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Wolf Howard - A Queue for Nothing Doledrum Books, 2024   Wolf Howard is an English artist, poet and film-maker living in Rochester, Kent. He has recently released a book of poems titled A Queue for Nothing . The collection opens with a quote from Vincent Van Gogh, “Normality is a paved road; it’s comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow on it.”  From here forward Wolf Howard continues to uphold his tradition of unique and experimental art, proving that he is one of ‘my’ artists. I call the artists and musicians I love ‘my’ artists because they are dear to me, rare. They align with the subtle elements of my existence. I turn to them to tell me what life is like from the viewpoint of an untethered observer. They are often creatives who do not find friends in most groups or write cautiously to complete the circle of a current social agenda. Or, importantly, pretend they are happy, ‘Once a black dog came and sat next to me in my freezing dripping studio and said that I was useless at art,’ Wolf writes in The Black Dog of art , and I identify. I read A Queue for Nothing in one session and couldn’t speak about it until three months afterwards. We all know that feeling when something or someone is so special you can’t look for a bit. I don’t write about culture as an archivist, but as a believer. As a creative, I am sometimes expected to have a list-like knowledge of arts and to admire the apparent ‘greats’ within it, but I mostly don’t. My process of collecting music, books, and art is autistically selective. Or to put it another way, I don’t like that much of anything. My pleasure is to intuitively find and follow work that is created for its own reason, not to suit an outcome or expectation. That is why I am excited about this collection. When the book arrived, Wolf had placed a personal note inside and signed the cover with a pencil sketch of the face of a wolf. This is the kind of analogue experience I cherish. Yet, art for great art’s sake isn’t the only reason I felt personally attached to the release of his book. It is a marker of time passing and of the right kind of good coming to fruition. Exciting art that you desire and require is the easiest kind of love affair; it gives you what you need to remain involved with living without needing to know the creator intimately. The relationship can never fail. I first became aware of Wolf during my blackout years of the late 90s and early 00s. I don’t remember having a conversation with him then. I didn’t say much to anyone, too shy, but we would have been in the same tense adjunct atmospheres, amongst others wanting to deliver their best art self to the world, while perhaps thinking it may inevitably be pointless. It was the permission many needed to numb out through indulgences. In Young Wolf Howard , he writes, ‘Young Wolf Howard, see what you think, I’ve bloated up your liver from drinking too much drink.’ Wolf and I would have also known some of the same people. Huck Whitney, the bassist in my first rock band, delicious monster , was brother to Joe Whitney of Joe Whitney and the Tropics of Cancer . Joe lived with She Roccola who together formed the bands Minxus and The Charity Case . Huck and Joe Whitney also played together in The Flaming Stars , some of whom were friends with the cult band Gallon Drunk , (who I sang with a couple of times) and Wolf Howard. Wolf was the drummer in The Buff Medways with Billy Childish for whom it was impossible to be any cooler than, and I went to their shows. Billy Childish was also writing books that would later become books to save my life by, particularly My Fault . The culturally bruised and biased that would gather at the associated gigs and exhibitions of this era were mostly on benefits, including me, and people rarely asked questions about your wellbeing. This suited me fine because I didn’t do feelings then. They were the years when everything was seemingly available for me to pursue my creativity, due in part to the success of delicious monster , yet I instead came to be drunk on the elated escape of it. I knew what it would require of me to continue to develop notoriety and had no desire for the discipline it would demand or the inner turmoil. I also had no real understanding of why I would want to be anything but a disconnected, mysterious nobody on the periphery of London’s, Camden Town and Soho night life. Glass in hand, I lived vicariously in the rapture of rock and roll and punk bands, blues, spoken word and Stuckist art. I reasoned that if others were doing it, then I didn’t have to, it was service enough to be present for them. This didn’t work as a solution long term, but for a few years, I lived for the murky and magnificent midnight hours. This subculture was thriving parallel to the so-called Brit Pop years. It provided a space for me to be triumphant in my rejection of what was then termed ‘solo major record label deals,’ following the split of the band. Wolf is a tall, commanding presence who exudes a quiet gentleness and appears to drift off into infinity while staring into his Guinness. This compelling combination is thematic in A Queue for Nothing . His local processing of events and people leads to an infinite consideration of consciousness. Always the outside observer, he conveys the tender and often accidentally funny stories of his life as he travels, paints, makes music, walks in nature, has conversations with magpies, (this happened) and visits his mom. It allows the reader insider knowledge of someone who creates from how they live. There is a brutalism in them too. He metaphorically punches walls to confirm he is still physically alive within a technologically swamped environment. In You Ruin My Life , he writes ‘If my computer were a person, I would slip a blade in behind its windpipe and rip it forwards.’  