Denmark & Northern Ireland

More videos to come soon when the time for editing presents itself – one was shot across three and a half countries!

Here is the latest, shot two days ago in Northern Ireland at the Giant’s Causeway:


and here  is a collaboration with Nomi Lauridsen which we made in the Faroese Cultural House in Copenhagen (that would be the ‘half country’ as we were on Faroese land outside of the Faroes). We hope to collaborate together soon on further works and joined the group performance at Union Copenhagen an hour after we shot this.




Muvver’s Ruin Denmark + quick update

I’ll be performing at Body Landscapes Festival of Performance Arts, Union København (Nørre Allé 7), at 18:30 on the 9th of October.

Some slides from the performance scratches:


In other news, here’s Lou Hazelwood & Barbara Grabher’s project I helped voice last year:



And here are some pics from the graduation event of the GUSAC sound art summer school at Gotenberg University of Mains, Germany last month:


Photo credit: Martina Pipprich, Mainz


Finally, it was so awesome to be in Aberdeen in time to perform at the fantastic trans & non-binary to the front edition last week – for those who were unable to attend, here’s one of the poems I wrote especially for the event; writing three poems in the space of a week isn’t easy, especially when you’re traditionally identifying as poetrary non-binary.


The one featured here had been long in the making through developing the concepts and began over two years ago at Pansy Boy‘s set during the first BBC Contains Strong Language festival in Hull; and has since been silenced by a so-called journalist.

Not any more.


Here it is in entirety:


for Pansy Boy

Annabel Strange, Aberdeen, September 2019

This isn’t really poetry

It’s the story

Of a thought process 

Let’s start a movement.


Research has shown that those of us that move 

Are more perceptive of movement 

(Citation needed)

(Jola & Calmeiro 2017)

And what is movement?


It’s a language 

What do we tell people with our movement?

How we feel.


And that flit feel of the pansy,

The classic dipped wrist *

Which is usually more something like this *

It’s a sign of a fluidity of movement


Fluidity of perception


So I saw Pansy Boy speak

And found that ‘pansy’

Was a homophobic slur

It comes from the Latin – Pense- to think.


to the ‘heteronormative’,

To flit 

and think

 is seen 

As an insult



Having the ridonculous body I do,

I often have to tell myself to pull it together

I used to call myself a ‘pussy’ – like, ‘stop being such a pussy’.

And I saw that quote it now turns out was misattributed to Betty White

*citation needed*

That we shouldn’t ‘grow a pair’ – 


It’s balls that are weak – 

The humble ‘pussy’ 


Those things can really take a pounding.

*no citation needed*

So, this word was out, 

in the context of my inner monologue and, well, it’s oppressive.

So what could I replace that word with?

‘Stop being such a pansy’

But then as I heard Pansy Boy speak, I realised,

That word, too, is the tool of the oppressor.

The ‘hate-riarchy’, if you will.

So I thought to myself,

What word should I replace it with?

And as I announced, my on the spot epiphany in the Q&A of Pansy Boy’s show, and much to the chagrin of my buttoned down and heteronormative then girlfriend,

That we shouldn’t be shaming ourselves for being weak.

The act of consideration means an act of replacement,


As we’re working on repairing our world 

We get pause to see what needs replacing

from what comes from a hate model we no longer need






Let’s start a movement.

In Memory of Paul Burwell


with Paul, Spurn Point, 2006

Bandwidh Anthology pt7:

Dog Ate My Face/Cathartistic Fires of Rebo


Phreaking: Defining the pitch or (freq)uency that enables free communication and utilisation thereof


Feel like I’ve been to a séance. 

Good man passed on long gone.

P.B. Freely was around before the digital sound rev went hay-optic, jazz became spazz rather than embrace techno fetishes. Dude had a knife fetish but he never hurt no-one, no how. ‘Cept maybe his liver.

It took a moment for the cloud to drift when somebodybody told me “P.B.’s dead, Man. Dead man. As if. I keep expecting to see him when I go outside to spray on the trashy lawn – rambling about, drums and knives attached variously (and extraneously) to his bod, crawling through a bush ‘cause it happened his way.

But no, truth be told and souls be sold of gold, he gone to that great jam in the sky. 

I can see the two chicks onstage, two to many, left chick guitar in left PA speakers, right chick vice versa. This is dreamy desert solos but there’s too much mind to fill when there’s so damn much landfill; degenerate shock that the doctor of quadro rhythm isn’t, wasn’t, won’t be here…fashionably late.

