Eilmer of Malmesbury

Eilmer of Malmesbury

Eilmer was born in about 980 AD, and is best remembered for making a flight from the tower of Malmesbury Abbey in 1010 when he was a young monk there. The account of this exploit can be found in William of Malmesbury's book Gesta Regum Anglorum.

William himself was born towards the end of the 11^th century, so no doubt as a young man he heard the story from older monks. He describes how Eilmer fastened wings to his arms and his feet, and launched himself from the top of a tower, either a Saxon watchtower, or the old Abbey. The present Abbey was not built until nearly two centuries later, but it is likely that this tower would have been around the same height as the present structure. We do not know what material the wings were made of, but he had reportedly observed jackdaws in flight, and had worked out how to make use of the currents of air to glide, rather than just plummet to earth.
He managed to cover a distance of around 200 metres. But it seems that it suddenly dawned on him what a risk he had taken, whereupon he panicked and came down with a bump, breaking both his legs. The strength of the wind also might have caused the sudden end to his adventure, but interestingly he also believed that he would have had more stability if he had provided himself with a tail.
He set about rectifying this shortcoming, and was making plans for a second flight when his abbot placed an embargo on any further attempts, and that was that. For more than half a century after these events, the limping Eilmer was a familiar sight around the community of Malmesbury, where he became a distinguished scholar.
William tells this story as an aside to a description of the appearance of the comet that was later known as Halley's. Eilmer had the distinction of seeing it twice in his lifetime. He first saw it as a boy in 989, and the belief that it heralded doom was soon fulfilled when a wave of Danish attacks led to the destruction of many settlements, including the monastic establishment at Malmesbury. The second time was in 1066, and the event was swiftly followed by the Norman invasion of William the Conqueror.
There are several variations of his name. He is frequently referred to as "Elmer", and also on occasions as "Oliver". However the derivation of that name is probably a scribe's copying error. The spelling taken on this occasion is that used by William of Malmesbury.
This information was originally taken from a booklet, Eilmer, The Flight and The Comet, by the late Maxwell Woosnam, which is now out of print. 
Photos - Olympus 7.1 Digital

Of Vincent and St Lazare

Of Vincent and St Lazare

So I was walking around the gallery with Vincent, and after a while I plucked up the courage to ask “Vincent, tell me, are you real or just a figment of my imagination?”

He looked pensive for a moment before replying “well I know as much about you as anyone - that you like to ride on steam trains and take a long fast sledge ride towards fields of white that seem to go on forever. I know that you like your stout not too cold and your bourbon not too warm and of course I know about St Lazare.”

“Nobody really knows about St Lazare” I interjected. He looked a little hurt and we continued to walk. We stopped again in front of the Miro, which I didn’t much care for, but that is where we stopped.

“Tell me then, should I go back? Would it mean anything?”

Vincent smiled and fixed me with comforting eyes, “that is where everything ended and everything began, of course you should go back.”

Vincent always seems to be around when there’s alcohol involved, at least when there’s copious amounts of the stuff. Now alcohol and I go back along way and we have a weird and dangerous relationship. I know it’s weird and dangerous and I’m pretty sure alcohol knows that too, though she never really mentions it and neither does Vincent.

Alcohol offers me a different perspective, a little like those councillors I had back in ’91. I look at the angel candle and I think - well I can’t light that ‘cause the first thing to melt is gonna be her head and that’s just too scary. Alcohol explains to me that the cats understand everything and that they appreciate well constructed verse and a cool beat. Alcohol turns 4am into a magical time of buzzing creativity, bridge burning and wondrous positivity, and Vincent, always Vincent.

St Lazare was where Paris and I really started our affair, after all I was really a child until that moment, and when I left that station I guess I was some kind of adult. There are no photos or recordings though that time has been recurrent in my dreams for these thirty one years and it remains vivid and tangible.

Something of London died around the same time as my dear uncle John. The beautiful black horses that pulled him on that final ride from Mornington Crescent also drew a veil over the London that was and it’s never felt quite the same since. There are still little corners I love but I don’t feel connected in the same way I did – from my childhood walks to the comic shop in Camden on a Sunday afternoon through to The Lo-Fi Louge at O’Reilley’s in Kentish Town, the poll tax protests and the lottery fuelled exuberance of the arts Council years. Being the last act to perform on the final night at Bunjies Coffee House – living history, making history – a city not only to experience counter-culture but to soundtrack it, march with it and fund it! Still, I always have Paris. 

