Burnt Toast is an Independent Listings magazine and is not affiliated with any particular Venues. We also try our best to promote gigs put on by independent promoters (especially those with a DIY ethos).
The best way to submit a gig listing to us is by emailing...
Ben
E: dwaingibson@yahoo.co.uk
Please include (preferably in this order)
Date:
Promoter:
Headline Band:
Support:
Venue:
Price:
Gig description: (We usually print around 100 - 200 words per gig and the more creative the better, full band biographies are no good. Remember we are a magazine dedicated invigorating Leeds music scene with new blood, elitist tripe is usually a bad idea!)
Plus links to Facebook events / Myspace pages etc...
Friday 27 November 2009
Advertise With Us
If you are interested in Advertising in Burnt Toast, please contact...
Adam Nodwell
T: 07793237773
E: a.nodwell@googlemail.com
Burnt Toast's current circulation is 5000 distributed in various Shops, Bars, Night Clubs & Cafes around Leeds. The size of the publication depends on the amount of funding and content from month to month but will usually be an A3 document folded to A6.
Adam Nodwell
T: 07793237773
E: a.nodwell@googlemail.com
Burnt Toast's current circulation is 5000 distributed in various Shops, Bars, Night Clubs & Cafes around Leeds. The size of the publication depends on the amount of funding and content from month to month but will usually be an A3 document folded to A6.
Sunday 22 November 2009
Burnt Toast Issue 9 OUT NOW
Burnt Toast 9 should hit the shelves in a few days time, in the meantime here is a downloadable easy to read PDF version. Click on the two lovely chaps above.
Thursday 19 November 2009
Tobias Green - Adventures of an Average Man - Part Two
Pitying pinkies adroitly acquainted with indulgence? A punted melon? A rain shield swirled with candour? Peepers pugnaciously pitted for pleasure? How does one best harm a man…
Tobias Green woke red and tender and horrible on a makeshift gurney in a nameless ward of what smelled like St. Ignatius’ General Hospital. He swiftly ascertained that as an average man he had to go through trauma of monolithic proportions at some point in his life, and he hoped - logarithms hard - that this was said solid point.
Perhaps this was hell?
Perhaps this was the afterlife?
Through scored sclerotic coats he could make out the hues of the lower classes, bedecked in tawdry mechanical materials, stained in vomit, ash and saturated fats. Through wet bandages that obfuscated his noggin rang musical monstrosities carried high in manky bludgeoning mitts.
Through tubular tributaries trumped a troublesome husk, sashaying behind the niggardly nurse. A capricious summer zephyr signalling certitude seized the stank. It was no longer his birthday and this was not the malodorous afterlife.
Being an average man and therefore able to utilise the faculties of an everyday person, Tobias’ brain clutched and lurched before slipping into a low gear suitable for conquering inclines.
‘One two three four five six seven…’
All fingers and thumbs were in place.
‘One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven…’
Toothy pegs present and correct.
‘One two three…’
Little piggies were at home.
All seemed well. The cacophonous peeling in his ears would pass in time. Time... Time had become disposable. The breeze alluded to too many turns of the kitty cat kitchen calendar for sense to prevail. As an average man, Tobias began to rationalise all that had taken place.
Hmm.
The strangest thing…
Rational had been re-accommodated.
Now sleep.
When Tobias woke he discovered two things: Number ONE - he was no longer prostrate. Number TWO - his anus was particularly cold. Subsequent superciliousness needed abating. Rational required recovery.
‘A gentle jolt to begin with…’
It was white and rounded and pleasing. Surely nothing white and rounded and pleasing could result in reticent ramifications? Marshmallows and cotton balls: White and rounded and pleasing. It would be the right thing to do. A restart. He arched his head back and wrenched it forward against the thing that promised to be white and rounded and pleasing…
Waking at some section of the future, maybe a near present, Tobias was delighted to discover reams of rational had returned. Lifting the remainder of his face from perhaps 11 percent of his oxygenated haemoglobin, he rose wearily to find a smashed Saibot surveying the damage. They instinctively looked down at what was no longer white and rounded and pleasing and twisted its taps for freshness. The Fuzzy Wuzzy brown and red water swirled and cajoled the plughole into a gregarious gurgle. The childish burps made the sore man smile.
“Mon, you! Hur’rup! Do’er biz’niz! Geddit done! Mon! Gee’shush fug! Been’ages! Fugkin Chreest! Fugkin 9 min-nuts! Gerrout th’shitter! Fugkin spaaaaa!”
