paul constance of the open hand presents the baglama masters of the bazaar

Elektron records, October 1969

PMR E55 6300 (mono)
PSR E55 6300  (stereo)

Original sleeve notes:

These are the days of THE OPEN HAND. And through the fickle fingers of fate Mr Paul Constance, open guitarist extraordinaire and all round citizen of the world found himself a stranger in a strange land. Stumbling from the steely gaze of the border patrols he was rescued by the siren song of MUSIC flowing across the hostile plains from the local trading post, MUSIC of the people. Welcomed with THE OPEN HAND of the true musician, Paul took his fill in ears and heart and tape recorder and now he asks you to OPEN your soul to the baglama masters of the bazaar.

"When Paul Constance came to the bazaar my brother ran to the border and shouted "There is a guy here with a recording machine that works, come see!". My father and I did not believe him but we left our post and took our instruments. That night we marvelled at the miracle of a tape spool running and our own sound echoing back over the desert, the first time we had heard ourselves in many years. We had a big party, with Paul and his blonde girl dancing and singing, and then it was morning and they were gone." - Abdul Hadi Fazi, The Borderline Bazaar, September 1969.

Track Listing:

1.   Border song  - 5.58 ( أغنية الحدود )  
2.   People dancing forever and long forgotten – 2:22
3.   Which side of the mountain can you trust – 8:06
4.   Your Eyes Are Like The Blacked Out Sky – 10:35
5.   What cannot be heard – 5:55
6. "Your Eyes Are Like The Blacked Out Sky" (reprise with flute) – 18:04

_____________________________________________________________
Reviews and critical response:

New Musical Express, 29 October 1969:  "The most exciting aspect of this unusual album is not so much that it contains the first solo recordings ever by any member of The Open Hand to date, but that Paul Constance himself hardly appears on his own LP, the music being supplied by the virtuoso musicians who entertain the weary travellers at a remote desert trading post. If this is an example of what the travels of Constance can lead him to then long may his experiments continue to push out past the accepted frontiers of pop.

It would be hard to pick a stand-out track but the cumulative effect is like being ship wrecked in a sandstorm, as thousands of individual pin sharp notes rise and crash like the waves against your senses.

The latter part of the album is one long freakout, and makes for more challenging listening, especially midway through the the reprise of "Your eyes are like the blacked out sky" where a lone female vocalist becomes increasingly prominent, moving through a series of modular melodies and chants before ending with something which, to these unaccustomed western ears at least, rather resembles agonised screaming.

All in all though, a brave step forward and a nice stop gap before the back to basics Hand album we have been promised by Christmas."


Rolling Stone, November 1969:   "...Jesus Christ someone bazooka these baglamas..."


Total Music Guide (2005):  "A forgotten footnote in the history of rock, this poorly recorded series of five cheesy tourist friendly folk tunes and one nightmarish jam was put together by Open Hand guitarist Paul Constance from tapes made, presumably, whilst stoned out of his head in some hookah den somewhere. The final track briefly gained notoriety through the suggestion that the un-named female vocalist on side two of the album was in fact Samantha Moon, which would make the rather disturbing content of "Your eyes are like the blacked out sky (reprise)" her last known recording prior to her disappearance. Never available after the original pressing, this is one footnote which deserves to stay at the bottom of the page"  NO STARS.

Your eyes are like the blacked out sky (reprise) link temporarily unavailable.

Col Thomas Morgan 1969 Part Two - Eight Miles High

In summary: Secret agent Col Thomas Morgan has been dispatched on a flight to an unusual mission that seems to involve his private life in some way. See part one elsewhere on this site.


The book was small enough to fit into his suit pocket without ruining the lining. He had removed it from the case they had packed for him since he knew there was no way he would be able to stomach a newspaper on the flight. The principal disadvantage of knowing what was really going on in the world was that you could easily discern your superiors sticky fingers smearing and distorting the newsprint until The Times resembled a word search puzzle from which you could pick out the few truthful phrases and re-arrange them into something resembling the departmental memo seen earlier in the week.

But now he didn't want to read the book. Why had they chosen this to accompany him? Nothing ever happened by accident. There was a message here and for the first time he did not want to hear it.  Were they laughing at him? Or was it another warning? Signs and portents, they were the stock in trade of a good agent. Not the ridiculous visions that some claimed, but the proper understanding of  an ordered world, and the keen eye that could pick out disorder, discontent, disharmony.