It was around 1996 that I stopped off at St Lazare alone to see if she'd changed and if she'd remember me. June 21 - Fete de la Musique day, time for a little adventure! I guess I left around 6am - I had a schedule of sorts, and that began with breakfast in Calais. I sat outside a cafe somewhere in the centre of town and watched a stage being primed and members of a brass band saunter in to the

square and begin unpacking and testing their horns. I never got to see the band in full as I had to get my next connection which would bring me to Paris in time for lunch. Trains and stations you see - windows and doorways to experience, enlightenment and exotica.

In Paris I stopped at a café near Gare du Nord for a baguette fromage avec du vin rouge et jazz cool. I think I took some notes and photos that day but not as much as intended, instead deciding to simply bask in the bohemian journey – to breathe it, smell it taste it – all far more important than recording events. From there I took the bus to St Lazare. I turned the corner to greet her, and she smiled beguiling and blinked in the early afternoon sunlight – she remembered.

It was of course different, our relationship changed – a visitor rather than an inhabitant – but still so familiar, strangely welcoming. This had been a station of kindness – café owners who gave bread and coffee with no expectation of remuneration, street girls who shared their cigarettes on a slow night and Algerian peddlers fresh in town with hope in their eyes and a warming smile. Never judged for the meagre amount of remaining centimes or the developing holes in the trouser knees – just a fellow with temporary residence and nothing to give but a smile and some conversation.

It was a fleeting return as another train beckoned to take me to Coutances where I would surprise my Norman friends and bar hop through folk, rock and jazz haunts ‘til the wee hours. We talked of nights past and enterprises to come, of absent friends and of course music.

 Back in 1981 my stay at St Lazare had lasted about a week – my Magic Bus ticket to Athens my only possession of any worth, born again beatnik poet citizen of the world, just passing through.

Photos 1,2 & 8 - Holga 135. Photos 3 & 7 Holga 135 Pinhole. Photos 4, 7 & 9 Olympus Digital.

St Lazare - http://www.bonjourlafrance.com/france-trains/stations/saint-lazare-station.htm

Januaryism

Januaryism, a fine word (thanks Simon). Inspired by a maudlin Facebook post which in itself inspired positive reaction. So what’s the definition?  Grey, cold, over-thoughtful, fresh, looking forwards, looking backwards but yes maudlin. I move too fast though (gotta make the morning last), first we have Decemberism and Decemberism in 2011 brought no snow, much wind, rain and darkness but punctuation of celebration and non-youthful exuberance.

Weekends with Knox (and The Trailer Trash Orchestra of course) – great nights at What’s Cookin’ and Club 85 and down to Brighton to play with our old compadres Leonard and Bubba – The Prince Albert is our Brighton home even though the iced jaegermeister machine is long gone. Steve and I stayed down and Will took us out after the show, in to the night for further frolicks then a stare-out showdown with the security at our beach front hotel, smoking on the step looking at the big wheel, the lights of the pier and the star speckled darkness of the sea.

Breakfast by the beach, the sound of a brass band honking and humming through a yuletide catalogue and up through the lanes before driving back in to dramatic skies.

Escape is good, escape is honourable, so the ferry to Dunkirk and then on to Bruges – at the side of the woods a few kilometres from town – aaand relax. Fiery fun filled eyes around the skating rink, old old buildings traced in the dark with white streams of electric light, hot coffee liquour and gluhwein, the finest hot chocolate in the world and a fire in a fish tank. Horses and carts and the biggest of smiles from Emelia and Jerome, Tintin biscuits and calming canal strolls – escape is both good and honourable. Stop to pick up the best coffee yule log ever assembled at Bergers – the mini Bruges - en Frances and back aboard the ferry for Jerome’s Birthday Frites.

Jesus and Justine and unfortunately Noel Edmunds all born on the 25^th – joyous, relaxed, carols on the gramophone and day 1 of what shall be an enduring adventure with the Holga Pinhole. Emelia and the the new year both born on the 31^st – Nutella and rum cake with exploding candle, Michael, Steve and I in gangster spectacles and ties – at home and pure celebration with the wonderful, the wondrous, the wild and the beautiful ones – Auld Lang’s Eyne then Poor, Drunk and Free.

And so we arrive in Januaryism and perhaps it’s the embers of Decemberism that will keep us warm – though still no snow - through to that questionable commodity of Februaryism.

aaand relax.

