Something Good #100: Professor Crisps
"The train passed by the figure, hundreds of feet tall, holding a staff in each hand. It didn’t seem that anyone else on the train noticed it."
Longtime readers may recall my two conversations with the pseudonymous Instagrammer Professor Chip, real name (I can reveal now, with his permission) Graeme Williams, author of potato chip critiques both thoughtful and profound.
When Graeme announced an upcoming trip to a small fisherman’s social club on the south English coast to see an obscure folk-industrial band perform, I begged for a report from across the pond.
The result is a soulful travelogue that deeply resonates with the spirit of this newsletter, and which I am very proud to publish below. —M.
Late last summer I saw that one of my favourite bands, Current 93, was playing a couple of shows in the UK. I’d seen them twenty years ago in Scotland; they were magical, and I didn’t want that to be the only time I saw them live. Their live appearances are somewhat rare. They were due to play in New York City a few years ago, but then the pandemic happened and after a couple of postponed dates the show was finally cancelled. At first the idea of travelling the the UK just to see a band I liked seemed crazy, but on a little bit of further reflection, it seemed that this wasn’t actually that crazy, it was just the kind of thing that required a bit of time, money, and most importantly, the understanding of my wife who would have to look after our kids while I flew around the world to see a group she finds utterly unlistenable. They announced two shows: one at Union Chapel in London, another at the East Hastings Sea Angling Association (EHSAA), a fisherman’s social club on the English Channel in Hastings. If I was going to be travelling anyway, why not go for the part of the country I’d never been to, right?
I am not entirely sure how to describe Current 93 to people who haven’t heard them. They’ve self-described as “hallucinatory” and that seems to be as apt a description as any. The group’s only constant member is David Tibet and since they formed in the early 1980s they’ve released close to 30 full length albums, and seemingly countless other live albums, compilations, and 12” singles. They emerged out of the industrial scene (Tibet was briefly a member of Psychic TV and was given the “Tibet” moniker by Genesis P-Orridge) and have been closely associated with the likes of Nurse With Wound and Coil, though since the 1990s have been playing with folk-ish musical forms, Tibet speak-singing his lyrics over the music. There are pastoral moments in their music, but also menace and dissonance. They bring in a dizzying array of influences, musical and otherwise, and you can lose yourself teasing those out: Shirley Collins, Comus, William Lawes, the cat paintings of schizophrenic Edwardian painter Louis Wain, gnosticism, esoteric Buddhism, nursery songs, Child’s Ballads, the writings of Arthur Machen and Thomas Ligotti, and that’s not even scratching the surface. In the end, it’s less a mish-mash of myriad influences than it is everything combining into a fully realised and poetic sonic world that doesn’t sound like anything else I’ve ever heard.
I can’t say that it’s music I fully understand, and yet it’s music that I feel, music that speaks directly to something deeply within. When it comes to the art that moves us the most, there’s something ultimately unanswerable there—it’s not as if it’s something we can exactly choose—but if I reflect on decades now of listening to Current 93, I think about how I came to this music during a particularly dark and turbulent time in my life. My brother had been nearly killed and was left permanently disabled after being struck by a drunk driver while returning home one morning after dropping off his hockey registration for the upcoming season. I didn’t really deal with it at all, just kind of pushed through it as best as I could, which wasn’t very good at all. It seems almost comical in retrospect how many years and how much therapy it took for me to understand how life-destroying that experience was, but if I am to take the following lyrics from “Moonlight, You Will Say” from their 1994 album Of Ruine or Some Blazing Starre:
I have seen this world as a great howl of pain
I have seen this world as a great ocean of blood
I have seen this world as the acme of suffering
I have seen this world as the great disappointment
I have seen this world as the great zero gape
In which all our hopes flicker out
The part of me who experienced my world shattering, who felt lost and alone and useless and scared, recognizes something in there. Perhaps the music allowed me to partially externalize the pain I felt. But the appeal here isn’t just this morose outlook—there is plenty of music that offers that—but more that in this acknowledgement that the world reveals itself as suffering, that there is simultaneously a searching effort to find meaning in that, to find the moments of beauty and love and joy in it regardless.
David Tibet finds his answers in an idiosyncratic and ever-searching spirituality and religion, in fleeting moments of beauty in the natural world, in birdsong, and while this doesn’t change the fundamental reality of the world we live in, this understanding of the great complexities of our existence contains hopefulness and life. And in a very concrete way, the music of Current 93 was one of my pathways out of my darker places.
