The Great Invasion of Sidmouth Town

Ravencam's finest hour as the 1000 voice workshop explodes onto the streets of folkie-town.

The Wonderful Videos of Em

These gorgeous film clips are the work of the delightful Emily. We recommend her to you. If you like her work, you will find more here.

Enjoy their delicious noirness. (and blancness of course).

Veni, Vidi, Spooky

Across the skies we have come, trailing clouds of stories. The first half is now done and it is time for this little spooky to return to the forest. The blog has been a little neglected of late, but more news will follow in a flashback kind of a way.

The tales must be told. The invasion of a seaside town, the day the raven danced, and the many wonders of the castle.

Oi

Where we are

The way of the Spooky Man is complex. Our path is strewn with fallen hair and lined with black fabric. We come together in various combinations determined by geography, circumstance and whim. Each of our journeys, both individual and collective, is different, as we explore the vast territory that lies between the thug and the wimp.

We bond around the call to sing. Loosely organised (and both loose and organised) we form a single rank: from tops, though bottoms and ultimately to the middle. We sing what we are told, but we do so in our own way. We remain motionless, but we each have our own way of moving. We are both fleet of foot and slow to move. We are first among our peers, but often last to arrive. In our private lives we can be found on the loftiest academic peak and on the vilest sinks of human depravity. The spooky Man is both special and an Everyman in black.

Our colourless costumes span our varied histories and approaches to life. We are one-horned Viking. We are the pirate, the lost and confused, the overly-confident and the wise. We are occasionally in complete command of all before us and sometimes lost in our own crowd. We are often just jazzed to be on the show. We are pointless. We are grand.

Beards, hats, and a black-clad wall of sound. We are the Spooky Men.

From time to time and place to place

The raven faces down the accused bird-nappers in Cambridge:




Stirling eats the weight of his face in "Trio of cheeses, fried egg and chips"



Ash was unavailable for photographs, dye to non-compliance with a 1-way sign while cycling.

John was left behind at Toddington Services (sniff).




And thw workshop at Warwick attracted a largish crowd. Much learning was disseminated.

Boil water, the baby's coming.

a
Before/After

A tea urn on the baptismal font marked our visit to Leeds. This combination of complementary, yet conflicting themes typifies the tension which can be a feature of Spooky gigs. There is the creative, the "new", the hope for what might be, contrasting with the need to stop and relax, to ease the burdens of the day with refreshments. Perhaps even the hope of a biscuit.

There were fortunately, no calls for babies to be anointed during our performance. No names were distributed. No tea-bags harmed. Rafters were however filled and there were gleeful crys for more and more. We obliged. Veni, vidi, visa (we came, we saw, we merchandised).

We made time on our long drives for the seeing of the various sites by which we passed. And see the sites we did. Sites of great significance. Sites that would make the sorest eyes soar. The Angel of the North seemed to us to encapsulate the spirit of pointless grandeur which we dedicate ourselves to pursuing. Enormous, bold, proudly overlooking its home and ultimately unable to do anything about that which it observes. Spooky.

There was indeed much driving to be done. Each day saw us in a new place, new motorway services to explore, new roundabouts to go around. Ravencam recorded much of both the places we went and the peoples whom we passed as we went there.



This photo shows the good billeting folk of Ashton Keynes, a village full of welcome and loveliness. The tiny Thames flows through this village. Like our tour it is sweet and pure but later becomes a torrent passing through the smoke that is big.

In the course of his wandering about, your correspondent discovered the perfect solution to the "hat-hair" dilemna which plagues all the Spooky Men:

Stylish, timeless and durable, it is sure to become the model for future performance-wear.

On discipline and driving

This disturbingly-marked school bench indicated to us that the good burghers of Corbridge take a stern view of schoolboy misbehaviour. We approved of their approach generally, but had some misgivings (fear does not always make you louder).

We took part in several knowledge-dissemination sessions at the Corbridge Middle School. All were well-pleased.





A sunny day in Sheffield sees the battle-hardened and world-weary Spooky Men progressing purposefully towards Oxford and all that the fabled city of learning has to offer.

Expository, Accusatory and Catatonic

The three stages of the Spooky Man are these.

