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I’ve had the health issues and then the Trumps and Brexits and terrible explosions and knife wielding blues..I may have withdrawn entirely from ‘humanity’ even knowing there’s always broken machinery and bad chemistry reckoned into the price..I do live down the lane on the edge and I am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.

The Firedogs are not a ‘normal’ band
Bios will say this shit but I am not a P.R. bot.

I am a Lifelong fan of Mr Andy Coupar and Mr Brent Jackson..I’ve followed them since they were

lunatic teenagers gigging twice a week and ‘practicing’ (a party with jamming NO RERUNS) twice..
Two things happened..they gained a big live following based on the Iggy style kamikaze fronting of Jackson and the increasingly stunning guitar rule breaking of his stalwart..
They added some killer tunes and chorus’s and Mr Ron Richards House producer at Abbey road studios and Genius gentleman saw them live and took them in abbey road saying..you two nutters are the best songwriters i’ve heard since John and Paul.
‘Who?’ Coupar said.
John Peel professed he loved the Lunatics So they split up. 88..
Reforming In 2014 With their best drummer (producer teacher) Ollie jackson and The mighty G (The best lead guitarist that ever played bass! world traveller Singer Hawklord.) To make an LP of the Lunatic songs they wished they’d recorded, they soon found ten thousand fans had joined their page and got more than 2 million video views They had a sit down…worldwide radio play and some festivals got terrorised…
Then they decided to start jamming.. a freer wilder approach where the previous was free and wild..
Still the old chorus’s that nag n stick still the old killer tunes..but a new will to push the sonic envelope and say the unsaid..  
This is the firedogs. it’s what they’re doing now.

Soundman to G has he’s going onstage: What sort of music do you play?
G: Lets find out shall we.

Ron Richards (22 January 1929 – 30 April 2009)
John Peel, OBE (30 August 1939 – 25 October 2004)

Thank you granddaughter, you’ve got to love them…no apparently you have to.

I have now officially been making my own art and stories and songs for half a centaury..
Lordy..

There are people who still regard me as ‘The Kid’ on here and those poor long suffering folk can confirm that’s not hyperbole they can also confirm that I’ve always been this eccentric and gregarious..what they can’t do is explain why I aint better at the ‘Art’ after spending oceans of time at it..

I had a whale Friday night with the inner circle at the 2nd Nora LP sessions..if there’s a place I’d like to spend a birthday in more than Coupars magic parlour it’s slipped my mind.

Chorus: Here for our younger viewers is what I’ve learnt in 58 years of tenacious survival by audacious bluff..Count your blessings!

I’ts one of them phrases your nan and the bible say and you see as trite religious homilies..
However having died thrice once in Glasgow I can assure you it’s a 100% legit magic mantra, explanation and the first thing one thinks after a resurrection…oh and there are many, many second chances.
Count your blessings!
I do.
I’m glad to be here and I’m glad you’re here too.

Brent Peacehaven, 28th August 2017.

Every fortnight as some of you will know a small satirical newspaper called Private eye is published in this country and is available to all, many of you my friends, will give it a miss, as large swathes of it are concerned with subjects you feel, I know, life is just too short to dwell on…

This is a view I understand and sympathise with, sometimes I only read the Cartoons, There’s only so much rank injustice, corruption and pomposity one can laugh at before it rings hollow like a gigantic bell… Fortnight upon fortnight and without fail, since I was a teenager, this publication has reeled off and highlighted a steady flow of tales of the double dealing, money grabbing and bent in our management and legal and ruling ‘classes’, A heap of odious, sociopath, politicians, Businessmen and media figures… unhinged by the prospect of a whiff of power and wealth into acts of breathtaking selfishness and greed, tens, no, hundreds of thousands of acts of moral bankruptcy and betrayals of common decency, exploitation and opportunism that would make a parasitical insect wither with shame. As entertainment goes it’s a pretty masochistic and questionable choice actually, I’ve come to realise and I have to wonder how it goes on and on and on.