Maybe there was a code sheet hidden inside? He held the book upside down and ruffled the pages aggressively, trying not to let the white against orange title discomfort him any further than it already had. Nothing. He forced his eyes across the opening sentence. "The cabin passenger wrote in his diary a parody of Descartes - I feel discomfort, therefore I am alive". A cold sweat crept across him, and bled though into his heart. He was losing control of his own environment, being absorbed into a story that had already been written.

Clarity. He needed clarity of thought. The noise of the propellers, the unrelenting chatter of the couple behind him, some idiot singing, the mild pain in the leg broken three times waking up and responding to the change in air pressure. Shut them out.  Shut them all out, down, this is not the real, this is a sham, a shameful sham, a sham that is always the same, always the same sham, sham, shamantha, Samantha dancing, Samantha laughing, Samantha undressing in the warm moonlight, Samantha absent in the morning when he reached for her, Samantha, Samantha, Samantha, why not open the door and jump out of the plane?

His eyes snapped open, with a hint of psychotic china doll titled upwards too quickly. It was quieter, thankfully. Most of the the other passengers had reached a comfortable point in their ongoing relationship with the free alcohol being served, and, coupled with a more steady drone now the plane was comfortably through the clouds, were drifting off to mumbling slumber. Clarity, clarity of thought. He rummaged around his subconscious and closed a few doors. Go again.

He recreated the events from earlier that morning, tweaking the odd moment to make it more bearable. Piece by piece he recreated the Major's office, the photographs of his old cricket teams proudly arranged across the walls, the warm leather of his upholstered desk, the imposing blackness of his chair, unaccountably empty, his voice booming out an impersonal speaker in the centre of the desk.

"Tell me Morgan, what do you know about a girl called Samantha?"

That had thrown him. "What? Sorry, what?"

"Samantha, Morgan. Do you know a girl called Samantha or not?"

"I know a girl called Samantha. I know a girl called Emma very well and two called Polly if you are interested."

"Don't get snappy Morgan, this girl of yours is trouble and I think you should be the one one to sort it out."

"Trouble? What kind of trouble? Yes, she's a bit flighty, you know, but they're all like that these days."

"For God's sake Morgan, spare me your advice about girls. Actress, isn't she?"

"Singer mainly...but yes, she has been in a few films. What of it?"

"Location filming? Abroad?"

"Sometimes, look, what's this all about?"

"Secrets, Morgan, secrets that are winging their way across borders, mysteriously turning up remarkably close to where your singing actress belle is plying her trade. And where is she hearing these secrets Morgan? Do you talk in your sleep at all?"

"How dare you! How dare you question my loyalty!"

"It's coming down from far above me, old man. That's why I couldn't be here today. If they had their way you'd be in one of their special interview rooms right now. The way I see it, either this is your mess and you get the chance to clean it up, or you're in it up to your neck and you'll run for cover with our eyes upon you. You'll find a case packed at the door, it has everything you'll need. Good luck Thomas. We may not get to speak again"

The shameful burn he had felt in that room, too unclean to be dealt with personally, under observation like a rat in a box responding to stimuli, was turning to a more righteous flame. They thought he had been consumed in the fire, but he had more substance than they knew.

There was a sudden disturbance at the front of the plane as they began their descent. The two stewardesses who had been cheerfully handing out drinks and food for the duration of the flight were looking rather less cheerful as they tried to restrain a colourfully dressed man into his seat. He was shouting about how famous he was, that he was a member of The Open Hand, baby, that they were number one.

As the plane tilted towards the desert runway Morgan thought about that phrase. He had heard it before, but where and how floated just out of reach. The open hand. That is what he would give them. Full disclosure. Whatever was happening here he would tear the walls right down, prove that Samantha was innocent, and ram their conspiracies back into their smug establishment faces and beyond.

Calmer and more dangerous now, he waited till the majority of his fellow passengers had, often unsteadily, made their way off the plane before himself heading for the door.

Morgan paused at the top of the stairs and turned his face up to the searing sunlight. He had no idea who his contact was, where he was travelling to, how he would find Samantha or what he could say to her if he did.

Behind him he heard the hurried steps of one of the stewardesses.

"Sir, SIR! Don't forget your book." She took a good and slightly too intimate look at the cover as she went to hand it to him.

"Keep it" said Thomas gruffly, barely turning his head.

"Oh no sir, no point," she said, slipping it back under his arm.. "Graham Greene,  A Burnt Out Case. I know it well. I think that's a good choice."

Signs and portents. He felt discomforted, alive.


samantha sings

Jean-Jacques Baptiste - Find the Lady

Socrates: Will he not fancy that the shadows which he formerly saw are truer than the objects which are now shown to him?

Another day, another coach full of confused tourists walk up and down the main avenue of the Bazaar waving their telephones in the air, contorting their bodies through aerobic masterstrokes that would satisfy Olympic judges as they try to connect with a signal that has been mercilessly pommelled into the earth several miles previously. A few brave the searing heat outside and raise their devices toward the sun, as if begging for divine intervention from Ra. As has been the case for many centuries now, however, none is forthcoming. Only shadows are thrown down behind the men and women, powerful and dark, as substantial in their own way as the warm reflections they now tracked.

From within the cool shelter of his shop, Jean-Jacques scans the newcomers for signs of weakness. He is not a cruel man at heart, but like all men his nature is divided and at war with itself. He is fortunate enough to have at least devised a mechanism to cope with the dichotomy, the divided soul, and if he has temporarily escaped judgement then it is surely his role to judge others who would follow him.

The group of tourists begins to dissipate, drifting out into the enormity of the huge main hall, dissolving into the mass of humanity that rushes through the building until the group can no longer be distinguished as a single unit. So far Jean- Jacques has found no reason to move. He stands behind his counter as stock still as the many sculptures that are crammed into his emporium.

Something registers. Predatory senses kick in and he flicks across the eyes of those he can see through the large glassless window. There, at the back, he senses the increasing excitement of a solitary middle aged man, entirely average in appearance, who is pathetically failing to feign disinterest in the painting that Jean-Jacques has placed front and centre of his teasingly hap-hazard display. The price is insultingly low even for the most hackneyed copy, but this is not a copy. This is a portrait of his mistress painted by the great artist that you know (it matters not who take that to be), acquired by Jean-Jacques many years ago by means of which he is not proud, means that led him to be exiled here, in this place that is barely a place at all. He tenses, exhales. He is ready.

The tourist believes that he is going to leave this place with an item worth millions for which he has knowingly paid a pittance to the owner. Such avarice, such sin. As soon as his victim crosses the threshold, willingly and of their own volition, their punishment will begin.

The man breaks through the crowd and is level with the shop entrance. With no more than three lightening steps Jean-Jacques is at the window. Facing into the shop and with a sleight of hand worthy of a demonic contract he flips an arm behind his back for a fraction of a second and slides the painting to the right into a hidden groove which takes it through a curtain which itself conceals a slit cut in the wall between Jean-Jacques shop and the unit next door. The horribly printed cheap card copy of the painting which has been resting against the fully farmed canvass falls forward to take it's place.

This not his favourite part. Oh, he enjoys playing with "Can I help you Sir? Oh, the one in the window? Of course, just let me...Is something wrong Sir?...Sir?" but what follows is what sustains him even if he cannot always fully partake in the experience.

He remembers many years ago wandering the streets of his native Paris. The noise, the light, the sheer humanity round about him, and, of course, in amongst it all the chicanery, the hustlers, the fraudsters. Le Bonneteau, Three card Monte, Find the Lady, all descriptions of the same elegant theft, but to him it would always be The Three Losers. As a young man he had been haunted by the thought that he had divided himself each time he fell in love, follow the lady, now you see her now you don't, twice, three times, three souls desperately trying to find something they have been shown but was was never actually there, Les Trois Perdants.

Quite admirably concealing his embarrassment if not his disappointment, the tourist declines to look around the shop any further and leaves. He will almost certainly turn left, Old Tom's market next door is an eye catching cornucopia of decomposing cinema memorabilia. It is inconceivable that the old master painting will not leap out at the man as he passes. Jean-Jacques imagines the thought processes churning through the visitors mind - my god it was the next door window! - and waits for the rattle of Tom's door (almost perpetually locked whether occupied or not) and then the satisfying swoosh of the curtain as the original painting returns through the secret passage via Tom before he opens his door and another swift tap from Jean Jacques sends the copy through to next door.

He picks up the painting, along with a canvas bag containing a number of higher quality prints and briskly leaves his shop. He knows Tom will keep an eye on things once his part is played. He darts amongst the labyrinthine corridors of the bazaar distributing his copies to those who owe him a favour, or are taking bets on how many will be spotted and examined by the end of the day. Jean-Jacques has no interest in how the others amuse themselves, his card was marked a long time ago.

Jean-Jacques imagines the hot fury of being battered by the crowd as his mark chases the insubstantial treasure. It is in front of you, it is gone, don't give up now, she is in there somewhere, come on come on, one more, believe the evidence of your eyes. Your day becomes lost in a fever dream here, no here, no, keep searching. Frantic, you run from point to point, your goal in the window just ahead, there she is, no she's gone. You are chasing shadows, flickers in the flame, consumed. Time has abandoned you now, and before you can breathe the shutters are closing and you have nothing but loss to leave with as you join your fellow travellers, who are content with their acquisitions.

The Bazaar can become deserted as suddenly as over-run. Even if it is a mystery where so many of occupants retired to, or re-appeared from the next day, Jean-Jacques has no interest in investigating. In the still evening he wanders through the lanes, noting the presence of his many props in random shop windows. Traveller, he thinks, this was my gift to you. Your reward for hunting reflections instead of experiencing the sights and sounds around you. It is a kind cruelty if wisdom is imparted.

As he walks on he imagines he hears other footsteps beside his own, two sets, three. He knows that his own lesson is not complete, that this place is not done with him. One day he knows he will attempt to return to his shop and find that he cannot quite seem to reach it. The location will be blurred, the familiar shortcuts leading back on themselves, the signage unintelligible, the locks strange. He sees himself running from point to point, catching a glimpse of his window and door only to find other designs in their place when he arrives. Find the lady.

One day, perhaps, but not today at least.

Socrates: Imagine once more, I said, such an one coming suddenly out of the sun to be replaced in his old situation; would he not be certain to have his eyes full of darkness

Blindness and sight

It's a Christmas Mirabelle, Charlie Brown

Mirabelle the cat flattened her bones until she was more or less existing in only two dimensions, and slipped under the locked heavy wooden double doors of the Bazaar, rising from the floor on the other side as if re-inflated by the displaced air around her.

She took a moment to allow the scents to settle. Her eyes had immediately adjusted to the half light as the illumination from shafts of moonlight fell into the centre of the main hall and echoed out through trails of dust on either side. What she had to do. of course, was concentrate on switching frequencies in her feline vision so that her view was not crowded by the many hundreds of spirits that were wandering around the Bazaar, some repeating the same sequence of movements in an eternal loop, others seemingly more aware of their surroundings. Mirabelle did not want to see them today. She had learnt that they could not touch her, or, crucially, feed her, but it was mildly irritating when they obscured the clear line of sight to something that she could catch and eat.

She slunk along the dark side of the corridor, scanning the lunar powered spotlights for signs of small four legged movement, but was distracted by an unfamiliar smell that threatened to overpower even the normal assault of spices, rusting metals, dubious fabrics, ancient paper, and various dead things that continually collided in an olfactory whirlwind inside the hall. Something else was here, something that was alive and not alive at the same time.

Opening her jaws slightly she drew in more of the foreign scent. It was so sharp that it was almost painful, so she closed her mouth and began to track the invisible path down the corridor. Within a few steps she saw the new thing. It was a plant of some kind, a giant plant god of some sort, bigger than a man, and covered in spiny needles, like a million tiny claws. A memory that was not hers directly, but was preloaded into her species finally woke up - she knew now it was a tree, even if she had never seen one before. Why was it here? And how had it got in? Most importantly, could she eat it? It smelled strangely intoxicating. She sent a factional signal through the electrical centre of her brain and brought back the ghosts to try and get a clue.

The half solid people swarmed around the huge green plant, alternating pawing at it and then stopping to stand and stare. No one ate any of it. Mirabelle began to loose interest.

Just to be on the safe side, she thought that she should claim ownership of it anyway. Less hesitantly, she strode up to where it sat, murdered and imprisoned in a large metal basin, and rubbed the side of her face along the lowest branches, nonchalantly giving the very edge a little chew, just to see.

What she was not aware of was that in reaching up for that illicit taste of a forest she could never see, another inherent cat characteristic had kicked in. Her tail, consumed with the conflict of eat/don't eat began to thrash about in an sign of conflicted nerves, striking a small plastic box on the edge of the basin.

A carnival of light flashed across Mirabelle's startled eyes. Colours alternated patterns on the floor and, with diminishing strength as she raced back toward the door, onto her back. Flat once again, she exploded out into the familiar desert darkness. Her panic subsided and she pulled at it until it became anger. She turned towards the shack she shared with the shape they called Faziz and began to think about when she would let her claws out on him to restore her equilibrium.

Inside the Bazaar the lights played on, reflecting either on the empty stalls or the empty crowd depending whose eyes were not there to see.