Being an average man with Public School perspicacity, Tobias was mesmerised by the invisible ruffian’s attempt at the Queen’s English. He sounded like a Scotsman. A hard-handed, hard drinking, hard headed, hard healed Scotsman… or maybe some other sort of Celt. What did this malcontent’s mumblings mean? Tobias removed the crimson mulch bandage from its perch and brought sidekick Saibot in on the investigation.
Hmm.
The strangest thing…
A mark which could only be described as a…
BLATTER BLATTER BLATTER THUMP BANG
“Fugkin Chreest! Ne’ra shite! Fugk sake! Jeshush fugk! Spakka coont!”
Tobias rolled his shoulders as he laughed, getting high from the swirling and twirling of soft grey matter. The ostentatious mark pulsed and spewed a fetid yellowy puss, turning Tobias’ train to his pump. As an average man he thought about it every 4 minutes, and as he had been sedated for at least a day and maybe 20, Tobias summated that his warm stiff friend would be in desperate need of milking.
Being an average man with undeniably common arousal levels, the Celt’s crusade on the door was the suitable spark to drag Tobias’ mind through an Amsterdam gutter. He closed his eyes, thrust down his linens and waited for the inevitable explosion… The banging of fists became the reverberating firm naked buttocks of an averagely attractive woman. The horribly enunciated swears became the incoherent speech of ecstatic pleasure Tobias’ part provided her. The woman’s very nice breasts with normal nipples were rubbing against his battered face. She was licking and kissing and groaning and moaning and…
BLATTER BLATTER BLATTER THUMP BANG
Hmm.
The strangest thing…
Tobias returned to the light, tilted down and looked it in the eye. It was depressed and soft and cold. He blinked and looked to Saibot for help, but his backwards brother was similarly stumped. They flicked it in unison but to no response. It dangled low and shed a single tear, no more no less. This was far from average for this particular average man. Never before had he invented a more lurid sexual situation than that of the averagely attractive woman, breasts on display, being sired against a door.
“Check the ceiling…”
Often the private surges were so great the thick liquid clung to high objects beyond the reach of any average man and would require an extendable mop for cleansing. This expulsion was clearly so rapid as to render the speed-of-light an antiquated measurement of travel. Tobias breathed deeply, causing every rib in his body to shudder and wince, and smiled. As an average man, Tobias had played Hide and Seek for more than 1000 hours in his lifetime, so locating strands from his very own body in a confined space would be a mere formality.
BLATTER BLATTER BLATTER THUMP BANG
Hmm.
The strangest thing…
There were no self-made strands to be found, high or low. There was the globular crimson puddle on the floor. There was the soiled bandage. There was toilet paper. There was the…
SMASH
Oh dear.
The Celt had conquered the door.
The Celt was taller than average men and stronger than all but a few.
The Celt had no teeth in his smile.
The Celt was missing an entire eye.
The Celt wore boots so tough his toes were safe from elephants, be they Indian or African.
The Celt arced tangerine urine on Tobias’ wounds.
There was a lot for such an average man to consider…
Ray Kane
Tobias Green woke red and tender and horrible on a makeshift gurney in a nameless ward of what smelled like St. Ignatius’ General Hospital. He swiftly ascertained that as an average man he had to go through trauma of monolithic proportions at some point in his life, and he hoped - logarithms hard - that this was said solid point.
Perhaps this was hell?
Perhaps this was the afterlife?
Through scored sclerotic coats he could make out the hues of the lower classes, bedecked in tawdry mechanical materials, stained in vomit, ash and saturated fats. Through wet bandages that obfuscated his noggin rang musical monstrosities carried high in manky bludgeoning mitts.
Through tubular tributaries trumped a troublesome husk, sashaying behind the niggardly nurse. A capricious summer zephyr signalling certitude seized the stank. It was no longer his birthday and this was not the malodorous afterlife.
Being an average man and therefore able to utilise the faculties of an everyday person, Tobias’ brain clutched and lurched before slipping into a low gear suitable for conquering inclines.
‘One two three four five six seven…’
All fingers and thumbs were in place.
‘One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven…’
Toothy pegs present and correct.
‘One two three…’
Little piggies were at home.
All seemed well. The cacophonous peeling in his ears would pass in time. Time... Time had become disposable. The breeze alluded to too many turns of the kitty cat kitchen calendar for sense to prevail. As an average man, Tobias began to rationalise all that had taken place.
Hmm.
The strangest thing…
Rational had been re-accommodated.
