You can't argue with a chicken bone

Here's a song written for whatever the post-Red Atlas Red atlas are called. (it's Si and Ian and possibly Martin). Si's turned out to be a pretty good singer and impressed at the "Oi Garcon" gig to celebrate/commiserate Ailsa's leaving London. His version of Silver Jews' "Random Rules" was assured and charming and made me want to write songs for him*. So here's a sweet country number about the divination of the future by chicken bones(a type of cleromancy). I think it will be just right his droll delivery.


*Though obviously his baby-momma and wife Jess is the real power behind the throne natch...


You can’t argue with a chicken bone


Yesterday day I was sat at home,
Divining the future with chicken bones,
I’m a fool but I’m no dreamer,
I saw your face in those chicken femurs,

I wanted to wait to tell you,
But my “wait” problem is well known,
You can mock when I talk about destiny,
But you can’t argue with a chicken bone,
And when I tried to reach you,
I had no credit for the phone,
Crossed lines, crossed wires, crossed destinies,
But you can’t argue with a chicken bone,

They called you “the party bucket”,
I think I died a little inside,
Didn’t help that your ass was tattooed,
With a sign saying “park and ride”,
I’m a million miles away,
Can’t get any reception here,
All I got is a lucky chicken’s foot,
To remind me of you my dear,

I wanted to wait to tell you,
But my “wait” problem is well known,
You can mock when I talk about destiny,
But you can’t argue with a chicken bone,
And when I tried to reach you,
I had no credit for the phone,
Crossed lines, crossed wires, crossed destinies,
But you can’t argue with a chicken bone,

(middle four)

I chickened out that first night,
The stigmas with me still,
Found a chicken on my pillow,
A bitter morning-after pill,

I know you’ll think this a paltry confession,
I want to show you that I’ve learned my lesson
I’m a fool but I’m no dreamer,
I saw your face in those chicken femurs,

I wanted to wait to tell you,
But my “wait” problem is well known,
You can mock when I talk about destiny,
But you can’t argue with a chicken bone,
And when I tried to reach you,
I had no credit for the phone,
Crossed lines, crossed wires, crossed destinies,
But you can’t argue with a chicken bone,

The Last Red Atlas Song

But this is the last Red Atlas song. I can't remember if it ever had a tune (looking at its atypical structure I suspect not). The stench of self-hatred is pretty strong here. I should open a window.

Don’t trust yourself
You will trip you up

If you pulled back that cowl,
The waxy skin, the stippled jowls,
The spectre of mortality,
Would look a lot like you and me,

A slow start in the morning,
Angry coughing in the cold,
Dry bones crack like kindling,
The mirror yawns: you’re old,

Don’t trust yourself,
You’re a traitor.
Every autobiography must have,
An unreliable narrator,
Don’t trust yourself,
You’re death’s collaborator,
Lord Haw- Haw reads the eulogy,
From squares of sugar paper,

A New Emperor and Stage Clothes

These two fun items have the dubious distinction of being the last songs I wrote for Red Atlas. The last ones, certainly, that made it as far as having tunes and parts that most of the band-members agreed on. They were actually pre-written pieces of music from individual members of the band (or possibly both were written by Si). As previously mentioned the Red Atlas song-writing approach was entropy; the gradual erosion of dignified silence into screeds of noise over which I intone nonsense words which ultimately graduate into a sort of shopping-list of rebukes (general) and disgust (mainly self). As such the formation of songs comes over periods of time that would get Professor Brian Cox tapping his foot in frustration. Fearing that my time on earth was ending I attempted to giddy-up the process and requested each member of the band write a song. In the end only Si obliged with these two snippets. (To be fair to Martin he often attempted to get songs of his own into the set and to little avail - I never knew why - he's a prolific and, eek, populist song-writer. The marriage of his song-writing style and the band's (his fierce creative energy and the band's crafty, detailed honing) should have been a brilliant stylistic fit. But it wasn't.

So these are the last two songs proper from Red Atlas. What are they about? Well, god, it's the usual stuff isn't it? A New Emperor is about death and failure and as such could as easily be a Club of Queer Trades song. Stage Clothes is about...well it doesn't really need picking apart does it?



