Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds: Skeleton Tree in The Wire (#393, Nov 2016)

ce48bf38-c6fe-457b-b338-e82671b5de8cMy review of Skeleton Tree (Bad Seeds Records Ltd), the new album by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, is in the latest issue of The Wire (Nov 2016).  Here is its cover with the great Shirley Collins as the lead feature. I can’t link to my Cave review here, but suffice to say, it’s an astounding collection of songs: a work of life built out of mourning. I’ve been writing about Nick Cave’s work for nearly 25 years and this album has been the starkest one yet. 


David Bowie 1947-2016


In 1973, I – with two schoolfriends – took a day off from our Suffolk school to see David Bowie play at the Norwich Theatre Royal. It was the Aladdin Sane tour and he, with the Spiders from Mars, were doing two shows. We caught the first, early evening one: after all, it was over 60 miles back home to Suffolk and school couldn’t be avoided the next day. That first experience of seeing Bowie live on stage still resonates.

This gig was a year after the release of The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and its single, “Starman”. The Aladdin Sane tour itself would end in a wildly strange and urgent way a few weeks after my Norwich experience, when Bowie announced the end of Ziggy at Hammersmith Odeon at the performance on 3 July. That was captured in all its darkness by D.A. Pennebaker’s film. (A darkness that, incidentally, artist duo Iain Forsyth and Jane Pollard attempted to recapitulate in 1998 in A Rock ‘n’ Roll Suicide, a performance re-enactment.) In print, the intensity of some of the fantasies that Bowie trigged in his audience was expressed best by Fred and Judy Vermorel’s Starlust (1985), a book that captures the unnavigable emotional violence of fandom like no other text before or after.

Like millions of others, I saw Bowie first playing “Starman” in 1972 on Top of The Pops on BBC1. A million sitting rooms across Britain were never the same after that transmission of a promise that offered such wild and intoxicating difference. It is not surprising that so many of my generation date a profound awakening, a radical call to expression, to this performance.

It’s tempting to say that that “Starman” performance inserted a kind of queerness into mainstream culture. It did, but it was not alone in its action. It was part of a momentum that expressed this. Roxy Music – and especially its disturbing and distracting figure of Brian Eno – did this too, at a time exactly contemporaneous with the manifestation of Ziggy Stardust. Bob Fosse’s brilliant adaptation of Kander and Ebb’s late Weimar-era musical, Cabaret (1972), is very much part of the picture in its seductive stylisation of power and performance. The original stagings of Richard O’Brien’s Rocky Horror Picture Show in the early 1970s also fit the period in its linking of the underbellies of underground cultures.People nicked Sally Bowles’s phrase, “divine decadence”, as a kind of cultural shorthand to talk about all this, but looking back now, whatever was going on wasn’t the implosion that characterises decadence but something at the other end of the scale.

But Bowie, in those pre-internet days, was the beginning of an education. I bought the Velvet Underground LPs because he mentioned them and spent hours trying and beginning to understand them; I looked for Jacques Brel. Words that I found out came from Buddhist teachings lead to books on Tibetan Buddhism He mentioned Nietzsche – I read Nietzsche; ditto Warhol, ditto so much other stuff.  The libraries, record shops and bookshops of Suffolk were scoured. Brian Eno got tangled up in this for me, and by the time of his Obscure record series, he and Bowie were meshed together for me. Such was the nature of self-directed research.

I mourn him, like millions. But I also celebrate the synaptic connections that he inspired me to begin to explore. May everyone, everywhere, have their own Bowie.



Deep listening with Éliane Radigue

Éliane Radigue and me, November 2015

Éliane Radigue and me, November 2015

Last week, I was privileged to be granted an interview with the truly exceptional composer Éliane Radigue at her home in Paris. The interview will be written up for my research project, currently underway at CRiSAP, at the University of the Arts London. It will eventually be available to all researchers who visit the Her Noise archives at the London College of Communication. Other interviews will include Ellen Fullman, Laurie Anderson, Annea Lockwood, Laurie Spiegel and the mighty Pauline Oliveros herself, whose life work has been the development of the Deep Listening practice.

I’ve done lots of interviews in my years as a journalist, but there aren’t many where I’ve felt that a real meeting took place. This was one. Once it was over, Éliane said, “Take a selfie!” So we did. (Thank you, Catherine Facerias, for the nice photo.) We also got to play with her very nice ginger cat.

