Keep Off the Grass, Anti-Marijuana Propaganda Film


Mom dis­cov­ers her son’s stash. Instead of smack­ing him sense­less, his chain-smoking, booz­ing dad lec­tures him on the dan­gers of pot smok­ing. Tom decides to dis­cover the Truth for him­self and learns a harsh les­son before decid­ing to “Keep Off The Grass”.


Keep off the Grass is a edu­ca­tional film writ­ten, pro­duced and directed by Sid Davis. Like all of Sid Davis’s films they were made very heavy hand­edly. Tom gets in trou­ble when his mother finds a joint in his room. Instead of pun­ish­ing Tom, his father chal­lenges him to learn more about mar­i­jua­nas evil effects on soci­ety. Nobody gets killed in this Sid Davis film, yet Tom still learns a harsh les­son after being mugged by drug­gies and learn­ing that his best friend sells pot to school chil­dren. One of the last Sid Davis films to focus on drugs.

Chris Watson’s El Tren Fantasma


Take the ghost train from Los Mochis to Ver­acruz and travel cross coun­try, coast to coast, Pacific to Atlantic. Ride the rhythm of the rails on board the Fer­ro­car­riles Nacionales de Méx­ico (FNM) and the music of a jour­ney that has now passed into history.”

El Tren Fan­tasma, (The Ghost Train), is Chris Wat­son’s 4th solo album for Touch, and his first since Weather Report in 2003, which was named as one of the albums you should hear before you die in The Guardian.

A thrilling acoustic jour­ney across the heart of Mex­ico from Pacific to Atlantic coast using archive record­ings to recre­ate a rail pas­sen­ger ser­vice which no longer exists. It’s now more than a decade since FNM oper­ated its last con­tin­u­ous pas­sen­ger ser­vice across coun­try. Chris Wat­son spent a month on board the train with some of the last pas­sen­gers to travel this route. As sound recordist he was part of the film crew work­ing on a pro­gramme in the BBC TV series Great Rail­ways Jour­neys. Now, in this album, the jour­ney of the ‘ghost train’ is recre­ated, evok­ing mem­o­ries of a recent past, cap­tur­ing the atmos­phere, rhythms and sounds of human life, wildlife and the jour­ney itself along the tracks of one of Mexico’s great­est engi­neer­ing projects.

The Rest Is Noise — The Soundtrack To The 20th Century

Why did the Holo­caust change the course of music for­ever? How did Amer­ica, through the CIA, become the biggest fun­der of avant-garde composers?

In 2007 Alex Ross wrote the sem­i­nal book The Rest Is Noise – lis­ten­ing to the Twen­ti­eth Cen­tury. Through­out 2013 the Londo’s South­bank Cen­tre brings the book alive, with nearly 100 con­certs, per­for­mances, films, talks and debates.

We take you on a chrono­log­i­cal jour­ney through the most impor­tant music of the 20th cen­tury and drama­tise the century’s mas­sive polit­i­cal and social upheavals. The Lon­don Phil­har­monic Orches­tra, with over 30 con­certs, is the back­bone of this fes­ti­val, which reveals the sto­ries behind the rich, exhil­a­rat­ing and some­times con­tro­ver­sial com­po­si­tions that have changed the way we lis­ten forever.’

The Rest Is Noise views 20th-century music through the prism of his­tory with its rev­o­lu­tions and counter-revolutions, its major moral and philo­soph­i­cal upheavals around race, gen­der, faith, polit­i­cal credo and paci­fism – and its new rela­tion­ship to tech­nol­ogy and artis­tic democracy.

Over the year, The Rest Is Noise turns the spot­light on 12 parts of the cen­tury. In the first half of the fes­ti­val, from Jan­u­ary to June 2013, we move from Richard Strauss and the break­down of the old world to the influ­ence of Stalin and Hitler on music via the cos­mopoli­tan glam­our of inter-war Paris. In autumn 2013 visit the 1960s, Hol­ly­wood and Down­town New York and look at artists behind the Iron Curtain.

Through lis­ten­ing to this extra­or­di­nary, rich and eclec­tic reper­toire and hear­ing about the events that shaped its com­po­si­tion, we hope to bring a com­pletely new dimen­sion of under­stand­ing and enjoy­ment to the audience.

If you’re new to 20th-century music, then this is your time to start explor­ing. There has never been a fes­ti­val like this.


MANDALA GIFS is the work of artist Chaotec Chichi­liki. Here’s a blurb from his tumblr:

Man­dalas rep­re­sent to me the foun­tain of love that for­ever expands they are rab­bit holes that take us to other dimen­sions. Fol­low the white rabbit.