A New Emperor

Life’s slipping through your fingers,
Frictionless and fast,
The future is an exclusive post code,
That’s why I live in the past,
Under-valued and undertaken,
Under six feet of earth,
Held in aspic, a preservation
Of the things you thought you were worth,

When I said that the sky was falling,
It was never meant as a warning,
They will bow to a new emperor today,
Stand up; it’s far too late to pray,

You never knew what it was that hit you,
No registration plate,
No distinguishing characteristics,
On the shirt-tails of fate,
You can’t plan when the drawing board,
Is in bits upon the floor,
Never hope or dream or yearn cause,
Life is a slamming door,

When I said that the sky was falling,
It was never meant as a warning,
They will bow to a new emperor today,
Stand up; it’s far too late to pray,





Stage Clothes

Washed in the blood of a saint,
I find I’m brilliant,
I accepted it without complaint,
I’ve never been penitent,
I walk abroad in raiment of white,
I fairly dazzle,
Showing off is half the fight,
And I don’t need the hassle,

Stage clothes in the rain,
Nothing washes whiter,
Stage clothes in the rain,
Nothing washes whiter,

Take me down to the river,
Wash me in the mud,
No grudges, I’m a forgiver,
Lend us an armful of blood,
Lie for lie, truth for truth,
Pound my flesh,
Never knowingly over exposed,
No thought unexpressed,

The Deep, Deep Sleep of England

Here's a Red Atlas one and for my money one of the best songs that we ever wrote. It remains pretty galling that we never successfully translated these things into decent recordings or effective live-gigs. It really is hard to say how great this band was - there is no evidence to support the claim. Nevertheless on occasion it was great.

Lyrically this is well into my "women are spooky, other-worldly beings, ultimately unknowable and treachrous, but, y'know, a nice shape" period. Amazingly I was in my late thirties, not my late teens!

The song is also about the mystery and lore of terrible old Britain, the weight of its old bones. The title is from Orwells's "Homage to Catalonia" and the opening is in part a reference to Ben Thompson's "Beef and Liberty". The body of the verse is a murder with no mystery and the occasional nod to a dimly remembered "The Ghost of Thomas Kempe" and Katharine Brigg's "Abbey Lubbers, banshees and boggarts".

(In fact an early version of Red Atlas was called The Lubbers. Until we weren't.)


The Deep, Deep Sleep of England

The deep sleep of England,
Sweet dreaming England,
Dozing and Dappled,
Leading by Example,

The deep sleep of England,
Dark satanic England,
Boiled beef and Liberty
Bucolic misery,

The deep sleep of England,
Imagined England,
Carry on and keep calm,
Can I be excused ma’am,

The deep sleep of England,
Mysterious England,
Ancient and monstrous,
Hiding your secrets,

The deep sleep of England,
Sweet dreaming England,
Dozing and dappled,
Leading by example,

Her hair was awfully long,
Her eyes were awfully pretty ones,
I know she hasn’t forgotten me,
It’s taken ten years of therapy,
Her life was always mine to take,
And I would take it for heavens sake,
My spinning this neat planchette,
Gave her this caveat,

Clay pipe found, underground,
You’ll be groggy, my hot sweet hot toddy,
Childish scrawl on the wall,
This time I cannot kill it
This buttery spirit,







Unfolded on the grass,
The hard edges of her pale limbs,
Looked softer than moss,
Her lips still bruised from kissing,
She makes the teacups fall,
The pictures spin upon the wall,
There’s no happy ever after,
The eaves echo with her laughter,

Clay pipe found, underground,
You’ll be groggy my hot sweet toddy,
Childish scrawl on the walls
This time I cannot kill it,
This buttery spirit,

Little Nemo

Winsor McCay's "Little Nemo in Slumberland", a 1905 American Newspaper comic strip, is the inspiriration here (and perhaps to a greater extent Brian Bolland's "Little Nympho in Slumberland", as it's the same thing but with tits in it). The chorus, which appears to be nonsense, is actually a fairly literal transliteration of events in the comic strip: Nemo has a Lampwick-like pal named Flip who is constantly trying to wake Nemo up, to the extent that he wears a top hat with "Wake-up!" written on it.

