Mark Charlesworth

Remember, Remember...

2011-11-05T16:53:00.001Z

...The fifth of November, Gunpowder, Treason and... ROCK!?

But seriously, in between writing poetry and the sequel to 'Life Begins at 40', we've made some music. Click here to download the 'November' EP by Black Orchid. There's no set price for the download, so you can pay what you like. Those of you who read my last poetry collection, 'In Memory of Real Trees', may recognise a musical version of an old poem...

And if you're in Lancaster on Friday 25th November, you can see us playing live at the Oxfam fundraiser 'Oxtravaganza' in The Yorkshire House. More on that soon...

Readings

2011-10-27T13:04:00.003+01:00

Hello,

It's been rather quiet on the blog/news front lately, but followers of the previous books might like to know that I'll be doing a reading this evening at Preston's 'Word Soup' which is held at 'The Continental' from 8pm. It's quite an exciting one for me: not only is it my first time reading poetry live for over a year-and-a-half, it's also a great opportunity for me to debut some new material from my forthcoming collection. I like to think this as-yet-untitled project ties up the loose threads of 'Sunrise and Shorelines' and 'In Memory of Real Trees' nicely. So it seems fitting that it will be my last collection of poetry for quite a long time. I will also be donating the entire proceeds to Christie Hospital for reasons that may be clear in 'White Pyjamas', a new poem included at the end of this message.

Also this week, myself and Chris Newton will be reading an extract from our Doctor Who inspired comedy, 'Life Begins at 40' (the sequel of which is currently in the works), at Ansdell library, this Friday, starting 10.30am. If any of you are local to the area and want to call in, it would be great to see you there.

As ever, anyone who wants to drop me a line is welcome to send me a message on mark.charlesworth@hotmail.co.uk, with any comments or just to say hi.

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this new excerpt:

White Pyjamas

I am having a recurring dream,
wandering through the hallways of my past,
seeing, at best, situations I was blessed,
at worst, occasions we were together cursed,
seeing childhood memories played as melodramas,
seeing the ghosts of you and me,
dressed in white pyjamas.

Our kitchens are repopulated
by the cast of old productions,
living rooms filled with laughter, tears,
neighbours from an avenue seeming so big,
their houses could simply disappear,
a flick-show of December twenty-fifths,
fast-forwarding through time around a sole constant:
teletext, Eastenders, white noise, mist,
a body immoveable, asleep on the sofa,
remote control limply in wrist.

Out of sight, uninvited, unseen,
treading the boards of places I've been
– but no longer belong –
I find myself at a summer garden party,
watching relatives from distant counties
tend skewers on a buffet,
a somersaulting girl with freckles and pigtails.

A boy who looks the spit of me
rises from the table.
He holds his mother's hand,
inclines his head.
The pair of them, wearing backless gowns,
walk me to a photo of a hospital bed.

In a wall-mounted gallery
of carefully-selected memories,
it seems an odd choice.
Family portraits chime with edited harmony.
Sorrow doesn't get a voice.

Our eyes meet with a knowing smile,
and I understand.
I've waited, for years, to tell myself
– a child of twelve with the cares of a man –
that everything will be okay,
to look at my mother, with clear hindsight,
and say that I love her.

Now, somehow, we're above that,
just being here is enough.
Some words are conveyed
without ever being spoken,
it's time to stir nostalgia
without sad ghosts being woken,
time to shake off the white pyjamas,
put the turmoil and dramas of the past to bed.

BOOK UPDATE: 'Life Begins at 40'

2011-01-31T12:46:00.004Z

Well, doesn't time fly? The last time I sent out an update was a couple of months ago, but it seems like a few days ago. 'Life Begins at 40', which had started out as a blog on Pete and Jeff's Blog, had just become a book (or it had certainly taken its first tentative steps - things ended up taking a little longer than expected, but I'll come to that shortly) and gone up for pre-order. Pete and Jeff had made a bold move to become less socially reclusive and actually joined Facebook, where it was discovered other Doctor Who fans also lurked. And the website hit its first 1000 views. Everything was going swimmingly. And then - a few Christmas dinners, celebratory drinks and duff New Year fireworks later - it was the end of 2010! And now, somehow, it's nearly the end of January!

I'd like to offer my very sincere apologies to those of you who pre-ordered the book and were hoping to get it in time for Christmas, particularly to those of you who I haven't already contacted individually. Because this book is being released through Hirst Publications, I don't actually have a complete list of everyone who's pre-ordered. Any hold ups have been almost as frustrating to me and Chris as they have no doubt been to you, but any of you who follow Marillion and the like will know that it is often the way with pre-order campaigns.

The good news is that the book has now gone to print and should be with you shortly. Unfortunately, we've had to make a tough decision and lose Sophie Aldred's foreword, as it was the sole thing holding the whole process up: the general consensus seemed to be that people would rather have the book in good time rather than delay things further by waiting for it. To compensate, however, we've added various bits of new content, including some completely new sections! Having seen the final draft of the book, we have to say that we're really proud of it, and we hope you'll enjoy sitting down to read it as much as we will. At nearly 400 pages, we like to think it offers value for money too!

Once again, I can only thank all of you - especially those who are awaiting pre-order copies - for your patience and support. If anyone wishes to get in touch through 'mark.charlesworth@hotmail.co.uk', I'll be on hand to answer any questions.

And should anyone wish to order the soon-to-be-released 'Life Begins at 40', you can do so at the following link: Pre-Order 'Life Begins at 40'.

I look forward to hearing your comments and feedback, and will be in touch again with more news shortly.

All the best,

Mark Charlesworth

Excerpt from 'Life Begins at 40'

2010-10-06T15:06:00.004+01:00

Here are a few more samples from the upcoming 'Life Begins at 40' book. If you like this, there's plenty more to whet your appetite on: www.peteandjeff.blogspot.com

And those who are still looking to pre-order a copy can do so at: Hirst Publishing

Saturday 7th August

I went for another coffee with Rachel, a little less nervous than last time. Although the perfume still got me.
“James loves Doctor Who!” She said. “He wants a sonic screwdriver for his birthday.”
“I've got a-” I began, rather enthusiastically, but then remembered I was supposed to be playing it cool. “...An idea where you could get one of those. Amazon.” I nodded.
“Uh-huh.” She mumbled. I had the feeling that my information hadn't really helped that much. “He's always asking mad questions. Maybe you'll know this one: why does the TARDIS look like a phone box?”
“Well, it's a chameleon circuit. It can change its form to blend in perfectly with its surroundings!”
“So... That's why Doctor Who looks human?” She looked puzzled.
“What? No...”
“So what does he really look like? Is he a green blob or something?”
“Green blob? No, that's the Daleks!” I shrieked.
“I thought the Daleks were robots?” She asked. I buried my head in my hands.
“The Daleks are not robots! They're the mutated remains of the Kaled race in a Mark 3 travel machine of bonded polycarbide armour!” I felt the conversation was slipping away from us.
“So... how many days now? Until the wedding?”
She fixed her eyes on mine. “D'you want a proper drink?”

