_____ _ _ |_ _|_ _| | _____ / \ The net.goth handbook | |/ _` | |/ / _ \ / _ \ | | (_| | < __/ / ___ \ Volume IV |_|\__,_|_|\_\___| /_/ \_\ ____ _ _ _____ __ | __ )(_) |_ ___ |_ _\ \ / / | _ \| | __/ _ \ | | \ \ / / | |_) | | || __/ | | \ V / |____/|_|\__\___| |___| \_/ "We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof in the end comes despondency and madness" EDITORIAL And so Take a Bite makes it as far as issue four..... I was hoping to write the editorial sitting on the beach front at St.Tropez sipping a glass of chilled Chablis and eating grilled meat while watching the sun set over the harbour. Suffice it to say, that I am not. I feel that I should make some mention of Black Label Smirnoff in these opening comments, this I have now done and hope to receive at least a couple of bottles from grateful advertising executives. It's been over a year since I last wrote to you all - a strange year all in all, in which we have seen the new-romantic revival come and go, the sudden appearance of the Spice Girls, and the return of the smurfs. In the greatest traditions of this sort of magazine, I am, of course, writing it just days before we go to press, and have indeed organised a last minute interview on the official day of publication. However, you have in your hands the fourth edition of the net.goth handbook which contains everything you need[1] to join the other 50,000 or so readers of TaB in a global family which means, amongst other things, that you will rarely be without somewhere to crash in foreign countries, and your caffeine consumption will go up by 200%. We have such fun panicking at the last minute every year to bring you Take a Bite, and this year was no exception; so I hope you have as much fun reading it as we did getting smashed on cheap sherry. Ha ha ha ha...... /\../\ Sexbat (editor from hell) [1] Except, of course, Tab 1,2 and 3! ***************************************************************************** HELLE The Take a Bite guide to gothic Fashion It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that no two goths will agree on a definition of anything even remotely connected with their subculture. This is doubly true of fashion as Goth is a movement that has, despite the occasional collection with a vague nod in the direction of nouveau gothique (the most recent examples being Maria Grachvogels black silk crepe and chiffon, and Yohji Yamamoto's nylon crinolines), always managed to avoid the mainstream. The path of gothic fashion is different from city to city and indeed from country to country with the American gothic contingent being more au fait with a Victorian or Edwardian retro look, whereas the Europeans still lean towards a fetish-punk look. This, of course, is a generalisation, and any number of current, ex, or old goths reading this will be thoroughly incensed, citing any number of friends or acquaintances who do not conform to stereotype. Let us go then, you and I, and look at the history of gothic fashion. Resisting the temptation to mention Germanic tribes, French architecture, or Mary Shelley, we arrive at a back street in London's Soho - in the years after punk and the over-dressed new romantic movement - to a club called the Batcave where people were combining the two subcultures into something that combined the stark nihilism of one with the peacock feather and mascara hedonism of the other. The earliest goths (gothic-punks) still went in for the black leather and fishnet combination which remains universal some fifteen years on, a few years later there was a brief spate of glamour goths and gender-benders - one or two associated labels selling from Hyper Hyper and Kensington Market, but it was then, and to a large extend still is today, a fashion without labels. The fabrics and looks have always been a constant, black velvet, black leather, black lace, fishnet, and in more recent years PVC, combined with heavy make-up, and black hair. Despite the common ground, these consumptive aesthetes have always struggled to look different, to refine, customise, and in some cases redefine the look. During the 80s there were other brief fads within the movement. For example. dressing like villains from post-modernist westerns; inspired, however unlikely it seems, by the Fields of the Nephilim to cover themselves with Homepride plain white flour! There was another spate of cross-dressing, combined with long coloured or black hair-extensions. During the 'summer of love', when Acid House and it's bastard offspring turned every market stall from a bastion of black clothes to a sea of day-glo smiley faces, it seemed as if it was all going to come to an end. 'Goth' seemed to disappear from the playlists of clubs to be replaced with by insipid indie music. The hairspray brigade were replaced with huge baggy trousers and T-shirts. During the years that followed the goth and fetish scenes began to intermingle even more than they previously had. Yet again another 'trend' joined and affected the scene and chains, PVC, and handcuffs joined the standard wardrobe of your average urban goth. In the last two years there has been a renaissance within the gothic subculture world wide. Clubs are opening all over, there are goths in every city and in most towns even in the most remote or unlikely places you can think of. The essential fashion is still developing in the same-way it always has - a hybrid, which, on occasion, makes a brief gesture of goodwill to the mainstream that it has steadfastly avoided (obvious recent examples would be the spate of humorous logo T-shirts which would make Katherine Hamnet turn in her grave[1]). On any Saturday night at the Slimelight, in London, England, it will be possible to spot elements of every type of gothic fashion as you push your way through the black-clad masses to the stone stairway leading up to the smoke filled dancefloor. You'd be hard pressed to find someone, male or female, who wears the same outfit twice, and harder pressed to find any of the denizens who'd be able to tell you who designed their dress. This, to a goth, doesn't equate to having no sense of fashion; they could shop Olympically if it was a recognised sport; the goths of then and now concentrate on image, on attitude, and, most importantly, on having fun. Every goth is his/her own stylist, dictating their own seasonal collections, and modelling the same along a strobe lit runway for everyone to see. [1] If, in fact, she were dead. ***************************************************************************** THE TAO OF GOTH T r a n s l a t e d & T r a n s c r i b e d B y C o u n t V o n S e x b a t The Tao of Goth was discovered in an archeological dig under a basement in Westbourne Grove, London, about 10 years ago. It was written in a mixture of ancient Chinese, a little known visigothic dialect, and West Mercien Anglo-Saxon. After many years guessing what the bits in Chinese might mean, Take a Bite is proud to present the first publication of the English translation (with annotations) BOOK 1 - CRIMPING FROM CHAOS 1.1 And the dark lord spoke "Without words, goth (like the tao) can be experienced, and without a name, it can be known, it's just convenient for us to have mutually agreed on terminology so please stop hassling me or I will write a poem at you!" In the begining there was chaos. Spawned in the void it had nowhere to go on a Saturday night, so it remained still, or possibly hung around graveyards until it was old enough to drink. It is the source of all things goth. I do not know its name as I was not there, so we will call it the Tao of Goth, for, if we don't, the entire premis is lost! When goths are at play there is harmony in the world. The Tao of Goth flies far and wide and comes back in the morning with runny make-up and a hangover. 