Picture, if you will, a sunny afternoon in July.
I had a tune knocking round my head. Sounded sort of folky as I strummed out the chords. Mother earth's washed out ethereal son. Write some lyrics about faery lands forlorn or somesuch...
(They are at the end of the garden and they are going to EAT YOUR CHILDREN)
I considered this. The bloke next door was working on engines. The machines were screaming. I left it alone.
Moons passed, waxing and waning. Sometime in the Autumn I walked into a chilly old warehouse with white walls which they call ASYLUM. Photographs of shattered landscapes, scrap metal and red brick.
And on the wall these words appeared: 'Warehouse rumbles industrial thunder, we're making the weather these days...'
I bought the book, poems and photographs of Graham Stubbs, for the princely sum of £5 (or thereabouts).
Back in the attic, the tune swirled in the ether. I combined it with the wall poem and declared unto the empty room: 'Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair. Kneel before my post-industrial folk...'
The song would become the opening number of 'The Dread Suite', the selection of tunes we played when we wanted to alienate an audience (see also 'After The Smog').Here it is in all its magnificence:
Matt P's drum beat on this is MASSIVE. Size of a multi-storey carpark.