Black and White pics taken with Holga Pinhole, all others with Olympus Digital

Ballad of theWandering Troubadour

Ballad of the Wandering Troubadour

(written around 2004 I think. Photos of me by Kev Taylor and Dave Morgan)

I’ve been a wandering troubadour it’s part of what I do

I’ve sung my songs to all kinds of folks and I have listened too

It kept me sane when I felt the pain could somehow overcome

Cause when I returned I found that I had learned there is good in everyone

In the villages of Normandy with my friends who live down there

Talking rock ‘n’ roll on calvodos when there’s music in the air

A tango guitar in the pastis bar on a Barcelona night

Almost made me cry I felt so alive I said man I feel alright

Cause I’m not one for waving flags you know that’s not who I am

And kindness lies in peoples eyes in each and every land

cold or warm in sun or storm you know each place has its charms

But when I feel alone well I know that home is in my baby’s arms

Way up north in Finland you know the nightime don’t exist

Drinking with the dead down in Mexico made you swear that souls exist

There’s a cake shop down in Kassel man I swear that you could die

I saw snow fall in the desert from a clear Nevada sky

When I was down and out in Paris everything just seemed so clear

With the streetgirls and the homeless and them buskers from Algiers 

Man I got more education sleeping on that station floor

Than I had gained in schooling in the 20 years before

Cause I’m not one for waving flags you know that’s not who I am

And kindness lies in peoples eyes in each and every land

Cold or warm in sun or storm you know each place has its charms

But when I feel alone well I know that home is in my baby’s arms

I am not a wise man something I will never be

But the autumn leaves of England still look beautiful to me

If I have learned one simple truth as through this life I pass

You can find the good in everyone and they will half fill your glass

Cause I’m not one for waving flags you know that’s not who I am

And kindness lies in peoples eyes in each and every land

Cold or warm in sun or storm you know each place has its charms

But when I feel alone well I know that home is in my baby’s arms

The Little Boats in the Harbour (written late '80's)

The Little Boats in the Harbour

When you dream what do you dream

could you ever tell someone else

Do you ever wonder what other people dream

do you only dream of yourself

Do you ever look beyond the troubles of your miniscule world

And it’s sad that people like you only dream of being old

And I see you this way

The little boats in the harbor

The smell of fresh salt in the air

And a hand full of anecdotes and made up memories

As if anybody cared about you

Do you wonder ever really wonder if anyone dreams of you

Have you ever loved ever really loved have you ever talked to the moon

Do you know that stars are something you can wish upon when wishes seem the only way

Have you seen the ghosts that hide in misty mornings have you heard what they say

‘cause sometimes they cry for you

The little boats in the harbor

The smell of fresh salt in the air

And a hand full of anecdotes and made up memories

As if anybody cared about you

The blue light of a TV in the darkness of a room without love

Ice on the window as you close your eyes And  murmour enough is enough

The little boats in the harbor

The smell of fresh salt in the air

And a hand full of anecdotes and made up memories

As if anybody cared about you

The Sailor and the Angel (written around 1990)

The sailor and the angel

The sailor cruises the darkness of the deep blue city

any port in a storm

and in the corners of the darkest bars he talks to the ghosts that hide amongst the shadows

he says

“has anybody seen my angel?

she has jewels in her eyes and stardust in her hair

little feathers on her arms and on her legs

and when she smiles the sun shines

and when she dances the moon glows”

The angel swoops and darts over the darkness of the deep blue city

Every night she’s there perusing her kingdom

all those rivers of tarmac and streams of neon

and as she floats down the sailors reach up to touch her

They say

“hey angel can we take just one jewel from your eyes

can we take a little stardust from your hair

one feather from your arms or from your legs

so that we can remember this moment always”

And she says

“sure sailor you can take one jewel from my eyes

a little stardust from my hair

one feather from my arms and from my legs

so that you can remember this moment always

just like I will”

 

One night just like any other night

she climbs to the top of the highest building in the deep blue city

she looks down over her kingdom

all those rivers of tarmac and streams of neon

and just like every other night she steps over the edge and into the night

But tonight is not like every other night

She begins to fall

and she doesn’t understand what’s happening

she cries out

“somebody help me

somebody save me”

The sailors look up and they say

“don’t worry angel we’re here for you

don’t worry angel we’ll catch you”

but as she gets closer they see that

there are no jewels in her eyes just deep black pools

no stardust in her hair just knots and tangles

no feathers on her arms and on her legs just white skin and bone

and the last think she sees as she plunges to the ground is the sailors walking away

in to the darkness of the deep blue city

The sailor leaves another bar in the deep blue city

And in the shadows where no lamp light shines

he hears a woman’s voice

 

“help me sailor

I’m broken and I’m dying

Help me sailor

I’m bleeding and I’m leaving”

But the sailor

just as if he doesn’t hear a word

steps over the body of the woman and into the darkness of the deep blue city

And the last thing the angel hears

as the sailor disappears

is his sad voice

saying

“has anybody seen my angel?”

