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DELINQUENT I never truly acknowledged the impact a community can hold, regardless of how accustomed to or detached from it I perceive myself to be, until I made the great pilgrimage from South Devon to the North. Examining all the new spaces, coffee shops, venues that I could fancy myself a regular is, for one, humouring the idea that it would make me unbelievably cool, but after a while can become quite overwhelming. After an inexcusable self-indulgent ten, I came to realise that countless others will be enduring the same transition to a new community that they can’t quite yet call home.

© 2017

It can be quite easy to think that you’ll find your way in through the artistic or musical community with your own niche style to find other idealists with a similar niche interests when, realistically, you’ll only be creating a small gathering for the ostentatious. My first gig in Leeds was your typical DIY show with four bands playing for free in front of their mates who’d cheer disruptively at a lyric which was really an inside joke. These gigs are never without their idiosyncrasies, but standing in a room trying to differentiate between the musicians, the friends of the band, and the people like me just tagging along in

attempt to look marginally like I could fit into either of those categories, doesn’t feel too far from home. I did thoroughly enjoy that gig.

This issue exhibits the different perspectives and reactions on the importance of communities. Issue 2 introduces some new, wonderful contributors. The articles and artwork representing them highlight experiences from the North to the South and a handful of places in between. Jean Pavitt


If you’re interested in contributing to or advertising in Delinquent, email us with examples of your work at: delinquentzine@yahoo.com For information on where you can find our magazines, check our social media pages as well as our digital magazine on issuu.com

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Firstly, can you tell us a little bit about who is behind Bowl Cut Records and how it came about? Ben Sargent: Bowl Cut is a pretty modest operation at the moment. Just me, an art student in Leeds, and my girlfriend Jean, who helps out with design and various other bits and bobs. I’ve always looked up a bit to record labels. I’ve learnt a lot about current, under-the-radar music through various great labels like Art is Hard, Beech Coma and Specialist Subject. I’ve always wanted to start one of my own. Moving to Leeds in September felt like a good time to start and an exciting way of getting to know the music community in my new home. What’s the story behind your first release? BS: Our first release is a compilation tape called North X South West. It’s really a celebration of the UK’s current crop of DIY musicians and its musical communities. Growing up in Exeter I got into this kind of music through gigs at the Cavern. It’s a really nice modest music scene down there and


the Cavern is probably the perfect venue to grow up next to because they get some really cool bands down but it’s small enough that you can really feel the community ethos that surrounds it. I think that does exist in Leeds as well and I think I’ve started to get to grips with it but it’s all still pretty new. NXSW is really all about celebrating these communities and just putting together some great music to get the label going.

working with all these bands?

Have you got any more releases planned?

Do you think that a compilation tape is a good place to start for aspiring record label creators?

BS: At the moment, we’re taking it pretty slowly, seeing how it all goes. The response so far has been positive and I’ve got a few ideas of what I want to do. Keep your eyes peeled because I’m hoping to do something else before the year is up. I’m always looking for new bands and I’ll endeavour to listen to anything and everything that is sent to me! Do you feel that collaborating with more than one band, in this case eleven, situates the label in a comfortable musical community? How has it been

BS: I think in a way the compilation makes a sort of community. In our internet society there is definitely a quite open wider community; bands from all over the place can share music and interact. I think as far as Bowl Cut is concerned we are still very new. I’m not sure we fit into any specific communities at the moment but only time will tell.

BS: I think it’s worked well for me. It’s given me a chance to showcase the kind of music I want to put out. It’s also given me the chance to work with some pretty established bands that maybe wouldn’t want to commit to releasing something more major on a new label. It’s been a really exciting and enjoyable thing to do so I would highly recommend it to anyone who wants to start putting out music. NXSW is available to buy from bowlcutrecs.bandcamp.com



Mysterious, out-of-this-world echoes ring out before exploding into a pumping rhythm. Ever-changing guitar riffs and frantic vocals take us on a rollercoaster with the Bristol duo in this band’s new track.

‘Reading the Wrappers’ is classic Trust Fund. Sweet, tender vocals over brilliant guitar hooks. This is a new demo of an old track from the king of bedroom indie-pop himself.

GOOD GUY CLARENCE OFF THE FENCE Shimmering indie pop from the south coast. Good Guy Clarence are real ones to watch. Having only played their first show back in August, they’ve already put out loads of great music including this gem taken from their album Home Remedies. THE JELAS NESTS Like much of the Jelas’ music, ‘Nests’ is chaos, but It works. I can’t think of many more likeable bands than Bristol’s crazy three-piece! JUNK DISTRACTION Junk were one of the first bands I saw live in Leeds so I think it’s fitting to have them on the compilation. On ‘Distraction’ Estella’s guitar fizzes along to an incredibly catchy rhythm. It’s Junk on fine form.

SYSLAK ANYTHING Upon coming to Leeds I began exploring the internet to find as many of the local bands as I could. I’d make lists, listen to all the bands on the lists and see what I liked. Syslak are one of the bands who stood out to me and ‘Anything’ is no different. Raucous, guitar-driven slacker pop at its best. CRUMBS ON TIP TOES When Crumbs first sent us this track, myself and Jean just couldn’t get it out of our heads. Infectiously catchy, Crumbs are championed by Marc Riley of 6 Music. NANNA DON’T TOUCH ME ‘Don’t Touch Me’ is three and a half minutes of lo-fi, fuzz-drenched noise balanced perfectly with delicate but powerful vocals. This was the first

track I received for the label and I couldn’t be happier to have the Leeds trio on the cassette. YOUNG ADVENTURES SHE’S SO NICE Young Adventurers are from the Exeter scene that I grew up around. ‘She’s So Nice’ comes from an EP they released in 2016 which is fantastic. They’re a formidable live band so I would thoroughly advise going to see them if you get the chance. OFL WATER This is OFL’s first foray into releasing music and it’s a successful one. Sting between experimental grunge-inspired noise and the quirky sounds of St Vincent, this is a really interesting and exciting start to Olivia’s music career. PENELOPE ISLES WHY WE’RE ALWAYS TALKING I saw Penelope Isles at Knee Deep festival last year and they were great! I was very keen to have them on the cassette. The Brighton/Cornwall based band change the pace and end the compilation perfectly with this beautiful track.




