In praise of John Fahey

He's my favourite guitarist and I want posters for my bedroom wall.

Everyone needs to get rid of his or her friends and find £79.99 and a free weekend. You may need something to drink as well. The Dust to Dust record label has just released a vast box set of 115 rare recordings by John Fahey for the Fonotone label between 1958-1965. It also comes with a beautifully put together book, all of which I suspect has taken someone an incredibly long time and an immense amount of love. I haven't read the book yet and will probably forget to for some time but have absorbed myself so deeply in the 5 CDs that I fear I may never return. From what I can gather they have spared not a solitary hum in compiling this slab of joy. Every last recording has been included, so it isn't all that surprising that there is the odd track that I may not revisit all that often ("I Shall Not Be Moved" springs to mind).

For me, it is a little odd to hear him sing so often and even more so to hear him talk. I kind of prefer it when he doesn't. I love when he comes storming in and firing out the other side without an utterance as to what he just did or how he did it. He's my favourite guitarist ever and I want posters for my bedroom wall.

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On Wheels

A new poem by Patrick Mackie

The hills swarm and soften towards the end of the day just as
flames do in a fireplace as the evening
loosens and breaks open and lets out night.
A nasty, grotesque, impatient year ended,
and the new one will be bitter,
tired, opaque. Words wrangle in every inch of air,
their mouths wide open in stupid shock
at what they have just heard every time they hear anything. Venus,
though, blazes with heavy wobbles of albeit frozen
light. Brecht, who I like to call my
brother just as he called Shelley his,
has a short late poem where he sits by a roadside, waiting
while someone changes the wheel on his car,
watching with impatience, despite not liking
either the place that he is coming from or
the place that he is going to. We call it
connectivity when in truth it is just aggression
and imitation writ ever larger. Poems, though,
are forms of infinite and wry but also briskly
impatient patience. Brecht’s poem seems to end,
for instance, almost before you
can read it. It wheels. The goddess is just a big, bright
wilderness but then soon enough she clothes
herself again in the openness of night and I lose her.

Patrick Mackie’s latest collection, The Further Adventures Of The Lives Of The Saints, is published by CB Editions.

This article first appeared in the 18 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Age of Lies

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