I prefer the brevity and incision of verse really and song specifically and I feel two song quotes sum up the situation with agonising exactitude.
“The worlds insane and we’re all to blame in a way” Paul Weller, “The Butterfly collector”
“People aint no good” Nick cave, eponymous.

Today I read in the ‘Eye’ that, ‘according to Facebooks own figures there are more 18 year old men on the platform than are currently alive on Earth”
Fancy that!
Is it any wonder that a sea of souls pretend, indeed yearn to be someone else?

I celebrate my youngest sons birthday today, He’s Thirteen and Innocent, untouched by the seething ocean of maggots before him..Baby Jesus on a unicycle Shall we do something about it? Or just fold like all those others and stagger off into the wasteland of lonely broken liars and mercenaries doomed to never feel again the contentment and belonging we once imagined?
Fatherhood…it’s a bastard.

Brent. 02/05/2017 (tuesday)

I missed PMQT that week, I’ll admit it, I’d been worn down by the walking dead shuffling meme by meme to a racist, entitled, Great British fake off, rendered afraid by the zombie-fying forces of Murdoch and the pith hatted medias sly tally ho for the billionaire vision of the new serfdom..I was blown out by the Carry on House of commons inanity of the coming isolationist trumping of Albion and the consequences for my kids education
and the National Health service about to become the Virgin and associates health company sell off. I had the wacky adventures of an aging wonky indy band in Plasticine to make in an attempt to alleviate the bitter broken heart of a socialist facing a shit storm of inane compliance..
I’d worked late in the studio (garage) and missed the tolling of the bells of uprising, probably a good thing, if i’d heard it live I may have had a cardigan vest.

It happened like this but I can’t tell you why..the career politicians gathered in the house of conmen had been eyeing up Jeremy who was sitting staring at a sheet on his lap and saying nowt, later it emerged that even his own colleagues had feared he’d grown sick, he looked more pale and red eyed than usual and seemed distracted.. you could hear the whispers on his side contained a lot of concerned ‘Jezzas and jeremys and the hubbub opposite had the phrase ‘we got him’ and the word broken in it..

The prime minister wore her splendid new plum leather trousers and gave it some histrionics about a strong unified nation having sent some in-genuine commiserations out to a victim of something, in the tone of smug winners everywhere she looked to Mr Corbyn to add his opening bit and a long awkward pause fell and radiated out from him like a SBD fart of some magnitude, then just as the tension reached it’s disconcerting apogee Jeremy stood and smiled suddenly at the hollow clothes horse opposite and spoke.
‘Did the right honorable lady opposite sleep well last night?’ some Whig wag brayed ‘Yes thanks’ and childish laughter ensued
‘Did she? Was she not woken by the bells? The alarm bells that wake the people of these islands? did she sleep through them, her and her swivel eyed Bullingdon billionaire lackeys with their deregulation and free market bun fest disregard for their homeland, these marionettes of boggle eyed super rich media barons based over the seas and their corporate pals who pay nothing in to our island yet tell it what to think, those dinosaurs who run riot through pension funds and gorge the profit of the common decent man, the worker, the veteran, the aspiring young, was she not woken by the bells that toll for her and her backward Etonian privilege? The heartless hollow competition? Did she not hear these decent ordinary Brits get up and go on and then realise..They like France and Germany and Holland? Did she not hear the alarm bell sound of the billions of pennies dropping as they further realised that her and her co conspirators and Mr Trump and his golf club friendless well to do’s are the real enemies of liberal democracy, Not Europe, Not Putin and not Kim Jong, THEM! they are thieves and liars, mad men even, selling greed and competition and calling it ‘Nature’ and fate like comic super villains..and disregarding the youth who yearn for more, for real unity not a sound bite for the Mail and Sun, Did she forget Iceland? Did she forget the misery her snake oil salesman austerity caused for the infirm and elderly the struggling single parent the disadvantaged..DID SHE?’ The house of open mouths was historically stunned at this unexpected and heartfelt outburst and the career conmen in there had even forgot to bray as Jeremy Corbyn fixed his opposite number with a steely and coruscating stare..and finished..
‘Is she so cocky and arrogant so swept up in her own hyperbole and certainty that she thinks Google and Amazon and the aforementioned Bransons and Murdochs can serve our nation up to her elitist mates like Tescos? Has she really slept through the bells?
I’d like to finish by quoting Iggy Pop gentleman..’
“Life is not a business”
The Alarm bell went off and woke me in error at 4.30am on Thursday morning and the dream was gone like snow on water.

