Friday, 25 December 2009

First Annual Report: 2009, thought and typed 25th December.

The dog we rented for christmas looks like Chrissie Hynde and weighs less than my foot. It makes the sound of a small abbatoir, or of a dog of similar weight being quashed into the end of a giant, revolving drill bit, with the verve of a coke-stropped chef squeezing a lemon. Or like a castrati Ewok. Or like a congregation of black mass skaters using a huge blackboard as an ice rink. One of those dogs whose hair constitutes more bodyweight than its actual body, which when held, feels alarmingly like a freshly dead quail might to one who'd never encountered one.

We imported my grandmother for the dining ceremony. This eighty-six year-old shrunken creature, sage as a mandarin, has been growing exponentially deaf over the last decade. On Christmas Eve, my mother woke hoarse, her voice an oscillating squeak'n'crone, her projection limited. To witness the interactions of these two generations of women over Christmas dinner today was to glimpse a microcosm of global miscommunication.


'So I phoned Marjorie.'
'You made what?'
'I phoned Marjorie'.
'You made kedgerie?'
'I pHoNeD mAjOrIe'.
'You put marjoram in your kedgerie?!'
'i PhOnEd MaRjOrIe!!!'

(ad infinatum, at least...until father's interjection, directly into Grandma Yoda's ear):

'Oh right, that's good...'

(Collective and silent 'phew'.)

'...Who's Marjorie?'


Reflecting, whilst taking a brief cop-out in bed after dinner, it occured to me that my spoken vernacular is disgusting - every other word derived from either 'fuck' or 'cunt', and yet further still, it dawned that this is probably a fifty-percent expansion upon my vocabulary of last year (which is not to suggest that I've only recently learned the word 'cunt', more that, perhaps even last year, my language was less infused with vile, gurgling profanity.) I.e. I'm basically a bit of a fucking cunt.

I find myself conducting everyday interactions under a veil of espionage - politely wafting between Christmas visitors, my winning smile a badge of disarmament, wrapped up in a black suit, hair asymmetric, in a suspended lift-off noisette, as befitting a composer in his late twenties, all the hallmarks of a respectable, wholesome, casually debonnair fucking cunt - all the while, the throbbing leitmotif in the ticker-tape of my thoughtfall, is a vision of the violent consummation/deconsecration of my childhood bed, that occured two evenings before Christmas Eve, and consisting of a brutal, intense and relentless arsefucking, whilst gagged and bound, in the name of true love. Genuinely the climax to one of the most romantic nights of my life so far. Happy Christmas, rendered in semaphore, and muffled groans and shrieks.

This year, things of lasting significance:

I completed a record, 'TERRitORies of disSENT' that I feel constitutes some of my best musical work so far. It also represents a landmark in collaboration for my working practice - the ten-or-so musicians with whom I worked on the record, I have continued to perform, record, rehearse and write with in various capacities. My creative practice is no longer the privilege of solitude.

I participated in a show on a run of twelve consecutive nights at the Edinburgh Festival, which, in addition to proving a genuine test, physically, psychologically, financially and otherwise, saw me through the conclusive processing of awkward tensions between my best friend and I - the boy I shared romance with for eight months, and whose ending of said relationship on 1st June this year, signalled the commencement of work on 'TERRitORies...' in addition to two months of abysmal wallowing as I chemically and romantically extracted myself from the throes of love gone horribly awry. The body is most readily, and above all things, a junkie. Edinburgh entailed that he and I would spend two weeks in each others constant company. Although we'd gotten over the worst of any lingering tension prior to starting the run, the conclusion of our spell in Edinburgh for me coincides with the final vanquishing of any longing or desire for anything more than to be in his exquisite friendship for the rest of my life, and I salute us for both the Edinburgh endurance, and for the strength of our friendship through some of the most potentially taxing and strained relations.

En route back from Edinburgh, I met a boy.

On 14th September, said ex-boyfriend/best friend and I saw realized a project we'd been developing for two months prior to the date - the 'TERRitORies of disSENT' album launch, where we presented the entire record in sequence, unamplifed, by candlelight, utilizing a ten-piece chamber orchestra, to enormous success and considerable acclaim from those who attended. The preparations involved us rehearsing a large groups of musicians from diverse backgrounds, in small, related groups, and ultimately, as a whole ensemble, as I recovered from swine flu, my voice crippled with a weakened chest, exacerbating horribly my mounting pre-performance anxiety... On the night, we more than delivered - evidence at - and I've since had convene a shitkicking, worldbeating band of musicians, largely drawn from the ensemble formed for this concert, with whom I rehearse on a weekly basis, and who are fully capable of helping to realize the musick I've long-desired to create. The album launch stands as one of the best nights of my life so far, and has served as a launch pad for so many exciting developments in both my musick and in my life generally.