There's a reference to "The Wizard of Oz" in there too. For some reason.

This is a Red Atlas song and the blistering opening salvo to the live set. It always sounded great.


Little Nemo

The tightly coiled bed-sheets,
I'm lost in my fever dream,
Counting leaping black sheep,
My thoughts as dirty as my sheets are clean,

Flip comes in his "wake-up" hat,
Flip comes in his "wake-up" hat,
Flip comes in his "wake-up" hat,
Get out of bed,

I'm hip to the hipnogogic,
Shapes and colours dance like dazzled rain,
I'm turned on with no off switch,
Will I ever feel this switched on again,

Flip comes in his "wake-up" hat,
Flip comes in his "wake-up" hat,
Flip comes in his "wake-up" hat,
Get out of bed,

Here comes the false memory,
Miss you, miss you, but I miss you most,
If it's water biscuits in heaven,
I'll take my chances with hot buttered toast,

Flip comes in his "wake-up" hat,
Flip comes in his "wake-up" hat,
Flip comes in his "wake-up" hat,
GET OUT OF BED!

Drink The Young Wine

Here's a Red Atlas song. It's difficult to date Atlas songs, they just sort of build bit by bit like silt deposits in an Ox-Bow lake. Or something else that I half remember from Geography lessons. This one is our "slowie" and has actually been played, never well, live. Our live set is usually fairly high-octane, as well as being discordant and too loud and lumpily all over the shop. It has all the hallmarks of a Red Atlas song: references to drinking, St. John of the Cross, Shakespeare and bad puns.

There is a notional set of references to the First World War but really it's about me. That's right I'm comparing the suffering of millions to my own depression. I'm not totally insensitive: I could have named it Spanish Flu.

The title is ripped off from the Surrealists. It's an homage. It's an homage.

Drink The Young Wine,


Though I still question it,
I still sometimes believe,
In the dark night of the soul,
Licking shadows can decieve,
Here's the burden of the proof,
Time to take the strain,
One hundred per cent proof,
The last drop I drain,

Drink the young wine,
Drink the long draft down,
Drink the young wine,
In the Malmsy butt you drown,

A telegram from over-seas,
Oh brother please just...stop,
We are lions lead by donkeys,
Or is that over the top,
Here's the burden of the proof,
Time to take the strain,
One hundred per cent proof,
The last drop I drain,

By the way,
Bide away,
In the sunlight of those endless hours, wasting

My Single Friend

This is a Red Atlas song and quite an early Red Atlas song. It's possibly still a staple of the theoretical Atlas live-set. It's necessarily a theoretical live-set as we haven't played now for nearly two years (can that be right? two years?). More than that we havent actually met each other en-mass since, I think, and I'm working sans diary here, last October. Now I have to take some responsibility for the former:I stropped off in a taxi after the last gig (third on the bill at the Legion in Old Street)in fully moody singer pomp. And I was right to do so: we had no soundcheck, nobody was in time or tune, the guitars were cranked-up so much that half way through the set the guy working the desk shrugged and sat down as there was no way to make the sond any better. The only person in the entire building who could hear me was me because my pr-eamp was working. I was in good voice!

It was a disaster and when I confronted the others about it they looked at me as if I had a small, lemon-coloured cat wedged behind my ear.The idea that the gig had not gone well was utterly alien to them. But then they are musicians: they have planks of wood and a wall of sound to hide behind. I am not, most assuredly I am not, a musician, but rather a red-faced, grey-haired, overweight man blithely miming through a selection of inaudible 80s indie songs, with the cheeks of Dizzy Gillespie and the auto-motive prowess of Bobby.

Things have rarely gone smoothly in the studio either. We've been in three times and have probably attempted an albums worth of material. I think there are perhaps three I'm "okay" with. This would be one of them.









My Single Friend,


My single friend,
Ticking like a cartoon bomb,
My ear-ache is now beyond repair,
My friends keep well away from me,
But my single friend, oh no, not my single friend,
My friends keep well down wind of me,
But not she, she won't let me alone,
My friends keep well down wind of me,
But not she, she won't let me alone,

My single friend,
A catalogue of woes,
She's teaching "Applied Neurosis 101"
My friends all shy away from me,
But my single friend? Not my single friend,
My friends cross the street when they see me,
But not she, she will not let me be,
My friends cross the street when they see me,
But not she, she won't let me alone,

My single friend,
What can it mean?
"His feet sweat, he really has to go!"
My friends burn photographs of me,
But my single friend? Not my single friend,
My friends stick pins in dolls of me,
But my single friend, not my single friend,
My friends stick pins in dolls of me,
But she, she will not let me be,
My friends stick pins in dolls of me,
But she, she will not let me be,

My single friend,
Tells me I'm,
Her straightest, gayest, straightest, gay best friend,
My friends stick daggers in my back,
Infamy, they've all got it in for me,
My friends burn me in effigy,
But she, she will not let me be,
My friends would remove me from history,
But not she, she'll always stick by me

The Many Moods of John Patrick Higgins

I have many names. Here are the bands that I am currently in, and what they are for.n.b. All of the following are on hiatus given current circumstances but equally none have disbanded. There is unfinished business with virtually all of them:

Petomane: First album "Top Trumps" came out in limited edition last year to almost unanimous ignorance. A new album "The Rock Machine Turns You On" will be out when it's finished and not before, though given the previous album was over five years in the making and we're just getting older and slower, I wouldn't hold your breath. Unless you have hiccups and limited access to a chilly key.

Key tracks: "The Dark Night of David Soul", "The Plumber", "Yellow Glove"

Lyrical themes: Incredibly varied. Given that the gestation period of the album it's all over the shop. Songs about the flying Dutchman rub shoulders with Climate of Hunter knock-offs and meetings with superannuated TV dectectives in pub toilets.

Personnel: John Patrick Higgins, Christopher Kasch, M K

Red Atlas: A live, or at least responsive to electrical current, six piece proposition. On hold currently for a number of reasons not least the singers mistrust of the rest of the band. Some recordings have been made, none of which were particularly satisfactory.Really good though. in a way that it seems impossible to describe.

Key tracks: Little Nemo, Drink the young wine, Deep, deep sleep of england,

Lyrical themes: Initially starting as a series of faintly mysogonistic revenge songs things take a spooky supernatural turn as loads of ghosts turn up and hang about, not doing much.

Personnel:John Patrick Higgins - singing, Simon Endicott - guitar, Ian Olney - guitar, M K - guitar, Ben Pestell - bass guitar, Simon Oldham - drums

Big Marker: Big Marker were amongst the first sustained works that Douglas Steel and I made and the concept was fairly solid: we were three 17 year old boys from the village of Hartley Wintney in Hampshire. Our songs reflected our interests: girls, trying to get served in pubs, getting arrested for flyposting over a postbox and er King Alfred. In fact Douglas couldnt contain his musical sophistication and i couldn't maintain my stated intent not to sing and Big Marker became more and more jaded as time went on. The music of Big Marker remains far and away my wife's favourite band. Of the bands I've been in at any rate.

Key tracks: Really Hitting Ashley, Kilometres Davis, Etiquette,

Lyrical themes: getting drunk, feuding with ex-band members, mythical bluesmen.

Personnel: JPH, Douglas Steel


The Woods: The Woods was a band specifically invented for the musical "The Night of the Crabs". It's scope is vast encompassing thrash metal, folk tunes, music hall, nu-wave and even a sort of anaemic funk. Its some of the best and most realised music i've ever made and it WILL make it out into the world in some way.

Key tracks: I'd rather be drinking than thinking, Bartholomew's Fare, King Crab, A King Considers, Water Works,

Lyrical themes: Giant crabs invading the coast of Wales and paraquat poisoning.

