A few words about Suicide (Meaning the band!)

So recently it was announced that Alan Vega of the band suicide had passed away, for me this was the first musicians death that made me cry. I didn’t weep for Bowie, Prince, Poly Styrene or Lou Reed. But Vega was the one who made me fucking weep for hours, I was kind of a lost soul the entire day. But I got thinking why was it Vega who broke my tear virginity? I think it’s in no small part to how much Suicide means to me and the impact they’ve had on my ability to preform both inspiration wise and on the scene. I could go on and on about their music and how they contributed to the acceptance of synths in music that we all embrace today, but I’d rather concentrate on Vega and performance aspect. Besides someone else can probs do the music history lesson better them me.

So for those of you who follow my blog you’ll know that while the stuff I write is mostly tame love poems, the stuff I PREFORM however is a lot less so. Most of my performance stuff is based around screaming one word 80 times and putting some prose around it every now and then. In a town like Colchester where we get a lot of the London crowd a.k.a the kind of people that just want to see THAT ONE POEM preformed again and again by white middle class people, needless to say I’m not always well received, even when I cave and do preform the love poem stuff! In those times, like when I’m preforming at a Folk Festival and some 35 year old twat shouts “What is this crap? Where’s his fucking guitar!?” I often think of Suicide, and very often think of their gig in Brussels

For those who don’t know, Vega would often preform his songs not unlike how you’d preform a spoken word poem, at the time of the first album anyways. At the tamest you’d get stuff like Ghost Rider where it’s like delivering the lyrics with a rockabilly tint, at the most abrasive you’d get stuff like ‘Frankie Teardrop’ which involved Vega doing HOWLING screams after preforming lyrics about a man putting a gun chamber to his 6 month old baby’s head and killing it. Couple this with his backing being Rev’s synths at a time where going to a musical gig without a guitar was grounds for a death warrant. THEN imagine that when your opening for Elivs Costello and the only thing in the way of him and the crowd is you…. yeah they put up with a lot of shit needless to say. If you can listen to the recording of them in Brussels I 100% recommend it, it’s an experience

But I don’t think it’s a stretch to attribute the fact I can preform my poems screaming about BPD or screaming about giving a lady multiple orgasms so she’ll buy you a milkshake, with literally ZERO fear of having my teeth kicked in… Well to Suicide’s work with preforming live taking the brunt of that aggression. Vega sort of taught me no matter the kind of performance and art you want to show people, no matter how little ‘conventional talent’ or appeal you have. Keeping on with something real for you and showing the world with enough conviction, you’ll start to change things and change lives. Gotta keep those dreams alive, even if no poetry elitist cunt from London wants to accept me, if my poetry can help one person then I’ll have achieved my dreams~


http://thetartanprelude.tumblr.com/post/143807873227/audio_player_iframe/thetartanprelude/tumblr_o6mdmcDkEF1qc6xqe?audio_file=https%3A%2F%2Fa.tumblr.com%2Ftumblr_o6mdmcDkEF1qc6xqeo1.mp3

ALLRIGHT [Reading]

Original Poem: http://thetartanprelude.tumblr.com/post/140752771067/allright

Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/lnc0/allright


http://thetartanprelude.tumblr.com/post/143807411667/audio_player_iframe/thetartanprelude/tumblr_o6md5uFZL21qc6xqe?audio_file=https%3A%2F%2Fa.tumblr.com%2Ftumblr_o6md5uFZL21qc6xqeo1.mp3

ANTI THE ANTI ANTI [Reading]

Original Poem: http://thetartanprelude.tumblr.com/post/117020073037/anti-the-anti-anti

Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/lnc0/anti

My life has been guided by women
But because of them – I am a man.
God bless you mama – and thank you

“On Coming From a Broken Home (Part 2)” by Gil Scott-Heron

Shackled (W.I.P)

thetartanprelude:

Another Wednesday night spent in solitary confinement
With the soulless drones that regulate the beer stained stools
Clutching my nectar with one hand
Sinking my fingers in L’Oreal tinted forests with the other
It’d be around this time I’d of gotten your call
Bet all our wages in on branded mental…

Oh hey, this was the poem I preformed tonight with words in front of real humans, shit was fucking scary man! Went down surprisingly well for a more soppy one 😀

*For National Poetry Month – 2/30*
I WROTE IT WITH MY WORDS AND TONGUE IT COUNTS

Shackled (W.I.P)

We ain’t nothin’ about nothin’

A buzz to click you back into conciseness
The bigwig is calling for your appearance
A bead of sweat travels down the skull
You reluctantly agree to be grilled for the day

You rearrange the paper cooler cups by size
To postpone the transaction of self esteem
He heaves his heavy body up from the chair
And starts to head to the throne room

He gives it his best, and it still wasn’t up to spec
When has it ever been too their spec?
The spec is a speck to you now

You’re a zero, nothing more than a zero
You were born from zero and their you stayed
And if you forget they’ll be too quick to remind you

A bus ride back to the lady’s apartment
Lagging by an hour, with the stench off commoner
You knew from the start this visit was business
She gotten sick of your face, and your excuses for being late

Greeted by her screams of fictitious events
What can you say? When words seem useless
A sigh of disappoint will have to suffice
The love as gone back to that familiar zero

He gives it his best, and it still wasn’t up to spec
When has it ever been too her spec?
The spec is a speck to you now

You’re a zero, nothing more than a zero
You were born from zero and their you stayed
And if you forget she’ll be too quick to remind you

Walking back carrying months of your life on your back
Rainy night, the sky just oozes with delight
When all seems lost to you now, a pleasant sight
Your mate stuck in the gutter with a bottle of gin in one hand

Patrolling about the town, as he leads you to the heard
Telling the exaggerating tales of a Wednesday evening
A pat on the back, a charity shot of vodka
And suddenly the comfort zone has returned, he says:

‘I gave it my best, and it still wasn’t up to spec
When has it ever been too the spec?
The spec is a speck to me now

But now my best goes into these friends of mine
And the results are a guarantee’

But we’re all zeros here and nothing more
We was all born from zero and their we shall remain
We don’t need reminding we’re all in the same boat

What better way to spend a Wednesday evening?