Expository:

The cycle of the Spooky Man begins with the exposure of his most inner and outer selves. To the world he bears both his tuneful melancholy and gleeful chirpings. This first stage is often violently extroverted. There are occasionally instances of conflict as the Spooky Men come together, as each strives to be expository first and thus establish themselves within the group. (In extreme cases, Spooky Men have been known to begin their exposition at home before travelling to their performance sites, thus placing both themselves and others at risk - exposition and driving do not mix). Spooky behaviour mellows over time and so inevitably, all Spooky Men move onto the next stage.

Accusatory:

After weeks, months or even years of exposition, Spooky Men usually move on to the next stage, the Accusatory Period. In this phase of development, the Spooky Man will typically act out feelings of generally unjustified victimhoodliness. They feel as though their exposition is being ignored, and that they are in danger of becoming homo incorporealis - an empty vessel of man-flesh, trapped between the world of reality and the frightening emptiness of spookidom. They are known to lash out at those around them. Even strangers' pets are not safe at this time.

At their most volatile, the accusatory Spooky Man has been known to sing inappropriately and breach the Spooky Constitution by wearing brightly-coloured undergarments without consideration of those around them.

Catatonic:

The catatonic Spooky Man is possibly the most interesting variant. At least they're quiet for a bit. This stage rarely lasts for more than a few performances, before we once again see a return to exposition as the cycle restarts itself at the slightest provocation. The pendulum swings between pointlessness and grandeur as the inner Spooky Man strives to achieve balance between the forces of darkness and not-darkness that lie within.

(For further reading, see: "Where are the simple joys of maidenhood: the Spooky Man at rest and at play" by Grahams (various), 2009 etc.")

A recent example of a rapidly remembered performance can be found below. Our studies continue.

Ravencam is now active

As good as the ones in the book

"As good as the ones in the book"


That was how our wrangler. Spooky Suze described the strawberries. Juicy, ripe and fleshy they proved to be.

Our first "performances" were all smiles, darkness and cheering. Little did we know what lay ahead (well, you don't, do you?)




This close up of an anonymous spookyman shows all too clearly what is possible if you apply yourself to your craft.

We rode into the night. Ghostly figures in a world apart. The man at the desk said he was busy but we could see he was alone. We determined the best course was to wait until he had finished serving the people who weren't there, they having decided to arrive later.

We were given "rooms" and we slept. We knew that we were not alone. The cards were black and impossible to decorate with black ink. We tried. There were tears, but fortunately not ours. The crowd screamed for more, but the road called us. They screamed for more again. No-ingly, we declined. They only stopped screaming when we threatened to take the last one back. We signed their gumboots and left.

The way forward takes us to the ancient settlement of the sage. More will follow.

The journey through the skies

I have been propelled through the sky in a tube full of strangers. Arriving,dazed and blurry in Singapore's Changi airport, I went to sleep (at last) on a small square of carpet in between a post and a window. An hour of slumber, much more walking around. Through security ( no water on the other side). More carpet. Live news on the big screen in the passenger lounge(why do they call them that? Lounge suggests an unlikely level of relaxation. We looked more like a room full of zombies on the way home from holidays. "zombie air: the party never stops!")

Heathrow was only 12 1/2 hours away. I have a great deal of difficulty sleeping on long-haul flights, so I settled in for a movie marathon. I flew singapore airlines and chose to manage my journey with the following:

Elizabeth: the Golden age
The Departed
Gran Torino
The Wrestler
17 Again
Duplicity
The Great Buck Howard
Oceans Thirteen
Paul Blart: Mall Cop
Push
Minority Report
National Treasure: Book of Secrets
Taken

I don't think my life will ever be the same. In the fugue of exhaustion, close-quarter sauirming and random meal times that passes for the luxury of modern air travel, this vast array of cinematic excreta began to meld together (into one big excretum?). I think I remember Cate Blanchett and her massive hair enter the ring to wrestle Mickey Rourke for his big comeback. Tom Cruise drove quickly through several time periods I. Pursuit of Clint Eastwood for crimes against demeanour. John Malkovich loved his car.he could control minds but not his temper and knew about a secret book hidden in a compartment inside Nicholas Cage. Smart people in suits didn't carry anything ad they sauntered about their business. Then they ran a lot. And hey knew things that their less-well-dressed acquaintances would guess at all too late.

