Whistle Down The Half-Pennies

W VON: 'The Great Ocean'

2011-11-26T09:24:00.000-08:00

'The Great Ocean'

From the age of fifteen or so, when I began having recurring dreams of shark attacks, I have feared the sea. It became a symbol of finality, it housed beneath it a lurking evil, gargantuan monsters and ultimately death. It's black abyss-like character and it's, what appears to be, disregard for human life, became something I feared, but ultimately respected.
A few months after finishing my Sonic Art degree I went travelling to India. Whilst there I took in mountainous peaks, snow-laden, our jeep careering to-and-fro around it's death-defying bends. Despite a crippling fear of heights mountains have always remained a calming force. Maybe due to the fact my feet stay firmly on the ground has a lot to do with it. But, also any mishaps or accidents are generally down to the person scaling it's face. I mean, you never hear of a mountain biting you or jumping from it's age old position to ambush you. The ocean, which although not moving per se, it does send a strong message...BEWARE mutha' fucka'. Beware!!!
Whilst presenting no 'real' threat, storms aside, it's inhabitants are a trifle aggressive, like waltzing into a well dodgy high-rise estate, sporting head-to-toe 'to-die-for' clobber emblazoned with racist slogans. How one might be greeted in that environment is akin to how the ocean's dwellers might react to a bobbing Irish man, dipping his toes into their bathwater. Only main difference, although unlikely, one might be able to apply dialogue to help aid his escape to safety. The ocean knows no language, at least were human vernacular is concerned.
During my travels I spent a lot of time by the sea, staring...nothing really new there. What was changing inside of me was the overwhelming urge to run and jump in. 'I respect her, she knows that...what's the worst that can happen?', my train of thought, with great noise, barraged my brain despite my efforts to remain shore-side.
So there it was...13 years of distrust laid out in one small flicker of time!
Having made many recordings during my time in India, the ones that really struck a chord were the ones of the sea. There was immense power in some of them. In Agonda, for instance, during a full-moon the ocean was crashing on the sand like the hand of Zeus, disgruntled at mankind's wicked ways, smashing at civilisation with thunderous ferocity. I felt humbled by the sheer size of it.
I felt as though a baby bird flung from it's nest into a world lacking familiarity, alien in landscape and topography, rife with possibility might feel. That very fact leaving you with a gut-wrenching fear of the unknown.

These are the very things I tried to include in 'The Great Ocean'. The wonder, feeling subservient at the feet of it's vastness, the flight of spray upon the air, the fear, the finality of death, the sinking into bottomless greens and blacks. The awe at it's dance.
Contrary to my efforts I still find myself at the mercy of the ocean's power. Nothing on Earth scares me more than seeing something engulfed in water, slowly becoming overpowered by it's strength and then sinking...what an end that must be for anyone/anything!
The album, I hope, allows these very stark and striking images to come to the surface. To breathe and pulse in perpetual flux before becoming overcome and fading into the black, lifeless and absent, having tried with all of its might to stay afloat.

Listen to: An English Mail-Boat

Released 21st of November through Polski label Few Quiet People.

Artwork by Alex James Chilvers.

available here: fewquietpeople.com
The album was made using electric & acoustic guitar, accordion, mandolin, autoharp, my voice, various 'small sounds' and violin.
*A synth part was used in 'First Rocks' and 'The Great Ocean'.

KITTENBERGER

2011-11-26T09:02:00.000-08:00

WILSON UNDER-ARMS

2011-11-26T08:48:00.000-08:00

JEAN-MARTIN CHARCOT

2011-11-26T08:45:00.000-08:00

BIRTHDAY LOVE-DOGS

2011-11-05T09:01:00.001-07:00

Grandpa Duke

2011-09-18T02:16:00.000-07:00

Google: Grandpa Duke

'New World'

2010-07-15T03:57:00.000-07:00

a link to 'New World' by Jade Mortimer for Virgin Shorts.
Sound Design by ME!
I tried to create a sonic sub-text beyond the visual narrative. I did this by splitting the film into two, suspense and confusion. In the first half I use the ambiguity to my advantage by creating a sort of unusual and mysterious soundscape made entirely from real-world sounds, most of which were recorded on location. For the second half, after the relationship between the two characters has been ascertained I used cartoon and filmic cliches to help create a sense of confusion; the removal of her blindfold sparks a blast of bird-tweets, mimetic of old cartoons used to represent a characters daze-like state; the low rumble representing suspense and confusion.
The sound grows until crescendo, resulting in the death of the captive.
The ambiguity of the piece allowed me to go quite far without there being too much hint dropping; after all I wanted the sound to act as a second fiddle, as it were, to the lush colours and play of the film.

