Perhaps you know the 1988 classic acid anthem by its proper name – Voodoo Ray by A Guy Called Gerald. AKA: Gerald Simpson of 808 State fame.
I can’t say I was ever into acid house music, but I always loved this track. I heard it on the car radio the other day and it took me right back to my halcyon nights at the Hacienda nightclub in Manchester.
Apparently, Gerald sampled a Derek and Clive radio sketch by Peter Cook and Dudley Moore. Cook actually says: “Voodoo rage”, but Simpson’s recording equipment only had enough memory to catch the “Voodoo Ra…” part. Thus, an acid-house legend was born.
Serendipity.
The emphatic “Later!” is sampled from Dudley Moore’s character, Bo Dudley.
The hypnotic, trance-like vocals are by Nicole Collier.
Martin Parr would probably groan in pun-staking agony at that headline.
Oh well, you’re here now.
Martin Parr is one of Britain’s greatest photographers. Actually, make that ‘the World’s’.
He manages to capture the zeitgeist of working-class life in all its gaudy technicolour, wherever he goes. Whether that be Barnsley or Brazil.
He’s known for his satirical and ironic documentary-style images that look at our insatiable rapaciousness for consumerism. That, and people eating chips.
Martin Parr
I’m not here to write his biography, just show you some of his brilliant work. If you’d like to know a bit more about him, his life, his work, his foundation and his legacy, click here. But if you just want to see more photos of people eating chips, scroll down.
Regular readers of my blog will know my daughters and I make at least one pilgrimage a year to Haworth, home of the Brontes’. (Still haven’t figured out how to type an umlaut on a PC.)
This year, we visited Ponden Hall, Purportedly, Emily’s inspiration for Thrushcross Grange, home of the Linton family in Wuthering Heights.
It’s a rather exclusive B&B now. I can imagine Bronte pilgrims from farther afield (ligature!) would love to put it on their itinerary either for a stay or just a nosey around. And that’s where we come in. The rather delightful owner, Julie, must be fed up of people ringing her doorbell on her day off, not to book a room, but to see the room where Cathy torments Heathcliff by scrathcing on his window.
What?! I hear aficionados grumble. That didn’t happen at Thrushcross Grange, that happened at Wuthering Heights, the home of the Earnshaws’ and Heathcliff!
And you’d be right.
What is widely believed is that Emily transposed the interior of Ponden Hall and plonked it into the wilds of Wuthering Heights.
We know that Emily and her siblings were regular visitors to Ponden Hall to peruse their considerable library, (which reputedly, was the best in West Yorkshire at the time), and stayed there on numerous occasions.
Perhaps Emily even stayed in the room where Heathcliff endures his nightmares. Whether that is true or not is hard to say, but what is easier to suppose, is that Emily was actually in the room that I am about to show you, as it is virtually identical to Heathcliff’s in Wuthering Heights.
What is unusual is the bed chamber in the corner of the ‘suite’. As you can see, the bed is boxed off with oak panelling, (for privacy, one presumes). It’s not a room per se as the bed is flush to the panels. So you would have to climb into it and slide the door shut. And yes, you can actually stay in this room.
On closer inspection, (photo taken courtesy of my daughter), we see the tiny window which Cathy appears at to persecute her paramour.
Spoiler alert:
“I muttered, knocking my knuckles through the glass, and stretching an arm out to seize the importunate branch; instead of which, my fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold hand!” – Excerpt from Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte.
Here’s a slightly wider shot for context.
I don’t know about you, but I always get goose bumps when I imagine treading the same floorboards (or ramparts) as a figure from history. Whether that be Emily Bronte at Ponden, a Roman centurion on Harian’s Wall, or a Druid perambulating a stone circle. It gives me a greater sense of connection to the earth and the universe.
Anyway, it was a grand day out, topped off with a giant Yorkshire pudding filled with sausages and onion gravy at Emma’s cafe on Haworth Main Street. And, if that doesn’t anchor you to the universe, I don’t know what will.
Addendum.
My friend, Denis Goodbody, over in sunny Dublin, suggested that the panelling was probably more to do with keeping warmth in rather than privacy, which is a very good point. One which, having gas central heating, I hadn’t considered.
I can’t finish a post about Haworth or Wuthering Heights without adding links to the following:
My favourite film adaptation of Wuthering Heights by Andrea Arnold.
Today marks the 200th anniversary of the birth of Emily Bronte.
Haworth, where the Brontes lived, holds a special place in my, (and my children’s), hearts.
We visit the place as often as we can.
Here’s a little haiku I penned after a walk on the Moors with my daughters a couple of years back.
