An Evening With The Count

An Evening With The Count
1st. of September, year 2001
The Carriage House

(Q 1)
Count Whiteberg, how are you my friend, how is your life at the present ?
What kind of a life does a snail lead ?
Throughout life he just gets bigger and bigger and then dies,
Only his shell is left.
A token to the reality of his existence.
The sea looks like glass
the rays of sunlight cutting through the clouds.
I am like a small particle in the water.
I started out as a trickle from a peat bog
where I was surrounded by lots and lots of other little particles.
But of course, I ran into a small stream where I was more apart from the others.
The situation got worse as I passed into a bigger stream, a river.
At the rate I’m going, I fear that I will soon be in the ocean.

(Q 2)
Are you saying that you are slowly but surly becoming a part of contemporary western society ?

It is all to do with cosmetics, the people are very cosmetic and superficial. If the outside is OK, why powder the inside ? Just like a lot of things; high on presentation, but lacking in content, empty.
When I walk into a room full of people who have never set eyes on me before, I wish for them to respond to me with laughter. Then when they get to see me more often, I wish to see the hatred in them at my mere sight.
I wish to erase my memory completely and start a fresh, experiencing the things that I wish, with guidance from a competent master, this way I would not be troubled by such a lot of insidious things.
I have much to say about love, life and friends. Who are the ones to love, and why does fate cause such upset of the mind. Love should just happen and be done with.
Life is for moving closer to the goal of master, this life is but a second in comparison with total life. Each life should be used to bring one a step closer to Mastery.
I am the spectator of all walks of life and what ever I have to say is as important as what I say.
My work aims to be the most daring, most advanced, most eccentric emanation of all that has been done in music to date. I am going to make a real nuisance of myself and not stop until all around me have declared me to be mad, incomprehensible, grotesque, etc.
Now I see that a situation is only what one makes it; if a worthless fellow, the situation becomes worthless.
Any situation can become an illuminating experience.
But man now takes a lowly view of himself, we are supposed to be consumers and not much else; and yet the true name of an object is so powerful that it is almost incomprehensible. For example, there is a word which describes me in totality if this word is ever spoken I would probably vanish without trace.

It happened quite quickly
dance around looking at me
dance right up towards it
I couldn’t ignore it
heads have made contact
lubrication is needed
saliva is running
tongues go into action
walk out of the nightclub
walk up to the station
sit upon a green bus
sets towards destination
communication is needed
pick up the receiver
Buzz Buzz goes the speaker
All I want is to meet ya.

A recital I believe of one of your infamous lyrics Count.
You are documented as saying that you do not believe your work to bare any relation to popular music, may I ask, therefore, how you would compare your music to that of, say, a contemporary orchestra?

The most complex orchestras boil down to four or five types of instrument,
varying in timbre. Instruments are played by bow or plucking; by blowing into metal or wood and by percussion.
I think that to demonstrate or perform my sound pieces to the incredulous public would be like showing an assembly line robot to a heifer.

She ran across to meet me in
a wedding dress black and gold
it crossed my mind how slight she was
she really made my blood run cold.
The thick white vail that covered her face
a sign of her locked in state.
to crack this cold exterior
to overcome the powers of fate.
But I was certain that she was wrong as she rushed into the depths
Even though I hallowed her it was all too late.
Take this opportunity and use my confused state
I am the grass beneath you feet so do it before its too late.
Tread me down in to the dirt and use me good and true
Not wind nor rain can stop me now
I give myself to you.

Waiting for the nightfall, sat among the trees
I was trying to concentrate on the lights below.
I felt impelled to move and sit myself down on a lump of grass and move on again.
A moth flew past across my path, but I could not communicate with the chap.
I came to some rocks and felt the heat, that feel on my face I was half expecting.

