfelt meaning behind them – can come out quite same-y. Not entirely, obviously, but I quite often find myself having to check the name of the track against the listing to get a bearing of where I am in the record. This is never the case with Stella Dawes. Every song has a unique hallmark, not least in thanks to Bart's unique guitar sound – something akin to the love-child of a chainsaw and a cheese grater. You know it's 'Gut' because of the throaty staccato opening. You can differentiate between the two 'Investment Intercourse' tracks (Deposit and Return respectively) because the former kicks you squarely in the groin at 1:31. You know you're listening to what is arguably the album's centrepiece 'When the Tiger Lost His Voice' because, well, who else sings about tigers except Survivor? No riff or chord progression is repeated between songs, and they could have, because they're all good.
For me though, it's the very lyrics I mentioned earlier that make this record for me. Furious wrath and hardcore go hand-in-hand, and that's all well and good, but I like my lyrical spice to take a more intelligent twist than your average 'argh, I'm so misunderstood!'. Mike knows what he doesn't like about the world, but he expresses it intelligently and, above all, poetically. Lines like 'we polish shit, but like it or not, nobody here is perfection' ring true, as well as being delivered with consistent gusto and conviction.
Just a little note on the packaging. If ever there was a reason to buy a physical copy, this is it. The brown cardboard case is beautifully DIY (in keeping with the ethos of the whole package), and charming to boot. The insert, chock full of handwritten lyrics, continues the theme, and a nice little bonus was the typed insert thanking me for buying the CD. It's these little touches that might draw the ever-increasing number of pirates away from torrent sites and towards their wallets, were the majority of albums not merely templated jewel-case jobs. Anything to help in the war.
I know the band is currently not gigging due to the departure of founding bassist and drummer, Steve Butcher and Simon Kendrick, but I wish them the best of luck finding suitable replacements to fill the void. Based on a heavy amount of speculation (and the appearance of a couple of demos on their Myspace page recently), I suspect that the rest of the band will use this time to gather their creative thoughts, and I hope they will hit us with a stunning sophomore release sometime soon.

Band website: www.myspace.com/stelladawes

The Golden Valley

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A recent assignment for my genre studies class required that we write about a place, fictional or real, in the style of two different genres. I chose to write about one of my favourite places, known as Golden Valley to locals. It's a really peaceful place that I used to go to do some of my writing when I wanted to be alone, back when I lived in Malvern. I know it that well that I thought it would come easily, but thinking about it in terms of different feelings than it normally evokes was pretty difficult.
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The Golden Valley

Horror

It is twilight. A grey mist sits on the surface of the lake, reflecting the drone of the lone electricity pylon that towers above me. Although I cannot see it, I know the derelict old cottage is still there on the other side of the chill waters; all broken windows and rotting door-frames. It has spooked me ever since I was a little child. I swear I saw the light of an old oil lamp in one of the windows once, even though the building had been abandoned for years. Mama told me I must have imagined it. I hope now that I did.
The last, cold light of the winter sunset glows behind the hills, making them loom ominously. I daren't go that way; a patchwork of potholes and gorse bushes make for unsteady going at the best of times, and it's getting darker by the minute. Bad things happen on these moors. Terrible things. Should I need to run, I would be in serious trouble.
I can't go back; the way behind me is burning. So I head into the fields.
I feel my way through the gathering night. The long grasses and tips of barley brush my fingers and palms, giving me the sensation that I am floating. The way across the common is long, but I have no choice. I couldn't stay here, even if I wanted to. I'd be found.