Listen to Breathe Panel and you’ll hear something familiar yet foreign, their songs jump-starting nostalgia for things you’ve never felt. Debut single, ‘On My Way’, plays like a time capsule - soaring, naive vocals and shoegaze guitars swirling in a dense fog, feeling modern but with one foot in the past. The artwork bolsters your initial impressions, a woozy hand lost in space and time, out of focus and overexposed, but undeniably transfixing. The name too; Breathe Panel started as an anagram of lead singer Nick Green and guitarist Josh Tyler’s two favourite animals, yet after listening to them, it’s hard to imagine them being called anything else. Their sound and look is Breathe Panel. They’re a genre unto themselves. Recently signing to local label FatCat Records, the four-piece officially hail from Brighton, though originally come from various places across the UK. By setting up camp on the coast, they almost find themselves in the eye of a storm. The town has

become a honeypot for musicians, attracting those that haven’t found a scene back at home. “We all consciously moved up to Brighton in the hope of pursuing music knowing that Brighton would hopefully be able to deliver something we couldn’t get from our separate hometowns,” says drummer Benji, and Nick adds that the band might not have ever existed if he and Josh hadn’t met here. Breathe Panel are only one of a huge number of acts to swamp the seaside city, although it could be argued there’s only one band at all. Member-swapping is a regular habit and band boundaries are often blurred. The four members of the band also occupy their time as members of Our Girl, Posture and Manuka Honeys, and whilst you might think this would encourage competition, Benji is quick to say otherwise: “everyone seems to want to help everyone out.” “There are a lot of friendly people here playing in other bands and as it’s a super supportive community,

it really helps in the early days of a band when you’re honing your craft and figuring things out,” says Harry. “There’s so much variation in the music here, so being able to listen and watch really good bands is definitely a positive influence!” It’s hard to hide your excitement when you look to the east shore and catch a glimpse of the next big wave of British music, which stretches across so many sub-genres. Brighton feels weirdly isolated and completely independent, despite its proximity to the capital (an hour by train) which has no doubt staved off the poverty that has blighted so many other coastal towns. Despite that, the band don’t think it’s had a huge impact on their writing with inspiration coming more from personal experience and other music. The band have a diverse taste: Josh recommends Land Observations and Kyle Bobby Dunn, Nick suggests Sam Prekop or Tsegue-Maryam Guebrou, and Benji is into Preoccupations, London-based Goat Girl and Liv, the super group from Lykke Li and Miike Snow. When it comes to lyrics, Nick and Josh write “sometimes together, sometimes separately,” and look to “natural imagery, dreams, colours and past experiences.” Benji says that the weird combination of environments that make up the area (the sea, the

South Downs and the city itself) can help you clear your mind when you need it, which is apparently as far as Brighton influences their music. But this isn’t a community solely dependent on location or wealth: it’s also reliant on the people who live inside it. The town’s perfect combination of all three has bred the next generation of British guitar bands, but remains almost a mystery to outsiders. Breathe Panel are one such band. Their self-assured sound might have grown from friendships forged in Brighton, but with plans to tour and new music on the horizon, the band are ready to venture out and take their unique genre with them. Jake Crossland



ONES TO WATCH Pictured in sickly-sweet pastels, Dream Wife have already established a bold aesthetic and a riotous reputation for themselves. Nostalgic pop-bliss with the sting of real life. Spice Girls holiday with Nick Cave. Dream Wife, here by popular demand after creating and faux girl band to exhibit as performance art during their time at Brighton University, are notorious for their anarchic live shows. The transformation from the insignificant figure in the audience to becoming a part in the performance is as much of a reason than any other to go and experience a Dream Wife gig. The rupture into ‘Hey Heartbreaker’ signalled my first recollection of the band at Knee Deep festival last summer. The infectious “Hey, hey, hey” whirred over heads and, inevitably, the chant was returned back to them. There is something

familiar about Dream Wife. A comfortability to let yourself join in with the chanted lyrics “too sweet but too sentimental / too sweet but too hard to handle” in ‘Lolita’ after only being acquainted with the song for no longer than a minute. Made up of Rakel Mjöll (lead vocals), Alice Go (guitar, vocals) and Bella Podpadec (bass, vocals), the band are now located in the big city and are currently working on their debut. Whether it’ll be soaked in dizzy wistfulness exhibited in ‘Kids’, a monologue surrounding “talking to my best friend / and we’re talking like these days will never end”, or whether it’ll follow ‘FUU’, reeking of audacity and dark empowerment. Mimicking Spice Girls’ signature “tell me what you want, what you really, really want”, ‘FUU’ belts back with “I wanna fuck you up”. Not a band to be messed with, evidently. Headlining the DIY tour back in January partly re-establishes my point that this band are ones to watch. Still revelling in the pre-debut and intensive-touring stage of their undoubtedly glittering career, I don’t believe we’ve seen the best of Dream Wife yet. DIY took them

across the country, selling out shows in London, Brighton and Bristol, and hit one of Leeds’ newer venues, Headrow House. A fourfloored, dimly-lit building blanketed with fairy lights and arty light boxes. Small enough to create that desired intimacy without feeling over-claustrophobic. More-or-less an ideal setting for this much talked about Dream Wife experience. I do think it’s worth mentioning the support as this point, while we’re talking ‘local’. Dead Naked Hippies, and Drahla, two Leeds-based bands were superb choices to launch the evening. And, of course, Dream Wife won over the entire room with their infective dynamism and mere blissful happiness. If you have been swayed, you can catch Dream Wife at their biggest headline to date in London on April 27th. Dream Wife’s eponymous EP was released in March 2016 with Cannibal Hymns featuring ‘Hey Heartbreaker’, ‘Everything’, ‘Lolita’ and ‘Kids’. For fans of: The Slits, Blondie, Pixies, Speedy Ortiz, Hinds Jean Pavitt




A brief introduction to the modern naturalists; Naturalism is an umbrella term I’m using in this article for what I will argue is a new school of artists that focus on using natural rhythms (rhythms that are natural to dance to e.g. 4/4 or equivalent, emphasis on upbeats and other world-common rhythms), natural harmonies (using the natural harmonic series of standing strings) and organic signal processing (signal processing which involves embracing rather than eliminating natural glitches) to create music about human nature and/ or natural issues. The result of the music above is accessible and engaging yet obscure music with warm, electronic tones through digital rather than analogue means. ANOHNI Anohni, previously Antony from Antony and the Johnsons, is a transgender female who released the Mercury-nominated protest


album Hopelessness, produced by Oneohtrix Point Never and Hudson Mohawke. Having not transitioned (by choice), her voice is still in the pitch range of a male but inflected and sung as a woman’s. This gives her a very distinctive and powerful sounding voice. The album Hopelessness is the perfect album for describing naturalism. She sings about climate change on 4 Degrees, as well as less global political issues: death penalty on ‘Execution’, Obama’s presidency on ‘Obama’, and foreign policy on ‘Drone Bomb Me’ and ‘Violent Men’. Her lyrics, however, always link back to nature: “From the side of the mountain and into the sea”. This is evident no matter what the subject and there is heavy emphasis on utopic imagery of nature in stark contrast to reality. Her single ‘Crisis’ focuses on natural relationships (e.g. father, mother, daughter) to evoke closeness and reality to sometimes hard to relate to issues such as torture and drone

bombings. It’s the medium of nature through which she channels her message in every track. It makes for an intriguing, engaging listen. The production is no exception either. Hudson Mohawke’s production presence is especially prevalent in terms of drums. His programming follows the usual pattern of dropped drums on downbeats, emphasising the natural rhythm whilst playing with the listener’s expectation. Oneohtrix Point Never writes his usual alien melodies and harmonies, but uses techniques closer to his most recent album G.O.D. of organic signal processing and abstract reverb spaces in terms of synthesis. The production is left sounding precise, possibly over-edited, yet this is a little issue with the unpredictability and warm tones of Anohni’s voice. Overall, the album has this strange faceoff between being incredibly current in terms of subject matter, whilst futuristic in terms of sound. The lyrics focus strongly on natural influences

