Directory of Lost Causes (By Quentin S. Crisp)

And After Many a Summer Dies the Swan

For some years now, I have considered Momus to be one of the most fascinating singer songwriters alive, and I am currently looking forward to acquiring his new album, which should be released on St. Valentine’s Day in the United Kingdom. It’s not that I agree with everything he says, but the fact that he has the ability and the nerve to express some very specific and often very radical ideas in his songs, I find to be admirable. In this way he is one of the very rare individuals to set himself apart from the usual crowd of singers that someone else has recently described (in a song) thus: "Just more lock-jaw pop stars, thicker than pigshit/ Nothing to convey/ They’re too scared to show intelligence/ It might smear a lovely career."

In fact, I think that Momus may well be the most articulate singer songwriter I have ever come across. And this means a great deal to me. From the time I began to take an active interest in music, shortly before my teenage, I developed the feeling that I couldn’t bear to listen to music made by people who were obviously less intelligent than myself. It made me indignant somehow to have to listen to idiots. But I digress.



Is Momus famous? Most people I speak to about him have not heard of him or his music. Perhaps these things are relative, though. Momus himself has modified the famous Warhol dictum that "In the future everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes" to "In the future everyone will be famous for fifteen people." In this case, Momus is certainly famous and more. If it comes to that – and it does – I am also famous (I would not be surprised if it were for exactly fifteen people). Whether this level of fame is satisfying is another question, and a question that is dealt with in one of Momus’ songs, How to Get – And Stay – Famous. I quote from that song:

"Lord, I have friends, I've watched them, one by one, become famous.
While they complimented me on my songs, I smiled in my corner alone, watched their inner birds
Spread their wings and fly.
Though I had an inner bird too, Lord, You know, mine remained a swan in cellophane
Trapped under a glass ceiling, a bird in a transparent cage
Lord, why do this to me? Why let me die having given me a bird and never let it fly?
Lord, why? Why?"

This anguished question – addressed to God – "Why?" is echoed in another song to have caught my attention recently, I Have Forgiven Jesus, by Morrissey. In this, Morrissey sings: "Why did you give me so much love in a loveless world/ When there’s no one I can turn to/ To unlock all this love?"

Why, indeed. This is a question that perplexes me, too. Because, yes, I too have an inner bird, a swan in cellophane.

Recently I received an e-mail from a friend of mine, in which she told me – I blush, but it’s necessary for me to write this for the sake of this little essay – that she had recently read one of my stories, ‘Far-off Things’, and wanted to tell me never to forget that I was a … No, after all, I can’t say it. But, suffice to say, it was complimentary.

I believe I wrote back to say thank you and added that while I seem to have got almost uniformly positive responses from readers and reviewers, for some reason, publishers and editors do not seem to see things in the same way. To which she responded in turn that she didn’t know why I should always revert to such a thing, that the point was that I was able to touch people with what I had written.

There was not much I could really say to this. After all, that really is the point of writing, however miserable publishers and editors may make our lives by being so thick-skulled. If I have touched people with my writing, then it would seem I have succeeded. We must forget about that thing ‘public acclaim’, perhaps simply for our own happiness, but certainly for the sake of art. Those in charge of selling art are usually the enemies of art. By winning on their terms, you usually lose on your own terms. You must simply remember yourself, get back to yourself, and to the swan imprisoned in your heart.

When I want to forget this sordid world and try to ‘get back to myself’, I go for a walk along the river, not far from my house. There I look at the rippling river surface, at the branches and leaves, at the water birds – the geese, the moorhens, the swans. These things will not last. We know now that within ten years global warming will become irreversible. We have ten years to convince the government of the USA to change its policy re the environment. I am not hopeful. So I stare at the birds, wordlessly, knowing that there is only this moment. The birds have become a presence in my life, like my friends. I feel as if we are quietly sharing our last moments on earth. This is life, this and nothing else. It’s a clichéd phrase, but these days, more than ever before, I feel as if I ‘commune with nature’ whenever I go for a walk. I stare at twisted fractals of winter branches. I greedily drink in every change of the rain clouds.



I have begun to read the poem Beowulf. At the end of the poem, which is set in about the sixth century, the hero, king of a Germanic tribe known as the Geats, dies in his encounter with a dragon. He knows he is going to die, but for the sake of lof and dom – honour and renown – he goes willingly to his death. And perhaps that is why his memory survives in this poem, though his tribe died with him. All those tribes, where are they now? The world has changed, and races and cultures are swallowed up, leaving only a poem to show that they existed.

Here’s another poem:

"The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,
The vapors weep their burthen to the ground,
Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,
And after many a summer dies the swan."

