It’s been a week of divorces for me. I cut the cord with Tim formally, this being the scribbling of a few signatures in a Harley Street office; and I told Sav I would be trying out other singers for Fosca.

The former was no surprise, though I can’t pretend that it was not a little strange and sad to sign a piece of paper saying I can no longer record or perform under the name Orlando. What would the Dickon of 1993 say, beavering away in his sordid room in Bristol with only a borrowed four-track and a friend called Simon Kehoe and calling the results Orlando, dreaming of recruiting a series of guest boy vocalists, eventually procuring only one, name of Tim Chipping? It’s a form of passing the baton, I suppose. Unkind critics might say passing the buck. I’m riddled with freedom, and it feels both exhilarating and terrifying.

Freedom, like any other positive sensation, is thoroughly addictive. Not content with detachment from one colleague, I spontaneously did the same with another, at least for now. The idea of trying out different vocalists appealed to me once again only recently. Fosca can never be a band in the gang-mentality sense, because I refuse to bond with other human beings. I am at best a social tourist, at worst a sociopath. So Fosca is really the name given to whatever Dickon does musically (as once was Orlando), in any shape or form, and with whatever other people getting involved. I prefer the name “project” to “band”…

It’s really a case of to “to thine ownself be true”. When I recruited Sav, it was with the express purpose of presenting someone that was so completely different to me in every way, as an experiment of the Laddish Lion lying down with the Limp-wristed Lamb. After five gigs and four songs recorded, I decided that maybe this experiment wasn’t working so well after all. Sav is a truly great vocalist and a kind man to others, so it wasn’t an easy decision. At least it wasn’t if you view Fosca as a band. But it isn’t a band, it’s an unpredictable, shifting project. And Sav, through not being an immediately apparent misfit, with consummate irony didn’t fit in Fosca.

So tomorrow Fosca rehearse with a different singer, not to mention an extra guitarist, Charley, who seems to be sticking around to everyone’s delight. So now Fosca is a supergroup of Glamourous London Millennium Misfits, because as well as myself (the Michael Crawford of Rock), Ms Charley Stone (the Helena Bonham-Carter of Rock), Mr Peter Theobalds (the Lukas Haas of Rock) and Mr David Gray (the Julian Sands of Rock), all strange denizens of the capital radiant (or doomed) with their own individual styles, we will now be trying out Mr David Barnett on vocals.

Mr Barnett is a suave, feline boy from Dundee that knows of Sarah Records, Belle and Sebastian and Doctor Who. He works by day for a management company that handles the likes of Suede, and by night attends many a glittering and hip social function. “Who is that boy”, one hears, “the incorrigible foxy Scots flirt with the cheekbones, the one getting drunk all alone on the dancefloor? Is he a pop star?”. He is known to many a fanzine writer trying to set up a piece on Suede. He sings like Bowie circa “Hunky Dory” and Morrissey circa “Strangeways Here We Come”, with the sexier elements of The Only Ones’ singer Pete Perrett (who?).

I’m hoping he’ll fit in. Thanks for bearing with me.

I’ve also just seen and been smitten by the film Clueless, a kind of Heathers with more Jane Austen-style social satire and less “Comedy of Cruelty”; and have hence exchanged my pager for a beautiful pocket-sized mobile phone. Though I’ve promised myself I’ll be using it mainly as a portable message checker, rather than suddenly have a loud one-sided conversation on a bus or in the street. This phone stays private. Until the irritation factor associated with such instruments of the Devil wanes a little more in the public consensus, it’s not good to talk.

Monday February 16th 1998

Another London gig, but we do intend to acknowledge there’s life elsewhere before very long. Fosca play downstairs in the main Garage on Tuesday February 24th, doors 8pm, onstage 10pm. The venue address is The Garage, 20-22 Highbury Corner, London N5, opposite Highbury & Islington tube. It’s £3 with a flyer, which I can send to you as ever.