such as wildlife, natural relationships and scenery and this ties together the two, making it feel far less cutting. The natural influences in terms of sound and musical writing allow Hopelessness to be incredibly experimental yet accessible at the same time, a virtue of naturalism that I feel is attracting many artists to the sound. ARCA Arca is a Venezuelan electronic music producer currently based in London. I would argue his sound is one of the most influential in recent years, and the sound he is pushing is naturalism. He boasts production and writing credits on Kanye West’s Yeezus, Frank Ocean’s Endless, FKA Twigs’ EP1, EP2 and LP1, Kelela’s Message, Babyfather’s BBF, and Bjork’s Vulnicura. There is a reason for this. Arca is incredible and no one can emulate his sound. His writing is basked in a wealth of world music influences and Venezuelan classical training and his production techniques are simply like none other. He twists and bends synths through semi-physical processes such as chopping and screwing and puts them through unconventional reverb spaces. In terms of mixing and mastering, he places the instruments all over the listener’s head and moves them around slowly so the music feels as though it’s almost biological, then puts it through a hefty block of (you guessed it) organic signal

processing. It is the definition of obscure. Yet Arca is comfortable in the company of pop musicians as large as Kanye West or FKA Twigs. This is because despite how experimental or complex his music is, he brings it back to nature and natural sounds within our daily life. The synth manipulation sounds similar to slowing down and speeding up a tape, and physical things like holding your hand over the top of your ear. The strange approach to mixing is in fact a mimicking of conversational focus. The mastering is familiar as anything because we play music through varieties of digital devices in our daily life, in essence mimicking his technique of organic signal processing. The visuals that accompany his work, provided by Jesse Kanda, who also worked with FKA Twigs and Bjork, follow the same pattern. Incredibly complex CGI that follows Arca’s dancing uses organic signal processing that plays with doubling perspective and embracing mistakes to create abstract but accessible visuals. FKA TWIGS FKA Twigs is a London based singer/ songwriter. Her earlier works EP1 and LP1, as well as 2015’s M3LL155X push a similar sound. EP1 and LP1 were largely co-written and co-pro-

duced by Arca, and their union is a marriage made in heaven. FKA Twigs brings an undeniably phenomenal layered vocal performance to really beautiful to some incredible instrumentals. FKA’s naturalistic influence is undeniable, with frequent metronomic rhythms on singles such as ‘Water Me’ and ‘Video Girl’ to the homely analogue reverb spaces on songs such as ‘Ultraviolet’. Being a pop musician, her subject matter for the majority stayed put on the most accessible of the natural urges, sex and relationships, until M3LL155X, a concept album about feminine energy. M3LL155X was noted for employing the discomforting aesthetical hypothesis known as the uncanny valley (fearing human likeness) both visually in ‘I’m Your Doll’ and musically in ‘Glass And Patron’. FKA Twigs brings naturalism in full to a pop audience, and people love it. FKA Twigs takes listeners slightly outside of their comfort zone, yet consistently produces music which is accessible, seductive, and most of all, beautiful. Her visuals play heavy roles with digital videos mimicking perspective glitches from Jesse Kanda, to more conceptual pieces such as the video for ‘In Time’ all fitting the naturalism glove. Owen Tanner



The next act’s request for more reverb is met with a shaken head from the host. A bolt of feedback frightens everyone in the pub silent. He asks again while he continues to re-tune his guitar. The host adjusts a dial on her mixing desk. He bruises handful of major chords before finally launching himself into a brit-pop anthem. There is so much reverb it sounds like he’s singing in a cave. My three regulars at the end of the bar physically deflate as their daily grumbles have to be shouted into each other’s ears. My three stalagmites. Rolling their eyes and drowning every criticism in gulps of generic lager. Their hands stay firmly planted in their armpits as a meagre applause finally crawls to an end. The host tries her best to muster up one final applause as the reverb guy leaves the stage. I clap to make up the numbers. It’s quiet tonight. The host’s list of performers has six names, and I have about seven and a half non-performing customers. Outside a drizzle rages horizontally from right


to left. The wind sends my advertising A-board sign skidding down the pavement. Students head into town hugging their bare arms and walking with their backs arched slightly forward, squinting as they pass. A man with a distracting tan, and ornamental hair on the wrong side of curious, takes to the stage. He claims he hasn’t played in a while, so it might go horribly wrong. He then sets afloat on a pitch perfect slice of ephemeral beauty. His eyes are closed and the customers are silenced. All apart from reverb guy who turns his back and declares loudly to his girlfriend that it’s time to leave. A regular walks in, shaking reverb guy’s hand as he leaves, and props his pint of milk on the bar. He asks for a quick Carling and walks me through his bad afternoon with an obtuse smile and a casual lean. He stops mid-sentence to join in with the applause and I agree with him that this guy’s good. I give him his change and suggest he puts his name down to play as I go and serve my three

stalagmites, staring miserably at their dregs. Another regular enters the bar and stands next to the pint of milk, shaking his hand. He talks loudly about how he’s worked all day with a mammoth comedown. He hangs his jacket over the back of a stool, unrolls his newspaper and tries to finish his half-done crossword with the pint of milk. The comedown gulps hard on his first pint. They both stop mid-crossword-answer to look up and applaud as the performer leaves the stage. The next act receives his usual ironic cheer. He steps onto the stage in white gloves, white rimmed sunglasses and urine dribbled over his unpolished shoes. He sweeps aside his bird’s nest comb-over and smiles with a mass of confused brown teeth. He throttles the Italian aria Nessun Dorma in accapella. There is a collective recoil in the room as he screams down the microphone. The host frantically fine-tunes faders and twists knobs in the hope of working miracles. My heart schlups into

my stomach like the ghost of a bad oyster. His savage gesticulation indicates some sort of crescendo. The room takes a moment to pause and try to compute what’s just happened. He leaves the stage to the loudest applause of the night so far. I watch him pick up the pint of lime cordial he’s been backwashing for the last hour, and stand at the front of the pub re-singing the lyrics back into his murky drink with every sip. The pint of milk and the comedown laugh loudly as they recall their favourite LSD moments. I place their beers in front of them while the pint of milk remembers the time he saw everything in two dimensions, and how he thought he was living in a postcard. The comedown gives me his credit card and recollects a flashback so strong and pervasive; he fell out of the shower and cracked an eye socket. A young guy in an Odd Future t-shirt and the same haircut as his two friends takes to the stage. He rolls

out his own songs with meek humming interludes tangled around limp and worn metaphors about being lost at sea, or drowning, or being lost at sea while drowning in the rain. His two friends film every song and bob along to its phantom beat. He receives a generous applause from the crowd as he leaves the stage. My three stalagmites exchange more inert stares at one another before continuing with their conversation. The singer walks back over to his two friends who high-five him as he sits. They gather around a phone and rewatch his performance. After the third call of his name, the next act looks up suddenly from his notebook and stops counting out the pentameter he’s been quietly singing to himself. He stands twanging the elastic round his notebook filled with precise, minute writing and puts it into his back pocket. He waves his apology to the host who smiles awkwardly at the audience as she waits. He picks up his guitar case resting a metre or so away from the other



