Defastenism

by Edel Horan

'The time has come to regain control!'


Looking back into history we see art movements inspired by periods of social and intellectual change and it is clear how these movement were influenced and in hindsight, what they achieved, but what is happening in our own age? Enter the Defastenists, Defastenism is a self - styled movement set up in 2004 by N.C.A.D undergraduates. I got in touch with Defastenkunstminister for Propaganda & Attire Pádraic E. Moore whose roles include curator, critic and artist to find out more, this article serves as an introduction to Defastenism and some of its basic principles.


The term 'Defastenism', originates in relation to Jurgen Habermas' 'metaphorical seatbelt'. This 'seatbelt' according to P. E. Moore represents the various apparatus and structures, which serve to restrict and contain the true energies and capabilities, which each of us hold. It is not enough to merely unfasten this seatbelt, we must Defasten, such a seatbelt also contains a literal meaning. An important motif for the Defastenist is the aeroplane. How ironic it is say the Defastenists that what was once a miraculous invention, is now an anaesthetic instrument in a world of cut cost flights and fears.

'The time has come to regain control' is the rallying cry of the Defastenist to the generation nicknamed the 'A.D.D generation'. This generation, our generation's (if like me you were born in the early eighties) consciousness has been numbed by media saturation and the constant stream of negative news. Our numbed consciousness feels again by reclaiming control through cultural production. The means of cultural production exists through any form of art such as music and painting to name a few. Fetishes, obsessions and eccentricities fuel the Defastenist art. These are what 'define our creative personalities' Moore explains. Fetishes, obsessions and eccentricities are the true aspects of our consciousness, perhaps the only individual traits left in our age of saturation and endless reproduction, thus the perfect source of artistic inspiration.


'Art is a mission demanding complete fanaticism'; states line one of the Defastenist Party Manifesto. In rejecting cynicism and disaffection, it is an essential grounding belief of the movement that art can endure and overcome the obstacle of distraction. Society as viewed by the artists has become overwhelming. We are overwhelmed in a sense by the media and technology, technology that, according to Moore, should ease the path of life changing information. Technology is now merely a tool of distraction. Are we losing art to entertainment? It is not that the Defastenists reject the commoditization of art, instead they intend to utilise this to their own ends. This is an example of the spirit of Defastenism, utilise our age, not be utilised by it.

Ambition is not a dirty word to these artists, in an age of self - depreciating celebrities and public figures, the Defastenists are not afraid to declare their intent and ideals. Art and its production can manifest a temporary utopia for these artists. One of the central functions of the group is the production of culture through the focus of fetishes, obsessions and eccentricities; focus on such is a way to achieve a temporary utopia. The artists have set themselves high ideals, but pretentiousness seems thankfully lacking, I have been assured that the aim is not to convert or preach to people but to help others and to encourage the spontaneity and disorder of life to be valued and not threatened by ridged social norms and inherited fears. After all, a utopia can only exist when all work together.


It is this, to use Moore's own phrase ' nostalgic sense of optimism' that feels so refreshing in considering the Defastenists and what they are about. Aesthetic experience is total for the artists, thriving on all sensory stimuli, the cultural production brought about by this total experience will, they hope, provide 'constructive methods and alternative means to exist idiosyncratically within this often unsatisfactory, occasionally discouraging society'. The attitude of the Defastenists is that if you disagree with them; enter into the spirit of fun and freedom by starting your own movement/ism as this is the only way progress can be made. Who can argue with that?




To view the party's manifesto and find out more about exhibitions and events organised by the Defastenists visit www.defastenism.4t.com or http://defastenism.livejournal.com/

Shadow Dance

by Michael John Gallen

The wind was lost in stone conceit
When Pan escaped these city streets

To fly the slumberfall of words

To worlds beyond the chimes of

Time’s insistence-

Far from discourse-drum of

Sentence, starved and

going numb.

The whores, their lullabies in dust

Began the scarlet songs of lust…

At dusk, the cobbles shivered

As the soft sigh of the river-god

Played carriage,

Rattled inward breath-

A hope to make the boy

Forget.



