Memories

... If the Lost Masters Albums had been real, these are some of the memories they might've triggered...

The films below were created by Hangman Studios and inspired by short stories written as memories that could've have been triggered had the original nine Lost Masters albums actually existed...

Glimmer Sister: The End of a Relationship

It's a week since it ended. Since you stood at the end of the bed and finally said what must've been burning in your heart for months...

After a fortnight apart, the final meeting is set in a pub just off Canonbury square. I had rehearsed everything. Every possible line of conversation. Thought of all the ways to look strong, confident... attractive. I'm feeling sick though... deep down I think I know you've already made up your mind...

I enter the bar hoping to see you sitting there, but I know you're going to be late. After craning my neck around every corner of the bar, I shuffle up to order a drink and sit in the corner facing the door. Eventually you arrive, your ear glued to your phone, laughing, looking so strong, so confident... so attractive. I feel my heart start to race and all the one-liners I'd been rehearsing for the last 24 hours fly out the door behind you. Dammit.

Our meeting. Our lunch meeting - is now a drink. You're running late and can't stay long. I try and match your aloofness with a veiled indifference - but I must've been so transparent. After the initial formalities are over, and you've refused to let me buy you a drink, it isn't long before the wall comes crashing down...

This isn't a conversation. You're telling me what you're doing. What I should do.

Sitting there, pleading, I can barely look at you, that stone cold look in your eye... watching the ice melt into my vodka & tonic... the lemon was shrunken as if wincing from the strength of the spirit... I hadn't cried for years - properly cried... you get up slowly, pull on your jumper. I watch your fingers tackle the buttons at the front of your coat. You whip your scarf around your neck, pick up your bag... maneuver around the chairs around our table... you pause, standing over me... we're both saying something... but I'm too numb to register... and then your gone. 'did it mean nothing'...

Breathe. That's what a friend told me. Just concentrate on breathing and build from there. I get up slowly. I'm out on the street, moving through Canonbury square. Breathing... then the rush of pain, like a knife in my side. A surge of anxiety up through my stomach, punching out through every vein, the only release is a whimper that burns the back of my throat, exhaling a frosty smoke from my mouth... and I feel the tears run down my face, sweet to taste as they pass over my mouth and fall onto pavement below...

My head clears for an instant and I'm standing in the travel section of Canonbury book shop. How did I get here? A tap on the shoulder and two friends are standing in front of me... . a couple, in love, chirpy, fresh faced. What must they be thinking? Breath. They're talking at me and I'm responding... god knows if I'm making sense... 'You & Mel must come... we're all going to be there.' I'm being invited to a party. I nod and say I cant wait... I'm too ashamed to admit the truth.

Back out on the street. I place my earphones back on... some sadistic notion makes me play my 'chilled mix'... . The faint cheer of a crowd and the band begins to play... this is our song... the Stones crackle into life and guide me home...

The early morning is the worst... . Months of not really sleeping. Drifting. Feeling like I was at the bottom of the ocean. Slow motion drowning... .and its pitch black. I can t see anything... the only sound is the hint of you... 'I can almost hear you sigh' - then I'm awake... but still a 1000ft below... I had asked my mum to call me at 6am every morning and just talk to me about what she had planned for the day... somehow the banality of idle chat eased the pain... and the sound of a mothers voice, lifted me by the scruff of the neck and plonked me back on the beach side... . I'm alone, but at least I can see. I can make a plan...

'I'm living with those memories - That's all that's left of you and me'

Salome: Teenage kicks

Summer '99 - I was with my best friend Pete in Mallorca... we'd been inseparable for years - he was the drummer in my band, I was the singer in his... .the idea of not spending the summer together was absurd... .so, against everyone's wishes, we were visiting his father, step mother and their newly born baby. God, we were cocky little bastards, fresh from school but more importantly we were fresh from witnessing one of the greatest live shows of all time - U2 at Wembley, on the European leg of their triumphant Zooropa tour...

... I think Pete's father imagined a fortnight of holding court as his family sat around, marvelling at the life he had made for himself on this Spanish island. Much to his frustration however, it was clear we weren't going to dance to his tune. Out every night, dancing with the girls, drinking tequila, playing pool... Invincible, kings... seventeen.

We terrorised a different bar every night, on the prowl, chatting up other teenagers who had sneaked out to enjoy the mysteries of this small port side. ... In an attempt to impress any girl silly enough to sit with us, we became great story tellers - We were poets, surfers, rock stars, journalists, hustlers - whatever fantasy one of us started the other would finish - all with the aim of frolicking on the beach, jumping around in the sea, getting slapped from time to time...