guitars. He apologises once more as he pulls up a chair and angles the microphone downwards. While he retunes his guitar, he apologises to the audience for what he calls miserable songs but anything else, he says, just wouldn’t fit. A lady sitting near the front of the stage starts filming him with her phone. The comedown waves his empty glass at me and puts his pen down to face the stage. The singer’s eyes are closed and his head is down. His blonde hair brushes the neck of his guitar. He sings about a nation with its head on backwards and unwashed hands. At the end of every song he peels back his eyelids. And for just a second, he seems almost relieved, or re-lived, I can never tell. His thank-yous are delicate and directed to the ceiling making them barely audible, and while the host instigates another earnest applause he leaves the stage and sits on the floor in between the queue of guitar cases. The lady at the front stops filming and goes back to looking at pictures of herself on her phone. I go over and ask if he’s alright. He laughs inwardly while shaking his head and tells me it’s been a long day. I leave it at that. As I go outside to collect glasses in the


smoking area, I pass the host and stick two thumbs up mouthing the word ‘okay’. She smiles and continues chatting to the pint of milk. Outside, a group sits crossed legged around a table underneath a parasol that shakes in the wind. They must have snuck in through the side entrance because I don’t remember them coming in. They all wear brightly coloured Aztec ponchos or Mexican Baja hoodies. They pass a guitar around and talk about the festivals they want to do next year. They ask me if I have any vegan beers. I pile glasses onto a table next them and take out a half smoked rollie that’s been flattened in my back pocket. ‘Sure’, I say, covering my lighter under my own shaking parasol, ‘there’s a couple on draft’. I follow one of them back inside with handfuls of glasses and blowing smoke into the doorway. A guy in sockless tan loafers and a white fedora hat is thankless for the applause as he takes the stage. He holds his straight whiskey and periscopes over his handful of crumpled A4 papers. He tells the audience that poetry is art’s true expression and that all of his friends are dead.

Neruda, Plath, Beckett – all of them, dead. Pockets of conversation are raised from their quiet obscure tones as the poet begins to stumble over his own grammar. The host taps the pint of milk on the shoulder and asks if he would like to go on next. The poet leaves the stage early to a belated applause and a hyper-polite whoop from the comedown. The poet finishes his dribble of whisky and leaves announcing art is dead in this town, waving his notes out the door as he goes. I walk into a sideways mushroom cloud of bubblegum flavoured smoke and place a pint on the bar. The comedown apologises and fans the smoke away with his free hand while he gives me his credit card. The three young guys with identical haircuts all bring their empty glasses up to the bar and thank me as they leave. I thank them back. The next act places his pint of milk in front of him, next to the mic stand. And with a gritted smile and long nails, he re-tunes the host’s guitar. Shelly Gormless


GODDAM NOBODY DEAD BEAT (EP) Dead Beat is the first we’ve heard from Goddam Nobody since their relocation from Falmouth to London. “I’m trying to capture a snapshot and feeling of my experiences in the city thus far”, front man Matthew Oliver told Third Outing in February. This wistful but captivating six-song EP continues where 2015’s No Lust For Life left off, progressing GD’s sound to new heights. Opener ‘I Like The Sun’ melancholy guitars lull us into Oliver’s trance before ‘Get Some Kicks’ and ‘Dead Beat’ get our toes tapping uncontrollably. Dead Beat has been masterfully put together to celebrate Goddam Nobody’s fantastic juxtaposition between vintage and modern indie-pop.


PARTY HARDLY FRIENDLY FEELING / JOBS (SINGLE) Formerly known as WULFs, Party Hardly have made strides in the UK’s DIY scene over their relatively short existence. Friendly Feeling / Jobs is our first taste of the Leeds band since the name change and if this is anything to go by, they’re definitely ones to watch. Party Hardly’s blend of sweet moments and full-blown slacker rock is reminiscent of Best Friends and The Magic Gang. Along with fellow Leeds bands like Nanna and Crumbs and the likes of Manchester’s Luxury Death, Party Hardly are proving that you don’t need to go to London to find the best new music.





From the thudding opening bass line of single ‘Silver Velvet’, The Courtneys second album sounds like a winner. We’ve had to wait a while for this album to come, the band’s debut album S/T was released back in 2013. The Courtneys II offers more of the sun soaked surf pop we fell in love with back then and more.

With a great debut comes great responsibility. In 2014, Menace Beach confirmed their status as one of the top bands in the UK diy scene with Ratworld, an album that sat comfortably on the line between fuzzy guitars and sweet melodies. It took a trip to Ibiza to write its follow up. Lemon Memory is every bit as brilliant as its predecessor.

Released on Exeter’s brilliant Specialist Subject Records on March 24th, POSI is Great Cynics’ fourth full length. Recorded across the pond in Philadelphia, the new album hits all the right notes. Heavy guitars are perfectly complemented by fluttering hooks and solos throughout.

It’s simple stuff; driving baselines, fuzzy guitar riffs, pounding drums and personal vocals; but II is infectious. ‘Country Song’ will be stuck in your head for days and travel-anthem ‘Tour’ will put a smile on your face as you cruise down the motorway for your summer holiday. This is real feel-good stuff from the Canadian’s, proving all the hype is very much deserved.

Opener ‘Give Blood’ teases us before bursting into life with lead singer Ryan Needham exclaiming, “Why d’you always sing about death?”. This powerful opening soon gives way to single ‘Maybe We’ll Drown’, a perfect showcase of the other side to Menace Beach’s bow. Minimal guitars and glowing synths spark links to Cate Le Bon and St Vincent.

Four albums down and Great Cynics are really starting to get the hang of this song righting thing. Tracks like ‘Happiness London’ and ‘Shabba Shabba’ are well written and highlight how the band have refined their sound. They know when to go loud and when to tone it down. All in all POSI is an accomplished punk album and it’s also bloody good fun!

If the first two tracks exhibit the two sides of Menace Beach, closer ‘Hexbreaker II’ combines them. A slow, My Bloody Valentine style, build up leads to a finale of trudging guitars. Turns out this band can do shoegaze too!




A saggy face surmounted by a blond tuft is the new president of the United States. Our most beloved celebrities are buggering off in droves to the great gig in the sky, and Great Britain is slithering its way out of the EU. Each day the news is generously bequeathing us with more terrors and atrocities to add to this festering shit-pit we call a home. We try our best to laugh it off with the help of memes, but the unpalatable fact is that the world is a scary place. It is tempting to give up and curl into the foetal position whilst crying ourselves to eternal sleep, very tempting, but we’re too edgy to throw in the towel so easily, we should be more creative. Like the Dadaists, for example. Around a century ago in Zurich, in the midst of The Great War, a group of friends and young artists channelled their frustrations into art, poetry, dance; anything they could to communicate their pain. Some of the disaffected youth of 20th century Europe took refuge in the snug bosom of neutral Switzerland and gave the finger to the world, and so was born