The water was tumbling down
Your head went under about to drown
and pale lit skies
shrouded in pain
we tried to cover up
but we only got stuck
and the water went inside of our brain
the trees penetrated the soil
and grew out their branches
reaching high
the rain came down

I try to catch their eyes
but quickly turn away
For when I catch their eyes
I don’t have anything to say

Late evenings spent
Mind drifting away
when the night is through
I don’t have anything to say.

Nothing much at all
nothing much to say

But then I saw you, I did
I did have something
I did have something too say

but there were no words
there were no words
I wanted to speak
but there were no words
and there were no words so we did not speak
But we danced
and we danced
we were laughing
and then we touched...........
dance dance dance

Not satisfied with the deliberately objective view, you are responding to your environment, allowing your actions to be expressed in the form of images. I am confronted with art that speaks of your personal relationships and personal world, you appear to express a need to talk about yourself

But it is not that I want to talk about myself, Indeed I hate talking about myself. That is why my work is so difficult to understand. The obscurity of my work gives select people a chance to learn about me if they are interested, people like yourself.

Yes, I have discovered more about you in your work, since it is about things that one cannot talk about. One understands, but one cannot translate.

And so you know me better than I do myself, or is it just a me or is it something closer to my nature or indeed god.

Maybe I am wrong, Perhaps your work communicates nothing but itself.

I recall in the first year at school, a young chap called Philip Morris. He appeared to come from a relatively poor background, his clothes were scruffy, and he never looked clean, everyone thought that he stank, and he did. Pupils would go and wash their hands if they accidentally touched him. Anyhow, on one occasion during a painting and drawing class, Philip painted a sheet of A3 paper totally black. The teacher saw this, smacked him and sent him out of the room, Philip protested that he had painted it as a background, at the time I couldn’t help but think that Philip was right.

Do you feel humbled by the presence of children these days
Yes, because I know how much I have lost since my own childhood, I have lost a close circle of friends with whom I had the freedom to express myself, no one ever thought of me as being weird then, I was just normal, a little boy; among my peers I was a leader; the leader of the Divil Gang, never without a friend. Cotty, Shacky, Noggin, Chezzy, Mickey, Sugar , Oggy, and Parry. to name but a few.
Noggin and Chezzy were my closest friends, to some extent they were both replaced by Maitland White.

And what of the other friends, have they subsequently been replaced ?

It is difficult to say, the Noggin/Chezzy/White comparison is the only one that stands out. Although one could equate Oggy with Pablo, Parry with Ronnie, and Mickey with Philip. But one has to remember that these kids were around my house every day, so it is not quite the same.

How long must I wait
to overcome the powers of fate
you know how I feel
You know my efforts are for real
wanting and giving myself to you
show me a heart who needs you
I shall go to the moors
The Standedge tunnel ventilation shaft
waits silently
open mouthed
waiting to consume my body
it is dark and lonely
only on small step to take.

(Q 9)
At one stage in your life you are believed to have said that you found yourself in the midst of a social renaissance which was curiously combined with a creative depression.

It begins first with interest.
One is interested in something and the next moment
one is in it , and one doesn’t exist.

An Idea is a complex or abstract concept,
emotional understanding is the aim of art,
emotional feelings are best expressed in music –
the language of the future,
space is the form of our sense perception

space is form
until our perception is born
complex is the abstract
wise are its followers
in and out go people
in and out of what has been born
and what has been born with no fear
no scorn

This is where it all started
in peace
listening to the wind in the trees and grass
but now so many things have been spoiled by memory
so many ideas
so many beautiful concepts
ruined for ever
and so when ever means not at all
this is when all is lost
and not all at all.

I look upon success and failure with an equal eye,
you cannot insult I, only my ego, which is not I,
The I is not effected.

Count, you have been accused by many critics for being obsessed by death and graveyards.

