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| I WAS STANDING on what was probably once, in the summer, a lush piece of lawn. Perhaps families had picnicked here in the summer. I could almost smell the ham and hear the frisbees hitting the hard, dry ground. But tonight was different. Around me stood others waiting. Some, like me, in anoracks and raincoats. Hoods pulled over, hands in pockets, jiggling from one knee to the other and back again. Anything to stop the rain soaking into our bonemarrow and freezing us to death from the inside. But another group was among us, us: we the journalists. What seemed at first the size of a cult, within forty standard units of time had grown into a small army. Tonight, these pale, thin figures, dressed in varying shades of brown, green and black - some enrobed, others duffled - tonight, they were the occupying force of this castle. |
| They were here to hear the words of their gods calling. Their cold, dripping faces turned to the raised corner of the courtyard. A large, stone elevation - a platform - upon which stood statues of angels, kings on horseback, weapons and all these spectacles and all these pale faces illuminated by the moon high above. I thought about The Bears. I thought about the early days. I thought about the small, private occasions. That club feeling. The summer days, hayfevers in gardens and Bears playing to friends. How much has changed these last moons. The Bears are no longer human friends. They have become the friends in our heads who listen when we talk to ourselves. They have become the scratching answers to our itching questions. And how fitting it seemed to me, that dark November night, that this band of blood and tears, this Bears, had come home. Not only had they returned to their homeland, but they had come home Kings, and tonight they had come to claim their rightful place, the Lords of Cresswells Castle. |
| Cresswells Castle is a large, grey-stone fortress standing overlooking a small combe near to the hometown of James Paish and Kfasyr. Historically, the castle is as important as it is mysterious. There are as many unknowns as there are knowns, of both the known and unknown types; but at some point in history, the once great fortress was completely gutted and left to rack and ruin. Today, although impressive from outside, it is little more than an enclosed courtyard, mostly grassy. However, the castle is so aligned that at certain significant times of the year, the moon can be viewed through a moon-sized hole in one wall and the light from it shines down onto the very centre of the courtyard. It is believed that Celtic kings of the land are buried beneath, but no records of excavations survive. It is this place that The Bears chose. The time had come. The Bears took the the stage. Their clothing vague, can be described only as shadowy. Among hushed enthusiasm, Kfasyr spoke: "This night for many generations will be spoken of, my friends. We have all come here for one purpose and before the heavens send lightning, we shall begin. We thank you for your support and hope we do not disappoint." There was a great glare of light and a cacophony of sound. Many of the journalists like myself let out cries and shielded our eyes from the sudden light. The cacophony did not fade, ne, it grew - louder and louder and somehow closer, and suddenly began to take a shape. Slower than a pulse and stronger than a wave - perhaps strings, perhaps air, perhaps even water, for anything was possible that night. There were voices too. Both of Kfasyr and of James Paish, there were murmerings, wailings, like a great prayer to us all in an alien tongue. This was Leambalcaya - a piece described as "about jargon - speaking in tongues - and how, despite our constant efforts to make ourselves heard, more of what you say every day is misunderstood than you think". But this was not being misunderstood. I had heard a demonstrational recording of Leambalcaya; it sounded a little bit weak; it sounded as if meaning had failed to excite, so meaninglessness would have to do. But here, surrounded by millenial history and cold rock, all huddled in together like rats in a box, the words made sense. There was nothing to meaning other than what is good and what is not - and this was good - this was very good. I don't know how long it went on for, maybe fifteen minutes, perhaps an hour. I can't be sure. I can be sure that I very soon felt the music and my mind become brothers; I knew what it would do and it seemed to fit my soul like a tailored shirt fitting a deformed man. I felt that the music had been tailored, not consciously, but by the materials, The Bears, letting a higher energy pass through them to me. An energy that knew more than they did or cared to. The Bears had become the instruments and their instruments merely a small link in the chain. After Leambalcaya, Kfasyr told us that the rest of the music would be improvised and he urged everyone to focus. We did. And evidently, so did they. More had taken to the stage now, all wielding different soundweapons. I saw a harp at one point. I think. By the time it was over, I felt like my insides had been taken out, had all the bad blood wrung out over a drain, dried on a radiator and put back inside my hollow, ribby box of a body. I felt warm inside and light outside. The rain had stopped and it was beginning to get lighter. My watch told me it was nearly six o'clock. The pale army did not linger, they headed north-east towards the town centre. I knew they were not going to a pub or club; none would be open. There was clearly somewhere else for this Bearsclan to be. Perhaps an organised morning party; wake up to vodka - sleep after lunch - some cards and talk - whatever these hardcore Bearist fans get up to. I decided to follow them for a bit - at least to see where they were going. They moved like a horserace. A large field of heavy shadows, striding first across sodden fields, then north up Paul Street before turning sharply east towards the Methuenlands. Passing a library on the right, they turned left into the High Street and followed it beyond a bank before turning right into a small side road that seemed only to go behind a baguetteshop. By the time I got to it, they had completely gone. I listened out for the clinking of glasses or raised voices speaking of loud music, castles, rain, vodka, et cetera, in the rooms above, but all I heard was my own breathing and a peacock. They had lost me. I felt alone. It seemed that I had found another group to which I could never belong. The melancholy, however, was short-lived. It was nearly a quarter past six, and in a little under seven hours time, I was to interview The Bears at a secret location; a small but plush apartment hidden away under the Methuen Arms Hotel. From here, we were to be driven due south to a small village called Shaw where The Bears recorded most of "It's Sombre Here" - the recent collection of sounds the band had been working on since the end of the summer. "All moments have led to this", as James Paish was to tell me... |