“Duncan Fleming is a genius of a songwriter walking a razor sharp tightrope between deranged humour and classic pop music. War Against Sleep is his ongoing battle against the absurd waking dream that passes for life, in which he plunders the hidden treasures of a thousand charity shop records, writing songs that tingle the spine, move the soul and lift the spirit.”
“Gloriously ridiculous stuff” The Wire
“Classic songwriting” Record Collector
“He performs complete wonders” The Big Issue
“Sexy psychedelia” NME “War Against Sleep are the audio version of the programmes that used to scare me witless as a child” Rough Trade
I have no idea exactly what it will be like but it will be fun.
You see Thursday is my ‘main’ music night. This is not always for constructive writing, arranging, recording, rehearsing or developing lyrics in any meaningful way. I often just play meandering instrumentals, or vexate long chains of budget studio equipment to make pleasing sounds.
As you might expect this year has taken most live performance out of the equation and I miss it.
So this time I’d quite like to have a very loose rehearsal/play with the added frisson of knowing some friends are there to keep me entertained along the way.
It won’t be a ‘show’ in the usual sense because I won’t be playing a slick, rehearsed set.
Maybe I’ll make stuff up on the spot, or go through some backing tracks to see if I can still remember the lyrics… pub singer self-karaoke style . Or I may try playing half-forgotten songs on the piano… or (more dangerously) a guitar… all the while trying not to get distracted by whether the webcam is capturing a flattering angle… or whether anyone is watching or leaving comments…
“Infinite Shades of Porno Cliché” is the eighth War Against Sleep LP. A joyfully perverse album of outsider art about the delights and pitfalls of hedonism – tales of subterranean encounters and sordid parties…
The Casio-psychosis of a moral dyslexic squeezing out songs like glue to hold himself together. The act of picking cigarette ends off the floor because you like the taste of cheap lipstick. Love crafted from a night in with Teletext and Benylin. A suit, stained with the amphetamine sweat-beads of your worst porno nightmare. A stolen suit, a borrowed suit, a dead man’s suit, a dead-skin mask. Dance with me, you syphilitic tramp. I love you. A silk cravat, a painted rope. Hysterical, literate, blackened by the sun. Pop svengalis pissing blood into bronze buckets. The very idea of a Masterpiece. Ancient orders, first religions, Old Gods. Tascam Porta-7. Sex for small change. Thrillingly lo-fi, absurdly ambitious. Man as blind abacus. Man as performer; touched by the hand of Thoth. Man versus the world; woman as insect. An enormous insect that you want to be eaten by. Eat me: keep me warm. Keep dancing. Did I tell you to stop dancing? Locked in the cellar: We have always been here. Bontempi nights: the moon is in control. Pulling to the sea pulling violently like a green disease from within ever-living divine but violated, blind more to come tonight. In the War Against Sleep winning is not even the issue. It’s the cheating that counts. Now dance, damn you. Dance until you are on fire” Nick Talbot