Im Elias or thats who they say I am. I stud­ied Inter­ac­tive Design and live in Mex­ico City. I paint and some­times write. Also I like to take pho­tog­ra­phy. Do believe in God (no reli­gion) thank­ful to he/she .Inter­ested in art, illus­tra­tion, astral pro­jec­tion, lucid dream­ing, man­dalas, psy­che­delics and every­thing that has to do with the uni­verse. I love psy­che­delic trance.

Maṇḍala (मण्डल) is a San­skrit word mean­ing “cir­cle.” Man­dalas have spir­i­tual and rit­ual sig­nif­i­cance in Hin­duism and Buddhism.

In com­mon use, man­dala has become a generic term for any plan, chart or geo­met­ric pat­tern that rep­re­sents the cos­mos meta­phys­i­cally or sym­bol­i­cally, a micro­cosm of the uni­verse from the human perspective.

Satán se divierte

Satan s’amuse or (Satán se divierte in Spain) is a 1907 French — Span­ish silent film directed by pio­neer Segundo de Chomón.

In an unnamed place, Satan is bored. Despite his ser­vants’ exer­tions, noth­ing can be found to cheer him up.

Segundo Víc­tor Aure­lio Chomón y Ruiz was a pio­neer­ing Aragonese film direc­tor. He pro­duced many short films in France while work­ing for Pathé Frères and has been com­pared to Georges Méliès, due to his fre­quent cam­era tricks and opti­cal illu­sions. He is regarded as the most sig­nif­i­cant Span­ish silent film direc­tor in an inter­na­tional context.

Segundo De Chomon — Satan s’amuse (1907)

Samuel Beckett’s Film


Beckett’s own cin­e­matic short, star­ring a some­what reluc­tant Buster Keaton.

Samuel Beckett’s only ven­ture into the medium of cin­ema, Film was writ­ten in 1963 and filmed in New York in the sum­mer of 1964, directed by Alan Schnei­der and fea­tur­ing Buster Keaton. For the shoot­ing Mr. Beck­ett made his only trip to Amer­ica. The film, which has no dia­logue, takes its basis Berkeley’s the­ory Esse est per­cepti, that is “to be is to be per­ceived”: even after all out­side per­cep­tion — be it ani­mal, human or divine — has been sup­pressed, self per­cep­tion remains.

Film was edited by Syd­ney Mey­ers and the cin­e­matog­ra­phy was by Boris Kauf­man, both of whom were pre­em­i­nent in their fields. Film was pro­duced by Bar­ney Ros­set and Ever­green The­ater. (USA, 1965 — 20′+)


Sugar High, Anamanaguchi’s New MEOW Video


For a hand­ful of years, New York’s Ana­managuchi have been mak­ing some ener­getic, hyper-melodic, and chiptune-infused rock music. In 2010, the band strung together a series of amaz­ing, free sin­gles they put out on their site, and took part in pro­duc­ing the sound­track for the Scott Pil­grim Vs. the World videogame soundtrack.

Now the older, wiser, and they’ve finally mus­tered up the courage to put together another full-length LP. The title is End­less Fan­tasy, and it’s due for a Spring release. In the mean­time, we’ve got audio and video for the group’s new sin­gle, “Meow.” It’s neon-colored, pixie stix’d, ready to frig­gin’ party.


The music video itself looks like a tricked out Chuck E. Cheese com­mer­cial for twen­tysome­things.  The song is loaded with rich, wail­ing melodies that are backed up with sam­ples of kitty cats meowing.

The Meow video pretty much per­fectly encap­su­lates the sugar high fit the band’s music will send you into. Wel­come to Daddz Fun Zone, home of just about the cra­zi­est time you can have on the planet. This is truly rock for the .gif-addicted Tum­blr user.

Wilhelm Reich

Wil­helm Reich is a wildly inter­est­ing fig­ure on many dif­fer­ent lev­els. Nor Nazi Ger­many nei­ther post War World II Amer­ica were ready for his ideas and both ended up per­se­cut­ing him, which leads me to think he must have been right on many of his the­o­ries. ‎As the say­ing goes, there is no left or right, there is only tyranny or freedom.

He  was born on March 24, 1897 in Gali­cia, in the east­ern­most part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, now Ukraine. He grew up in the Bukov­ina on a large farm oper­ated by his father. His first lan­guage was Ger­man, and until 1938 he was an Aus­trian citizen.

