Karen Langley has been described by the music press as a “conduit of harmonic vibrational frequencies from other time-lines”. She possesses 3 degrees (one in Geophysical Leisure Mapping!), speaks in 6 languages (can sing in 3 – “at a push”) and has worked as a peace envoy for the International Movement for Personal Evolvement (nick-named “small-change”, sponsored by the Guardian). With Russian/Roma/Native-American ancestry, Karen is fascinated with cultural roots and music and has spent time with Shamanic Elders and Nordic Wise women – learning the Gurdjieff dance movements that inform her stage persona). Whilst in Paris, studying mime/trapeze under the great Louis St.Clair (“I smile and fly without a care!”), she befriended the mysterious bohemian outsider known as Mr.LeBeck, the darling Svengali of the burgeoning poetry/jazz/ukulele scene. Drawn into this off-beat maelstrom of night-people and dazed dreamers, Karen resided for 6 months in LeBecks’ famous Paris Commune, learning Mongolian overtone chanting, Tibetan music and French horn, in the company of celebrity seekers (such as Cher, Joan Baez, Adele and Sarah Millican). LeBecks great successes at mentoring female artists, inspired Karen to start her own off-shoot group, named “Spiritstone”, (front-runners such as Ed Sheeran and Jake Bugg soon went on to glory after the basic primary care package at the centre). Dedicated to nurturing the odd and the beautiful of the arts and music world, Karen disbanded the group after 6 months due to “disharmony and difference and fragile egos”. She returned to England, where, as front singer/speaker/writer of artrock band BABAL, Karen continues to engage with the many musical, philosophical and mind-expanding roots and shoots of ancient systems of belief, modern technology, facebook and libraries. She hates cooking, but has a great deal of knowledge about herbs and natural remedies. As she says; “Peace, love and have one on me………”
Writing for yourselves now, every day; paper plasters over storms and wars. Blackened words; short and not so sweet. Your diary of death is never complete; but fewer buy the daily blues; as word-blind bailiffs steal our shoes. Writing for yourselves now, every day – a journal impersonal that fills up the time, between buying the paper and reading the line. Feed us the lines, bleed out the lines, hook, line and sinker; missed that one in the news. Whose story are you writing? Can you cancel half a line if no-one reads this paper plane of dissected pain? Journalist vivisector, blue disease, word collector. Pick the letters like sweetened meats, column inches of honeyed treats. Slipping truth a daily crime, grease the palm and write the line. Writing for yourselves now, every day, looking good in the neo-liberal way; two-homes Charlie with a socialized soul, money up the nose and all down the wall. Craven wordsmith, write your piece; no-one’s reading! At the very least, you read and write for daily bread, and you could fit all your readers in one shed. No-one’s reading, no-one gives a damn; it’s pulp, it’s pointless, it’s a tin full of spam. Write off now and stop perceiving you have a message that needs believing. Go, be a hermit and find out the truth; what really is the news can never be written. Stuff all the papers down into the fire, the ink is now dry on your script; you’re a liar. Karen Langley.