Last night I played a small dictaphone konzert in beautiful surroundings, underneath a blue canopy situated in an old commune. Lohmuhle is a famous wagendorf, a park full of brightly covered caravans, new and old. Painted wheels nestle alongside cloth teepees ands handmade signs, and towards the canal, by the abandoned railway line that runs between Gorlitzer Park and Treptower Park is a small stage. I arrived yesterday afternoon in blazing sunshine, having cycled down the hill, past the white lake once more. We heard two bands, Cara and I. The first was a girl-boy, Bologna-Bielefeld duo playing guitars and pedals, vaguely reminiscent of a Newcastle band and, in fact, the whole scene back there in the North East. It would transplant well, there are many more talented than I who would flourish easily here. The second, my secret FM collaborator from the past, back in those stifling Prenzlauerberg summer evenings, played a great distorted operetta, a piece of madcap theatre, hysterical one-liners and rows of building static.
I played the usual fair, that which I am become tired off, that which requires focus now to amuse me. In the future I should like commissions or collaboration. Plays well with others, I want to read this on the report. But it was pleasant enough, starting when the sun was still up, finishing after it had set. The kindly promoter brought me candles halfway through the set, just as my fourtrack and Sony were giving up the ghosts of summer and declining to play the tapes. I broadcast the usual; grainy birdsong, taped electrical pulses, some rising ambient works, environmental recordings of a bike ride (yesterdays), some political commentary from Bill Burroughs. Afterwards, everyone piled into the tent from which I had played. I had been awkwardly distant from the audience who lounged back towards the canal in deckchairs, but now they joined me in the tent and the old chimney boiler had been fired up and we all sat and drank cool beers whilst wearing scarves and looking at the spiders who abseiled from the summit of the tent on fine silver threads.
Friends came along, which made it all the more worthwhile and a contact made from Lyon, a friend of the record label who had looked me up, sought me out and brought me a brown paper parcel stuffed with CD-Rs. This more than made up for the disappointment of hearing the latest football news. At the moment, I am glad I am not in England, although I can hear the taunts. Perhaps this is the year – as I say every year – that I will finally give up on my childish obsession.