These lines, from Tennyson’s Tithonus, I have long thought to be some of the most beautiful in the English language. When I watch the birds on the river, it is as if I am watching the bird within my own heart. When that bird dies, no one else in the world shall know. It will be a matter between me and myself.

Blair After the Hutton Inquiry

Well, I've had so little time recently, and have been so hindered in other ways, that I'm afraid my blog output for January is rather thin. Of course, I think there are hours of enjoyment to be had in the Cock films, but there is little input from myself. However, as I was going through my files, I discovered a little thing I'd done, just messing around really, but in a spirit of playful rage, after the whole Hutton Inquiry here in the UK after the government were accused of 'sexing up' the dossier on weapons of mass destruction in Iraq and Dr Kelly, caught in the middle of all this, "committed suicide".



The piece, which I have given the title 'Blair After the Hutton Inquiry', is really Burroughs' skit, 'Roosevelt After Inauguration' with a few words changed here and there. In fact, I don't think I have changed quite enough to transplant the skit successfully from American to British soil. Anyway, rather than let it languish in my files, and also becuase people too easily forget 'old news', I thought I'd post it here:



Blair After the Hutton Inquiry

Immediately after the Inquiry Blair appeared on the steps of Number Ten Downing Street dressed in the purple robes of a Roman Emperor and, leading a blind toothless lion on a gold chain, hog-called his constituents to come and get their appointments. The constituents rushed up grunting and squealing like the hogs they were.

Men who had gone grey and toothless in the faithful service of their country were summarily dismissed in the grossest terms - like "You're fired you old fuck. Get your piles outa here." - and in many cases thrown bodily out of their offices. Hoodlums and riffraf of the vilest calibre filled the highest offices of the land.

When the Supreme Court overruled some of the legislation perpetrated by this vile rout, Blair forced that august body, one after the other, on threat of immediate reduction to the rank of Parliamentary Lavatory Attendants, to submit to intercourse with a purple-assed baboon; so that venerable, honored men surrendered themselves to the embraces of a lecherous snarling simian, while Alastair Campbell, Blair and his strumpet wife, and the veteran brown-nose Lord Hutton, smoking a communal hookah of hashish, watched the lamentable sight with cackles of obscene laughter. Judge Blackstrap succumbed to a rectal hemorrhage on the spot, but Blair only laughed and said coarsely, "Plenty more where that came from."

Hutton, unable to control himself, rolled on the floor in sycophantic convulsions, saying over and over "You're killin' me, Chief. You're killin' me."

Judge Hockactonsvol has both ears bitten off by the simian, and when Chief Judge Howard P. Herringbone asked to be excused, pleading his piles, Blair told him brutally, "Best thing for piles is a baboon's prick up the ass. Right Hutton?"

"Right Chief. I use no other. You heard what the man said. Drop your moth-eaten ass over that chair and show the visiting simian some Southern hospitality."

Blair then appointed the baboon to replace Judge Blackstrap, "diseased."

"I'll have to remember that one boss," said Campbell, breaking into loud guffaws.

So henceforth the proceedings of the Court were carried on with a screeching simian shitting and pissing and masturbating on the table and not infrequently leaping on one of the Judges and tearing him to shreds.

"He is entering a vote of dissent," Blair would say with an evil chuckle. The vacancies so created were invariably filled by simians, so that, in the course of time, the Supreme Court came to consist of nine purple-assed baboons; and Blair, claiming to be the only one able to interpret their decisions, thus gained control of the highest tribunal in the land.

He then set himself to throw off the restraints imposed by Parliament and the House of Lords. He loosed innumerable crabs and other vermin in both houses. He had a corps of trained idiots who would rush in at a given signal and shit on the floor, and hecklers equipped with a brass band and fire hoses. He instituted continuous repairs. An army of workman trooped through the Houses, slapping the legislators in the face with boards, spilling hot tar down their necks, dropping tools on their feet, undermining them with air hammers; and finally he caused a steam shovel to be set up on the floors, so that the recalcitrant legislators were either buried alive or drowned when the Houses flooded from the broken water mains. The survivors attempted to carry on in the street, but were arrested for loitering and were sent to the workhouse like common bums. After release they were barred from office on the grounds of their police records.

Then Blair gave himself over to such vile and unrestrained conduct as is shameful to speak of. He instituted a series of contests designed to promulgate the lowest acts and instincts of which the human species is capable. There was a Most Unsavory Act Contest, a Cheapest Trick Contest, Molest a Child Week, Turn In Your Best Friend Week - professional stool pigeons disqualified - and the coveted title of All-Around Vilest Man of the Year. Sample entries: The junky who stole an opium suppository out of his grandmother's ass; the ship captain who put on women's clothes and rushed into the first lifeboat; the vice-squad cop who framed people, planting an artificial prick in their fly.