Knee deep in heather,
Bright red sock wavers aloft,
Boot stuck in peat bog.
Brontë Parsonage Museum
Brontë dining room
This is the room where, Emily, Anne and Charlotte did most of their writing. And that is the actual sofa in the background that Emily died on aged just 30. (I didn’t pass that information on to my children.)
Patrick Brontë’s study
If you haven’t read Wuthering Heights yet, I urge you to do so. I promise you, it’s like nothing you have ever read before. It’s a complex and staggeringly passionate tale of unrequited love and dastardly deeds, set amidst the bleak and rugged Yorkshire Moors.
And, if you get the chance, watch the recent film adaptation by Andrea Arnold. It’s a pretty radical take on the book and one of the best interpretations I’ve seen to date. (See trailer below.)
It’s not just the collective brilliance of the Brontë siblings that I find inspiring, but the whole beautifully barren backdrop of the moors. That, coupled with the picturesque cobbled streets of Haworth itself, makes perfect for a day out.
Haworth
“Top Withens” Emily’s inspiration for Wuthering Heights. (Now a ruin.)
“Top Withens” as it would’ve looked back in Emily’s day.
P.S. It’d be positively churlish of me not to also include this classic by Kate Bush… whose 60th birthday it also is today. Bit of a spooky coincidence, don’t you think?
I found an old CD the other day. It had fallen under the passenger seat of the car.
The front cover was missing. It was like one of those Now That’s What I call Music compilations, except with decent Indie music on it.
I played it and it took me right back to the 90s.
It got me thinking about how we mourn stars.
I’ve seen quite a few posts from cynics criticising people who eulogise about our recently departed idols because we never ‘knew’ them.
And they’re right.
I absolutely loved Bowie and Prince but I didn’t know them. It’s not a traditional kind of grieving that one would do for a loved one, though. It’s a grieving for all those times when your favourite singer was there for you. Through the good and the bad.
They punctuate the important times in our lives. When we were happiest, when we were broken-hearted.
Some folks might think this is a bit of a cheat. I started with my kids and I’m going to finish with them. In my defence, I have two of the little rascals so I’m counting it as one post apiece.
There is nothing more precious to me on this Earth than my two daughters. Anyone who has children will know that something changes inside of you – chemically, biologically – and nothing else seems to matter.
Of course, this doesn’t apply to every parent, and true, the pesky varmints do get on your nerves a lot of the time. And yes, they bicker constantly. And they manage to talk in a stream of consciousness James Joyce would be proud of. But, when all’s said and done, they don’t outweigh all the adorable moments. I simply couldn’t live without them.
It’s been an epic year of blogging. Thank you for sticking by me and I wish you all a very happy, healthy and prosperous new year!
Right, I’m going for a lie down.
Here are my 365 things that I am grateful for:
1 My daughters
2 Water
3 Poetry
4 Baths
5-7 Notebooks, pens, pencils
8,9 Butterflies and moths
10, 11 Softball and baseball
12 Fresh coffee
13 Sound / masts
14 Indoor toilets
15 Stepping Hill Hospital
16 Birds of Paradise
17 Roget’s thesaurus
18 Mother Earth
19 Clingfilm dispenser
20, 21 Yorkshire pudding and onion gravy
22 Jorge Luis Borges
23 Classic cars
24 Curry
25 Tim Berners Lee
26 Charles Bukowski
27 Yorkshire
28 Shiraz
29 Food
30 Katell Keineg
31 Tao Te Ching
32 A roof over my head
33 Peat fires
34 Street art
35 Friends (as in – mates, not the T.V. show)
36 Wilfred Owen
37 The Penguin Café Orchestra
38 The fry-up
39 Wolves
40 W.B. Yeats
41, 42 Cherry blossom trees and haiku poetry
43 Bread
44 Boules
45 Maps
46 Refuse collectors
47 Candy Chang
48 Sparrows
49 The tomato
50 Studio Ghibli
51 Oliver Jeffers
52 Johannes Gutenberg
53 Tom Waites
54 The cello
55 Mothers’ day
56 The Phoenicians
57, 58 Bacon and brown sauce
59 Tulips
60 Fish and chips
61 Giselle
62 Airfix
63 Firefighters
64 Rain
65 Libraries
66 Raymond Carver
67 Toulouse-Lautrec
68 The Goldfinch
69 Wings of Desire
70 Silence
71 Elizabeth Barrett Browning
72-99 Ireland
100 Talking Heads
101 Sylvia Plath
102 Yorkshire Sculpture Park
103 My mum
104 Modigliani
105 Kurt Vonnegut
106-128 Electricity
129 The pop man
130-147 Comedians/comedy
148 Commando magazine
149 Pastry
150-156 Social media
157 David Bowie
158 Football
159 D-Day
160-194 France
195-230 Novels
231 Graphic Design
232 Viva! Roxy Music
233 – 274 Art
275 Betty Blue
276 Writing
277 Joy Division
278 – 287 Scotland
288 – 324 Italy
325 – 352 Photography
353 Leeds Utd
354 Love
355 Universe
356 Advertising
357 Pan’s Labyrinth
358 – 363 Democracy
364 Miscellaneous
365 My daughters II
If anyone wants to read any of the previous posts simply type the title into the search box on the right. (It’s underneath the ‘topic’ cloud.)