Each night we would sneak back, full of booze and full of ourselves... .Back to the roof of the apartment where, after the first night, we'd been banished to sleep in the sweltering heat... listening to U2 until it got light, we'd quietly play 'Salome' on the little tape recorder that Pete had by our makeshift beds.

Drifting off to sleep, I remember it felt like being back at the concert... I could listen to the album over and over but track four - now that was the highlight... the moment it started I'd shiver... and at the show - the way Edge's wailing guitar blotted out the screams from the audience - and then the sound of a thousand sirens swirling around us... The drums start to rumble, Edge's guitar sounding the alarm - someone tripped the wires, the drums are a thousand feet running towards us, the flash lights explode, racing over the audience, the 60 ft TV screens towering over us, pulsating the colour of flesh - they've found us...

During the day we would sleep, ignore our hangovers, ignore Pete's father, sit in the same bars drinking diet coke... .and so our fabulous summer holiday rolled on like this...

About a week into our stay, stumbling back to the flat at three in the morning ... somehow we arrive at the front door but cant find the keys... .then we cant find the key hole... and the bloody light isn't working. I'm flicking the switch but nothing is happening - on, off, on, off, on, on, come on! Then in the distance I hear a siren - although this time it's the distance thunder of a child crying mixed with the buzzing of a door bell... its not the light switch, its the fucking door bell - we stare at each other - everything is in slow motion - I hear Edge sound the siren - I tripped the wire... and now Pete's dad thumping out Larry's rhythm down the stairs towards us... we run... .the flash lights explode, but now we're running , racing up the stairs, jumping over the wall onto the roof - and by the time I've got my trousers around my legs - Pete already stripped and is pretending to be fast asleep... .

His fathers thunderous footsteps have followed us from within the building, smashing their way up towards us, bursting out through a side door and onto the rooftop. In an instant, the mountain that is Pete's father looms over us screaming... I remember thinking, we'd woken up his family, but he must've woken up the entire island...

Slinking into the shadows, I shrink into bed, jumping under the duvet, my trousers still around my ankles...

The next day, it was clear that Dad had had enough. I was promptly sent home on the first plane to England and Pete was left to fend for himself... I hear later that he was frog marched to the hairdressers and made to cut his hair and for the rest of his stay, slept inside and was kept on a strict curfew... ... somewhere over France, 30,000ft in the air, it all seemed so unfair. In retrospect I'm apologetic and grateful that our punishment wasn't more severe - but I'm not repentant - what did he expect - we were 17, we were in love with rock n roll...

Pressure: Spying on Dad, 1983

God I hate moving house. I spend £30 quid buying boxes and gaffa tape and somehow I still find myself using half a dozen black plastic bags. By the end of the day, I'm past caring and just throwing jackets, books, underwear, into the bags and down the stairs with all my other gear.

Pulling out a little draw under my bed, I find a collection of videos I don't remember buying. Be ruthless, I tell myself. But moving over titles like, Pretty in Pink, Weird Science and The Lost Boys, my eyes reach a VHS recording that has my Dad's writing scrawled on the back: David Bowie & Queen, Pressure - Live 1983.

Ha! I don't believe it! Suddenly I'm seven and lying I bed. Mum's put me to bed hours ago. But like clock work, as soon as I hear the car pull up in the drive way, and the crunch of gravel as Dad walks up to the door into the house, my heart is racing and it might as well be 9am and time for school.

Then a few moments later, I'd hear him climb the stairs and every night I couldn't help but smile. I'd always turn away from the door, pretending to be asleep and in the silence, I'd muffle a giggle as I'd feel his eyes on my back for a few moments, before bringing the door back almost closed (I like a little bit of light).

Tonight is different though. He doesn't come up the stairs. I'd turned my back in anticipation but after a while, when I realised that he wouldn't be coming to check on me, I turn to face the shaft of light coming from the world outside my door, frowning.

I pull back the covers, the floor was always so cold to touch, and I gently creep out of my room onto the landing. At the top of the stairs I can just see the edge of my dads legs as he sits on the sofa, his polished brogues glinting from the reflection of the TV.

I'd be in sooo much trouble if Mum or Dad caught me - but something about the noise from the telly is different. This isn't what he normally watches. Normally, its boring men talking about boring numbers and stuff, but tonight its music. I think. Strange music... .I need to know more.