1.2 "To conduct one's life according to the Tao of Goth, is to conduct one's life without regrets; without confusing it with other ways in which an individual might choose to live." The Tao begot Romanticism. Romanticism begot Modernism. And so on and so forth - this is all in the Principia Diabolicus, suffice it to say that here we are and somewhere along the line Kohl begot black eyeliner. Each subculture has its purpose, however humble . Each expresses the Yin and Yang. But do not be a crusty if you can avoid it. 1.3 In the beginning was the Tao. The Tao gave birth to Time and Snakebite. Therefore, Time and Snakebite are the Yin and Yang of Goth. Goths that do not know the Tao are always running out of time and snakebite. Goths that know the Tao always have enough time to get ready and enough snakebite to get drunk as a bee! How could it be otherwise? 1.4 The new goth is told about the Tao and ignores it. The average goth is told about the Tao and searches for it. The old goth is told about the Tao and giggles at it. If it were not for laughter, there would be no Tao. Without the Tao... The highest sounds are the hardest to hear unless the amps are cranked up to 10. Going forward is a way to retreat . Greater talent shows itself late in life. Even the dark lord has bad hair days! BOOK 2 - COMBING BACK THE VOID 2.1 And the Dark Lord thought for a while and added "That which one percieves as beautiful is beautiful compared with that which is lacking beauty - this is why we have mirrors!" The Knights of the Living Dead were mysterious and profound. We are unable to follow their thought processes, so we'll describe what they looked like: Aware, (like outside the 'Fox on a Saturday night crossing the road? ). Opaque, like black pools in darkened caves - apart from their faces which were like clouds. Who can tell the mystery of their thoughts or the dark secrets of their hearts? The answer exists only in the Tao. 2.2 The Dark Lord once dreamed that he was a bat. When he awoke he exclaimed: "I don't know whether I am The Dark Lord who dreamed I was a bat, or a bat dreaming that I am The Dark Lord!" Shortly afterwards, he issued an edict which read, quite simply "Do not eat cheese and drink Port before bed". Although the dance of dreams is at one with the Tao, there is no sense in courting wierdness if you are not awake to appreciate it. This is the first lesson of The Tao of Goth. You should study it well . 2.3 "One thing is high because another thing is low; only when the music stops do we stop dancing, and that which leads is seen to lead only by being followed." A provincial goth once went clubbing in the city. When he returned he commented to his friends, saying: "What sort of goths do they think they were? They laughed out loud and enjoyed themselves. Their hair had not been dyed for many weeks and they wore t-shirts with funny logos. They giggled at me when I told them they had got it wrong and they made rude noises during my impromptu poetry reading on the stairs." One of the friends, who was wiser and more arch said: "You should not have gone to the city. Those goths live in a different world. They consider life absurd, and frolick in the dark beauty of destruction. They come and go without knowing limitations. Without a care, they live only for their own enjoyment." "They are alive within the Tao." 2.4 "The person who possesses many things, but does not boast of his possessions, reduces temptation, and reduces stealing, please may I have my X-Mal bootlegs back?! " A mini-goth in days of old once asked the Dark Lord: "Here is a goth that no longer has to be the centre of attention , and doesn't drink snakebite until she falls over. Yet all who know her consider her one of the hardest goths in the world. Why is this?" The Dark Lord replies: "That goth has mastered the Tao. She has gone beyond the need for showing off; she does not become angry when her hair does not stand up, but accepts the universe without concern. She has gone beyond the need for hairspray; she no longer cares if anyone else sees her as an paragon of beauty. She has gone beyond the need for that; each of her outfits are perfect within themselves, serene and elegant, their purpose self-evident. Truly, she has entered the mystery of the Tao." BOOK 3 - THE SECRET WISDOM OF AQUANET 3.1 One day the Dark Lord was out for a drink with his mates and said: "It is the nature of the Tao, that even though used continuously, it is replenished naturally, never being emptied, and never being over-filled, but that aside, it's your round! One day a member of another subculture approached Wulfstan and his warband and said "Oi, Gothic! Oi Mortisha , Oi goffik sluts!". And Wulfstan said "Does anyone have heels on? Good, we can leg it!". This is the second lesson of The Tao of Goth . You should study it well. 3.2 Wulfstan the Sage once said to the Dark Lord "When living by the Tao, awareness of self is not required, for in this way of life, the self exists, and is also non-existent, being conceived of, not as an existentiality, nor as non-existent. This means you do not have to pay rent." There once was an old goth who wore a faded Bauhaus t-shirt. A novice, seeking to imitate him, purchased a similar t-shirt, washed it until it began to fade , and also began to wear it to clubs and such. When the novice and his friends asked the old goth why he was not dancing to "Bela Lugois's Dead", the old goth enlightened him saying: "What is appropriate for the master is not appropriate for the novice. You must understand the Tao before wearing a Bauhaus t-shirt, besides I am too old for this lark and I need a sit down and have some central nervous system stimulants. I'm not as young as I used to be. We didn't fight the punk wars just so you could dance to bauhaus. I remember seeing them play at the Old Dance Hall on Market Street back in 79......" And the novice learnt that you should never get an old goth started on bands that split up before you were born or they will go on all night and follow you home if necessary. This is not the Tao, this is just something they will do because they take a perverse pleasure out of it. 3.2 "Great good is said to be like snakebite, sustaining life, with a nice flavour, flowing freely, providing nourishment in all the major food groups , and it found in places which desiring man rejects. In this way it is like the Tao itself and, In another way it isn't As the Tao is less likely to encourage you to climb lamp-posts to pick flowers." 3.3 There was once a goth who was attached to the court of the warlord Alaric. The warlord asked the goth: "Which is easier to do a mohawk or a my-little-pony haircut?" "A mohawk" replied the goth. The warlord uttered an exclamation of disbelief. "Surely a mohawk is trivial next to the complexity of all those hair extensions and plats and scarves?" he said. "Not so," said the goth, "when doing a pony style one is conforming to a known image, the stylist knows what the finished product must look like and only has to decide on a colour scheme. By contrast, a mohawk transends structure - it is held up by a force of will, by faith in hairspray, by the permission of the elements. When doing a 'hawk, the goth seeks the simplest harmony between hair and gravity. This is why it is easier to look like a my-little-pony than to have a mohawk." The warlord Alaric nodded and smiled. "That is all good and well, but which is easier to wash out?" The goth made no reply. 