Blair was convulsed with such hate for the species as it is, that he wished to degrade it beyond recognition. He could endure only the extremes of human behavior. The average, the middle-aged (he viewed middle age as a condition with no relation to chronological age), the middle-class, the bureaucrat filled him with loathing. One of his first acts was to burn every record in London; thousands of bureaucrats threw themselves into the flames.

"I'll make the cocksuckers glad to mutate," he would say, looking off into space as if seeking new frontiers of depravity.

Social Comment

I have just worked out how to enable the comments feature of this blog. Hurrah! It's taken me so long. Unfortunately, I don't have time to post a proper entry at the moment, but I needed at least to try out the new feature to see if it works. If anyone actually reads this blog - perhaps I can find out now - please feel free to comment on any of the posts below.

More Cock, More Cock, Michael Moorcock, You Fervently Moan

Well, it looks like my blog is being taken over by The Cock of late, which is no bad thing, considering how busy I've been and how bad my eyes are. It makes it easy for me to post entries without having to research and write new 'essays'.

Anyway, I have a treat for you all. That's right, it's more Cock, captured again on film in rehearsals on the 17th of January. There are two songs, the first, I'm Your Fan is a Cock original, lyrics by yours truly and Pete Black, music by The Cock, and the second is a cover of a song by The Flaming Lips called, She Don't Use Jelly or something.

I'm Your Fan

She Don't Use Jelly

For a review of The Cock's live performance, click here. For more Cock films, click here.

Cock Addendum

I have just been informed of the following films of The Cock in rehearsal. I believe they were shot on the 10th of this month. The sound recording is not of high quality, so I don’t know how they will sound to someone who wasn’t at the gig, but I can’t help feeling the same excitement, as I watch them, as I felt at the gig. They also give some idea of how the live versions of Missing and There'll Always Be A Place For You In My Heart differ from the recorded versions. And I very much like what Pete is wearing in these numbers. I think they are worth a peek:


Missing.

Enculez Moi.

There'll Always Be A Place For You In My Heart

Stop messing about!

I have started yet another new job, so I might not be around much for a while.

The Cock Has Risen

On the twenty first of December, 2004, I departed Twickenham by train for Devon. I was going specifically on that date to see a live performance by The Cock, at The Ariel, near Ilfracombe. Now, I have mentioned The Cock before in this blog, and told of my relationship with that entity. Let me re-cap briefly for those who have missed it. I used to be in a band called The Dead Bell with Pete Black. Pete Black is in a new band called The Cock. I have been asked to reprise my role as lyricist by Cock member (if that’s not tautology) Pete Black. I have gladly done so. However, until the abovementioned date I had never actually seen The Cock in action. It has to be said, though, that from my stay in Devon, what stands out proudly in my memory is an image of The Cock. Well, many images, in fact, some of which I will use to decorate this entry.

I arrived in the sprawling metropolis of Barnstaple, at the end-of-the-branch-line train station, laden with luggage and gifts like a sort of cheap noir version of Father Christmas. The rendezvous point was the corner opposite where the bus station used to be, before they moved it, on the square with the clock tower. However, since I had arrived early I went to Chatterbox to have myself some tea and a tea-cake, and write a little on my story 'The Antiquarian'.



The hour came and I went to meet Pete, who was there with Mark, of bumbishop fame, bassist for The Cock. Since they had not eaten we proceeded to the cafeteria of Marks and Spencer, where we ate a Green Room-type meal and the Cock members seemed to be in nervous, pre-gig mood. We exited via the lingerie section, which is, of course, obligatory whenever visiting M and S.

Well, there was a lot more of this general waiting around, with which I won’t bore you. The two Cock members went on to the venue ahead of me, because of logistics with cars and musical equipment. I caught a lift with the drummer, Steve. Inevitably the conversation in Steve’s car turned to music and musical tastes. I was my usual coy self when asked what kind of music I like. I don’t know why, but the question always embarrasses me into near silence. "The usual kind of thing," I said, "You know." Eventually, however, I managed to confess to specifics, that recently I listen to a great deal of God Speed You Black Emperor, A Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra, and Do Make Say Think, all of which we apparently had in common.

Well, we arrived at The Ariel Centre, which held memories for me from times I had practised there with The Dead Bell and other bands. The Ariel Centre is basically a place to practice and record music for local musicians. The musicians began to set up, and very soon people began to arrive. Now, this gig was more a private event than a public one. All those who came had been invited, or were brought by someone invited. I asked how many were expected, and it seemed that, at most, there would be about thirty people. I had heard a little of the rehearsal and assisted with sound-check (in other words I listened and said, "It sounds fine"), so I thought the gig was probably going to be good. But I still had a notion that what really makes a gig is the audience, and therefore wanted as many people as possible to turn up. I don’t know exactly how many people came in the end, but it was less than thirty.

