nedjelja, 2. rujna 2012.

Belbury Poly - The Belbury Tales

Prošlost rekreirana tako da odgovara našim lažnim sjećanjima na nju. Čudni analogni sintesajzeri, ruralni simbolizam, televizija '80-ih, prog folk, znanstvena fantastika. Unheimlich/uncanny/"jezovita čudnost običnog" sjećanja. Paranoja nije ono što je nekad bila.

.a beautiful, eerie thing - a piped gateway to false memories of a time when the benevolent nation state commissioned young men to re-score English folk songs with government issue analogue synthesisers. Mojo

The overall effect is disorientating and brilliant, the past re-created in a nostalgic fug, stabs of sincerity slashing through superficial veils of irony. These tales are both satirical social critiques and lost-world laments. Sunday Times

Imagine a combination of The Incredible String Band and Boards of Canada and you won’t be far off....The Belbury Tales is infused with a deep vein of paranoia, a palpable fear, an attempt to reconcile the imminent unknown (evoking a reimagined or never experienced past). BBC Music Review

A cunning mix of 1980s TV, addled Prog folk and science fiction, a very literary music. Wire

The Belbury Tales is stranded somewhere between the abstract work of Jupp's past and the fuller sound of the live instrumentation he is applying, making this feel like his most pleasingly open-ended release so far.  Pichfork of the most rewarding and fully realised projects in the Ghost Box catalogue and that’s high praise indeed.
FACT Magazine

Belbury Poly (Jim Jupp)’s fourth LP is one of his most multiplex; augmenting his sparse synth blueprints with outside musicians allows Jupp to wander ever deeper into the catacombs of his mind. Record Collector Magazine

I wol with lusty herte fressh and grene
Seyn yow a song, to glade yow, I wene,
And lat us stynte of ernestful matere.
Herkneth my song, that seith in this manere.
(Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales)