3.4 The Dark Lord turned to the Count one day and said "He who seeks titles, invites his own downfall." And then they both had a good laugh about it A goth once visited a Knight of the Living Dead and told him that he was going to start a band . The goth asked the Knight: "How long will it take the four of us to think of a name?" "It will take one month," said the knight promptly. "But we need a name immediately as we have a gig on Saturday and we must prepare humorous t-shirt merchandise! How long will it take it I ask my friends to help?" The knight frowned. "In that case, it will take two months." "And what if I ask on the internet?" The Knight of the Living dead smiled , "Then the name will never be chosen," he said. Thus the goth was illuminated and went away and made up the name by himself. BOOK 4 - THE NAMES OF PEOPLE WHO LIVE IN THE CITY (aka. The Phone Book) 4.1 Thus spake the Dark Lord "The pint is easier to hold when it's not filled to overflowing. The blade is more effective if you don't try to sharpen it with a nail file. Silver and leather are easier to protect if possessed in moderation. But that's hardly the point as it is my birthday!" A novice once asked the Dark Lord what was the sound of one hand clapping? "Nosferatu live", replied the Dark Lord, and carried on doing his eye make-up. 4.2 One day Eloise turned to one of her minions and said "See that wiggly puddle over there That's your eye-liner that is That's how you do your eyes when you are really trying hard to look good!" Make-up should be light and agile, its foundation blended like a pearls. The spirit and intent of the cheek bones should be retained throughout. There should be neither too little nor too much, neither needless loops nor useless swirls, neither lack of structure nor overwhelming rigidity. Make-up should follow the 'Law of Least Astonishment'. What is this law? It is simply that the make-up should always be applied by the user in the way that astonishes him least. Make-up, no matter how complex, should act as a single unit. The application should be directed by the logic within rather than by outward appearances. If the make-up fails in these requirements, it will be in a state of disorder and confusion. The only way to correct this is to wash it off and start again. This is why you should always get ready before you get drunk. You should study this well until it is second nature. 4.3 One day Wulfstan got the wrong end of the stick and commented "It is not the way the rizzlas stick together, which gives the pot its usefulness, but the space within the shape, from which the pot is made." A novice asked the master: "Sometimes I go out and have a good time and get sharked alot and sometimes I come home lonely and miserable. I have followed all the rules and social conventionsand I am totally baffled. What is the reason for this?" The master replied: "You are confused because you do not understand the Tao. Only a fool expects rational behavior from his fellow humans. Why do you expect it from humans that try to look like corpses and mix cider and beer? Only the Tao is perfect. The rules of social intercourse are transitory; only the Tao is eternal. Therefore you must contemplate the Tao before you receive enlightenment." "But how will I know when I have received enlightenment?" asked the novice. "You'll get off with someone in the corner," replied the master. 4.4 Wulfstan was explaining the nature of the Tao to one of his minions, "The Tao is embodied in all music -- regardless of how insignificant," said the master. "Is the Tao in a the music of Alien Sex Fiend?" asked the novice. "It is," came the reply. "Is the Tao on the CD's by Rosetta Stone?" continued the novice. "It is even there," said the master. "And can the Tao be heard in the later albums of the Mission?" The master coughed and shifted his position slightly. "The lesson is over for today," he said. BOOK 5 - CLEANING THE DARK MIRROR 5.1 One of the Dark Lord's knights was dancing the three by three. Her feet moving three steps forward and three steps back as her arms flew like snakes through the air. The dance was in perfect time, and as graceful as sunlight on a raven's wing. Excellent!" Alaric exclaimed, "Your technique is faultless!" "Technique?" said the knight, without breaking her step, "What I follow is the Tao -- beyond all technique. When I first began to dance I would see before me the whole dancefloor as a mass of black clad seaweed. After three years I no longer saw this mass. Instead, I saw the gaps between the people. But now I see nothing. My whole being exists in a formless void. My senses are idle. My spirit, free to work without instruction, follows its own instinct. In short, my dance, dances itself. True, sometimes there are people in the way. I see them coming, I slow to another rhythm, I watch silently. Then I twist slightly from the hips and they stumble past me and vanish like puffs of idle smoke. And when the music finishes, I close my eyes for a moment and then walk off the dancefloor if I don't like the next track." Alaric said, "Would that all of my friends were as wise!" 5.2 Thus spake the Dark Lord "After three days without coffee, life becomes meaningless." Without a door, the room cannot be entered, and without windows it is dark. Remember the door when designing a room! The Knight of the Living Dead cleans the dark mirror of his mind, so that it reflects without intent. He cultivates without possessing, thus providing nourishment........ BOOK 6 - KICKING OUT TIME 6.1 The goth is often envied because others do not know that although he is nourished by the Tao, like them, he too is mortal. When he too forgets this fact he becomes a parody of himself who no longer gets the joke, and the Tao is lost to him. You should study this well! 6.2 Thus spake the Dark Lord "Closing Time! Go on - get lost! Haven't you got homes to go to. If you're not out of here in 30 seconds I'm going to use this CS Gas!" ***************************************************************************** Advertisement o Do you want to get away from all that boring goth hum-drum & clubbing? o Would you like to be the only goth for approximately 100 miles in any given direction? o Would you like to melt merrily, wearing all your best black clothes, while it's 30 degrees c in the shade? o Do you like being stared at repeatedly, even when NOT gothed up? o Would you spend absolutely ages there and then BEG for a goth club? Then Konstanz, south Germany is the place for you. Konstanz offers NO goth facilities whatsoever, although it does have 3 nightclubs of note, all run by a Turkish family, and a smattering of Irish pubs, frequented by Mafia bought in immigrants selling roses. Yes friends, spend a year in Konstanz for the price of writing your name on a piece of paper in your university, whilst desperately trying to find a placement year (and some money). Enjoy the bleak