This place is a circus for the insane..

I’m sat here with Brent Jackson and Andy Coupar.
The Firedog poetry in chief whose tongue they call the ‘Flawless blade’

and his long time musical collaborator called mainly ‘Coup’
Jacko is reading something over an earlier Firedogs jam…the overall effect being JCC and PIL mutating exile on main street…
Coup is layering in a guitar whine that’s almost certainly disturbing local pets equilibrium..
*mutters darkly*
“I got no shangri la to head for someday
Just notebook raving- nameless craving- and a sofa to crash on till Sunday.
The rebel rock curse in my bad blood runs black..
It pulled me from the factory farm and i’m never going back
I am the dirty road now you cannot folla
This is my fate now my slave holler
no more hollow competition that brainless game
This place is a circus for the insane..

*Howls like a dangerous lunatic making everyone jump*

“CLOWNs CRY AND CRIPPLE EACH OTHER.”

6.26 AM.
Somewhere.

The aforementioned machine fires up outside the game begins again.
Andy Coupar a musical assassin and outsider goes to bed.
The dawn chorus laughs.
The Firedogs are recording their opus and Rebel Rock lives.
Johnny Someone.

Yeah, so… The Firedogs. What’s to say?

They’ve been around. Seen a thing or two.

Chasing cars, as dogs do.

Gone briefly, but back again;

now renewed.

The old new black.

The old, now back.

Hallelu.

 

Lord knows what the bald one at the front is saying, but he yodels with conviction;

The bass is deliciously chunky and goes down smooth;

The guitar whines and screams and crackles

like the spawn of caged lightning and some cackling vixen;

and the drums, oh, the drums…

It’s all there mate. The real McCoy.

As good on stage as it is in the booth.

 

Thirty odd years in the making;

Grown near London town

but brewed elsewhere;

aged to perfection

in an oak cask

down by Brighton.

Fancy a drop?

Well, by all means,

so long as you savour the flavour

and aren’t easily frightened:

 

The back of the bottle recommends you drink the whole lot –

in through the ear-hole and prepare for a shock.

 

These ain’t your nan’s dogs.

Your old dogs.

Your sold dogs.

Your capitalist fat gods.

 

Dogs will be dogs – or no, not quite.

 

These are the Late Road –

Wait that’s not right…

 

These are The Firedogs

and be warned:

 

They bite.

OMG The young are coming and they want social justice and fairness in society! Quick everyone refer to ‘The militant tendency and Mao and Stalin..and Sauron and Doctor Robotnic..FACE BACKWARDS AND POUR CYNICISM ON THEIR INNOCENT ENTHUSIASM FOR A JUST WORLD! SHIELDS UP RED ALERT…QUICK REMIND THEM ITS POINTLESS AS ALL HUMAN BEINGS ARE SELFISH SCUM WHO SECRETLY HATE EVERYONE…
Really the shit these balloon headed old guard apologist spout…painting Jeremy and all his followers as buffoons…to allay their panic regarding their privileged lifestyles…New popular socialism..driven by the young and similar to the Scandinavian model?
High tax for health and education and housing? Haha there you go…there’s the rub…If the young decide that level of self sacrifice is how decent people, tribal family people should behave, and that’s how you get a fairer society then the tax avoiding I’m alright Jack, Trump merchants (who obviously think the common tax payers an idiot)…can go live in the land of the free for all…if you agree please share..it’s important we see more of the elite cack themselves and spout more comedy dribble…keeps me amused children…Bullshit detectors to stun!

We made money for faceless suits in The Late Road..it was deeply maddening..
We lost as usual, as so, so, many of my truly talented and ‘driven’ mates in this ‘biz’ have.
I do not include a single person in that who wants to be praised and overpaid, Bowie and Marley etc, the ‘titans’ are distant gods to them too..they are the real deal and will do the stuff they do and love whatever..
The world has changed and the marketing stultification consensus has crept out like a thin plastic film on all of us..from peace festivals and militant punk we moved to Utube ads and war-game soundtrack nervelessness..a loveless landscape where thumb twitching on the right beat is the replacement for the dance and singalong of youth…
You’ve all heard my views on the war games and blood films..The misogyny and objectification..the pornography of fame neurosis..
Well let me disavow you of the notion that i’m a miserable old nihilist repeating the same old ‘youth of today doomsayer dismissals..I’M FULL OF LOVE AND HOPE! ,..That’s right, I See the return of poetry, community, I attend wild anti-authority improvisations where no one present gives a flying fek about labels or competition hollow..
I see the independence of the unnameable creative impulse that cannot be quantified, tamed, marketed or controlled…I see the backlash where the indomitable human spirit gets out of the lonely game chair and runs again beneath the tree’s.New art new writing new films always and always compelled to chant down Babylon and proclaim the plastic emperors spiritually naked.
This is Moonset.
The firedogs ate the lunatics and it happened like this.
Brent Jackson Peacehaven Sep 2016.

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