All there ever was

Was a source

And he

Its flitting orbital moth,

Real in the reeling

Concealing his myth in

A sphere’s golden kiss.

Young,

Wistful,

Wilful waters

Washed the mortar from his feet.

Surely this was life complete?

-To sleep upon a cradling green

To dream

And in the dreaming’s spell, be

Tideless

Timeless

A creaseless hidden lake…

…to wake, and

tell the tale of day

In silence,

Praying love reborn;

A halo

From the womb of morn.



So it was

And might always have been

Untouched

Unheard

Unknown

Unseen

Alone among the leaves, transcending

Thought and need

Of having friend.



But in the end came

Days of thunder

The gods enveiled their golden wonder, and

In the shrouding cloud entraced the lines of

Pan’s forgotten face-

A man- for though to heaven near

His fear gave him away.

Even now, in the closed heart of grey

He knows the sunset

Having seen no sun.


But knowing alone is not light.


So in the night’s

Silken glove, when

There’s nothing above,

He digs.

Peeling the earth

For her glow…

…but below,

At the core,

There were only the conversations,

The brief glances,

Common woes and shared elations.

The weighted silence- its violent

Tremors stilled

By a willing smile’s patience.

Senseless

That in searching

He missed his own radiance.



For even in darkness we are blind

Blind dancers

Winding and

Weaving

Through each other’s arms.

With no direction, but to the next touch.

With no flame

Save our faith in its coming.

Classic Album Reviews - Miles Davis E.S.P. (1965)

by John Doyle

Colour was splashed everywhere to greet Miles Davis' second
coming in 1965. Blessed by the emmergence of his bona fide
classic quintet, the phrase "Prince Of Darkness" would be
left to simmer just a little for this seminal recording.
Bright summer kissed shades, and tantilising sexual tension
on the album sleeve, complimented a generous offering of 48
minutes exploring virgin sonic patterns, as Davis finally
got himself back on track. The contributions of his
supporting cast, both performance wise, and creatively,
would play a pivotal role. Miles Davis always had a gift for
finding lean, hungry rookies, knocking them into shape, and
sending them wise out into the big bad world, enchanted by
maximum exposure to his unspoken mystical presence. On
"E.S.P.", we can chart the development of key tinkler Herbie
Hancock, Wayne Shorter, regarded as the rightful "successor"
to John Coltrane, bassist Ron Carter, and Tony Williams, a
percussive timebomb, astonishingly not yet 20 years old, but
privy to both the legal and illegal that circulated around
Davis' fabled domain. It was like the Rat Pack of jazz, sans
the cheap and demeaning 3 am debauchery, and brown nosing
shindigs in wiseguy laden supper clubs. Miles and his boys
were of a different class. Instantly hitting top gear with
the sharp and efficient Shorter penned title track, the
complicated mathematics of jazz's grand poobah are laid down
in bulk. Shorter and Davis complement and redefine the
linear harmonies, as they become each other's shadow. Davis
gives a solid body to the bones of Ron Carter's hip
grooves, on the tracks "R.J.", a dedication to Ron's son,
and the piece de resistance, "Mood", the closest Miles came
to date, in reaching 1959's celestial "Flamenco Sketches",
as the ladder like interplay of the intro reaches the
highest plains unimaginable. Much was made of the
relationship between Davis, and production legend Teo
Macero,
who oversaw "Kind Of Blue" amongst the many other
masterpieces they collaberated on. Things turned sour
between the two for most of the 1960s, after they had the
classic "artistic dispute" over the album "Quiet Nights" in
1962, allowing Irving Townsend to step into the breach.
Shrewdly, Townsend doesn't "fuck with the formula" on
"E.S.P.", instead focusing on the ever growing chemistry
between the musicians, and allowing things to take a natural
progression. Miles contributes only one wholly original
tune, "Agitiation", which mirrors the toughness of its
title. Hancock and Carter, without ever slipping out of pre
determined character, switch between disciplined rhythms and
improvised flair, in a similar state of mind and body as
Williams' rampant intro. It is another piece the group would
constantly shape and reshape in concert as the tune almost
became unrecognisable when it was retired from the live set
around 1969, or thereabouts. Herbie presents the exploratory
piece "Little One" to his collegues. The writer Bob Belden
in the album's revamped liner notes, draws attention to the
tense approach Hancock brought to the sessions with this
lesser known piece. For such a delicately titled work, its
deceptive swings gave the group plenty of meat to chew on.
Shorter's second composition "Iris" really defies stuffy
critical comment. Just listen, be seduced, be amazed, eight
minutes and thirty seconds later, any listener of any
spiritual persuasion will thank god for giving them ears. On
Columbia's 1998 C.D. re-issue, Davis is pictured at the end
of it all, clutching his trumpet tensely and tightly. But
his shoulders are loose, and a smile slowly etches itself
upon his weather beaten face. Under Townsend's supervision,
they had pulled off nothing short of a triumph. From here
"Miles Smiles", "Filles De Kilimanjaro", the transitional
"Miles In The Sky", and the ultimate fusion successes of "In
A Silent Way", and "Bitches Brew" would all follow. "E.S.P."
was recorded in three days. Within six years, Davis and a
multitude of those hungry rookies would redefine jazz
forever. No surprise then, that Miles was beggining to smile
again.

