Banurtt

www.edinphoto.org.uk

I am in the private/staff part of some rundown bar/pub. Or it might just be a sort of dingy 'L' shaped cul-de-sac languishing near the toilets? The walls are a greeny brown, streaked, the paper flaking and peeling. Feels particularly grim and grimy. I am talking to my friend Arr Haitch, who sits sort of perched in front of a window, talking up close. The view is dark beyond him, some small lights still visible within the nighttime reflection. Am I already talking about Agent Johnny and how my visit was? Or am I struggling to remember it? I ask about the vandalism to the backstage area at Bannerman's Bar and if Arr was there or had seen it. He says something about the band and the vandalism, but either I don't completely understand his accent or another noise drowns it out. Is someone standing (my friend Gee Ayy?) round the corner from Arr, mostly hidden from my view by the turn of the wall. I decide to leave when all I can see are these scuffy shoes and a stream of arching piss from that person. Do I take some pills/medication?-

Have I been to visit Agent Johnny? (The notion that I saw him but cannot recall the experience seems to run as a persistent undercurrent throughout.)-

In the same environment? This feels a bit less seedy. There's a poster – advertising some band's '72 tour? - on the large wall ahead of me. Talking to my friend Dee Bee about this poster and going through all the great, rare psychedelic posters Agent Johnny has at home. Say he has a 'Keep On Tripping' poster? Then talking about Grateful Dead's 'Aoxomoxoa' album cover and Johnny's poster of that. What I describe/picture in my head is stylistically the same, but this image has a large fly or something rendered in the middle. I try to show Dee Bee on a phone or something but the image is offset on the screen and you can only see about half of it (and are unable in any way to scroll)-

In Dee Bee's bedroom. I am looking at the assorted comic sort of memorabilia he has collected. It's definitely all quite childish. I am saddened to think he still lives at home. At the head of his bed he has two simple white shelves mounted on white finished tubular steel curved 'L' brackets. On these shelves are 'Frozen'-like dioramas made from cheap, bright plastic – like better quality versions of McDonalds free gifts/toys. There is a poster on the wall next to this for some film. I understand it is quite rare (though the title escapes me). I take it down to turn it around. It's actually made of polythene or something and he seems to have turned the edges in by a few inches – I think to myself he's done that to protect the corners from being stained by the Blu-Tac. Then again, I reason it will just stain a few inches into the poster. On the reverse of this is printed another poster, stating 'From The Makers Of...?'. It's your classic 80's comedy duo effort, one typically downtrodden and one unwittingly elated character side by side-

One of these is played by John Lithgow. Near this on the wall is an A4 print out showing a (recognisable?) plastic figure – he has a wide, slightly misshapen grey head with round, staring eyes – that it says is the dictator Steve Reich. I am puzzled by the (Third) Reich association here, trying to gauge that against the musician. An extra wave of sadness washes over me as I suddenly have the sense that Dee Bee is dead and this is it-

Outside and walking away. Can sense I'm on some wide tarmac street or road. Quite busy and I am walking against the general flow of people. To my left some stairs descend to the frontage of an old cinema. It is all black, boarded up and scabby. Some people are loitering there. I'm then walking across a metal grill of sorts, passing over the top of this underpass entrance/area-

Walking in quieter streets. I'm watching as an old black guy finishes scribbling by a drain at the kerb. He's drawn in green and black chalk a circular logo I cannot quite make out. Next to the drain is a bowl with money in it. Is this the third of these I've seen? An old lady comes up to me and I ask her about this. She explains that the logo represents 'no skateboarding' as youngsters are tripping over and falling at drains. I can see the logic of the rough illustration now, the tumbling skater in a typical struck out circle. For some reason we examine the nearby road surface – not sure, as if expecting it to be dented or in need of repair after a tumble? Has it been repaired? She and I part ways and as I walk off I ask her another question, turning to see that she herself has produced a long skateboard and is taking off down the adjoining (steep) street in a zigzag fashion. My question obviously throws her and she stops, expertly kicking her board up and catching it in her hand. Evidently annoyed and exasperated she still politely answers my query-