Now sleep.
When Tobias woke he discovered two things: Number ONE - he was no longer prostrate. Number TWO - his anus was particularly cold. Subsequent superciliousness needed abating. Rational required recovery.
‘A gentle jolt to begin with…’
It was white and rounded and pleasing. Surely nothing white and rounded and pleasing could result in reticent ramifications? Marshmallows and cotton balls: White and rounded and pleasing. It would be the right thing to do. A restart. He arched his head back and wrenched it forward against the thing that promised to be white and rounded and pleasing…
Waking at some section of the future, maybe a near present, Tobias was delighted to discover reams of rational had returned. Lifting the remainder of his face from perhaps 11 percent of his oxygenated haemoglobin, he rose wearily to find a smashed Saibot surveying the damage. They instinctively looked down at what was no longer white and rounded and pleasing and twisted its taps for freshness. The Fuzzy Wuzzy brown and red water swirled and cajoled the plughole into a gregarious gurgle. The childish burps made the sore man smile.
“Mon, you! Hur’rup! Do’er biz’niz! Geddit done! Mon! Gee’shush fug! Been’ages! Fugkin Chreest! Fugkin 9 min-nuts! Gerrout th’shitter! Fugkin spaaaaa!”
Being an average man with Public School perspicacity, Tobias was mesmerised by the invisible ruffian’s attempt at the Queen’s English. He sounded like a Scotsman. A hard-handed, hard drinking, hard headed, hard healed Scotsman… or maybe some other sort of Celt. What did this malcontent’s mumblings mean? Tobias removed the crimson mulch bandage from its perch and brought sidekick Saibot in on the investigation.
Hmm.
The strangest thing…
A mark which could only be described as a…
BLATTER BLATTER BLATTER THUMP BANG
“Fugkin Chreest! Ne’ra shite! Fugk sake! Jeshush fugk! Spakka coont!”
Tobias rolled his shoulders as he laughed, getting high from the swirling and twirling of soft grey matter. The ostentatious mark pulsed and spewed a fetid yellowy puss, turning Tobias’ train to his pump. As an average man he thought about it every 4 minutes, and as he had been sedated for at least a day and maybe 20, Tobias summated that his warm stiff friend would be in desperate need of milking.
Being an average man with undeniably common arousal levels, the Celt’s crusade on the door was the suitable spark to drag Tobias’ mind through an Amsterdam gutter. He closed his eyes, thrust down his linens and waited for the inevitable explosion… The banging of fists became the reverberating firm naked buttocks of an averagely attractive woman. The horribly enunciated swears became the incoherent speech of ecstatic pleasure Tobias’ part provided her. The woman’s very nice breasts with normal nipples were rubbing against his battered face. She was licking and kissing and groaning and moaning and…
BLATTER BLATTER BLATTER THUMP BANG
Hmm.
The strangest thing…
Tobias returned to the light, tilted down and looked it in the eye. It was depressed and soft and cold. He blinked and looked to Saibot for help, but his backwards brother was similarly stumped. They flicked it in unison but to no response. It dangled low and shed a single tear, no more no less. This was far from average for this particular average man. Never before had he invented a more lurid sexual situation than that of the averagely attractive woman, breasts on display, being sired against a door.
“Check the ceiling…”
Often the private surges were so great the thick liquid clung to high objects beyond the reach of any average man and would require an extendable mop for cleansing. This expulsion was clearly so rapid as to render the speed-of-light an antiquated measurement of travel. Tobias breathed deeply, causing every rib in his body to shudder and wince, and smiled. As an average man, Tobias had played Hide and Seek for more than 1000 hours in his lifetime, so locating strands from his very own body in a confined space would be a mere formality.
BLATTER BLATTER BLATTER THUMP BANG
Hmm.
The strangest thing…
There were no self-made strands to be found, high or low. There was the globular crimson puddle on the floor. There was the soiled bandage. There was toilet paper. There was the…
SMASH
Oh dear.
The Celt had conquered the door.
The Celt was taller than average men and stronger than all but a few.
The Celt had no teeth in his smile.
The Celt was missing an entire eye.
The Celt wore boots so tough his toes were safe from elephants, be they Indian or African.
The Celt arced tangerine urine on Tobias’ wounds.
There was a lot for such an average man to consider…
Ray Kane
Tuesday 29 September 2009
Burnt Toast Issue 8 - OUT NOW
For those of you with a paper phobia you can read Issue 8 on your computer screen.