Reich worked with Sig­mund Freud in the 1920s and was a respected ana­lyst for much of his life, focus­ing on char­ac­ter struc­ture rather than on indi­vid­ual neu­rotic symp­toms. He tried to rec­on­cile Marx­ism and psy­cho­analy­sis, argu­ing that neu­ro­sis is rooted in the phys­i­cal, sex­ual, eco­nomic, and social con­di­tions of the patient, and pro­moted ado­les­cent sex­u­al­ity, the avail­abil­ity of con­tra­cep­tives, abor­tion, and divorce, and the impor­tance for women of eco­nomic inde­pen­dence. Just to be clear, my per­sonal opin­ion regard­ing Marx­ism and com­mu­nism goes along the lines of a pre­vi­ous post about John Henry Mackay if you care to read it.

His work influ­enced a gen­er­a­tion of intel­lec­tu­als, includ­ing Saul Bel­low, William S. Bur­roughs, Paul Edwards, Nor­man Mailer, and A. S. Neill, and shaped inno­va­tions such as Fritz Perls’s Gestalt ther­apy, Alexan­der Lowen’s bioen­er­getic analy­sis, and Arthur Janov’s pri­mal therapy.

Reich was liv­ing in Ger­many when Adolf Hitler came to power in Jan­u­ary 1933. On March 2 that year the Nazi newspaper,Völkischer Beobachter, pub­lished an attack on one of Reich’s pam­phlets, The Sex­ual Strug­gle of Youth. He left imme­di­ately for Vienna, then Scan­di­navia, mov­ing to the United States in 1939. In 1947, fol­low­ing a series of arti­cles about orgone in The New Repub­lic and Harper’s, the U.S. Food and Drug Admin­is­tra­tion (FDA) obtained an injunc­tion against the inter­state sale of orgone accu­mu­la­tors. Charged with con­tempt for vio­lat­ing it, he was sen­tenced to two years in prison.

In the case of the United States of Amer­ica vs. Whil­hen Reich, the US dis­trict court ruled that his pub­lished works be destroyed. The Dis­cov­ery of the Orgone Vol. 1, The Func­tion­ing of the Orgasm Vol. 2, Can­cer Biopa­thy, Ether, God and Devil, Cos­mic Super­im­po­si­tion, Lis­ten Lit­tle Man, The Muder of Chhrist, Peo­ple in Trou­ble. These books were burned in the pub­lic incin­er­a­tor at the cor­ner of Hud­son and Gan­sevoort St. in New York city under the super­vi­sion of Fed­eral Food and Drugs admin­is­tra­tion agents. This occurred on August 10, 1956 and again on march 17, 1960. Fahren­heit 451 comes to mind, not to men­tion how ironic it is to have escaped Nazi Ger­many to have his books burned in America.

Here is a very inter­est­ing doc­u­men­tary named Who is Afraid of Wil­helm, that is a very good intro­duc­tion to get to know more about him.

Delia Derbyshire — Sculptress of Sound

Delia Der­byshire was born in Coven­try, Eng­land, in 1937. Edu­cated at Coven­try Gram­mar School and Gir­ton Col­lege, Cam­bridge, where she was awarded a degree in math­e­mat­ics and music.

In 1959, on approach­ing Decca records, Delia was told that the com­pany DID NOT employ women in their record­ing stu­dios, so she went to work for the UN in Geneva before return­ing to Lon­don to work for music pub­lish­ers Boosey & Hawkes.

In 1960 Delia joined the BBC as a trainee stu­dio man­ager. She excelled in this field, but when it became appar­ent that the fledg­ling Radio­phonic Work­shop was under the same oper­a­tional umbrella, she asked for an attach­ment there — an unheard of request, but one which was, nonetheless,granted. Delia remained ‘tem­porar­ily attached’ for years, reg­u­larly deputis­ing for the Head, and influ­enc­ing many of her trainee colleagues.

To begin with Delia thought she had found her own pri­vate par­adise where she could com­bine her inter­ests in the the­ory and per­cep­tion of sound; modes and tun­ings, and the com­mu­ni­ca­tion of moods using purely elec­tronic sources. Within a mat­ter of months she had cre­ated her record­ing of Ron Grainer’s Doc­tor Who theme, one of the most famous and instantly recog­nis­able TV themes ever. On first hear­ing it Grainer was tick­led pink: “Did I really write this?” he asked. “Most of it,” replied Derbyshire.

Thus began what is still referred to as the Golden Age of the Radio­phonic Work­shop. Ini­tially set up as a ser­vice depart­ment for Radio Drama, it had always been run by some­one with a drama back­ground. Der­byshire was the first per­son there with any higher music qual­i­fi­ca­tions, but as she wasn’t sup­posed to be doing music, much of her early work remained anony­mous under the umbrella credit ‘spe­cial sound by BBC Radio­phonic Workshop’.

