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Two days ago I almost threw a friend of mine out of the house.
He had come round to confirm that he could drive me, at very short
notice, to a rather important meeting, thereby saving me an almost
impossible journey on public transport, followed by lots of tramping
through fields. When he first entered my house not only did he
say that he could help me out in a dire situation, but he also
told me that a close family member had passed away the night before.
You may well ask what it was that prompted me to want to grab him
by the scruff of the neck and turf him out on to the street after
such a selfless offer. The answer is simple and two-fold; he made
various negative remarks about Morrissey and his music, and claimed
that he liked the new single by D12. Not exactly the most hideous
of crimes, and people have said much worse to me than that, but
for a minute all consideration of not only his mourning but also
his generous offer of help in a time of crisis was forgotten, as
he said (I thought) two incredibly crass things, which in reality
were very innocuous comments. In hindsight I am reminded, rather
shamefully, of the two kids sitting outside the record store at
the end of the film Empire Records (1995) who completely ignore
a car crashing under their noses as they argue about The Pixies.
Given that I’m writing about popular music, make my living
from teaching a critical approach to popular music and that I’ve
spent most of my life being far too serious about popular music,
one might suggest that I have a lot of personal energy invested
in its appreciation. Obviously I have, and further more, since
I came across any writing on pop or rock that was more analytical
than mere journalism, I have increasingly found it harder to account
for exactly where that energy is to be found in the study of popular
music. It is easy enough to go to my record collection and be continually
thrilled and awed by Jane’s Addiction, Joni Mitchell, Tool
or Mark Eitzel, yet the majority of academic writing on popular
music fails to account for the very visceral, immediate thrill
of pop music for me, what gets me interested in it in the first
place. Every time I look up at a lecture hall of bored undergraduates
and discuss pop music theory from Theodor Adorno to Ben Watson,
I feel that I’m inherently missing that vital something that
is exactly what pop music is all about (and also why I am astonishingly
rude to anybody who doesn’t share my aesthetic, such as my
poor friend).
To this day I still haven’t found an adequate explanation
of exactly what is going on subjectively when I hear a great piece
of music. I can apply a class-based analysis of taste to account
for my choice of one piece of music over another as with Bourdieu,
which might explain why I like the Divine Comedy over the Streets,
but it doesn’t explain why I like Genesis over Yes, or Monster
Magnet over Queens of the Stone Age. Equally I can adopt a sociological
process to explain how I might use music, as a social and personal
strategy in a variety of situations. Yet even the most sophisticated
inquiries into youth culture and popular music all seem to miss
the gut response that I, and obviously many others, have to listening
to great music. Paul Hodkinson’s recent Goth: Identity,
Style and Subculture (2002) provides a number of excellent appraisals
of a grouping of which I once felt part of (to an extent), and
indeed Hodkinson has to come to terms with his status as an insider
within his own study group. Yet, equally it fails to explain my
experience, my values, values that I discussed over and over throughout
my teens and early twenties, attempting to explain as much to myself
as to others what I was and what it all meant. Of course the failure
of sociological analysis is that, no matter how sophisticated it
may be, it will always fail to adequately portray all experience
in a phenomenological manner.
My immediate solution to this has been to turn to critical and
literary theory to understand popular music. As such my approach
has often been necessarily textual as opposed to sociological or
musicological, however I am constantly aware that all these approaches
have something to offer, something to say. Yet still I am left
feeling that something vital is missing. Simon Frith addresses
this very absence in the introduction to Facing the Music:
The common sense of rock…is that its meaning is known thoughtlessly:
to understand rock is to feel it. Among left-leaning intellectuals
the attitude is a generalised disdain for rock’s commercialism
and vulgarity coupled with a commitment to an individual artist
or song or genre. Hype – the driving force of the rock sales
process – is taken to be transparent in its motivation
and effects; taste, the reason why people like particular sounds,
is
taken to be mysterious, inaccessible to reason. (1988, p5)
Frith is outlining a base-line conundrum that has still not adequately
been answered, despite the efforts of the writers in his book,
and those who came after it, leaving an absence that still seems
so vital to understanding popular music through the written word.