Burnt Toast Issue 8 - pdf
Burnt Toast Issue 8 - pdf
Friday 21 August 2009
Tobias Green - Adventures of an Average Man - Part One
Reverse him to the doorframe and accost his cranium with permanence and 12 stiff inches? Yank down his linens and emit an apposite grumble? Sample the girth of his idiot box? Hark an ear to his spluttering pipe? How do we measure a man…
However you care to do it, Tobias Green was definably average. Everything about him was quintessentially run of the mill. For instance, you could rely on the fact that Tobias had his hair cut on the first Saturday of every month. Nothing fancy Dan mind you: short back and sides, no more no less. For said coiffeury Tobias paid five English pounds, no more no less. He had paid the princely sum on each and every occasion of his adult life, which amounted to one hundred and forty-three haircuts. During that time he had saddled his bags to 14 different barbers but as a man of average intelligence, Tobias knew inflation and deflation were fair masters.
As the 12-squared cut would fall on the event of his 30th birthday, Tobias proposed to Saibot – his reliable reflection – they might break with tradition and do something a bit different. Little did Tobias front-and-back know but a break from the norm would squiggle his life up for keeps.
Haircut Saturday kicked off like any other. At 8.31am - one hour and 31 minutes beyond the weekdays - Tobias woke to the dependable sounds of Radio 4. He rubbed his left one once, his right twice, and then both a further four times. The seven rubs were for good luck, and the right always needed that extra tweak in the morning as it greedily slurped a 70/30 split of moisture during the darkness.
Tobias tucked his knees to his chest as the acclaimed gymnastic instructor Andre Blachix had taught him, raised his arms to the all powerful Judge, muttered a blessing and rolled forward on his firm mattress. Again, these were merely the actions of an average man who had been abandoned in a Romanian orphanage aged 6 and a bit, found saviour at the firm hand of an acrobatic legend with a soft heart, and had Olympic dreams cruelly shattered on the eve of competition by the midnight intrusion of a devilish Doberman with a foot fetish…
He was average.
He really was.
Tobias Green was definitely an average man.
He kept telling himself he was so it must be true.
With perfect 10 precision the roll ended with both gnarled feet planted firmly in Garfield slippers, thus enabling the upwardly mobile section of haircut Saturday to begin. Tobias knew that as it was now 8.32am, the reliable gas boiler had treated the hard water to 92 minutes of silent heating, giving him sufficient reason to generously lather his orifices.
Naked and erect, like any average 30-year-old man who existed in self-imposed solemnity would be on the occasion of his birthday, Tobias flung open the curtains. The day greeted him with the glares of watery sunshine and Mrs. Glark - old enough to be his dead father’s mother - who waved from behind the telescopic lens in her living room. As ever, Tobias mirrored the gesture, put hands on hips, and waited for the reliable liquid surge. Like any average man who had never experienced the inside or outside of a woman, Tobias woke stiff and sore and expelled thick translucent streams from his reproductive organ without any manual coaxing.
8.54am. Soaped-dried-dressed-fed-watered, Tobias made the short journey to Bob’s, the only barber in town who tendered service for the amiable amount.
The fact it was his birthday didn’t matter.
The fact he hadn’t received cards or gifts or calls didn’t matter.
The fact he hated every breath he ever ingested for his fecund lungs didn’t matter.
He was an average man and average men felt this way, although… he had never actually received clarity from anyone the dictionary might decry a friend:
1. A person whom you know well and whom you like a lot, but who is usually not a member of your family.
2. Someone who is not an enemy and whom you can trust.
3. Someone who gives money to a theatre, other arts organization or charity in order to support it.
9.07am. Bob was late. Bob was always on time. Bob was reliable. Bob smoked Marlboro Reds. Bob wore cowboy boots. Bob listened to country music. Bob liked to whistle. Bob never asked questions. Bob did his job.
“Bob’s dead.”
Tobias introduced his eyebrows to one another and followed the man – perhaps 30 years old and perhaps muscular and perhaps alluring to women – into the shop that sold haircuts.
“Bob was my Da. Bob always opened his shop. Bob is my name too. Bobs cut hair”.
Tobias was uncertain about the new Bob, a man who modelled a shirt so colourful it made his eyes feel certain they had vomited. This was to be a day of change for everyone at the barbershop however, so Tobias took his place in the black pleather chair, wrenched himself to the desired plateau without invitation, gave a cursory smile to Saibot and spoke loud and true.
“Shaved”.