Dark Vibrations - How The Wizard Manipulated California's

Dark Vibrations - How The Wizard Manipulated California's Golden boy
by John Doyle

Ryan Oksenberg simmers with energy. At 21, he displays a
confidence that goes hand in hand with that stage in life,
but also carries a wiley worldliness, the kind many of his
generation trade away for all the latest fads and shallow
glamour to come hustling for their attention. From Toronto,
Ontario, Oksenberg is making a name for himself at the
Chicago Institute For Film Production And Screenwriting, and
his debut documentary, "Cease To Exist", which chronicles
the relationship between The Beach Boys' Dennis Wilson and
the abominable enigma Charles Manson, is turning a lot of
heads stateside right now. With the story re-hashed and
bastardised so often, Oksenberg is careful not to indulge in
"grave robbing", instead putting fresh focus on Wilson's
unwitting role in California's first taste of Armageddon.
Ryan details the curiosity which kick started his project
"After reading a chapter of Steven Gaines' revealing Beach
Boys' biography "Heroes And Villians" that briefly detailed
the relationship between Wilson and Manson, I was
immediately drawn to the story so I picked up a stack of
books exclusive to Wilson, Manson, and The Beach Boys and
did my homework. Initially I started writing a treatment for
a feature screenplay and began outlining its structure based
upon the chronology of events that took place. I adopted
the structure of the screenplay into a documentary that
combines both 3rd person narration, my own voice to fill in
for specific accounts I don't have footage evidence for, and
interviews I dug up to complement the narrative" In the long
run, Oksenberg, an ardent admirer of the 1967 - 1979 period
"A radical time in American film history", and all things
John Ford, is consumed by a desire to "Revive the New
Hollywood mentality, kind of a much needed renaissance to
counter the majority of throwaways today", for the present,
he is focused on the overlooked factors which helped to
slaughter the aesthetics, and literally, flesh and blood of
the love generation "The project is very important to me, as
film-making is to me, and doing a truthful job on the final
product is a principle concern, and of course it affects my
private time, because it's all I really care about right
now" Another aspect, is the fact that someone so young has
undertaken this task. Did Ryan encounter patronising
attitiudes from more "experienced" people in the trade?
"Let's just say that somehow, I suppose it's in the magic of
YouTube, people supposedly affiliated with the Manson and
Wilson parties have expressed their concerns about this
project, ranging from my lack of clearance for certain bits
of footage, which I will get onto once I finish, because,
I'm not looking to make any money off this, rather than just
have it seen (and) have it exhibited at festivals and such,
I've also got complaints that this is a chapter in someone's
life that still effects surviving family members, so that
kind of made me feel both bad and defensive. I'm not looking
to exploit anybody or anything, (I'm) simply presenting the
information and exploring the material" Positive feedback
also goes with the territory, and Ryan seems generally
satisfied, even affording himself the luxury to put his self
criticisms on hold "My narrative film sensibillities often
clash with the art school mentality. I suppose I play it
straight here, even though I think my idea is unique, not
commonly explored, but it's all because the film is highly
polished and "slick", as one person said. Many are
fascinated with it and think it's very well put together;
others associate it with an "E! True Hollywood Story" kind
of deal. However this film takes its time to tell a story,
and it's not intensified with the Rock N' Roll hyperactive
editing seen on those kinds of programmes. But people are
digging it for the most part, so that kind of steers me away