It was exhibited by the Martha Collective in a Pop-Up Gallery in Hackney, East London.

http://www.virginmediashorts.co.uk/films/entry/345829/new-world

7 chords, 1 voice

2010-07-10T02:40:00.000-07:00

the sun rose up to find the moon in its place.

its face obscured by the wheat-patch.

circles, whisk and flat, and then it snowed.

cloud cover heavy and thick.

the sun rose to find the rain had been.

it had washed everything away.

my plans of a simple life, thwarted.

and it was darker than it had been in a long time.

A Crest Worn Upon A Chest

2010-05-15T08:37:00.000-07:00

we leave a number in lieu of another.

can a different numerical arrangement really bring something it's predecessor couldn't?

are we expected to believe in a new light when the one prior was still burning brightly?

i had gold in my hands, i spoke with wonder.

un-verbly it's open mouth leaves nothing of worth...
i laughed the day they told me that history would become relevant in my lifely routine.
i laughed the day they told me that.

exacting the hum-drum, i am left with no beat no drum.
the startings.
the middles.
the ends.

Fr Fr Fr

2010-05-15T08:33:00.000-07:00

I have forgotten about language, the playfulness of it's nature.
I elongate it's vowels for my own communication. They protrude like spikey fruit upon branch of wilted tree.
To ears, other than my own, it sounds like music.
I think it's time I allowed myself to open up and to stop with the green grass philosophy which dogs my brain, like a constant, broken motorway. It's destination unrevealed until the finality of my arrival.
Open stretches of water alert fear in me, there is something beautiful but, deathly about them.
I often associate this spectre with the end of life, as if i have somehow experienced it before.
perhaps...in a previous existence, if i believed in things like that.

Red Young

2010-05-15T08:28:00.000-07:00

Hamilton Fensby, my local gardener, handles his ware at a pace more pleasurely than leisurely.

Fawn, he repeats and peat he emits.

No more utopia blue, his gaze.
'What do you do when your designs are flawed?'
'I just let 'em talk of petering out'
...
'When the fields are gone will the cows take out mortgages?
Will the sheep get full-time jobs?
I guess we won't have to worry about closing the gates anymore.
Why?
Well, they'll be neatly replaced by a housing estate.
He caught us in his castle, hidden under-chair, we shiver, quiver and stare.
'FE-FI-FO-FUM...I smell the blood of an Englishman'

Sun-Tak

2010-05-15T08:18:00.000-07:00

in the words of the man that sold me the gun...it's people that kill people

they cut themselves open like morning mail...over territory or something

would they be more civilised with hooded cardigans?

in the words of the man who took my life...what you looking at?

in the words of the man who took my life...you disrespecting?

in the words of the man who took my life...you should've done nothing

in the words of the man who took my life...i don't remember it

the blood pouring out?

The Murmurings Of Gentlemen

2010-03-31T03:15:00.000-07:00

a dot for my childhood

alvage

romance

Den MM; # 1 - 68

2010-03-31T02:47:00.000-07:00

blah blah blah, words are rapping around my bleating throat like an unwanted sandwich being forced down thine gullet with excruciating accuracy by the floppy hands of the elderly!

Bon Traverse

2010-03-31T02:37:00.000-07:00

At once, we ushered ourselves past the great hall. We brought with us, in our pockets, small livestock to sneak into the harvest room.
'well, it's not just man that has hunger', our administrative leader shouts in a muted whisper, reverberant in the spacious chamber.

'what of the others?', our own brand of socialist eeeks all over the mission.
We stop, almost in contemplative unison.
The quietness that brushes over us now is the loudest thing in the room.
Our ethos has been challenged. From the back of our group I can hear the initial swirlings of our low chanted war-drum song.
Careful to not rile to soon-to-be mob, I run to the centre of the hall and play dead, mimicking the tweet algorithm of two dozen sparrows.
Knowing what'll happen to me, I lay completely still...waiting for the fragments of ember to start swirling.
The others, startled at the events that are coming begin to cause a deadly furore...circling me with speedy intensity.
Their song, low and mono-syllabic, becomes a deafening drone.
Their speed ever increasing.
Increasing still.
The doors to the great hall begin to bang and slam as though being controlled by an invisible intruder on their corridored side.
At last the embers.
The drone accentuates into a banshee scream, a 5.1 dream piece, piercing and horrid, the doors fly off their hinges, possessed.
Chairs, certain carpeted areas, even my shoes spiral upwards into the static salvage floating above my head.
At once a light fantastic, a solar vandango....