I don’t think when it all boils down, that I am really into places where the bodies of the deceased lie, I think, Indeed I know that I am more interested in beings, especially beings whom I find I have an attraction to. As far as I can make out beings are very important; their bodies are like an extension of the beings themselves. The body of a being can, without a doubt, be an indication of its past. This is why I must deeply observe the important being’s outer bodies, in an attempt to discover the being itself. And then I shall observe myself also. By far the best way to observe a beings outer body is to make a likeness by closely looking at the subtle facets and transferring them onto a piece of paper with the use of an instrument which makes marks.
I look at a beings body and ask myself,”what is it ?”
At the same time I look within myself for this is what we shall all be doing in the golden age.
This is why I take many light images of myself, it is another way of observation.
The hedgehog is one of the oldest existing mammals.

Grass moor mud wind cold Fresh peat
vast water
desolate frogs howl as sheep jump down
fresh winds splash the grass thrash the bogs will howl
as sure as face not here
grouse will cackle into vast emptiness

Rotting gaps in wooden smell
of damp grave for frogs,
some leaves crunch out
but soon slimy under large foot of pig
sniffing for truffles in underground worms
eat leaf litter in fading light, slugs too.
Many branches do become bare
for cold Mr. frost face as well
as door mouse snuggles warmly in dry nest.

Pot of coffee cinder path house awaiting.
Where is it what district exactly,
take her away today,
in and out of fields of grass
and stonewalls do rock
as we move with speed over broken bottles
hidden in graves yet alive with maggots
and a glass candlestick on the hearth still burns
it’s dim black nightshade with all yet to seek,
all yet to seek.

Music stuck in harem
under sit I stand,
cushion with sequins and pearls in high places
with sharp eyes teeth and skin in laser light
with a shimmer of moon
and all about the calm lagoon
with breeze from the east
and hot spice wine drunk lagoon
warm black water soft bushes banks
green seen but for a speck of light on the far shore.

Glistened night with smoother skin
the jingle jangle of beads and diamonds
and smoke with soft warm sensual taste
and feel well formed females
look see eyes and deep dark sense of joy,
oh take me to my harem,
wonders explode,
soft warm incense burns
dark shadows slide in and out
the moon and stars in dark blue skies
to flicker for ever and ever

The veil will lift
begin become
worlds aware for silk moon
spirit gushes fourth
the soul in moonlight reflecting essence
feminine itself stretches uppermost boundaries
oneness divine qualities
the light the eye
of the light slips back
fountain water gushes essence itself
unity spirit moonlight
return return return

A noise in my ear
prison cell
the light absorbed in walls of doom
inside outside wind
and the dirt piles up in the Everglades
where women play
in soft white frocks
and misty vision tingling bell of blue
soaks into my skin as I sit upon the warm wet grass
feel the air against my skin
Love and laughter
soft sun in the sky
the search for women with tails
what ever it takes
a tight light woman with long finger nails
hammering in the coffin nails
squeezing out of their buttocks
sucking an a licking
bursting cocks

Subtly changing
when I think of it I said
nothing must come from somewhere
so I draw it instead
take off your pants and lie down
tell me about your period
it’s true

Can I get dressed
well but only feel why
wasn’t he
you go quiet
the way or the word after all
there might be nothing not tonight
I think the spirit acts on the body
in itself or dead in a coffin
can it give you comfort
don’t you like my body
it’s still
I’m a real woman too
he doesn’t even know how to walk his dog
I’m scared too
it doesn’t happen every day
but I believe in the opposite

We are sat on the rocks, approximately 30 metres apart. We are strangely dressed creatures, aliens from another world. Walkers pass in ones and twos, threes an fours pretending not to notice us.
It is beyond their comprehension, for anyone to just sit there and apparently do nothing.
The air is still and the sun has heat, although, it is a subtle heat as it shines down onto us.
The river flows, the babbling brook runs into the river.
Earlier in this performance I did a shit in the open air.
The act of defecation has been removed from us in many ways. When one squats outside one is closer to the action, one actually goes through the whole activity of defecating. The smell is stronger and more wild, the actual feel of it coming out, the look of it as it steams on the grass beneath you.
My clothing is feeling warm now in this sun. The next phase is to sleep, and so I will.