from my own harsh criticisms for a moment" Exploring the
finer details of a physcopath's manouvres is a risky
venture, and when it's someone beyond "merely" notorious,
like Charles Manson, the risk spirals dangerously. In Ryan's
case, it inspired him beyond the "bad vibrations" and the
hold "The Wizard" still has on many people "Funny, at first
I was suffering from from extreme paranoia at night, becasue
I was diving into Manson territory pretty intensely. By
that, I mean logging hours of interview footage, reading
book after book about his personal history and philosophy,
both from legal, sociological, and pro/anti Manson
perspectives. So I got to know him as much as I could;
therefore, became somewhat haunted by him in my thoughts. I
believe in the idea of "method" directing or editing when
tackling a project, and by that I am semi-refering to the
Stanislovski practise of method acting, where actors, or in
this case, the writer/director, will replicate in their own
lives emotional experiences of the character they are
portraying. I found myself immersed in the characters, at
social gatherings I would become either the girl crazed
party boy that is Dennis Wilson, or the preachy "self
proclaimed" guru that is Manson" Sounds convoluted, but Ryan
eloquently describes the passion behind his approach "This
idea even parrallels the sensibillities of the New Hollywood
directors of the 70s who would obsess over thier projects in
an effort to create the most vivid illustrations of the
realities that America was facing, and nearly destroy
themselves in the process" Dennis Wilson, originally mocked
as a dumb surfer dude, but later recognised as the Beach
Boys' post Pet Sounds messiah after brother Brian completely
surrendered his faltering grasp on reality, was similarly
destroyed by a multiude of processes. Some of his own
creation, others, less clear cut. When his booze soaked 39
year old body was located in the reasonably shallow waters
of Marina Del Rey in the late afternoon of December 28th
1983, he was in the foetal position, mercifully, there had
been no struggle. Despite the many highs of his post Manson
existence however, he never truly "recovered" from the
horrific events, and a belated sense of "closure" is
something Oksenberg believes Wilson deserves "It's
definitely going to portray him in the light that he is
human and by way of nature, is susceptable to such trouble.
But after establishing who he is, and all the crazy things
that go down between him and Manson, the loss of control in
his life, the little contribution he's made to towards the
group in their rougher times, there will be a note of the
"revelation" that Wilson goes through, illustrating for a
short moment he got himself together and started being
productive in the studio, (The Beach Boys' 1970 album
"Sunflower", and Wilson's only solo album, 1977's "Pacific
Ocean Blue" are prime examples) but he was an extemely
depressed guy after this situation, and it led to (a) 2nd
wave of abuse, and that's with alcohol. (I'm) not sure if I
can give him a sense of "closure" although it will put some
truth to rest in this very case in his life. We'll have to
leave that to the biographies or crummy made for TV films
that come out every decade" After this exhuastive labour of
love, what does the future have in store for Ryan?
"Eventually I'd like to get a few screenplays into
production that I've written - but I'd first need money to
do that. So for now, I'll just pump the ideas out on to
paper as usual, and I'll get to the "Cease To Exist"
screenplay by the Summer. I kind of want to adapt a
screenplay based on the book "The Life And Legend Of
Leadbelly". Hudie Leadbetter was a great folk musician in
the songster tradition, and his life is equally interesting,
just like the time period is. It raises a lot of race/class
issues in American history that are unfortunately still
breeding within the social consciousness today. Furthermore,
I just want to tell good stories that are involving,
engaging and entertaining".