I wanted to wake from my flickering catatonia and warn them. "Hitler isn't dead! He's gone back to school as his former self to learn the healing power of love and basketball" he wil. Ride a Segway and rescue his daughter who's bee stolen by Franco-German Albanian Arabs. The credits brought me back to the plastic world around me. My neck hurt.

I checked the clock. 6 hours to go.

Heathrow. Travelodge and a big bed with my name on it await me.

I'm back and able to admit that I was wrong.

I admit that I was wrong to be afraid of the Spooky Men. When they came for me that night, I was afraid. They are not to be feared. They are to be loved, to be honoured as heroes. For many young people growing up in the Britain of today, there are no bearded role-models. Clean-shaven chins are everywhere. With the help of a balanced diet and regular exercise, the Spooky Men's Chorale can turn your community around.

And that's why I have decided to do something. No longer a stander-by type of person, with no inkling of reaching out and touching those around me. I have said "Yes" to the call of the Spook. I will go forth with them. Yea, to the other side of the world I will go. We will move among those less fortunate than ourselves and spread the short and curly gospel of song that is the hallmark of the Spooky Men.

Brace yourself, world. We're coming.

Brother John.

Man. Spooky.

A voice from the past

A carrier-pigeon arrived today.  Inside the pigeon, we found a microchip.  The chip contained this short movie.  

TRANSCRIPT:

: I've managed to sneak away and get to one of the machines.

: I can't talk for long

: I think they've found me

: I'll try to get messages to you whenever I can.

(NOISES)

: I've got to go

(ENDS)

More information is being sought.  It appears that attempts are being made to re-activate Mr Thompson.  This is a matter of the utmost urgency.

We are seeking further information.

Looking Back From A Clear Space

Discovered in the files of the Fes Clinic for the Frequently Challenged:

June 6, 2008

Summary -

After some weeks of extreme medication and disinterested counselling, Mr John awoke from a deep sleep murmuring the words, "One Spooky Man", over and over. "One Spooky Man", "One Spooky Man". Nurse Drakool suggested that we search on the Interweb to see if these words might mean something to those outside the walls of this ancient city. We have discovered that the man we know of as "Mr John" was making a record of his travels with the so-called Spooky Men's Chorale, a primitive cult.

While we can only guess at the perversions to which he was subjected at the hands of these "Spooky Men" (for this handsome young man's experiences are yet to rise to the surface of his memory). He talks apparently randomly of "singing", his moods swing from deep self-doubt to grandiose delusions; wondering if he is "pretty enough" one minute and then declaring his "magnificence" the next. We wonder what we must do to make him whole again.

When he was brought to our refuge by the local cattery-workers, they told us that he had been found gibbering and sweaty, offering outrageous sums of money for local handicrafts. It was all that the authorities could do to rescue him before he was buried beneath a pile of unecessarily expensive local leathergoods. In his pocket, we found this photograph:


As best we can tell, this image shows the final time that Mr John was with this band of song-doers. He wears the bowler of innocence, surely a cry for help. He is obviously surrounded by those who would have him join them ... forever. It seems that somehow he made his escape and fled to Northern Africa. His senses did not come with him.

We hope that in the months to come, more and more of the real man will return. We will do our best to keep him safe and to bring him back to a state of full recovery. In time, we hope that he will be able to return to his world, to face his fears and perhaps one day, once again meet these Spooky Men and, if he chooses to rejoin their ranks, do so in such a way that will allow him to sing proudly, sing well and sing on, and never again wind up being delivered to an African mental institution by local cat-collectors.

We can only hope

Dr Bzaaf.
Director...

As a warning to those who might read this, we show you now a recent photograph of our Mr John, that you may see and be warned of what may befall you if you allow yourself to get too close to the Spooky Men's Chorale. We wish you well.

To The Left, Oi!

Onward, ever onward

As we ventured further North into a land that looks nothing like South Wales, I found myself becoming more and more inculcated into the culture of Spookiedom.  It was not an unpleasant series of sensations.

