The Hall of Zeroes
Is packed with liars and thieves
Big mouths and heads who said
Follow me.
then led you nowhere
sell outs and creeps
In the Hall of Zeroes
That is all you will see.
they’re having an episode
It’s a repeat
The hall is full of gawping fools
Who don’t know
they are there to clean
and polish the Zeroes medals
and kiss their fucking feet
There’s a Hall of Zeroes
In your high street
It’s the finest building
That I guarantee
who paid for this palace?
It was you and me
It looked like it would stand there
for all eternity
and yet last night they torched it!
In your fucking dreams.

Brent Jackson 09/08/2018

I’ve been in a lot of bands.
Over the many years I’ve luckily survived.
They’re families, tribes and gangs.
Don’t argue they are.
We had a band in the early days me and my mate who cooked up music from bits I gave him and his own bits, We’ll call him Stu for fun.
Short for stupor as we practised derangement of the senses as advocated by all our favourite artists.

We were children who hated the Society we’d been marooned in.
We wanted to ridicule it and precipitate change based on our childlike belief that anything would be better than the unfair grim bollocks we saw.
We called the band Hells Donkeys.

An angry noise designed to shock and annoy.
Beautiful.
We couldn’t afford the good things in music our folks had spent all their money in stuff from adverts.
We played stolen instruments and borrowed a couple of amps then avoided the owners indefinitely.
We were rich in ideas and desire but they don’t get you studio time and transport and stuff.
We had to find finance somehow or the dream was pointless and we’d be stuck jamming in a shed.
We had to compromise and invite the posh boy to join because he had a van and equipment and money.
We’ll call him Peter not peat.
Because that was his name.
We knew he considered himself superior in every department to us but the ‘mission’ we decided was worth it..and laughing about him while he was up the bar getting the drinks in got us past the
frustration of having to pollute our muse with the very type we despised.
He wanted to be in a family, a gang, a tribe because his was rubbish.
These uptight snob folk feared intimacy as they craved it and couldn’t help scheming and condescending to compensate.
He diluted are vibe and made loads of pretentious suggestions that threatened to spoil our style.
Peter not peat.
He didn’t get that our music, songs and attitude were forged like firedogs on the brazier from years of the heat of heartfelt disbelief at the insane circus.
Not for Peter not peat tho’
His folks worked for the circus and were close friends with the ring master you see.
Everything we did was compromised by his contribution and tuning out the embarrassment at his entitlement and affectation drove us slightly sly and bonkers.

That’s the world, that’s art.
The will to change and challenge to live a new way held back by deluded clowns.
It still drives me n Stu mad.
It’s still the same.
Peter not peat.

Twittering twats tweaking phony stats to fit the fatuous freak fascist act facts.
Innumerate illiterates illuminate the illusion deluded ignorant itinerates inverted ingrate idiots
huddled befuddled troubled mongrel rabble rubble rumble and bubble up
oozing losers choose to bruise schmoozer cruisers blown fusers folding falling users head hoovers
shown the tone telephone alone unknown, bone grown, bemoan, foam, groan.
Unlicensed righteous flightless licentiousness
unsighted insight unconscious consciousness
online outsider seething subterranean substance less
virtually virtue less viscous virgin reductionist
a herd list of herbalist hedonistic verbalists
Ace crook slack cack shroud crowd glue cube Fritter.

Do what you like
without consequences
Have everything
put it on expenses!
Find a scapegoat
Blame is our friend

One rule for them
One rule for them

Fuel your excesses
on the working poor
Own your successes
show sharing the door
Hollow competition
Without end

One rule for them
One rule for them

Do you feel like a turkey
hearing the first carol singers?
put another nugget
in the click bait meters
we’ll be nit picking when
the shit show ends

One rule for them
One rule for them

Fuck all for us but the pointless pound shop struggle
Shut your stupid face you mindless muggle
The consciences objectors are just causing trouble
War generates lots of lovely revenue
one rule for them
but many for you.

Brent Jackson.
29/06/2018

We came from nowhere, the no hoper perimeter where the schools are cheap and nasty and serve mainly to facilitate the parents working, where what should be a heaving workshop of inspiration and the nurturing of the new blood is reduced by mere economics and political ‘philosophy’ into an obedience school, indoctrination camp and kresh..me and my brother from nowhere had it over the fence and (having a wild country childhood in common) looked at the deal and snorted in derision..

Then suddenly,
A book cover in the mobile library told me
“Man is born free and everywhere is in chains.”
I couldn’t wait to tell my brother from nowhere.

But of course we knew already, the mystery to us was ‘Why do people put up with it?’
We’re still not sure.
Fear is our best answer..