I tip toe half way down the stairs. Now I can see the bald patch on the top of my dad's head, his broad shoulders, his tie falling down his front, the perfect creases in his trousers and those shiny brogues. More importantly though I can see the TV.

And I don't get it.

This is too much. One day when I'm old enough, maybe Dad will tell me all about it. But I daren't ask now - cause then he'll know I was up and I'll get into trouble...

... It seemed so funny to see my smart, balding, slightly overweight dad, watching this man with a moustache and another man who was all painted white and looked like a cartoon alien... .

Well he didn't have to tell me about it. Not long after that, I discovered music. I bought all of Queen's tapes and most of Bowie's too... I stayed up all night recording Live Aid and I'm pretty sure Dad stayed up for most of it with me. We went to concerts and when he was too un-cool to hang out with, I went with my friends.

I hear my name being called from the bottom of the stairs. Shit, look at the time. Before throwing all the videos into the bin, I carefully place the VHS with my dad's handwriting on it into the side pocket of my jacket.

And I don't even own a VHS.

Fourth Reel Under The Sun: Nostalgia

'Who goes there?' the angry giant called out into the night" ... I pause to look at my baby girl lying still... sleeping now. Surrounded by linen covered in cartoon flowers and warm comforting colours. So beautiful, eyes welded shut, her tiny hands tucked under her cheek, lights turned low but never out and the door left ajar... just the way I used to have it when I was a child... I close the book with its beautiful illustrations and over sized words...

Look at the back of my hand... How did I get like this? Underneath a layer of cling film skin is a dirty old ocean of fading colours and aching driftwood... to look at, it's a wonder that all my insides are still held together by such a thin web of clotted blue viens, searing up, aching to break through the surface...

Oh, what does it matter - look at my baby, my child. Nothing matters anymore. I should leave, but I can't tear my eyes away... Through the crack in the door I can hear a voice murmuring, the radio, breathing a reassuring tone out over the airwaves... a melody nervously limps out of the dark... I don't hear it properly at first but after a few moments I realise my whole body is reaching out to the sound and suddenly the notes wash over me and something tickles my core... spreads down my spine and up to my heart and eyes...

I'm shaking off the years, ten, twenty, fifty years fall away... I'm holding the hand of my father, I can smell the stale tobacco on the back of his hand that gently brushes my cheek as we skip down the street. Every third step, he lifts me effortlessly into the air, the world swirling around me, I can't help but let out a cry. I've never been so happy... . I look up at his face and can just about make out a smile above his chin and nose shadowed by the silly hat he always puts on every time we leave the house... and as we walk, I sing along to the tune he's whistling... my favourite song...

'What'll it be tonight?' he would ask me as he tucked my into bed, 'The King is ready'... He knew them all by heart. He'd tell me of the time he travelled to Memphis, the dusty roads, the smell of whiskey, the way the sun set over the corn fields, of the time he visited Graceland. And always, as my eyes fell heavy and my head was full of dreams, he'd end with a song... 'Sing Golden Dreams daddy, '... 'ah... .The island of Golden Dreams' as if he didn't know I was going to ask for that one... the same one every night...

Years later, with families of our own, my Uncle, my brothers and my cousins and I, are all sat on cold wooden chairs, set out in a circle in the front room of my fathers small surburban house... its suffocating, this room full of black suits and finger food.

I cant talk to anyone, I don't want to be here... I want to forget all about this moment, I want to run out onto the street and breath fresh air - not the thick stench of death emphasised by everyone's long faces and morbid recollections of how wonderful MY father was... such a kind man.

I catch my Uncle's eye, he must've been watching me... slowly rising from his chair, he shuffles over to my fathers record collection that always had pride of place next to the fireplace where he would stand and sing to us all...

After filing through the row ancient vinyl sleeves, my uncle lets out a sigh and his hand pulls one out. I recognise it immediately and feel my throat get sore and my eyes well up... after fumbling with the controls, my heart jumps as he clumsily catches everyone's attention by dropping the needle heavily onto the vinyl... with this interuption the speakers either side of the room crackle into life and a melody nervously limps out of the dark... My uncle turns to look at me, the look of pity has been replaced with one of triumph ... 'Island Of Golden Dreams' washes away the stagnant air...

'Your father wanted you to hear this today - your favourite' ... I want to say something, instead I stand and embrace my uncle... dancing in the centre of the room, I close my eyes and imagine my father, daddy, longing for the smell of tobacco...

