words Lee Taylor
I was whisked via Uber to the part of town where The White Hotel was marked on the map. This was a land of litter and decay, or so it seemed. All the garbage of the city had chosen to congregate in this one special place. The silhouette of Strangeways prison tower loomed over me as the Uber sped off looking for its next ride.
Two men hunched on the corner opposite, seemed to be locked in conversation, maybe some sort of deal taking shape. I shuffled towards what seemed like the destination. A few people were shuffling in the same direction. It was a kind of white but certainly not a hotel.
Some sort of dummy or effigy greeted me as a I entered what could roughly be called a courtyard. Some kind of burning flame beyond me and a young lady on a rough bench ticking off names. I was allowed in.
Some steps down into the crowded bar area. Was this the former canteen of a former engineering works? Hard to tell. It was a side room of sorts. There was a cross hanging in the air, though somehow I knew there was little Christian activity here. I managed to get a drink called ‘Export’ that was the only description given.
I stumbled through the milling throng into a large, cavernous space. There were girders above me and a corrugated iron roof. One of the girders had been spliced and again turned into a cross. It felt quite cult-like. Like I’d entered a part of the city that only true adherents would dare to tread.
The small stage, dimly lit for now. Lots of equipment, shrouded in sheeting. A sense of anticipation. I had no idea who Craven Faults were. I was curious to find out.
A mature professor-like man entered the stage area. With a whisk of his hand he removed one shroud and then another uncovering a massive antique looking analogue computing system, much of it encased in wood with rows of shining lights. Like some strange music system from a former age. It dwarfed what turned out to be Craven Faults. No-one knows his name, this was his only moniker. I like the mystery and appreciate the anonymity.
He plugged and unplugged and switched this switch and that. The massive machine shuddered into life. It started slowly, subtly just a few notes. Like a drone. It seemed repetitive but you could hear slight deviations and it started to evolve slowly, more complex melodies and rhythms fighting to get out. Projections of the austere moors rolling on the damp bricks walls.
My inner child wanted to dance. To run free and run wild. As the piece reached a crescendo it was hard to contain. But I was with a chin stroking crowd. As hard as it was I constrained the inner child and managed a stoic, hypnotised stare instead. I stroked my chin in unison with others. I thought of the former workers of the former mills now just a piles of stones amongst the desolate moors. Giant cogs were animated on the walls of The White Hotel. It like the whole building had now become a machine. Throbbing and glowing and whirring. It could see it and hear it but it had now inside my ears and was gnawing at my brain.
A full sensory overload. Then the end. The customary applause. Then silence apart from the murmuring crowd. The lack of the throb of music felt awkward. The clumsiness of human activity. Human words flailing as they try to describe the otherworldliness of experience.