The banner that offers you safety and belonging will lead you to war..
We decided we needed to challenge and hey we’re Sixteen, even overthrow! this errant nonsense..
That’s not going so well here forty two years later!
forty two!
42!
That’s how long we’ve been seeking our ‘Jericho’

Later I took to a serious and super comprehensive study of the poetry of dissent and discovered ‘The tradition’
As my brother from nowhere embarked on the same ‘trip’ but added music structure and production where I studied Jack Kirby.
We became widely known as The Lunatics and drank in the view from the edge looking in and, it turned out, practised many ceremonies nearly as old as the moon associated with shamanism and creativity since the dim dark dawn…yes, ok, mainly those pertaining to the derangement of the ‘senses’ it’s risky to play with the senses and many experimentalists now abide in rubber rooms and are not allowed sharp objects…or sleeves.
but those same senses can see you putting up with the factory and the consensus that serves the Fat Lord, our nemesis, Mammon, The king of lies..The toffs.
The argument continues but we risked it anyway as the alternative was biege and grey bingo auto life, plastic wrapped slavery as we called it..
We did this it’s true..we shouted ‘We only play guitars coz we can’t afford machine guns’
at audiences throughout these islands and beyond..I now realise we were describing what we were seeing which was many people feeling that change must be fought for and these ancient lizard folk that run this shit show will never budge unless pushed.
Oh and Lucifer was pushed.
We liked the terror and chaos that song caused it was called White eyed robots and it was a description of the already commercialised to death punk scene..The lyrics were written by a version of me who was much cleverer than the pished vain drug addled knob who wrote them..
Ah Nihilism and it’s brutal comfort that looks like a truth…Oh were things so simple..
I am a romantic Nihilist and I believe my brother from nowhere is too, throw some humanism and anarchy in also, ten heaped tablespoons of socialism..
Where was I?
We’ve cooked up about a thousand little musical psycho dramas now I spose and I’m beginning to realise they are all as good as and better than ‘Machine guns’ as everyone called it anyway..
This is the beginning of me recording as much of the lunatic insurrection as I can remember and
how it lead to Abbey Rd John Peel and fire star reviews in national papers..the Nowhere brothers upsetting some deserving V.I.P. brains and THE FIREDOGS.
Which is where you’ll find us now multiplied to four..but more on those splendid new nowhere brothers soon.
Remind me to write more!

Brent.x

I fell thru this
I plied the rick and rile
instant frill chip n nosey
I felt the fowling
through inner outer
pose prose n posie
fort the justicing
snubbery and power first
opposed the jousting
sailed the steaming
boiling sea saw
with my fellow sheep
full feasting
saw the stillness
coming as we fed
the least unleashing
our grail a lie
our crown a jest
we dressed a beast in.
we depart blynd
we care not wher
just long for leaving
I learned this least
yay things occur
once we’re rolling
n schemeing
radiant brilliance
and blade
edge meaning
lays in wait
in nonsense
dreeming.
ruck the rools
and back the trends
your own shape
kneading
before is ripe
n rotten
sinking
stinking
reasing

Mak you sang new
start linn
steaming
four go former
forms with
reckless feeling
if the vault door
must be bleached
it must i’m thinking
for wrongness
has fell here
and frost covers
iron morning
thru witch we must
trundle
freezing.
yawning for
our former snoring
slept in hiding
as the wolves
and snakes
went reaving.
for sure
their free for all
is low n boring.
Evil evening.
nowt in the orchard
for this ad man
gnawing
I may say
falling
I fel anyway
raw in
parting play
ground dan
once grand
my trees
all blushing nude
there leaves
all blown
away.
Bye good.
ward back.
gone be.
ok.

Is there a genuine poetry here in this work as I had heard?

Song lyrics certainly sometimes indulge such aspirations.

My good friend Felicity who also seeks such things has said so,
“There’s a life in here and things afoot under the statement,
mournful and homiletic.”

The journey is from spittle flecked raging youth slogans to
yearning disillusion and finally resignation, there’s clues, nods to
the tradition of dreamer poets of earlier times, exasperated by
the petty material drudge inflicted on the spirit by the exploitation
of the commercial con mans tragic comedy.

This work certainly and clearly exists outside and agen this. It’s for people who agree we should burn the flags, that there’s no mystery
no more and the prizes don’t look nice like they did.. The voice here is willing to admit to truly feel would make him cry and
he weeps anyway for the numbness and isolation he see’s and feels in a bleak manscape of disconnection and desensitisation, but wait, there’s darker than dark comedy and a distended cheek here too..young lovers name the trees and the bruised mother at the birthday party likes the ache..and it’s him whose ‘just another heartbreak’ and outside defiant blooms ignite the avenue..so dark hope hangs on in every bleak moment.

