Tuesday, 12 March 2013
Friday, 1 March 2013
Wednesday, 13 February 2013
Greil Marcus review of Savage Messiah.
Laura Oldfield Ford, Savage Messiah (Verso). From 2006 through 2009, Ford produced the issues of the fanzine collected here: hundreds of pages of text, maps, bland drawings of vague faces, and cumulatively riveting photos of architectural detritus—roads, graffiti, housing blocks, filthy courtyards, storefronts, overgrown building sites, almost all of them utterly depopulated—chronicling a long walk through the back alleys and abandoned patches of a London remade through Thatcherist and New Labour gentrification and the evictions and new constructions of the looming 2012 Olympics. Read straight through, Ford’s work is the most convincing follow-through there is on the project of poetic urban-renewal inaugurated by the situationists Guy Debord, Ivan Chtcheglov, and Michèle Bernstein. In the early ’50s, they and a few other young layabouts began an exploration of Paris as a city that ran according to its own backward-forward-spinning clock, where a drift down the streets might so scramble time that 1848 would exert a stronger spiritual gravity than 1954. In places Ford echoes Nan Goldin’s The Ballad of Sexual Dependency, her slideshow of sex and death in bohemian New York in the 1980s, and the cityscape in Andrea Arnold’s 2006 film Red Road, where in a decaying Glasgow foxes dart around the base of apartment buildings that are corroding from the inside, almost as strongly. On any given page, Thomas De Quincey, from his 1821 Confessions of an English Opium-Eater,might be holding Ford’s hand: “I could almost have believed, at times that I must be the first discoverer of some of these terrae incognitae, and doubted whether they had yet been laid down in the modern charts of London.”
Number by number, Savage Messiah is a delirious, doomstruck celebration of squats, riots, vandalism, isolation, alcohol, and sex with strangers, all on the terrain of a half-historical, half-imaginary city that the people who Ford follows, herself at the center, can in moments believe they built themselves, and can tear down as they choose. The past is a shadow, an angel, a demon: most of what Ford recounts seems to be taking place in the ’70s or the ’80s or the ’90s, with the first decade of the twenty-first century a kind of slag-heap of time—of boredom, enervation, despair, and hate—that people are trying to burrow out from under. “1973, 1974, 1981, 1990, 2013,” she chants on one page. “Always a return. A Mirror touch. A different way out.” “Queen’s Crescent is the nexus of knife crime, a flashing matrix of Sheffield steel,” Ford writes in Savage Messiah #6, “…suspended somewhere between 1968 and 1981, and I sense my darling there, on the corner of Bassett St. and Allcroft Road. I’m searching the brickwork with dusty fingertips for the first Sex Pistols graffiti of 1976. He was here then, and possibly now, we drift in circles around each other”—and answering herself on the facing page: “In the fabric of the architecture you can always uncover traces and palimpsests, the poly-temporality of the city. As I lay my palm flat against the wall I grasp past texts never fully erasing the traces of earlier inscriptions.”
The aura of a mystical quest hovers over even the most sordid incidents, the ugliest photos of belongings piled up at the foot of an apartment block. John Legend’s “Ordinary People” is on the jukebox: “And all the guilt I harboured, all the shame, the walk around Highbury with so much hanging in the balance, tyranny of choice and the crashing cruelty of desire, it was all locked into that one anodyne song.”
original article here
Friday, 11 January 2013
St.George the martyr.
A tramp cracks jokes. Jim Davidson 1981.
Beyond the tobacconists and apothecaries of Tabard Street the damp construction of another yuppiedrome; scaffolding spines and the bright faces of imagined tenants.
Ghosts of Marshalsea, marker pen scrawls across the hoardings. “DEBTORS PRISON OPEN SOON”.
1985//2001//2012 . Aylesbury Estate. The end of a three month bender , a series of destructive episodes. I remember needing to escape the sultry heat of the flat, to walk out of that block and leave that whole life behind me. Trinity Street and Merrick square. Drifting through shady Regency enclaves I sensed escape routes emerging in the blackness.
The Dental Factory. Squatted social centre, holding it together, scavenging, signing, bunking up for comfort in that dusty hive. That was where I first noticed him, possibilities radiating in that first glance, a euphoric moment suspended, waiting to be realised in the sparkling Autumn.
Bailiffs at 6 in the morning, rubber plants and kit bags scattered across the pavement. Belway Homes. Craters of dirt, faux Georgian new builds on that site where denture moulds were hurled at JBW thugs.
Always a return. Mirror touch. A different way out.
52 Beckett House, Austin Osman Spare’s Alaphabet of Desire carved on powdery walls. Erasure and repetition, the ego at the brink of dissolution. “We are what we desire. Desire nothing and there is nothing you shall not realise’.
Dense showers of sigils oscillate and shimmer in the abandoned council flat.
Black Horse Court. George crosses and wooden scaffolds, fences built on communal lawns.
50s Estate pub. A fragment of PIL’s Death Disco glimmers for a moment before dissipating in a wall of fruit machines. Treasure Island, Rainbow Riches ,Cashino. Luminous 777s, acid greens and glowing oranges.
I sense the River Neckinger beneath the paving slabs, the queasy toxicity shifting to St.Saviours dock. Devils Necktie. A chalked eye glowers up. Bricklayers arms, a tangle of flyovers and slab block islands. The Old Kent road lifts in a confusion of non Euclidean space. .
May 2001. A macabre play of semiotic markers conjuring the phantom of an imagined England. NF hyperactivity . Bermondsey, that knotwork of bombsites and dank maisonettes, the ghost of the Surrey canal pulling us deep into hostile terrain. A pointless escapade round Southwark Park road, cracking ribs to prise open police cordons, festering hatred in rotten pubs, eggs thrown from seventh floor flats. Squads and spotters,, eyes darting with suspicion and territorial assertion. Drinking plans laid to waste as we ride caged up in the back of a meat wagon to Stokey nick, flats raided in a series of petulant Section 18s.