Personnel: JPH, Douglas Steel, Michael Steel


KNOCK-KNOCK : KNOCK-KNOCK had it's genesis in an episode of Geraldo and the first song was entirely Douglas' construct: I filled in a few of the lyrics but the structure, title and concept were all his. After we put together "When it comes to girls (I ain't got no friends)" it was quite obvious that it was neither a Big Marker song nor did it fit anywhere within the framework of a musical about giant rampaging crabs. So a new band was born: KNOCK-KNOCK. With KNOCK-KNOCK we could explore whole areas of sound: Devo, Sparks, Eno and Gabriel, Sly Foxx, Fox, Landscape and Rockwell all flew into the mix. And I discovered the joy of singing in a German accent a la Klaus Nomi. KNOCK-KNOCK is a lot of fun. To do, at least. I can't vouch for the listening experience.

Key Songs: When it comes to girls (I ain't got no friends), Heart Murmur, If you prick me, Sleep Plated Nightmare,

Lyrical themes: er...friends, brer rabbit, The Trains by Robert Aickman

Personnel: JPH, Douglas Steel

The Club of Queer Trades: Writing songs with M is a joy as i get to write the words first and he then wraps my strangulated prose into some musical swaddling while managing to give it a melody and meaning at the same time! He's no slouch. I write a lot of my best lyrics for The Club as I am allowed room to play with form as well as content. The general trend is toward melancholia but some of the angriest songs i've ever written fall under this umbrella too. Oh, and i mean it, ma-an!

Key songs: I am beset by angels, That Plane has Sailed, Cold Devils, Boaster's Bar, Hip Replacement Priest, Not safe in Taxis,

Lyrical themes: Love, loss, love lost, jealousy, spite and righteous indignation

Personnel: JPH, MK


The Namedrops: there is a contradiction at the heart of The Namedrops . The Namedrops is M's serious attempt to pay tribute not only to the riot grrl bands he so adores, as well as the entirety of the female fronted pop records from the year dot (and there is an inherent dichotomy there as well). However these would be grrl power anthems written by two men, espousing the sorts of things we thought girls songs should be about and trying to find girls to sing them! We may find some yet as the songs were quite good but Martin has deflected this compromised situation beautifully by joining a real female fronted punk band: The Ethical Debating Society.

Lyrical themes: girls = good, boys = bad, dancing, premature ejaculation,

Key Songs: Welcome to Dumpsville, Impossible, No Sex Please (we're skittish,) Never been afraid,

Personnel: JPH, MK

The Charlemagnes: Another high-concept project. Or at the very least fair to middling - good to firm concept project. The Charlemagnes again are a two piece Nuggets style garage band with an awful lot of dead former members many of whom will be eulogised in song. The singer is Johnny Ghostly and the guitarist is Marty Polpette and I had originally writing between song banter as the main part of the show: it would be like Buster Pointdexter but without the credentials! The songs are the foray into parody I've ever done; titles like "Stoopid Girl", "That Girl is a mess" and "teardrop stop" are clearly from snot-punk school of terrified mysogyny, whereas "Shellshock Shuffle" clearly owes some small debt to the Ramones' "BlitzKrieg Bop". I still have some of Johnny Ghostly's monologues and it would be good to play these in a live setting - if nothing else they rock!

One other thing: I wanted to get an authentic 60's NY fuzz-beat sound for the guitars but it never happened: M plays guitar with an English accent!

Lyrical themes: Fallen soldiers, stupid gurlz, heartache, drugs and those they kill, being cool,

Key songs: Teardrop Stop, Shellshock Shuffle, That girl is a mess, Heart Face

Personnel: JPH, MK


Nude Scientists: If you can imagine Big Marker twenty years on, living in an urban, metropolitan environment and beginning to feel middle-classed and middle-aged pangs of terror, as their life and life-style are suddenly irrelevant and the howling paranoia of the Daily Hate is starting, sickeningly to wear them into a rounded, more ergonomic ball of fear. Then add some synths. Nude Scientists are the snobbish terrified uncles of Big Marker; aghast at what they see hear and smell on the bus but more aghast at having to use public transport in the first place! They are snobbish, resolutely misanthropic and deeply, deeply terrified. Morrissey would love 'em.

Lyrical themes: Young people today, aging, no respect, hatred, the Daily Mail, Clarkson,

Key Songs: You again, Intruder Alert, Hangover Hospital, Idiot, Chicken in a box on the back of the bus,

Personnel: JPH, Doug Steel