Science Fiction

The midday sun glints off the hologram that poses for the lake's crystal-clear water. Things certainly have changed.
I step away from the door of my contraption. It hasn't just been a long time since I have seen this place in the rise-and-fall-of-civilisations sense: I may be able to reach the farthest corners of the time-line, but it has also been close to forever in my own lifetime since I set eyes on these fields.
I used to come here as a boy. It was one of my favourite places, actually. I would sit on the mossy old logs that served as benches with my Gramma and have picnics and feed the ducks. I don't suppose they have those any more – real food is costly to produce; far beyond the price range of the average human family. The ducks are definitely gone. It's funny, they can afford state-of-the-art holographic equipment so it doesn't look like they suffocated their own planet to death, but good luck enjoying it if you're a native. This is purely for the newsvids. If they caught me here though, trespassing would be the least of my problems. They have technology, but nothing like this. There would be some serious temporal consequences if they got their hands on this baby. But they won't; they'll never even know I was here.
I dig my hands into my pockets and sigh. The wind that blows through my hair at least is real. The barley stalks are simulated to sway in time with the breeze, but I know that if I walk over there my hand will go right through the stalks.
It's time to go. As I re-enter my ship, I take one last look over my shoulder and try to remember it as it was: the ducks, the water, the mossy log. Such a shame.

Tumblr

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I am now also posting over at Tumblr, for those who frequent it more often than here...

Untitled - 'Staticat'

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And the third piece. This, by process of elimination, relates to the broach on the left. I was told that this bone comes from a small-ish mammal, perhaps a cat, and so I took that and ran with it.

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Imagine your bedroom, dear reader. Go on; picture it in your head. A big warm bed with a comfy duvet. Your duvet. A wardrobe full of your clothes, hand picked to express your personality and make you feel good about yourself. Personal effects and trinkets from your travels both far and near sit on shelves and windowsills as neat little reminders of happy times.

Your bedroom is a place of sanctuary, of safety. Your own space in which you can recede when you have a crappy day and will at least help make you feel better. Nothing should encroach on this hallowed ground.

Which is why I have such issue with the cat that’s fucking up my personal space. It’s not that I don’t like cats, but this one is peculiar. It upsets me. In the darkest watches of the night. In my own bedroom. I don’t feel good in my room right now.

Physically, it is nothing out of the ordinary. A tail. Two eyes. Two ears. Four legs. Black, as cats in these sorts of situations often are.

What keeps me wide eyed from my pillow and compels me to write as I watch it and it watches me is…everything else.

The reason I can see this cat – this black cat – in the pitch darkness of my room is the eerie, almost lamp-like light that trails it. When the cat moves, the light follows it in the manner of a comet’s tail. When the cat stops pacing, the glow settles around it like a soft, source-less backlight.

Cats are well known for the practiced disinterest with which they observe you. I mentioned that this one was in no way physically abnormal; well, that is save for its eyes. They are ruby red and when they look at me and I look back, they seem to burn me. And when it opens its mouth to let forth a cute kitty sound, all I hear is the most terrible static. Fierce white noise that makes my ears hum and my jaw ache.

I can’t leave. It sits in the middle of the carpet between my bed and the door. I daren’t try to cross its path. So I wait.

Hours pass as we watch each other. The glow of the rising sun has hit the top of my blinds now. I reach for the cord; I long to let it in. As I open them, the glow surrounding the cat appears to reach for the warm new presence in the room.

The sun rises further and touches the cat. The cat is hard to see now. Its fur begins to almost melt away and flow into the sunlight through the open window. As the last of it slips away, my legs find themselves again and I move towards the window.

Looking out at my back garden, I see the cat again, flowing back into view as water into a mould. It now sits under a shady tree. Something feels different though. When it looks at me now, I feel only sadness and pity. After all I have felt these last hours, it is strange to not resent the cat. As I watch, it begins to paw the ground at its feet mournfully.

Something compelled me to go out there. I want to say it was sympathy, but for what I don’t know. When I got out there, the cat was gone. I haven’t seen it since.

I dug where it had been sitting. I got the feeling it had wanted me to. My fingernails became dirty, but I didn’t have to dig for long. Soon frayed hessian threads came into view. When there was something I could grab onto without it coming apart in my hands, I pulled. A sorry little sack popped out with a clatter.

Inside was a collection of bones. I can’t say for sure, but an educated guess tells me they were cat bones. There was a length of twine tied around the opening of the sack.