Pete: Saturday 7th August

Where was Jeff?! He said he was only going for coffee. Coffee! How long could that take to drink? And what was he doing drinking coffee anyway? He was a pint man. Everyone knew that! I sincerely hoped he wasn't trying to pass himself off as a regular, functioning person again? Cause it takes a lot more than just switching your lager for latte to achieve that. It was that Rachel! I'd have to give him a stern talking to when he got in... But I couldn't do that on an empty stomach. I looked in the fridge: one carton of milk which had separated into a cooking oil-like substance; some margarine that had gone black; a tub of 'Athlete's Foot Remedy' (?); Daisy's organic yeast gloop; and an open tin of dry Spam with an even dryer teabag perched on top. Maybe if we had any bread in the freezer, I could use the athlete's foot cream as spread? But we didn't. The freezer was equally devoid of edible content. Which only left the... But no! Surely I couldn't eat the Doctor Who spaghetti shapes. Jeff might come home to find me having a spasm of some kind. I scrutinized the ingredients, however, and saw that they only contained 0.07% anchovy extract. Why did they even bother? Surely that wouldn't kill me...
Unfortunately, the tin was without a ring-pull and I'd never been able to master can openers. But this was the future, so maybe it was one of those tins where the lid gradually peeled itself off the hotter it got. They existed, didn't they? Dom had mentioned it. Yeah, course they did. So I stuck the whole thing in the microwave and turned the dial. 3 minutes. Great! Time to go to the bathroom.
When I returned, 2 minutes later, the microwave looked like it was about to take off into space-time. The inside was rippling with blue sparks – little lightning forks of radioactive electricity – at its epicentre, the Doctor Who spaghetti shapes. I didn't know what to do. Was this a unique feature to compliment the nature of the product? It did seem like an awful lot of trouble for the good people at The Mill to go to, just for a cheap snack-food, complete with smoke and... FLAMES! Shit! I ran to press the eject button, but just then there was a small explosion, and all the power went out.
Thank god for my numerous supply of sonic screwdrivers, which double as great torches! I inspected the damage. The base of the microwave oven had melted. I'd have to hide it from Jeff. If he asked, I'd just say we'd never owned one, and that he'd imagined it. I put the whole thing in a box, and hid it under my bed. It'd be fine down there. It couldn't be that radioactive...
The power had just overloaded. I threw a trip switch and it was fine. But we didn't seem to have any hot water. What if I had to call a plumber? I'd be required to stand around and banter with them, pretend to be a real man: etiquette demanded it. I'd have to worry about it another time. Jeff had just shambled through the front door, clearly pissed. He moved towards me as though he couldn't bend his knees, steadying himself on the furniture, and then my shoulder.
“Have you met the French?!” His expression was gleeful.
I shot him a stern glare. “What time do you call this?” He seemed to be having some difficulty lifting his hand from my shoulder to check his watch, then remembered that we had a clock in the living room. In fact, we had eleven clocks in the living room: one for each Doctor.
“Ah yes, got a bit waylaid. But it's all going to be fine, 'cause me and Rachel are definitely getting back together.”
“WHAT?!”
“Yeah, I know. Great, isn't it?” He threw both arms into the air and started singing “champions!” – football style – until he could no longer stay upright, and collided with the sofa in a roughly sit-down position. I perched on the arm, to one side, listening to Jeff twitter on about how fantastic he was, what a fantastic night he'd had, and how fantastic everything was going to be from here on in. All I could think was 'what about me?'.
“Obviously there'll be certain complications.” My ears pricked up.
“Oh yeah. Like the fact that Rachel's getting married?”
“A-ha! But she's not! There's no way she'll go through with it. She wants to start a new life with me, for sure.”
“Right... And she did definitely say that, didn't she?”
“Didn't need to.” Oh dear.
“Well, what exactly happened then?”
“Ah, you wouldn't believe it! We went for that coffee, and as soon as she walked into the room, she couldn't take her eyes off me. I couldn't blame her, of course. It couldn't have helped that the Jeffmeister here was socking it to her in the charm department.” So that was why his tie was loose. He seemed to be under the impression that undoing enough buttons to show a little chest hair in public was 'charming'. “Anyway, I was all like – you gonna go through with this sham wedding then, or do you reckon we should give things another crack?” He emphasized the word 'crack' as though it held huge comedic value. This was accompanied by an obscene mime. “And she was like – Oh Jeff, I want to get pissed with you and relive the glory days of your parents bedroom! To hell with the consequences!”
“She actually said that?”
“You bet your ass! So we went to the pub, and she was all over me. Her hand must have touched mine, like, four times or something. And you won't believe this, but when we were about to go, she leaned over, and it was obvious she was going to kiss me.” I raised my eyebrows, somewhat sceptical. “She didn't. Made some excuse about reaching over to get her handbag, which was obviously a lie.”
“Oh right. So her handbag wasn't actually behind you then?”
“Well, no... It was. But that just proves it, doesn't it?”
“Does it?”
“Of course! She deliberately left it in a position where she'd end up in an 'accidental' clinch with me.”
“So, let me get this straight. She said she wanted more than coffee...” Jeff slicked back his hair. “So you went for a proper drink; you talked about old times, 'cause that's what old friends who haven't seen each other for a while do; she touched your hand a few times, and was careless enough to leave her handbag out of sight, behind your back. And, because of this, you think she wants to get back with you? Have I missed something?”
“Yes. No.” Visible confusion set in. He had the look of a dog chasing his own tail. “Not just because of that. Because she said so.”
“But did she actually say words like, or to the effect of, 'Jeff, I want to give things another go'?”
“She didn't need to. It was clearly implied.”
“Okay. But what did she actually say?” He didn't answer me. I could see him going through his mental filing cabinet, racking his brains. Then his whole head tilted slowly downwards. I'd burst his optimism bubble... And I only felt a bit guilty. After a moment, he staggered up and, with some effort, made his way silently to the kitchen. Shortly afterwards, he called back “Didn't we used to have a microwave?”

Pre-order 'Life Begins at 40' now to get your name in the credits, and a signed copy before the book hits the shelves: http://bit.ly/awxdon

New Book - 'Life Begins at 40', a Doctor Who inspired black comedy - NOW AVAILABLE TO PRE-ORDER!

2010-09-29T18:19:00.003+01:00

Hello. First message from me in a while. I hope you're all keeping well?

It's been almost a year since the release of 'In Memory of Real Trees', and I'd like to say a heartfelt thanks to everyone who's contributed to or supported the book in some way. It's taken me to some fantastic places and I've met some great people through readings and promotion, raising money for Christie Hospital along the way.

This year sees the release of a radically different sort of book, written by myself and Chris Newton. In a dramatic departure from the poetry, comes 'Life Begins at 40' (Hirst Books), a Doctor Who inspired black comedy, combining risque humour with some truly surreal scenes and typically poignant moments.

'Life Begins at 40' is the story of two thirty-something Doctor Who fanatics sharing a flat in Blackpool, out of pocket, out of luck, and clinging to the hope that Life Begins at 40...

Jeff is a barman, constantly forestalling marriage to his neurotic new-age girlfriend, preferring the company of Pete, an agoraphobic misfit with some serious baggage. United by their social detachment and love of Doctor Who, their world view is tainted by too much cult TV, and the walls between reality and fantasy begin to blur, with hilariously disastrous consequences.

With middle-age fast approaching, can they really spend the rest of their lives hiding behind the sofa?

'Life Begins at 40' deals with the big questions. Should we get married? Are children a good idea? And, in the future, will we all be walking around with one eye and no arms from too much teleporting?

It's already been getting some great reviews since it first appeared as a blog over on: http://www.peteandjeff.blogspot.com/. Why not take a read through extracts from the first draft, in the edited format already available online?

'Life Begins at 40' is now available for pre-order from 'Hirst Books', and features the complete story together with a foreword from Doctor Who's Sophie Aldred. The pre-order campaign will help fund the release of the book, and, as a thank you, you'll get your name in the credits, along with a signed copy before the book hits the shelves.

Look out for more extracts over the coming weeks, and thanks for your continued support.

Please pre-order from the following link: http://bit.ly/awxdon

All the best,

Mark

Through a Glass Darkly

2010-04-23T15:22:00.002+01:00

The game's afoot... After a couple of stints trying out new material at Paul Sockett's excellent 'Outspoken' event in Clitheroe (http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/group.php?gid=210420760961) and Lynnette Shaw McKone's 'Exposure' launch in Carlisle (http://storytellerbard.wordpress.com/), the writing of Book 3 is now underway.

You can read a sample of this work-in-progress below, and, as usual, comments and suggestions are welcomed: more now than ever, in fact, as they may end up directly influencing the outcome of the next book!

'In Memory of Real Trees', meanwhile, has now been out for a few months, and has been getting some great feedback, most recently with a great write-up in 'Lancashire Life' Magazine.

If you'd like to purchase a copy of the book, or find out about postage discounts, please email me here.

Alternatively, it's still available at Amazon, where you can also read a couple of user reviews: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Memory-Real-Trees-Mark-Charlesworth/dp/1445205335/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1272031864&sr=1-1

Thanks, as ever, for your continued support!

All the best,

Mark

***

Through a Glass Darkly

On an island out of time,

a minute hand ticks wearily to midnight,

and, still, a heathaze blurs our sight.

A crescent of luminescent white

pricks a terracotta sky:

ink swirling in the riverbed,

the struggle of weather fronts

brought down to ground level,

pressing close against glistening skin

and half-intoxicated heads.

