Friday, March 04, 2005

Not without my collage scissors...

Over ten years ago, my friend Danny put me in touch with an insane crew of writers/rock musicians/artists in the borders region Scottish town of Galashiels to do college work experience. I ended up doing fanzine reviews, cartoons, crazy collages and interviews for Sun Zoom Spark magazine. In a blast from the past styleee, Brendan McAndrew, the erstwhile editor of that latter-day organ, has sent me the above scan from one the pages. This proves that the things that obsessed me 10 years ago have changed frighteningly little. Standout memories include: doing Donald and Davey Stott impressions until hoarse with Paul Vickers whilst we had inexplicably wrapped sellotape around our heads. Contracting 'bubonic plague of the neck'. Getting stoped by the security of the Barrowlands while at a Suprgrass gig and having to surrender a pair of kids collage scissors I forgot were in my pocket.

Through the wonders of the old ethergut blabblog serendipmachine, I've tracked down the Web presence of this old crew, which it has to be said are partly to be blamed/thanked/excommunicated for their contribution to my writing 'style'. Their most high-profile project, I suppose is Dawn of the Replicants with top-notch spin offs and side projects a plenty with Roger Simian's BROYism bizarre trash culture comics and music site and Brendan and Mike's Drood, who have released a 'Theory of Everything' downloadable LP.

The 'read' section of the site has an amazing potted history of all this lot with some stirring words from young McAndrew about the nature of our plight:

All we know how to do is write. Write songs, operettas, aborted poems and plays, magazines. We never stop and we never will stop. It's been our life choice, our successful career, our skiing holiday, our fucking compensation. No compromise. It's all hardcore, the real thing. This is pastime, fourth rate toe dipping pretence. Biting bullets, hanging ourselves out to dry. Turning a small town in the Scottish Borders into our Mecca, our holy of holies, our sepulchre. The real thing.

We are born of dark understandings and inevitable acclaim. We made some money, sure. But we made more friends and that's the way it should be. One big sad, artistic family of headcases who don't know what else to do. Always bursting with creative energy. And so it goes on...

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