I will celebrate a shoestring Saturnalia

Col Thomas Morgan 1969 Part One: Strange Days

The sky was a dull grey that did Col Thomas Morgan's dark blue MG MCT MG sports model no favours as it trundled though the sleepy London streets towards Westminster. A Sunday morning in October 1969, what could be finer? A few more hours kip wouldn't have gone amiss of course, and it hurt that Samantha hadn't returned his calls so the rarity of a night in his own Mews flat had to be spent single in a King sized bed. Yes, he could have headed to the clubs, but it just didn't seem to have the same appeal as it had a few years ago. The music could be endlessly long, and the brief period where his smart militaristic jackets and blazers happily co-incided with popular fashion had faded from view as quickly as it had crept up on him in the first place.

This was a troubling recollection. Wasn't it more or less his job not to let anything creep up on him under any circumstances? Remember that time in Haiti with the the poisonous snakes in his golf bag? Or the black clad assassins silently gliding along threads of steel above the streets of New York as he clung to the fascia of the Empire State? He had tried telling that story to Samantha at the ridiculous nightclub she had insisted taking him to last month but her eyes had glazed over and before he got to how his life had been saved through his spring activated titanium spiked shoes she had wandered off across to the edge of the stage where five ludicrously hairy men were caterwauling about elves or something of equal inanity.

It was still early enough to get a parking space right outside of headquarters. Well, not headquarters exactly, but sub annexe 8 of headquarters, where all the "special" agents had been redeployed to have them reporting out of the one office for efficiency.

The office was hidden below street level, under the facade of a genteel tearoom. Until recently the subterranean level was accessed by stepping in to the adjacent red phone box, dialling 666, and descending in a one person lift through the false floor, but then someone...Morgan concentrated...it was that young oik in the raincoat and thick glasses...had pointed out in his cockney nails on a blackboard accent that it was much less suspicious to walk in though the front door of a cafe to have a cup of tea that to go in a phone box and bloody disappear.

Personally, Morgan thought it rather more suspicious that a tearoom would be open at nine o clock on a Sunday morning, and he rather missed the phone box trick, but his was not to reason why.

As he approached the lace and doily decorated glass of the front door, he was startled as an area of refuse at the corner of the shop front unfurled and put out a hand. Nestled in between the empty boxes and general rubbish awaiting collection, presumably sleeping off the excesses of a Saturday night spent singing about goblins or god knows what, was an unwashed bearded hippie of the type that made Morgan want to click his heels together, activate the spikes through the front of his spats, and send this peacenik home.

 "Hey man," mumbled the face that was more hair than skin, "Want to know the secret of the universe? Don't even need to cross my palm with silver, brother, these are the days of the open hand, we have no secrets here." His ragged arm outstretched hopefully notwithstanding.

Without turning his head, Morgan grasped the handle to the teashop door, which clicked open pleasantly, setting him up with time for a parting shot before the customer warning bell perched inside the frame chimed haphazardly.

"No secrets? My dear chap you couldn't be any more wrong". Ding ding. Yes, he still missed his phone box but having had the opportunity to deliver a little bon mot that would sound excellent if they were being recorded, he felt happier.

There was a decent pretence at breakfast going on, with a handful of customers and an almost equal number of waitresses. Morgan wandered about for a few moments, making a play of studying the menu, just in case, before heading behind the counter and through to the stockroom, where, to his immense irritation, the door took no less than three attempts before it recognised his voice activation code.

As far as he could tell from the log book in the reception area  (a total misnomer, since there was no one there to receive him, meaning more previously prepared wit was going to waste), he was the only person that had signed in to the building that morning. The Major, who had summoned him, was either late - unheard of, but these were strange times - or had not left since arriving last night.

Morgan was looking forward to seeing the Major again. It was not often that he was asked to take instruction from the Major directly so he knew it must be important. But he also knew how much the Major enjoyed the perks of command, and he could reasonably expect that after a cursory chat to meet requirements, the better part of the day would be spent being briefed on the golf course, then on to Downing Street for lunch with a cabinet minister, or prime minister quite possibly, it had happened before. Maybe he could get a message to Samantha to meet him there.

He strode purposefully enough along the empty metallic corridors, but what was the purpose if no one else was there to see it? The place was dead, it was as if the enemy had already occupied and no one had noticed, or cared. Room after room was empty, some with open doors, some open doors showing open filing cabinets and open files. These are the days of the open hand, we have no secrets here.

