Detroit: We stayed fixed whilst some fella with a machete stumbled toward the bus - then veered away in a lysergic aether. The Bohemian National Home was a place of renewal and catalysis: a red block manqué containing thrilling desolation and new dreamscapes of Waste.
It echoed with ghost disintegrate; wallpaper and domestic irons embraced by Wilderness. Not White Picket Lite. Old Man Time spread out his black picnic on that forgotten pocket of rock, wire, road and unease.
We were propelled inwards, instruments sucked in with acceptance. For the duration of that blob of arcane seepage, we were willing parts - hair-blown, eye-bulged, pockets billowing empty to the damp, dust and fetid arras.
We fell to the bar, upon which a feast of weed and seed and grain throbbed in time to our organs now assimilated into the house dimensional: organs which needed the house and which smelled the house, so as that the dust and mould filled our brains and became them. Became them. We talked anew, that we did. Our red eyes soaked in the still decay of Home. We were Home. We were The Home.
And so we played that night - or rather the night played us, wringing from our wretched flesh primeval glotterings, amplified and thrown into the three pairs of ears which sat watching, submitting, morphing - becoming of us. Of our march. Of who we not were, and of who we now sang, heads crammed with the benign stasis of the Home, with the dark damp of our new need. WE WILL WALK.
A piano and a sandwich, liquor and alien declamation. Basketball in the darkness of a haunted ballroom. Tanner's shorts, meaning anew, toes and ankles like grapes in the Court of Morpheus. Tuula, shrieking, long-doomed alabaster under the eternal ceiling of our collective angst. James Rider, eye and larynx screaming on the pole of his body from the black stage - screaming for a motherload of decaying hurt to become assimilated. Colohan, hair stretching upwards into dust, an hallucinating Rasta of a man. Prior gone into Dark, gadgets fidgeted by the hand of his own primal simian ancestor.
Áine impish in mould, nesting in tar, harp strings wrapped around teeth. Lawrence shifting in metal, image of head and blank eyes hammering damp glass: a doctor of a man. Myself, gone and reborn in aspic, a soup kitchen pedant, jacket hurling through the Nothing of my own mind ...
Detroit. Time to go back to the Rancid. Time to take to the Black Stage. Never the same again, never the same again. WE WILL WALK.
released August 4, 2016
Recorded live at the Bohemian National Home, Detroit USA 2008, and on the road out of Dolla, County Tipperary, Ireland 2009. Overdubs and mixing by Richard Moult. Mastered at Purgatory Mastering.
The Students as ectoplasm: