Some long time ago, when nettles bloomed proudly in thickets between arid stony ground and the welcoming bogs of the island, turfpunk grew like a runty weed of misery. When Seanie and Paudie stopped slumbering and squatted down amid the welcoming spiny leaves of grudging weeds to welcome the day with effusive brown, they hatched turfpunk. Not for them the fey sounds o’ chancers with their old song and windybags and wood stringy boxes and them other boxes with shiny buttons. Simple music made they, gathered around a mouldering sod, not enough for warmth or light, the very best kind. Stone music, harpin’ the wire n’ bones o’ small lost and glad-to-be-dead creatures, slappin’ the crust of an autumn marsh, moanin’ in muck and swizzlin’ the nettly stalks, yes, this would be the Big Music. Then they had to lie down, queasy with all they had achieved and hiding from the beret-hatted loons that sought them out to disrupt their eructations. Still, one day late in grimtide, as the misery lapped at their bony ankles right up to their rickety knees and they reached for another spoon of porridge, the last rancid homage to the island groaned out of their distended members, and turfpunk lurched into wheezy life once more. This is the tale of those terrible times, come to stain your ears. Until the lads have to crawl back to the island with all they have garnered, and hope to never see people other than the solid yet bony folk of the island again.
Misery sounds in advance of the Angry Art
Thursday 25th July: 7pm at the Guesthouse