This absence has, in my experience, been filled partially by a
number of authors from differing backgrounds, who seem to be able
to articulate, in the written form, what pop music does to me,
why it makes me want to be objectionable to my friends. This article
is an attempt to explore what it is that these writers bring to
the table, and also to explore the problems that continue to dog
the relationship between pop music and the words that are written
about it. At the risk of using a cliché once too often,
if writing about music is like ‘dancing about architecture’1,
then the writing of Michael Bracewell, Chris Roberts, Julian Cope
and Bill Drummond, amongst others, provides the equivalent of the
flying buttress twist. What unites these very different writers
is a positioning of pop music within a realm of myth (not always
in the tradition of Barthes) that has more to do with psychology
than sociology. Here pop music, the record itself, the artist or
group, are considered within an interlinking network of affinities
that soon assume a Jungian perspective, a realm of archetype and
a collective/cultural psyche that permeates temporal, spatial and
subjective categories to articulate what ‘This Charming Man’ or ‘I
Wanna Be Your Dog’ might mean in a phenomenological sense.
To sidestep the immediate criticism, these writers might not provide
any more coherent an explanation of how popular music works in
a social sense, but they do at least bridge the gap between analytical
discourse and the fan’s rant, which seems to at least address
the power and mythological potential of popular music (a potential
that also accounts for the authentic within myth, but
this is an area to be focussed on elsewhere).
The line between musician and music journalist seems an easy one
to make upon first inspection yet one British writer, Chris Roberts,
provides us with our first glimpse of the unsayable in the gap
between pop music and pop writing. Roberts worked as a journalist
for Melody Maker in the late eighties and early nineties, and continues
to write for UK monthly Uncut (he also fronted a short-lived glam
inflected band Catwalk, a musical counterpoint to his journalism).
Roberts is included here primarily because he uses language in
such a way as to make a step away from analytical criticism towards
a language of music, a language that invariably places emphasis
on value and texture rather than event analysis. An extract from
Roberts’ review of the Primitives’ live performance
at the International in Manchester in 1988 gives some sense of
the slippage from description to experience inherent in his work:
By existing like a steamy iceberg, looking like honey and sounding
like the first black sheep of spring, they sort the wheat from
the chaff, the sweet from the naff, the replete from the daft,
and some kind of justice is done. Oh, and the next single will
be ‘Out Of Reach’… At which point they quit while
I still have a head, babbling now and speechless, pink as the day
I was born. Pink as yesterday and ripe for tomorrow. Tracy’s
voice is angels with quick, knowing sorrying glances and the devils
with the tunes take you dancing awkward dumb steps a stone’s
throw from the rapture of heartbreak. Lovely lovely lovely. (Melody
Maker, 26/5/1988)
What might come across as hyperbole within Robert’s writing
is an attempt to stretch his language across the gap between common
rock journalism towards the actual experience of the music itself.
Robert’s writing attempts (but inevitably never fully succeeds)
to attain the status of the music itself, as lyricism and rhythm
(note the almost derisory inclusion of the release of the band’s
next single as information, disrupting the point of the article).
Another Melody Maker journalist, Simon Price, offers us a clue
as to how to read Roberts work:
My great hero as a journalist was Chris Roberts - one of the most
mercurial, poetic journalists there is. He totally inspired me
- a very romantic, fluid approach to writing. (Berger, 2000)
Roberts’ writing, throughout his career, has sought to escape
the role of the journalist as a documenter of events. The very
crystallisation of the moment of the pop experience into words
seems to eradicate the phenomenology of the event itself, a temporal
problem that perhaps is at the heart of the puzzle of how to write
about popular music. Instead Roberts provides us with recollections
of experience, feelings, desires and babble in the jouissance of
the moment. Through the process of making language strange, in
other words poeticising language through his reviews, Roberts provides
a form of access to phenomenological experience at a remove from
language. As such Frith’s absence is potentially filled through
the use of descriptive language that has as much in common with
what it is talking about as it does with its informative function.