scenery of October to February, the harsh wind and snow, followed promptly by 30 degree (and above) weather and an invasion of tourists comparable to Hitler invading Poland, albeit Hitler wasn't armed to the teeth with Polaroid cameras. Try your ability to down 6 Crystal Weissbiers (.5 a litre each) and cycle home without tearing off half your chin on some little bits of grit whilst crossing the Rein. Marvel as the population stare at you for no good reason, even if you do go out in perfectly normal clothes and don't have your hair done up at all! Yes friends, Konstanz is the most boring place on the planet. It even beats Grimsby. Go there now, and see how long you can last, without flying home for a quick gothic two-step. Falcon on behalf of the Konstanz Gothic Tourist Board ***************************************************************************** net.goth posse in the house! THERE'S A SHOUT GOING OUT TO o Our contributors all over the world (especially Falcon & Dragoness Eclectic) o The Alien PAX o Gigs o Simon "valley-slut" Price J o The Darkhours crew for the free advertising and still laughing at my jokes (and for the wedding invitation) o Mum, Mum, Mum, and Top Mum o Uncle 'I'll eat my pants" Nemesis o United Airlines (we love you really) o To all the bands, promoters, DJ's, and event organisers who put us on guest lists for the next 12 months. o And to the French wine producing regions for keeping us in quaffable reds and thereby giving us a plausible excuse for forgetting anyone who we've forgotten! HARDCORE - YOU KNOW THE SCORE ***************************************************************************** In the past, Take a Bite has been accused of making light of drugs, amphetamines in particular. We recently received a large cheque from an organization called the Council of Speed Manufacturers and Allied Trades and so we present... Top 10 Reasons why it's good to take speed 10) You get to look more like a skeleton 9) It's easy to look pale and interesting when you haven't eaten for three days 8) Nasal blood 7) Like consumption with less coughing 6) Free origami with every wrap 5) Have a hole in your septum that makes body modification fans jealous 4) Less dangerous than slimelight coffee 3) The mutant space spiders living in the sink 2) Psychotic episodes more interesting than cable TV 1) You can put your arms around a corpse - but they can't hug back[1] [1] If they do - run like crazy! ***************************************************************************** RECIPE CORNER - Blue Food [Weird Music and FX - Scene as before, a candle lit medieval kitchen with some 20th century essentials] Welcome back! It's been a while since the show was taken off the air but now we have a new station manager who refuses to listen to rumour and so, it is with great pleasure that I can present our recipe for today - Cotelette de smurf Poelee (pan-fried smurf with sherry) You will need: * 1 fillet of smurf, trimmed of fat * 1 tablespoon of olive oil * 15g unsalted butter * salt and pepper * 4 large open cup mushrooms * 100 ml of sherry * 300 ml of whipping cream * Lemon Juice 1. Fry the smurf for 3 minutes on each side in very hot oil until golden brown then add season to taste 2. In another pan, melt the butter and the chopped mushroom and put the lid on. Sweat for 3 minutes. 3. Add the sherry and bring to the boil to reduce by 50% 4. Add the cream and stir and boil until it looks like velvet 5. Add pepper, salt and lemon juice to taste 6. Eat with wild rice, a light green salad and lots of quaffable red wine You can replace the smurf with pork or muppet if you so desire. [Music, candles and cooking fire dim to black] ***************************************************************************** Late for the Club By Cynthia Higginbotham He awoke to total blackness, a dark beyond darkness, silent, and numb. He existed; he was aware; nothing more. No, wait! There was a sound; from somewhere he heard something, a persistent beat accompanied by a sound - but what a sound! A low, snarling screech that reverberated through his mind and shivered the length of his spine and back again. It tormented him, it called to him. He wanted that sound, wanted to caress it and let it caress him and wrap around him until he and it were one. He tried to move; something seemed to hold him in the dark, pressing in on him. He struggled, confined by something he could not touch, could not grasp. The sound was fading, now; desperate, he made one last effort.... ....breaking free! He could see, now; he was in a quiet, dark alley. Whatever had blinded him was gone, now. It was still dark here, but not that utter blackness he had known before. And the sound, fading away, beckoned. A small shape ran on quick legs past him; he flinched, startled. A cat arched its back and screeched at him, and then bolted in seeming terror. What did it fear? A strange dread took hold of him; something terrible had happened back there, something he dared not see. He ran with the cat. Darkness yawned at his feet; he caught himself on a railing, shaking with panic. The darkness resolved itself into a set of stairs descending to a basement door. An intricate pattern of red lines adorned the black door, and there was something familiar about the place. He put one foot on the stair; he had been here before.... "It won't help," said a quiet voice from behind his right shoulder. He spun around; a slight young man in his late twenties leaned against the railing beside him, smoking a cigarette. Unwashed blond hair just brushed his shoulders and hid most of his face, except for the dimple on his chin. Intense blue eyes glinted from behind that tousled hair. "Too late for that," he shook his head, "too late for that, here". He spoke with quiet certainty. Erle--yes, that was his own name; he wondered why he'd forgotten it--stared at the speaker. The hair, the blue eyes, those ripped, patched jeans and T-shirt, that quiet, raspy voice--there was something vaguely familiar about the man, but he couldn't place it. Erle rather uncomfortably realised he couldn't place much of anything, including his own last name. Everything felt a bit unreal, as if it would vanish the moment he turned his back on it. God! He was high as a kite! He blinked. No, the alley was still there. The cigarette smoker was still there. Erle glared at the man. "So what the hell do you care?" he snapped. "And who says I need any help?" He wobbled on down the stairs, unable to feel his heels hitting the steps. Christ! What was he on? The blond-haired smoker took a long drag from his cigarette and sighed. "Maybe I'm just an optimist. I know you'll have to figure it out for yourself, but..." he shrugged. "An optimist? In this crazy, fucked up world? You're insane!" Erle stepped back just in time to avoid being hit by the door. He watched in disbelief as a black-clad couple walked right by him, somehow not colliding with him in that narrow space while ignoring him completely. Without waiting for a response from the blond man, he darted inside. As soon as he entered the club, he realised he had been here before. This was Down Below, the club where he spent most of his free time. How could he forget a thing like that? He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind. Whatever he was on, it was potent stuff. He didn't like this memory lapse, either. If he could remember what he'd