The screams quieten. A black and grey landscape remains. I semi-charred, retain my position on the travertine surface, where I, recumbent, never move again.
Completed in the metamorphoses, me the resultant grey matter, trunk shaped, bark as skin, am paraded before the elders.
Their songs have changed too.

I hope no-one thinks of me as missed.

Lenthall

2010-03-09T16:09:00.000-08:00

a new friend

as i saw it

what will be remembered

Alamunde

2010-02-26T06:25:00.000-08:00

Lauren (#3)
(Two Colours On White)

Brick
(Three Colours On Paper)

Musings
(Two Colours On White)

Kings

2010-02-25T04:10:00.000-08:00

Aligned Under Small Warmths

Samo In High Regards

Landmark Maintenance

Dinu

2010-01-23T17:54:00.000-08:00

a dinosaur what i drew, it has a crown on it's head and a green body

If...

2010-01-23T16:18:00.000-08:00

Born under a strict sun, blond hair blazing like yellow anger.
Two adults stand among hundreds more, noise escaping through open turrets in their faces.
An orkester of light and sound, of pushing and shifting.
Thumping heart and clasped hand, screeching as best as I can.
Face reddened like volcanic matter.
Eyes on me.

'OOH', says he to her.
'AAH', says she to him.
As if it were all so easy.

Take your wisdom and present it to someone superior, I may have thought, if thinking was included in my catalogue of current abilities.
Lists of soon to be options are paraded like items on a menu to be ordered and received down the line.

'Can I return it if I choose incorrectly?'

No response is spoken...just a short, understanding left-right-left-right shake of the head.

So, since this laminated list has become something lost in the annuals of memory, I have no-one but myself to pin blame onto if life went awry, right?

Again, the understanding mute rituals.

There Is Nothing In The World

2010-01-23T15:20:00.000-08:00

There Is Nothing In The World by my old band Hills Are Mountains

Visuals by Sean Daniels
www.myspace.com/hillsaremountainsmusic

it saddens me that we are no longer making music together.

Everyone's Demons Are Unsavory

2010-01-23T08:30:00.000-08:00

Stint Without Head Tainted

(Portrait Of Stranger On Paper Base)

Star Without Points

(Six Colours On Paper Base)

Unsuperfluous

(Two Colours On Paper Base)

Like 1

(Red On Paper Base)

XY

2010-01-23T08:27:00.000-08:00

Genitals On Pink and White

Things Fashioned From Other Things

2010-01-23T08:18:00.000-08:00

Rank

(Chicken Made From Poo)

When I Look Down I See You

(Heart Made From Gum)

I Lack The Understanding Of Parallels

(Flower Made From Red Ink and Twig)

Slow Merchant

2010-01-19T15:09:00.000-08:00

at once.
show-tunes.

marches.

sashes and sticks.

distant slides.

somewhere a bird is chirping underneath it all.

SPARKS

2010-01-06T14:21:00.000-08:00

at it's foot, i am powerless

at it's peak, i am powerless

Lurgan/Craigavon

2009-08-21T03:33:00.000-07:00

as clogged, the countryside used to be.
byroads littered, leaves in twisted repose.
they meet the sky and aggressively, they compete to win your eye-line exclusive.
shards of light revealing the foregrounds weaknesses.
a visual display of the common and the rare most stupendous.
my heels, sank Southly now, move with no haste, nor sloth...
i am returning now, returning to my home.
where the animals die.

where i die.

Mneyio

2009-08-13T06:11:00.000-07:00

Celebratory event in household #1

Somewhere, a distant heaven lures believers in abundance to a white portakabin.

The bouncer, in white/gold gown, goes through his heavy undusty guest list, turning away anyone dressed in sinful trainers, tracksuits and baseball caps.

No 'bangin' choons' or 'sick riddims' just a lonesome harp player, who under the pressure of pleasing many with his seemingly unlimited songbook leaves without a tip, cheer or applause.

His understudy, the life-shape of Quentin Harkley, twiddles his thumbs and tunes incessantly, awaiting his chance to serenade the waiting ears of the number.

His time never comes.

Caterers catering for hoards of visitors, all of which rarely leave.

Persil being poured at a speed of two bundles per white mile.

Canapes being thrust into rafters and over balconies, loud parties spilling onto the white pavements and yet-to-be-driven on roads.

Guffaw and Google discussed by the most peaked-too-soon minds.

Some make reference to the boxes that house their more mortal materials.