How I became a Lo-Fi Low Star (written May 4 2003)

As a toddler and junior, we had one record player in the house. It was an old portable mono Philips, and I must have been about six before I could actually lift it. My mums’ collection contained three albums that I used to play to death, With The Beatles, Lionel Hampton on the vibes and the South Pacific original soundtrack. I obviously drove my folks sufficiently mad with these regular DJ sessions, `cause when I was about ten, they got me my own record player. It was a little stereo, and the speakers clipped on top so you could carry it round like a small suitcase. Around the same time, we got a new family stereo, and we inherited an old 78 player. I was in heaven.

A friend called Peter and I formed our first band when we were 11. I had a little half size acoustic guitar and he had a practice drum pad. We stole a snare drum together, but soon after split up over musical differences… Well who was going to play the snare drum actually.

I decided to go solo. I got some empty boxes and polystyrene packing from behind the electrical shop, and made a drum kit. The persistence with which I battered the cardboard for the next two years impressed my parents enough to buy me a second-hand bass drum, high hat and snare for my fourteenth Christmas. I was now ready to begin recording.

I would record  a drum part on to my portable cassette player, and then play it back whilst simultaneously strumming my untuned acoustic and recording the 2 parts on to my brothers portable cassette player. The same process was used to add vocals.

I soon developed a craving for some different sounds, so I began to experiment. I'd picked up this white label 7” in a second hand shop, and the B side contained a single tone that ran for about 3 minutes, presumably to let you know instantly that you’d put on the wrong side. I soon worked out that by changing the speed of the record player, I could change the pitch of the tone. I could also slow it down and speed it up with my finger. Now there were obviously some New York DJs living next door at the time, `cause a few years later they started doing this sort of thing on a regular basis (with far more commercial success).

I also discovered that by tuning my transistor radio between stations I could get some great noises, with occasional ghostly voices or snatches of tunes wafting through.

The following year my brother and his mate added to the turntable collection when they got themselves a mobile disco set up. They got a few bookings, and I was allowed to accompany them to their second date at Roundwood School. It was going fine. I was watching the sixth form girls boogie to Mott the Hoople and Status Quo. Then my brothers mate pulled out a new record he’d bought that day, and cleared the dance floor in 5 seconds. I on the other hand bobbed my head up and down enthusiastically and grinned reassuringly at my brothers mate. The record was New Rose by The Damned, and for the first time in my life everything began to make sense.

Enthused with my new found punk lust, I set about putting down another track of rhythm/noise experimentation, but with angrier vocals. I sent it to our local record company. They never replied. A couple of years later I sent a tape of my first proper band to the same company. I went to see them and the man said “I kinda liked it, but what I really liked was that weird dub stuff you used to do”.

By that time though my life had been changed. One night, under the bed covers, listening to John Peel on my transistor radio, I was reduced to tears of joy by the most wonderful music I had ever heard. The New York Dolls had entered my life forever. The following week I bought a second-hand electric guitar and amp, and set about learning an E chord. Strangely enough, the old Selmer amp had a habit of making high pitched squeals and picking up occasional ghost radio.

I never lost that lust for creating music/sound in non-traditional ways, and that approach re-emerged in much of my work in the late eighties and early nineties as a Youth Arts Worker and Music Animateur, in the shape of urban/industrial sound sculptures and experimental work with digital technology.The ethic also informed our early Los Chicos Muertos recordings and contributions to the pan European lo-fi collective The Anglo German Low Stars.

I still use funny old drum machines and small plastic keyboards on a regular basis, and recently purchased a hand held light operated theramin that sounds like a moped revving up. This has already appeared on stage and is likely to appear on a recording soon.

Sometimes, when I’m sitting at my 4-tracck, laying down some ideas, I swear I can hear the ghostly voices, valve crackle and static interference of a long lost radio broadcast permeating the ether like the sirens of redundant technology calling my name.

Grae J. Wall