taken, he'd stay away from the stuff in the future. A glance across the floor at the stage and Erle knew what he'd heard. Tonight was a live music night, and the band was just tuning up for another set. The first inviting chords spilled out into the room, as the singer, a tall snake-hipped woman, gripped the mike tight and close like a lover and began to sing. A rich, sultry voice twined with incandescent guitar riffs to make that sound, The Sound that had woken Erle from the darkness. He listened, mesmerised, as The Sound wove around and through him and took him far away.... The last chords faded away, and Erle came back to himself. Somehow, he'd wound up next to the stage, past all the moshers, almost within touching distance of the singer. Her pink hair was piled high on top of her head in a strip cut, and her eyes were absolutely wild. He barely noticed the rest of the band; he had eyes only for the girl. Her name was Serena, and he knew her. Yes, he knew her; he loved her. He suddenly felt terribly sad, and afraid. He could not remember why--and then those thoughts were driven from him as Serena sang again. He spent the rest of the night that way, listening to the music, letting it take him away. The show was finally over, and the band started taking down its instruments. Erle leaped onto the stage and--no! He'd done this before. This time, no one took any notice of him as he followed Serena to the dressing room. "Serena?" She ignored him. The hurt cut him to the heart, and the sadness hit again; he loved her to distraction, but--he suddenly remembered doing this before, too, only then she hadn't ignored him. Then, she'd whirled to face him. "Erle! Get this straight," she'd yelled, "I don't love you! I don't even like you, and I don't want you following me everywhere. Just get the hell out of my face, and get lost! Don't even try to talk to me!" "But--I--you can't do this to me! You--" he'd stood there and stammered like an idiot, unwilling to accept her rejection. He'd seen it coming, and tried to deny it for so long, tried to convince himself that she'd understand him and accept him the way he was. "You're not listening, Erle! I. Don't. Like. You. Now, do I have to ask Random to explain 'get lost' to you?" He'd staggered out of the dressing room in defeat, unwilling to provoke Random. The guitarist was far too handy with the chain he always wore wrapped around one arm. Serena had been the one spot of light in his darkness, in the bleak grey landscape that was his life. At one time she'd believed in him, listened to his poetry, romanced the darkness with him. Somehow it had all changed; she'd grown tired of his obsession with death and darkness. She stopped listening to his tirades about how screwed-up and cruel the world was, and started telling him to "grow up, your whining won't make it any better". He'd get angry then, and accuse her of being shallow, of not willing to face the world as it really was. Then her face would grow hard, and she'd tell him icily that he knew nothing about how cruel the world could be. Once, she'd been really angry, and told Erle that he was in love with the idea of darkness, not darkness itself, because "if you'd ever been through real darkness, you wouldn't love it at all". She didn't understand, and yet she could have, if he'd ever found a way to explain. That's what bothered him the most, the chance he hadn't taken. He knew from things she'd let slip that Serena had been through some very bad years on the streets as a teenager, and he understood. She'd learned to deal with what it had done to her; he never had learned to handle his darkness. How could he explain the darkness that drained all the colour out of his life, that left him unwilling to even crawl out of bed or eat for days at a time? She just told him "Get over it. I did, you can, too." He'd tried drugs: speed, cocaine, heroin. Anything to kill the pain, beat back the darkness. They'd become yet another wedge between him and Serena; he remembered oh-so-well that upturned lip, that sneer when she found him shooting up in her apartment. That was the first time she threw him out, the first time he found something that could hurt him worse than the darkness. He tried to change, for her. God, he'd tried! The night she'd finally rejected him entirely, he was already shaky from withdrawal. What had happened? Had he given in and shot up again? He didn't feel quite like he was high on heroin, but he was on something. Things were a bit surreal, and Serena acted like he wasn't there. So did everyone else. Acid? Had he dropped some LSD? That would explain everything. He felt better; the world might be out-of-kilter, but at least he had a reason. He no longer worried that no one seemed to notice him, including Serena, Random, and the bouncers. It made it damn inconvenient that the bartender wouldn't take his order, but he probably didn't want a hallucinatory beer, anyway. Who knew what it might turn into? He wandered across the dance floor, and remembered doing this, too. Then, he'd staggered blindly, heart bleak with despair. Now--he didn't know. He felt.. sadness, but not that black despair. Sadness that he'd lost Serena, sadness that--that what? He couldn't remember. No more acid, if could remember that when he got back to something like sanity. These memory lapses sucked. He had the sudden urge for a cigarette, and reached into his pocket for the pack he usually carried there. It was gone. With the desperation of a nicotine addict, he checked all his pockets. Still nothing. And the imaginary cigarette machine mocked him with its non-existence. Stop and think. He'd been running from that alley; perhaps he'd dropped them there. Yeah, that was it. What was in the alley, that had scared him, anyway? Probably just something from his delirium. What the fuck had he dropped acid for? Seeing things that weren't there sucked. He found himself outside, after waiting for some imaginary outgoing club goers to open the rather opinionated hallucinatory door which silently refused to acknowledge his existence and open when he pushed on it. This trip was getting old, fast. The alley was empty. Which direction had he come from? One way led to a lit street, and the other.... He shuddered. It was dark, very dark down that alley. What was he doing back there? He knew it was a dark, quiet place, with doors opening into unused basements that were nice, private places for a street person to sleep, or shoot up.... Maybe he didn't need a cigarette that bad. "Here, have one of mine." Erle jumped and spun about, black trench coat swirling around his legs. It was the blond-haired cigarette smoker again. He was still wearing the ripped, patched blue jeans, but now Erle could see the words "Grunge is Dead" in white on his black T-shirt, and he was holding out a pack of cigarettes to Erle. And, of course, he was smoking one himself. "Yeah. Thanks." Erle was shaking as he gingerly reached out and took one. The cigarette seemed to be real, and Erle fumbled for his lighter, only to realise with annoyance that it was missing, too. This trip was getting really, really old. Erle looked up just in time to catch the matchbook tossed at him by the smoker. The smoker shrugged, and smiled shyly. Erle looked at him in some annoyance, and finally lit his cigarette. Several delicious drags later, he focused on the blond-haired man. There