Fear

So many times I tried to blog. Honestly. Many. But in the last few weeks I decided that blogging is a "displacement activity". That it only becomes necessary when I have real studying or writing to do. So, as I sit here in Edgehill Library I shall recount one of the many tales of the summer.

I'm afraid of two things- Spiders, and Jeff Wayne's Prog Rock Musical Masterpiece "The War of the Worlds". The two may be related. Anyone who knows my history with The War of the Worlds may skip forward a few paragraphs, because here, for posterity, is the story in full.

The first thing to say is that Jeff Wayne's Musical Version of The War of the Worlds is great music, but Richard Burton and Talk-Boxes are far to frightening for young children.

My own early memories of The War of the Worlds are a little confused, but there is home video evidence of the offending vinyl being played to me while I was in a pram. I have observed an unusual feeling of helplessness on hearing the music of 'Sting and the Police' -another record to which I had infant exposure, and I think this is where the psychosis begins.

I have three particular memories, which i think represent a much greater body of fear:

I remember a caravan holiday in Portballintrae where my sister (the chief perpetrator of these horrors) decided that the best way to alleviate her bordom was to lock us inside our Maroon Ford Sierra (with the grey upholstery) and listen to a tape of the music and drama which already frightened us so much. I recall thrill turning to nauseating fear and clawing to get out of the car as those Casette-Captured martians exhulted: "UUUULAAAAAH!"

The next thing I remember is that Dad was forced to hide the physical tape that the music was recorded on, so scared were we of the magnetic imprint of this alien howling. I remember discovering the tape in the attic, and having to climb up the ladder quickly to get past the tape. I remember my sister (the author of my fear) and myself standing on that same ladder, quoting sections of The War of the Worlds to each other. Something about "Like prisoners in their own homes."

Finally I remember how the Martian Voices became a favourite childhood threat. My sister (Queen of Terror) used to scare me telling me "There's a Dracula in the bath!", but this soon became; "The Uulaahs will get you!" You cannot comprehend the terror.

Time moved on. The tape was moved from the attic to another secret location (The garage?) and the fear that once held me in its thrall fell out of time and memory...

...Until I was twelve. I remember attending a fireworks display at Bangor Castle. The pyrotechnic boredom was accompanied by various pieces of science-fiction music played especially loud to increase audience excitement. "Eve of the War" must have been a last-minute choice for the producers of "The Greatest Sci-Fi tunes" because it came near the end. I remember thinking "Uh-oh". I wasn't afraid. I wasn't looking over my shoulder for Tripod figures. I wasn't even scared that "The Uulaahs" would get me, but I remember tears coming. I wasn't crying as such, but I did have that helpless 'Sting and the Police' nausea. I jammed my fingers tight in my ears, but the CD player must have been cranked up to eleven, because it did precisely nothing. I went home feeling a little foolish, but moreover wondering what it was in a piece of music that could inspire such a primal fear. Time moved on and I didn't spend much of my life thinking about The War of the Worlds...

...Until I was fifteen. I had always appreciated what a good piece of work Jeff Wayne's musical was, what a prolific piece of science-fiction. So when my sister (A bit like Wes Craven, really) bought me the "Jeff Wayne's Musical Version of The War of the Worlds" Real-Time-Strategy game for PC at Christmas time, of course I installed it. I even listened to some of the CDs that came with it. (We had listened to the excerpts CD in the car at around the same time) It's a good game. The problem is, when you play as the Martians and complete a campaign, they... make a noise... celebrate... comisserate... anyway it sounds like "UUULAAAH!" and its gosh-darn chilling. I thought I was coping quite well until I was playing with my back to a darkened window and no-one else in the house. I lost a campaign. The Martians comisserated in their own terrible way. Then they comisserated again. And again. I realised I was alone in the house. The Martians continued commisserating. What was happening? Nausea. I jammed my fingers in my ears and remembered fireworks. The computer had crashed and was stuck playing that worst noise over and over. Thankfully everyone else came home shortly. I've not played the game since.

I decided this time last year that 21 was much too old to be scared of a piece of music, and so I set about desensitizing myself to "The War of the Worlds". On a late-night walk through Crawfordsburn Carl compared a tree sillouhette to a Spielberg-tripod. Spielberg didn't scare me, but it reminded me of something that did. I resolved then that one day I would listen to "The War of the Worlds" right there in the forest.

I bought a beat-up paper back copy of the novel, but didn't get past the words "Aloo! Aloo!" Then, wandering in HMV with a £10 voucher I convinced myself that if I could find the CD for under £10 I would have to buy it. It was on offer. £9.99. I listened to it in work. It wasn't as I had remembered. There was a lot more funk involved than I recalled. A lot more slap-bass. Some of the dialogue my sister (the fearmonger) and I had frightened each other with wasn't in it. There was no "Prisoners in their own homes" line. There was no reprise of "Eve of the War" featuring martian voices. It was quite good.

Then, late one night, a group of us gathered at my house. It took a long time to get batteries and a working CD player, but at midnight we set off into Crawfordsburn. It is the perfect location. As we climbed the steps onto the grassy bank I thought "Here is Horsell Common." There were already Barbeque scorch-marks in the grass -"The Heat Ray." I looked out to sea where a boat was still making its journey- "Thunderchild." Carl's Tripod-Tree was behind us, Crawfordsburn hospital made the perfect abandoned house and strangely, on that night of all nights, a car had somehow made its way onto that embankment, and a single head-light shone into the darkness providing our common with its very own cylinder. We listened to the whole thing, sometimes crammed into a small tent, sometimes taking in the appropriate scenery. When I got in at 4.30AM I was cured.

Last week I bought a lovely hard-back copy of the book with the album art on the front. It's a good read. I may reinstall that computer game. The best bit of all is that my sister (an intellect vast, cool and unsympathetic) is still just as terrifed as she ever was. Maybe I shall get my revenge when at Christmas 2007 we go to see the Musical performed live, complete with Martian Fighting Machine! "UUUUULAAAAAH!"