I’ve had The Belbury Tales, Jim Jupp’s fourth LP as Belbury Poly, a good couple of months now. I’ve listened to it more often and enjoyed it more completely than any other release so far in 2012. It’s an unusually satisfying record, actually. It just feels so much like the culmination of something, a kind of apotheosis, a near-perfect realization, after almost a decade, not just of Jupp’s own project, but that of his label, Ghost Box, too. And that’s just not something that happens very often. Hence, the satisfaction. Here’s my problem though: As endlessly rich and fascinating as this record is, it also feels totally over-determined from a critical perspective. The cold specter of Hauntology looms dauntingly large. There’s so much to say, yet so little that’s new.
We know, for instance, that Jim Jupp and Julian House, Ghost Box’s two founders, grew up together in the south of Wales where they bonded over a shared love of HP Lovecraft, sci-fi, and weird films, and, most importantly, that all this is utterly palpable in their music today. Sonically, we know too that library music, psychedelia, prog, TV soundtracks, incidental music, and the BBC Radiophonic Workshop are the common reference points — the Hauntological ‘data,’ if you like — and that the effect of their combination tends to be a strange coincidence of wistful nostalgia (both for a particular period of recent British history and the sense of futurism that apparently went with it) and the undeniable eeriness of time having been wrenched somehow “out of joint.” “Not just for Belbury Poly but for the whole of Ghost Box,” Jupp explained in an interview in The Wire in May 2009, “it’s 1958-1978 and it’s all at once, we take little slices through that continuum.”
For Ghost Box, one particularly important aspect of the music of this period was the overtness with which it embraced a specifically British heritage, the kind of “visionary” folk described by Rob Young in his excellent history Electric Eden. Ghost Box’s music always draws a line between more contemporary UK folk traditions and those of its deep history: back through Britain’s medieval towns, inns, and churches to its eternal countryside and the days of Albion. Along with modernist-style municipal amenities like the Polytechnic, the Public Library, and “the striking Community Fellowship Church,” Belbury — the (borrowed) fictional town of Jupp’s imagination — boasts a haunted manor house, a Neolithic stone circle, and “foreboding Iron Age ramparts” (The Wire, Nov 2006). “An uneasy mix of ancient and modern,” as the liner notes to The Owl’s Map put it.
None of this has changed on The Belbury Tales. All the standard reference points are still there, as is Jupp’s characteristic playfulness, melodicism, and attention to detail. The effect has simply been amplified. The contributions from Jim Musgrave on drums and Christopher Budd on bass and electric guitar help a lot in this respect. Musically, everything is sharper, more detailed, richer, fuller, in higher resolution. And the vocal tracks are all exquisite. From the sheer strangeness of “Cantalus” through the naivety of “Green Grass Grows” to the earthy, rural beauty of ”The Geography,” it’s these tracks most of all that mark this out as a “folk” record. It’s not that vocals have never featured before, of course. But on tracks like “Caermaen” from 2004’s The Willows or “Wetland” from The Owl’s Map, previously the vocals were always heavily treated and distant-sounding — shadowy, undecidable. On “Caermaen,” for instance, Jupp took the vocals from a 1908 cylinder recording of a tune called “Bold William Taylor” and “changed the speed and pitch and reconstructed it to make a different melody with unintelligible lyrics.” On The Belbury Tales, all the samples are given more space. They’re foregrounded, present: they don’t sound like samples. And even if everything’s been given a new and strange electronic context, therefore, there’s an implied continuity with the live folk tradition.
Ironic, perhaps, to be arguing for a classic rockist metaphysics of presence in relation to Hauntology, but there you have it; that’s unquestionably how it feels. In contrast to Jupp’s previous work, everything on The Belbury Tales seems weightier. The weird and wonderful ghosts being evoked here do feel particularly substantial.
But Ghost Box has always been about the whole package, a synesthetic exercise in world-creation. And the “non-sonic variables,” to use Adam Harper’s terminology, are also crucial to the overall effect on The Belbury Tales. Take a closer look at the album art, for instance, lovingly crafted as always by labelmate House. Visually, what we’re being presented with is a depiction of Britain’s medieval past refracted through a filter of 1960s/1970s iconography. But presumably, this is also the “Chapel Perilous” we hear as a spectradelic psych jam about midway through the album? A neat intertextual parallel.
There are other examples. The most significant of which is Jupp’s encryption of two Canterburys into the record’s fabric. On the one hand, the Canterbury of Chaucer’s famous Tales: the inevitable echo in the album’s title, a track called “The Pilgrim’s Path,” the fact that the short story contributed by Rob Young in place of liner notes is named “The Journeyman’s Tale,” and, in a way, its content too. On the other hand, we have the prog rock of the so-called “Canterbury Sound” (Caravan, Soft Machine, etc.). As Jupp put it in an interview with FACT recently, “I’m a fan of a particular strain of English prog, and particularly all the stuff that grew out of the Canterbury scene. I love Caravan, certainly one of the poppiest and accessible of great British prog rock acts. Caravan manage to typify the intricate long form music of prog but with a joyful lightness of touch — which I think overlaps with the light music and soundtrack music that’s always influenced my work as Belbury Poly.” Two Canterburys then, one ancient and one now a fading memory, brought into alignment and made to converse in the present. It’s a perfect Hauntological gesture.
In a sense, The Belbury Tales offers nothing ‘new’ then. But I do feel like it offers it better, more completely than anything Jupp has produced before. If you’re already a fan, it will feel like a particularly satisfying record as a result. If you’re not, this may just be the one to convert you, to prise open the door to the Hauntological crypt.

A footnote to finish, a provocation, a can of worms that I’ll open but won’t fully explore. And it’s just as true of this record as any other Belbury Poly release. Right at the end of Electric Eden, Rob Young has this to say of a gig he attended at Shunt’s makeshift catacombs beneath London Bridge. He wrote of the event:
[It was] an experiment in consensual hallucination, and I felt the power of music to act as a portal between time zones. For anyone born between roughly 1965-75, these images have the quality of folk memories. Television and recorded music were our oral culture. The images and sounds that Ghost Box recombine have an effect at some primal level, and being exposed to them in these airtight conditions gave me an inkling of why. It’s because they make Britain look good, and interesting, and mysterious and adventuresome. They show the countryside just before the worst effects of suburbanization, agribusiness and gridlocked traffic took hold. But why is all this so emotionally affecting? It’s because it’s a country and an age that have now disappeared, but its aural and visual traces make us realize, too late, that we were once actually living there ourselves. The sense of less creates pangs at some instinctual level; the only way to cancel it is to project into the collective hallucination, the dream of Electric Eden.
I don’t doubt that that’s true. But I think it’s also worth pointing out that a record like the The Belbury Tales works whether or not you were born between 1965 and 1975. I, for one, was raised on He-Man, Transformers, and the Ninja Turtles rather than either the early Doctor Who or The Clangers. I came to the Radiophonic workshop and library music actually through Ghost Box rather than the other way around. And I grew up in a Britain that was always already suburbanized and gridlocked with traffic. This is an important point to get on the record, because I can’t be the only one. The fact that so much of the writing on Hauntology has come from critics a good 10 to 20 years my senior does feel like a problem.
The real genius of this record, and of Ghost Box’s output more generally, is that it works even if you don’t ‘get’ the references in anything like a conscious sense, even if they don’t make you feel ‘nostalgic’ per se. Because the reference points Ghost Box is playing with are hardwired deeper than that, part of a more complex network of cultural memorization. And I can’t help but think, therefore, that one of the reasons I love Ghost Box so much is precisely the fact that I don’t really ‘get it,’ that I never could, that I never can quite tell the difference between the old and the new, but that these strange, hallucinatory feelings arise unbidden anyway, the result of some mysterious collective nerve being touched. - James Parker 