the most notorious art – or anti-art – movement: DADA. Many have a hard time defining Dada. The origin of the name and its meaning are disputed. One famous account was proclaimed by Hans Arp in 1921: “Tzara found the word Dada on February 8, 1916, at six o’clock in the evening; I was present with my twelve children when for the first time Tzara pronounced this name, which quite rightly sent us into a state of rapture. That happened at the Café Terrasse in Zurich, and I was carrying a brioche in my left nostril. I am convinced that this word is of no importance.” Distancing themselves from the rest of the art world, they didn’t want their movement to become an –ism. Dada is more of an attitude than a particular aesthetic, so I suppose a fitting comparison would be to say that it was the punk rock of art. There have been Dada manifestos written from time to time, but even the original Da-



daists couldn’t seem to agree on exactly what the movement was. Dada was a response to the turbulent time in which they lived, an expression of a pariah group that couldn’t seem to fit in with society and indeed did not want to, when society was sending their friends away to kill or be killed in a muddy hell hole. “We were looking for an elementary type of art that would save mankind from the raging madness of these times.” – Hans Arp The Dadaists’ reaction was to sneeringly reject all convention, to spit in the face of the establishment. This rowdy bunch caused quite a stir. In 1916, Hugo Ball created club nights known as the Cabaret Voltaire, featuring contributions from his friends and artists. These were evenings of performance, including avant-garde abstract poetry, dances and songs. All the artists were collaborating and experimenting with costumes, masks and music, as well as exhibiting collages, prints and paintings. Wassily Kandinsky, Paul Klee and Giorgio de Chirico were among those exhibiting in the Cabaret Voltaire. The Dadaists worked tirelessly and produced magazines, exhibitions and books, then in 1920, they staged the First International Dada Fair in Berlin. By now, Dada had become a world-wide phenomenon and had


immensely pissed off a great many people in the process. Some Dadaists were censored by the British government because of the scandalous nature of their work, and in Berlin, George Grosz’s Deutschland, ein Wintermärchen (Germany, A Winter’s Tale) was destroyed by the Nazis. In an exhibition in Cologne, Max Ernst and Johannes Baageld had their work removed by an indignant museum director and when they re-exhibited in the backyard of the Brasserie Winter, the public were so disgusted by the work that they demolished the exhibition. The Dadaists were significant for showing by example that there was more to art than the aesthetic and this has had a profound impact on attitudes to art ever since. Increasingly, they began to liberate themselves from conventional art by developing original processes and often surrendering their work to the ‘laws of chance’, Hans Arp and Tristan Tzara being key proponents of this. Automatic drawing and writing were popular with the Dadaists and also with the Surrealists around the same time. Dadaists pioneered the use of the readymade in art, possibly made most famous by Marcel Duchamp and his urinal (Fountain, 1917) which appalled the majority of the art establishment. Slightly less provocative, but equally ground breaking was Hannah Höch of the Berlin Dada

group, who was one of the originators of the photomontage technique, using it to great effect to address themes such as the portrayal of women in the media, racial discrimination and gender equality. Tristan Tzara established an innovative method of writing poetry, now known as the ‘cut-up’ technique, by cutting up an article and randomly selecting the words, then putting them together. While the Dadaists outraged many people, they inspired even more. With the ‘cut-up’ technique alone, we have been graced with incredible work by William Burroughs, Thom Yorke, Kurt Cobain and David Bowie, for example. So, as obnoxious as the Dadaists may seem, we owe them a lot. The intentions of the original Dadaists and the plethora of artists that they have influenced have had a profound impact on many people, including myself. If nothing else, they have shown me that when the world seems a bit grim, joining together with friends can help ungrimify it. I have told you the story of Dada and what these artists achieved in the hope that it will also inspire you to be creative. You too can start a revolutionary anti-art movement! Or if that’s not your thing, you can form a band, make a film or maybe even write a world-shattering article for your friend’s super cool magazine? Tanith Price


COURTNEYS Single ‘Silver Velvet’ was the fresh, bleached first impression of The Courtneys’ newly-relocated selves and sophmore album, II. I was lucky enough to ask Sydney (AKA Crazy Courtney, bass/vocals), Courtney (Classic Courtney, guitar/vocals) and Jen (Cute Courtney, drums/vocals) a handful of questions on their new record and the music community in Vancouver. Jean Pavitt: Firstly, could you explain a little about who The Courtneys are, and how you came about? Sydney: We got together to jam for the first time in Vancouver over 6 years ago. Since then, we’ve written 2 albums, made a bunch of music


videos, toured around the world and met lots of awesome people! JP: Do you have a favourite song on the new record? S: Frankie Courtney: Country Song and Virgo Jen: Minnesota JP: How was it releasing your record with Flying Nun? S: Working with them so far has been a dream! We are very influenced by bands on Flying Nun, such as The Clean and The Chills, so it seems like a perfect fit. Plus, they are great people.

JP: Can you tell us a little bit about the music scene in Vancouver? S: Well, we don’t all live there anymore but I would say there are lots of different music scenes in Vancouver. There are tonnes of amazing people making different kinds of music, but sometimes people just stick to their own genre, and you don’t see them for months. C: Vancouver is a geographically isolated place, but has always has a thriving music scene. Especially punk. It tends to lean toward more rough than polished aesthetics. Vancouver bands end up playing a large percentage of their shows in Vancouver and touring is pretty difficult. Crossing the border to the US is either scary or expensive, and going east across Canada can be tough too as the cities are few and far between. JP: Do you feel the Vancouver music scene has affected your approach to writing or playing?

S: We write songs about how we are feeling in our lives, so living in Vancouver has definitely impacted the sound of our music. Vancouver can be a really dark place both in terms of the rain and the social tensions that exist there - for instance, it contains the richest and poorest postal codes in Canada, and is currently going through a terrible drug crisis. I think this is why the songs tend to have a bittersweet element, although we try to have fun when jamming together, maybe to make songs to cheer ourselves up. JP: You’re often associated with musicians such as Tegan & Sara, and Mac DeMarco. Do you feel that being part of a musical community is important to you as a band?

C: Connecting with other musicians is one of the best parts of being a band, either through touring with them, or sharing a label or a hometown. It just sort of comes with the territory, rather than be an intentional thing. JP: Finally, could you give us a handful of bands that we should be listening to? S: Right now I’m obsessed with early Cabaret Voltaire. Also I love French bands SIDA, Point Invisible, and Théorème. C: Weyes Blood, and the new Human Music. J: Versing.

S: A lot of our friends are musicians, and it’s been really fun to see some of them progress through their careers, and write music that we love. Sharing information and stories with musicians that we respect has been one of the best things about being part of a global music community.