On Writing

by Mark Boyle
Writing, why bother?
As is a bit of a stalwart for writers with overly active inner monologues who can't focus anymore than a blind sniper with marital problems and a hormone imbalance, the topic I feel disposed to addressing is that of, "Why do we write at all?"
Of course there are the grindingly practical reasons that force us to commit pen to paper (or the less romantic but ultimately more applicable, sweaty fingertip to irritatingly loud laptop key) such as, "They're paying me" and "This way they give me my degree in pond-moss-ology." But more debatable are the reasons for writing without solicitation.
More obvious responses to this questioning, automatically rear their heads such as writing to argue ideas, to further the art form or for the sheer pleasure. However in approaching these we must look at how these writings come to be communicated to the public for whom they are intended. All the skill and validity (I call it "skividity"….. no I don't) in the world matter not, if the intended audience don't get a peek. There exist 3 main media of writing that hit very differently on their audiences.
Individual writers being published.
Newspapers, magazines and the like
The danglies and giblets smut emporium (The Internet)

As for number 1 there are undoubtedly writers of staggering talent and prolificacy churning about the literary world (Ian Banks and Terry Pratchett to name two of my personal favourites) like cats in a perpetually gruesome but fascinating washing machine. However despite this, these writers and many more besides have written 20+ novels already, and perhaps this says something about my reading speed but who in Buddha's britches are reading all these books?! Being fond of sitting in with a good book is one thing, but ploughing through all the fantastic works that have ever been written is a bit more requiring of an I.V. drip, a hammock and an industrial sized tub of stay-awakes. Not that I'm telling the authors of the world to stop, but yes, I am, and the beginning of this sentence was a bawdy lie. Please give me us breather! I'm already half way through The Orchid Thief and Brave New World is almost finished. I'm going as fast as I can. Take a nap guys, I'll maybe catch up in one, two hundred years. Sound okay? Ouch! Just dropped Exodus on my foot.
And all this is without considering the Cecilia Aherns and Georgette Heyers of this world. Obviously every novel written isn't going to be beads of light etched on paper from God's celestial fountain pen but nevertheless, there's an unspoken limit on how many romantic encounters a naïve 26 year old with a history of poor relationships that I can hear about without feeling the desire eat my own eyes.
Number 2 calls up the often unpleasant looking cigarette burn of writing, quality. Lord knows I'm a godless little deviant hack, driven out of the halls of the The Sun (the tabloid rag, not some Inca temple) for punning a man to death but at least I don't try to hide it behind a wall of furious self –righteous emotive language (sick monster, evil boffin, that sort of cack) as I pretend to inform you, the public, my chum…
Writing style aside, some of these publications never really stood a chance due to the quasi-demonic nature of their subject matter, "Soap-stars Diets" and "Kids of Famous People Sleep With The Funniest Things." In a world where almost as many people died in Iraqi violence in the past month (January 2007) as died in 9/11 it really is a little much to expect us to give the proverbial flying sod about what type of shoe Paris Hiltons manky sister prefers to get sick into.
This is a world where interest in recipes tops interest in humanitarian work, and faux-celebrity holds more public attention then trying to stop people shooting the faces off each other in Darfur.
Finally we come to the internet, the gaping maw of public opinion/rants/dangerously-sun-deprived-loudmouths that has so suddenly thrust John Q. Schmuck into the forefront of coherent debate and moral dissection. That is to say, it could do. Although there are a seemingly endless amount of regularly updated blogs, some of which, granted, show real forethought and at the very least some balanced opinion, there is an immense, heaving ballbag of people putting the cart before the horse. Expressing an opinion in an attempt to convince themselves they are a logical, well rounded person. Ego-stroking doesn't even begin to describe it. It's closer to ego-seduction-with-scented-candles-Marvin-Gaye-and-3-bottles-of-wine. It's the same validation craving that I suspect those individuals who ring into Channel 4's 100 greatest organ-transplants to scream down the line, "Larry Hagman, LARY HAGMAN!!" feel. He was JR from Dallas. Never-mind.
Here I come to the point where I have to acknowledge the towering hypocrisy of this article. If , as I say, most of the stuff written these days is varying between the irrelevant to the downright thought-killing, why am I bothering to horse out this faff with a voice of jabbering arrogance and poorly structured argument? Am I not one of their number? Honestly, I still believe, the contemporary writer has a huge part to play, both in our society, our forming of opinions, in creative thought, humour and art. But perhaps it might be an idea to give a bit more time to forming our opinions than to voicing them. After all, if I had taken a step back in writing this, I mightn't have had to resort to using words such as, "manky," "ballbag," and "Larry Hagman" in the same article.
In summary, writings a sweet nugget, but let's sleep on it some, before we show it to anybody else. It might just be rubbish.