 Between the new Burial EP, the new Caretaker album, and the new Belbury Poly album--to say nothing of the rumours of a new Boards of Canada album, cruelly squashed though they were--this has been something of a banner year for hauntology. Perhaps even more than Burial at this point, whose Kindred EP was so fascinating precisely because it seemed the first glimpse of where his sound might go beyond hauntology, the releases on the Ghost Box label (and possibly those of the Caretaker) are the last vestiges of hauntology as that style was being defined in the middle part of the last decade, a kind of "pure" hauntology. The Belbury Tales is an able realization of that style, perhaps even a peak that's come long after hauntology is no longer fashionable. Drawing their power in part from the fascination that is generated by the uncanny as a mode of cultural and political critique, Ghost Box releases develop little worlds that are in contact with ours but that nevertheless remain alien, strange, and a little frightening. Existing just beyond the boundaries of time and maps, these worlds are powerful triggers for memories, longings, and desires (often ones that have been forgotten, suppressed, or dismissed). The label offers this overview of its releases:

Ghost Box is a record label for a group of artists who find inspiration in folklore, vintage electronics, library music and haunted television soundtracks.
Indeed, much of the aesthetic ground explored by The Hauntological Society is at the very least implied by the Ghost Box family, if not outright referenced: the Penguin Classics, the BBC Radiophonic Workshop, library music, sound effects from radio serials, children's television, mid-century science fiction, and British folklore, all can be found on Ghost Box releases.
For me, the hauntological dimension of the Ghost Box project (and Belbury Poly's latest release in particular) develops out of its very heimlich rather than unheimlich associations (as, properly befitting the uncanny, it should--Freud is very clear that etymologically [and, I think, psychologically] the progression must be from the homely to the unhomely, the familiar to the made-strange, the secret to the revealed). Specifically, The Belbury Tales (and Ghost Box releases more generally) have a particular sound that I associate with home and with childhood. Unlike the British listeners whose exposure to the BBC offers a certain kind of shared media framework for these songs, though, mine comes via the CBC and its show openings and interstitial music on the radio.

My mother turns on the radio (permanently set on CBC) first thing in the morning and only turns it off when it is time for bed (or, more commonly now, when she switches over to the television to watch the news). As It Happens--a news and interview show with occasional flights of whimsy and the bizarre (such as its love of puns)--comes on during dinnertime, and its theme music ("Curried Soul" by Moe Koffman) evokes memories of my home and childhood stronger than just about anything else. Even as a child, "Curried Soul" seemed slightly magical and out of time, a remnant of something that had been day-glo, but was now slightly dusty and faded. Until Google and YouTube became prominent features in my life, I didn't even know it was a piece of music separate from As It Happens. When I was young, I'd imagined a longer piece of music that I had no access to, a part of a world in which music like that existed popularly and was able to be heard and listened to (obviously this was already the case, but it wasn't in my house). In short, I wanted the song to give up its secrets and to make my world weird and psychedelic (though I was then unaware of that term or its freight).