In those difficult years I was in a relationship and my partner moved to London to pursue a Master’s degree there. I travelled across the Atlantic for her when I was done with my own studies, though the relationship had already effectively failed at that point. I looked for work in London, couldn’t find anything, felt dejected, but I saw that Current 93 was soon playing an experimental music festival up in Glasgow and I took that as my impetus to hop on a train and try my luck up there. Current 93 were an exceptional live band, among the best I’d ever seen, and I ended up liking Glasgow quite a bit. I found a menial office job through an agency quickly, and made a bunch of friends, many of whom I am still close with and hold dear. And being in a new city, not knowing many people, I ended up texting with a friend from Montreal who was in the UK for grad school. We ended up moving back to Montreal, establishing myself in a career, getting married, having children, buying a house, really settling into the kind of normal and comfortable life that facilitated me working out my middle-aged, middle-class ennui through online potato chip reviews to a small but dedicated group of followers, a life that had seemed an impossibility not that many years before.
And maybe because of this I felt anxious about this trip. I’m not going to tell you that my twenties were great, but I had the boldness of youth, the willingness to take risks. I, on a whim, moved to a new city because I wanted to see a band play there! I was okay with being alone. The last time I’d spent a significant amount of time by myself it was about five years ago when I attempted to walk the Cumbria Way in the Lake District of England; it was wet, miserable, I got lost more than a few times, my toenails turned black and eventually fell off. I realized that while the busyness of routine can feel stifling, it at least keeps the self-critical silence at bay. I got lonely, I bailed and caught a train back to be with my family. I worried that the intrepid parts of myself had withered. And was I putting too much on the live performance of a band I’d seen literally twenty years before, in a very different period of my life?
In any case, the trip didn’t get off to an auspicious start. My flight to the UK was supposed to connect through Toronto. In what seems to be a feature of air travel these days, the airline didn’t have adequate crew to leave remotely on time; I ended up missing my connecting flight. I was put up in a hotel at Pearson and booked on a flight twenty four hours later. An already short trip was going to be a day shorter. I caught the red eye flight, and arrived in the UK massively underslept and somewhat delirious, and caught a train to Brighton, my first stop on the itinerary. I’d planned two days here since the first day is usually a write-off, but the delay meant that my stay would be shorter.
Arriving in the town felt cinematic: double-decker buses picking up passengers from the station, a classic-looking pub covered in hanging baskets across the street. I was in Britain!
I lucked into a perfect stretch of weather for my trip; none of the typical British moody skies and rain. It was all perfect blue skies, warm but not hot days. I walked down Queen’s Road to the beach, I sat there for a while taking in the sea air, enjoying the breeze on my face, looking at the Brighton Palace Pier that I only knew from pictures. There was a group of young people on the beach with their guitars playing Beatles covers. Another nearby group of young men drinking and loudly talking about festivals. After checking in at my hotel—I had a sea view from my third-floor single room—I wandered the city a bit with no particular direction in mind. I stopped in at a quiet pub for an early dinner and meandered back to my hotel and struggled to sleep despite my exhaustion. I reflected on how the city had this character that was simultaneously grand but had an edge of decrepitude to it; I wondered how long these cities would continue to look like they do, at what point would the cracks in the masonry be too large to repair.
The next day I walked back to the train station to make my way to Hastings to see Current 93. When I was looking at maps trying to work out an itinerary, I saw that the Long Man of Wilmington, a figure of a giant man cut into the steep chalk slopes of a hillside and originally thought to date back to the Iron Age or before, but was actually likely created much later, in the 16th or 17th centuries, was in the area. I noted it as a potential destination. The train passed by the figure, hundreds of feet tall, holding a staff in each hand. It didn’t seem that anyone else on the train noticed it.
Arriving in Hastings, it was nagging at me that I was on my third day of the trip and I hadn’t yet had any crisps. While waiting for the time to pass until my hotel check in, I stopped at a Spar and bought a bag of Tyrrells Lightly Sea Salted to eat on the beach. I don’t usually choose a plain chip unless I have a dip on hand, but nothing else seemed as appealing, and these had me rethinking my avoidance because they are a very nice chip. Because they aren’t heavily salted, the potato comes through quite nicely with a hint of oil. Their texture is pretty close to perfect, with an excellent crispness without the aggressive brittleness that sometimes comes from kettle-style chips. I won’t discount the effect of eating them on holiday, on a beautiful day at the seaside, but these were very appealing.
After checking into my hotel, I meandered in the late afternoon along the seafront promenade to the other side of town to the East Hastings Sea Angling Association because I didn’t actually know when the show was supposed to start. You see, at some point the digital ticket for the show disappeared from my phone’s wallet and was eventually replaced by an email from Current 93s tour manager saying to bring this email along as proof of having bought a ticket. I couldn’t find the start time online either, neither from the show announcement or on the venue’s website.