I'm lost, floating, drifting and as the final chord is struck, I can hear the voice on the radio begin again. I open my eyes and I'm back in my daughter's room... my baby is still sleeping soundly. ... I get up gently from the bed, tucking the sheets delicately up to her round pale face and creep slowly out of the room...

True Britannia: Lost in a funfair

The story:

GREG
I..
hm...
Yeah..
There it is...
This is so great
And we're in it, we're...
Oh..Mmmmmmm... fucking hell...
This is so great, so fucking great, just so fucki...
hmm?
Where's...
where's everyone?
Where'd everyone go?
Hang on, whose, what's that at the bar, whys he wearing a suit A suit, suschi, he's, they're not doing anything, someone'll nick their briefcases, must be fucking hot, his head, they're all fucking fish, a fucking fish? urghhh ok where the fuck is Damon, where'd everyone go, the floors all sticky, the musics banging in the other room, maybe he's there, shall I go, nah stay, lets go, where are you taking me, oh its you, Nick!, ok, cool, everythings cool, ok, wait, wait a second, water, yeah, have you got any water mate, here, can we sit down, I need the loo, wheres the, the, the the, the, the the, where'd everyone go? Can we get out of here, I was, its, there were these fish, the loo, I said there were these fish, fuck it, I need to go, lets go to the, where are you taking me? The - oh ok, Wriggling, fucking hell, wo, wo, ok. that was close, so many people in here, hmmm, water fill it up, fill fill fill Phil, Fill Phillip up, up, up, hmmm, ok right, sort it out, in out in out, breath, alright, Can we go... into the sea, you and me, I need some, can we go... please? Nick? Where'd, oh you're, cool! [Voice in back ground muffled in the back ground fades in at the end and takes over]

NICK
'He's totally fucked, I'm taking him home, we'll grab a taxi, I'll see you guys back at home. Greg - mate we're going home, come on I'm taking you home - you're fucked mate, come on, lets go home, see you guys in a bit... ..what a night eh? Fuck. Sort it out Greg. Come on, GREG! Mate lets go - yeah, Turnham green ok? get in the cab. Yeah - Turnham Green please mate. How much? Cool. What a night eh? How are you feeling? We'll be home in a bit. Fuck me what a night. How cold is it! Can we smoke in here mate? Greg you got a light? A light? Fuck you are so messed up. You'll be fine. Love it. What's that? Turn it up would you? Greg, this is the new Jack album I was telling you about, I fucking love this tune... '

GREG
hehehehe... .Yeah ... love it... .

Verses: A Long distance letter

15th February 2004

Dearest Rachel,

Its so great to hear back from you and I'm glad all is well - I cant believe its nearly been three years since we last hooked up!!

It sounds like you're having a great time - do you get any time to sleep or eat? I'm stuck here in Stockholm for another few weeks and I cant tell you how jealous I am to hear how hot it is out there... It seems like a life time ago that we were all sat by Dad's pool, drinking those tiny bottles of beer, smoking, drinking... listening to the Beatles..I miss it.

Remember how we'd all yawn when Dad would talk about being there and how shit music is today... we all rolled our eyes then... but he was right... I wish I'd been there in the sixties. Imagine being the first to rush home with the Sgt Peppers album - absorbing the new and exciting sounds and marvelling at the strange and beautiful artwork... Just to have seen them play at the Cavern - I would've faithfully followed them from their mop haird early years, to their psychedelic climax when pop videos looked like they were filmed inside a lava lamp. You? I think you'd've been a Rolling Stones fan... just to piss everyone off :P x

Still, I can't complain. I am content that I at least have the albums and the fond memories I have of our time together... listen to me, I can hear the violins playing...

Do you remember back at Saint Mary's? What was the teachers name - David I think... . I sware every time I hear Red Moon I remember us sitting there. DO you remember? At the end of each day the teacher would pull out his guitar and get us all to sing along to 'Cool Jerk & The Blindman' or 'You look just like me'... (yes I was convinced they had written that especially for us!!! ;) )

Anyway I'm rambling and I have to be at work in an hour - so I'll love you and leave you... send my love to Jenny and David and I'll see you really soon!!

Don't be a stranger,

Martha xx

Karmasuitsu: Lost Love

Finally I'm home - I've only been away working for a fortnight but it feels like I've been away forever. My bags are still unpacked and sitting in the corridor by the door, and I'm busy doing nothing - watching the clock tick tock - is it slowing down? The temptation to call you at work has been horrible - but I know how much you'd hate that - God, I can't wait to see you.