A Novel/short story collection of an album..an under the radar underground hidden
treasure of a work that foregoes the gimmickry and novelty of the current tacky moment
and exists in another timeless land of melancholy and rumbling dissent.
From leftfield the wyrd and wonderful Firedogs are quoting Finnegan’s wake at a karaoke
funeral.

Unexpected and extradinary.

Tom Langer.

It’s been dreadful and good then really dreadful then dreadfully good..


I’ve had the health issues and then the Trumps and Brexits and terrible explosions and knife wielding blues..I may have withdrawn entirely from ‘humanity’ even knowing there’s always broken machinery and bad chemistry reckoned into the price..I do live down the lane on the edge and I am like The watcher…even got the hairstyle…i.e none..it never was handed in when I left it on a plane in the early noughties..after the pneumonia I stopped doing much in the worst of the winter, just read and wrote and drew…and surfed..but the year was entirely (for me) redeemed by the music..The magic of the all night sessions in Coupars magic parlour where we put together The Firedogs record in a series of 200+ mile- round trip- all nighters (i’m too old for this shit I repeated ad nauseam) & The Bloomin’ Nora stuff..Enjoyed weaving my best ever lyrics and guitar lines without any conscious thought and with the crew that do the same and get it..and enjoyed the bass player job too..


I think I can say we finished strongly, as I tap we appear to be getting a lot of attention and many many compliments which is of course a gas..It all kicked off after at the death when the Keltoi poetic champion Gavin Martin gave us a five star review in the Daily Mirror..You can find my little films for his poems  the Rory Gallagher one and The Sex pistols one..as I call them, they are on the FB pages and U-tub somewhere..I’m 100% certain I would have championed both LPs as a younger bloke..nice to be involved in stuff I’d once have admired from further back..nice that my friends and loved ones held on to their art and got so damned good! yeah that’s probably the real, less easily definable highlight for me..I feel like I’m part of a nameless underground movement that unlike so much fishy, flashy, shallow shite in the mainstream actually contains poetry and actually cost something emotionally for the artists..yeah that’s the other highlight..I’ll try and ramble more on here as we all take our shiz forward in the new en..anyway, for the handful of hip fek spirits who seek the stuff here’s my official Killing time making magic list 2017.

Talking Musical Revolutions. Gavin Martin LP and films on the web.
The Firedogs. LP and films on the web.
Bloomin’ Nora Various songs and films on the Web (proper LP in the spring)
Lethal as Love. Poetry by Patrick Williams available on Amazon as download and Paperback.
Jack n Bones various tracks on sound cloud.
The Filthy Spectacular (gigs and films on the web)
The Mau Mau club Monday night Gigs.
Pete Mahers mastering.
The continuing work of 4am cc
If I forgot ya sorry..

Sneer in the face of the darkness and go again stronger in 2018 you beautiful miracles.  


Brent 14.50 31/12/20summink.

So, 2017 staggers to a close and prepares to bung the baton to the all new mad keen, yet strangely familiar, 2018..and I have a quick look at the road behind and contemplate the one ahead as The Firedogs go on sale worldwide..Perhaps a quick update for the new arrivals who are wandering in to
check out what’s up with this Firedog thing.

We were once (Way back in the ‘punk wars’ (copywrite some NME bloke) the infamous ‘Late Road Lunatics’ DIY Indy punks once championed by John Peel and notorious for riotous gigs played mainly for causes and charities, fiercely feminist, leftist, eco types trying with all our might to avoid the hypocrisy of some of the other bands and write about stuff that they didn’t and rave about things they wouldn’t..yes we tried too hard, we were young and meant well and the elongating retro spectacles of time have given me a rosy fondness for those days..but it did all get to me/us and having fought hard for right on notoriety for 12 or so years we/I buckled at the knees and the Lunacy was over..I parted ways with my two closest musical brothers Namely Andy Coupar and Ollie Jackson, multi talented multi instrumentalists specialising in guitar and piano and drums and percussion respectively. it was 1988 and I went into the family life unionism and music in a shed hobbyist as they went on to set up The laughing Buddahs/Cheeky spiders and a music charity called Soundbase later 4.00am cc…Time rolled on because that’s the deal and it don’t know any better and although we met occasionally and jammed amicably our fates diverged..they did splendid work and kept many young offenders out of prison and mentally disadvantaged types acquainted with the healing power of music..whilst keeping on with their own fab output musically.