was something terribly familiar about him; Erle knew his name, but it eluded him for now. Well, wasn't about to let this guy know how fucked-up he was. "Thanks." He tossed the matches back, and asked somewhat sharply, "You wouldn't happen to know where my own cigarettes and lighter got to, would you?" The other man looked down the alley, and then at Erle. "You left them back in the basement," he rasped softly. For the first time since he awoke, Erle felt cold. It wasn't about cigarettes, he knew that. It was about facing his fear, facing the unknown horror that he'd forgotten. What did he fear so? He tried to shake the thought, tried to tell himself it was just acid delirium that haunted him. Step by step, he retraced his path into the alley, and through his memory. Last time, he'd stumbled blindly out of the club, and fled down the alley to be alone. He'd been so bleak, so empty then. Hated by Serena, hating himself for being so weak and useless, hating the life that had lost its only light and comfort, looking forward to endless grey and empty days.... he was so close to understanding. Then he came to a certain shadowed doorway, and remembered the basement room where he'd crashed after Serena threw him out. He stopped, afraid to continue. He turned, knowing who he would find still behind him as his crippled memory finally yielded up a name. He stared at the blond-haired smoker, incredulous. "You're--" "Yes." "But--" "I know." He smiled, gently. "Go ahead; I'll be here." Erle went through the door already knowing what he would find. There was no darkness now; he could clearly see the small filthy room with its cinder-block walls and bare overhead pipes. Just as clearly he could see the pack of cigarettes and lighter lying right where he'd set them down. A gentle sadness filled him, regret for things never done, for words said and not said, for possibilities ended too soon. Self mockery: for all the wrong reasons, he'd finally done something well; the cord had held, when he pulled it tight and stepped off.... Erle turned and, for the second time, left behind that desolate room and the lifeless body still hanging from the centre overhead pipe. A wind swirled through the suddenly empty alley.... and a small black cat sat confused, and decided to wash itself. THE END ***************************************************************************** Communique # 1 - An interview with Simon Price Simon Price is a music journalist who works for Melody Maker, the media manipulator responsible for the Romo movement, and an ex-goth. It is his one time goth status which has led him to be on the receiving end of more than a little flack from goths and goth bands alike. Take a Bite decided to give him a chance to 'speak his head'.... I once sang a karaeoke version of "Oh Bondage Up Yours!" with Simon Price at my birthday party. Neither of us could stand up, and between us we knew less than half the words. This was the first time we had met during daylight hours since 1989..... TaB: How do you react to the accusation that you are a traitor to the cause? Well I never signed up to any cause in the first place. I think the cause betrayed me! When I first came to London I was already into wearing make-up. I used to walk around South Wales wearing blouses and bangles and eyeliner and I didn't even know what Goth was. I came to London and saw these people knocking around with amazing hair and make-up and I thought 'wow, they must be the best people to know!', so I started going to all the clubs, and it turned out that I was wrong! They had a complete herd mentality. We're talking about pairs of girls who go around pulling just like 'Essex Girls', no real difference, I found a lot of these people were actually quite dull! So I felt let down, but by that point I was already caught up in it, and anyway.... I fancied them (laughs). It's quite disappointing when you look at a group of people who dress in a really freakish way, but there are certain rules. Why not wear fluorescent pink and die your hair cerise or something. It's a very obvious point to make, but it's a fraudulent thing. TaB: So you would say that you were a goth? Well I dressed like a goth and I think my motives were sexual to be honest - I wouldn't have had a sex life if it wasn't for goth. Summer was particularly good when the tourists came in. I love the clothes, the fishnet stuff, metallic stuff and brooches - I really loved all that; I always tried to give a bit more of a glam slant on it myself - a bit more of a dandy way of dressing, I was more inspired by Prince circa Purple Rain than the Mission or any of that crap, but even at the time when I was most heavily into it, the music I was listening to was more likely to be the Pixies, My Bloody Valentine or The Young Gods than the actual goth bands. There's only a few actual goth bands that I ever actually listened to and they were the real obvious classics, Siouxie more than anything, Bauhaus, Sisters, Gene Loves Jezebel, Danielle Dax, but the rest of it was complete crap which was just something to dance to while you were looking at the girls or while the girls were looking at you. TaB: You had lunch with God didn't you? By that stage had you changed your feelings about the whole goth thing? I take it you are talking about Andrew Eldritch? If he's God then that's stuffed up my whole belief system because he is a very small man, a very lovely man, but very small. His feelings about it are even more disillusioned than mine. He took one look at me and must have thought "Here we go, we've got a right one here" because I looked completely goth at that point, I was in my full dreadlocked Al Jourgensen image at that time and .... what was the question again? Well he was trying to do something.... to call it goth is to demean it really, it is much more magnificent than that anyway. TaB: When did it all go wrong? The beginning of the end for goth was Fields of the Nephilim because they were the first to be a degenerate parody of a band that had gone before, from then on it was all down hill. I still get a steady trickle of goth CDs through, and they still follow that exact same pattern, and that's 10 years on; that's why I've drifted out of it. I had a brief revival of optimism a few years ago with the whole industrial thing, I thought "great, here's a bit of forward looking music going on here!" but even that had it's own cliches. Young Gods - great, Ministry - great, but KMFDM were just sad. "Goth was the first form of rock that couldn't be traced back to rhythm and blues. There is no line connecting the Sisters of Mercy to the Mississippi swamps. Instead, the likes of Bauhaus, Sisters and Sex Gang Children imagined themselves as heirs to both the Wagnerian/Teutonic classical lineage and the Arabic mysticist tradition" TaB: Would you care to comment? I don't know who wrote that, but the guy's a genius![1] I still feel that way about the Sisters and I still think that the gothic mood in music is a really great and powerful thing, but it certainly doesn't belong to the bands that are playing at the moment, it belongs more to Hip Hop acts or to the Cranes. It crops up here, there and everywhere but it's certainly not part of the clichéd clothing that is made by capital 'G' Goth. [1] He did, in Melody Maker TaB: So why has it lasted so long? I think there'll always be a certain kind of youth or teenager