There’s a very nice film of Radigue by Anaïs Prosaic (link below). Her 65-minute  L’écoute virtuose (Virtuoso Listening) was made a few years ago after the composer was in London for the superb Triptych: The Music of Éliane Radigue, a 15-night series of concerts organised by British new music champions Sound and Music in June 2011. I attended an evening of early feedback and loop pieces at St Stephen’s Walbrook in the City. It consisted of seven Radigue works composed between 1969-70, which were originally created for gallery installation. This was work that predates Radigue’s radical work with the ARP 2500 synthesiser, an instrument she used until quite recently. Nevertheless, the seeds of her later work are al here in their slow, minutely changing timbres, shapes and colours. It was an occasion for deep listening (pace Oliveros) as well as deep looking as the evening shadows lengthened and the interior of the church descended from light to dusk to darkness.

Anaïs Prosaïc’s 65-minute  L’écoute virtuose is also available on DVD with English subtitles.

For the background of Triptych:

And a nice interview (in French) between Radigue and Hans-Ulrich Obrist at the Foundation Cartier is here:

Keep an eye on the schedule of Sound and Music, too. There are always some exciting curatorial programmes and commissions going on:

Laurie Anderson – a dance party from the archives of yesteryear

el's archive 1 front

Thank you, Élisabeth Lebovici, for sharing this flyer from your personal archive! Elisabeth’s always fantastic writing on art history can be found here – – and at many other outlets.

My review of Laurie Anderson’s beautiful and profound Heart of a Dog (2015), her first film since Home of the Brave in 1986, is in the November 2015 issue of The Wire (no. 381).

el's archive 2 back

Ceci n’est pas une pipe: art history with Alice Anderson

Alice Anderson, pipe, Memory Movement Memory Objects

Alice Anderson, pipe, Memory Movement Memory Objects

What is it about Magritte’s pipe? And what has it to do with Alice Anderson, whose extraordinary new solo show at London’s Wellcome Collection (22 July to 18 October 2015) revisits what Magritte referred to as “the treason of images”, the original title of his late 1920s painting of a pipe? The answer lies in the game of representation. Just as the surrealist pipe wasn’t the object it purported to be, so Anderson’s mummified objects are no longer the objects they once were. In Memory Movement Memory Objects, Anderson has taken all kinds of objects – a canoe, guitars, shelves, children’s toys, recently extinct technological devices – and, with the help of members of her Travelling Studio, encased them meticulously, mercilessly, in a copper/elastic thread, as brilliant and flame-coloured as her own hair. In the darkened spaces of the Wellcome’s galleries, the objects glisten like treasures in an Egyptian tomb. Platonic, geometric shapes – spheres, cones, cubes – are here, too. In more senses than one, Memory Movement Memory Objects is a return to form. It’s an exhibition that looks back as well as forwards as the objects assume multiple characteristics: they are presences and absences, ritualised forms and performed objects. One of the uncanniest moments comes in the form of the wrapped hi-fi speakers that still broadcast the club music that Anderson heard them playing when she bought them. The music has been commodified as an intrinsic aspect of the speaker – and then entombed. The thump-thump-thump of the beat is a something knocking to get out.

Alice Anderson, record Player, Memory Movement Memory Objects

Alice Anderson, record Player, Memory Movement Memory Objects

Many of the objects here are on the edge of memory – the record player, the Walkman, the Blackberry phone. And it’s memory, and the ambivalence surrounding it, that activates this exhibition so well. This is a process that’s run through much of Anderson’s work – from the 2011 wrapping of the Freud Museum in London, to the dolls, red-haired like their artist, that often peopled her earlier work as she negotiated the – Kleinian – phantastical  palate of the transitional object. More recently, this play of memory and the object has been translated into an engagement with form. I like to think that the 20-foot high Monolith that Anderson created in 2011 for the contemporary art section of the Latitude Festival (which I curated, alongside Ben Borthwick and Anne Hilde Neset), was, in some way, a significant transition work.

Alice Anderson, Monolith (2011)

Alice Anderson, Monolith, Latitude Festival, 2011

Memory, as Anderson acknowledges, is an unreliable process. We will soon forget what a phone box looks like – maybe the experience of its wrapped shape will help remind us of it. Which is where the social nature of the exhibition kicks in. Each object is result of performed work, sometimes the result of hundreds of hours of many people’s work. It’s going to take a long time to cover up the shell of the 1967 Mustang that’s in the gallery. However – and I speak from the experience of spending an hour with it and my own bobbin of thread – it’s a strangely rewarding and contemplative thing to do.

