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Saturday January 2017

Men Under Heel is a seventeen and one sixthteenth hour 1-channel noise-fest at Pauline Obliveros’ Villa, Cap d’Agde near Montpellier, France – a be-in celebrating 2,500 years of matriarchal domination. Recorded on adapted vinyl using a rotating hand driven lathe next to the beach – typical of the slow-witted French to ask me to stop my performance while they change over the vinyl.

men-under-heel

This piece involves manipulation of recordings of 12 sthenic young men, mainly agonized squeals and yelps. Toshimaru and his pick up band generate a wall of Japanoise as I order the young guys to lay flat on the ground face up. After a suitable pause, I walk over their supine bodies wearing a pair of 11cm spike heels. In particular, I target their prostate glands. Women do not have a prostate gland, although women do have microscopic Skene’s glands connected to the distal third of the urethra.
As I stamp on the guy’s tender abdomens I am listening to a 4 second extract of Uffer Bent’s Rubber Trumpet Concerto in re minor. I’d stumbled upon the joy of rubber trumpets earlier in the week as I drove my powder blue Mazda at speed through the centre of Scunthorpe blasting out a selection of DVDs that I regularly tell the editor of The Wire magazine to gather for me. The experience was well worth the three points on la licence even if speeding with the wind billowing through one’s hair causes the most awful split ends.

kaffes-kar

The next day, after Toshi and his lickspittle cadres have scuttled off back to Okinawa, I pen the most marvelous text:

I doze beneath a faded cactus, grains of desert sand whisping by. My personal Adonis serves up a finger of icy prosecco in a crisp chilled glass, following my complicated instructions to the letter. He hops from foot to foot, switching posture as the baking earth burns his unprotected feet. I shift on my sunbed, prosecuting the wind for that moment of silence, when all is still and I can sip loudly, banishing the last afterimage of city and concourse. A slam of distant voices rocks me violently. Approaching from the East are one thousand chunky obeisant men, muscles rippling in a bronzed somatic gallop. I rise – Ishtar, Queen of Heaven, and gently lift my whip. Men under heel. Is it not the natural order of things?

wingsfae

Creations du Kaffe, March 2017.

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