I know a lot of people find Joy Division a bit depressing, but I love their frenetic energy and controlled emotion. (Paradoxical? Absolutely. That’s why they were brilliant.) They had a unique style and voice which no one else had at the time. Plus, they were quite smart! (Punks were a bit too scruffy for my liking.)
Being at art college in the early 80s, it was de rigeuer to be in a band, and I was no exception. The only slight problem to my impending rock stardom was my musical inability. That didn’t stop me trying, mind.
A group of mates, and I, got together to do a benefit gig for the El Salvador Solidarity Campaign. (The clichés just keep on coming, don’t they.) Anyways, we were doing covers above a pub in Leeds and, as I was petrified of being on stage, I didn’t move a muscle. Well, apart from the ones in my hands to play the bass.
When we got round to playing New Dawn Fades, I started to relax, a little. I loved the song and I could play it pretty well, so I began to go for a little wander around the stage. Unfortunately, I wandered a little too far stage right, and promptly fell off the stage.
I can still see the contorted faces of the audience twisted in fits of hysterics. So much for my dream of being a rock star.
If you didn’t know, lead singer, Ian Curtis, committed suicide in 1980 just as they were becoming famous. He suffered from depression and epilepsy and, if we’re to believe the excellent biopic, Control, they link his depression to his epilepsy meds.
Ian Curtis with his daughter, Natalie.
They’re not everyone’s cup of tea, but have a listen if you want to hear a truly original voice that is unfortunately lost to us.
I think I’ll save my anecdote about playing New Dawn Fades, with a band I stumbled upon practicing in an upstairs warehouse in the Italian naval port of Livorno, for another day.
Some facts about Joy Division:
They were originally called Warsaw after David Bowie’s Warszawa from the album Low
They changed their name because of another band called Warsaw Pakt
The name Joy Division originated from a prostitute ‘wing’ of a Nazi concentration camp
After Curtis’s death, the remaining members went on to form New Order
Ian Curtis is survived by his wife, Deborah Curtis, and their daughter, Natalie Curtis.
I’d just left art college and was making my first forays into the adult world of full time employment when the Stop Making Sense movie by Talking Heads came out in 1984.
I’d never seen anything quite like it before. Nor have I seen anything like it since. (Then again, I don’t get out much these days.) The movie has been heralded as “one of the greatest rock movies ever made”.
I’d go one further and say that it isn’t just a rock movie but a piece of performance art.
I’ve always been a fan of their work, maybe because they come up with some very original and quirky ideas – not to mention – the music itself. Here’s the full movie if you fancy treating yourself for an hour and a half…
It is an absolute privilege to be able to view Toulouse-Lautrec’s work up close. Not just for his energetic painting style, capturing the seedier side of Parisian nightlife, but also for his art direction and typography.
Over the years, there have been many articles about whether advertising can be art, and I’m pretty sure that it can’t be whilst it is selling something. I think it can transcend into art after it has served its purpose and becomes era defining.
In Lautrec’s case, I’ll make an exception, as he was already well known for being an artist when he was commissioned to create posters for various clubs and salons.
Any art director or designer worth their salt should be aware of the influence of art in layout and design purely from a composition point of view.
In this Jane Avril example, I love the way he frames the poster using the double base. (How many ‘frames’ have we seen like this for contemporary brands?)
Obviously, Lautrec wasn’t a 19th century ‘ad man’. He was a brilliant artist and spent much of his time in Montmartre hanging out with philosophers, writers, artists and the like. Then popping off to brothels to draw/paint the staff and clientele. He was a reportage photographer before they’d even been invented. That, coupled with the eye of a poet, lead to some breathtakingly intimate works.
So, for inspiring a 17-year-old art student, Mr. Toulouse-Lautrec, I am very grateful.
David Milligan-Croft
Thereisnocavalry 