Hastings is an interesting town in that while there’s the seaside resort aspect of it, it’s also a working beach town with a beach-launched fishing fleet operating from it. The EHSAA is situated right in the midst of this, facing the sea: to one side there’s an amusement park, to the other there are these small black-painted shacks where fishermen sell the day’s catch. The Hastings fishing fleet launches from this beach; signs posted on the buildings warn people to stay clear of the winches bringing the boats ashore. It’s also near the base of sheer cliffs, upon which stand the ruins of a castle.
Outside of the venue, a small two-storey building at the edge of the beach, I met a guy named Steve who I spotted because he was wearing a Current 93 t-shirt. He had driven four hours from where he lived near the Welsh border for the show, and was likewise figuring out where it was. He had printed out all the information, we chatted a little bit and agreed to meet up later inside after getting something to eat. I had locally-caught fish and chips.
You probably have an idea of what a sea fisherman’s social club looks like1, and I expect it’s fairly close to what the EHSAA looks like. The wood-panelled walls are covered with photos and plaques showing significant catches landed by presumed club members. Not at all a dark, stuffy, basement, the venue was glassed in with views of the sea and the setting sun. There was a small stage at the end of the room loaded with gear; my earlier research indicated that the club mostly hosts small local acts and tribute bands.
The thing about Current 93 is that they’re a group difficult to feel neutral about. I would expect that most people, unless they have some particular niche musical interests, probably aren’t aware of their existence; among the people who are aware of them, I would expect most wouldn’t care for them anyway. But the people who like them really like them. And those people were gathered in that room, everyone I met had travelled some distance to be there, to see one of their favourites in a small and intimate venue. Perhaps it was the travel, the excitement of seeing a favourite group, everyone being in an unfamiliar place, but people were much friendlier and much more open than I’m used to at shows.
As for Current 93’s live performance, I count the time I saw them in Glasgow in 2004 as one of the best live shows I’ve ever seen, and the reason why I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to see them at least one more time. They lived up to my memories and expectations. The show had all of the magic I remember from before. They were captivating and fully convincing live, playing songs old and new for close to two hours. It was raucous, moving, contemplative, fun; everyone came out from it feeling rejuvenated. After I stuck around for a bit and had drinks until the bar closed with new friends: a couple who had flown in from Sweden, a guy who had driven ten hours from Penzance for the show, some nice people from Glasgow, one of whom had seen them when I did twenty years ago. We traded social media details and promised to meet again at a future show.
The next day, I headed off to Eastbourne, the last stop on my trip before heading back to Montreal. I chose to visit Eastbourne because it is the eastern terminus of the South Downs Way, a long-distance footpath stretching 160km along the “old routes and droveways along the chalk escarpment and ridges of the South Downs” between Winchester and Eastbourne. Keeping with my theme for this trip, which is engaging with art that has deeply affected me, Robert Macfarlane wrote about this part in his book The Old Ways2, notably about the influence of this landscape in the painter Eric Ravilious. Macfarlane’s book was what inspired my attempt to walk the Cumbria Way five years ago; though rather than gain any insights into art and landscape, I instead came to the not particularly interesting realization that wet feet rapidly kill inspiration.
Given that any of my objectives on the South Downs Way would involve a somewhat early start, I spent the day in Eastbourne resting up, trying to conserve my energy, and picking up souvenirs for my family back home. My daughters wanted me to bring them back nail polish as a souvenir, and at the checkout of the pharmacy, I bought a bag of Walkers Max Texan BBQ crisps. If the previous day’s Tyrrells were an object lesson in the virtues of simplicity and flawless execution, these are somewhere on the opposite side of the spectrum. These also have a Pizza Hut logo on the bag, so I assume that Texan BBQ is some kind of British pizza topping, but I am not very interested in doing the research to confirm or deny that. In any case, these are probably about what you’d expect from Pizza Hut trying to do Texas-style BBQ: they have a sweet aspect that doesn’t play particularly nicely with the smokiness, which comes across more as burnt than aromatic. Texturally they’re nice, as you’d expect from Walkers—they’re the British division of Frito-Lay—so these are essentially Ruffles, but given that my time was limited and I can only eat so many chips, I should have given these a miss.
Eastbourne is pretty, as these seaside towns are, these grand old waterfront hotels giving a Victorian air to the place, but I found the town to be rather staid; it didn’t have the vibrancy of neither Brighton nor Hastings. Though I was overall enjoying my time alone, and my worries about that seemed to be unfounded, the one thing I didn’t like was eating meals alone. I was there on a Sunday evening and I didn’t feel inclined to find a spot in a pub as a single person while a cover band belted out Springsteen covers, so I decided to eat at my hotel. I had a very decent vegan curry in the hotel restaurant, and seeing that they had Pipers brand crisps available, I picked up a packet to eat later in my room.