The landscape is a delirious spectacle,

seen through a glass darkly

in thirsty paralysis,

like shriveled, parched fruit,

a spectre of death

beautiful on the outside nonetheless:

red apple skin shimmering with raindrops.

Treacherous waters restlessly chop,

devouring cobble, brick and stone,

to rob wilting orchards of prosperous crops,

eroding the shells of once-stately homes.

We are alone in a crumbling paradise,

watching for storms and picking off parasites,

invisible and isolated by the tides,

somehow invincible, feeling strangely alive.

And I wonder to myself,

staring down at a skyline of wavering steeples,

why it is I might appear

so dolorous and dreary,

world-weary and wistful,

pensive, plaintive and not a bit peaceful.

Well, the thing about sad is,

it's happy for deep people.

Postcards from the Snow

2010-01-08T21:04:00.007Z

Well, the New Year's off to a particularly cold start, rendering the outside world beautifully picturesque or treacherously hazardous, depending on your point of view. Personally, I'd like to try and show the best of this unusually snowy spell by interspersing this post with various photographs taken around my adopted hometown(s) of Lytham St. Annes and Lancaster.

And, for the benefit of those who haven't seen www.prestonwritingnetwork.blogspot.com, here's a copy of their recently published review of In Memory of Real Trees, followed by an accompanying interview. Thanks to all at Central Lancashire Writing Hub for all their help and support!

IN MEMORY OF REAL TREES: REVIEW (BY ANDREW MICHAEL HURLEY)

In Memory of Real Trees is the follow up to Mark Charlesworth’s debut poetry collection and, once again, there is much to recommend. Landscapes familiar to Sunrise and Shorelines are revisited but with a much keener eye. A gothic gauze is once again laid over the world in Dark Forest, Cemetery Song, Bitterest Sin and Anatomising the Killer, but there is progression from the first collection; Charlesworth has moved on from the musings of a younger poet and speaks with conviction about love, desire, hope and fear.

In many of the poems, love often fails to thrive, or if it does it is inextricably bound up with despair and death: “Love is a parasite deep in the grave”, says the narrator of Victims of Love. Love brings no happiness, only horror, as the macabre conclusion shows:

“There are times in life when we will always feel
Just like little dead girls lying on the beach.”

Even in the more hopeful love poems – Ghosts #2 and How to Stop Time, for example – Charlesworth brilliantly communicates the paradoxically insubstantial and yet permanent feelings of love:

“One second’s intensity can burn an imprint on time
-fleetingly seen from the corner of an eye-
Forge two ghosts together in inseparable binds.”

In Attic Room and Heart-Shaped Hole, however, the tone is less embittered, and a yearning honesty seeps out in the end of the latter. Behind all the nightmarish images, lies a simple human desire for companionship, the narrator saying that the simplest, throwaway pleasures

“would feel a little more extraordinary
With someone else there by my side.”

Interspersed with these seemingly personal concerns are sketches of other lives, damaged and loveless. Second Hand Model and Love Song focus on the mutability and superficiality of youthful beauty, while Collateral for the Company tells the story of a lonely man who is literally worked to death.

One of the strengths of In Memory of Real Trees is the way in which personal and global hopes and fears are interwoven, as demonstrated in the two poems which bookend the collection. The individual anxieties in Damaged Goods in Transit are writ large for all humanity in the aptly named Decision Time. Individual crises parallel the predicament we face as a species.

“Do you feel vulnerable dark and cold?
Too tired to sleep,
Too empty to weep...”

evolves into

“And if we settle for a doomsday scenario
On whose shoulders will rest the blame?”

Like love, a utopian society is possible, says Charlesworth, but not without effort and pain. We first have to walk a road “marked by repentance, recant and repair / or broken bones, regrets and mistakes”. Urban landscapes are as blighted as inner worlds. The city is a dark, bewildering, dangerous place and produces fractured, alienated people, with the opening stanza of Ghosts #1 echoic of both Blake’s London and Eliot’s Wasteland:

“A multitude of drifting shadows
Moving through the city street abyss
Forever haunt the same street corners
Where unseen ropes bound lifeless wrists”

Similarly in Early Morning Commuter, the narrator’s mindscape is mirrored in the world beyond his train window – the “tide of pollution”, the “rain-swept” tower blocks and the “dampness of a disconnected world” all driving him to find escape, both physically and mentally, in “a field of daffodils” where he “begs to be devoured”.

Like those in Sunrise and Shorelines, these are complex poems and demand to be read and re-read. Many of the pieces are dreamlike in their structure, making the world of the collection disorientating and obscured. As readers, as in life, we long for the world to make sense and inevitably it doesn’t; something which is captured well in these poems. Indeed, many of the poems are about the almost impossible task of finding a calm, meaningful space amidst the maelstrom. That aside, Charlesworth’s linguistic inventiveness sometimes gets a little lost in the whirling disorder and so, for me at least, the longer poems are not always as engaging as the shorter, crystallised observations.

There is evidence, though, of a poet finding his voice. Shipwreck, Bees and Bernese Winter are amongst the best in the collection because there is a more judiciously structured progression of ideas, the reader is drawn into the narrative, and there is a more accomplished control of images:

“The frozen green river was picturesque for a while
before absent festive ice-skaters left it still.”

“...the shop-keeper traipses to a cellar store,
cutting spectrums of fabric, lace strands and silk,
in burgundy, violet, thunder-sky-scarlet,
stoking incense, candles and spices enticing...”

Remarkably, Charlesworth has suggested that he is currentl writing his last collection of poetry. Personally, I think this would be a great shame as there is obviously so much potential here for him to become an excellent poet. He is clearly prolific and watches the world carefully. If more work emerges from Charlesworth, it would be nice to see a shorter, more thematically-focused collection which will allow the reader to savour the richness of his language and the poet to cut the skin of a particular aspect of human experience sharply. In the meantime, it is well worth reading In Memory of Real Trees. These poems deserve your time.

INTERVIEW (BY DAISY STELLA BALDWIN)

It's 3pm and I'm standing outside Caffe Nero, waiting to meet Mark Charlesworth, the poet. Mark is also standing outside Caffe Nero, waiting to meet me. The only problem - as we eventually realise – is I am in Lytham and he is in St Anne's.

One quick bus journey later we are ready to start the interview, no real harm done. It's an occupational hazard when there's a ubiquitous Coffee House on every high-street. We chose Nero because Mark is a vegan and here in Suburbia the major chains are the only place you can get soya milk. I say this because it seems typical of the myriad contradictory challenges of Modern Life which so fascinate Charlesworth: where we are forced into making bizarre choices between Veganism and Globalisation, or Fair Trade V Organic, Locally Available V Superfoods. Mark's poetry finds modernity confusing, worrying and often painfully self-aware.

I have armed myself with a Vegan-friendly green tea and a serious expression, but within five minutes of meeting, Mark has used the words 'warm and fuzzy' to describe one of his favourite poems, and concludes the interview with a persuasively positive slant on the recession. While grappling with dark and socially aware themes, there is ultimately an irrepressible love of beauty throughout Mark's writing which makes both reading and listening to him a pleasure.

***

Daisy: The Central Lancs Writing Hub (formerly Preston Writers Network) focuses on the Lancashire literary community. Do you believe specific places can shape and inspire its inhabitants in unique ways and have any places particularly inspired you?

To an extent, yes. This latest book really began to take shape after I attended a wedding in Blackpool. After a while the music began to grate a little and my friend and I decided to go for a walk. It's weird because I've always slagged off Blackpool because of its seediness, its tackiness, and the commercial aspect of it, but we took a walk through all that, quite a way out onto the beach, and then we turned back to Blackpool... All the illuminations were sparkling, like Christmas lights, and it looked almost picturesque. We were seeing Blackpool from this whole new perspective. It started to rain then and the lights through the rain looked... fuzzy. [Laughs] - You don't get words like that in the book, 'warm and fuzzy', honest. 'Carnation' was the poem that eventually emerged from the contrast between the tackiness of the golden mile and the original seafront which attracted the Victorian tourists in the first place. It wasn't the first poem I wrote for the book, but it was the one which gave it structure.

