Give 'Em Enough Dub

The Caterpillar Dub 102 brings a flurry of Dubs, remixes, echoes and sound-collages, so re-wind your tape-players, switch on your amps and soak it up.  Tikki-Diw butterflies flutter by and the caterpillar ruminates abstractedly on the infinite power of music.

Check out my ebook: The Horned Whale by Jeremy Schanche

An Gath Vlewek - Gwyngala 2017

Blastin' out from our Invertebrate Transmitters with valves aglow to push out the sound through pulsing glass, wire, cardboard and ebony-wood cabinets, all ashake and arumble.  The popping cones of the speakers bark and tapes spool, spiel and unreel, running on crackling acetate and glistening obsidian shellac - sounds shaped by city-hands, chilly hands, fingers stiff, plucking at E-strings and rattling the snare - a snarl and a stream of sweat show sincerity and 'No Surrender' daubed on walls of grimy brick our creed-

Hey - that's no calypso!  ('orse-mout' on drums)





One Love!

The Archaic, The Brythonek - Inscribed on the Heart of the Land

*  Glyphs 'n' scriffs encrypted on slivers of silver mythological spliffs betwixt a Gryphon's lips exude ear-splitting licks, riffs 'n' silly tricks, still it's only with a smile so it helps to be sunny on a day like this.  **  Leaves fall - rain falls - stars fall - flesh falls - epochs fall - rains fall - seeds fall - dew falls - light falls - sun falls - radiance falls - breeze falls - a leaf falls -  ***  Hymns in homage to hunros, oneiro, reverie and dreams dream itself - lulled and hypnotized into hypnogogy by the feathery hands of Peristeris, the 9/8 rebetikou guitar-man with the mercurial rippling zeibekiko guitar runs - ****  So anyway, there I was, walking down the road  *****  Visions from another brother, visions of the yogic, the aethereal and the hypnotic sacred mystery awoken by the Shaman's rattling snare-drum - ******  

The Notorious Byrd Brothers...

Hear the great Greek guitarist and composer Peristeris (The Dove)....

Fougou!  Visions Bone Well Quercus robur QVENATAVCI IC DINVI FILIVS Druids  Mind itself

Pathways of the Celestial Bodies Inscribed on the Keltek Landscape in Antiquity

At first I was joking when I used to say I was 'going back to the Bronze Age', but quite soon the joke was on me and I found myself enshrouded in the crepuscular Keltek dusk of Kernow's tewlwolow husk.
The stones broke through like teeth emerging.
One finger points to another.
A long shadow cast by the moon.
Defend, Cultivate, Observe - study the Universe.
Honour nature.
Unlock the code.
Discover what is to be known - nature, the stars, people, the ocean, insects, your dreams - all one.

Well the ray of the moons' glow bounded off the tongue of a sleepless lark and glittered hard against the Druid's old stone tower.  Some things never change.  Bits of sunlight glimmered, glistened, glittered and glinted in a shimmering frazzle of dazzling glare, looming and rearing up all radiant daring to blaze through the haze and shazzam through the fleeting vaporous spindrift shimmer.  
The eye of seeing saw to it that the mind of knowing knew the deal.
Nature resplended in its entire perfection.
Nature comes with thorns.
Nature comes with horns.
Nature flows inseparable from the mind that perceives - thus, 'you are the eyes of the Universe.'

The entire fleshy, rocky and salt-water-croc-riddled trip centres around ye, the experiencing perceiver at the centre of the web, the heart of 'reality.'  
Well, if the whole Empire of Dust is pulling one way, might as well pull the other way, blazing up with the fire from the diamond-eyes of the stars.  Blaze against the cold steel rail, the numbing aparati of stagnation and the death of freedom - blaze away and rave, rage and rant - it's always better that way.  Rock the joint with ten thousand watts of pulsing rhythm and the wailing and popping cones of a hundred speakers, barking and yelping out their joyful song of life.  Just don't turn down the music if you want to meet the Muse.
*** 
Stay back where you are - you wouldn't like it here - this is not your place - stay in your age, you'd despise these weak and sneaky moderns with their stinking fire-chariots and their life of utter weakness.  There's nowhere left to run a horse and the game's all gone.  The chase has been replaced by the queue - they have these things called 'supermarkets' - stay where you are, my dear bronze ghosts, for you'd certainly hate it here.  All the towns are in the wrong places and nothing is aligned with nothing - Says it all - stay where you are - I'll come to you.
***
Rita Abatzi - One of Greece's greatest singers of our era:


Some stuff about my book, The Horned Whale... a Celtic Mystery Tale from Ancient Brittania

The pathways of the sky, painted across the land - a gift from the Old Ones, for those who have eyes to see.  

