Wednesday, 7 October 2009

"Norfolk & Surrey Estuarial Slurry"

Now this is what you call hauntology. Back in 2002/2003 Baron Mordant expressed a wish to scatter his squalid East London environs with a spraycan Mordant 'M', and I fashioned the requisite stencil. He duly issued his nozzle, but alas the flimsy card frame didn't last too many repeat brandings owing to the font's linear properties (Cressida Swash Caps, initially taken from an old 1970's transfer where it was called Triline, and familiar to many via the Brown Watson publisher's logo seen on numerous kids tv/film tie-in annuals from the same era). Its deterioration thus led to a cessation of said guerrilla activity.

I'd not seen any evidence of MM's peppered urban ligatures until this summer, when out of nowhere a Mordant fan, one Graham Brown, snapped the following on the Hackney Road near a rehearsal studio called The Premises.


This week seems an apt time to mention it, as it sees the release of the brand new Mordant album, SyMptoMs. It's a curved through-ball of a record, classic MM in its singular gait yet a markedly more song-based departure from previous despatches, with smearings of pixelated folk, Krautrock & lunar synth hums gluing together the Baron's soaring 'Guildford Borough Council Planning Enforcement Team' vocal style.

Another surviving remnant from Mordant's past has continued to surprise and confound of late. This particular ghost being me. MM is still referred to as a duo, despite my having left the fold a full year ago; I've not had anything to do with any of the releases since the MM024 split Shackleton 10", and I'm beginning to wonder exactly how long this comedic misnomer will go on. Not that I'm complaining, in fact I quite enjoy it. The Baron has been expertly and seamlessly steering the ship alone through a glut of mercurial, mesmerising releases, and it's just odd that journalists and retailers alike can't seem to display the same agility by correctly defining who exactly is involved. A little unfair too to the Baron, the nebulous, skewed outfit of occasional Mordant artists (Shackleton, Vindicatrix, Dennis Greenidge among them), and a touch derisory in view of the lovely farewell MM site news page entry written by the Baron on the 9th October last year, which plainly hasn't been read by enough of those in the business.

So, slack yet amusing as it is, hauntology has its first true phantom artist. As the Baron rather chillingly told me last week, "you'll never leave".

Should anyone find an 'M' on their property (or indeed on their person) and is now considering pressing charges having read this, please note that Baron Mordant "doesn't remember doing it". Ok?

Saturday, 3 October 2009

Mass Participation

As anybody who has ever met me will know, I do not take to taking part. I don't get stuck in, and I don't get involved. Therefore, my competing (a word not used strictly correctly) in the Great North Run the other weekend was something of a bizarre experience, lent a febrile edge by the unseasonal heat and chaotic nature of the occasion.

'The world's biggest mass participation running programme' - a blanket subtitle given to the full gamut of Bupa-sponsored 'Great Run' events - offered in this instance a place among some 54,000 numbered & singlet-decked entrants. We squeezed onto the gas chamber Metro into the city, got whipped into a whooping frenzy of a group warm-up at the start, burst the banks of the course throughout with torrents of piss (evidence that medical advice suggesting a mere 250ml of water was all that was needed in the hour before the race was not generally heeded - correct hydration should have kept urine a pale straw colour), and warmed down afterwards by clambering through the crowds for our family & friends and then shuffling for a good hour in the Metro queue home again.

Some 28 minutes passed between the firing of Sting's starting gun - sadly pointing the right way - and yours truly getting to actually start the race, such was the depth of the staggered herds stretched along the A167 central motorway. Scores of runners thusly found the time to jump the barriers and siphon themselves into the embankment before exertions began. The event MC saw us off with a salutatory cheer for each charity as respective fundraising participants sped by in an oblique, ecstatic hollering of myriad debilitation - "Muscular dystrophy!! Cystic fibrosis!! Children with autism!!!" - and we were off. Early upward gazes on a blindingly bright cloudless day afforded views of the Gateshead Trinity Square multi-storey (still standing but unlikely to see another summer) in and out of the spectator-thronged flyovers, before the course wound into sundry council estates.

Here, elderly grandmothers manned enormous soundsystems on parched driveways and mums & daughters weaved neatly among the runners to cross the road to the shops. Scores of volunteers were on hand to dole out the sponsored booster refreshments of Powerade and Aqua Pura in biblical quantities, whilst the good burghers of Jarrow and Hebburn offered the unauthorised repast of sausage rolls and cheese & biscuits via Tupperware. Prone oxygen-masked bodies lined the final strait, surrounded by cheering onlookers and their fanning high-five palms. I knew I could've done better.

So yes, it was surreal, exhausting in more ways than one, and for the most part complete fucking chaos, but I don't know how else a curmudgeonly sod like me would've ever been moved to raise money for charity. For this I have to thank my running partner Kelly, a fiercely motivated athlete who roared home nearly an hour in front of me, and of course my Rebecca Jane, for industrial stacks of Jaffa Cakes and unwavering support (not to mention her own reserves of endurance, in evidence over the 6 hour drive there and back again). A uniquely odd experience all told; I've never done anything quite so virtuous. Therefore, it was certainly worth it, and if you want to add to the JustGiving sum blinking beneath the banner on this page, then you can do so for another few weeks yet. Sincere thanks to all those who have already donated.

We came, we ran, we weed. There is, on the greatrun.org site, a facility which allows you to compare your time with that of any other runner on the day via name search, so it's possible to find out which celebrities beat you. If I ever do it again, my aim will be to beat my own risible time, and that of this woman, my newfound nemesis.