Critics have said that you are obsessed by defecation and micturition, what have you to say on there subjects?

Thing is, what most people don’t get about me, is that most of what I say, if not all, is always half or totally in Jest. My problem in relating to your every day, run of the mill white middle class fool, is that they take everything I say totally seriously, so as this goes on more and more, I start to believe what I am saying is serious. This only leads to misery on my part, so it is better that I keep away from most people. There are so few people who actually know what I’m about; I can not explain myself to a normal person, because even if they understood me, it would only be on their own intellectual level. Intellectual knowledge does not necessarily lead to understanding.
At the end of the day it is up to me to create the inspiration myself, people always have fanciful opinions of their friends, doesn’t matter if they are complete fools, love is blind, for those who have no love are invisible to the herd.

It seems that you are always ready to contradict

Out of the 500 millimetres of material entering the colon per day, about 350 millimetres is absorbed, leaving 150 grams of faeces to be eliminated from the body each day.
The composition of faeces is:100mg h2o and 50 mg of solid material.
this includes; undigested cellulose, bilirubin, bacteria and small amounts of salt.
The main waste product is in fact bilirubin.
Contrary to popular belief, faeces is not made up of waste material from the body, but unabsorbed food food residues and bacteria, which were never part of the actual body.
150 grams per day equals 1.05 Kg per week equals 54.6 Kg per year.
So the average person defecates approximately his or her own body weight per year.
In a life span of say fifteen years one evacuates approximately 800 Kg of shit.
A tin of Tesco supreme cat food contains 150 g of a substance with similar consistency to shit. These tins are approximately 70x70x35 mm. If one was to can all of one's shit in this way starting from day one of one’s life; one would have 5333 tins of one’s excreta. If these were placed end to end, they would stretch 373 metres. If the tins were stacked in a cube its volume would be 7.2 cubic metres. Alternatively the shit could be stored in solid block form, in which case the end result after 15 years would weigh 800kg and measure 7 cubic metres.
Such a cube would probably not support itself unless it were frozen.
The shit would be many shades of brown and one would be able to see different layers relating to different years depending on what had been eaten.

And over the hill was revealed a valley, the valley was deep and contained water, the water sparkled in the morning sunlight, peaking through the grey clouds. A sheep was lame it hobbled away, with it , last years lamb. The grass was unfriendly and did not want anyone to walk through it, but it had to give way to the old cart track. So many people have come and gone in this most unpopulated part of the earth, one or two derelict ruins have been turned into dwellings, whilst some have been pillaged for their stone, to make suburban bungalows in the village. I walk quietly through open fields, looking from a distance, totally in place.
Chaos is external
free your mind
the bottom of the sea is still
You will find
I am loosing my mind
I am loosing my body
I am loosing my breath
I am Defecating
you can loose your breath
you can loose your mind
but you can not loose your self
Shit comes out of my ass hole
food goes in my mouth
oxygen in
carbon dioxide out
Ideas go in
Art comes out

At first it seemed that time was like sex,
she moved very little and sat alone in her bedroom
she was not exactly happy
her family had never involved her in the marketing facilities of the country,
and instead relied on steeling her friendships

The pressure claimed the citizen who caught the thrower in circulation
this discovery is to know the speed not the train when returned to the grade of the Idea of the self
Have the people at last become angry at the avalanche of the stately head.