En route back from Edinburgh, I met a boy. His name's Joe, and as of 14th September, we've been going out for three months. We're gonna spend the rest of our lives together. I've never been so excitable, optimistic, relaxed, insane, ambitious, content, sexual, creative, inspired. And I've never been so in love, or felt so loved. He's very, very good for and to me, and I hope and suspect that I am to he.

Earlier this year, I created the score for a film called 'Godland' by my friend Aspen Michael Taylor. I've seen an early cut of the film and it's brilliant. I think the music I contrbuted is pretty exciting, and more importantly, that it converses aptly with Michael's sublime images. With him I anticipate a lifelong collaborative friendship, and this is really quite fucking, cunting, exciting.

Otherwise, my year has involved being attacked by a crazed-middle-aged-dyke-live-in-landlady, who, having had me by my neck up against my bedroom wardrobe, hollering, bug-eyed, shrieking, 'She's the abuser.', quickly drove me from the house and cemented my vague vow to never dwell with others unless in a romantic-domestic context. Mad bitch. Genuinely - police would frequently intercept her, frenziedly dancing in the road, a skirt of rain lashing down on her foaming, stupid body. Most mornings she'd wake in a cell. Two years earlier she'd been released from a prominent local mental institution. And over breakfast one morning, shitfaced, she boomed forth a soliloquy on how her cunt was stretched to shit from her years as a playbunny crack whore, bemoaning that her long-suffering girlfriend had deemed her vagina 'ugly'. I figured she was a nano-shift in the folds of reality from unfurling said chasmic gash as I gingerly chopped at my, um, ginger. Poor bunny.

I had my bike stolen on new years day, and the year started with me dressed as Oscar Wilde's Bosie - only having been drugfucked and solidly drinking for three days, my green carnation resembled a brussel sprout, my top hat a linen roadkill, my complexion the whitest sheet bleached and run over.

I've left two jobs this year - both in vegan cafes - and I suspect that my high-flying career in the beige nutrition industry is done. Never again will I look upon chickpeas with the disdain of a Himmler on a gay Jew. I may even grow to like the fucking cunts.*

* - he means chickpeas, not gay Jews - he already adores gay jews.

This year I intend to spend further time abroad - having not left the country in two years, and the last being centered around an existential pilgrimage to the Auschwitz site, it feels like time to take a holiday, albeit something more culturally-motivated than two weeks of self-oiling on the Costa Del Soul-less. I'm thinking Berlin, whatcha reckon, Joe?

By the end of 2010 i intend to have quit work to the extent that musick and my other creative practices generate sufficient income for Joe and I to no longer struggle for decent food or an amenable place to live. I also intend to make some of the greatest musick I've ever made, but hey, that's an over-riding and constant impulse. I also intend to be the best boyfriend I can, and to redefine the parameters of possibility, at least in the case of myself, in this endeavour. And I intend to have a lot of fun, this year, and extensively into the future, with all of my friends and loved ones.

En route back from Edinburgh, I met a boy. And what a boy. And a review of the year of this nature is, by its own dictation, gonna be self-reflective and glowing with a hum of narcissism, or at least, a wedge of peacockery. So I'll say it again, I met a boy, and what a boy. I feel, for the first time, that I'm allowed to be happy. For the first time I feel like the words 'fucking' and 'cunt' may factor less and less in my everday demotic, as my anger (necessarily) dissipates...

'And what can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb.
If I were a wise man, I would do my part.
Yet what can I give him? - Give him my heart.'

Thank-you for reading. Thank-you for listening. Thank-you for your continued support of Nick Hudson Industries.

Yours, eternally,


Wednesday, 9 December 2009


Firstly, marinate your Sylvia Plath in decades of spousal abuse and depression.

Set the oven to Gas Mark 5 but do not ignite.

Insert your abuse-marinated Sylvia Plath headfirst into the oven, ensuring that towels are readily employed at the base of kitchen and bedroom doors so as to prevent needless infanticide.

Repeatedly baste in gas until unconscious and subsequently dead.

Serve in a bell jar and be sure to garnish with milk and cookies for Nicholas and Frida.

Bon Appetit.

Wednesday, 11 November 2009

this is how we equalise

lay her down along the road
and a juggernaut will harvest

lemon-breasted lillith
the well-suited crone

smash the power-pugilist
burn the girl to sticks
smash the sticks to kindling
put them in a box to be buried

this is how we equalise

what would we do without music?
we'd invent it.

smash the power-pugilist
this is how we equalise

A Marriage of Skin - Part oo

a short film i constructed in november, 2009, around an excerpt of my most recent composition 'a marriage of skin'. filmed, edited and scored by nick hudson.