who feels alienated obviously but wishes to express alienation outwardly in a fairly blatant and clichéd manner. I think the Goth thing has become an archetype now. Through films like Beetlejuice, Edward Scissorhands etc. it's become a stock Hollywood cliché. Along with heavy rock it will always be there. TaB: So do you think there's a revival on the books or not? People have been talking about it, but I think they're joking! I don't think you can revive something like that now it has developed such strict rules. There are all these bands now that basically do Goth by numbers; they know that they can get four or five hundred people down to see them, make a couple of hundred quid, put it in their pocket. It's like pub rock now - a genre that is so strictly defined that it's a museum piece - it's dead; well, undead, whatever.... On the way back from the interview I was pondering the morality of publishing a sanitised or edited version, but then I saw Alexi Sayle on a mountain bike chasing a fire engine through Bloomsbury. This image helped put everything in perspective, I hope it does the same for you. EAT CHINESE FOOD AND KILL BANDS ***************************************************************************** Advertisment Bishop Wulfstan's Visigothic Insults Compendium being a guidebook for those who feel the urge to USE anglo-saxon expletives as qualifiers in every sentence and have nothing left to say when they want to say something rude af-linnan dwals gans-groba Get thee hence foolish goose-hole launa-wargs matha thankless worm Swiglon "Flute" Player For more from Bishop Wulfstan, why not purchase the splendid and informative net.goth guide to Colloquial Visigothic -available now from Sexbat World Enterprises - Sexbat World Enterprises - ****************************************************************************** Top 10 Things to do when there weren't any psychobilly gigs to go to any more 1) Complain bitterly that no one will slamdance to Temple of Love * 2) Get asked 'never to dance like that again' at the SU 3) Request Meteors tracks from DJ's who haven't heard of them 4) Create a religious cult where people have bad tatoos, put glue in their hair, and listen to 50's music on speed 5) Punch self repeatedly on the arms and body 6) Cut out feet patterns for "The Chicken Dance" and place them on the dancefloor 7) Join "Futurama Renaissance" committee 8) Grow to be seven feet tall and stand at the front of Horatti gigs shouting "Island of Zombie Women" a lot 9) Start wearing black and white check shirt and winkle-pickers, replace mohawk with rolled quiff, smoke silk cut with the filters ripped off (oh, wait a minute that's rockabilly) 10) Take Simon Price out for 24 Malibu and Cokes in quick succession and explain the relationship between Rimbaud, the futurist movement and the Guana Batz - repeat until fashionable. ***************************************************************************** Dear Tish - the Take a Bite Agony Column Dear Tish, I am a great fan of travel, indeed I like to spend as much time visiting new places as possible. However, in the last twelve months, I have been deported or refused admission to every foreign country I have visited. Thing's got a bit out of hand last week when they wouldn't even let me back into Britain! What should I do. Passenger X Dear Passenger X, There are a couple of golden rules for successful international travel; we were hoping to bring you a guide this issue, but the article was delayed at customs, so in the short term, here are some top travel tips! 1) Pretend to be a pop star - this persuades immigration officials that you have lots of money so they will let you in to their country. Unfortunately there is a downside as the customs officers will stick things up your bottom to try and find the drugs that all pop stars always carry there. 2) Do not write $500.00 worth of rubber fetish/bondage gear on customs declarations unless you want to be delayed while men in uniform slip off to little rooms to try it all on 3) Never, under any circumstances, try to be funny. The correct answer to a ny of the questions they ask you like "Were you involved in war crimes during the 1939-1945 war", or "Are you a mass murderer", or "Are you a Colombian drug and arms importer", is always "NO". Not "Only a little bit here and there" "Not recently" or "No, these are my arms; my legs are Colombian though....." Dear Tish, I am a 16 year old goth who is constantly treated like a newcomer by twenty-somethings with attitude. What they don't realise is that I was conceived at the Batcave, spent my formative years in the back of a Ford Transit following UK Decay and X-Mal, and had a Johnny Slut haircut at the age of three. How can I stop them from treating me like a kid? Alaric d'eath Dear Alaric, The quiz below should help persuade your friends that you were there in the early days. You can then insist that they stop buying you half pints of snakebite and selling you sherbet in speed wraps. The Seven Ages of Goth There are 'old' goths and 'new' goths but it has little or nothing to do with age. This simple quiz will help you to find your own epoch. 1. When Bauhaus Split up were you a) Sad b) Under 13 c) An egg 2. When you talk about your favourite band do people say a) "I saw them play last week" b) "I wish I had seen them play" c) "who?" 3. Do you own a black t-shirt that is a) Faded b) Green c) Very Faded 4. Are you a) a goth b) a gothick c) a gothic-punk 5. Was the first band you saw live in the era of.... a) The Horatii b) Southern Death Cult c) The Rose of the Avalanche 6. When the Sisters played at the Royal Albert Hall were you a) There b) Studing for your exams c) In bed with teddy? 7. Which is the earliest club you remember (note for overseas readers - you don't actually have to have *been* there so please don't write in and complain this time) a) The Kit Kat b) The Batcave c) The Slimelight 8. I remember a) The smurfs first time around b) When the Mission were cool c) My name and how to tie my boot laces 9. Andrew Eldritch a) Wanted to be God b) Used to be God c) Is God 10. When drunk I will a) Take speed and run around in a skirt b) Get morose and talk about the old days c) Go home for a lie down Scores - work out your score using the table below and then check to find out how 'old' a goth you really are: Q A B C 1 5 3 0 2 0 3 5 3 0 5 3 4 3 0 5 5 0 5 3 6 5 3 0 7 3 5 0 8 5 3* 0 9 5 0 3 10 0 3 5 * This may be a trick question, but I am not going to say as I was never a Missionary, and certainly didn't go to both nights of the secret gig at the Borderline in '88. 0-5 Remember to carry ID with you at all times: This is particularly useful for getting half fares on the bus or for being allowed to buy shandy. We didn't fight the punk wars just so you could dress up as vampires. The future is in your hands. 6-30 You've been with us for a couple of years now - we're glad you're still here. 31-35 You are somewhere between the second and third generation of goths. By now you have probably discovered the joys of talking to new goths about bands that split up while they were still at school - fun, innit! 