I don't claim to be an expert on anything when it comes to children--not their biology, not their thoughts, not their media--but isn't this somehow a typically uncanny act that children perform constantly? Demanding the secret to be revealed, demanding the hidden to be brought to light, demanding the strange and the new as a supplement (and at times a replacement) to the familiar? Isn't a certain romanticism--the power of childlike innocence and wonder, the new, clear sight of the child--an attempt at a kind of positive working out of the uncanny? Thus, the absolute horror of the scene in Children of Men in which Miriam tells Theo while they stand in an abandoned school that "As the sound of the playgrounds faded, the despair set in. Very odd what happens in a world without children's voices," when the uncanny can no longer be worked out. A few years ago, I was visiting my brother, his wife, and their daughter. As the grown-ups talked, my brother turned on the television to allow his daughter to watch her favourite show. It is, I'm told, quite a popular children's show these days. I found it at once terrifying and exhilarating, though. For me, it resembled nothing so much as a bad trip, an unconscious let wild and free, running roughshod over mundane reality. It was the same kind of energy that I searched for as a child. It was why I loved dinosaurs and science fiction so much and checked out the same books at the library over and over again. It's why I forced myself to try and watch In Search Of... even though (more likely because) it gave me nightmares. It's why the opening credits of The X-Files were at once so repellent and fascinating. All of these things were scary, but they hinted at other worlds within this one, secret worlds that you could have access to even in the daylight.
This is growing unwieldy and slipping outside the bounds of a record review at this point, but it helps explain why I find Belbury Poly's The Belbury Tales the most satisfying Ghost Box release of the ones I've heard. It integrates itself seamlessly into the world defined by In Search Of... and "Curried Soul" and strange science fiction paperbacks from the 1960s and 1970s and library books on ghosts, monsters, and unexplained occurrences to assemble a kind of alternative culture and place. I anticipate finding advertisements for comics and novels set in this world in the pages at the back of the used science fiction books I read (or old copies of Semiotext(e) I occasionally find). I expect to come across these songs on YouTube when clicking through episodes of In Search Of... or watching The Stone Tape or Threads (the latter two of which I've learned about because of Ghost Box and hauntology), one more example of strange cultural offshoots that no longer seem quite of this world.