In some strange dark environment. I am now agonising over my inability to remember my visit to Agent Johnny's. I am trying to remember the train journey, the visit to the LIDL supermarket beforehand, but turn up nothing. I cannot even remember John himself, nor taking a single sip of swill. My mind is completely blank, memories only surfacing of my earlier time visiting with my friend Arr Haitch. This is greatly distressing me and I can see ahead of me a small rectangular area of reflective surface, mirroring my eyes back at me (like the conclusion of the film Taxi Driver). I am desperately trying to catch my own gaze in this (puzzling) reflection. Eventually our eyes meet. There are then more and more of these small reflections, filling my vision, and I am able to meet some of their eyes at some points but not all-

Lasinct

Playing about on musical keyboards. The (wet t-shirted) assistant – Isla St. Claire? - (someone old anyway) comes up and opens a dictionary and points to the word 'c*nt'. She says if I go and say that to the person at the personnel desk they'll tell me everything I need to know about organs(!)-

Drixhen

At the artist studio of Jimi Hendrix. He's working in a space very similar to those at my old University building, all exposed concrete structure and cold finishes. He's at the top of the stairs, the front of his unit space screened in part by a huge structural wall, and over to the right there are temporary partitions between his and the neighbouring unit. The ceiling is high and the large windows give plenty of (ideal North) light. Adding to this there is an upright collection (of something, canvasses?) covered in a grey, paint splattered sheet that provides him with further privacy. Hendrix, louche and hatted, works intently in behind all these screens. The studio, like others I have worked in, is rammed with random materials and half-finished/in progress works of art. Immediately to your left on entering, butting against the wall, is a metal storage cabinet covered in paintbrushes, stacks of cds and assorted art peripherals. Over to the right, between the upright canvasses and the partitions is a desk of some sort, also buried under a clutter of art materials. You have to squeeze past these two obstacles to see Jimi properly and enter the cramped workspace - there are small paintbrushes here, stored horizontally (presumably to dry out) and I am conscious that every time I squeeze past I am brushing against them with the back of my jacket, worried they'll fall (and potentially also start an avalanche of junk). He is listening to a cd and asks me to put on Bob Dylan-

He either asks for the specific track 'Unbreakable' or is the cd called 'The Unbreakable Bob Dylan'? I again make my way from the working space and check in the two stacks on top of the metal cabinet. There doesn't seem to be any Bob Dylan cds at all. I note that it is a (manageable) collection of his psychedelic contemporaries, that definitely includes Country Joe And The Fish. Some of the spines have 60's-ish psychedelic writing and patterns on them, too elaborate for me to read (though I kind of assume they are by Grateful Dead). Digging in deeper behind I am cheered to see a few dance/techno cd singles buried in under discarded sanding blocks or somesuch. I think I eventually take him back something and he changes the cd to whatever it is, some sort of chugging acoustic guitar music (we both know and like). Jimi talks about the piece he is working on and asks me to bring over the Rhino horn he has moulded to complete it – think in composition it's supposed to be crashing up through the floor of his painting/diorama. (There is also a painting of this horn, what looks at first like two (red) arms rising and clasping, but seems to take on a horn shape on second inspection.) I take the Rhino horn, stored as it is in a thick, semi-opaque polythene sheeting, over to him. There is a part of me that wonders if Jimi is on heroin (yet)? He tells me to take the mould and to show it to the comic artist Frank Quitely, saying something (jokingly) like, “go show that old … how he's leading me astray.” I agree to do so, edging my way carefully out of the unit and into the corridor-

As it is hollow I am wearing the Rhino horn mould on my left arm, brandishing it in the air like some strange alien limb. Worth noting it has a sort of unnatural claw-like protrusion about half way down and, as opposed to the material grey finish as it appeared in Jimi's studio, it is now covered in a brightly coloured camo-esque pattern. Being able to inspect it up close I also notice the finish looks more like Rhino skin, rough and mottled-