Bob ceased all fingering of the shiny silver scissors and without word of warning buzzed a strip from Tobias’ head. Bob then proceeded to take one small step back and to the left before pursing the crux of his face.
“Swastika”.
Saibot took a long hard look at Bob. New Bob.
“Shaved”.
Bob shook his head and pointed.
“Swastika”.
Tobias shaped his mouth for an extolling of great erudition when Bob stopped him in his tracks with the twice-handled mirror. On the back of the head of this average man raged a purple birthmark that one could only describe as a swastika. Poor chance or not, with bent arms and right angles, it was what it was.
“Oh… What now?”
Bob cogitated before proposing with all digits.
“Hat?”
Tobias shook his head at Saibot who shook back at his backward brother, rose from his seat, crossed Bob’s palm with 10 fifty pence pieces and strode to the street. Being of average intelligence, Tobias knew that the word for the mark on his cranium could be directly translated from the Sanskrit word svasktika meaning a thing that is auspicious. It was time to be average no more. But where to start…
As the 12-squared cut would fall on the event of his 30th birthday, Tobias proposed to Saibot – his reliable reflection – they might break with tradition and do something a bit different. Little did Tobias front-and-back know but a break from the norm would squiggle his life up for keeps.
Haircut Saturday kicked off like any other. At 8.31am - one hour and 31 minutes beyond the weekdays - Tobias woke to the dependable sounds of Radio 4. He rubbed his left one once, his right twice, and then both a further four times. The seven rubs were for good luck, and the right always needed that extra tweak in the morning as it greedily slurped a 70/30 split of moisture during the darkness.
Tobias tucked his knees to his chest as the acclaimed gymnastic instructor Andre Blachix had taught him, raised his arms to the all powerful Judge, muttered a blessing and rolled forward on his firm mattress. Again, these were merely the actions of an average man who had been abandoned in a Romanian orphanage aged 6 and a bit, found saviour at the firm hand of an acrobatic legend with a soft heart, and had Olympic dreams cruelly shattered on the eve of competition by the midnight intrusion of a devilish Doberman with a foot fetish…
He was average.
He really was.
Tobias Green was definitely an average man.
He kept telling himself he was so it must be true.
With perfect 10 precision the roll ended with both gnarled feet planted firmly in Garfield slippers, thus enabling the upwardly mobile section of haircut Saturday to begin. Tobias knew that as it was now 8.32am, the reliable gas boiler had treated the hard water to 92 minutes of silent heating, giving him sufficient reason to generously lather his orifices.
Naked and erect, like any average 30-year-old man who existed in self-imposed solemnity would be on the occasion of his birthday, Tobias flung open the curtains. The day greeted him with the glares of watery sunshine and Mrs. Glark - old enough to be his dead father’s mother - who waved from behind the telescopic lens in her living room. As ever, Tobias mirrored the gesture, put hands on hips, and waited for the reliable liquid surge. Like any average man who had never experienced the inside or outside of a woman, Tobias woke stiff and sore and expelled thick translucent streams from his reproductive organ without any manual coaxing.
8.54am. Soaped-dried-dressed-fed-watered, Tobias made the short journey to Bob’s, the only barber in town who tendered service for the amiable amount.
The fact it was his birthday didn’t matter.
The fact he hadn’t received cards or gifts or calls didn’t matter.
The fact he hated every breath he ever ingested for his fecund lungs didn’t matter.
He was an average man and average men felt this way, although… he had never actually received clarity from anyone the dictionary might decry a friend:
1. A person whom you know well and whom you like a lot, but who is usually not a member of your family.
2. Someone who is not an enemy and whom you can trust.
3. Someone who gives money to a theatre, other arts organization or charity in order to support it.
9.07am. Bob was late. Bob was always on time. Bob was reliable. Bob smoked Marlboro Reds. Bob wore cowboy boots. Bob listened to country music. Bob liked to whistle. Bob never asked questions. Bob did his job.
“Bob’s dead.”
Tobias introduced his eyebrows to one another and followed the man – perhaps 30 years old and perhaps muscular and perhaps alluring to women – into the shop that sold haircuts.
“Bob was my Da. Bob always opened his shop. Bob is my name too. Bobs cut hair”.
Tobias was uncertain about the new Bob, a man who modelled a shirt so colourful it made his eyes feel certain they had vomited. This was to be a day of change for everyone at the barbershop however, so Tobias took his place in the black pleather chair, wrenched himself to the desired plateau without invitation, gave a cursory smile to Saibot and spoke loud and true.
“Shaved”.
