A band - led by the voice-like cello and saxophone - “read” improvised audience writings from their music stands. The audience and the musicians go back and forth in conversation with one another, feeding each other's writing/playing with improvised playing/writing.
→ for a more detailed rundown of the concept click hereThe lineup for this event was cello (Emma Barnaby), violin (Evie Hilyer-Ziegler), modular synthesiser (Francis Devine) & saxophone (Ignacio "Gal Go" Salvadores).
In collaboration with Worms and ICA Bookstore for their ongoing event series Ear Worms.
Recorded live at the Nash & Brandon Rooms, Institute of Contemporary Arts, London.
Poster by Joseph Bradley Hill & Caitlin McLoughlin. Filmed by Romanne Walker.
Album cover by Joseph Bradley Hill featuring some "unwritten" parts from the responses by EH, DVG, HM, and other anonymous audience members.
Thanks to Clem McLeod, Joe Shakespeare, Caitlin McLoughlin and all who chipped in to clear away at the end!
A selection of scans of the writing by the audience in response to the first performance of the night (handwriting has been replaced by text for legibility, with all extraneous mark-making retained):
Transcriptions of the written responses to performance one (all writings were submitted anonymously bar initials):
OCP:
On the close shore lie
Bricks from disparate buildings
The red they give their name to, still
They themselves remain solid
They themselves could have stood
For longer, if you let them
Now scattered with the pebbles
In the gooseprints of sand
Seen from bridges like a secret.
-
I pick your fingers out
A bouquet from the water
Bunches of fingers
Budded knuckles and thumbs
Rotting on the wrists
The wilted flesh made clerely
Green, blue, red, pink, white
GW:
a journey, dark enclaves high cliffs, grey
sky, wet wind waves crashing, the sound of seagulls,
long dresses flapping, or maybe tents, barefoot walking
over gravel, faster, the smell of moss, a cave dripping,
black shiny sharp wet rock, waiting,
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
interior hotel japan 2065, a monitor plays fluorescent
green images of swiss mountains, a man in his underwear
watches. transfixed, a tap is dripping, his sink overflowing
we float out, up into the sky, into the clouds
the wind carries us, air rushing by, the light is
flickering rainbow colours, the astral form hovers over
the body hesitating, resisting, suspended. They are
face to face. Eyeball to eyeball. The moment, we
fall spinning endless.
A steam engine train black and covered in soot.
HM:
regardless, they drain onto far, steep
inclines a wonderful tendency
— dear one, sit low until
you can smell the hay
dampened
— trained by those standards
of growth, it is only too great
if the field is furrowed up
to a dozen times, and the
crows refuse to gather, and
the grains fester, night squirrels
tending outwards, dialing some
unknown number, swirling until
suddenly their neighbours catch
light.
they nearly took the stones
from under our house and
stood them along narrow
alleys.
EH:
HOUNDS BOUND THROUGH DARK
WINTERY WOODS. TREES ARE HOLLOW
LEAVES BROWN. BARK TOUGH, THICK
& THERE ETCHED WITH YEARS OF DECAY
WEATHERING FROM STORMS, RAINFALL
AND WILDLIFE. THE DOGS, THEY
TREAD LIGHT, BUT ON THEIR
DISTINCT PATH. THROUGH THE
LAYERS OF LEAVES LEFT
OVER THE DELIGHTS OF SPRING SUMMER AND
AUTUMN AND ALL OF ITS NATURAL
GLORY. AT THE END OF THE PATH
LIES THE THIRD
DOG. CURLED
SOFTLY IN HER
CACOON OF
LEAVES.
DVG:
THE KIDS ARE DRUNK (AGAIN)
BIG BEN AS THE MOON
DAVID MITCHELL ON THE TUBE
PUNCH UP AT A WEDDING
SHAKING HANDS
HUNGRY ON THE LOCK
MAN SMOKING CRACK ON THE VICTORIA LINE
SMASHED PINT
MAGIC FLOATING PINT
FOUR BOOKS HOPS ONE ROAD?