I am walking towards Frank Quitely and he is coming towards me. We seem to be in the same building, but in more of a cafeteria area, populated by small round tables with metal legs and a beech veneer finish. Before I am able to say a word he asks me "if I want to draw Doctor Who?" He explains something about how the comic rights are up for sale. I sit with him and our mutual artist friend Tee Cee (and one other?) at one of the tables. Frank then says something about looking at the art in the latest issue of Doctor Who as it is terrible. We talk about how we really shouldn't laugh at another artist's work and I am expecting the issue Tee Cee takes from his polythene bag to be just awful. It's actually, pretty good, a nice inky brush finish to the bold art over crisp flat colours. During this encounter I am aware of a woman and her teenage daughter at the table to our left – I recall having seen them seated earlier (somehow) and realise that they were negotiating to buy the comic rights (for 1 issue?) of Doctor Who too. I can't work out if the daughter has drawn an issue yet, nor if it is the one we are holding-

Winzzle

Something about my friend Enn Bee phoning me up and asking me about getting some chipboard so his father could do a loft conversion. I said that this was fine. The next time he phoned I said, though I had done nothing about it, that I had got it. He kind of assumed this also. So he started asking when I was going to go round and start doing the conversion for them. I hadn't realised they expected me to do it!-

Walsharm

On a bus travelling at night. It doesn't seem that busy, or that there are many seats. I can really only picture myself seated and space around me. Obviously the driver is seated ahead of me (both of us on the left of the vehicle). 'Germs' by Acetone begins to play over the sound system. I am quite startled, and happily so, to hear this. It doesn't sound exactly like the recorded version, maybe a bit slower and without vocals? This is followed by 'Final Say', which again I recognise even if it does not sound quite like the studio recording. This is exciting for me, and I want to be sure to talk to the driver about the band-

We are back at the hotel(?) and I make a point of talking to the young driver in the bar. The environment here is not hugely different from the bus. It's quite dark and doesn't seem that busy. I don't recall the bar itself, but I think I have a pint of beer. The driver sits at a table and opens a small grey laptop. I stand to his back, to his right. After our initial talk he then introduces me to a girl he's talking to on Skype. Even though they are talking she only appears on the laptop screen in profile. He then chats more to her about things, including me. Is there something about a podcast and how that would be proof of...?-

I am with (the comic character) Marshal Law and we are infiltrating/have infiltrated some sort of criminal base or stronghold. I'm aware I have no weapon at all. We seem to be trapped (or hiding out) in a tight stairwell. The building is very plain, simple blockwork and plaster walls. Our pursuers wear sort of army green tight fitting gimp costumes (like S&M Norts from Rogue Trooper via Marshal Law's world). It is very tense as the troops close in on where we are hiding. I have to judge where they are coming from, listening intently and watching carefully for any shadows on the opposing wall that might betray their approach. The first comes from my right and I whip away his legs - the stair is sufficienty steep that I am practically at that height - dragging him down to Marshal Law who then dispenses him with a single shot. The next I slightly misjudge and he arrives from the left. Unfortunately his gun jams and, unable to fire shots, I quickly drag him down too. The third approaches from the right again and we dispose of him with ease-

I have a recollection of places being called K**tsville and Thaerum Thaelitz/Thaeritz(?)-

I have joined a crowd of gig goers - did they flood the stairwell and I have followed them out into the night streets? - and am walking with them. They are all sort of indie-emo types, dyed hair and dark, alternative clothing. I am wondering where Kay Emm is. I'm sure she'll let me know she's alright though neither of us has a phone. Am I walking up Bath Street in Glasgow, a bus stopped at the lights, but also aware the road is closed? The bus is also heading into town, against the natural flow of traffic-

Epsmer

I was in the front lounge and was m****rbating. Lunch was called so I hastily finished and tidied myself and the mess up. I went through to the kitchen and sat at the table with my two brothers while my mother prepared lunch. Lunch was like Heinz Spaghetti but served in a soup bowl. My mother went off to answer the phone or something. I think I somehow managed to spill my bowl. While cleaning up I noticed a piece of spaghetti on the side of the bowl was moving. It looked sort of spaghetti-like but more transparent and with a black head. It was also wriggling horribly. I was screaming to my brothers. Then from the bowl sprang what looked like this-