Tango by Michael Gallan

Introducing the protagonist…it shouldn’t be difficult. The issue is in choosing the moment from which to mould him. I have several favourites….the “bathroom scene at evening” is a particular peach. As the sun sets it casts a light beyond colour into the room, and our man stares at his outline in the mirror, the glow hitting him, sink, and tile indiscriminately. He imagines his merging with the tile; how the sudden cold stone acquiesces to his eager blood. He allows himself the notion that the softest hint of his power, the slightest twitch of his eye, is enough to separate, and to recreate things as they rightfully should be. That’s a whopper all right.
Some, however, would be more enchanted by a nocturnal scene; the shade is spectral almost-blue now, although the subject of our discussion doesn’t know this: having just turned off the television, his world has been compressed into a small square of echo-light where the screen once glared…everything else is darkness. Only if you’re very quiet will you hear him whispering his own name, perhaps feeling that, if there is nothing else, one must fill the void with things that one understands. Only when he can appreciate his world in some sensual way will he make his way to bed.
To your taste? Either of these instances would open a pigeonhole into our man; however, as is the way with moments, his has chosen itself. I find myself the voyeur of a kitchen scene, morning. The air is young; the colour tactile. He is carving Achilles from boiled egg. There is a woman, undoubtedly…a wife, perhaps. The stretching of the air between them suggests a common distance. A far cry between their then and its now. She watches the ceiling, from which a piece of abandoned cobweb hangs...barely. The breeze that makes it swirl can have no logical source, unless in the filling and un-filling of space around his digging hand. The woman motionless…glue-eyes believing the sway of broken flytrap, the one thing in the room that might actually understand the earth’s rhythm. He watching her watch…her pupils in minute movement, little affirmations…declines…suggestions. He might call them his own, these twin globes. They’ve guided him as he could never guide himself. Like his, her eyes have celebrated the gradual blurring of corners.
She weakens her breath, fearing the frail rope’s fall. She knows that a sigh would be too much for it to take…yet this is not like his illusion of power; it’s a fear of clayed clumsiness. Her hair is tumbling into coffee steam…but, for our fool, there is no world outside brow and crease; the secrets of the universe are hidden by bluegreen skies. His head is still drunk on sleep, enough that he will allow himself another draught of complacence…he owns those spheres, and there is no secret so deep that it can be hidden. What he sees in her eyes is not his reflection but his successful plantation. But things mustn’t change...
…he will say the words.
Like plate on plate he coasts the air between his head and hers. The world leans in anticipation. He whispers softly,
“Wife, there’s a man looking through the hall door…”
A curse on me! My neediness brought me too close! I am a weak observer that cannot observe unnoticed. I will fold back… smooth over…
…I swim back through ink, to where my breath mists on the applewood door. This time I retreat to the shadow. The king of our prose is coasting as before, and we just about manage to glimpse the words that spill like over-perfected wine from his lips.