He plays on, goading, guiding these two out of towners, brave new locals who probably haven’t had the time to recognize our loss…they’re having fun, milky souls locked into the desert dirge dessert startercourse starship with P.B. breathing down through their lungs but I’m still too sad to notice.

Now there was a high-bandwidth dude. I recuerdo when he’d play psychic chill drums, inspiration to us all, kicking out forty rhythms with each hand and foot, locking the room in four hundred tight grooves; loop, stick, scrape, all messy, truncated precision; setting fire to the minds as well as the drums. Lately he’d just hang in his caravan ‘til someone found him face down in the park the other day, dogs munching the carrion, never knowing the honour was all theirs. 

To speak to, he was a mild mannered and well softly spoken crazy. When I used to have conversations with him, when we could hold one down…I couldn’t always keep up with his whiskies and he couldn’t always keep up with my slow sycophantic hyper-gibberish; ‘til one day I dug out some old recordings of his early days and he began to reminisce…

…”how is the old toupee? We, Bob and The Bean used to lay it on thick whilst slapping one another with dead fish…’least I hope they were dead…certainly were flapping up a frenzy while we sprayed the crowd, zero hertz, zero gees whiz with our respective noise rays..”

Tick, tock, this grandfather clock…ain’t gonna rock out no more…

For now, I gotta close my eyes and weep on the inside, like a stunted clown in my lonely tower of indecipherable teeth in the corner. I’m kinda lonely but for now I don’t want company. Just me, we and the somber victory skank with the high buzzing clarinets of the grandfather clock on the ‘juke.


~* *~


So I’m still lost when Okkyung the equally high bandwidth impro ‘cellist takes the stage, gazing intently at an invisible stave, rocking back and forth to rhythms we can’t see or hear – old P.B. hooking up his skanky dirge from above in the hereafter, strongest on first contact with old friends.

Okkyung strokes and scrapes at her ‘cello, all eyes and ears in the room, tuned in and zoned out of key with the world outside this world’s walls; all souls free to float and sink, ebb and flow as the fragmented pulse says ‘go’ to those inner sanctums. We rock back and forth, up and down, left, right and central as we spin into new dimensions…suddenly it’s over. She rises and takes a bow and thankfully now I’ve had time enough to reboot, save personal settings and at least function again after the news; like the fire gazing catharticism of the previous journey; so I, we, she and they, clap long and loud.

Three others take the stage to join Ms. Lee and one of my many gurus in noise and avant garage production lets P.B. take another face from the ancient gallery and tread on down the boards and packing crates that make up the crude, makeshift stage one more time.

Beats fly. The zither, too, moves percussively as the sax spits out raw, diseased poultry in motion, the intricate duck call of the truly free shamanistic ambient peace warrior.

I’m gazing into thee Cathartistic Fires of Rebo while the jam in the sky waits for it’s newest and tastiest quadrorhythm maker and soul shaker to unfold in the wake of P.B.’s wake…this is one small step for the four to many, one hell of a dimensional jump for P.B.’s multiple, flailingly spectral limbs.

I close my eyes. Drawer-back thee iron curtain; seeing nothing but feeling the sequential points twix all dimensions known and unknown, all phreaky and nodal; so the sorry can laugh and the lost can find, dirge become casual frenzy…

…no more will we see P.B. walk out of the water, weapons of love and psychedelia rocksmith in tow, oh, roots and hewn fish…

But for tonight, oh, tonight we see his ghostly pastry delights of puppetry one last time in the new free spaces of our sun baked and sunburned minds; thee true divine time when thee Einstein-Rosen bridges link us up with the ethereal, thee spindle twix the waking world and thee astral ‘plane – flying, hither and yon on the breath of the old and thee dust of their souls to that big old impro-phreakfest jam in the skies; where I wanna go when at long, milky last I die, to that supernova Cathartistic Fire of Rebo collection of souls, dead avant rock stars and poetic journal keepers we call Deaus.


~* *~


In Loving Memory of Paul Burwell

5th & 6th February 2007, Hull

Broken Compass – Áttaviltur Etudes

Direct translation would be brotin áttaviti; but in short, a clever translation could be àttaviltur – átta is like direction – base word before grammar changes it in use in a sentence is átt, but also means to own something. You own – þú átt. Viltur is to get lost, but it also means to be wild.

A broken compass can get you lost, but when you get lost you can find something.

And I think it could make you go back to the wild


– Tanya Pollock