One, a lady of once-great wealth, scorned her offspring for their crude choice of cheaper Eco-Friendly wood.

Overheard by one such believer an argument breaks out and the rights and wrongs of lifely ways are thrown into disrepute with everyone taking sides.

All of a sudden the 'kabin becomes bare and all involved are found on top of an upside-down tree in the mind of a Money-Eagle bound in transcendental flight for eternity.

No Hi-Viz required.

Songs At Sea

2009-06-13T10:58:00.001-07:00

siren
siren
Sir Ensign.
Sigh Wren.
S High Run.
Si Ran.
siren
siren

By Night

2009-06-13T10:50:00.000-07:00

By night I hear her course throughout the room.
A single route, tried and tested, rehearsed until sunshine falls from the eyes of the burning giant.
Her 'clips' and 'clops', akin to that of a soft-toed horse, are heard through sleep muted ears.
Her eyes, as wide and dark as pools of immeasurable oil-spill, stare and scan for signs of life..."none but the slow moving, sleep-bound silhouettes", she continues the run through.
Up, up, pause, up and after a time down.
Then across and back again.
A moving carousel lulling to a stop before a disembarking pounce.

As only a semi-sleeper I witness this strange and intriguing ritual daily.
In response I offer greetings and words which may as well be spoken in Gibbon tongue, for they are useless, futile, alien...un-understood.
Our communication is through other, more unusual means.
...I jog, she runs. She hides, I find.
Small squeaks; ambiguous, yet tended to.

Zilog Z80

2009-06-13T10:48:00.000-07:00

Varying stages of green to a complete black.

Kiwi
Frissee
Pond Scum
Lawn
Emerald
Turtle Back
Island In Distance
Eyes Closed
Onyx
Deep Ocean Death

-flagstaff survey exception 1
my only hand is loose

-flagstaff survey exception 2
without outdoor space

-flagstaff survey exception 3
hungry bison

> SYNTAX ERROR

Mountain Hold

2009-06-13T10:45:00.000-07:00

The face of a mountain is dotted with the sprigs of colour associated with lifestyle changes.
A Goat orders, for his pastures, a gold green grass carpet.
The Eagle puts recently delivered chain-mail to good use, reinforcing her nest.
Holes and burrows are being spring cleaned and painted with emulsions & mattes. The Vole opts for belly-laugh brown.
The Rabbit, at the foot of the ancient stone mound, depicts a scene from Fantasia using 256 colours.
The Bighorn Sheep, bleeping and baa'ing, is spending quality time with the family by filling the flock-sized paddling pool he installed in the midst of winter.
The Cougar, having explained in a recent 1000 word correspondence, enjoys his new Council fitted Aquability walk-in bathing unit.
The self-conscious Snake, sporting a new multi-coloured Muumuu, frets not about the length of time it takes for her meals to digest and the wrong-doing it does to her figure.
Yep, life is good for the mountain dwellers.

So good in fact that they have took no notice whatsoever of the slow-moving paper chain of people making their way to the summit.
16 hands shaking.
8 heads nodding.
8 mouths speaking.
8 patting shoulders.
Thousands of single hair strands all flailing about.
Two Hundred And Twenty Four teeth being lied through (and none with skin on)

What of the mountaineers on their return?
What of the words they spoke?
What of the coverage and the voice of those they represent?
What of the animals and their 'keep yourself quiet' pay-offs?

With Dimples Of Snow

2009-05-04T08:09:00.000-07:00

High upon the dry-land, oxen.

Kinsfolk play as bards under the rooves of amusement arcades.

HALT! Kingsmen guarding their play fort.

We can't go beyond this point, the oxygen is in short supply and we have no nets.

Chasing bubble-flies like grazed kneed children, our laughs erupted from our empty mouths.

Our happiness was immeasurable.

'This will never change'

Our words harmonised in a chorus of agreeance.

On the horizon we saw black clouds.

Rain, we told ourselves, fearing the worst, one more sleep before...

The morning came and our beds were still safe, parental units hugged and comforted not.

It came on the 4th day.

The chugg and smog of our new dictator, en-masse, pushing us from our havens into less green areas.

Using our arms to attack the tractors, they deafened with their din.

We showed how we use vowels as trowels.

Consenants to the power of Continents.

We unearthed land-worms larger than arms as if to free them.

Their place is there and there, not here.

A savage youth tosses his in a discarding manner...

Our hearts sink as it lands underfoot.

So much for our philosophy.

Crippled under the weight of our sins, we allowed the tractors into our homes.

From that day our new bond was rarely strained.