To understand Roberts’ reviews one needs to account for
the absence or lack that language in prose form provides. In the
16th Century Sir Philip Sidney considered poetry to be the bridge
between language and the divine, language made strange to provide
access to the unsayable. In his Apologie for Poetrie Sidney sets
forth a manifesto for poetry that positions the poet as a priest
figure, a gatekeeper to the divine. Sidney derides both philosophers
and historians (perhaps today he would deride cultural theorists)
for their misapprehension of the universe,
The philosopher therefore and the historian are they which would
win the goal, the one by precept, the other by example. But both,
not having both, do both halt (Sidney, 106)
The poet however has the capability to create insight through
the elaboration of language:
For he yieldeth to the powers of the mind an image of that whereof
the philosopher bestoweth but a wordish description, which doth
neither strike, pierce, nor possess the sight of the soul so much
as that other doth (107)
Sidney offers us the possibility of the poetic usage of language
to access the indescribable, to position the poet as priest. This
somewhat romantic notion is commonly at odds with writing that
seeks to understand music in a social / political light, yet Roberts’ writing
does provide an impressionistic collage of association that gives
the reader limited access to the experience of the Primitives concert.
Whether it is then possible to account for this in a social / political
way is then arguable. Through the abandonment of event description,
Roberts takes on Sidney’s role of divine (or mythological)
arbiter.
The poet is priest analogy is one taken even further by Julian
Cope in his autobiographies Head-On (1994) and Repossessed (1999),
but perhaps more interestingly in his 1998 survey of Neolithic
Britain, The Modern Antiquarian. Cope, a pop musician in his own
right, both as a solo artist and as lead singer of Liverpool’s
The Teardrop Explodes, has created a body of work that consistently
explores the role of the rock performer as a shamanistic figure,
articulating a ritual role for a broader populace. Cope outlines
his transition from a pop star appearing on the cover of Smash
Hits in the early eighties to the solo artist who sees no distinction
between his role as performer and the chronicling of Britain’s
ancient stone circles and burial sites. The pop singer is a channel
through which to attain the significance that language fails to
articulate. In the sleeve notes for the companion CD to his 2000
Cornucopea event at the Royal Festival Hall, Cope writes:
John Sinclair [former manager of the MC5 and author of Guitar
Army] once wrote that Rock’n’roll kicked off the 21st
Century fifty years ahead of time. So we’re more prepared
for it than any other people in British culture, or any Indo-European
culture for that matter. It was Nietzsche who said we should never
trust a God that doesn’t dance – but it was Sir Cliff
who proved it with his unfabulous and stumbling ‘(Ain’t
Gotta) Millennium Prayer’. Oh, oh, we’re halfway there – Oh,
oh, Millennium Prayer! Poor Rabbi Burns must be turning in Jon
Bon Jovi’s grave!
Cope consistently uses rock music as a platform to attack monotheistic
Judaeo-Christian culture, suggesting that the rock performer places
himself in the place of poet and social focus towards the inarticulate.
Cope is profoundly aware of the inarticulacy of rock music (a theme
particularly explored in his glam metal side project Brain Donor),
that is to say the unsaid within rock that leaks between structure
and utterance. As such Cope’s status as author is a precarious
one, particularly in his autobiographical writing. While both Head-On and Repossessed can
be read as historical biographies, they also attempt to articulate
the unsayable in rock music through a poetical
approach that recognises the language-made-strange approach of
Sidney (and more immediately the Beat poets). This is a trait that
Cope shares with his ex-manager Bill Drummond who I will explore
later. Suffice to say that what Cope and Drummond have in common
is an attitude to writing that attempts to communicate the intuitive
and incommunicable. In Cope’s music one constantly encounters
points at which the lyrics break down into grunts, whoops and hollers.
His 1989 album Skellington, a hastily arranged collection
of mostly acoustic oddities which exemplifies Cope’s tendency
towards the whimsical and abstract, best articulates this insufficiency
of language within the musical realm. Tracks such as ‘Doomed’ and ‘Out
of my Mind on Dope and Speed’ collapse into random mumbling
(there may be words underneath but there’s certainly no way
to hear what they are), yet this is not the ethereal baby babble
of the Cocteau Twins or the archaic meta-language of Dead Can Dance,
rather this is the stone age inarticulacy of garage rock2 . Indeed, perhaps the best example of Cope’s caveman vocal
delivery can be found on ‘24a Velocity Crescent’ from
1998’s
Floored Genius 2 album. Between hectic bursts of garage
rock Cope rambles over discordant guitars and clattering drums,
only ever
reaching articulacy in the final stanza where he exclaims ‘In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida…When
the Music’s Over…White Rabbit…Mass in F Minor’ before
the music collapses under him. The song finishes in a wail of noise
with Cope proclaiming ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll! That’s
where I’m coming from!’