SHITKID I saw Swedish rock band Shitkid play at The Montague Arms London supporting Horsey, and my friends and I were instantly drawn to them. Shitkid consists of singer Åsa Söderqvist and her live band Greta Faxberg on guitar and Linda Hedström on synth. The three musicians present a very strong stage presence and a cool ‘whatever’ attitude. After their very lively and engaging performance I spoke briefly with Åsa about where the band originated from and the idea of community, as well as questioning the choice of opening line, “we are not a girl band”. Olivia Morgan: Where are you from? Åsa: I’m from Kramfors in northern Sweden. OM: How would you describe the sense of community there? Å: I didn’t like Kramfors too much,


especially now I’ve moved and lived in several other places. It was a little too small with only around 6000 people. But also, I didn’t like being that age (0- 15), ‘cause there’s no hiding in a small town and a small school and I didn’t like attention. I don’t know how much I can answer about the community there… I mostly cared about myself. I know they are trying to build the city up with more shops and renewing stuff but small towns in the north are slowly dying and people seem to get a little bitter. OM: Have you ever experienced moving to somewhere totally different than what you were used to, and if so how was it? Å: My friend and I moved from Kramfors to Härnösand which is 40 minutes away but totally different, and we went to music school there. It has 10,000 more people and even

though it has little to offer, people there were very different, I think. It’s a very cultural town with secret societies and jazz clubs. But I also started the gymnasium there so that was different too. People seemed to be more outgoing though. Starting shops and reopening clubs and you know… trying. But a bigger event was moving to London alone in 2012. It’s a shitty town. Really fucking hate London but it was nice going somewhere by myself and doing well. I got a job and paid my rent and just… did well. But the salaries are a joke and also the houses. As if they built them all in one day or something. Messy and big. But that is comparing here to Sweden and we’re not a lot of people to take care of, so I can’t really blame England. OM: Many musicians use music to express feelings of separation and isolation (this may mean relationships, social groups etc). Does this apply to Shitkid and if so how?

mostly they are actually about nothing at all - or five things at once. It has happened that I’ve made songs when I’ve been angry or dumped or sad but usually those songs are just messy. I tend to do most and best when I am just happy and stoned. O: When I saw you live, one thing that really stuck with me was hearing “we are not a girl band” could you explain this? Å: It’s something we haven’t had in Sweden, being called a girl band. But then two or three webpages/instas or whatever from when we were in London called us ‘the girl band Shitkid’. First it’s just a waste of space putting girl there. There’s no need for it. A band is a band. If girl band was a genre then ok. But we play rock. It’s unnecessary and it’s discriminating. It keeps girls in music being like an exotic thing.

Å: Of course I have things in my head when writing the songs, but



The Leeds University Union Music Library is known primarily through word of mouth, and its location is hard to find without prior direction. It’s hidden away past the end of a bright and bustling corridor, un-signposted, where a shiny wood panel floor abruptly cuts off to cement. It’s as if this border marks your own transition from the functional and impersonal community of the main student union into the more raw and exposing musical community. At the end of the corridor you must walk around a dusty staircase, go through ‘the secret door’, and here awaits the library. To have made it here already requires commitment, and no community can exist without some kind of commitment. So, feeling committed and open hearted, I entered the library. There are 40 years’ worth of collected records and CDs in there, representing 40 years of effort and involvement from student members. New students much like myself, perhaps feeling a bit lost, in the past would have found their way into this attic and felt a touch of the familiar. It has the feel of your old man’s den, with its rich aroma of record sleeves, dusty shelves, and its lovingly arranged selection of music. A happy

volunteer always sits at the table in the corner, and there’d often be a few people chatting. Coming up the stairs there might be a song you know leading you in. All this happened and meant it was pretty great when I first came here, ‘a nice breather from the usual campus bustle’ as their description promised, and so I spent a long break browsing through their music. The Music Library polls its members to decide which albums it is next going to bring in. Everything is there because a group of students were excited about hearing it and this makes it quite a unique arrangement. As I imagined who had chosen these CDs, who had listened after them, how they felt from it, I realised that, through this setup, it’s almost like a thread of love gets weaved through time. It also makes it easier for someone looking for new music to get something decent - it’s overwhelming trying to just dive into a new genre or era without some guidance and pre-selection, which the members and their votes provide. Coming from a smaller place where there were only a few people I knew who are into the weirder experimental side of music, to Leeds - and this

group which alone had hundreds - was great but a strange feeling. It was good seeing so many other people who like the same stuff, but the small satisfaction of being different and ‘in the know’ fell away suddenly. My precious uniqueness gone! Shallow, I know, but I think a lot of people experience it, especially as a reaction to feeling apart from most of the people that you know when you’re somewhere smaller. It wasn’t hard to get over though, I mean, finding new people with similar interests was a large part of why I came to Leeds, and in getting older you realise the small-mindedness of this, finding that there are more important and interesting things to worry about, so overall this was new and exciting. So mainly, the library is just a huge number of great albums, providing musical nourishment for students across Leeds, and it creates a friendly network of thoughtful and sensitive people, which music and libraries could of course never fail to attract. So, if you want some help finding new music or want to find some people with a taste for odd music then it’s worth checking out! Jim Clemoes



PIZZA FOR THE PEOPLE If you’re a Leeds-based gig-goer, food enthusiast, and are unaware of the goings-on organised by Pizza For the People, allow this interview to be one of the most significant pieces of information you will aquire in 2017. It’s beoming increasingly important to support your local music venue, record shop, independent café or restaurant, even though it means delving a little deeper into your pockets for a CD or a Danish pastry. Why does it need to be so difficult? Why can’t you support your local bands, venues, promotors and food traders all at the same time all on a student-friendly budget? Jean Pavitt: Firstly, could you tell us a little about how Pizza For the People started, and who is behind it? PFTP: Yeah sure, Pizza For the People is Ryan & Julia! We started Pizza


For the People because we love to eat all sorts of food - with pizza being our absolute favourite - and we also love live music but never really get the two things hand in hand except at festivals or the odd venue here and there, so thought let’s do that ourselves! So that was it. We started our night Indie Banquet that’s based in Leeds. The concept is 5 bands and 2 street food traders and a great night of music & food at as many ace venues as we can find! JP: What’s this about a gig and pizza?!

PFTP: Yeah, gigs and pizza, what more could anyone ask for in one place! Some of the greatest musical experiences in our lives have happened after eating a pizza, so why not share these experiences with everyone else, right?! The great thing

is that it doesn’t stop at pizza. We bring along two street food traders to each event so there’s also another choice to be had. JP: It’s evident that Pizza For the People is focused a lot on the gig-goers as well as the musicians. What’s the ethic behind this? PFTP: Well we want everyone to enjoy themselves as much as they can when they come to one of our gigs. We want people to discover new bands, new foods, new venues and we want to support talented musicians and foodies as much as we can that are putting their heart on the stage or a plate, depending on which side of the coin they’re on. We like to preview each band and trader in the lead up to the gigs so that people get to know who they are and can follow them as well as us. We’ve always

disliked the idea of just going to a gig to see the main band and not really going to see or interact with the support bands. Those guys are usually the life and soul of a gig so we want to support them in as many ways as we can. We think it’s important to stick to these morals and ethics because it’s also who we are as people too and we don’t want to change that either. JP: You’ve put on bands such as The Orielles, Team Picture and Party Hardly, all brilliant local bands. How do you feel about Leeds’ music scene? PFTP: All the bands that we’ve had play for us are cool as and lovely guys. The three that you name here, we are hugely excited to see what 2017 has in store for them. The Orielles have been a band that we’ve seen so many times but just can’t get enough of, and Team Picture, well, we can’t say enough good words about them. ‘Birthday Blues’ was one of our favourite tunes from last year. As for Party Hardly, they’re an incredibly talented bunch of lads and the nicest guys in the world. But yeah, for us, Leeds’ music scene is great. There is so much going on and so many great people and bands to

see, cool venues all around us, as well as some great labels like Clue Records & Healthy Eating Records, so all in all we’d say we feel pretty happy with the Leeds scene and glad to be a part of it! JP: Your shows have been hosted by the likes of Wharf Chambers and Hyde Park Book Club. Are independent venues important to you as promotors? PFTP: Definitely. We love the ethos behind the likes of Wharf Chambers and Hyde Park Book Club. They are there for the right reasons - supporting the local scene as much as they can, always willing to lend a hand, give out advice and support us & other promoters. There’s a real connection with independent venues that you don’t get with commercial places and there is something magical about that that we can’t escape and don’t want to either.