A God he cannot guarantee the existence of, or entirely resist enquiring about, also threads throughout. In More Thoughts on Death, his son, now six, asks ‘Will I be an angel when I die,’ to which he replies, ‘I should think so I say, (not really thinking so),’ and then considers his response with a ‘freshly broken heart.’ Wolf Howard's poetry flowers from the mud of what wider society inaccurately perceives and represents as giving meaning to life. In A Queue for Nothing he considers how ‘Between two nothings we stand in line, for a bus, an ice cream, the doctors, the bank,’  just as he reminds us in Sat Between the Silver Birches, that we are creatures of sensitivity and small things matter such as, ‘Listening to the shush shushing of the leaves watching crows cut across the deep blue gap in the tree tops.’ Each poem holds within it a consideration of the mundane ‘two more days till my next eye injection, I feel I need a better way to mark the passage of time,’ in The Passage of Time, along with the illusive, ‘I dreamt I could fly but only very slowly and only about three foot off the floor’ in I Dreamt That I Could Fly . The reader is encouraged to identify with the deeper truth that none of us has all the answers, but alternatives should always be considered. I rarely sang or performed in those early years of connecting to Wolf. Disassociation had consumed me. There was one night, however, when becoming aware that I was leaning out of the window of this episodic lonesome season I sang a song I had written titled ‘Take me to God’ at a late bar called Filthy MacNasty’s in Islington. The room, full of hard critics, drunk drifters, and some of the best practitioners of modern expression, fell eerily silent as I performed, my fragility was obvious to all. Pete Doherty of The Libertines happened to be there. He asked my friend Anna Page to introduce us, but I was too withdrawn to accept the invitation and left the nightlife for a daytime experience forever shortly after.  Having experienced numinous moments such as these myself, I see their potential to shift reality. This is another reason why I consider Wolf Howard’s work so necessary right now. His poetry is rock and roll that has grown up and proven itself to still be relevant and important. it provides an essence of insight that will warm you back up to the potency and urgency of each moment of your time here. Incidentally, Filthy MacNasty’s closed permanently this February, 2025. That identifier of a time is gone forever. Wolf has moved on too. He is a father and married to Kerry, whom he dedicates the book to and honours throughout. If you consider yourself a little quirky in relationships, you will find your poem here in the deeply moving poem about their love, As sane and strange as me . No spoilers, you just have to read it. You can also follow Wolf's visual art on Instagram. How things have changed, and yet the bold joy of his painting has remained pure. I wait for them to be posted. I own two pieces of his art, they make me happy. It was an equally life affirming experience when in January 2023, I took myself to The Medway Little Theatre to see Wolf Howard and Billy Childish perform. I arrived early, almost first, to the event. Wolf saw me and warmly said ‘Hello, I know you.’ This attracted the attention of Billy Childish standing nearby who put his arm around me. The three of us were captured for a photograph. I lived through years of invisibility and recovery for an alignment such as this. I don’t know why Wolf remembered me. There were over twenty years in between, but I like to believe it was due to a resonance or recognition of types. The final poem in his book is titled A Queue for Something. It embodies the message that what makes you feel alive is what matters. It is a homage to the souls who stand at the front of live shows and wait for the curtain to open as they queue for their favourite band. Here the shared sense of purpose and excitement is mirrored by the people who create it, ‘We’re the something they have queued for, the something to help pass the time in this strange ongoing existence,’ he writes. I echo that sense of purpose and gratitude. Instagram @WolfHowardArtist