Cope’s project here (one of many that trace through his
work) is to make connections between the archetypal significance
of rock music and the possibility of articulating that significance.
Words fail him, leaving only noise and velocity, the two prerequisites
of rock music, to make meaning. Andrew Eldritch, of The Sisters
of Mercy, once suggested that the greatest lyric in the rock canon
was Little Richard’s ‘A wop bop a loo bop a lop bam
boom?’ and while it is possible to read this remark as flippancy,
Eldritch’s statement matches Cope’s reversion back
to babble, noise and velocity. All Cope can manage is to reference
Iron Butterfly, The Doors, Jefferson Airplane and The Electric
Prunes, giving access to a lineage whilst unable to adequately
critique it. Again, one is called to Jung’s notion of the
archetype to explain what it is that ‘24a Velocity Crescent’ is
doing, articulating what Cope sees as the primal power of rock
music, appearing again and again through not only rock music but
Anglo-European culture throughout the ages. One of the more amusing
examples of this is the Glam Descend:
The Glam Descend is my musical term for those great descending
guitar-led 70s hits like ‘Metal Guru’ and ‘All
the Young Dudes’. But its roots come from the Druidical curse
known as the Glam Dicenn, in which the poet stands on one leg,
screws up one eye and extends one arm and delivers a mighty poetic
blow to his opponent. As the Oxford Dictionary of Celtic Mythology
comments: "The victim of the Glam Dicenn would be shunned
by all levels of society." I have incorporated this idea
into my work in order to show the power of the once-outsider
both in
terms of the poetic Glam Dicenn and the musical Glam Descend.
(Cope, 2004, www.headheritage.co.uk)
A similar inarticulacy is to be found in the writing of Cope’s
ex-manager Bill Drummond, responsible also for the stadium house
act the KLF, the culture terrorists the K Foundation, and a number
of books including Bad Wisdom (1996)3 , and 45 (2000). Despite Drummond’s
mercurial interest in a range of cultural activities, he returns
again and again to the hold that rock music has for him. In Bad
Wisdom he attempts to justify the significance of Elvis Presley,
an icon he feels in awe of despite not actually being a fan,
1. I have never bought an Elvis Presley record.
2. I do not want to go to Graceland.
3. I have never owned any Elvis merchandise.
4. I have never sat and listened to an Elvis LP.
(Drummond & Manning, 82-83)
Drummond sees Presley as an archetype that can only be experienced
through myth. Indeed, he echoes Sidney’s complaints when
he claims that “the archivists and historians can argue the
facts and dates…but all that misses the point” (84).
For Drummond, Elvis, as representative of rock ‘n’ roll,
reconnects with a primitive energy, particularly an energy that
has been constrained and suppressed by Judaeo-Christian culture,
…before Elvis there was nothing, well nearly nothing, for
a thousand years. Rock ‘n’ roll, in all its ugly, debased
and exploited forms, torn out of and built up from the black man’s
basic twelve-bar blues, is the soundtrack to every Viking voyage…the
chains of Christian doctrine smashed on a pagan altar (85)
While this connection to a pre-Christian power may seem fanciful,
it does at least suggest that there is an unspoken aspect to rock
music that finds representation in the written word problematic.
Drummond finds that, as with Cope, words fail him as he continues
the description of his relationship to Presley,
But what I am trying to ram home is that the power that has
come through the man Elvis Presley is very, very, very… (85)
How then is one to understand what rock may mean in a written
form, if its very significance resists description? Drummond, does,
whether consciously or not, provide a strategy of semiotic networking
that again provides meaning in an impressionistic fashion. By allusion
and comparison Drummond provides a written pattern that taps into
the archetypal significance of rock music. Of course this is a
strategy often used by the music press, particularly when a reviewer
is seeking to outline what a band or artist sounds like, the easy
shot of ‘so-and-so sounds like the bastard child of such-and
such and whatsisname’. While this offers only a basic value
at a journalistic level, a more sophisticated, or perhaps more
intuitive approach such as Drummond’s creates a net of affinities
that not only seek to describe but also account for subjective
cultural value. Michael Bracewell’s England is Mine (1997)
attempts to strike the balance between the pure subjectivity of
Drummond and Cope and musical historiography. The title of the
second chapter provides a clue as to Bracewell’s approach, ‘Wit
and Warning: Cecil Collins, W H Auden, the Vorticists, Derek Jarman
and the Pet Shop Boys’. Bracewell provides an account of
British pop music that not only traces paths of cultural evolution,
but also accounts for semiotic meaning in juxtaposition, as well
as articulating what an artist might mean to Bracewell given certain
other connections that operate phenomenologically and subjectively.