He wondered if he needed a change of career, but then caught himself. That was where the trouble always started, after all. Look at his fellow agents, what a shower they had become. Drake went on holiday and never came back...went mad in Wales or some other such nonsense...Steed had gone native, hanging about with all his sweet young things, chasing clowns and mad scientists, more concerned with getting the right kind of velvet on the collar of his suit than the big picture. And as for the new crop, all the ridiculous departments known by a single letter only, like those degenerates over at "S", or a tortuous acronym twisting the English language to get something suitable enigmatic such as the laughable NEMESIS. Of course, he was under no illusions. No doubt his fellows felt equally well disposed toward him.

He knocked on the door of the Major's office, and was rewarded with the familiar bark. "Oh do come in Morgan, we haven't got all day."

He stepped through, starting with "Do you know Major, they are making disposable hippies nowadays..." but this trailed away to nothing as he registered the empty chair behind the similarly bereft desk.

Off to the side of the desk was a rather rickety phone table, on top of which a small speaker was relaying the Major's voice. This was new, and like almost everything else that had come along in the last three years, Morgan did not like the look of it one bit.

"Morgan old boy," boomed the speaker, giving evidence of the power if the voice behind it, "I have a job for you. An unorthodox job ,  I grant you, but one which will mean a great deal to me personally if you take it on, do you understand?"

Morgan did understand. "Am I to take it, Major, that this job is...ah...off the books, so to speak?"

"Oh now, don't get the wrong idea!", the Major hurrumpted, "It's official business, all above board and what not, but not everyone has to know our business, do they? Some business works best as a secret. That is what you are after all, isn't it Morgan? A secret sort of agent?"

Morgan was pleased the Major had put the words "sort of" in the middle of the job description. It made it sound a little less ridiculous.

"So pick up your passport and get to Heathrow. There will be instructions for you there."

"But what's my cover?" This was altogether too quick, where was the dossier, the preparation, the planning?

"Oh, no cover needed Morgan. That's the beauty of it. For this one, you can go disguised as yourself."

"I don't follow."

"Yes you do Morgan, and that's why I know you will carry out my instructions to the letter."

"But what's the mission? Who's the target?"

"Tell me Morgan," crackled the speaker, rather sinisterly, "What do you know about a girl called Samantha?"


Everywhere he goes he stays a stranger
END OF PART ONE

Col Thomas Morgan Will Return

Your ping test means nothing round here old man

Start with the moon used to this sort of thing, her blacks crackle and drag. Close in, close up, the silver coin of  Kohnsu, Diana, Toth, exerting gravitational force over point of view as above so below. Pan back with relief and the infinite night starts again to encroach at the edges, the white light reducing into the centre of the screen like the tunnel vision of a depressive.

Take a second to evolve and engage perception a little further along the electromagnetic spectrum. Float above the raging torrent of waveforms as they tear across the desert, battering through any form in their path. The insane highway, going everywhere and nowhere for nothing  E = h x nu.

The air is bisected unilaterally a billion times over, the space between us now just an absurd cheeswire of colour and dense colliding signals singing through the wire lost in the night. A lone vehicle approaches the border, it's occupants nothing more than a momentary, fractional, resting place for a billion tiny particles which pass through their flesh, bones, hearts. Do they leave any trace of their radiated presence? Who can say what biological or spirtual processes are instigated, tainted, or improved as they invisibly buffet and irradiate the body?

Drop down to race with the river, fly just above the surface of the crazed rainbow, an unstoppable charge.

But here is the waterfall, here is is the edge of the world. Abruptly the rug is pulled out from underneath and the particles crash to the earth, through the earth, diverted underground or destroyed. Wave upon wave of demented frequencies continue to hurl themselves across the horizon, trailing now like fireworks and falling in a beautiful arc of colour, the invisible waterfall a silent fury at the edge of the flat earth.

Stand on the warm sand in the freezing night and wonder at the sight of the ocean of light being held back by nothing. The land has no interest in these invaders and they shall not pass. Your body is clean, unaffected now by the EM assault, owned entirely by the moonlight. You know how it is out here on the perimeter there are no stars, out here we is stoned immaculate.

this is the land where the Pharaoh died

Faziz Ahmed - Smugglers Blues

Faziz could think of no one he hated more than his Captain. It wasn't an abstract hatred like, say, the hatred of the cold, or injustice, or spiders, no, this was a very specific, targeted, reasoned hate. The kind that hangs around with murder.