Thursday, 5 November 2009

the night i found the force

trace these white geometries
and every cell illuminates
fingertip or knifepoint
breath and hair a nightbreeze

every cell illuminates
the body hums with lightforce
crepuscular and muscular,
trust, innate annihilates

the quake

when my eyes are covered
and my hands are tied
i trace the heaving presence
lit cells disdain to hide

so generous his gesture
like laser is his poise
so a sensual a polygon
is mapped into this boy

dirty, holy, sleeping gods - principal cast no. 1

passport photo

gods must be well-read

bureaucracy gone mad

A Marriage of Skin

in love
in semen
in blood
in wax
a dove
a moth
a fortress
a pledge
[a marriage of skin]


Peeler and Solar Plexus


solar plexus


Monday, 2 November 2009

a two-dimensional accompaniment to the process of making a sculpture

Brave New World (live at St. Mary's)

[amateur footage from the launch concert for 'TERRitORies of disSENT' which occured on 14th september 2009 at st mary's church, brighton, england, during which the entire record was performed in sequence by nick hudson and a small chamber orchestra, unamplified and candle-lit; the evening left an indelibly resonant impression on the hundred-ish guests who attended, many remarking that they'd just witnessed one of the greatest concerts they'd ever seen - a very humbling and touching sentiment indeed for myself and those who participated. further concerts will be taking place throughout 2010 in churches, amphitheatres and other venues of acoustically-rich architecture. any impending performances will be listed both here and at this particular track, 'Brave New World' boasts one of the more minimal arrangements of the record featuring nick hudson on piano/vocals and his sister, wolf deraze on duet vocals; our dear wolf's own blog is very much worth investigating -]

Wish You Would Hear

Monorail (For Joe)

[my compositional inclinations recently geared towards the realm of the sex hymn - a non-demoninational paen to a state of (near-?)religious transcendence that can be attained through activities such as loving sexual interaction... where the ever-ascendant modulations and sustained pedal notes of the hymnal marry with the guts, genitalia, essences of skin and saliva and all the perfumes of the conjoined bodies of LOVERS. 'Monorail (For Joe)' is the first of such sex hymns...future live explorations of this marriage will incorporate live electronics and ritualistic mutant disco percussion backgrounding choral clusters {in ecstasis} in a cumulative matrix of frequencies and harmonic modulations designed to drive the audience to orgiastic frenzy, writhing in their pews as the musicians onstage strive to replicate through sound, a sustained and invocatory ear and/or/gasm, popularly referred to as 'getting one's freak on'.] listen to 'Monorail (For Joe)' - please cast an ear o'er:

your pulse in synch with mine
is my favourite song

naked at the balcony
yelling at the flashing tempest

i crave you i want you
i want you i have you

i lie here letting peace convene
halo'd by your image

about your body
i'm at my most eloquent

i crave you i want you
i want you i have you

[for a flattering review of the song from which these lyrics are lifted, please have a proper gander at - and take time to browse the consistently excellent further writing of its author]

TERRitORies of disSENT - praise for

[the following review was written and provided with exceptional grace and generosity by Michael Kemp. This gentleman was the first to purchase a copy of the record, and we at Altar Clef are perennially grateful to him for his support and encouragement.]

to contact the man -

From the sheer cliff-face of the bleak monolithic high-rise, opaque on the front cover, to the two wanton angels led astray with dark eyeliner and album title smeared upon chests (I hope that’s eyeliner too, boys) on the disc itself - Nick Hudson’s “TERRitORies of disSENT” album falls into our waiting hands as soft as herring gull feathers, as sharp as a child’s blade.

An introductory La Monte Young-type drone of strings sets the stage, before glissading off into an exotic Persian garden sequence - Ali Baba searching for his thieves on the far side of town with Patrick McHugh’s cor-anglais charming snakes from their ancient baskets way along the Medina.

Nick Hudson’s dark fluttering romantic voice leads us into “Nocturne” - the grand gesture - somewhere in the European tradition of wine and inspired depravity - Rimbaud & Verlaine leaving the church and heading for the brothel, Wilde and Lord Alfred in the gutter but, yes, looking at the stars - all given shape and ornate architecture by McHugh’s dexterous and exquisite oboe embellishments.

Rumbling bass patterns and renaissance organ flourishes colour “Baedecker”, while gentler folksy guitar shapes and falsetto spirals decorate “No Matter” - a whiff of the Catholic Church, with a hint of existential Gallic accordion thrown in for good measure.