“Wife, we should get away. You remember that holiday in the mountains? That was nice, wasn’t it? The air is so clear up there. Would you like to go back there this autumn, see the leaves fall?
No?
No, possibly not, you’re right. Best not to retrace old steps and all that.
Yes, yes, of course, you are right…
You are always right. Still, it was a wonderful time…”

We wait. We wait, and watch and listen. But the shudder and the shimmer do not come. The universe does not shatter and restore itself for small change. Even from our new distance, we know that she is silent, and does not avert her gaze from the swaying of string. Eventually she rises, and leaves the room to find another space… to press herself against the walls. They will grant her no entry. Her colour and theirs will not be compatible, and it is not evening, and brick is not tile, and it is not the bathroom.
We cannot follow, for our eyes are on him, not her. On his eyes as he watches hers turn away. Her back is somehow unfamiliar and, as she leaves, she pulls the shades of two, five, even ten years with her. The scene’s colour is still indescribable but it is only half what it was. Intimacy trails like a gown of tattered ribbons from her shape. Oh yes, he is awake now and nature is greedily snatched by each of his senses…the last to waken is sight, and it sees only TV static where her silhouette once shimmered. Desperate to know something, anything, he rushes to her place, as if to shield himself in the fading shape of her absence. Only now does he see the cobweb.


The noose is whirling a dervish into the room and, although it is her name that he would whisper to recreate, he can hear only the echoes of his last words. The drone rises as the web fragrances the air with a tapestry of forgotten moments. All of the ghosts of himself, from young manhood to hobbling elder, spin from the ceiling, each saying a similar thing, each seeming as unfulfilled and unfulfilling as the last. Their chorus steals the air from about him; his name and hers become tasteless. Now the words of each son, husband, father, grandfather and beyond have become indecipherable, crowding each other with their emptiness. Soon he is on the ground, gasping for space, for light, for power. There is no mirror, only is the reflection of his own past, present and future…but he cannot fade into his own skin, the light will not allow it. There is no common colour, and is not evening, and he is not tile, and this is not the bathroom.
This noise is almost unbearable…yet, in the rumble of his voice, there are brief moments of clarity. Promises overlap. Words become one. United they are an incessant sentence, the inevitable question that a life in Technicolor had somehow helped him avoid. I cannot watch any more and turn to escape to my own rock-solid existence, but not before hearing the coincidence of a word and a last breath. Finally the spider’s ironic legacy falls to the floor and captures its prey. Even in my escape I understand my foolishness. I was wrong to think imagination great enough to encompass a moment that was not my own. In claiming his eyes I made his mistake. Even the walls see and I am not unwatched. I am guilt, in pillage of sight, sound, smell, touch, taste...that question was only his to hear.
The answer was yes.

Rebecca Collins interview

Rebecca Collins Myspace profile. Listen to her music here. http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=55787979