His analysis of The Smiths provides a particularly good example
of his approach,
With formidable literary brilliance, Morrissey chose to make a
creative virtue of his semi-suburban northern upbringing: this
was recast, in his writing, by an epicurean selection of minutely
studied and darkly romantic fables from English mythology (Billy
Fury, The Leather Boys, George and Mildred, the Moors murderers,
kitchen-sink cinema, to name but a few), whose presence informed
the comedy and violence of his language as the socially and emotionally
imprisoned aesthete (Bracewell, 219)
Bracewell’s writing at times verges on the poetic, perhaps
a move away from traditional critical theory, but he does provide
a striking account of the cultural significance of artists such
as Morrissey, The Human League and Goldie precisely because of
their positions within a network of interconnected value systems.
Bracewell is surveying a cultural geography, allowing his subjective
position to operate as a pivotal focus point, one that is potentially
open to the reader simultaneously.
If Roberts and Cope adopt pseudo-poetic strategies to articulate
rock in the written word, albeit by subverting conventional approaches
to prose, Drummond and Bracewell provide a summation of cultural
meaning through association (overtly mythical in Drummond’s
case, overtly cultural in Bracewell’s) that seeks to account
for significance. Were we to attempt to summarise such approaches,
it might be useful to draw on the concept of psychogeography, a
term particularly associated with the London writers Iain Sinclair
and Peter Ackroyd. Sinclair particularly is known for his somewhat
hallucinogenic surveys of London4, writings based around walks
through the metropolis that not only develop historical themes,
but also mythological and psychological connections that make up
subjective responses to place. In an interview with The Fortean
Times in 2001, Sinclair described the method of his historio-psychological
approach to documenting London,
The way I work, it's largely coming from place, my system has
always been to meditate on certain areas or structures, then to
visit them and walk about until I get into some kind of slightly
mediumistic contact with the story. If it's going to work you find
that your intuitions are usually pretty good. And then all kinds
of clues and documents start to arrive - the way they do in this
book. Somebody will pass you the tape or document you need for
the next stage and really it is like, with the very first sentence,
you've entered into some kind of Faustian contract and a voice,
or a series of voices, are telling the story, and you go with that.
It is a form of mild possession when it works and the care comes
in revising it. But certainly that's how it operates. (http://www.classiccafes.co.uk/Psy.html)
Sinclair’s White Chapel, Scarlet Tracings (1987)
illustrates his role as a convenor of subjective meaning, drawing
networks
of significance together into a collage of significance. The distinctions
between his poetry and prose collapse under the stream of associations
that form together to make a subjective swarm of meaning, colliding
the caricature Dickensian second-hand booksellers with whom we
are initially confronted, with the ghost of Jack the Ripper, a
temporal distinction that founders and fails as the two narratives
merge at the novels conclusion5. While much of Sinclair’s
work borders on the abstract, his method of understanding the meaning
of place through a network of historical and phenomenological discourses
draws comparison with the approaches of writing about rock music
employed by Roberts, Cope, Drummond and Bracewell.
Such networks operate within written commentary, both journalistic
and biographical, to organise levels of significance related
to the pop music form, that have previously resisted articulation.
While my choice of writers may seem arbitrary (there are certainly
others who fit my criteria, not only in the UK), a glance of
some of their collective writings starts to create a psychogeographical
map of significance. To provide one example we can look at Sinclair’s
Lights out for the Territory (1997), which at one point
pauses to deal with the episode of Drummond’s participation
in the burning of £1 million pounds on the isle of Jura
in 1994. This money was earned by Drummond and his partner Jimmy
Cauty from the success of their KLF incarnation. In K Foundation
Burn a Million Quid (Brook and Goodrick, 1997), not only is Sinclair’s
commentary paraphrased, but also a number of audiences are consulted
on a film, showing the burning taking place. What immediately
becomes clear is that people don’t know quite how to react
to such an event. There’s a fair amount of hostility, some
consternation, a little congratulation, yet Alan Moore’s
contribution, a conversation transcribed after a screening of
the film in the comic writer’s living room, clearly outlines
both the insubstantial nature of money, but also the deep but
puzzling significance of the event itself. Moore points out the
burning of notes carrying Isaac Newton’s face, for him
representative of “the bridge between Magic and The Age
of Reason” (74), signifies a lack of any easily identifiable
significance primarily because it is shifting between paradigmatic
axes (magic and reason). The event fails to signify anything
because it transcends direct signification. In this light, the
confused reaction to the burning of the money draws parallels
with the instinctive and often contradictory nature of any phenomenological
experience of music. It too transcends symbol and reflects that
which resists articulation.