The Chinese wardrobe that we had to lower over the side of our neighbours fence into the garden and bring in through the French windows, because it was too big to fit through the door of our lower ground floor flat in Newington Green is wobbling on its little wood carved feet as I find myself stomping little circles in the tiny living room.

At 7pm I hear the key rattle in the door. I hear a Dutch swear word and the doorbell ring. I race down the corridor. Something topples over in the spare bedroom as I crash past it and rip open the door.

There you are. You're scarf wrapped around your neck, your shoulders hunched. Two round beautiful eyes look up at me and you offer up a fragile smile that, to my surprise, seems a little forced. I want to ask if everything is okay, but can't stop myself from simply picking you up and hugging with all my might.

Pulling back, your arms wresting on my chest, we stand in the door for a moment looking at each other. As you gently ease away and head down the corridor, you bump past my bags and then place your briefcase carefully in front of them, glancing back at me as you do, something's wrong - but surely it cant be me.

The next hour is a blur. We fall into the routine we've always had. As you strip in our tiny bedroom, we tell each other about work and what we've been up to. You blow-dry your hair, I chop up vegetables and in our own ways we get ready for dinner : You get dressed, I cook, we sit down, we eat, we talk at each other, we drink a bottle of wine I brought back from my travels.

Later that evening, I'm sitting at the kitchen table, drawing cartoon circles on an A3 piece of paper. I've made a list of all our friends and am excitedly arranging the names around them. We're getting married in six months and although it's a way away - the clock is ticking! After sliding names around for a few minutes I look up but you've disappeared into the bedroom.

'Come over here and see what you think,' I say, although I'm pretty sure I've got the placing sorted and wont need any adjusting, I'm guessing you'll make some changes for the hell of it.

After a minute you appear at the doorway separating the living room from our bedroom. You just stand there, silhouetted by the light from our bedroom, saying nothing and not moving. Eventually you offer, 'I don't want to do this now honey.'

'What? Don't you want to marry me now?,' I joke looking back down at the names that I accidentally jogged out of place.

Silence. I rest my hands on the table and look up, tilting my head with a question mark.

'I'm not sure anymore' you offer by explanation. And there it is.

You wait for a moment. I feel my face go numb as you stare me out. As I get up from the stool and move towards where you're standing, you turn and go back inside the bedroom. I arrive at the doorway and stand by the edge of the bed, to find you standing on the other side of the bed in the corner of the room.

There's a buzzing in my ear. Like when you're on a plane and you first realise you need to pop you're ears and I can feel my chest tightening. 'What do you mean?'

Again nothing. You're big beautiful eyes are cold, you're arms crossed firmly. I start mumbling something but I don't really know what I'm saying anymore, but it all amounts to the same thing. Shock. Disbelief. This is a bad dream. Surely we can work it out? And Why? Why now? After I finally show you I'm going to make something of myself. Is there someone else? There must be someone else. Yes, someone else - That's it. While I was away? Or Longer? What did I do wrong?

Then it comes out. Blurted 'I don't see a future.' And to reiterate, 'I don't see a future with you.' You turn and start to rearrange the clothes on the shelf behind you.

This is really happening. And as you stand there jaw clenched, your back to me. I can feel the tears in my eyes. The lump in my throat has stopped me talking and I'm gripping the edge of the bed. I focus on the white on my knuckles as desperation sinks in.

I go back out to the living room, staring into nowhere. I cant breath. When I return to the bedroom you're already in bed. This is my bed too. So I undress and join you. I want to pretend that we didn't have the conversation. That this isn't happening. My heart is racing as we both lye their looking at the ceiling. Anything I say is batted back with a quiet apology. Something tells me that words aren't going to work so maybe having sex will.

Clumsily going through the motions, it's delicate and slow, but I feel so hollow. It wasn't always like this. I try to imagine that you're not doing this out of pity. Is there someone else? As we reach the end, or rather I do, I see that you're crying. Why? Its stops me dead and I roll over onto my side. I reach up, turn the lights off and stare at the ceiling.

The panic is swirling and I wrestle with the bed sheets as you slip gently off to sleep.

The picture I'd painted for my life, for our life, ripped down in an instant.

Why?

MLK: A journey

There is something about the ethereal quality of time lapse which captures the series of moments making up a journey. A car ride streaking past a busy motorway condensed into seconds; air traffic from a busy urban airport leaving light trails in the sky; these will evoke our sense of motion through time and space that leave such an indelible mark in our memories.