Bob ceased all fingering of the shiny silver scissors and without word of warning buzzed a strip from Tobias’ head. Bob then proceeded to take one small step back and to the left before pursing the crux of his face.
“Swastika”.
Saibot took a long hard look at Bob. New Bob.
“Shaved”.
Bob shook his head and pointed.
“Swastika”.
Tobias shaped his mouth for an extolling of great erudition when Bob stopped him in his tracks with the twice-handled mirror. On the back of the head of this average man raged a purple birthmark that one could only describe as a swastika. Poor chance or not, with bent arms and right angles, it was what it was.
“Oh… What now?”
Bob cogitated before proposing with all digits.
“Hat?”
Tobias shook his head at Saibot who shook back at his backward brother, rose from his seat, crossed Bob’s palm with 10 fifty pence pieces and strode to the street. Being of average intelligence, Tobias knew that the word for the mark on his cranium could be directly translated from the Sanskrit word svasktika meaning a thing that is auspicious. It was time to be average no more. But where to start…
Ray Kane
Sunday 1 February 2009
The Dark Side of the Authentic in Underground Music
If there are two universal truths in human existence they are that one; people love music, and that two; they hate their jobs. The failure of human society to have evolved into anything other than a 24/7 party of love and utmost spiritual fulfilment can be attributed to an absence, thus far, of sufficient theorising on that which links these two fundamental certainties.
I’m sure I speak for the vast majority of readers of this text when I suggest that that which we are required to do during the day, for the sake of ‘earning a living,’ is at the sacrifice of living itself. Aside from a handful of freakish jobsworths and anomalous humanitarian aid-workers, sexy dancers and video-game testers, society is built on people who spend the majority of their lives being someone they really aren’t, or that they certainly rather they weren’t. Our jobs tend to be both demeaning and alienating, in as much as they demand that we adopt a character or mode of behaviour that isn’t ‘us.’ It is left to our activities outside of the 9–5 grind, then, to provide us with space to become who we ‘really are’. Whilst away from work we can engage in pursuits that let us express ourselves, unrestrained by the heavy chains of responsibility that dictate that we act ‘professionally’.
Capitalist society has addressed this dilemma by bestowing us with artists and musicians; a strange race of super beings granted the privilege to earn money, sometimes in vast quantities, to express themselves ‘sincerely’ as a job. What we lack in a qualitatively rich everyday existence is made up for by our opportunity to consume the produce of someone else’s authenticity. We are happy to provide musicians with a place in society where they can communicate how they feel and reflect upon life - whether that be through beauty, anger, machismo, sadness, joy, sexiness and so on - because of the absence of these qualities in our everyday lives. What we expect in return - when we turn on the radio, buy and album, watch a music programme on telly or go to a gig - is a concentrated hit of authenticity and unbridled ‘human expression’ to affirm that the musician’s side of this social contract is being upheld.
Following this logic through, I can begin to understand better my early attraction to punk and, subsequently, music done ‘DIY’. In this arena - one uncontaminated by the desire for profit, fame, sex, drugs and all the other clichéd incentives that ‘corrupt’ the mainstream music industry - I assumed to find the most authentic and sincere forms of musical expression. Indeed, the creative freedom gained when profit is not the motivating factor for a band, seemed to produce some of the most heartfelt and uninhibited music and performances I’d experienced. The gigs that I saw in the function rooms of pubs and social clubs and the records I bought by bands who had rejected the idea of commercial success as a guiding aspiration were, in the most, hitting my authenticity buttons hard, and madly flicking my sincerity-switches to boot.
That said, there were still a lot of DIY bands that I’d see, read about and hear records by, who’s freedom of expression would actually really wind me up. A lot of the noise and avant-garde acts I saw, for example, seemed to me to be taking the piss, or, to put it more politely, were being ‘contrived’. I could only imagine that this ‘outer-limits’ music was a deliberate attempt to be difficult, to get a rise out of the audience and, as such, was pure style over content. “Surely,” I’d convince myself, “these guys playing a single note for half an hour, or just jumping around screaming without demonstrating any musical skill aren’t sincere? They can’t actually enjoy it. They’re just doing it for show; in which case, it’s just as bad as the Spice Girls. All that’s happening in these experimental art-for-art’s-sake noise-outs is that spectacular entertainment has been substituted for spectacular anti-entertainment.” Similarly, I was, in earlier times, of the opinion that if a band weren’t competent musicians, or if they were playing music that was clearly derivative of other styles, then they mustn’t be ‘serious’ or ‘committed’. This, equally, fell under my critical fire as ‘inauthentic’ music, and was, therefore, not fulfilling the my-time-and-money-for-your-sincerity pact I assumed we had made. In short, I’d feel ripped off.