I've also always enjoyed going to Leeds on the train, through the hills and the bleak industrial towns. Despite all the crumbling buildings, there's a beauty about them, set into the jagged hills, which Southerners might not get. The poem turns round the clichés and throws them back at the detractors. The picture on the cover of the book is of Fairhaven Lake, another inspiring spot.

Daisy: Could you tell us a little about your background?

I'm twenty-three, and a Northerner born and bred; I went to college at Cardinal Newman in Preston, before studying English at UCLAN. The course there had some optional creative writing modules, and while at college my English teacher always encouraged us to submit writing to him. I self-published my first book, Sunrise and Shorelines in 2008 and am launching my second book of poetry, In Memory of Real Trees, at The New Continental on the 28th of November. I feel the first book gave me the confidence to start down the road of self-publishing, and with the second I've introduced more of a theme and concept to the work.

Daisy: In terms of poets, who would you cite as influences?

That's hard, I suppose I haven't followed poetry in a linear fashion; Simon Armitage certainly, and Ted Hughes. I'm a big admirer of Baudelaire, especially his poem 'A Carcass' which is about this disgusting cadaver but somehow Baudelaire manages to make it almost beautiful... I think the first book displayed these influences more prominently, it was straight up Nu-Gothic – one reviewer called it that and spelt it that awful 'N-U' way! (Ed. Whoops so did I). Who else? I admire Roger McGough's stark, concise stanzas which somehow manage to contain so much emotion. Then there's our new poet laureate, Carol Anne Duffy.

[The interview here deteriorates into a discussion on the merits of Duffy who still brings back bitter memories of school and forced readings of 'Valentine' for me. Mark suggests I should revisit her as he didn't appreciate her work until he was older, and thinks teaching her in school is a mistake.]

Daisy: I'm interested in the distinction between music and poetry, are there any musicians who have inspired your poetry and to what extent do you think the two forms are interrelated?

I think certainly the line between poetry and music is blurred at best. I'm a big fan of The Smiths. I remember someone read some of the lyrics out in a presentation while I was at University and it was strange how un-lyrical they sounded read aloud. The magic takes place in the way he sings them, and so I suppose there is a distinction there. I also love Nick Cave - the way he constructs lyrics is so totally idiosyncratic, they almost shouldn't work but they do. I also like The Waterboys, especially their song 'Bring 'Em All In', which is extremely poetic.

In first book two of the poems are actually adapted from song lyrics we'd written, and in the new one the poem 'Bitterest Sin' also. It works both ways too, a friend recently read 'Second Hand Model' from the latest book and called me to say he thought it would work really well as a song. So that's a case of poetry inspiring music.

To diverge from the question slightly, I went to an exhibition earlier this year at the Tate Modern which looked at the connection between poetry and painting: Poetry is a snapshot of the world much like a painting is; it takes one concise idea and inspires a train of thought and emotion, and I thought that was a nice idea. In the book the poem '11 Self Portraits' was inspired by this.

Daisy: Are you PC literate? What forms of so-called 'social networking' do you favour and what have you found most effective in creating publicity and maintaining interest?

Yes I'm certainly part of the PC literate generation. But you have to pick and choose, because there are so many different ways to communicate out there that you can spread yourselves too thinly. I looked into various different options to publicise my first book and at the time the buzz about Twitter was just getting started. But Twitter really didn't appeal to me; I don't like the way it reduces everyone to soundbites, whereas with blogging you can actually construct varying arguments, and people can state their case and back it with evidence. I think this reduction of everything to mere soundbites is dangerous to society actually. To elaborate is in a writer's nature. So yes, I avoid Twitter but I do have a blog (http://markcharlesworth.blogspot.com/) and I try to promote it on forums, link to MySpace, Facebook etc. I've found though that sometimes the old-fashioned ways work best. Last year while I was publishing the first book I asked anyone interested in hearing more to scribble their email addresses down – I ended up with a mailing list of over a hundred people. So I use that to update people and I've had a surprising level of responses – sometimes I think there's so much out there that things can sink and get buried. Communicating with people directly can be more successful. Obviously this wouldn't be possible for bigger writers, but I feel privileged to be able to respond to people individually.

Daisy: You've self-published your first two books, why did you make the decision to go down this road to publication?

Originally it was partly because it's much harder to pitch poetry to mainstream publishers. There's a lot of cliché surrounding poetry; people see it as dark and arty and they don't want to go near it. I think there's less of a commercial aspect. At the same time I think there's becoming more of a market for it. I also wanted to some extent to create and control my own reputation by self publishing poetry as a way to progress towards publishing a novel. One step at a time, you know, but I am trying to increase exposure and I have quite a fixed plan. The next book is going to be a concept book dealing with issues very close to my heart and so naturally I would like a wider audience for it. That will be my last book of poems. I don't want to be in danger of repeating myself...

Daisy: That's a very intriguing idea; the attempt to avoid repetition as a writer. Many of our best writers seem to return time and again to the same preoccupations. Some writers (and readers) embrace that and some try consciously to avoid it – do you think it's even possible to do so?

To go back to the previous question, Nine Inch Nails are a big influence, and I read an interview with them recently after their final tour –which was amazing- and they said they had bowed out because they wanted to end it while they were at the peak of their game. I'm hoping I have the willpower after this next book to say that's it for poetry and I'm moving onto prose. I'm not saying I won't return to it at some point in the future but I would want to put a lid on it for the time being. But I'm getting ahead of myself! I would like to get an agent at that stage anyway. I would want to ease up a bit if I were publishing a novel as I'm a bit of a control freak when self-publishing.

Daisy: You talked about the fact that poetry isn't very commercial – and I think the same thing is true of short stories, novellas – do you think the 'credit-crunch' has affected the publishing prospects for writers of these genres and would you advise writers who aren't currently getting offers from mainstream publishers to self-publish or wait it out until the economy has improved?

The society we live in now can be a bleak place sometimes, but there are hopeful things which come out of there: Although yes, this recession can mean mainstream publishers are clinging to their cash cows, it's possible to see it as a good thing because it leads people to take things into their own hands - not just in publishing, but big business and retail as well.

In recent times we've seen a very corporate world in which people have had to ally themselves with a brand, or publisher, and ultimately they compromise their integrity to an extent, just to get their work out there. Now I think people are starting to realise they have to take personal responsibility for themselves and their lives. In a way I think we are witnessing the rebirth of the Age of Independence – not just in terms of writing but in the way people approach their lives; like renewable power, growing their own vegetables, self-sufficiency in lifestyles and business occupations. I think that's a very positive thing.

Perhaps I'm being too optimistic, but it seems to me we're actually making poetry more commercially viable for the future. I'm certainly seeing more grassroots arts events out there recently [like our own Word Soup!] and then there's the web of course – there's a whole network of tools and resources out there for writers. I think in a way the recession or 'credit-crunch' has led to a widespread feeling of empowerment, and it's this sense of being empowered which will carry us into the next era.

In Memory of Real Christmas Trees

2009-12-25T11:09:00.000Z

If I was a musician, it would be dodgy Christmas single time, except this is a festive experiment with a twist. I gave myself a bit a brief to write a poem with all the key Christmas ingedients, but in keeping with the melancholy, social concern of the new book... in a very short space of time. This is what came of it:

IN MEMORY OF REAL CHRISTMAS TREES

Winter skies are redolent in Jade:
the blanketing twilight,
the soft cascade,
the omnipresent artist
brushes oil-paint guiding stars,
perhaps accidentally
or styled by symmetry.

The sparkle of frost in early December
turns hasty footfall into a delicate exercise,
subtle endeavours to remain upright.
Family democracies are unwound, uptight
as figures dress trees in every other window -
curators of haphazard exhibitions for curious strangers,
freed from inhibitions by discount liquor.

Though it should be fairy-lights
and 'Fairytale of New York',
Cruel Melodies play
the solemn stories of Somewhere Else:
the harmony of disparate, wistful hearts
gazing into space on Christmas Eve.
Some with nothing but the mysteries of a brown paper bag,
grimy nails, cracked fingertips.
Some tucked in a nest of plush bedlinen,
a stuffed animal clutched beneath the sleeve.

The table is set for ten.
One place remains empty,
half a pair divided
and garnered with pity,
but we smile and raise a glass all the same
to dedicated festivities in anonymous names
with talk of religion, indulgence, excess;
the memory of a figure in a wine-coloured dress,
hair tied with ribbons;
the memory of forests, singed by fire,
bare branches, black barks,
perched precariously beneath a burning sky.