PLACEBO: THIS SEARCH FOR MEANING, Directed by Oscar Samson.   I seek a numinous connection to all things. I can’t help it. Every life event or art experience needs to have a largely indefinable layer of resonance for me to want it. This search for meaning is sometimes referred to as a blessed curse. It is a way of saying that along with every stimulating insight or adventure, there is a reality you may not enjoy or, in extreme cases, survive. This stood out as a core theme of the Placebo documentary. The Press statement highlighted “the band’s ongoing impact and legacy through a visual meditation on contemporary themes such as surveillance, culture and scrutiny, sexuality and gender identity, addiction and trauma, as well as the climate crisis.” That is a long and mostly admirable list, yet my personal experience of the film reached into something further. I went to see it after a rehearsal with my new band, RMG, so I had my guitar. It’s easy to understand why I would feel self-conscious turning up to a rockumentary carrying a musical instrument. I hoped that if anyone did notice me slinking in, they wouldn’t think I had bought it along on purpose. I almost didn’t go, rehearsals are hard work, no, really. They can make you question your reasons for playing music when you have sore fingers and achy shoulders from holding solid wood for three hours, and mistakes are still made, mostly by me, the bassist and drummer learn their parts fast and will probably remember them forever. Then there’s the dream of creating the best show when you know you have another eight songs to complete before you do. You can feel turned on and terrified in equal measure. All of this was on my mind as I relaxed into the darkness and comfort of the beautiful little Mockingbird cinema in Digbeth, Birmingham and was touched by the hand of Brian Molko. He is a sensual God, a black-haired, painted-nailed pusher of pleasure, the best kind, a deep thinker for lovers of the free world. Molko promotes these ideals as his lyrical motif: be who you want to be, with whomever you wish to be with. This acceptance of difference on a grand scale sounds inviting, but remember that flip side? It still follows him. He confesses to being an introvert and a recovering addict. He loathes modern logic that has allowed the radical watchfulness of society by powers that hide their true intention. He is free to be himself, yes, but in a world he believes is being held hostage. So, where do people in this predicament go to have fun? Well, the cinema on a Friday night is a good start when viewing art of this weight and significance. There were about twenty of us in the house in total. I wished there were more. If you weren’t in the mood to think deeply, the experience of hearing the band through the big speakers, mostly playing live tracks from their 2022 album Never Let Me Go, with its heavy riffs, electronic elements and introspective lyrics, would be enough to turn you back into being who you truly want to be after a long day. The inspiration to be strong and brave is woven into your right brain during a dialogue between famous fans of the band and an omniscient interviewer. The film is a transfixing and illuminating odyssey of honesty in a world of deceit, and apart from the shock of finding out that Shirley Manson of Garbage wears Crocs, there was no point where I lost faith in the film's relevance. I have accepted that I will never be able to play the guitar like Brian, and how does he just stand there and make me emote so ecstatically? The band are the definition of the kind of experience I seek to enjoy and convey. They have that mysterious moreish-ness and are driven by forces you cannot buy or decide to have on your side. This specialness is a third element, an essence, that seems to be a selective given from some unknown. This is something they declare to be true during the film and say they do not understand but accept as their duty and purpose. They feel they must continue to be a part of the band under all circumstances. I spoke to a friend afterwards about the film, and his first response was to say that he hadn’t realised Placebo were so closely connected to David Bowie, yes, that’s true they were, but even more than that, they are connected to us now. Proof of this was in the way the audience stayed in their seats until the end of the credits and until the lights went up. They were plugged into something essential that they never wanted to end. Isn’t that how life is meant to be lived? I believe it is. I didn’t try to conceal my guitar on the way out. You can follow RMG (Rachel Mayfield Group) on Instagram @RachelMayfieldGroup You know where to find Placebo <3