We waited for some others who were expected, but they didn’t arrive, so eventually the band decided to kick off. Now, allow me to insert the set-list of the gig:

Sympathy for the Devil – The Rolling Stones
London Calling - The Clash
There Will Always be a Place for you in my Heart – The Cock
And she was – Talking Heads
Hit me Baby – Britney Spears
Girlfriend in a Coma – The Smiths
Meet on the Ledge – Fairport Convention
Missing – The Dead Bell/The Cock
I'm your Fan – The Cock
Seven Nation Army – The White Stripes
Shadowplay – Joy Division
Enculez Moi – The Cock
She Don't Use Jelly – The Flaming Lips



As The Cock kicked into Sympathy for The Devil, I leant against a pillar and, well, moved parts of my body. Honestly, as the previous sentence might well convey, I’m a hideously self-conscious person, but the fact is, I couldn’t help moving parts of my body. The music was good. There will be some eloquence coming later, I promise. (I hope.) Normally my self-consciousness would be hugely exacerbated by the small numbers of people present – the intimacy of the occasion – but in this case I came much closer to forgetting the eternal curse of my loathsomely repressed identity than I have at gigs where I have been rolled between heaving masses of sweating bodies. My mind did not wander during the entire gig.

Sympathy For The Devil – mid-paced, nice starting number. London Calling – you really can’t go wrong with this song, and The Cock acquitted themselves well. There Will Always be a Place for You in My Heart – Now this was the acid test, so to speak. This was pure Cock material. And I was happy and excited to discover that, to coin a phrase, it rocked, and not only rocked, but seemed to thrust itself up majestically above the cloud cover of the previous material.

Well, I’m not going to describe every single song. I think some people will suspect me of bias, but the fact is, it was the best gig I have been to in a long, long time. If I had to be critical of anything I’d say that, however well you play it, Hit Me Baby is just a badly written song and you have to trade to some extent on novelty if you cover it. I did crack up, however, when Mark introduced the song as a number about "domestic violence".

Highlights for me were, most of the set, actually, but, let’s see, There’ll Always be a Place For You In My Heart, Missing, Enculez Moi, Seven Nation Army, Shadowplay and She Don’t Use Jelly.

Hearing Missing, a Dead Bell number, I was very pleased to discover how well it seemed to build and shift. During Shadowplay it occurred to me, not for the first time, that this was basically heavy rock. But, as I said to Peter afterwards, it was heavy rock with clarity. There were no clouds of distortion to hide behind. It was not a mere wall of noise. The arrangements built up and fell away in such a way that it was simply very involving for the listener. I’m not sure exactly what the sound of The Cock is, but to take the time-worn combination of drums, bass, guitar and vocals and still be engaging is an achievement. When I spoke to Peter he said that writing for a three-piece was a very different discipline than writing for The Dead Bell. The Dead Bell was very much about recording songs – the emphasis was therefore on what sounds we could get when recording. The Cock is much more about performance.



The band took a break after Shadowplay, and Mark asked me what I thought. I told him that it was very good, and that the original material was at least as good as anything else they were playing.

After this break came the encores, Enculez Moi and She Don’t Use Jelly. I had not heard Enculez Moi before, but it was another impressive number, buoyed up on a very tight rhythm section that reminded me a little of some of the material on James’ album, Stutter.

Finally, we had the Flaming Lips cover, featuring Mark’s vocal and a dizzying spiral of riff acceleration at the end.



When the gig was over, I told Peter that they must do more gigs in front of more people, and was happy to hear that he agreed.

Now, allow me to be grumpy for a few moments. I happen to know that the Dead Bell tracks on Pete’s website have been downloaded hundreds of times, and that at least fifty times, whoever was downloading went there via my blog. (It’s scary, isn’t it? Just call me ‘Big Brother’.) Anyway, that’s all good and lovely. I’m just a teensy bit disappointed that no one has left any comments about the songs. Of course no one is obliged to. This is the Internet. The songs are there for you to enjoy. Gratis. Free. Etcetera. It’s all very cutting edge and grass roots. But, it would be nice, if you did actually enjoy the songs, if you just let me and The Cock know. You know, it’s encouraging and all that. Thank you very much. I appreciate it.

By the way, the recording of The Cock playing London Calling to which there is a link in this entry is not from the above gig, just to let you know (same goes for the links to Missing and There'll Always Be a Place For You in My Heart).