Words choked, eyes misty
for every lost soul
and all that we're missing.

A muffled voice from another time
lingers with comfort despite waning confidence.
A wheezing old man raises his hands,
says we've all made mistakes,
some things we can't plan,
but if you think for a second
of our last Christmas together,
you'll surely want to make this year the best you can.

Preston FM Interview - Download

2009-12-11T23:41:00.004Z

Those of you who missed my guest-spot on Preston FM this week can now download an audio recording of the whole interview at:

http://www.streamupload.com/?id=7f71fe41-0c4c-41d7-a495-ad3998e5278d

New Book - Out Now!

2009-11-30T18:49:00.005Z

Good evening,

Let me begin by saying a heartfelt thanks to everyone who came along to a very succesful book launch on Saturday night, and helped to make it such a special evening! Ironically, for a writer, I find it difficult to put into words just how much your support and encouragement mean to me.

For anyone who wasn't able to make it, more photos are coming very soon! Also in the pipeline is a set of special online artwork to accompany the book, but more about that in the next few weeks...

I hope those of you who have bought the book so far are enjoying it. For those who haven't, 'In Memory of Real Trees' is now officially on sale, and can be purchased from a whole host of retailers:

Amazon (UK) : http://www.amazon.co.uk/Memory-Real-Trees-Mark-Charlesworth/dp/1445205335/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1259603460&sr=1-2

Amazon (US) : http://www.amazon.com/Memory-Real-Trees-Mark-Charlesworth/dp/1445205335/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1259603524&sr=1-2

The collection can also be bought as an ebook for just £2.99! : http://www.lulu.com/product/download/in-memory-of-real-trees/5591399

Discounted, Signed Copies : People interested in buying a signed copy of the book - at a discounted price - are invited to get in touch with me on mark.charlesworth@hotmail.co.uk

to arrange a meeting, seance or paypal transaction.

10% OF PROCEEDS FROM ALL SALES WILL BE DONATED TO THE CHRISTIE CANCER CARE HOSPITAL (REG. CHARITY # 1049751)

There is also a new interview up on the Central Lancashire Writing Network website, which gives a little more about the background behind the new book : http://prestonwritingnetwork.blogspot.com/2009/11/interview-with-mark-charlesworth-on.html

On top of all that, Monday 7th December sees me guesting with presenter Terry Quinn on Preston FM (http://www.preston.fm/) at 7.30pm, so be sure to tune in.

As always, I welcome comments and feedback, so don't hesitate to get in touch!

All the best,

Mark

Book Launch / Further Away from Home

2009-11-22T22:14:00.003Z

Rainy Sunday evening greetings all,

A little update on all things book-related, which are certainly gathering steam, as the launch date rapidly approaches. With the launch-party night, on November 28th, nearing, things are getting both nerve-wracking and exciting. I'm looking forward to meeting some old and new friends that day, from 7.30pm at The Continental in Preston (www.newcontinental.net).

Some of you will have seen me reading at a couple of events this week. I'd like to say thanks for coming along, and giving the new work such a warm response! Unlike with 'Sunrise and Shorelines', where I would read a similar selection of favourite pieces at each event, I'm trying to give everything from this book a fair hearing, so those of you who've seen me performing at several events should have a pretty good idea of what to expect from 'In Memory of Real Trees' by now.

'Postcards from the North', included with the last mailout, seems to have received a particularly good response. Among others, 'Further Away from Home' also got its first airing at Preston's 'Word Soup' this week, and seemed to go down well. Therefore, in the tradition of previewing new material with these emails, I've tagged a copy of that poem onto this message.

Should any of you want to reply, with comments, feedback, or for any more information about the book launch, I'll look forward to hearing from you here or on mark.charlesworth@hotmail.co.uk

All the best,

Mark Charlesworth

***

Further Away from Home

Abandoning the comfort of a subterranean nest;

the enveloping sheets of a warm, familiar bed;

the shelter of a domestic haunt

that, all through childhood, had been in sight,

even in the dusk and rain,

visible by a single ember burning in the grate,

and trading it all for three years in the wilderness,

was never an easy decision to make.

But standing on the brink

of a world that threatened

all the potential hope and nightmare of a fairytale,

you knew you were doing right

by treading in the wrong direction.

Taking leave from the beaten track,

ill prepared, clutching at a compass and crumpled map,

you quickly discovered that true travelling

doesn’t need a plan or guide

to diminish the crooked beauty

of an indigo night sky,

aching with myth and inscriptions of classical legends,

tales of old friends and ghosts

concealed in every constellation.

Plummeting several-thousand-feet-or-so,

rugged coastlines fight erosion

and reclamation by a violent sea,

emaciated trees cling on to every precipice you pass,

among plants with pockmarked petals and poisonous stems,

and, as you speed through,

both intimately connected and completely detached

from the landscape of sheer, sublime hostility,

you wonder if you’ll suffer the same fate of falling

as the limbless branches,

lying like littering debris

in the isolation of an unchartered ravine,

unwilling to spare or shed its secrets.

But, if you look very closely,

you can see

the length of a highway

mirroring a path through the stars,

the wilderness oblivion of possibility,

like a desert plain

snaking to the epicentre of a canopied trail,

and watched by the passengers on a restless sleeper train.

I feel I might have passed that way too,

awake until daylight

then too tired to move,

and I struggle to remember if I made that trip alone:

third year on the road – still looking for home.

Instead, there was the brief delusion of substitution

in a gloomy gallery

dedicated to achievement and progression,

an artefact of all things artificial:

warehouses hosting cubist figures and manmade machines,

scaled-down towns constructed of mirrors,

telegraph poles fashioned to look like trees,

an air-conditioner simulating authentic summer breeze,

circulating in a surgically cleansed atmosphere

but eventually joining vapour trails

scattering on the western wind,

the otherworldly labyrinth of steel and glass dissipating,

transforming into rural England.

I look round again to find

a second familiar shadow once more walks in stride,

side by side

every ticking second.

The uncharacteristic desire for abandon

is suddenly overwhelming.

I want to run out into the road,

fearing no threat of imminent collision,

throw up my arms to meet the downpour,

savouring the stain that spreads across the heavens,

bringing with it thunder

and an atmosphere charged with the eastern promise

of Indian summer,

reaching some destination at last

in a city decorated by dizzying colour

and strange sounds from twisted strings.

I feel the intensity and heat,

the healing effect of each falling droplet

as the moment rises to crescendo

and the clouds give out a final moan,

before diminishing into the distance.

When it’s over,

we stand by the roadside,

you and I together

and somehow alone

with each other.

We stroll towards the sun

as it dips from the horizon,

watching our reflections growing longer,

then disappearing entirely with disconcerting urgency.

And on a bridge, in spectral shade,

a train performs its practiced part,

slowing towards the station,

spilling a new set of stories onto a crowded platform,

and then – as though indifferent – moving on.

Always moving on.

Postcards from the North

2009-11-08T22:38:00.003Z

I'd like to thank you for your continued feedback and support, both with comments about 'Damaged Goods in Transit' (attached in the last mailout) and responses to my call for promotional suggestions. People have got back to me with some very interesting ideas, and will be duly credited in the next collection's acknowledgments. As ever, it's never too late to get in touch, and I aim to reply to all responses personally. So, if anyone can think of any more marketing ideas (especially ones that involve the internet), please don't hesitate to drop me a line here. All positive contributors I use will be credited in book 3.

Now, as November is upon us, and the launch date looms ever-closer, I'd like to let you know about some events which will be going on over the next few weeks.

- On November 17th, I'll be reading as a featured artist at The Continental's regular literature night, Word Soup, in Preston. With a couple of other highly-recommended, excellent writers booked, it's shaping up to be a good night. Head over to www.newcontinental.net for more details.

- November 20th brings Lancaster's monthly Spotlight club (www.spotlightlancaster.co.uk), at which I'll be performing open mic.

- And November 28th is, of course, the book launch itself, also taking place at The Continental (see above for web address). Obviously, I hope to see as many of you as possible there, but understand - particularly as Christmas draws near - that people have many commitments, so, if you want to come along, but can't make it, why not come down to one of the other events listed above? More listings to follow shortly.