His Captain was no more than twenty three years old. Faziz was twenty one, and his fellow border guards were mostly even younger. He did not feel like a man, more like a boy in oversized shirt. As far as Faziz was concerned the Captain was the same - even if he wore expensive sunglasses and enjoyed exercising the, admittedly real, authority that he held as leader of the border patrol. To help him celebrate his twenty first birthday, the Captain had "rewarded" Faziz with the keys to the warehouse where all seized goods were stored. This reward came with the responsibility to maintain the inventory and detail all stock, plus extra security patrols. Now Faziz had to rise two hours earlier than his comrades in arms just to make it back to the barracks for the morning parade. If he was late then his pay would be docked substantially, as he had discovered in the very first week of his new duties.

As Faziz washed and dressed in his threadbare uniform he spoke to his cat, Mirabelle, who was sitting upright in the centre of the bed, waiting for him to leave so she could drift off uninterrupted back into more of her sweet, sweet, cat sleep.

"Today Mirabelle," he said half into a towel and half into the mirror as he dried his face and hands, "I will get one over on that kaddaab. I will."

Mirabelle blinked, trying to hold in the sleep that was threatening to turn into consciousnesses. Her unexpressive face was consumed with feline disinterest.

"God is great. I will" Faziz said, without conviction.

Mirabelle just wanted him to go. She stared at a point on the wall roughly two feet to his left and pretended not to know him.

                                            *********************

The Captain was giving his favourite lecture. "Alright you fatahs, today we are going to do our jobs and protect this border to our wonderful land. Persons considerably more clever that you will ever be have decreed that these items shall not pass. Study today’s dispatches well. There will be penalties for any slip ups. Allahu Akbar."

Faziz flipped to the last of the twenty five pages that constituted the list of contraband. A few months ago this could fit on one side of his notebook, but within a season it had expanded beyond all reason. Today’s additions included table tennis bats, the works of Charles Bukowski, kidney beans, blue eyeshadow, cherry cola and Oscar statuettes. Faziz reasoned that he could probably live without these luxuries, but was equally immediately filled with a burning desire to own these works of Charles Bukowski despite never having heard of him until this moment.

Was he really carrying a rifle to protect the land against kidney beans? The world had gone insane and taken him along, into a place where even music was contraband. How the nearby Bazaar managed to retain and replenish it's stock of forbidden wonders was a mystery. It had been many years since Faziz had set foot in the Bazaar. If his Captain found out he had been seen there then he would be thrown in a cell and forgotten about for a long, long time. Possibly forever. He already knew that his shack was being searched on a regular basis for illegal items.

The stars must have been aligning for the Captain as his very favourite thing was approaching the border. A large tourist bus, well maintained and shining against the sand, quite unlike the broken down hunks of rusted metal that ferried the locals around. The same locals who knew their way around the regulations and lived only to subvert and ignore the Captain's authority.

A coach full of wealthy travellers, lured out into this vast area of blazing nothing with the promise of bartering their easily replaced valuables in return for ancient artefacts and forbidden materials. As he ostentatiously strode into the centre of the road and rose his arm to stop the bus, the Captain was relived that his huge sunglasses would at least prevent some of the joy he felt from being so obviously displayed on his face.

"You are under the protection and authority of Captain Tariq Famil of the Border Patrol" he barked, "You will please line up and produce your papers. Clearly identify which belongings you are travelling with and prepare for inspection." The Captain scanned the mainly elderly figures disembarking into the rifle sights of his favourite guards. He could easily get a few hours worth out of these confused and frightened forgieners. Life was good.

Whilst the Captain delighted in harassing the passengers, Faziz found himself in front of the only traveller approaching the Border on foot. It was the British girl who worked at the Bazaar.

Normally the Captain reserved the privilage of exerting authority over this woman for himself, but Faziz had noticed that those encounters were not quite the same as the usual bullying. Recently the Captain had seemed almost nervous when she approached. There had been a strange incident last month when the dogs had suddenly turned tail rather than be in the same space as her, and another where the guards on duty had parted like the red sea when she crossed with unsearched bags and then could not subsequently explain why, leading to a conspiracy of silence.

Aware that the Captain always had an eye, or a spy, on him at all times, Faziz summoned up his impersonation of the other guards.

"Papers please" he said, as brusquely as he could manage.

She dug around in the satchel that was slung across one shoulder and handed the crumpled identification to Faziz. Amy McCraken, work permit, merchants assistant, Borderline Bazaar.

"This looks to be in order Miss McCraken. But I will need to check in your bag I'm afraid."

"Wouldn't you rather help your Captain?" she said, "I could just go on my way and you can get your share of an old age pensioners purse. They might even have gold teeth if you are lucky."