I recently attended an Egyptian Yoga class in Glastonbury led by my friend and fellow adventurer Mahala Wall, more recently known as Smai Tawi Maha. Mahala changes her name based on the frequencies she is channelling. Mahala is adaptive, inquisitive and forthright in her impulse to unravel the true history and mysteries of life, particularly in the field of the mind and body connection. Her latest Egyptian Yoga class is one of many events I have attended in the area. For those who don’t know, Glastonbury isn’t the festival, it is a small town. The festival is held in a nearby village called Pilton. Glastonbury has a high street that embraces spiritual and mystical superstores and boutiques the way most British cities would do Greggs and M&S.  It is teaming with healing practitioners, artists, music and literature events, and symposiums on a range of topics connected to living well and living wild. Mahalas Yoga class is held in White Rabbit, a temple to pleasure and self-knowledge that opens until 9 pm most nights. After being warmly welcomed into the venue, we were led to the third floor of the store into a carpeted, spacious, warm room where the yoga mats and blankets were provided. We were invited to relax and close our eyes as Mahala walked amongst us, tapping a chime that would, apparently, vibrate with our heart chakra. The movements differed from those I have experienced in the Buddhist Yoga tradition. They were less about posture alignment and more based on repetitive calming patterns that felt as though I didn’t have to work too hard. This was good for me as I am not a gym bunny, far from it, and apart from walking a lot, am resistant to stressful physical routines. I like stretchy, dance, massage and slow-movement style workouts. Rachel, Air sign, Venus, and all that. However, the movements were surprisingly effective. As we entered more deeply into the practice which included clockwise and anticlockwise hand movements, patting along the arms, legs and body, stroking upon the chest to stimulate the lymph nodes towards the heart, and comfortable stretches and bends with hand postures, we were guided to consider the many facets of ancient Egyptian beliefs and Archetypes. Khet, being the physical body, Sah, the spiritual body, Ba, the personality and many more. The class was brought gently to an end with an Egyptian mantra sung by Jacqueline Haigh, a writer, singer, traveller and a member of Mahala’s team who also leads extended events on this theme in Egypt. I don’t hold high expectations before attending a new event, whether it is a physical or thought group. My mantra is to live and let live. What may not work for me could save the life of another, but I began to feel good. I felt included and safe, as though I were enjoying a break from the heaving morass of stress and opinions occurring in the outside world. Presence is what the Egyptian Yoga experience helped me to attain. It has been important for me to learn how to be present in my body since 2022 and in a less direct way, it is one of the main themes of Venture of Belief. I became aware at the beginning of this adventure into new ways of living that although I was in the flesh I saw reflected in the mirror, my body was an object I viewed, rather than inhabited and enjoyed. I have since learned that this is an experience many people have and feel a sense of shame for. Knowing this motivates me to continue to explore the body pleasure topic as a way to help others break free from a way of living that is often put upon them by circumstances out of their control. My experience is, you can’t love yourself just because others say you are desirable. There also isn’t one way of healing that has led me closer to enjoying the whole of myself. I find lots of little answers along the way in what seems like a lifelong process. I’ll write about more of them as this blog adventure unfolds and blossoms. If walking like an Egyptian resonates with you, you can follow Mahala and Genie on their socials from the links below. Mahala - Instagram @mahalayoga Jaqueline - Instagram @ancientstorymagic

New Reality Records is releasing a collection of my songs from a creative season that I titled, Venture of Belief. It is a compilation of collaborative recordings that began when I could not find my people or decide how I wanted to sound after my first band split. Before this I hadn’t had to think about genre or style, we made our own. I would turn up at rehearsal with my song and it all came together with the band. I like to collaborate for many reasons, sometimes social and romantic, as well as creative, but mainly because I never imagine music in terms of beats or basslines. I am a writer who sings. I create melodies, write lyrics and play rhythm guitar, but I am not a musician in the sense of being devoted to playing an instrument or sound production. The songs for Venture of Belief span a season where I went off-grid to find the meaning of life. This period was catastrophic at first. I came close to dying but was saved by an extraordinary sequence of events. I eventually linked into an underground network of otherworldly people in London. I believed I had seen a lot already, maybe too much when this happened, but found so much more that was new. The songs say little about the reality of the situation I found myself in while writing them. They do touch upon the idea of change and adventure, but only lightly. There is a reflection on heartache, but in quite a polite way, the lover asking the other to be honest about their choices. I am more vividly uncensored on this subject in the " Winter of Desire " collection.  I buried the recordings of Venture of Belief because my perfectionism got the better of me, they are all so dissimilar, and the uniqueness of each seemed only to echo my creative confusion and what I then believed to be a loss of identity. However, I changed my mind in 2024. It occurred to me that surely a loss of identity is the essence of a new beginning. I also remembered that it is the listener’s experience with a song that matters, not my concerns in terms of categorisation and genre. Maybe I reflect more on the idea of a soul search or mind retrieval than I realise. You can now decide. www.NewRealityRecords.Bandcamp.com