Cope’s connection to Drummond is given a strange significance
in Repossessed. Shortly before the recording of Skellington,
Cope recounts Drummond’s belief that a line of psychic
power connected the North Pole to the South Pole, travelling
via Reykjavik, through a statue of Carl Jung that stands in Liverpool
city centre (not far from The Cavern and Eric’s, both significant
local music venues) and on through Cheops in Egypt to New Zealand.
As such, Drummond arranged to have The Teardrop Explodes play
in New Zealand at exactly the same time as Echo and the Bunnymen,
another of Drummond’s managerial charges, played in Reykjavik.
Drummond would then be standing at the statue in Liverpool as
both bands played, hoping to achieve some kind of transcendent
experience. Seemingly, and perhaps not surprisingly, nothing
happened, but Cope does recount how he was surprised to discover
some years later, that Donato Cinicolo, the photographer for
Cope’s second solo album Fried (1984), was responsible
for driving the granite for the statue from Italy to Liverpool
in the early seventies. Such coincidences and lunacy may tell
us nothing about the musical world that Drummond and Cope come
from, yet they do work as links of significance that seem to
articulate the unsayable through place, event and connection.
A similar effect is created by Cope’s ‘A New Description
of The Tamworth Mound’, a map printed in the inlay to his
Floored Genius album (1992). Here Cope presents a reconfiguration
of his native Tamworth, mythologised through his body of work
(‘Reynard the Fox’, the cover of Fried, the cover
of Saint Julian, the video for ‘Trampolene’) that
serves as a psychogeographical counterpart to his conventional
musical output, illustrative yet intimately linked along lines
of significance and power.
This essay is not meant to be a manifesto for a new kind of music
criticism, but it does seek to explore an alternative route to
writing about popular music, a route that might be considered as
a psychogeography of pop music. Through the use of the poetic and
impressionistic, coupled with a network of cultural and semiological
affiliations, the writers I have explored attempt to understand
what it is that means so much to them. Such a strategy is by necessity
highly subjective and relativistic, but our experience of popular
music, in all its forms is just that. A historical account of the
development of rock ‘n’ roll fails to give access to
why a musical text means what it does to any given listener (hence
perhaps the emergence of books such as Nick Hornby’s 31
Songs and Gallagher et al’s The Smiths:
All Men Have Secrets (1995)),
while a sociological account of use fails to provide a subjectivity
that despite being elusive, remains vital to any form of textual
reading. Although Cope’s inarticulacy, or Roberts’ hyperbole,
or Drummond’s archetypes or Bracewell’s cultural mapping
may all be lacking in their ability to adequately explain what
pop music does, perhaps a convergence of their approaches might
provide a musical equivalent of Sinclair’s psychogeography,
a psychogeography of pop.
Notes
1 Elvis Costello, in an interview by Timothy White
entitled "A
Man out of Time Beats the Clock." Musician magazine No. 60
(October 1983), p. 52.
2 This murmuring grunt is interestingly juxtaposed
in Cope’s
work by a particularly Anglican choirboy voice, used both in his
work with The Teardrop Explodes, as well as his solo work. For
especially evocative examples of this over-accentuated vocal style
I would direct you to ‘Tiny Children’ from the Teardrop’s
second album Wilder (1981) and ‘Lunatic and Firepistol’ from
his first solo effort World Shut Your Mouth (1983).
3 Written with Mark Manning, lead singer of British rock band
Zodiac Mindwarp and the Love Reaction.
4 For particularly good examples of Sinclair’s
psychogeographical writings see Lights Out for the Territory
(1997), White Chapel,
Scarlet Tracings (1987) and Slow Chocolate Autopsy (1997)
5 A strategy employed after Sinclair in Alan Moore
and Eddie Campbell’s
graphic novel From Hell.
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