An Gath Vlewek Dasson 100 / The Caterpillar Dub 100 - The Bloom, The Mule and The Looming Blossom of The Luminous Jade Pagoda of Jasmine Fragrance (a.k.a.: Asiatic Stridulation Frenzy Dub)

Like a puffer-train pulled by a drunken mule, The Caterpillar Dub Number 100 finally rolls off the press and hits the news-stands, where it is quickly snatched up by an eager public, ever-hungry for news of the Unconscious-Front and developments in the inner and outermost realms of the Alaya Vijnana, the Deva Loka and sundry realms hither, thither and higher than you know - right here - under your nose.
In an illusory world, what could be more appropriate and needed than an ephemeral and non-substantial journal, of which this is the mere echo, the mere shadow of a shade, perhaps dreampt of one drowzy summer afternoon, many long summers ago, if I do remember arightly.
Gather ye blessings, my brothers and sisters, my old ones and young ones -gather ye virtues and kindnesses and ye shall be blessed with a bliss that blossoms in deepest fragrant bloom - the Great Kindness that hides within, like the tree within the seed.  The carefree seed of joy - hey ho the heart that hateth not is free indeed.
Well hey I could waffle on like this all night but I expect you're all waiting for the hard-news, the in-depth, investigative journalism and fearless reporting that has given The Caterpillar Dub it's hard-won reputation in the world of international journalism.  So anyway babies, here's The Dub Version so I hope yous enjoy it -

Well the blurb is being mixed in the print-house and they're just getting the glue to the right consistency - these things are important you know.  When the alphabet runs low, they simply import some characters from the collective unconscious - it's a process of Universal Flow and it's what gives The Caterpillar Dub it's peculiarly and distinctively local feel.  Worlds melt and collide, forming colloids and celluloid jelloid gelatinous constellations that spin in joyous union with time and mind.  Other journals tend to focus on more mundane matters that the clitter-clatter of a Caterpillar's glittering antennae in the dew-drop morning of the promise of magic - well,so be it.  Anyway, ya know where to go when you wish to meld with the flow.  Not a shilling, not sixpence will ye be asked, nor thre'pence, tuppence nor nout whatsoever as The Caterpillar Dub is a freely given echo, straight from the heart of the original Caterpillar, which is itself beyond cost, price, feathers and mice.

Don't forget to check out my book - it'll rip ya soul out.
The Horned Whale or An Morvil Kornek by Jeremy Schanche

Here's some jams I like to listen to

The Lyre of Apollo

Being, streaming, conscious awareness feeling the Universal Flow - More than this you probably won't find - More than this I do not know.

The Caterpillar No.100 / An Gath Vlewek 100 - Oh Yea, Oh Yea, Here Ye The News! (Calling The Carapaced Muse)

Well a ripple forms up out of the aether and up rises The Caterpillar, lost in the fog again.  Where have you been?  What have you seen?  What have you to tell of The Shyre and it's perpetual dream?  Many leagues have I laboured and many versts have I vaulted, faultlessly vaunting a Raven's crawk, I rattled back to town and blended in with the sleepers.  Now I drift among them, a globose and gelatinous thing of the night, putting cats and dogs to fright with the fire in my jelloid orbital eye. Back from the Ancestral Lands where Spirits seethe in blissful ecstatic writhe, churning in a sea aethereal and glassy I brood gothic and austere, as lichen clings to the unspeakably ancient rock.  Moss my bed and granite ivy and rooks for a pillow of illusion, dew-drenched and peeped at by wrens.

From the soul of your scribe streams a scroll of jive, freely given with aethereal fingers five, a pympbys starfish is a five-fingered hand - left hand stranded on the spindrift sands till time waves a hand holding a magic wand and oceanic billows crash - the thought-waves of a sea of mind.

Yes me friends, let the sun stream into your hearts, the jewel-like crystal images into your minds - from an autumnal hay-field blows a golden breeze bringing a gift from the Goddess of Harvest, the richness of the Dreamland, scattered to the breezes of summer's end.  A tear trickles down the marble face of a Karyatid and a faughn shivers in the morning dew.  Light glistening through a clear glass flask onto a pure flower of violet - memories of a youthful idyll, a bliss of the mind, a blessing, a wish, a dream, globules, crystaline fragments and jewels of the inner-lit-mind.  Poetry poured from the horn of the proclaiming piper, a figment at the Gates of Dawn, wrapping his purple cloud cloak around shoulders of shimmering bronze, towering, ancestral, imaginary, wrought of jade, ivory and mother-of-pearl, you ride the Keltek breeze and guard the souls of the tribes of old, your eye sweeps the ocean deep and scatters souls to sleep.