Rebecca Collins Interview – By John Doyle February 2007.Irish music is in healthy shape these days. Joe Chester, Gemma Hayes, and Fionn Regan to name a few, have all flirted with the mainstream without compromising that certain magic which endears them to, shall we say, more discerning audiences. Recently, John Kelly, now comfortably settled in his Lyric FM slot, took a shine to At Sea, Rebecca Collins’ current E.P., which in the time honoured critical cliché, really does transcend the “Ireland Inc.” pap, the likes of You’re A Star incessantly slops up. Collins threads a similarly endearing path to her contemporaries with a brief, but stunning subterranean collection, showcasing her own fascinating idiosyncrasies, and the instrumental chemistry of a supporting band that gives her liberties to mould a contemporary, yet comfortingly familiar sound. Like the explosion of heroic sentiment that encapsulates the first few seconds of hopping into a hot spring evening bath, something that clings to the psyche is happening in Rebecca Collins’ music, and it would be foolish to ignore it. I caught up with Collins on-line to discuss her views on the Myspace phenomenon, critical recognition, and what the future holds for one of Ireland’s “great white hopes”. We began discussing her latest developments, and her reaction to support from a certain cult DJ. “I was just over in Brooklyn in January recording a new album with some friends of mine from a group called Red Rocket and some other great musicians. Most of it was recorded live in the studio and the songs in general are a bit more free form than the E.P; so hopefully this album will have a nice free feel to it. It will be out in the summer”. So any chance our future professors and doctors might have of catching her in concert soon? “I’m going to start gigging again in March and hopefully will gig around the country a bit”. She adds that “I’m also doing a live session with my band for John Kelly at the end of February which I’m really looking forward to”. Collins' influences range from Gillian Welch to Elysian Fields, and Tom Waits, amongst others. She describes the impact they’ve had on her, and how she sees the unique direction of her own music. “They all wrote great music. I suppose that’s basically it. I’m drawn to honest to god musicality, whatever genre it comes through. As for my own songs, I suppose they are just the result of my musical tastes filtered through my personality! In general, I like things to be quite soulful. I’m influenced by a lot of the musicians I know and play with also, and they are mostly jazz musicians, so that has definitely brought something to my music. It’s exciting to give your charts to such talented people and see how they interpret them. The last record (Tether’s End 2005) was done in pretty much the same vein. That said, I have a group of other songs that are much more arranged, in a sort of pop way (Rebecca was listening to a lot of Steely Dan at the time) so that will hopefully be in the next project”. Recognition can be a double edged sword, where “cult”performers often dabble precariously between underground kudos, and the stodgy, formulaic, playlists of Tabloid radio stations, like Dublin’s FM104, and Cork’s Red FM. Collins is well aware of the pros and cons of such scenarios and explains how she would deal with such a development. “So far, the reaction has been really great, which is encouraging. I don’t really mind which radio stations play my music, although it made my day when I heard John Kelly playing At Sea, because he’s one of my favourite DJs. To be honest, I don’t think I need worry about more commercial stations wanting to brainwash the nation with my songs or anything like that, but if they want to, they can go ahead. Besides, that sounds more like a cult to me, don’t you think?! I don’t really feel artistic integrity can be compromised at that stage, I make music my way, and the more people who want to listen to it, the better”. The enigma that is Myspace was another area highlighted, with Rebecca’s own site sharing webspace with acts more akin to shining Simon Cowell’s shoes. “I was living in Paris last year when Myspace became huge, so for me, the immediate benefit was just being able to keep in touch with my friends and all their musical goings on really easily. I don’t think it has been tainted as such. It’s there for everybody to take advantage of if they want to, and all those sorts of things take the corporate road in the end, it seems. I haven’t seen any manufactured bands on it, but I haven’t been looking for them, and on the other hand, I’ve discovered some fantastic music. To be honest though, I don’t think I’d miss Myspace, I have a love/hate relationship with technological phenomena”. One listen to the unnerving I Bit A Tear, instantly summons flashbacks of Seattle in its most edgy days, while Can’t Be Tough recalls Nellie Hooper’s trademark productions with unorthodox quirky drums, and slow burning keyboards. With such an eclectic pulse driving her musical statements, surely certain events and muse(s) must be at the back of her mind when she goes into creative top gear. “In general, I suppose, I’m inspired by human nature. I have a strange love for the way people struggle with the ugly side of themselves, and try to be good and beautiful, I find that in itself to be really beautiful. Life is tragi-comic in my view and I guess that’s the angle I’m usually coming from when I write lyrics. Music itself has so much to offer though, it can make you want to dance, it can be so sexy, it can be a source of huge comfort. I wouldn’t say I’ve one particular muse, I listened to everything for the past few years, I’ve been working on the best musical instinct I can, because I’ve tried compromising in an intellectual way and I hated the results. These days I just sort of let things stew, and when something feels right, I drop everything else and follow it to its conclusion. I have a similar approach to producing the music". Some of the critical plaudits previously mentioned Irish performers have received, intrigues Rebecca. “Hmm… “Critical acclaim” sounds nice alright… and it certainly would be nice to give up the day job! I think I’m fairly realistic about what sort of market there is for my music, but I’m what I like to call a “Hopeless optimist”, who knows, maybe if I build it, they will come…” Being so difficult to tag, and a writer of abundant variety, there must be at least one song Collins wishes she had written, similarly, which song of her own creation does she cherish the most? "Favourite song of all time is a difficult one to answer. I do wish I had written I’m The One by Anette Peacock. Someday I might have the balls to cover it, maybe. As for my own songs, at the moment, my fave is probably one called Chiaroscuro, we recorded it in New York last month, so it will be on the next record. Chiaroscuro is an artistic term that refers to the interaction of light and dark. Needless to say, I thought it was a good analogy for the human condition”.