Storytellers: Regal Safari
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Brighton’s Regal Safari create sonic dreamscapes which are at a constant in being open to interpretation. Each individual listener will occupy a different thought when listening to their tracks, be it a destination unknown or a long-lost home or a travel spot from teenage years or a distinct memory with a close friend. Nothing could be more fascinating than asking the makers of these songs themselves about what kind of scatterbrain thoughts enter their heads. What do their own songs evoke? Happy memories or vague collections of images? Guy from the band took to the inspiration of J. G. Ballard to tell his own tale; non-autobiographical in context, all written on a plane when dosed up on coffee.
Stream “Believe” while you listen to the scribed story:
In the midst of devil wine and the flower of the country tobacco chain-consumption, we were led by a notable friend into a neighbouring building from that night’s venue. One that had earlier battled the resting sun’s evening rays turning into raw, blood red. It was now a darkened silhouette on the municipal sky.
Atmosphere was blinding.
Under the torchlight of communications we walked the past every notch in the ground half repelled by non-identification. The chauffeur’s the only one with any money. Chauffeur being our friend, money representing light.
Don’t walk on that wood.
Entering the totem apogee of the space, a cry of hope and a cry of fury are near simultaneously emitted. We saw the hope, the fury was unseen. Steps could be heard, the same reassuring pitter patter but now of more feet, on more unidentified objects, now soft. It could have been severely disturbed velvet, but we knew it wasn’t. It was natural yet yielded by man. Solace from such underpinning was eventually found. The new feet were those of spirit girls, or girls of spirits. Can’t be sure.
The new solid underpinnings were steps, spiralled. ‘Be very careful’ was the game in town.
The procession continues and eventually the thick, grainy air was replaced by the new chamber’s high resolution ambience. The bronze glow of exterior light was now fogging through, the cracked windows failing to envelop the chamber. The girls were indeterminate and, from each other, indistinguishable. The voices carried the same accent between them, the accent of 300 miles distance from our own. This is all to be known from these spirits. Their conversations continue, oblivious of exploration away from vocal depths. The floor could not be trusted but was walked on regardless.
Eventually, we, with torchlight, departed. Retracing the steps, remembering our friend’s words of caution that we associated with dark objects and suspicious landings. The wood could now be walked on. Right by, there appears a hole, unseen prior. Looking in, we knew what could have been.
Sitting later, watching the winking dew grow, minds followed up the experiences. The spirit girls were still there. Without light. Maybe the spirits would sing, the reverberations providing them an exit route. Maybe they’d fall with more fury. Or perhaps they just won’t notice.
Sound and vision. Far from exclusive industries.
Curated by Music Fan’s Mic.