Rain on city streets ushers in “Cale”, an extended narrative piece that builds with intensity along the ridges of its sonic course, assisted ably and harmoniously by the good people of the Kemptown Colliery Band Chorus.

Other saturnine delights abound. Chloe Morgan impresses with her femme fatale sans merci vocals on the dance-y “Coming Up/Dimensional Slide” - given a baptism of fire during Edinburgh Festival this year - at a real dance club no less - ecstasy flashbacks and “Day In The Life”-type crescendos upping the ante considerably and transporting the entranced clubbers to god knows where...

The smoky incense and hanging baskets of “Interloper” - solemn ritualistic keyboards, ghost shadows recalling John Cale & Terry Riley’s “Church of Anthrax”; and a series of dazzling Philip Glass-type arpeggios serve as baroque backdrop for Hudson’s languid “Brave New World” - haunting duet vocals by Wolf Deraze, summoning up the spirit of William Blake, angels descending over the West Pier.

Whereas the sensory landscape of “June Resolution no 1” - with medieval harp plucked decorously by Erika Blaxland-deLange - transports us back through the mists to green Sherwood Forest somewhere in the 12th century - Nick Hudson as wandering minstrel - Alan O’Dale on crystal meth - with an extended repetitive coda to infuriate the Sheriff of Nottingham...

Final track “How to Recycle a Dream” - a hesitant acoustic guitar figure builds up tension, released initially by Debbie Garret’s deft French horn, and subsequently the entire ensemble returning to resolve this nocturnal shadow play, this encoded collage, this ambitious and stunning song cycle - as the man says: give it some space to love...

This Card Means Business

Have A Proper Gander...

Tuesday, 27 October 2009

the crucible

[what follows is a recent draft of a lyric for inclusion on a record currently being assembled by nick hudson and duncan harrison]

darling, i'm..sorry i silenced you
sabotage, may you entice me to...

orchidae, terraces tapped for sound
carrion, stiffening on the ground

darling, i'm...sorry i sentenced you
suffragette, i'm in detention too


the magma behind the rupture
the magma behind the rupture

marinade, acid bath in the haze
water aid
wire trap
just a graze

darling, i'm...sorry i sweetened you
distorted mouth, the poultice i weaken to

the drop

[below is the completed lyric for a song to be featured on a record currently being constructed by nick hudson and duncan harrison - 'The Drop' being the first song we have co-authored]

opulent gaze
poppy field awash in blaze
the moon, a butter slice, condescends
half a bowl of rice between friends

fairness on fire
young skin 'gainst the scrub of wire
uncle father a scapegoat, a stooge
apres ma mere le deluge

sensible clothes
broken dolls under a hose
sap from a bud makes a child
scraped of the blood keeps him wild


five years

[below being the lyric - subject to revision - of the baader-meinhof ballad in 5/8 currently being assembled for a record by nick hudson and duncan harrison]

five dull flames
no names, no faith, no fear
one idea
smouldering in here

never fought, forgot or found
dust in the breeze

red alert
ideology designs to hurt
gagged and bound
never to be found

hunger strike
survey of their hopes and likes
cut them dry
anaesthetic to the eye

vision scrubbed
memory nipped and tucked
family wiped
hammer, sickle, star, stripe

Monday, 26 October 2009

Meditation Whilst Purchasing A Pomegranite

'It occured to me yesterday that I'd never seen a baby bleed. Never once have I seen a young, small human emit blood from a fissure in the skin that encloses its virgin organs, organs which one would imagine were pink, moist, supple. The idea of a baby bleeding is such a gargantuan slur on the fabric of middle-righteousness; child injury or death is amongst the most offensive of concepts to any bipedal hetero-professional breeder, but is it because they truly love the child - surely a gurgling, puking mass of inchoate flesh is difficult to love, especially one that causes such agony to the new mother during birth - or is it because the death of a child, itself little more than insurance on their own mortality, represents a fissure in the skin of their illusions? - the abrupt demise of the freshest possible manifestation of their own flesh, way before their own has decayed to the point of flatlining, and thus a threat to the body of meaning they have contrived about themselves, whose code, airtight as a balloon, relies on there being consistency of content and little elasticity of form. Babies, who spend most of their early months closer to the asphalt than we ever dare draw near, never bleed; if they die, they die intact, unpunctured, whole(some) and tragically. When a baby does bleed, its proprieter-parent's body of meaning is loosed unto the ether, and with it their belief in their capacity to love the offspring; and therein lies the true source of mourning.' And with that conclusion, I returned to my place of work armed with a pomegranite and a bejewelled sheath of revelation, content, and empowered by the stoicism of my umbilicus to tangential spheres, despite the best(ial) attempts of work's deadening klaxon to have such portals annulled. Another day in paradise.