On being told at the Work­shop that her music was ‘too las­civ­i­ous for 11 year olds’ and ‘too sophis­ti­cated for the BBC2 audi­ence’, Delia found other fields where the direc­tors were less inhib­ited — film, the­atre, ‘hap­pen­ings’ and orig­i­nal elec­tronic music events, as well as pop music and avant garde psy­che­delia. To do this she encour­aged the estab­lish­ment of Unit Delta Plus, Kalei­dophon and Elec­trophon, pri­vate elec­tronic music stu­dios where she worked with Peter Zinovi­eff [com­poser and inven­tor], David Vorhaus and Brian Hodgson.

Delia’s works from the 60s and 70s con­tinue to be used on radio and TV some 30 years later, and her music has given her leg­endary sta­tus with releases in Swe­den and Japan. She is also con­stantly men­tioned, cred­ited and cov­ered by bands from Add n to (x) and Sonic Boom to Aphex Twin and The Chem­i­cal Broth­ers.

Are You Afraid Of Islam?, DV8’s Can We Talk About This?

This is Islam­o­pho­bic shit,” cried an angry spec­ta­tor two-thirds of the way through DV8’s inves­ti­ga­tion of mul­ti­cul­tur­al­ism in ‘Can We Talk About This?’.

This’ being free speech, mul­ti­cul­tur­al­ism, Islam, Islamism, the issues at the heart of DV8’s extra­or­di­nary new show.

Lloyd New­son’s com­pany has, for more than quar­ter of a cen­tury, blurred the lines between dance and the­atre as a way of, in the company’s own words, ‘rein­vest­ing dance with mean­ing, par­tic­u­larly where this has been lost through for­malised tech­niques’. It has always tack­led con­tro­ver­sial and dif­fi­cult sub­jects, but the lat­est is likely to be the most chal­leng­ing yet.


The show opens, as most of those in the audi­ence must have known, with a cast mem­ber demand­ing of the spec­ta­tors ‘Do you feel morally supe­rior to the Tal­iban?’.  It’s a nod to Mar­tin Amis who asked that same ques­tion to a hos­tile audi­ence in a noto­ri­ous debate at London’s ICA, back in 2007. It is hardly the most sophis­ti­cated of ques­tions. Yet its very unso­phis­ti­ca­tion reveals so starkly the spec­tre haunt­ing the lib­eral moral swamp.

It is that sense of moral ret­i­cence – even of guilt – at the thought of pass­ing judg­ment upon other cul­tures, revealed by the reluc­tance to think that one could be morally supe­rior to the Tal­iban, that lies at the heart of Can We Talk about This?.  The show begins with the infa­mous Ray Hon­ey­ford row in Brad­ford in 1985, and moves through the Rushdie affair, the mur­der in 2004 of Dutch film maker Theo van Gogh, the Dan­ish car­toons con­tro­versy the fol­low­ing year, and the ban­ning in 2009 of Dutch MP Geert Wilders from this coun­try because of his anti-Islamic film Fitna, all inter­wo­ven with dis­cus­sions of forced mar­riage, hon­our killings, jihadism.  The emo­tion that courses through every scene is a pul­sat­ing anger at the way that lib­eral cow­ardice has inter­wo­ven with mul­ti­cul­tural naivety to allow Islamist extrem­ist to silence crit­ics and to betray both prin­ci­ples and people.


Newson’s argu­ment that there is a con­spir­acy of silence about Islamist wrongs is under­mined by the fact that most of the cases he doc­u­ments are already famil­iar to us from the media. “To speak out,” some­one says, “is called racist.” No, it’s not: it’s called jour­nal­ism, as evi­denced by the quotes in the show from Mar­tin Amis and Christo­pher Hitchens, and the numer­ous colum­nists cited in the pro­gramme. And, much as I applaud a piece of phys­i­cal the­atre that deals with seri­ous issues, the debate about mul­ti­cul­tur­al­ism is over-simplified. What is never explored is the idea that inte­gra­tion in some areas of life can be com­bined with preser­va­tion of one’s cul­tural and reli­gious iden­tity. Per­haps such crit­i­cism is unfair. After all, Can We Talk About This? is phys­i­cal the­atre not a round­table dis­cus­sion. The ambi­tion of the show, and its will­ing­ness to stomp all over the debate, is its great strength.

Can We Talk About This?

As always with DV8, the phys­i­cal side of the show is impres­sive: one female per­former illus­trates the deter­mi­na­tion to escape a forced mar­riage purely through sin­u­ous hand and hip movements.

Can We Talk About This? is, like all DV8 works, both thought pro­vok­ing and gut-wrenching, food for mind and heart. It is the kind of bold, polem­i­cal spec­ta­cle that the the­atre so badly needs, a world away from the insipid offer­ings that all too often lit­ter the con­tem­po­rary stage.