I was contemplating taking up a residence in a house far from the reaches of the city. The house was large but shared its roof with a public house. Contemplating which of the spacious rooms to occupy, someone began to chase us up a steep grassy slope. He attempted to creep inside a dry stone wall, which collapsed. He and the wall went tumbling down the slope, he was probably crushed or had his skull smashed, but I’m not sure.
The house seemed large until I realised from the intercom on the wall that it was made up of flats. I went into the lobby and rang the bell, I was expecting an old lady to answer; instead an orchestra began to play a fan fair for about 30 seconds, like a funeral march. Then as the music died down, a cold voice said “who is it ?” I can not remember what I experienced but she came down in a lift. Again I was expecting a little old woman, but instead a tall blond woman appeared in a long leather coat. She spoke in a smooth American accent and said that we could get back in around the corner. She took me outside and then onto a shopping mall, where we went through a white door with a black number on it. Inside was a ladies public toilet with female urinals. The woman stood in front of one them but her piss spurted in the wrong direction through her legs, it appeared yellow on the white tiled floor. I looked again and saw that she had forced an erect penis between her legs. She said that her clitoris was massive.
There was another girl on the scene at that point, though I think that she had been there all along. We all went to bed for a sponsored sex session. I had intercourse with them a record 50 times each. Later I went home and walked through all the neighbours houses to get to mine. My sister was watching TV with her boyfriend, so I went to bed.

I entered a world which was of my own creation,
I had something to add,
a wooden post with a badly crafted point on top.
The world was heavily wooded,
I walked down an overgrown cart track,
things seemed strange
this world was alien.
I saw some white bees swarming ahead of me,
not many,
about thirty or so.
They had smooth elongated egg shaped bodies.
As I approached them,
some of them stuck to my face.
The world was a forest of tangled trees
I walked down a cart track on bended knees
Things were very strange, it was alien for sure
and yet it felt homely like Marsden moor
A swarm of bees were coming my way
smooth and white like an ant would lay
As they approached they stung like mace
they came even nearer and stuck to my face
White bee creatures stuck to my features
White bee creatures stuck to my features

within a hut
there was a shape
a human being
with obscure fate

he mumbled this
he mumbled that
he seemed real pissed
and he wore a hat

He came up to me
he looked and peered
he had a brown beard
and he looked real weird

He ripped off his shoe
shook his fist
breathed some mist
and said ‘shit in this’

I did not want
to do that deed
if I had a need
I could have peed

A girl came near
and squatting down
she did a fart
a rasping sound

Her anus bulged
and it came out
a five inch tube
a mega pout

it was a tubular ass hole

(Q 13)
Describe for us the average day in the life of Count Whiteberg

This garment of decay
floats aimlessly in the darkness
and I can only but watch
as the misery unfolds itself

Throughout the day I sit and stare into the black death of the computer screen, the blood red lines monotonously turn to yellow. Shapes are clicked and dragged, orders given, and I am nothing, may intellect ceases to be anything; I am robotic, I am a circus primate. Blackness surrounds my blackness and cheep femininity. I wonder through dead none streets, black, hating loathing, looking straight ahead, Imagining thoughts that don’t exist in the minds of passers by.
Hate so much, I cannot love my fellow man, only when I consume the godforsaken liquid of Satan am I risen; able to see through the toxic black haze with it’s diesel fume micro dot and airborne mercury, the blackness of sealing wax.
I take solace in the meagre financial arrangements of a latter day surf, living in the dwelling of a nobody.

In ridiculous jest, in a self indulgent none-entity action of interest to no-one, I loose all have prepared for and am reduced to scattering death among the ruins of decay. Protection from brightness disappears only to be replaced by ridicule and the inferior.

In drunken blackness, my mind empty, I roboticly prepare for the day ahead, its inevitability a forgone conclusion, I sold my soul for a midnight illusion. To stay within the walls of the ivory tower, sharing the space with machinery, never seeing day light, only radiation.

Foolish in the darkened pit of ignorance, I search relentlessly, not knowing for a second, that the object of my search lies beneath me.

I spend an era half believing in an empty insignificance manifested in nothingness. I damn that to hell and also the person from which it came. I am the source of despair among those who engage me; incompatible stubborn and ignorant I am unable to act in the way of an everyday happy human being. On my throne I sit in nothingness with eyes closed knowing my blunder.