Our peaceful veto was maintained.

moi settings

2009-04-24T03:14:00.000-07:00

a b cask
d e fjord
g h itinerary
j k lumberjack
m n over-turned motorway vehicle
p q rest results
s t union of hands
v w xenoclan
y zeusklat

last night i dreamt i was being pursued by the KKK in Lurgan...i remember them chasing me over fields.
i had to hop over hedges and lay flat beneath them.
i got away but, not without some small panic stations being alerted.
the police came and arrested them.
i was safe.

A Lithe For Splinters

2009-04-24T03:04:00.000-07:00

BEYOND...to the aggregator! As everyones pulses race rabid, i think in a run amok format.

Details lend themselves to unrelated objects, to stories unexperienced, to images unseen. 'If we keep ourselves to ourselves we can't be accused of integration'...Our summoner is our keeper, his thoughts overpower ours in terms of public opinion. It is he who stands, vis-en-vis, converses; debates and toils with them and their en-masse views. I for one am glad the role was filled, and by such a levelled chap. His mask wearing face is ferocious and intense. His voice cut from the same stone as dragon's roar and air-turret output. It's only now that our people get regarded, get messages of support. He has become a Demi-God of stratospheric proportions...my keeper, my life-line. As corrupt a man as he is, he has spoon-fed us hope whilst we lay in our womb-like positions.

He thinks in luck. Our borders can no longer be crossed.

yours, A FF

a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z

2009-04-24T02:31:00.000-07:00

I hear of words that fly from tips to borders.
They land on ears and lips, bounce from one head to another.
They are swapped and shared.
They are put together and arranged.
They mean nothing, bowing under the weight of expression.
They are sang and shouted.
They are small and priceless.
They are thrown and spewed.
Acting as both weapon and shield to those who yield, before and after.
Formed from small elements 26.

animals and giants make the greatest of friends.
under a woe, we agasp at sightly humours.
talking with voles and riders about happenings two villages across.
i listen with a venomous reprise...touting and towing.
waving and bowing.
our canals are overflowing.
our boats overturning.
i, bouncing from subject to subject, forget about unhappiness.
holding hands, our hearts entwine and we start to believe in colour.
at the days end the wind brings us home to the laps of our loved ones.
hair shining like silky weaves.
mouths open and closing with comforts we, carfeul not to tread on their sleeves, that is where their hearts lay you see, sing string sounds and bell tones.
skipping skipping skipping underneath a garden.

We Talk In Language Stars

2009-04-24T02:29:00.000-07:00

As if it were common occurance, the sky turned from sheet-like SFX to yawning millions.
The pessimism of night turned into an orange optimism, laden with pink thoughts and red hope undertones.
The silence fell and as if by magic turned us from our positions, threw us from our soft-palettes into hardened balance. The squeaks of slumber become steam-trains and slippered foot-steps.
Rushing aimlessness and laughing quarters.
Today brought a tickle, lack the bubble-pot cauldron her throat once was.
Mud pool skies observe.
Blues omitting disapproval.

Eastern Calls From An Underbelly

2009-04-24T02:28:00.000-07:00

with heads exposed our cheeks are bitten by winds large and course.
like flying cars with rusted hinges.
'are there any peaks left to roam?', my fellow speaks in earthly tones of terracotta and gold.
i understand but, with my deafened tongue i cannot reply.
i know that there are not.
if i speak his heart will break...

tree arks

2009-04-24T02:26:00.001-07:00

a circle of trees can be seen in the distance.
cared for by dwellers and their assistants they guard and parade in unison.
their small faces and larger than life heads clap out rough rhythms at march-band tempos.
t r u m p * * speaks their snare-drum * b a n g * shouts their Bassoon.
a job vacancy description reading '...must be a better Wolf' hangs from a broken branch.
a giant plough formation is the centre of the carnival they paint, depicted by twigs and ferns.
s n a p * * goes their foot-steps * c r a s h * their whispers.
as the sunlight fades they make merry their time and vacate.
'one more day over' is heard being said through damp curtains.
T H E N
- a silence that erupts upon faces like a mute volcano.
the light-lamps grow dim now...

Long Reminders

2009-04-24T02:24:00.001-07:00

Our hands fell together as we walked.
A route akin to what we are familiar with.
We lend each other words and syllables, finishing off our sentences with descriptions of pictures seen and imagined.
The sun lay between us as we slept.
Awake now the moon hums to us, we know not each other anymore...
Our songs are in dialects differed.
Our hands rivers and seas apart.
At least we had that one moment.
At least, we can ...

can we build upon broken stems?