Brent Jackson Peacehaven. 20th April 2017.

As the big wheel turned and the millennium arrived in 2000, I found myself living in Frederiksberg, Copenhagen, Denmark, washed ashore battered and jaded from the struggles of unionism against the tide of Thatcherism’s market free for all, the cold and ‘hollow competition’… ‘Had a bit of a nervous break-dance and…Well anyway I was a refugee among the Danes; I’ll spare you the gruesome boredom of the details…

The third Saturday I was there, in the corner of the square that shared the large communal back gardens of Svanholmes vej all the immediate neighbours came out and got together and caught up, painted fences, weeded gardens and took care of each other and the area, those who were busy, shy or disinclined put more toward the beer and pizza, I learned it wasn’t a law but a tradition and for me an Englishman it was a revelation..and frankly an alien experience..and absolutely fucking wonderful..How did they do it every month? why? It relieved local services and caused a reduction in the rates! I pondered long on it as I sipped from the bottle and munched on fine local pizza..

They had a sense of community and togetherness a feeling of extended family connection we simply lost before I was born and only vaguely experienced in village life in the sixties..They knew each other better and liked each other more! I felt like I’d arrived on another planet and penny lane was being piped from the sky…my grin hurt.

Where was the envy and rivalry? The hollow competition?

It’s laughably simple of course when you examine it, they don’t have ‘Toffs’ they don’t have hoards of millionaires, the entitled…and the vast majority live so well, so gracefully and stylishly as a result..Generally speaking and of course there are a few exceptions but they are few and anomalous…Their culture is not soviet Russia they are not ‘trots’ they are a dynamic upbeat innovative society with fantastic health and public services and they party and love like Celts..

They have not been infected by the greed of the upper crust into the dog eat dog shit show Albion has become…they simply haven’t…and the Mail and Sun and the like, those brown tongues of the ruler set, don’t want you to hear about it they want you to regard the world in the knee jerk reactionary black n white that serves them..The Scandinavians see us as sick with ego and lust and our society as a broken free for all a mad eyed unjust circus…and that’s what the Tory wants…Carrot town with also rans of misery in every other door way…

I’ve seen it with my own eyes and it works better than the miserable bollocks Mrs May is offering in her tasteless leather trousers on behalf of her millionaire crony’s…and if she expects me to sit back and except this filthy rigged game run like a post code lottery, for my children and grand children, for these islands and tribes I love then she can dream on..I’ll fight it to my last dying breath with every possible method at my disposal and if you are not happy with the society the culture she’s offering to your family to your people, that odious cosmetic liar thief, then you should fight it too and vote her and her henchmen to oblivion come June.

They are the villagers
a torch wielding mob
they march up to the castle
and elect the fucking knob

They are the villagers
a banal bovine barrage
they like the queen and Simon cowl
and Nigel fucking forage

You are a villager
your head is full of sticks
You are not a free man
you are number six

They’ve never left the village
where life is simple, steady
don’t tell the villagers
They’re dead already

Empty hearted inbreeds
who hold the whole race back
stared out the window in their class
and the village stared right back

Ignore the mobile library
It’s for nans and gays
I’d rather play a shoot em up
and I can’t read anyway

They stay in their hovels
on a diet of porn and pot
and vote for the tories
and the land that time forgot.

Brent Jackson.