If you follow Professor Chip you will very well be aware of the praise I have given to the French chip brand Bret’s and in particular how accurate they are at reproducing real-world flavours. It feels sometimes that it’s almost futile to continue to try all these chips when I’ve already found the best. And then I come across a chip like Pipers Trealy Farm Chorizo. These are utterly delicious. You get the paprika, garlic, a touch of heat, everything very well balanced, but the touch of genius here is that the chip manages to convey the fattiness of the sausage. There’s almost a juiciness to them. A note to vegetarians: these contain actual chorizo in them which is likely how they managed to get that amazing flavour. The trade-off here is that the texture took a slight hit, and I feel that they should have a slight bit more snap and crunch. It’s more than acceptable though, and since it’s possible to find Pipers in Canada occasionally I will be looking for these here. They are exceptional.
The next morning, the final full day of my trip, I had a quick breakfast and walked the couple of kilometres from my hotel to the start of the South Downs Way. This end of it begins with a fairly steep climb, so within a few short-breathed minutes you’re treated to exceptional views of the English Channel. The good weather continued throughout my stay, and from above the waters looked clear, turquoise, and tropical as they reflected the brilliant blue sky. I looked back upon Eastbourne, the waves crashing endlessly on its pebble beaches, the grand-looking hotels appearing so small from the heights.
This section of the path mostly follows the East Sussex coastline, sheer white chalk cliffs falling to the sea on one side, rolling green farmland to the other, a path worn into the chalk cutting through it. It’s a spectacular landscape, so emblematically English, yet unlike anything I’ve ever seen or experienced first hand before. The wind whipped off the tops of the cliffs, jackdaws played in the gusts. On the rare moments when the winds dropped, the downs were filled with riotous birdsong. Despite the harsh conditions of constantly being battered by the coastal winds, sturdy flowers grew on the cliff edges.
I made it to the National Trust gift shop and cafe at Birling Gap, and figured that if I’d come that far that I might as well walk the length of the Seven Sisters, this postcard-esque series of rolling white chalk sea cliffs. There’s this view of the cliffs from the west end of them that appears in all the tourism photos, and I contemplated trying to make it to that point to take my own, and doubtlessly much worse, photo, but I was already twelve kilometres into my walk, I hadn’t packed snacks, my water was running low, and there didn’t seem to be a good place to stop to resupply, so I turned back. When I got back to Birling Gap the water supply to the cafe had been shut off so there was no food available; thankfully I was able to refill my water bottle from a fountain and with an overpriced tourist fruit and nut bar from the gift shop to get some calories, I continued on my way. The scenery was still gorgeous, but I had reached that point where my energy was put into keeping my feet moving up and down the endless hills, thinking of how good a beer was going to taste at the end of this.
On the way back I passed through the courtyard of the Belle Tout Lighthouse, an old lighthouse converted into an inn atop a promontory on the coast; tucked into an alcove in the compound walls they sell snacks and ice cream. I bought a bag of Kettle Brand Sweet Chilli and Sour Cream crisps. Sweet chilli is one of those flavours that feels ubiquitous in Britain but has never really made huge inroads on this side of the ocean. Now, I don’t particularly ascribe to the idea of objectivity when reviewing chips at the best of times, because context always matters, and when you’re tired and hungry and in absolutely stunning surroundings, probably most everything will taste great. And so it did here. I think if compared to the North American version of Kettle Brand chips, the British ones are less crunchy and don’t have such an aggressive dark earthiness to them. There is still plenty of crunch here, mind you. You get the tang from the sour cream, and a mild heat builds as you eat them, but it never becomes overpowering or bothersome. These were very pleasant, and helped boost my morale until I could get that post-walk beer, eat something, then head to my room to pack to catch an early train to the airport.
I had avoided eating Walkers Cheese and Onion crisps, which I love, on my trip in an attempt to stick to chips I hadn’t had before. However, I couldn’t return home to Canada without having some classic cheese and onion-flavoured crisps, Walkers or not. I bought some from Pret-branded ones in Gatwick Airport, which accompanied a rather unfortunate chicken club sandwich that was bland and excessive on the mayo. The crisps were much better, however. Being a somewhat upmarket choice as compared to the standard bag of Walkers, these were not mere cheese and onion, but rather Mature Cheddar and Red Onion, and while the power of suggestion can be strong, it did seem that there was a sharpness to the cheese that was much appreciated, and did offer a welcome differentiation from more classic iteration of the flavour. A good crisp to end an unforgettable few days with.
—Professor Chip
Mark again: I couldn’t bear to edit the Professor’s report any more than I absolutely necessary to hit the email cutoff limit, so all I’ll say here is that the dance recital mentioned last issue went as well as I could hope, and you can read an amusing account of it, and myself, at my dear friend Geoff Siskind’s newsletter The Creativity Guild.
More soon.
I did not. —M.
A likely future Barely a Book Club pick. —M.