I'd also like to highlight a couple of links featuring reviews of both the first and second book.

- Andrew Hurley at the Preston Writing Network recently contributed an in-depth piece about my first collection, 'Sunrise and Shorelines'. It's an excellently written review that even had me looking at my own work in a different light, and can be read at: http://prestonwritingnetwork.blogspot.com/2009/10/review-of-sunrise-and-shorelines-by_31.html

- Fellow writer Norman Hadley (www.normanhadley.com) also shares his thoughts about 'In Memory of Real Trees' on the Lunecy review: http://thelunecyreview.wordpress.com/2009/11/05/mark-charlesworth-in-memory-of-real-trees/

And, speaking of 'In Memory of Real Trees', I'm pleased to attach another sample (see below), highlighting a slightly different side of the book to that shown in 'Damaged Goods in Transit'. 'Postcards from the North' is a paean to my much-loved homeland. It came to me on a train, travelling through Yorkshire, and attempts to rewrite the negative cliches, often associated with northern England, as things to actually be proud of.

As ever, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Mark

***

Postcards from the North

We’ve got forty-two different types of rain,

clouds gone murky from streaming soot,

cobbled streets and old steam-trains,

smokers coughing up their guts.

We’ve got godawful cities full of godawful people,

where treacle-black rivers hide forms, drowned and foetal,

crumbling mills in the shadows of steeples,

industrial corpses and disappointing sequels.

We’ve got tea so bitter that it burns in your mouth,

and stories you’d hardly believe down south,

of twisted beasties that lurk below the bed,

the gallows of Golgotha to lop off your head.

But we’ve got hills that climb for miles,

witch stories whispered by midnight fires,

spindly webs shimmering through January gloom,

frost glittering like fairy-lights beneath a bright moon.

We’ve got The Smiths singing ‘Sheila Take a Bow’,

where Orwell’s ghost stalks a drizzle-soaked town,

Yorkshire cobbles stained with blood, myth and mystery,

Lancashire spook tales and bridges to history.

We’ve got a sleepy village on the edge of the world,

where long grass in the twilit fields

sways in the wake of a warm sea wind,

and at the passing echo of the six-fifteen train,

they say a pair of old friends can be seen most days,

contentedly lost as a melody plays;

the haunting strains of some violin tune

that someday will all but fade.

Damaged Goods in Transit

2009-10-21T20:32:00.002+01:00

I'm currently looking for any suggestions of interesting ways to promote my forthcoming book, 'In Memory of Real Trees'. If anyone has any ideas, particularly involving the web, I'd be grateful if you'd email them to mark.charlesworth@hotmail.co.uk. Name's will be acknowledged in the third book as a thank you.

For now, I hope you enjoy this sample from the book. 'Damaged Goods in Transit' is the opening poem, and I like to think that it nicely introduces a lot of the themes and ideas which are addressed over the ensuing pages.

Please feel free to leave comments, or get in touch on the above email address with any feedback or to join the mailing list.

Damaged Goods in Transit

Are you lonely again?
Have you come here feeling lost?
Do you sit there counting out the cost?
Are you scared tonight because there’s so much to fear,
or because you’ve put your dreams on hold
for yet another year?

When it gets painful
and when it hurts,
do you find yourself asking what it’s all really worth?
How often do you wish your life away like me,
hiding beneath the pillows from everyday tragedies?

Do you ever feel you’re tearing blindly
to hopelessness, loss and apathy?
Water trickling down the plughole
into a void, expansive sea.

You turn off the lights and lay naked in the dark,
staring at the ceiling;
listening out for homesick aliens.
Do you feel vulnerable, dark and cold?
Too tired to sleep,
too empty to weep,
pray with heart and soul that something fills the hole.

Do you feel like a stuffed toy unravelling at the seams
when you stare at the news on a flickering screen?
Just a frightened, vulnerable child again:
that desperate incomprehension of suffering and pain.

Walking on ashes, smoke choking your neck,
the earth shakes and trembles like a shivering mess,
crippled by the anxiety of claustrophobic dreams,
pleading ‘what have we done?’, stifling the screams.
We walk upon gold but in blood it gleams,
take up arms to ruin the glittering streets,
we bow to the mercy of murderous thieves.
Now we’re damned straight to hell by our self-absorbed greed.

And it’s hard to have faith
when the world seems so fragile:
damaged goods in transit
through infinite space.
Are we walking hand in hand
down the executioner’s mile,
waiting for spare parts
or a last saving grace?

And as the dusky shadows fall,
you’re afraid the sun won’t rise again.
Crossing the border to the city’s edge;
into the hills and to the end,
past broken glass and broken homes,
broken dreams and broken stones,
broken fortunes giving way
to open sky above open wounds.

There’s a crimson stream which slowly runs
through fields untroubled by soldier’s tombs,
winding through miles of unexplored woods,
then bursting out from the canopied cocoon.

From the hilltop clearing, you can almost see
the scars of the suburbs stretching slowly beneath:
just writhing embryos of a larger disease
that feeds on corruption and thrives upon fear,

but close to a night sky that sparkles and shines,
you felt safe from the nightmare below.

So you carved an inscription upon a stone,
in crumbling earth planted a seed:
‘for the day when the branches are replaced with bones,
in memory of real trees’.

In Memory of Real Trees : Coming 28.11.09

2009-10-05T22:50:00.005+01:00

Lancashire writer Mark Charlesworth, whose self-published début, 'Sunrise and Shorelines', was released last year, is set to release a second collection of poetry this winter.

Since the completion of his first book, Mark has finished an English degree at the University of Central Lancashire and has been dedicating himself to writing. His latest offering, 'In Memory of Real Trees', is another self-financed, self-published endeavour. This time, however, the book will also be raising funds for The Christie Hospital, with a contribution from each sale being donated to the charity. And it's not the first time Mark has raised money for a good cause, having become known for undertaking lengthy sponsored walks: travels which he documented on his popular online blog, before becoming established as a poet.

'In Memory of Real Trees' displays a more focused, mature style of writing and a shift toward darker territory. Its vast range of influences and subject matter culminate to form a cutting social commentary, which dissects the darkest and seediest aspects of life yet reminds the reader that there is beauty to be found even here. The poems “Shipwreck” and “Where Sickness Seeps from the Magazine Gloss” explore the cut-throat nature of modern media and its effect on our lives, whereas “Attic Room” provides a romanticism never previously demonstrated by the author. By contrast, “Damaged Goods in Transit”, the opening piece, displays the fragile line between human good and evil, a theme which is echoed throughout the book, ultimately raising the issue that whatever is happening amid the chaos of our world, the responsibility to change things is a collective one.

Over the last year, aside from contributing as a columnist in local media and speaking for the Lytham Arts Association, Mark has been a regular performer at The Spotlight Club in Lancaster, alongside various other poetry events. One of which being the open-mic night at The Continental in Preston (http://www.newcontinental.net/), where his book launch is to take place on the 28th November.

Sleeping with the Enemy

2009-09-22T16:40:00.003+01:00

My god... has it really been a year (quite literally) since I posted here? This blog has been in a long hibernation!

In anticipation of the release of my second book, 'In Memory of Real Trees', I've been doing a bit of networking, and doing my best to start utilising the many resources out there. One which I have been particularly reluctant to actively use is Facebook, and I'd like to share my reasons why.

The idea having an active account on the site makes me pretty uncomfortable. There have been an increasing number of frightening stories surrounding its invasive nature in the news: not just the oft-cited fact that the CIA are one f the company's investors, but actual evidence of people being watched. I'm not going to reiterate the cliche that we have become a Big Brother state, to which Facebook heavily contributes (there's a trashy but enjoyable Ben Elton novel called 'Blind Faith' which already drives that point home well), but there's no doubt that Facebook could be used as a frightening exploitation of personal privacy in the wrong hands.

As a bit of a conspiracy theorist as a kid, I used to wonder whether the government had archives of personal information on each of us hidden away. They no longer need to: it's there for the taking. I can see the other side of the argument in this debate would bring up issues of Freedom of Speech, but I fall quite firmly in the camp which believes that our society is becoming a self-monitoring one; that a sophisticated CCTV-like system has been subtly interwoven into the fabric of our lives.