Ok, better fast forward to 27 years after the lunatic demise and the health scare that kicked off the lunatic reunion In a series of long phone calls Andy and I decided we’d better do it while we still could and get some of our favourite songs down for posterity and the craic, bringing our new knowledge and musicianship to the table..so we did…and the chemistry was the biggest surprise..man it swang…and swung and stung still..I uploaded a loose cover of Vans ‘Domino’ to the LRL FB page (45 followers!) and it got 26,000 views via sharing and buzz!! (now 8.5k followers!)

It was Game on and we went into 284 studios In Brighton (co-owned by Brian James once of The Damned) with Austin Gayto engineering I’d met him via my recently imploded band Teenage Grandad who’d been gigging and making trouble around Bright town..I Brought Bass demi god ‘The Mighty G’ with me (George Boarer) as he was the one person I’d met since the original LRL who had the same wild and hard to categorise chemistry and ‘Nothing messes with the groove’ philosophy,

Like Mr Coupar and Mr Jackson he sleeps in a guitar case and is either rocking or recovering from rocking or waiting to rock again..full fucking stop.

It went well and there were some new songs and jams that felt and sounded like something entirely new..We put out the LRL album “Like a dog in a playground!” containing mostly old Lunatics ‘hits’ played properly and justice was done. It sold modestly and was available free with homemade films via social disease..I meant ‘media’ honest! decided to go on and do an LP of new stuff..

Unbelievably some people who will remain faceless and nameless were claiming association with the Lunatic brand! saddoes with no right whatsoever..on top of this we decided the name which we thought up as 16 year olds was a bit childish and ‘rapey’ etc..so we changed it to The Firedogs..which I’ve explained elsewhere..(dogfiretribe.com Blog ‘The Flawless Blade speaks’) You’d be surprised how many people protested and showed affection for the old ‘brand’ considering themselves hardcore lunar tribesman..Oh well bless em but no.

Wow I waffled through that way more then I planned…but we’re in 2017 now and The firedogs have been gigging around Albion and recording and Jamming in ‘Coupars magic Parlour and literally haemorrhaging songs galore! We all agree we’re playing the shit we always dreamed of and so
We’ve put out 11 of about 50..Pete Maher mastered them and Gavin Martin (Daily Mirror music critic) is about to call them the bees bollocks in a national news paper..Here we now.

There will be more gigs, films and songs in 2018 and we’ll look out for you..Ignore the Chinese it’s the year of the Dog next.

Brent Peacehaven 24/12/2017.

‘The Firedogs’ is available via apple iTunes, SoundCloud and the rest now and check out ‘Talking musical revolutions by Gavin Martin..

Peace and love and fuck the Toffs.

So I bid my mother goodbye and frankly, it was while trying not to laugh or cry as the dismal rain fell on the Caruso warping its way from the graveyard CD player, born on Friday the 13th and died on Friday the thirteenth…and everything means nothing and nowt.

And in the wise tinted retro spectacles I now, grey bearded, must wear, I know, I came adrift like Billy Pilgrim and Jack Kerouac eloping with my selves muttering ‘Rules are for fools’ and ‘I wanna live in a movie’ We say all sorts of embarrassing shite when we’re young and suppressing the shadow of death the best we can in order to hope a little longer..it’s lying around in bits like our personalities were..we gather them up and make a collage.

Off I’ve been on the protracted wander that led from the dismal cemetery to Coupars Magic parlour Where he has gathered the many strange and wonderful devices that he uses to perform his sonic wizardry and play several musical instruments with an approach inexplicable and entirely self taught that makes maestros feel like one fingered fuckwits and quit..I will not lie even for love.

I brought some scraps of tunes and hard won verse and he gave me an organ peddle and made a face that meant ‘Let’s get this done while we still can’
and Time has changed me, and so have you.

All of this is true.

The lunatic reunion finished and I walked with a cane and two of my sons down Providence Place, the Poet Isobel followed me with a camera..I have the film as evidence, it was murder and everyone was a suspect and guilty.

We Needed Oliver Jackson who played many instruments with all his fingers but principally Drums and we needed George Boarer who played many other instruments but mostly the bass guitar and sang dark and lived there above a garage in Providence Place like the Fonz..these people sleep in musical instrument cases and cannot and will not quit, they will break your heart as it breaks mine that I cannot write their stories in full which are still being written.. A sketch of them and mine are here heartfelt and factual unflinching. I hope you can feel them.

Firedogs are the flourishes on the brazier blackened iron hard by the heat of the flame and time has changed me and so have you.

The clock is tap- tapping impatient, Tick fucking Tock innit?

Brent 3.06am 13/12/2017 Peacehaven in Albion.