VENEREAL DISEASE ON GREENWICH WETLANDS
NOT UP TO MUCH
A selection of scans of the writing by the audience in response to the second performance of the night (handwriting has been replaced by text for legibility, with all extraneous mark-making retained):
Transcriptions of the written responses to performance two (all writings were submitted anonymously bar initials):
MC:
I am a worm, nibbling, nipping, tracking through mineral
particles, silt cracks and crumbles like wet beads
around my teeth. The other way, roots spread below
my long ribbed tummy. Getting fuller and fatter I
think, swatting through soil horizons and chewy
clay. I love it - nip, crackle I love it. I think its
raining, little snaps rumble somewhere over there
above me, the land shakes on my eyelids and
I swerve around pebbles to get upwards, up,
towards that sound, like I said, I think it could
be rain. Lounder in my smooth, nothingy
ears - Loamier and loamier, nice and damp, I ignore
the debris I swim past, old car exhausts and
pig ears, hamster skulls with sodden envelopes
that hide kisses. It’s grim and stupid, though
understandable. bottles are the
worst. I concentrate on the spikey seeds putting
out arms and legs into the crumbs beneath them
and shoots into the crumbs on top of them, it’s a
miracle, every condition is just right and their coat
is cracking open - I love their little strong-man
chests leaves beginning where their hearts are
swim swim wriggle into the top soil, soaking
wet, still dark.
GW:
A jar of flies rattles on a wooden table
The year is 1802. Milk is spoiling we
move through an old french chateau, farm
house. there are chickens and feathers
down the corridors. A woman, old, is spinning yarn,
it is grey and dirty and full of imperfections,
she places it in a sink filled with yellow water
the soil around the house is quivering, vibrating
the house is still, opaque white marbles roll down
the kitchen spiral stairs splitting and cracking
as they hit the stone floor. broken particles,
they fizzle and melt without warmth into the
soil, into the earth, down into the top crust, past
earth worms and rooted things, somewhere dark
and warmer and wetter and buzzing. the soil
is all around huge, black beetles dark but
you can feel them
There is some opening, some space some desire
to move through it, to travel into, some
compulsion, some inspiration it pulls you
and it feels like companionship. something
is left behind, something is leaving you
something is waking.
GC:
EATING
FOOD ON
A LAUNDROMAT
MISTER MAN
VS
GENDER
CONCEPT
I WONDER
WHAT MUM IS
DOING
NOW.
FIGHTING DOGS
DRINKING TEA
WHAT IF YOUR
HANDS WERE
COUNSCIOUS,
LIKE A PERSON
OF THEIR OWN,
ATTACHED TO
YOUR BODY
TROPICAL
BIRDS MEET
PENGUINS
AFTER
GLOBAL
WARMING
MELTS THE
POLES
I HEAR SOMETHING
COMING FROM THE
BASEMENT, BUT
I LIVE ON A BOAT
GIANT SNAILS
POURING
SALT ON KIDS
THE NIGHT IS
PRETTY OUTSIDE
THAT FLY
THAT WON’T
LET YOU
SLEEP ON
SUMMER
NIGHTS
A LIGHTER
THAT BURNS
YOU EVERY TIME
YOU WANT A
CIGARETTE
ANON:
Leaping
one, leaping
two, enzo
leaps three. And
on this leap he rose
tall, taller than he
thought he could, than
he though he would. But leap he
did. into the night sky,
amongst the birds and the
bats. A space he never had
been. A surreal space for it was
unknown, but once there his tail
had a mind of its own unlike ever before. exstatic
with joy his tail wagged left to
right and this leap grew bigger, longer
and stronger. he was now in a new realm, away from the birds. The
the clouds, long gone, way below. The
sky grew dark as the sun set beyond the
horizon, but down below. Now illuminated by
the moon he flew higher amongst the stars
and the darkness. He was content here. The
sound of stillness and solitude. it was
A place he thought he would never reach.
was now home.
ANON:
TURN AND SPIT
that Dog
FRAME ME while
it lasts
sometimes I
get a third
off 3mb
cartridge
but only when
the man in SHOP
see me without my
face on
There are 12
birds
> of which
have gone
so there are some
left.
ANON:
IT’S A CAR-PENTER’S PENCIL ITS A CARPENTERS
PENCIL. A CAR, I GOT IT FROM A CHARITY SHOP
DOT DOT FOR SEVENTY THREE P NO THREE FOR
THREE FOR SEVENTY THREE A CAR PAINTER
AND A PENCIL FOR FREE, RIDE FREE FOR
THREE FOR THREE FROM A CHARITY SHOP FOR
SEVENTY THREE CARS AND THREE CARPENTERS.