In the beginning, I had worked from what records exist of the Spooky Men's music. While repeated listenings had shown me much of the noises of which they are capable, it was not until I was among them on the stage that I realised the depth and complexity of their knowledge and training. Even a ditty as simple as a traditional Swedish folk song (surprisingly popular for so arcane a choice of repertoire) incorporates complex dance moves, (such vigorous leaps and turns), along with many more subtle physical touches. I came to think that it could well be the physical complexity of the Spookies' performances that draws people to them in such large numbers. The group moves as one -  like an enormous jungle cat with 24 legs and a head shaped like Stephen Taberner.  Black, silken perfection, a mass of rippling muscles under velvety skin. Has there ever been a more perfect human form?

But the Spooky's show is not all boogaloo and tushy-rattling. At the heart of the Men, as with any chorale, is of course the power of the (human) voice. And here too, the Spooky Men bring together an enormous array of skills, a reflection perhaps of their diverse backgrounds. Whether they be cubicle warblers from the darkest forests of the land know as "public service", or musical hermits, descended from their mountainous realms to share their awesome talents, every Spooky Man has a voice.  Any one of them is capable of slaying the savage critic-beast, but together... Together they are like the Fantastic Four merged with the Famous Five - strangely unbeatable and at the same time, delightful to like at. To hear them is to become certain that, at some point in our culture's deep, dark past,  Jerry-Lee Lewis and the Vienna Boys Choir did manage to produce offspring.  

Don't Keep It To Yourself

So comfortable are they with their awesomeness, the Spooky Men are prepared to share their seemingly boundless skills.  While ever-mindful that with great power comes great potential for extra income, they gather willing acolytes to their enormous collective bosom.  Their deceptively entitled "How to Sing Like a Bloke" workshops cross all-known boundaries of musicality, gender and taste. It is perhaps not too extreme to say that a Spooky workshop is a musical experience like no other.  It is perhaps not too extreme to say that as a group, the Spooky Men's Chorale should be elected president of the world.  Some may accuse me of hyperbole, but I do not consider it an overstatement to say that the Sing Like a Bloke workshop in Bangalow on April 23rd of this year, represents the highpoint of human artistic achievement to date on this or any other planet.  (I will concede I was rather tired at this stage of the tour).

Together we squeaked, we warbled, we moaned.  We yearned, we longed, we strived.  We waved, we gestured, we cajoled.  All together we shimmied.   As one we slunk.  We came together in every sense that is decent and good.  We sobbed for the past and screamed for what might come.  We vibrated, giggled and wept.  We chanted, we stomped and together we sang.  All in an hour.  If nothing else, we represented extraordinary value for money.

The Darker Side of the Men

And yet, there is need to rest when the row you hoe is a hard one. Beyond the hubbub and glamour of life on the stage, lies the quiet time, the time for contemplation and rest.  These are times when the men who are quintessentially spooky also find solace in simple pleasures, such as laughing together over warm Milo, or simply returning to their roots and holding hands in the dark.

There were many such times on this journey with the Spooky Men.  I will leave you now, dear reader, to ponder what these times might have been like, before I return soon to conclude this tale of bo-diddly.

One spooky man.

The Black Wiggles

The ways of the Spookies are dark, and necessarily obscured by elaborate ritual.  For without a degree of secrecy, their magnificence would be unleashed into a world unprepared for such awesome power.  After only a few days with them I have been able to discover a few of their secrets.  At great risk to myself, I disclose them to you now.

The Spooky Men wear black.   

The absence of colour is an obvious external display of the emptiness that lies within.  For much of the individual spooky man's personality is eliminated in the course of his training and induction into the group.  We learn through a long and painful process to abandon any sense of ego, assertion or even purpose, as we merge ourselves into one seamless, amorphous, clamorous black whole.  While we are many, we are one.  (And from all the lands on earth we come).

The Spooky Men sing often of Georgia.  

The influence of the ex-Soviet republic of Georgia is strongly felt by all Spooky Men.  From our overriding ignorance of fine detail about this place, we draw our strength of purpose to learn more (or to at least sing loudly).  1, 4 and 5 are the numbers which carry us forward, ever-striving to make one big noise together at end.  For while in unison there may be strength, in the many, we the find the beauty of lots and lots.

The Spooky Men follow their leader.