from shows directly back into making Chunk run; Left Bank – An old church that has been refurbished into a great arts/music space. We’d also love to use the Brudenell Social Club which has such a huge presence and music heritage in Leeds. JP: Finally, could you give us a handful of bands you think we should be listening to? PFTP: You mentioned a few earlier actually! The Orielles, Team Picture, Party Hardly along with the likes of Chest Pains, Mouses, The Boxing, Cabbage, Luxury Death, Trash, Bruising, Fighting Caravans, Aldous RH and Eagulls. If you like the likes of these guys you won’t go far wrong in coming to one of our shows!

JP: Where are some top spots in Leeds you’d like to put on shows? PFTP: There are a load of great places we’d love to use around Leeds: Chunk – A co-operative practice space that puts the money made



I dream of the City. Its noise, its fast pace, its way of life. In reality, I grew up in a small(ish) village in Devon. This village, with its slow pace and quite nights, did have the most amazing community. Everyone knew who you were and if they didn’t, they acted just the same. You always felt someone cared. You couldn’t walk down the street without someone asking how your day was going; in London, you’re lucky to get a smile. Moving to Peckham, I was scared I would lose having that community feel. In some respects, I have; I don’t know my neighbours, I don’t say hello to everyone I pass on the street, and I definitely don’t know the name of everyone who works in the local shop. On the other hand, I do get art galleries and artists, music venues and musicians and a whole host of different cultures. My first experience of Peckham’s community was Franks. A rooftop bar, Franks is the place to be during London’s hazy summers. Sitting on top of a multi-story car park in the centre of Peckham, those who find this gem are welcomed by spectacular views of Central London and equally spectacular cocktails. When the weather plays nice, Franks becomes one of the busiest bars in South East London. Although you barely ever recognise people you know, let alone talk to, you begin to

feel part of something bigger. You are all there experiencing the same part of this city. London couldn’t exist without people filling these spaces, whether it’s the brave Saturday shoppers on Oxford Street or those that find these hidden bars that create London’s unique nightlife. I, for however long, am one of these people. I’m adding to its story. I’m part of its community. To me this means I’m a Londoner. I live here. I have friends here. I go back home to Devon for Christmas, but the majority of my year is spent here. My friends who have been here their whole life disagree though. I wasn’t born here so it doesn’t matter how fast I can walk through the crowds on Southbank, how well I can negotiate the Central Line at rush hour or how annoyed I get at people who haven’t learnt the sacred ‘Stand-on-the-right’ escalator rule. According to them, I will never be a true Londoner. I think that is what makes us though; we’re a highly exclusive inclusive group. It doesn’t matter what culture you’re from, who you are and what your background is, as long as you think you know better than the tourists, you are in. It’s a sad thought but it does unite us. We get a sense of pride when you see someone stood at a tube map looking puzzled.

a collection of over 80 interviews of people who have experienced London. It’s not the stories we hear on the news, but the stories of those who make this great city tick. It’s the inhabitants who live, work and travel through London, from the homeless outside Waterloo to the pilots landing in Heathrow. From the woman who runs a nail salon to the investment banker in Canary Wharf. Each individual has their own story that contributes to London’s growing community and I’m very happy to be adding mine. As to where I’m adding my story, Peckham’s Copeland Park holds a whole host of events that appeal to my creative side. Bussey Building standing right in the middle is often alive with wonderful music, whether it’s the South London Soul Train with it’s live brass band and Funk/ Disco sounds, or Rye Wax, the bar/ record shop in the basement that’s filled with electronic beats. There’s always artists and music to discover and a community of people searching alongside you. So I am no longer worried that I’ve lost the sense of community Devon provides so well. Instead, I’ve just expanded my definition. Words and artwork by Ellie Bond

Craig Taylor’s book Londoners is



Ben Sargent: Garden Centre seems to have come from the evolution from King of Cats into this new project. Is that how the band came about? Max Levy: It is, yes. I was pretty sick of performing under the name King of Cats. It reminded me too much of the music I made as a teenager. I stopped King of Cats at about the same time as I had the idea for an album centred around a garden centre, so the name of the new project sort of presented itself. I was lucky enough to be pals with all of the other members of the band, and we formed pretty soon after the dismantlement of the old group. BS: The band is still under a year old but you’ve got two albums out already. Had you imagined the band would be so productive in such a short period of time when you started out? ML: I wish I was more productive!


I tend to forget about every album I have done as soon as it is complete. I constantly feel like I have not created anything interesting in ages. I guess that means I write new things very often but don’t value them much. I think it might be worthwhile valuing art that I make. It might lead to some better art. The urge to discard and move on is very strong. BS: Garden Centre feature members of King of Cats, Joanna Gruesome, Towel and Keel Her. Do you think there are elements of each of these bands in GC’s sound? ML: I think there is, or at least was. Camille from Towel left after the first record. I do think everybody brings things I wouldn’t be able to do and things that are completely personal to them in the way they play. Monster Energy was recorded on my own, but Garden Centre has bits on it that were written/played by Laurie, Owen

and Camille. It is impossible not to write with influence from the people you are playing music with. It is a wonderful thing. BS: Would you say you’re part of quite a tight-knit musical community? If so, how is this community important to you as a band and personally? ML: I am not sure I am fully involved in a tight-knit scene, but I am certainly in the periphery of a very good one. Even though I wouldn’t say I was as involved as I could be, being involved with, or even just nearby a good group of musicians has been very important to me as a person and as a musician. I wouldn’t have the same morals, musical influences or ideas about taste and humour if it wasn’t for peers. BS: You self-released your most recent album as a pay-what-you-like download. Is that DIY ethic something that is important to the band? How does this compare to working with record labels? ML: I think it is pretty great to do everything in a completely self sustaining way, but self releasing has never seemed that different to releasing on a small label to me. It is important that I never lose control of anything I do, and I have never found

that I have had to do that when working with a DIY label made up of like-minded people. I imagine it would become more complicated if the records were more popular, but luckily they are all quite sparsely listened to, which means that very little money is exchanged. When very little money is exchanged, promised or withheld it seems quite easy to keep complete control over what I release and how I release it.                                                                                              BS: Do you have a favourite Garden Centre song? ML: I really like ‘Sorry Feeling Heart’. I had been listening to George Jones (the king of heartbreak) a great deal for a few weeks and woke up with the song in my head. I have never known myself to unconsciously compose pastiches before. BS: Are there any new bands that you’re into at the moment that you think we should be listening to? ML: Uranium Club, Two White Cranes and Rapid Tan. All great.