Consider, for example, the description of Belbury Poly's project from the Ghost Box website, which is not only to insert Belbury Poly's music within these media, but also within the world described by these media, a world that never existed outside the page, the screen, and the speaker:
The music of Belbury Poly is, by turns joyous and naive and at other times shot through with terror or supernatural wonder. Parallel world TV soundtracks and nostalgia for an imaginary past.
Of course this is a project fraught with nostalgia, but an ironic nostalgia for that which never had a chance to exist but which might yet be brought into existence.* As Adam Harper points out, the crucial feature of hauntological art is its dual nature, that ironic nostalgia that critiques the present by positing it as the future of the imaginary past, a position in which the present is seen to inevitably fail in comparison to the future promised by that past. In this way, hauntological art is able to elucidate both the limits of our current thought--What can't we think beyond when it comes to the future? How has our future drawn in ever closer and, in turn, become ever more narrow? What changes do we no longer recognize as possible? Why do we hold them to be impossible?--and to recapture the utopian thrust of a different time, one that was before those limits and therefore freely posits a future (our could-have-been-present) without those limits. While this project has been criticized as being regressive, an exercise in simple nostalgia (or ostalgia) dressed up in PoMo clothes, its emphasis on reclamation and re-imagination serves a practical function. As Fredric Jameson notes in Archaeologies of the Future: The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fictions, "the more surely a given Utopia asserts its radical difference from what currently is, to that very degree it becomes, not merely unrealizable but, what is worse, unimaginable" (xv) When such Utopias become unimaginable they fail at what Jameson calls "the most reliable political test" of a Utopian text, "its capacity to generate new [works], Utopian visions that include those of the past and modify or correct them" (xv). What does the theme song for As It Happens or The Belbury Tales say to me politically, in and of itself? Not a whole lot. As part of a constellation of cultural artifacts, though, they both serve as a foundation for utopian imaginings.
This is far too much context for a review and it will inevitably overshadow what I have to say about the music. Nevertheless, I turn to that now, starting with the record's highpoints: "Now Then" with its lysergically charged flute and analog squelches and "The Geography," which hovers just beyond the decipherable. These two tracks, to my mind, establish the basic types of songs on the album. There is the rough instrumental vs. vocal breakdown that they imply, but there is also a sense of the twin poles of Belbury Poly's project in this division. The former brings to mind the sounds of my childhood, while the latter suggests just how the strange the world behind that sound truly is. "The Geography" and the other vocal tracks--"Cantalus," "Green Grass Grows," "My Hands," "Unforgotten Town," and "Earth Lights" (though the latter is vocodored beyond all recognition)--supply the haunting, out of time residents of this world, their missives often brief and of Delphic inscrutability ("You are printed on the palms of my hands," "It's just what I didn't want!") but suggestive of something not quite right. On "Green Grass Grows" the child's voice is eerily bright, the sound of play in some unseen garden that has a hint of unease in its lyrics of compulsion, a sense of slight menace (possibly sexual) from the forces that can command the child to act this way. Certainly this balance between menace and ecstasy is key to the appeal of "My Hands," part drug trip, part cult ritual, part new age transcendence, and all the more affecting for never allowing one of those elements to overwhelm the others. As I keep saying, the world of Belbury Poly is strange, but its strangeness is neither rationalized nor forced into the realm of the supernatural. It's kept activated as a force through its indeterminacy, its deferral of explanation. To be sure, in the Belbury mythos, things are haunted, but what does that actually mean? The record keeps that tantalizingly unclear.
The real stars of the album, though, are the instrumental tracks. I've singled out "Now Then" for special praise (it is the track that inspired my "Curried Soul" remembrances), but there is plenty here to chew on. "A Pilgrim's Path" rides gently insistent piano to some beautifully technicolour synth work, while both "Chapel Perilous" (a Monty Python reference?) and "Goat Foot" take the funkiness of "Cantalus" and amp it up to hard-charging levels. "Goat Foot" in particular, with its vague whiffs of exoticism alongside some heavily flanged metallic textures, is a joy on headphones. "Unheimlich," ironically, is perhaps the only real miss here, a too obvious evocation of "uneasy" sounds, it reminds me of video game menu music (not necessarily a bad thing) and, in light of how masterfully the whole album works together to evoke the uncanny, doesn't seem to earn its name. The true third highlight of the album, though, after "Now Then" and "The Geography", is "Summer Round" which feels at once wholly recognizable and stubbornly tip-of-the-tongueish beyond recognition. I imagine pagan ceremonies during the dying light of the solstice when I listen to it, but it could just as easily soundtrack the opening of a news program in 1970 or a weekly show based around time travel. As an example of Jim Jupp's compositional prowess and his ear for period synth tones, it is pretty much peerless.
Those period synth tones are an interesting aspect of Jupp's work as Belbury Poly and of the Ghost Box label as a whole. In his review of the album for Tiny Mix Tapes, James Parker made an intriguing observation:
I think it's also worth pointing out that a record like The Belbury Tales works whether or not you were born between 1965 and 1975. . . . I came to the Radiophonic workshop and library music actually through Ghost Box, rather than the other way around. And I grew up in a Britain that was always already suburbanized and gridlocked with traffic.

The real genius of this record, and of Ghost Box's output more generally, is that it works even if you don't "get" the references in anything like a conscious sense, even if they don't make you feel "nostalgic" per se. Because the reference points Ghost Box is playing with are hardwired deeper than that, part of a more complex network of cultural memorization. And I can't help but think, therefore, that one of the reasons I love Ghost Box so much is precisely the fact that I don't really "get it," that I never could, that I never can quite tell the difference between the old and the new, but that these strange, hallucinatory feelings arise unbidden anyway, the result of some mysterious collective nerve being touched.
I agree with Parker. As someone who was born in Canada in 1986 (to parents who left England in 1976), Ghost Box is not mining a culture I grew up with. Oh, my father introduced me to Dr. Who when black and white reruns came on from time to time, and since then I've watched Nigel Kneale shows and episodes of Out of the Unknown on YouTube, but this has always been in retrospect; it has never been my culture that Ghost Box is mining. My pathway to Ghost Box is through bands like Stereolab and the cultural signifiers mentioned above, not from first hand knowledge of the label's typical sources.
What's more, the powerfully rural aspect of Ghost Box and Belbury Poly is something that I--as a pretty much lifelong resident of the suburbs--don't quite understand. The horror of the countryside, yes--in my one experience staying in a house in the Welsh countryside as a young child, I thought I saw a ghost and wet my pants in terror; not one of my finest moments--but not what the life that is being remembered and mourned in this music was like. In this sense, while I don't doubt that a grounding in the music and culture that makes up Rob Young's notion of Electric Eden and an attachment to the idea of Albion might strengthen appreciation for what Ghost Box releases do, it's the inability to know the new and the old, as Parker points out, that makes Ghost Box so enticing for those of without access to (or at least ignorant of) that culture. I don't imagine a future--except a dystopian one--that involves some return to the land in agrarian communes or that involves life in quaint little villages in the countryside (which seems a little too much like The Village); the future for me is urban (when it's not in cyberspace). As fuel for hopefully utopian dreams, though, The Belbury Tales pinpoints moments that connect and resonate with (and even haunt) me. The album's forty five minutes are weird and strange in the best possible way. It's not an everyday listen, to be sure, but when you need to escape to that parallel world, there's little else as beguiling as what's on offer here.