With all this in mind, I bow down to any accusations of hypocrisy that come with me using the site to network, catch up with old friends and promote my new book. The simple truth is that the Facebook phenomenon has become so ingratiated into our culture that it is difficult to do any of those things without utilising it. Therefore, I find myself, once again, sleeping with the enemy.

LEP Article

2008-09-24T14:56:00.004+01:00

Apparently, I got a little article in yesterday's 'Lancashire Evening Post'. Haven't got a copy of the paper myself, but since I'm trying to keep an archive of any little press clippings, here's a scan from their website for anyone who may have missed it:

Having never done a signing before, i really have no idea what to expect, but it could definitely be interesting. In other news, I'm playing a verylastminute gig in lancaster tonight. I would put some details up here, but I don't have any. I believe it might be happening in its own spacial dimension, beyond the limits of some alternate universe where time ceases to exist. If you can find me there, feel free to come along...

Meanwhile, the writing of Book 2 is gathering steam, and we did a little protesting outside the Labour Conference in Manchester this weekend:

Until next time...

Marillion: 'Happiness is the Road' Review

2008-09-09T21:23:00.004+01:00

I had another music related blog planned for tonight, following on from yesterday’s piece about Mansun’s ‘Six’. Then, late last night, I unexpectedly ended up with a copy of the new Marillion album – ‘Happiness is the Road’ – so have decided to share a few thoughts about that instead.

There’s so much going on in this album that it would be easy to write a lengthy full review, but I’ve only given it a few spins and I think it’s going to take a lot more plays to do the album any justice, so I’ll keep things brief here. In many ways, I can see certain similarities between disk one – ‘Essence’ – and ‘Six’, especially in terms of how each album has a coherence running through. Lyrically, however, we’re in much less dark territory here, whilst the overall sound is probably more reminiscent latter day Talk Talk.

Things get underway with the chilled out ‘Dreamy Street’, before segueing into the sumptuous ‘This Train is My Life’. With its excellently concise Steve Rothery Guitar solo, philosophical lyrics and atmospheric rising sound; the track has all the ingredients of classic Marillion. Next track, ‘Essence’, has a more experimental feel to it, veering between stripped down passages of lush keyboards and an ever growing wall of sound. Moments in the track recall the Beach Boys’ ‘God Only Knows’, but far from being derivative, the album’s first disk has a unique feel all of its own as the band work contemporary arrangements and new instrumentation into their signature sound to great success. CD one’s highlight comes in the form of ‘Happiness is the Road’, a sprawling epic which builds from an ambient jam into a huge epic.

The second CD – ‘The Hard Shoulder’ – has quite a different sound to it, with rockier moments, and jazz influences in the rhythm sections of tracks like ‘Cornfly’ and ‘Planet Marzipan’. A few minutes in, the former even has something of a prog rock keyboard solo amid the mostly fast paced rock. The more atmospheric sections of this track recall moments of ‘Afraid of Sunlight’, as does the sprawling epic, ‘Asylum Satellite #1’. Despite nods back to their past, however, the band manage to keep things fresh and modern. The beautiful ‘Older Than Me’ wouldn’t sound out of place on a Jeff Buckley or Elbow record. Other highlights here include modern classics ‘Whatever is Wrong with You?’ and ‘Real Tears for Sale’, putting in a very welcome appearance after a great reception from fans on the last tour.

This is one of those albums, like ‘Marbles’, which has so many complex layers that it’s probably going to be a while before I can fully appreciate its greatness and intricacy, but, after 3 listens, it’s made a damn fine first impression.

I’m going to try and ban myself from listening to it a fourth time, until I have the actual CD in my hands now, so I can admire the artwork and appreciate it as a whole. If anyone can think of any fitting deterrents, in the form of punishments or forfeits, in case I find it too hard to resist, please leave your suggestions in the form of comments…

Six

2008-09-08T20:07:00.009+01:00

Although it probably looks as though I haven’t written anything on this blog for quite a long time, August technically doesn’t count; in which case it’s only a couple of weeks. That’s alright then, isn’t it? The truth is, I’ve spent most of the last month working full-time and there haven’t really been many exciting things to tell. That aside, we took a short trip to Paris and I turned 22. The book’s also just passed the 100 mark in sales, so I’m on the celebratory red wine as I write this. You’d think I’d have spent a little more on it than £2.99 really…

As I write this, I can say with total certainty that I’m doing exactly the same thing I was this time a whole decade ago: listening to Mansun’s brilliant ‘Six’ LP.

No; my memory isn’t usually that accurate, but today one of my all time favourite albums celebrates its 10th anniversary. When I got the email about this a few weeks back, I did a bit of a double take. Misplacing August is one thing, but blinking long enough to miss a decade is something else altogether! This time back in 1998, I’d recently turned 12 and just started my second year at high school. I can clearly remember that feeling of sitting there, through another tedious geography class, eager to dash to Woolies and get my hands on this record. It’d taken me ages to save up for, but albums always used to feel that little bit more special when you'd spent weeks putting aside your pocket money for them. This one was particularly special, although I must admit to being pretty taken aback when I got back to my old home (3 Ansbro Avenue in those days), made a cup of tea and stuck it on the stereo.

Even today, it’s true to say that ‘Six’ is a baffling album; full of lengthy songs, darkly eccentric humour, multi-part epics, obscure idiosyncrasies, 'teapot solos' (to quote one magazine review a few years later) and the inspired addition of Tom Baker’s dulcet tones on the bizarre interlude. I quickly grew to love this brilliant, if downright weird, album and still count it among my favourites to this day (more on that one very soon). It’s also been the soundtrack to a lot of memories, both good and bad, and listening to it nowadays makes me realise just what a chaotic 10 years it’s been. It wasn’t long after this album’s release that I got ill, and whilst it has obvious associations with that particularly dark period, it reminds me of so much good stuff too: going to see the band live on the tour (the poster still hangs on my wall), crammed into Blackburn’s ‘King Georges Hall’, full of sweat and a heavy cloud of questionable substance. I’m sure my mum remembers that one too! This album was partly responsible for me meeting my closest friend (and definitely responsible for me rifling through his collection of ‘Prisoner’ videos.) It became as much a soundtrack to my years at high school as the Levellers did later on, and can probably be levelled with the charge of helping me discover Pink Floyd and progressive rock. Since then; I’ve been to college, visited so many amazing places, had several shit jobs, been to gigs, played gigs, made friends, lost friends, published my first book, grown my hair only to chop the lot off again and now here I am. God knows where the hell I’ll be 10 years from now, but I wouldn’t bet on it being where I expect. Probably quite the opposite, in fact. Even then, I can’t say for sure whether the world will be ready for the inspired madness of ‘Six’.

To be continued…

This Week: Dead Guitarists, David Tennant, Shakespeare, Stratford and Gordon Brown

2008-07-26T17:34:00.004+01:00

It’s been an odd kind of week. On Monday, whilst I was in Manchester, I went over to see Gunter Von Hagen’s ‘Bodyworlds’ exhibition. Now, paying ten quid to go and stand in an old warehouse full of dead bodies may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but there was something amazing about it all. It really makes you realise what an incredible thing the human body is, and how scientifically sophisticated we are; like an incredibly well built machine. It also brings you face to face with your own mortality, which could be seen as an unsettling experience if not thought provoking.

As a guitar player, I found this chap particularly amazing:

Keith Richards if he gave up the drink?

Later on, I went down to Stratford to go and watch the opening night of ‘Hamlet’.

Discovering that parts of Birmingham are actually pretty nice wasn’t the strangest element of the day. Indeed, that whole evening felt kind of surreal. When I was stood at the bar, I heard a couple of guys talking about having just seen Gordon Brown: I turned round and saw him heading off, unhindered, to sit in the circle. The play itself began eerily, and managed to keep up a high level of suspense throughout, thanks to the high energy and fantastic performances of the acting company. As an avid fan of both Shakespeare and ‘Doctor Who’, I was interested to see how David Tennant would come across on stage, and the night only served to confirm my feelings about what a brilliant actor he is. Supported well by such a strong cast, Tennant brought an unpredictable spontaneity to the play which added a whole new dimension. Furthermore, the use of lighting and props lent a vividly realistic tone to the whole production.

