The Fever Beat

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Nigel Ayers

Nigel Ayers (born 1957 in Tideswell, Derbyshire) is an English multimedia artist. His sound art has included numerous audio releases and live performances through his group Nocturnal Emissions.His sound art collaborations includes work with Bourbonese Qualk, C.C.C.C., Andrew Liles, Lustmord, Randy Greif, Robin Storey, Expose Your Eyes, Stewart Home, Z'EV, and Zoviet France.In 1980, he founded the record label Sterile Records, releasing the first records by John Balance, Maurizio Bianchi and Lustmord, among many others. In 1987 he formed the Earthly Delights (record label).In the early 1990s, he performed live soundtracks for the Butoh performances of Poppo & the Go Go Boys. His visual art has been exhibited in the Tate, ICA, and worn by the soccer legend Dieg… more »

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Well, it isn't really so
And if it is,
It's like the fever beat
I've unscrambled it
It gave out a faint high pitch squeal
It oooohed and ohhhhhed
I could hear the odd doof
Then crack!,  then prooh
A pffft -  whack, whack whack
The thudding boop, boop, boop
A doo, doo, doo, doo,
Boop, boop, boop, boop
He went, 'Urrhh, yeah, yeah
And then he went,' Urrrhhh! hurrh

The little man twitched at the sound
And not worrying about the scrunching noise
Jumped the machine to different tracks on the disc
What they'd recorded before
Had been a great deal of static
They hired the very best technicians,
Just to be certain that it sounded right
It was too neat, but who the hell cares

It was quiet again,
In the centre of the town,
On the ground face down
With a liquid foam
The clothes, the shoes, the skin
And the boneheaded

Sag from the sky
Leak through cracks in the floors
Above the length and the width
Never heavy enough

A coat of paint absorbed the light
Which never seemed to get brighter
And inch-thick sheets
A stupid place to fall asleep

Now with a stiff upper drip
I checked the slow insidious rain
Could be heard or felt
By someone on a layer of pasteboard trailers
Shacks, sheds, and lean-tos
A hundred thousand fibreglass people
Topped with tarpaulin
Strung end to end
Block after block of sheds
Lighted windows glowed
Littering the insulate
Epitomised the English
That sort of cold, wet rain

Suddenly he saw the motorcyclist
A hurtling beacon or something
Blinded him for a moment
His eyes misted  over
And then he had to ram it with his bus
Sending the Jeep back across onto the opposite pavement

The wind cut through his bulky clothing
As he crossed in front of the car
Away from the headlights and the front wheels
Lifting his bus to140 kilometres per hour
And completely off the ground
Before flipping and rolling and spinning off the road

At the same time as the car screeched and ripped
The door slammed
And he saw the passenger hurtle
On a diagonal course for the opposite ditch
And the car accelerated towards them
Skidding, then righting itself
In a perfectly replicating sequence

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