Faziz suddenly had a sense of why the Captain was finding excuses to be elsewhere when this woman crossed the border. It wasn't the words themselves, it was the undertone carried somewhere deep in her polite insolence, something too old and powerful to be submerged into her voice. It was disconcerting enough that she already projected an aura of homelessness, that she clearly would be no more in her correct environment on one side of any border or the other.

The bag was a battered leather satchel with a brass plate on the flap reading "Col Thomas Morgan". He stood the bag up on the table and rolled down the sides revealing around twenty LP records in thick cardboard sleeves.

His heartbeat quickened as his fingers flicked between the sleeves. Chet Baker, Miles Davies, Thelonious Monk, Charles Mingus, Eric Dolphy - the names themselves had a poetry, reinforced by the deep colours of the sleeve illustrations, some stark and almost brutal portraiture, others surreal shapes and scenarios.

He looked directly into Amy's ridiculoulsy green eyes. "I'm afraid, Miss McCraken, I am going to have to ask to come with me. Unless you prefer that I refer this matter to my Captain."

"I have a merchants licence, you can see that" she said, pointlessly as they both knew.

"Please." said Faziz, indicating the open door of the cabin just a few feet across the border.

Amy stepped inside.

                                      ******************

"You understand, Miss McCracken, that the import this type of material is strictly forbidden?"

"I understand that there are customs regulations which are difficult to follow and impossible to enforce, if that is what you mean."

Faziz continued, "Importing illegal improvised music is a serious offence. The Captain has decided that only military waltzes and religious music can be allowed, for the benefit of all".

Amy held up an LP with a black and white portrait sleeve and the title A Love Supreme.

"This is religious music, you idiot. And besides, your Captain is a madman,"

"That may be the case Miss McCracken, but I must be loyal to the guards. However, if there is some debate in the classification of these goods then perhaps there is room to...manoeuvre, if you understand me. Perhaps, Miss McCracken...Amy...perhaps we could come to some....arrangement?"

Amy folded her arms across her chest protectively and glared at him with a force that would have knocked another man back a good couple of feet.

Faziz smiled. He had played this perfectly. He was going to get what he wanted.

                                      **********************

The empty satchel lay on his bed as Faziz sat on the floor leaning against the base. His fingers flipped through the hard cardboard LP sleeves, allowing his eyes only fleeting glances of the artwork. It was too much to take in at once, he was building up to believing what he had in his hands. How long was it since he had heard real music? A year? Had he ever heard real music? How would he know?

He had played the part of lecherous bully so well that when he revealed that he would allow Amy on her way in return for simply allowing him one night with the albums and not her, she was so thrown that she agreed immediately. It was so easy to believe all men were pigs that it was a useful confusion that they were not. He had undertaken personal delivery of the bag and contents to the Bazaar before opening hours the next day. By way of guarantee of the safe return he had explained even the slightest hint of an accusation against him to the Captain would lead to his disappearance, even if the source was considered a known smuggler.

Tomorrow he would leave even earlier than usual, so early that he might not even sleep, relying on his cigarettes and Charles Mingus to keep him awake, and travel quietly across the border to the Bazaar. The bag would left under the tarpaulin at the front of the store, there was no danger of it being stolen. It would be there waiting for Amy when she arrived an hour or so later, records intact, no damage, no harm done.
One day the Captain would check the contraband lockup against the inventory and the world would end. But then, who could say when that that day would come. One day he may be Captain, or the regime might fall and all restrictions be lifted, or a great meteor strike the earth and wipe all the miserable souls that existed there out of existence.

As the pulsing music spun out of the one tiny speaker of his ancient record player it occurred to him suddenly what a tragedy it would be if items from the forbidden inventory were mistakenly stored in the Captain's house through human error, to be discovered by a visiting patrol who had formed the opinion somehow that they had been offered their pick of the illegal items in return for carrying out this legitimate duty.

The way the music twisted and leapt was full of possibilities. It was clear to Faziz now that these possibilities were in everything, how had he not seen this before?

The excitement of the previous track gave way to a mournful but exhilarating chant. It seemed to wind it's way through the air and surround Faziz. He had never heard anything so beautiful, but at the same time it did remind him of prayer. Amy was right, this was religious music.

"Allahu Akbar Mirabelle. God is great".

Mirabelle stalked out of the room, waited a few seconds, then walked back in pretending to be a different cat. One that would curl up against Faziz's legs and listen to music.

Faziz is listening to this