© Alice Anderson 2015

© Alice Anderson 2015

From July 2015 Wellcome Collection presents a major exhibition of works by artist Alice Anderson: ‘Memory Movement Memory Objects’. Anderson’s sculptures are entirely mummified in copper thread, creating glistening landscapes of beautiful, uncanny and transformed objects. Each piece is an exploration and act of memory. London 2015 © Wellcome Collection

From July 2015 Wellcome Collection presents a major exhibition of works by artist Alice Anderson: ‘Memory Movement Memory Objects’. Anderson’s sculptures are entirely mummified in copper thread, creating glistening landscapes of beautiful, uncanny and transformed objects. Each piece is an exploration and act of memory. London 2015
© Wellcome Collection

Alice Anderson Memory Movement Memory Objects, Wellcome Collection, London (to 18 October 2015) Data Space, Espace Louise Vuitton, Paris (to 20 September 2015) 

Slow-walking with Marina Abramović

© Marco Anelli 2013

© Marco Anelli 2013

I was leaning against a wall in the Serpentine Gallery just watching people when Marina Abramović walked over and stood in front of me. Elsewhere in adjoining rooms there were some people sitting in chairs focussing on brightly coloured squares of paper on the walls in front of them. In one large space some were standing on a dais, their eyes closed. Many held hands. In another room, there were about eight others seated on simple wooden chairs at simple wooden desks engrossed in a task of counting lentils or grains of rice. Behind them, there were some camp beds on which others were lying, covered by bright blankets. I watched Marina tuck people in. She used slow and tender gestures, but the association for me was one of exam halls and hospitals and that was too close to my recent past.  I gravitated to another room where a number of people were walking slowly, slowly up and down, up and down the gallery. Everyone wore sound-baffling headphones; no one had a watch and phones and electronic devices had been secured in lockers beforehand. Time was not so much suspended as interiorised. Time and speed: the two are part of a whole.

“Hello,” Marina whispered to me and two strangers on either side of me. She signalled that we should take off our headphones.  She smiled. “I want you to walk the length of the gallery seven times. Slowly. I will show you the tempo. The purpose is to slow your body, to oxygenate it. You will find that your mind is like a Ferrari, but, kids, you’ll really enjoy it.” It was nice being referred to as “kids” in her Serbian accent. And with that she took my hand and I took the hand of the stranger on my other side and we walked, slowly, slowly, slowly.

The thing about walking so slowly, so mindfully, is that it’s difficult. Sometimes you unbalance and wobble and your companions squeeze your hands and steady you. This was a comforting, comradely feeling. Marina left us after half a length and we became a trio doing our exercise. At one point we overtook another walker – I felt like the Usain Bolt of live art – but that was ok. It wasn’t a competition and it wasn’t as if we were all cruising for the artist’s attention. After our seven walks, we separated and melted away from one another.

For 512 Hours, named for the duration of the exhibition itself, artist Marina Abramović has filled an empty gallery with people. She moves amongst them, issuing gentle instructions. (It’s crucial that this ceaselessly changing work flows, and in this, Abramović has been helped through her collaboration with Paris-based choreographer Lynsey Peisinger.) What happens? What can people create out of nothingness? This is the most stark of Abramović’s body (pun intended) of endurance works. The emotional reflections and projections that made The Artist Is Present at Moma so intense an experience are not here, or if they are, they are subdued. Absent, too, is the asceticism and (sometimes) fury of earlier works. (Think of Balkan Baroque in 1997 at the Venice Biennale where she washed a Sisyphus-sized mound of bloody cow bones in the wake of the collapse of her native Yugoslavia and the horrors that ensued.)

In making art with no object, it is, perhaps, as if Abramović wants us, each participant, to acknowledge and welcome our own agency in the world. To stop and listen. One might say that her focus is what allows the participant to be present, which would make 512 Hours a companion piece to the Moma show. And, given the velocity of the world just yards away from the interior of the gallery, that is a remarkable gift. MA



512 Hours is at the Serpentine Gallery, London. It ends on 25 August 2014

Marina at Midnight


Reviews published in the latest edition of Tempo.

Polansky et al.

Louise Gray

Tempo / Volume 68 / Issue 269 / July 2014, pp 86 – 88 DOI: 10.1017/S0040298214000205, Published online: 16 June 2014

Link to this article: How to cite this article:

Louise Gray (2014). Polansky et al.. Tempo, 68, pp 86-88 doi:10.1017/S0040298214000205

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