Afterwards, hundreds of people lurked by the stage door to try and get the actors’ signatures. When David Tennant appeared, the wonderful Patrick Stewart by his side, he was completely swamped by people. Although I was unsuccessful in getting any actors to sign my programme, I did manage to slip Tennant a copy of my book. In the ‘Cox’s Yard’ bar afterwards, I was thinking about how weird it must be to have people hounding you everywhere you go. Although the attention would be flattering, it must be hard not to be able to go shopping or drink in a pub with any anonymity. I also noticed that whilst the Prime Minster had attracted relatively little attention earlier on, Tennant had a huge audience. I was glad to see that, in their privileging of The Doctor over the Prime Minister, the country have their priorities right!

With being at home very little this week, I haven’t had a great deal of time to work on book promotion, but I have been writing for the next one. I’ll leave you with a poem I wrote last week, whilst listening to a news report on the radio…

The English Executioners

They marched on through the streets
with bayonets and sharpened teeth:
the English executioners,
with ill intent, lurk in the trees.
Attack from every side
then cordon off the land and sea,
taking slaves and soldiers strong
whilst shooting dead the infirm weak.

Seize what you want – this is the hunt –
the western way, so follow me
in spreading pestilence,
death, famine, pain, war and disease.
If they’re not human – just collateral –
targets lost to righteous hands;
why do they bleed like you and me
when crimson stains the murky sands?

And when they’re dead, trading knife for axe,
you scour the earth of plants and trees,
constructing brand new colonies
for another fallen century.
If this injustice feels familiar –
watching the news as history repeats,
we’ve seen the empire’s fall and rise:
a bureaucratic war machine.

This world is run by western rule
and we know how to cheat.

Press Cutting from Local Rag

2008-07-11T14:02:00.000+01:00

'Big Blue Ball' (Real World Records): Review

2008-07-10T18:27:00.006+01:00

At last – after years of recording, post-production, and a huge amount of mixing – comes ‘Big Blue Ball’; the fruit of 3 Real World recording weeks way back in the mid 90s. The spontaneity of the initial recordings and snail-pace gestation period of this album suggested that it could either be a huge success or an unmitigated disaster. If the project started off as a kind of ‘recording experiment’, would it work? Would material recorded over a decade ago stand the test of time amid the modern musical climate? I’m glad to say that, for the most part, ‘Big Blue Ball’ has been worth the wait. In many ways, it almost comes as something of a relief to say that. The release of any Peter Gabriel-related material nowadays is infrequent at best, and the level of anticipation which surrounds it is always huge amongst his dedicated fanbase.

To call this a Peter Gabriel record, however, is misleading. Whilst Gabriel, along with ex-Waterboy Karl Wallinger, undoubtedly provided the creative impetus here, this is as much a collaborative project as last year’s ‘Imagined Village’. Furthermore, whilst this album will almost certainly draw comparisons to Gabriel’s ‘Ovo’, there is probably a greater balance of Eastern and Western musical influence and input here than ever before. Those expecting a Gabriel solo album, as I know some were, may be disappointed by this but the sheer diversity of sound and talent on display here is the album’s greatest strength.

I’m not going to look at each track in depth, as this has been done elsewhere. I would, however, like to talk about several personal highlights, the first of which is the Gabriel-led opener ‘Whole Thing’ (which will already be familiar to those who watched last year’s ‘Long Way Down’). ‘Shadow’ blends a distinctly African groove with some fine flamenco guitar playing to great success. I was expecting to like the tracks most heavily featuring Gabriel the most, but ‘Atlus Silva’ probably has to be my personal favourite. The song sets Joseph Arthur’s incredible voice against a musical backdrop combining the wistful melancholy of Irish folk music with driving ambient soundscapes and a slow Eastern rhythm.

Of course, the album isn’t without its faults. Its staggered release around the world seems to be a strange way of working for people as pioneering as Gabriel and the Real World Records team. Furthermore, the project’s original intention of being representative of many different styles, cultures and eras is somewhat blighted by its late release. Occasionally it does seem to be a little out of sync with 21st century musical developments. Considering the sheer volume of work it took for this project to make it off the ground in the first place, however, it’s an overall impressive feat and a worthy addition to the Real World records repertoire.

7/10

‘Big Blue Ball’ is released in the UK on July 28th 2008

Frost*: Live in Manchester

2008-07-04T23:40:00.013+01:00

There was a looming sense of chaos on the way to this evening’s Frost* gig. My train was diverted and took some weird route, my friend was stuck in traffic (as were, apparently, half the band) and a huge queue of people had built up by the time I arrived at the venue. On my mission to find the end of that extensive queue, a car pulled up in the street and out hopped Andy Edwards; late, and with only a minute to spare before the set. I was amazed at how remarkably chilled out he seemed to be under the circumstances. I directed him to the entrance and ran back to take my place in line, which wended its (disconcertingly long) way along Oxford Road’s most trendy, studenty district. By the time I got to the back of the queue, I could already hear the set starting, with the unmistakable pulsing bass of ‘Experiments in Mass Appeal’ rattling through the walls. I arrived halfway through the song, and, with little time to stand still, got the call from my friend, who’d just shown up. When I got back up from meeting him, and the band launched into fantastically Muse-like new track ‘Pocket Sun’, it suddenly dawned on me that someone was missing: John Mitchell.

If any other band were missing such a key part, I would have expected their performance to be weak, but this is Frost*. True praise must go to recent addition Declan Burke, who put in a blinding performance with his improvised guitar solos. I was also blown away by Jem’s solo rendition of the beautiful ‘Raining in My Heart’. One thing that also stood out to me in the live setting was John Jowitt’s incredible bass work, which could have rivalled Tony Levin. JJ really comes into his own, and I was as impressed with his skill and prowess as I was by Andy’s mind blowing percussive skills. Aside from the great music, and incredible technical skill, something that sets Frost* apart from so many of their contemporaries is their obvious warmth, sense of humour and banter with the crowds. I would have expected the band to show the strain, playing the entire set without their lead guitarist, but they were light-hearted and enthusiastic as ever, still managing to remain professional and putting in a great set. They played as though they were the headline act, and, in my opinion, far surpassed ‘Spock’s Beard’. The new CD, on sale at the merchandise stall and featuring brand new tracks, promises great things. If these samples from new album ‘Experiments in Mass Appeal’ are anything to go by, the band should be headlining their own tour very soon.

…let’s just hope that John Mitchell doesn’t get gridlocked on the M6 next time!

Set List:

Experiments in Mass Appeal

Pocket Sun

Raining in My Heart

Snowman

Hyperventilate

Wonderland

The Other Me

Evening All...

2008-06-29T23:02:00.007+01:00

A lot of people had been asking me recently why it was that the website for my book was down. It recently came to light that the website was seeing other servers on the side and we have, for the time being, gone our separate ways; citing 'irrevocable differences'. Thankfully, this finally gave me a vital boot up the arse to tackle one of the things that had been on the lengthy 'to do list' since the release of my book: start a blog.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with me, I'm an author in my early 20s who recently released my first book; a self-published collection of poetry called 'Sunrise and Shorelines: 2001 - 2008'. We held a very successful book launch 6 weeks ago, and it has been selling pretty steadily since then (partly thanks to a modest distribution deal meaning that the book is available through retailers like Amazon in several countries, and partly through the generosity and kind help I've had from friends, family and supporters). Only last night I sent a message round several sites on the web, asking for people to help me by contributing to a kind of online 'street team', and have been overwhelmed by the number of people who got in touch to offer their help. I'd like to offer my sincerest thanks to anyone who's got in touch so far: you guys are fantastic!

Whilst the book is obviously a big focus right now - and this blog will no doubt provide an invaluable source for posting updates and features - I won't just be writing about book-related stuff. For starters, I don't just write poetry. I've also spent a long time writing prose fiction, some of which will hopefully see the light of the day in the not too distant future. I also enjoy music, travelling, going to gigs and doing all kinds of weird and wonderful things. Therefore, expect imminent reviews, photo diaries, travelogues, incoherent drunken rants and the kitchen sink all to be thrown in here as I go along. I'd also like to have a go at archiving some previous stuff. Some of you may know about the charity walks I've done in the past; hopefully when I've got a minute I'll be uploading some old photographs from those, just in case I ever want to reminisce about my recently chopped off long hair!

Thanks again to all those who have supported me so far with the book. Watch this space for news, bulletins and pictures; all coming soon...

Cheers,

Mark