It looked similar but was all smeared in tomato sauce. It was as if somehow my sperm had mingled with the spaghetti and created this living thing. Completely horrible. As it crawled in at the kitchen cupboard kickboards we eventually, thanks to the fact that it was slow moving, stamped the thing into a spaghetti drenched mass. All it was made of was pasta and sauce. Just as I'd cleaned this up another thing flew out from my bowl. It made it over to the corner cupboard (which was open) in the kitchen. I got some kitchen towel and went over and just grabbed its tail as it tried to slither in. I lost my grip and it slithered away in amongst the tins. I thumped the worksurface in frustration, but also in hope it might attract the creature. I saw some prawns in a polystyrene packet being moved and put my hands in and grabbed. I got it! I was just wrapping it up and putting it in the kitchen bin as my mother came back in and asked what was going on. I said that, “it was nothing.”-

Toninelf

https://www.mojo4music.com

At some sort of function in a smart house. Very clean and crisp feeling, nice green-ish patterned wallpaper and lots of dark timber fittings and furniture. Daytime. Soft light. A few of us – think we're in suits? - are talking. Ahead of me the room opens directly into a corridor and immediately round the corner another group of men are gathered. In response to something – something I overhear? - I make a loud quip in a “I'm Gonna Git You Sucka!” style voice. As soon as I say it I (and those around me) realise it's deeply offensive. We walk out into the corridor/hall and I am faced by an older man. He looks slightly American Indian but with Chinese features too. He has long, straggly dark hair. I am VERY apologetic towards him and am nearly in tears-

I am sitting (in the same house environment) with Tim Burgess and a woman nicknamed 'Flower'. Tim is to my left and Flower is next to him. Tim's hair is short and unkempt, somewhat plastered to his scalp and face. We are talking. Tim is talking about how you cannot make an album if you are stoned all the time, mentioning that Ali (Campbell, from UB40, I think) made three records for him and they were all no good. At one point it looks like Tim and Flower are kissing, their faces are very close together (I can really only see the back of Tim's head). Tim then turns and seeing his profile he has a tiny, 1cm long (if that) cigarette/joint between his lips. It's as thin as a propelling pencil lead and is smoking at the end. He then offers me what looks like the shaft of a propelling pencil. It's hollow at one end and smoke is rising from it. The other end, which has what looks like a touchscreen pad on it is the same, only this is a brown substance that is also smouldering and crackling. I take a few hesitant sniffs of the smoke. Tim is encouraging me, saying it has acid in it. Has Flower collapsed or taken ill? In no panic at all Tim takes her to go upstairs. As he heads off with her I am talking about their third album, Up To Our Hips, and how to me it sounds like a record made by people who were stoned as opposed to, say, Dark Side Of The Moon, which is a record that sounds stoned in itself. I refer to the “washes of cymbol” and other such things-

http://scriptshadow.net

I follow upstairs. I am concerned that I will begin hallucinating after inhaling. There is a big guy upstairs too, like the American Indian from One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, and he sort of tails me about. Do I hear a strange, “wah wah!” noise from some bird, worried that my trip has begun? I decide to get my guitar, thinking that by playing that I will anchor myself should I start to hallucinate. There's a small sort of timber shelf and it has several plectrums on it, all in some sort of disrepair. Some are rounded, almost circular, some are cracked and in fragments. I am thinking I can take 2 of these as being at my Gran's(?) they're hardly used and mine anyway. I start to play (very well), getting great, raw guitar sounds with simple variations on the standard A-Chord fingering on the lower frets. Both my strumming hand and fretting hand seem to be making music almost independently. At one point I run the plectrum down my front – it scrapes (with a fantastic sound) down what looks like simple sack material, leaving a stream of water in its wake-

I am looking for Tim. I go into one room – are there two poeple in there? - and make my quiet excuses and leave. I enter the room next door and at the end of the corridor. Flower is lying on a bulky timber table and four or five people, including Tim, are standing around seemingly concerned for her well-being. Tim asks me to leave-