Over time, however, I began to re-evaluate this attitude. My experiences actually talking and meeting these groups of noise-makers and sloppy indie-nonsense players made me realise that, actually, they were just as committed and ‘into’ what they were doing as the technically proficient math-rock bands I’d revered. More importantly, though, I began to question the foundations underlying my desire for authenticity in music. Firstly, what was this elusive authenticity or sincerity I was expecting? How was I defining its limits? Was it possible, for instance, to see a band that sincerely enjoyed making money from music, or that genuinely enjoyed playing music that was derivative, or even outright cover-versions, of other bands? Would this prevent it from being authentic music? If not, then it doesn’t necessarily follow that the DIY scene is the only, or even the most likely, place to experience authentic music; it would be just as likely to occur or emanate from the commercially-driven mainstream as the ‘independent’ underground.
Secondly, and crucially, we should perhaps ask ourselves whether it is even healthy to crave the authentic in music or art. Wouldn’t we be better off spending that energy creating spaces for authenticity in our own lives, rather than delegating it to some other party, be they professional or otherwise? Furthermore, what is so socially beneficial about authenticity anyway? Although we might lack spaces where we feel we can act ‘as we really are’ and ‘be our true selves’, that rests on an assumption that there is a ‘real’, ‘true’ self to be expressed. By believing in such notions we are, of course, in real danger of encroaching on to the territory of reactionary, conservative, and even rightwing thought. A quest for the ‘true’, ‘uncontaminated’ essence of man has, historically, gone hand-in-hand with the partition of the ‘natural’ from the ‘unnatural’, the ‘pure’ from the ‘impure’ and, subsequently, the exclusion or division of peoples and the implementation of repressive hierarchies based on these ‘truths’. ‘The authentic’, then, is potentially as harmful a concept as it is an inspiring one, a Pandora’s box of sorts, and one who’s absence from our activities outside of our working lives is perhaps not such a bad thing.
I would suggest, then, that we are better off talking about that which we seek as an antidote to the boredom and alienation of everyday life - and the thing that is available to us in the experience and participation in music, especially in its DIY form - as honesty, not authenticity. This opens up space for us to accept the impure, the contradictory, the mistaken and the plain wrong – all those things, in fact, that we can’t be whilst at work, and all the things that make life worth living. In short, we’re not listening to music and going to gigs to experience pure, unadulterated emotional truth; we’re going to see people having, and have ourselves, as Freddy said, a real good time. Don’t let the desire for the authentic stop that now.
Andy Abbott
Andy Abbott fills his time being an artist and the guitarist in That Fucking Tank amongst other even lazier activities. If you are so inclined, a lot of the ‘produce’ of this can be found by visiting www.andyabbott.co.uk
I’m sure I speak for the vast majority of readers of this text when I suggest that that which we are required to do during the day, for the sake of ‘earning a living,’ is at the sacrifice of living itself. Aside from a handful of freakish jobsworths and anomalous humanitarian aid-workers, sexy dancers and video-game testers, society is built on people who spend the majority of their lives being someone they really aren’t, or that they certainly rather they weren’t. Our jobs tend to be both demeaning and alienating, in as much as they demand that we adopt a character or mode of behaviour that isn’t ‘us.’ It is left to our activities outside of the 9–5 grind, then, to provide us with space to become who we ‘really are’. Whilst away from work we can engage in pursuits that let us express ourselves, unrestrained by the heavy chains of responsibility that dictate that we act ‘professionally’.
Capitalist society has addressed this dilemma by bestowing us with artists and musicians; a strange race of super beings granted the privilege to earn money, sometimes in vast quantities, to express themselves ‘sincerely’ as a job. What we lack in a qualitatively rich everyday existence is made up for by our opportunity to consume the produce of someone else’s authenticity. We are happy to provide musicians with a place in society where they can communicate how they feel and reflect upon life - whether that be through beauty, anger, machismo, sadness, joy, sexiness and so on - because of the absence of these qualities in our everyday lives. What we expect in return - when we turn on the radio, buy and album, watch a music programme on telly or go to a gig - is a concentrated hit of authenticity and unbridled ‘human expression’ to affirm that the musician’s side of this social contract is being upheld.