To a certain extent, what comes to mind, for me, when thinking of moving away from home is Frances Farmer’s forced admission into Western State Psychiatric Hospital by her mother. Though obviously a bit of an exaggeration in some senses, her and I shared some similar experiences with regards to an unknown place and trying to settle into a new community. I recently read Will There Really be a Morning, Farmer’s autobiography outlining her experience of her time in a 1940s psychiatric hospital, and at the same time had left home to move to London from my home in Devon. First let me just say it’s definitely worth a read, even if you’ve got no idea who she is prior to picking up the book. It’s not like most autobiographies where the person is using their status to write a book convincing themselves that the rest of the world are interested in their relatively normal life of failed relationships and job opportunities. Farmer incorporates just enough of this ‘every day human life’, but not because it’s the basis of the book, it’s almost to remind the readers that she is just like everyone else with regards to feelings and dreams, putting what she was forced to endure into perspective and making the book seem less fictional. I found her a very easy character to identify with, which

is what makes the story so distressing to read. Farmer’s account is brutally honest too. On the first page she informs the reader that what they’re about to read is not going to be pleasant: “I was not released from [the hospital]’s jaws alive and victorious. I crawled out, mutilated, whimpering and terribly alone”. Farmer’s first introduction to the hospital was unexpectedly arriving in a group, with little understanding about what was happening, being assigned a room and expected to know what to do and how to act …sounds a lot like moving to university, right? Even the sort of things you say to yourself when you first move in, as Farmer said, “you’re strong, Frances, don’t let them win”. Farmer’s sense of community was totally stripped from her when she was taken into the ‘asylum’ as there was very little outside contact allowed, and since her mother had roped her into her situation, she was feeling more alone than ever. Another aspect that made her circumstance worse was that everyone there knew exactly who she was, and many took great joy in seeing someone they once looked up to, and would have realistically never been in the same room as, in great distress. Communities, for this reason, are very important, and especially circles of

friends, because they look out for you. Frances Farmer had no one inside the hospital that she could trust to look out for her as many of the orderlies raped inmates and there was a huge amount of torture involved in their so-called recovery. There are many studies that claim psychiatric hospitals can do quite the opposite of helping many patients; Frances Farmer was admitted into the ward when the patients had very few rights and the people in charge were power-hungry and cruel; anyone would “crawl out, mutilated” no matter how stable a person they were in the beginning. I’m in no way saying that an 18-yearold’s experience of moving away from their mum to live with flat-mates is the same as what Frances Farmer experienced, but both situations are heavily reliant on feeling part of a community and having people you trust around you.



SISTERAY Sisteray are an alternative Rock band based in my hometown, made up of lead vocalist Niall Rowan, bassists and vocalists Michael Hanrahan and Daniel Connolly, and drummer Marco Biagini. Sisteray delve into the images of London life through their music and at Kazoopa Festival in Leeds this year and I managed to speak with them after their fantastic set at Santiago Bar. Lucinda Roll: Hi, how are you doing? ALL: Good! L: Awesome. So, you’ve established that you’re based in East London, similarly to me, but how did you guys all meet? DC: I started a band with my brother, he used to play drums, and I met Niall at gigs, moshing at a gig. I booked a gig like three weeks later after we were all rehearsing and I didn’t have a bass player. Michael never played bass and I asked him if he wanted to play bass, so he practiced bass-lines on the guitar and the first time he


ever played bass was at our first ever gig.

L: Have you got anything else lined up, gig or music wise?

L: Amazing! What was your first ever gig?

MH: Yeah, we were in the studio, what day is it today? Saturday? Yesterday, and we sorted out some demos and then we’re going into another studio next week.

DC: A place called The Camden Rock, which doesn’t exist anymore. L: Ah, yes I’d heard of that! So what would you say your best ever gig story is? Or the best gig you’ve ever played?

L: So is this for new EPs and/or a new upcoming album?

MH: Best gig story…

MB: Yeah, a new EP.

DC: I suppose when I smashed my guitar last night.

L: That’s great, I look forward to hearing it!

MB: That’s not really a story.

DC: Thanks, we’re actually heading back to London in a bit, but it was nice to talk to you.

DC: When we played Camden Rock I started crowd surfing and as I was crowd surfing, I kicked my mum in the head.


ALL: * Laughs *

L: Of course, thank you. You guys were fantastic this evening and good luck with the new EP. I hope to see you at more gigs in the future!

MB: That’s a good story.

NR: Thanks, see you later!

DC: And she cried...


HOMESICK I have been incredibly lucky. I’ve remained in the village that I was born into throughout my adolescence, and have endured all of the clichés which are attached to this: loving it, detesting it, realising that it’s not so bad after all and, now that I’ve finally escaped, missing it. Home for me is my crumbling house, my bedroom, my family, my dog, my car, and the freedom it finally allowed me. The clean air, the smell of baking bread, the clear skies, the crispness of the tap-water, walking through the woods and seeing no one. And by extension, the sunrises, the sunsets, the cows, the fields, the tang of slurry, the isolation, the boredom, the work, morning frost and being able to walk down the road in my pyjamas. So this new home is very different. Daunting. There are people everywhere and always. The sky is a muzzy purple at best and there are dramatically more sirens than owls. I’m dredging up friendships from way back with people who have somehow ended up here too, alleviating the pressure of nurturing new ones immediately. But I am making new ones. Every day. There are people everywhere and always and I’m getting to know some of them. They’re from different


parts of the country and different parts of the world and they’re all here alongside me for the same purpose. We’re seeking independence in community, venturing through galleries and cafes and gigs and clubs and bars and streets and trains, seeking that which we recognise from home, grabbing for anything familiar. Except this is home. This is our new hometown and we have to seek out things worth missing from here, so that when we move on again we have another place to return to. I’m assembling my little life, beginning with my room, filling it with prints and plants and people, overflowing into the kitchen for company and coffee. Muddling through each day until they become weeks and months and suddenly I’m home again but it feels different. Family routine has formed around my absence; my room isn’t as I remember and my friends are miles away, not just down the hall. I’ve got two weeks to do all of the things I loved most about this place before, but now they feel like novelties. I’ve spent months aching to be by the sea and to walk for miles without seeing a single person, but I’d forgotten that I work and live in between those moments too, that home isn’t solely one long jaunt along the beach. That

there’s so much catching up to be done and not enough time, that my favourite places and people are always an hour and a half away, that I left because “that doesn’t sound like hard work” and “if you’re looking for your top it’s inside” are common and acceptable comments. I miss being able to wear what I want and not get a comment; only ever being half an hour away and always being able to get home somehow; constant galleries and music and opportunities. Nonetheless, I know full well that I’ll miss the quiet more. That I’ll miss walking through town and knowing everyone I see, my parent’s friends asking what I’m doing. But that’s the point. I am doing. I am being. I am learning. I left so that I could be somewhere new and scary, so that I could be in the best possible place for making and living art. I have been incredibly lucky. I have lived in two places which I love enough to miss equally when I am staying in the other. I cannot imagine abandoning either of these homes and, for the next three years at least, I don’t have to. Words and photographs by Daisy Morey



















A little taste of Heaven

made in Devon

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