Why it decided to haunt me all night I do not know. Poor thing just wanted some company I guess. I took one of the bones out and put it on a shelf with my keepsakes.

Now the cat is part of my sanctuary. It should be safe here.

The Continuing Chronicles of Casmiro the Corpse-Hungry Cannibal

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This is the second piece, and corresponds to the middle piece of jewellery in the picture below. This bone was found on the beach, and I suspect that this is how it came to be there, washed in by the tide...

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The Continuing Chronicles of Casmiro the Corpse-Hungry Cannibal

Casmiro gnaws.

Casmiro knows.

When he eats, he sees.

Memory.

Alfonso. Solicited dockside harlots. Gave his dear Sofia syphilis.

Tastes bad. Leave for the gulls.

Casmiro gnaws.

Casmiro knows.

When he eats, he hears.

Screams.

Geraldo. Killed his brother. Ran away to sea to escape the gallows.

Got his in the end. Spicy.

Casmiro gnaws.

Casmiro knows.

When he eats, he feels.

Loved.

Ignacio. Left his beloved to seek his fortune in New Spain. Not so fortuitous.

This one is sweet. Tender.

Picks the bone clean,

And tosses it to the ocean.

From the diaries of James Q. Jackson

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I was recently asked to write a selection of stories to accompany a friend's submission of jewellery to a Halloween-themed exhibition at the Elevator Gallery in Hackney Wick. I didn't have long to do it, but I'm pretty pleased with the results, especially considering they ran longer than I had originally intended!

Each piece is intended as a kind of origin story. This first one relates to the piece of jewellery on the right, which we suspect is from a bird...

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From the diaries of James Q. Jackson, gold prospector.

October 22nd

The jewel of the broach is glowing an eerie green now. The old man said to pay it no heed; that the jungle light plays tricks on your mind. But I can’t help but start to believe the stories about this place. ‘More bounteous than the Californian fools’ gold,’ I had been told ‘but the gold here is dangerous.’ Since the loss of Barnabus and Roderick in the ravine two days ago, and with Ferdinand’s fever worsening, my initial enthusiasm for this expedition is all but spent.

October 25th

Phillipe said he heard ungodly noises during the night. I did not want to alarm the men by admitting it, but I heard them too. Fingers of blame were pointed at Ferdinand, who now just stares at the canopy from his stretcher, muttering in tongues. I clasped the talisman tightly to my chest as I rallied the men as best I could.

October 28th

No-one wants to carry Ferdinand any more. His breath rasps out into phlegmy coughs. The men think him contagious. When the boy, Samuel, ventured that we should leave him to his fate, a volley of sharp calls broke the silence between the trees. It was only the jungle birds, but it sent a shiver down my spine – an ominous omen indeed.

October 29th

I have been thinking about the birds. Their calls have haunted us for days now, a constant reminder of our strange surroundings. As I stare at the talisman’s jewel, I notice the glassy sheen resembles the staring, unblinking eye of a bird. Come to think of it, the bone of the broach is light and hollow, like those of birds…

October 31st

In the early dawn light, the noise rose to a crescendo. Somehow, camp remained in slumber - all save I. It was by the virtue of my wakefulness that I am still alive, although I know not for how long.

The birds attacked not long after they began their screaming. They swarmed in their dozens, the flurry of their beating wings filling the air. Butcher birds. I had seen them briefly during my stop off in Australia. By God do they deserve their name. I saw Garrett, still wrapped in his blanket, being skewered by their sharp beaks again and again until he was still. My legs were moving before I knew what I was doing. I am not proud, but I ran. Ran past the giggling form of Ferdinand lying bound to his stretcher. Ran past the boy Samuel as his eyes were plucked from his head by avenging beaks. Ran from the cries for help, for what could I do against so many?

I sit now in the rotting hollow of a dead tree. The butcher birds are closing, I can hear them screaming again. The broach feels warm against my chest – I can see it glowing through my shirt. They are coming for me. They are coming for it…