Wading through the complex surface of this world, entangled in thorns, sometimes unable to move and so succumbing to sleep. Sometimes rising above the blackness, enjoying the over view; but scared to death of an inability to see the door.

As each day passes, I renounce a little more. the more I renounce, the more focussed I become. Eventually I will have renounced everything, my only focus will be on God.

Just as one can wake up from a dream and understand that it was only a dream, having been convinced that it was a reality whilst asleep. One can wake up from the condition of waking sleep and that this too is not real, since it is not the Self.

The hard dryness of concrete,
the Ice cold chill of relentless pumped air.
Lights flash, colours make shapes,
A splash of sea and sand
through the mist a ray of sunlight
People laughing eating dancing.

Dull lethargic spiritless movement
dust and dirt
people at work without a goal
dogs and cats are food
the sun breaks through the smog
buildings crumble and grow.

Sun directly above makes my head burn
white sand and heat
needles and cars bend
Speaks of home
a place is a place wherever
people not at work
people at play,
a mixture of language and culture
hard to be creative in a negative way
Fruit on trees
falls upon the street
mosquitoes bite
dogs howl
mountains rule a surrealist landscape
volcanic and green.

How do you relate to contemporary culture and technology?

Technology is like soup, over the last 100 years or so, we have been adding more ingredients and it is becoming thicker and, more complex. However, the bowl in which the soup is served remains unchanged.

These days , middle class dowdiness stands for taste.

If I went to school to learn how to communicate, who did I want to communicate with?
If I let my ego take control, it would seek to communicate with no one, but in stating this who do I think I am communicating with. Am I to believe that an attempt is being made to communicate with the self, or is it just one aspect of ego talking to another.
May be that is it. Is that why I chose few friends and see very little of them, because I am no longer interested in communication between two egos. If one falls still in connection with the true self whilst communicating by speech with another, does that other cease to be an ego ?

Being one of the un-dead and having lived for many centuries now, I have noticed some changes in society. Ever since writing was codified by Panini around 500 B.C., people have been tending to use their brains less and less relying more and more on technology to do the work. There has been a subsequent loss of profundity in all aspects of human culture. People seem to justify their shallowness by thinking their way of behaviour is new and refreshing, and that the old ways are politically incorrect and archaic. For example, I remember once was a time that a man would never go out in public without a pair of gloves on, contrast that with the virtual nudity seen upon the streets today it is akin to watching animals in a zoo.
But it is not so much a problem with the brain itself, rather the ego of men is blocking out their brains, restricting access to the deeper recesses of the mind.

Count, could you sum up your life thus far ?

My life is disappearing slowly down the plug-hole
and the bath is half empty
the water is luke warm and yellow
and the suds have died away
We are born
we get old
then we die
My life is not like that of a tree;
A tree grows up and matures and gets bigger and bigger
looking more and more magnificent every year.
My life is not like that of a motor car;
A motorcar is born bright shiny and new, as the miles build up, parts wear out but are replaced as and when required, so as time goes on the entire car could be replaced every 500 000 miles or so.
No, my life is like that of a dog, except that the pain lasts longer, a dog only has to suffer for 15 years or so.
Like a dog, I like to do nothing, but unlike a dog I know that in doing nothing I achieve nothing. But then is there really anything to achieve. Only the ego wants to achieve things. The ego thinks, what is the point of living if you do not achieve a thing.
Like a dog I tread water
Like a fish I swim land
Like a cat I lick dishes
Like a worm I sift sand
Like a hole I eat lug worm
Like a horse I did land
Like a fig I eat insects
Like a bog I eat land

Just as a child collects coins to count money
So a man needs the physical world to become realised.

if there is no surface, there cannot possibly be any depth

The thread is not always thicker than the needle that pulls it.

Ladies and gentlemen; Count Whiteberg
We will now have a short interval, then reconvene for any questions from the audience.