The Spooky Men draw their inspiration from many sources, crystallised into the Spooky Constitution and inspired by Saint Ken (or Kevin in parts of New South Wales) the Usual. Of these I will speak no further now. I fear that my writings are being observed. Last night I was discovered paying close attention to the teachings of our leader. This clearly marked me as an outsider and not to be fully trusted.

"Our intention must be the same as our pretension" (Stephen Taberner)

"I powerfully and serenely resolve to tell you that thing that I was going to tell you, as soon as I remember what it was" (from the wisdom of Saint Ken the Usual)

The Spooky Men are welcomed in many places of worship. 

Whatever the belief system, so long as the audience adhere to the Anglican faith, the Spooky Men are welcomed into houses of gods.  In a town by the sea (neither of which I will name here), we marvelled at the intricate icons adorning the wall.  Agog at the frog, we shared in a moment of spiritual sharing after our own style. 

Spooky.

At Last

Tonight I have became one with the dark side of the muse. Whatever may come, whatever further trials I may face, I know that my life will never be the same.

Two This Part B

In the months that followed my call to join the Spooky Men, I took what steps I could to prepare myself. I practised what I knew of the sacred spooky chants, and hoped that my offerings would not be found wanting. I walked alone at night, contemplating the stars and searching for signs in the heavens of what my coming journey might offer. I trained my body in accordance with the little that was known of their ways. I spent much time on my knees and tried as I might to match something of their renowned flexibility and digital dexterity. Many was the birch sapling that gave its all without complaint to the demands of my regimen.

My role was to be that of vanguard. But even before the van's arrival, I went on ahead. I arrived by way of flying machine into that port city known as Macquarie. The sky was heavy with cloud as I made my way to my lodgings. Above the sign of the Starbuck I was shown to my bed-chamber. There was magic all around. The walls shone as though carved from purest alabaster. Dark potions and tasty sweet-meats were offered to me, and I feasted gratefully. Few words were spoken, as my hosts took their leave and left me to rest. They had a journey of their own to take that night, to meet with their fellows. They taught salsa to the local people, and their skills were required that evening.

I was content to spend time alone, and ponder what the days to come might offer. I left my lodgings only briefly, to find sustenance at a local tavern. It was a strange repast, but tasty. The food was in the style of Thailand, a distant place. Music drifted into the eating-chamber from an unseen source. I recognised the familiar strains of the bouzouki, and even picked out some melodies that were known to my people. (Morning Has Broken, I Can't Help Falling In Love With You, and Edelweiss all brought comfort to the scene.) After my meal I returned to my room and to my bed. I slept fitfully, alone in the unfamiliar darkness.

The next morning I rose early and walked by the water's edge and awaited the arrival of the first to find me.

Chapter the One

It was in the deepest recesses of that land known as Tasmania, where I first heard the siren call of the Spooky Men.  Their demands for me to join their sonorous clique were persistent and, as it would prove, irresistable.  At that stage I knew only the reputation of this terrible band of wandering minstrels.  From the Blue Mountains, where they have their lair, they travel freely, riding out from time to time to wherever their whims take them.  Up lonely roads, and even through the skies, they come.  Whether in crowded cities, among the vagabonds' tents or through empty towns, long past their prime, the spooky men move largely unnoticed among the unsuspecting inhabitants of the "real" world.  In their obscurity lies their great power.

And now I had been called.  I pondered long over whether to accompany them on their travels.  For the spooky call is not lightly given, nor may it be received lightly.  Lightly not it has the reception into the ear of the receiver.....

I feared what might be if I assented and made my own way into spookidomliness.  For, even though they were asking that I give myself only for a brief time, I knew that where the spooky men go, mystery and danger go with them.

Through long nights I examined myself.  I then took time to consider my position.  Was I up to the task?  Was I brave enough?  Strong enough? Pretty enough?  Could I, a humble "top" (as they would have me), albeit with travels of my own of which to speak, take among them my place, rankswise?   Did not the risk I run that soon backwards would my words become inevitably?  Already I felt their power.

Missives were exchanged.  Texts, both ancient and modern, examined, sent and received.  And finally I made my choice.  My way was set.  I would bow to their will.

I would become a Spooky Man!