Heartfelt Journeys and Swamp Missions

Paul Griffiths on Nina Nastasia, Richard Swift and Adem at Cardiff's The Point

8th June, 2007

A darkness develops over the gothic surroundings. Its black cauldron erupts and shakes through the shadows of Christian tea drinkers hanging on the window. The light sparkles and penetrates the clowns, protesters and randoms that fester The Point’s hallway. The revolvers, cats, and cloaked beasts of Homefires take a Cardiff coffee break from their hazy kaleidoscope journey.

A tangled instrument drags his Garfield love child towards the stage. Mr Swift is welcomed through the thick forestry of clowns as they clap their hands and suck on their glass bottles. His paws stroke a hairball of nesting mice from his hair. Wow; the hair mesmerises and hypnotises the clowns, “it’s an Egyptians failure of precision,” shouts big nose Milky. “A piece of furnishing that Worzel Gummbidge’s love child would harness,” writes the one eyed journalist clown. The lights fade through the stones and the darkness creeps through. The clowns cling to half empty glasses and aluminium cans, their eyes brushed with visions of melodolic trappings. The cat hisses and cries as he throws up pasteurised milk over the stage. Mr Swift parades his tonal meanderings in perfect pop cabaret. His chain strumming echoes the desperation of his twisted love life. Distant echoes with peculiar staggering beauty weep through his shadows. His sideman, an accomplished musician that foresees tales of the Deep South and its dusty caravan dance rituals disrupt Mr Swift’s panel beating. The self proclaimed poet of lateral fusion ‘The Pope’. His purrs persuade a crackle pop texture of late night sexual antics with his female misfits; the squeals and slops of cat courting screeching through a dust pan alley. The clown’s attention is broken and they stormily parade on pink tricycles throwing apple pies. Swift croaks his way to his dark piano chomping his visions through the orifices of the bewildered clowns. His hair wobbles in protest to the cabaret mission of their wordsmith. Songs and visions that recall cryptic crossword puzzles from pre school tea party. Surely his distinct style would find peace in Vietnam’s Dalat ripping and curling through the minds and glossy coats of ‘wild’ horses.


The shadows dissolve under the purity of the light shivers through the dogmatic figures and the burning cat. A bottle of mystical beauty Nina Nastasia appears before the crowd, her dark striking hair disrupting the burning flames. She sits frozen on a chair with an acoustic pal purring under her control. Her gentle voice dissolves the invisible barrier that gravitates through the mass of musical performances. A gentle and powerful relationship between her vocals and instrument allows a deep psychological entry into the heart and mind of Nastasia. Her endless tales of heartfelt journeys and swamp missions pass through the clown’s ears. The clown’s eyes perspire and blotches of colour run through their pale faces. Nina’s voice becomes more alive as each song grows, the darkened corridors and shadows transpire into tales of trust and mystical places from the depth of the soul. Her stories translate into biblical scenes echoing every fret chord through the audience.

The large arched hallway doors crocks like a plastic frog as it creeps open. A cold wind carries autumn hail storm washed beneath the floor. A dark cloud of dust and sand swarm into an explosion as it smashes the room into a grey suffocating blanket. Rat-Tat-Tat-Tat the dancing pointing shoes carry a short figure in a black mystical robe as his head is camouflaged by a thick protruding archway of cloth over his darkened face. The figure glides along the floor as Adem, inventor of mustard coloured chairs, welcomes the crowd. Adem smiles into the ocean of bemused freighted clowns. His mumbling stories of mental torture and candyfloss love enhance his personality. The small cloaked figure giggles and gently removed his heavy hood, Terry the pixie grins beneath the hood and pops his I-pod on, “Here come the martian martians” by Jonathan Richman.

© 2007 Paul Griffiths

© Miwsig