Following this logic through, I can begin to understand better my early attraction to punk and, subsequently, music done ‘DIY’. In this arena - one uncontaminated by the desire for profit, fame, sex, drugs and all the other clichéd incentives that ‘corrupt’ the mainstream music industry - I assumed to find the most authentic and sincere forms of musical expression. Indeed, the creative freedom gained when profit is not the motivating factor for a band, seemed to produce some of the most heartfelt and uninhibited music and performances I’d experienced. The gigs that I saw in the function rooms of pubs and social clubs and the records I bought by bands who had rejected the idea of commercial success as a guiding aspiration were, in the most, hitting my authenticity buttons hard, and madly flicking my sincerity-switches to boot.
That said, there were still a lot of DIY bands that I’d see, read about and hear records by, who’s freedom of expression would actually really wind me up. A lot of the noise and avant-garde acts I saw, for example, seemed to me to be taking the piss, or, to put it more politely, were being ‘contrived’. I could only imagine that this ‘outer-limits’ music was a deliberate attempt to be difficult, to get a rise out of the audience and, as such, was pure style over content. “Surely,” I’d convince myself, “these guys playing a single note for half an hour, or just jumping around screaming without demonstrating any musical skill aren’t sincere? They can’t actually enjoy it. They’re just doing it for show; in which case, it’s just as bad as the Spice Girls. All that’s happening in these experimental art-for-art’s-sake noise-outs is that spectacular entertainment has been substituted for spectacular anti-entertainment.” Similarly, I was, in earlier times, of the opinion that if a band weren’t competent musicians, or if they were playing music that was clearly derivative of other styles, then they mustn’t be ‘serious’ or ‘committed’. This, equally, fell under my critical fire as ‘inauthentic’ music, and was, therefore, not fulfilling the my-time-and-money-for-your-sincerity pact I assumed we had made. In short, I’d feel ripped off.
Over time, however, I began to re-evaluate this attitude. My experiences actually talking and meeting these groups of noise-makers and sloppy indie-nonsense players made me realise that, actually, they were just as committed and ‘into’ what they were doing as the technically proficient math-rock bands I’d revered. More importantly, though, I began to question the foundations underlying my desire for authenticity in music. Firstly, what was this elusive authenticity or sincerity I was expecting? How was I defining its limits? Was it possible, for instance, to see a band that sincerely enjoyed making money from music, or that genuinely enjoyed playing music that was derivative, or even outright cover-versions, of other bands? Would this prevent it from being authentic music? If not, then it doesn’t necessarily follow that the DIY scene is the only, or even the most likely, place to experience authentic music; it would be just as likely to occur or emanate from the commercially-driven mainstream as the ‘independent’ underground.
Secondly, and crucially, we should perhaps ask ourselves whether it is even healthy to crave the authentic in music or art. Wouldn’t we be better off spending that energy creating spaces for authenticity in our own lives, rather than delegating it to some other party, be they professional or otherwise? Furthermore, what is so socially beneficial about authenticity anyway? Although we might lack spaces where we feel we can act ‘as we really are’ and ‘be our true selves’, that rests on an assumption that there is a ‘real’, ‘true’ self to be expressed. By believing in such notions we are, of course, in real danger of encroaching on to the territory of reactionary, conservative, and even rightwing thought. A quest for the ‘true’, ‘uncontaminated’ essence of man has, historically, gone hand-in-hand with the partition of the ‘natural’ from the ‘unnatural’, the ‘pure’ from the ‘impure’ and, subsequently, the exclusion or division of peoples and the implementation of repressive hierarchies based on these ‘truths’. ‘The authentic’, then, is potentially as harmful a concept as it is an inspiring one, a Pandora’s box of sorts, and one who’s absence from our activities outside of our working lives is perhaps not such a bad thing.
I would suggest, then, that we are better off talking about that which we seek as an antidote to the boredom and alienation of everyday life - and the thing that is available to us in the experience and participation in music, especially in its DIY form - as honesty, not authenticity. This opens up space for us to accept the impure, the contradictory, the mistaken and the plain wrong – all those things, in fact, that we can’t be whilst at work, and all the things that make life worth living. In short, we’re not listening to music and going to gigs to experience pure, unadulterated emotional truth; we’re going to see people having, and have ourselves, as Freddy said, a real good time. Don’t let the desire for the authentic stop that now.
Andy Abbott
Andy Abbott fills his time being an artist and the guitarist in That Fucking Tank amongst other even lazier activities. If you are so inclined, a lot of the ‘produce’ of this can be found by visiting www.andyabbott.co.uk
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