Poetry Review, Paul Birtill, All’s Well That Ends. Wrecking Ball Press I met up with the poet Paul Birtill at a coffee shop in Belsize Park, where he now lives, to learn more about his poetry collection All’s Well That Ends . Despite having written over one thousand poems, nine hundred of which have been published in the  Independent, the New Statesman and the Guardian , it is unlikely you would see Paul at poetry events if he wasn’t there to read. You would likely find him at the Flask pub in Hampstead, being garrulously entertaining. He is a big drinking, Liverpudlian, Irish, working-class rogue, with a vast knowledge of literature and a savant memory of dates and events. He is equally certain of his faith in a God who urges people to be kind but would avoid the sanctimonious in any community. He wears half a suit at all times of the day, writes on a typewriter, rejects the internet (his family run his X account) and never swears in front of ladies. I was overjoyed at the opportunity to write about Paul's work. I have wanted anyone who reads poetry, or who thinks they don't like it, to know about him from the first time I read it. He is a style of writer who makes you feel you have found a best-kept secret and need to share the news as soon as possible. I believe it has something to do with how he writes on subjects most would avoid. Paul revealed that writing the poems has taken it out of him psychologically, but that he ‘still goes there.’ This level of devotion is something I bond to with any artist. Thank you, were the first words I said aloud to myself, on reading his poem One in Four . It portrays a minority of misfits he suspects are the majority, all touched by ‘madness.’ This includes his doctor: ‘I’m not sure, but I think my doctor is a one in four.’ The poems are freeing because as Paul says, ‘misery can be very uplifting.’ Paul Birtill’s satirical, narrative genre is accessible and minimal, he avoids traditional forms yet is no shirker of craft. Each tidy and precise observation of outsider living, part true, part fiction, is carefully considered with never a word too many, even the title of each prose poem is a forewarning or end-point connected to what is included in the content. His one-line poem titled Depression : is an example of this, ‘whenever I think of old age, I reach for my cigarettes.’ He told me that each collection takes him ‘about two years to write’, that ‘they just come’ and he ‘can’t be bothered to write prose because it takes too long.’ I had assumed Paul was more widely known after first meeting him at Hampstead’s Pentameters Theatre in the mid-00s. I had been encouraged by two female friends to audition for a part in his play Squalor which was preparing to have a run there. He was leaning on a wall outside of the theatre smoking a cigarette and had apparently been told a little about my vulnerable past. He introduced himself to me by asking if I’d ‘had issues because I was a lapsed Christian.’ I replied that I was still trying to figure it all out. He suggested I buy his book which turned out to be his New and Selected Poems , published by John Rety at Hearing Eye Press. I didn’t get the part in the play and I didn’t want it, but I was told afterwards that Paul had said he ‘found me very beautiful’ which added to my necessary healing process at the time, as did reading his work. I came to understand, however, that Paul’s approach to the social scene of writing and the arts in general, has left a space between him and wider acknowledgement in literary circles. He has a self-protective indifference to commercialism and trends and a selective and often unpopular, opinion on the art of writing. He believes that inspiration is not taught, it is lived and lived for. He also has a lack of trust in the intention of most poets. He has no hesitation in saying that his favourite poet is Philip Larkin and that he ‘likes the opening of The Wasteland, The Burial of The Dead by TS Elliot’, but that the rest of it ‘goes off track and needs editing.’ He says he highly rates and enjoys Stevie Smith but is disappointed that ‘most female poets write about sex.’ He has a similar distaste for the overriding themes of sex and alcohol in the poetry of Charles Bukowski, who he is often compared to. He rejects this comparison, except to say they are both ‘equally direct’ and that he ‘prefers Bukowski’s prose writing.’ Added to his preferences are a ‘bit of Sassoon, Yeats and Auden,’ although it’s important to him to say that he ‘had read no poets’ when he began writing in 1987. He considers this lucky as to him, it means he is uninfluenced in his form or style. He once sent a typed poem to me in the post, which I had to remind him to sign as he was more interested that the gesture meant something to me. This quirky unspoilt charm has led to him being revered by many alternative artists, including the band The Farm and Pete Doherty of the Libertines. The poet John Cooper Clark calls him on his landline for a chat and is quoted on the back cover of All’s Well That Ends  as saying Paul ‘makes you laugh and feel depressed at the same time and that’s a rare gift’, yet it’s still a fact that more readers know about John Cooper Clarke than they do Paul Birtill. He remains largely a cult figure while continuing to be respected. Don't expect to see him on tour and appearing at your local town hall anytime soon. However, His poem ‘Writers Block’ from All’s Well That Ends  was long-listed for the Forward Poetry prize, and nominated by Ambit magazine. The poem is two lines long: ‘I told him I hadn’t written a new poem in over a month. ‘You look well on it though’ he said.’ It is telling of his character that despite him selling most of his books at poetry readings, he left copies of them at home on being invited to read at Ambit magazine’s launch. The organisers informed him afterwards that it would have been fine, but he was mindful of the magazine doing the best it could at the event. Conversely, there are tales of Paul leaving wildly unconventional messages on his friends' answer phones, and episodes of outlandishness that have resulted in hospital visits. I experienced this other Paul Birtill firsthand while eating alone in an Indian restaurant in South End Green one evening. He opened the door and raged at me, calling me neurotic for not agreeing to go to his flat for tea. I said he was right that I was neurotic, but also it had ‘something to do with him writing poems about axes by fireplaces.’ It calmed him down, the way only honesty can. But he was right, at that time I did spend too much time alone and it would have been healthier to eat with others. I have continued to buy his books and meet up with him to have them signed as he has moved over to his new publisher, Wrecking Ball Press and we have developed an unbreakable connection and mutual respect. He inspired my passion to follow other risk-taking writers and artists. I believe they deserve a place as a constant category alongside established and classical poets for the conversations on difference they keep alive. They may have you holding your stomach with laughter pains or banging on beer-soaked tables in agreement as you read them, but you will likely be glad it’s not you, who must live the life that informs their insights. I admire that. Difficult people, like unconventional poems, can be a catalyst for great change, if we let them. I saw him on the bus a few months after the restaurant rage incident. He was on his way home after having had afternoon tea with the poet John Hegley. We sat close and he said he felt sad after contemplating whether he should have chosen love over a lifetime given to writing poetry. I suggested he try doing both from now on. Thankfully we both believe in giving unpredictable people, such as us, second chances, or more. After all, isn't it an imbalance to respect unique expressions on the page but to reject people for it in life? Maybe Paul is destined to remain underground like the subjects in his poems unless they are unearthed his particular way. That's ok, but read him if you can, ultimately his poems are based on acceptance of each other, which could be the answer to all our problems today.

We need Sex and Doinks, according to Paul Conneally and Emily Ralph. They assured me of this as they held space at Eastside Projects in Digbeth, Birmingham in 2022. Paul Conneally, it turned out, is the CEO of New Reality Records, a radical independent record label and publisher based in Loughborough. Where?  Emily is one of the label’s intelligent and playful creators. When I asked them what a Doink was, I was assured that I only needed to believe in Doinks, the Doink was its own reason. They were gathered with a flock of other abstract artists. The English novelist, art historian and activist, Stuart Home, also published by NRR, was doing handstands with a blow-up male doll while reading excerpts from his novel, Art School Orgy. Paul introduced people to the book by saying he had never read it but knew the world needed Stuart. All of this happened while Paul, himself an artist known as Little Onion, composed Haikus with Gavin Wade, a producer and curator of world-class public art and director of the gallery. Audacity has always been my drug of choice. I instantly connected. When Paul asked me what I did, I didn’t tell him that much. I was transitioning from one creative season to another. I said I had a show on Brum Radio and had been wading into other art forms, leading an arts collective called Anchor Gallery in Birmingham, since returning there in 2015. I had done this to find out who really made the city special. Those creatives who were unlikely to feature in the glossy city council pamphlets. I did find them, and I was sated. I’ll write about that another time. At the time of meeting NRR, this project had evaporated due to the lockdown and the radio show was going the same way. I mostly wanted to release a pamphlet of my writing, but the fullness of the idea hadn’t materialised.  