36-40 You would seem to be one of the second generation of goths. The ones that learnt to slamdance and cover themselves with home pride before they knew the names of the Virgin Prunes tracks they always danced to. 41-45 You probably became a goth during the wasteland between the Tocsin and Matador Tours. You have almost certainly followed at least one band and have either slept in a railway station, or fell off a bus stop. 46-50 There comes a time, when an evening in with a take-away curry begins to appeal more than the site of half a head of hair in the bath the morning after; but relax, in 40 or 50 years time we'll all be able to go down to Southend to the pink denture tea-dance club and watch a cabaret band playing "Your Golden Gothic Favourites". BUT NOT YET ***************************************************************************** "KITBAGS HO!" Featuring Juliet, Pete (Pax the Alien), and Sexbat in a journey into the heart of darkness. Has anyone ever noticed that no matter how much more you take abroad, luggage always feels heavier coming back? There was a bounce in our respective steps as we bounded for the underground station. (Actually Pete sort of clomped rather than bounced, but that doesn't really need to be said); as we arrived at the platform a tube to Heathrow pulled in - a good omen perhaps? But what was this? No sacrifice to the Road God; no offering to Java the coffee demon; and not a St.Christopher's medal in sight! Somewhere between Osterly and Hatton Cross the spirits that play havoc with travel, feeling grumpy and un-appeased, worked their evil spells. Meanwhile, at the Sheraton.... London Heathrow Airport is the largest in the world, it's huge, you can park a car for a quiet nap by a fence and not be noticed until a 747 almost lands on you at 6:30am the next morning! We set off for Terminal 3 by carefully and cautiously stepping onto a moving walkway for Terminal 2. No one knows quite why we did this, but it seemed a good idea to claim we were following Juliet. "We were following you!", I said. It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that people don't walk on moving walkways. Why this is we are destined to never know, but in a cloud of sparks (Pete's books) and shouts of "Arse" (don't know why, it came up a lot) we turned on our heels and went back the way we came. Eventually we managed to find the check-in desk. "Visa waiver form?" asked the man in blue? "I don't need one!", said a voice "as I have a visa and two passports.". Remember this voice as it will crop up later in our story! After getting our seat reservations, Juliet went and acquired a "Live Animals" sticker for Pete's kitbag. Much larking about in the airport, being facetious about the weird heavy metal band that were playing on the skiing machine, and buying books on travel disasters, it was time to go through passport control and security in order to buy vodka and fags. "If I don't beep I shall be very worried!" we announced "Beep" said the machine "Please pretend to be Jesus", said the man with the magic wand "Beep, beep, beep, beep" said the wand "What's this" said the wizard "Clog nails","belt loops","bangles" etc. etc. we replied. Then hurrah - DF time. More larking about, as Pete and Juliet rib me mercilessly about my fear of flying by telling stories about horrific accidents. "There was a military fighter plane that crashed in the lake district and a team was dispatched to collect the bits and try to work out what had gone wrong. They were presented with a black plastic sack to put body parts in and a series of containers for bits of the plane. "'I have a bit of foot!' said one of the team, 'I have an eye!", said another 'I too have an eye' said a third, and so it continued. About ten minutes later the first member of the team confused matters by exclaiming with some degree of surprise and alarm 'um... chaps, I seem to have found an eye too!'. "And so it was that the team found three eye balls on the crash site, and it wasn't until some time later that they discovered that when the plane had hit the mountain-side it had hit a sheep!". By this time I was getting a little bit nervous. I don't like small planes, and am just about happy with a 747. As we walked to the departure gate I looked out of the window and, while Pete accused me of being a plane spotter, explained why I was not going to fly on that particular model. "Ah!", I exclaimed at last "a 747, that has *four* engines, that is a good thing as if something goes wrong it can still fly on three!" Meanwhile at the Sheraton.... At around this time, as we drank our last cup of coffee, we spotted a goth. "Oi! Gothic", we didn't say, for, as regular international travellers we know the importance of looking smart and not turning up to immigration with a mohawk and black eyeliner, and therefore felt somewhat under-dressed. "Excuse me,", she said "Are you net.goths?" It was 'Oblivion' on her way back from Manchester, who for some reason had never met any of the London contingent during her 12 month stay. Anyway, we boarded at gate XYZ and fought our way to the seats. By this time terror had turned to comedy and on hearing the airline musak we attempted to build a pyramid.... "Captain Crowley welcomes you on board flight UA666 to Hell, Please fasten your life insurance". Ok so it was flight 921, but he really was called Crowley. I asked a stewardess what his first name was - it was 'Captain' apparently! My seat had a very wobbly handrest. The headphones didn't work. We took off. They served bloody mary mix! (Ewww) "I don't like the look of that engine!", I said "We're getting lower!", I said "Ladies and gentlemen, you may have noticed that we have turned round and are returning to London Heathrow Airport, this is due to engine failure. When we land please don't be worried about the emergency vehicles as this is standard procedure during this sort of landing - this has been a recording....." To be continued .... ****************************************************************************** net.goth one (goth) who, having access to usenet, both posts to alt.gothic.* or uk.people.gothic and wants to be known as a 'net.goth'. This differs from 'Cybergoth'; those covered with tinfoil who insist on wearing wrap-around sunglasses with bits of wire stuck to them. This differs from Idontwannalabelgoth - one who does not believe in subcultural labels but is still a goth, but that's not a label, it's a way of life, er death, um.... If you want to find out more, stalk down to your local bookshop, arrive alarmingly in front of the information counter and say: "Forsooth, I desire a tome about the internet which lists local service providers. Provide me with such a work or the minions of Hell will strike you down." Pull out your quill and vellum and using the blood of the bookseller as ink, copy out the relevant addresses and phone numbers. Replace the book on the shelf and repair to your waiting chariot. Or, in retrospect, you could always go to the public library. If you don't have access to a computer and modem you will have to learn to whistle very fast. Take a Bite First published in 1996 By Sexbat World Enterprises e-mail: pub@batt.demon.co.uk web: http://www.demon.co.uk/bat/aircrash (c) Sexbat World Enterprises The electronic edition may be circulated and distributed in full providing that no charge is made for the service on any network to which free access is available. If printed, the electronic edition becomes the standard edition and is subject to the full protection of international copyright law. Transgressors will be persecuted to the full extent of the lore ISBN 0 666 6666 4 Yeah!