*Strange typo that initially ended that first clause: "never had a chance to resist." But it does resist. Isn't that the point? Hauntology suggests the possibility of and depicts the places that can exist in a society with what Mark Fisher calls a "Marxist Supernanny," a government that recognizes that:
the most powerful forms of desire are precisely cravings for the strange, the unexpected, the weird. These can only be supplied by artists and media professionals who are prepared to give people something different from that which already satisfies them; by those, that is to say, prepared to take a certain kind of risk. The Marxist Supernanny would not only by the one who laid down limitations, who acted in our own interests when we are incapable of recognizing them ourselves, but also the one prepared to take this kind of risk, to wager on the strange and our appetite for it. (76) - bourgeoiseaux

Jim Jupp is the founder of Ghost Box records, and as Belbury Poly sits on the poppier side of his label’s retro library music. Weird analogue synths? Rural symbolism? Artwork like a John Wyndham paperback? If you’re into all three then The Belbury Tales is Christmas; the label’s first full-length since their spree of double A-sides. Once again Jupp’s masquerading as the vicar of Belbury: an imaginary parish somewhere in the sticks where technology stopped with the first Speak & Spell. He’s back with a new sermon of soundtracks for cathedral audio tours; more queasily mid-Seventies than the second series of Catweazle.
This time, however, the formula’s been perfected. Shaking off the hauntology tag applied to label mate the Advisory Circle, the fourth Belbury album places sunshine over Satanism, with a fondness for BBC schools programmes that only insomniacs ever see. These have always been Jupp’s calling cards but this time production and melody have been quadrupled, real musicians adding muscle. ‘Now Then’ arranges Moog bass around descant recorder (and then that around the beat from ‘Teenage Dirtbag’), while the funky harpsichord of ‘Goat Foot’ deserves a blaxploitation movie of its own. Just when you thought the theme here was enjoyment ‘Green Grass Grows’ offers a shrill and spooky alphabet song, while ‘Earth Lights’ plays with groovy kaleidoscopes, creating a game show theme even UK Gold wouldn’t touch.
To protect against crossing into Austin Powers territory there’s still a thread of darkness on The Belbury Tales, with a few of the 13 tracks implying nights of bones, spirits and campfires. Like the Spinal Tap Stone Henge scene done seriously, Jupp combines prog rock and medieval mysteries, saluting every vicar who tripped balls in his study. ‘Unheimlich’ (literally, ‘unwelcoming’) is like Midsomer Murders gone beserk - forget about the thud of witch house; this is the real deal, the one Hansel and Gretel had to escape from. He hits bullseye on ‘The Geography’ with Chris Budd’s eerie guitar, and again on ‘Unforgotten Town’ where he samples BBC Acorn game The Flowers of Crystal. The narrator’s voice here sounds like a resurrected Vivian Stanshall. There’s a Rob Young horror story in the liner notes.
It’s this level of detail that’ll make The Belbury Tales the gateway record into Jupp’s world. Uneven and addictive, it does Ghost Box proud - a record label whose quality control is usually strict enough to convince you they’re a front company for Volvo. Jupp’s parting shot, the delicious ‘Summer Round’, might just be Belbury Poly’s finest moment to date: filled with half-remembered incidental music, schoolchildren and bees, it’s like watching Vangelis sneak downstairs for milk. After 39 minutes, Jupp completes his puzzle and aligns his new-found oomph and his old mysteries. Nostalgia doesn’t often feel as good as this. Prepare to feel both spooked and studious. - George Bass

The Belbury Parish Magazine

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