A selection of scans of the writing by the audience in response to the third performance of the night (handwriting has been replaced by text for legibility, with all extraneous mark-making retained):
Transcriptions of the written responses to performance three (all writings were submitted anonymously bar initials):
DVG:
SAUSAGE
DOG BITES
FACE
SALINE
MOUSTACHE
THESPIAN
RECEIVES
SLAP ON THE WRIST
MASSIVE
WEIRD
FINGERS
YOU
DO
MORE
THAN
MOST
AT
SNOOKER
TREE
HITS SHEEP
WITH DEFROSTED
LEG
OF
LAMB
HM:
a paler sort would have sniffed them
out, a kind of red hound, a belly
clean, freckled.
think again of nearest peaks
and that’s where an undone
kind of thrush bears wings —
this morning told me of hunting
creatures and how they grab
with a need and throw themselves
against stone walls searching
for some chamber or hollow.
JV:
4 walls in which the
one painted blue makes it
appear smaller, smaller, smaller,
there’s a reason they
call it a statment.
As 1 , 2 , 3 cracks appear
it slowly becomes less
and less reasonable to
charge what they do -
Hell is 4 walls no images,
one room.
MS:
From the nightbus -
the first yawn of morning
gleams in condensation.
Dawn trundles to work
with skyscraper cleaners -
coat collar turned up
against the fog.
Clocking in amidst the gloaming.
X.O.X:
sometimes, animosity and adversity force action
in witnessing humanity in turmoil;
community in a storm;
home in a strange place;
sanctuary when it’s needed most;
Faith returns
ANON:
beep
beep
beep
someone told someone else a secret,
it was thick, lively + dreadful, Hated
every second and so had to tell
their boyfriend, who told his co-worker
and they love, I mean love,
secrets, but in a way that they’re
never enough so makes witty but
factless embellishments where the
details diverge from their origin
-we all like to pretend we’re
above that but we’re not. so
this secret, which I am not disposed
to tell you right now (esp. in our
current company), became something
altogether completely different, a
new glossy lie which got larger and
more perfect + dreadful with each telling. so much so,
that glum + cool teenagers now base their
whole identities off of its
mystique, dumb, sexy,
crying, smiling wishes.
A selection of scans of the writing by the audience in response to the fourth performance of the night (handwriting has been replaced by text for legibility, with all extraneous mark-making retained):
Transcriptions of the written responses to performance four (all writings were submitted anonymously bar initials):
OCP:
Spare ribs small almost swallowable
Unknown animal meat ensauced
Make me a dog make me chew
With one half of my mouth at a time
Uncentred off kiltered eating
They put spaces for the bones
In a McRib. They wrap the meat
into ridges to suggest differentiation
It’s got the spare rib sauce
It’s got the spare rib look
If I know nothing let me eat McRib
Small thick bones
Small thick bones
Too regular to be real
The edges sanded down
No gristle gripping it to the body
I can’t quite bring myself
To crack the bones in my teeth
ANON:
Itsias
And
talus
so
Roccoco
form
function
what does it mean? Below and between
88 π O ɛ N 7 S f α
1 6 2 5 4 73 3 6 7 1 1 0
X ΠZ 4 2
T 0 6 2 1
P o w e r
DVG:
BEEF
JERKEY
FIT FOR
A KING!
SWOLLEN
LUMP!?
(TOP 5
COOKING
TIPS
FOR
MEN
DVG:
BEND
AT
BANK
BEND
AT
KENTISH
TOWN
QUICK
TAKE
A NEW
ONE
IS
ADDED
(AGAIN?)
REALLY
UGLY
LEGO
MAN
SEVEN
ATE
NINE
A selection of scans of the writing by the audience in response to the performances, which were handed in without numbers (handwriting has been replaced by text for legibility, with all extraneous mark-making retained):
Transcriptions of the written responses that were handed in without a performance number (all writings were submitted anonymously bar initials):
ANON:
I HATH becometH
SO WHAT
SPIN ME RIGHT
ROUND
ANON:
BIG LOUD
SMALL LOUD
