Sunday, 9 September 2007

Lewes Guitar Festival videos and pics

location of the music: The gardens of the Grange, Lewes. beautiful. old. sunny. Tower of Lewes castle just visible on horizon.
What was their name again? Note solar pannels used to drive the speaker system



Video above is of some kind of Brazilian music. Since base and rythym were not really picked up by my phone, the people appear to be dancing to rythms beams directly into their minds.

MORE VIDEO: same band



The Artist at Work, Aix-en-Provence 1898

At the Market, St Remy, 1886

Dressing Gown, Paris, 1882

Cuppalot Holds Forth

Myrtale: Empathagenia dear, do try to keep still while Pater Cuppalot is delivering one of his opium-fuelled monologues.
Empathagenia: But M'ma! Why won't he look for a perspective that embraces both the Platonic and the Aristotelian! It does irk me so!

The child in a dress pictured here above is not, in fact, the daughter, Empathogenia, but the son, Pathologicus. Empathogenia is the child dressed as a boy, standing with her hand on the lap of her mother, Myrtale. Her father Cuppalot stands arm on the mantlepiece sporting a fine smoking jacket. Proffessor Hatpins (left) and Thomas de Puggalot (right) make up his standing audience. In the background Hawaki Leafstrain prevents Henry F Tosser from gaining backdoor entry.

(Drawing, presumably by Hogarth, which hung in the White Horse pub, Ditchling. Sorry it's askew. Had a devil of a job taking the photo without light reflecting on it. Also some difficulty in explaining to barlady why I was standing on a chair taking the picture.)

The Song of Dijong

A muse of absurditoire charmant beswozzled my mind and utterethed the whimsical song of Dijon, of the massive harp, which pleases me most fully: I do not spend this hot August morning in busy Brighton But in leafy Ditchling, below the Downs Just as, upon the tip of Tehuti, Auset, leaving beaufully multi-stored Memphis, entrusted the young Heru to the countryfolk of Chemmis village Where Perseus too has his temple Perseus, who similarly found haven on sandy Seriphos, safe from the jealous wrath of Acrisius, floated there from the mouth of the Inachus, his ancestor, the River God who fathered Isis' priests. So do I entrust myself to this ancient Sussex village. And eat your heart out Seriphos, for this is Ditchling, And three turtles are in the village pool. So hot it is this morning that not even they choose to bask on the rocks that range around the water's edge, But float in the cool green Sun-water like islands in the sea. So eat your heart out Seriphos, for these very rocks, these megaliths from some ancient circle, they were petrified when Medusa, the Gorgon, cast here her glance. And mark you, O Seriphos, Surely it was here, in Ditchling, that Perseus came with the sickle, god-given; the three turtles, older still, remember it well. Only the heron, the Heron of Ditchling Pool, is older even than they. Today perhaps flying out somewhere on wide slow-beating wings, or wading silently deep there in the shady private foliage on the far side of the pool - this morning the heron has not been seen. In former times the Soul of the Ditchling Heron resided in a great king, his seat here in Ditchling, while the Beacon stood as Acropolis. The turtles, then too in human form, are his three daughters. The ducks an archestra of comedians, While at other times it was the doves who enchanted the palace with song. The moorehens paced from room to room carrying scrolls in hand and discussing or meditating upon high matters of state, While the coots their brothers padded through herb and vegetable gardens, for they were the king's own farmers. There was in Ditchling in those days a great harpest who played in the palace. His name was Dijon. He loved courgettes and soft, white pillows. He slept in a cave inside Ditchling Beacon. Beneath the Acropolis, with his enormous golden harp by his side. His tall boots were made from India Rubber - the first of their kind. He fell in love with one of the king's one-day-to-be-turtle-daughters, and wrote music for her of such beauty that the gods allowed him to live to the age of 373 so long as he promised to play the song every morning. As his 373rd birthday approached the people of Ditchling were sad that they were about to lose their harpest and not hear any longer his woundrous song, and feeling compassion for them he taught it to the local birds who repeat it once a year at dawn for seven days in May. Dijon then betook himself to his cave, with his harp, and fell asleep, but it is said that he will wake and play again when a cow and a goat are seen to walk along Ditchling highstreet of their own free will. The two animals must then be served golden ale from bronze or pewter dishes. Then Dijon will awake.


Picture Above : Second from left = Dermot
Note homemade geodetic dome

T Shirts and everything! Note grass on roof.

'Twas on the morning of I don't quite remember when, Summer 2007, and Dermot of next door came over and told me today was Ditchfest. "It's invitation only, but I'm inviting you."

So I went along with himself and family. We carried hampers of picnic stuffs out across the fields from Westmeston to Ditchling. About a hundred yards into the journey there is a pond fed by a little spring at the foot of the Downs, near a stable. Here the path crosses over into a meadow adjecent to a field of llamas. I have seen stirrings in that pool, under the proliferation of pondweed, of unknown provenance. As we approached the bridge over the river Rosa told me how Dermot had seen a black panther at this spot. At the moment I sought to verify this with the man himself, Dermot was otherwise engaged due to his just having seen a large grass snake by the bridge. Then he confirmed that yes, he had seen a panther there, it had been down in the stream, had snarled at him and departed, and yes it had been on the way TO the pub rather than the way back (in which case a possible alternative hypothesis might be formulated, perhaps involving strong organic vintage cider.) Dermot, I must point out, is a very down to Earth fellow, practical, anything but attention-seeking, which makes this panther story all the more peculiar. Rosa then recalled how one of my landlady's daughters had recently seen a wallaby in nearby Hassocks - a sighting confirmed later by the fact of their having been an escaped wallaby in the viscinity at the time.

So crossing over that bridge felt like one of those limminal margin moments, and I stuck close behind the others and began looking around me for strange creatures - panthers, snakes, wallabies, llamas.

We crossed another bridge over a little stream which marked our entry into the outskirts of Ditchling Village and before long Ditchfest was upon us. It is a full on music festival in a back garden, with a stage, mixing equipment, PA system, all the works.

The house was built by Dermot about ten years ago. There must have been at least thirty different bands, all local, except Detroit Dave, who just happened to be in the area, stunning us all with his proffesional guitar playing. There was Latin Jazz, Indie Rock, Prog Rock, Brit Pop, Folk, Protest Songs, Parisian Tango, you name it. One of my favorite acts was Spalian Acecraft. "We do gigs in Brighton and stuff," announced the lead singer.

All the children already knew the chorus of "He's Got an Orange for a Head", you can hear it at their myspace page.