I wasn’t performing as a singer because I deeply dislike singing as a solo act. I work better with a band, but I didn’t have one then. After meeting the NRR family I went for a walkabout for a year and continued to follow them on Instagram and Bandcamp. I like the word flock for the artists Paul Conneally takes on. There is a subliminal loyalty between him and them. He selectively nurtures the liberated and experimental ideas of whoever he likes and considers to have a risk-taking soul with a good vibes energy. The artists support him and each other in return. When I had a breakthrough and decided to release the songs from Venture of Belief, I sent Paul a message and asked if he would be interested in doing this through NRR. I was keen to be involved in their Rock and Roll and Literary Circus, an event developed by another member of the NNR team, Philip Coulson. Paul knew I wasn’t going to be an easy signing. I change direction a lot. I am not new to independent art and also always new, and am rarely nostalgic. I don’t care if people have never heard of my previous incarnations, but he said yes, let’s do it, that's what Doinks are all about. If you want to know more about why S.x and Doinks are important to Emily Ralph and Paul Conneally, you can follow their story at the links below. I just think it’s S.xy for a Record Label to release thought-provoking art that uplifts and inspires. Don’t you? Feature photo, Emily Ralph https://eralph.bandcamp.com https://youtu.be/TFFA6mRnknI?si=Y24GnuN0ArAlHHNf

Safe in Mind is the title of the first song released from Venture of Belief. It debuted on New Reality Records, on March 4th, 2024. It is a low-fi, sub-base, electronica track with a vocal melody drizzled sweetly on top of it. I wrote it with Fuzz Townshend. If you know anything about bands from the '90s when this song was conceived, you will understand why those who support it include information about my co-creator Fuzz. He was a member of two bands, Pop Will Eat Itself and Bentley Rhythm Ace. He still is when not busy with his TV show, Car SOS. If people write about my previous work they almost always include the name of my first band delicious monster too. I can live with the 90s link if its purpose is to include a brief history of creating original music. I suppose it can’t hurt to be connected to such groundbreaking originals. Yet I don’t believe this information would make anyone fall in love with the song. Promotion can too easily appear to be saying, it’s ok to like this, they are somebody. I feel a little uncomfortable with that. Do you get into music more if it’s better connected? As a dweller in underground art, I feel inclined to tell you a more intimate story about the song. Safe In Mind originated when Fuzz gave me one continuous beat loop he had made and asked if I could work with it. There wasn’t time to re-arrange or cut and paste the loop. I listened to it only once to create the top-line melody. I then wrote a lyric to ski jump across each section as it came. We recorded the vocals in Fuzz’s friend's loft in Moseley, Birmingham and he mastered the mix in his living room. There wasn't a recording budget, it was DIY. By coincidence, we both had a few weeks to spare and nothing else to do after splitting from our major projects of that era. We became two people locked away in a platonic creative hub, healing from a singularity of states that didn’t really suit us. We were both people who worked better with others. We had known each other previously. Fuzz was the first drummer in delicious monster. We knew the same people. He would amaze me because he always charged a fee for his input on anything he worked on, that was unusual then. It took me years to learn how to do that. I didn’t apply his work ethos to the hours I spent on these sessions. I caught the bus, turned up with my bag of fruit and smiled my way through it because I have to make things to feel alive and Fuzz is charming company. Ten songs were created. I entrusted them to him and walked away. I understood that it was a collaboration. You put the hours in, and the rewards come later, that’s how it works. I had no idea how much later. Jump forward to 2019, and Fuzz presented me with two of the songs backstage at a Poppies gig. He handed me an MP3 player with them on and said I should use them if I wanted to. Hearing the song again triggered my emotional connection to that time. I had written the lyric about my tendency then to fantasise rather than risk relating and to imagine instead of engaging. That was a safe mind space for me during those younger days of delight and disillusionment. Of course, staying safe wasn’t a healthy option, which is why this Venture of Belief eventually began. That lyrical reveal is the only reason it was important for me to include this song in the Venture of Belief collection. https://rachelmayfield1.bandcamp.com/track/safe-in-mind