Martin Creed has proved himself to be the ‘Dada’ of chronologically dislocated post-minimal avante-bluesrock. Imagine Brecht gardening in a post -apocolyptic allottment whilst the choking flowers sing early Zappa as covered by Nilsson and you might come close to grasping a thimblefull of the vapour of Creeds liminal enigma played out on stage where every cast iron certainty is revealed to be the mere shadow of a chimera drawn shallow atop shifting sands. This is Artaud directing The Seagull using only the first two chords from Judy is a Punk, and a cast of a solitary raven. This is a bipolar Giorgio Moroder playing tiddlywinks with the Incredible String band during a drum shortage in the winter of dis-contents; Mark E Smith translating La Nausea into morse code and chopping it out onto the shattered mirror in Iggy and Ziggy’s vortex-tual dressing rooms; Suicide in 'Waiting for Bonzo,' as the Dooh Dah band gargle absinthe soaked Cale. This is Richard. D. James as Lee The Agent Naked taking his Lunch of mainlined acid house through an intra-venus xylophone.
Creed is a one man Hegelian music hall; theorist, magus, shaman, conjuror, janitor, consumer, talk show host and clown, a wrecked racontuer of reification warped into Rothko overdosing on P.I.L. He is you, I and Id. Everything minus nothing leaving everything. Existentialism bleached blonde by nihilsm. Curtis reading the myth of narcisuss to the corpse of Cobain as the waters of Styx reflect a rotting apple atop the bowler hatted head of Beefheart...cont (forever)