Hopefully we’ll be featuring young Ms Charley Stone on Other Guitar, and Sav will be attempting to sing and play an acoustic at the same time himself… I’ve found that it’s all very well throwing yourself about the stage, arms flailing in the breeze, but there are times when strings must be strummed as opposed to missed…. and Charley and Sav will hence help to bolster the sound somewhat.

See some of you there.

The first Fosca interview appears in the e-zine Viva Paraguay.

From reading it back, it occurs to me that my worldview and perspective on most things is so massively different to the others in the group, that in future it’s probably best to be interviewed separately. The endless dilemma is trying to strike the balance between not going over people’s heads with outrageous thoughts and theories and run the risk of being misunderstood (as I’ve learnt only too well in the past), and overdoing the “common touch” line of rock interviews, saturated with swearing and unoriginal arrogance. One-to-one is usually best. The old Frank Zappa quote about music journalists being “people who can’t write interviewing people who can’t speak for the benefit of people who can’t read” holds as true as ever, and if I am to prevent Fosca towing the Great Dumbing-Down line and end up sounding like just another band I have to keep my social hermitage intact. So be it. I have to Know My Place.

It’s one of the great tragedies of the human condition. No one ever speaks like or looks like the way they write.

But as I type this, The Carpenters, playing on Melody FM, remind me “we’ve only just begun / we’ll start out walking, and learn to run…”, and I am instantly filled with confidence for the future and for Fosca.

Melody FM is a favourite radio station of London cabbies, being as it is pure back-to-back easy listening and MOR, the only pop station whose DJs sound more like Radio 3 continuity announcers, all cosy whispers and reassuring placatory tones, almost embarrassed to be breaking up the music. It’s a perfect antidote to the onslaught of noise that carpets the capital’s streets. And as its playlist tends towards the likes of The Carpenters, The Style Council, Abba, classic soul, Bacharach and Sondheim, it’s right up my street. One of my many soundbite answers to the question “what do Fosca sound like” is “Barry Manilow being fisted by Sonic Youth”: noisy packaging of anthemic showstoppers… I always thought that No Doubt’s “Don’t Speak” was more a showtune than the sweaty ska-rock that the band otherwise specialise in. On the way home from Fosca rehearsals, Sav puts on tapes of Bread in his car… “something mellow so I can come down from the noise.” It occurs to me that you can have both, and I start work on a new Fosca song, Weightless, to be given its world premiere at our next show at Club Revolver, Friday 30th January, Upstairs At The Garage, 20-22 Highbury Corner, London N5. Admission is £4 with a flyer (available by emailing me). Nearest Tube station is Highbury & Islington, and we take the stage at 9.30pm…

There’s also just been a Fosca Message Board set up on the Web for you to peruse and add to at your whim. Take a look, say something outrageous.

David Gray has devised a questionnaire for all four Fosca members, the results of which are available for you to read here at “6” as soon as I can type them up. He has also submitted his own thoughts on Fosca in a piece called “Last Night I Dreamed I Was Christ”, up shortly. We hope you enjoy your cyber-stay.

Today Pete phones me. Things are happening. He’s moved to E1, we’ve got people interested in managing us, and we’ve been asked to play again. And I STILL haven’t sent out any demos to venues unsolicited!

We next play on Friday January 30th, Upstairs At The Garage, Highbury Corner, London N7.

We’re second on the bill of a three band night, so we’ll probably be onstage 9pm ish.

When we played Blow Up, Jo, the co-promoter, asked me if I had a brother. My heart lept at the thought that Tom might have decided to show up after all… but that wasn’t like him. “Well, it was certainly someone with your eyes… do you know a…Kendall?”

Back upstairs I met Kendall, a young man I’d previous only communicated with via e-mail. In fact, I’m not even sure I’d ascertained his gender…. it just didn’t arise in our electronic correspondance. So right up till he introduces himself I have no idea even what sex to expect. This is a good thing, of course.

At first I actually think it’s Nicky Wire from the Manic Street Preachers… here to check out Fosca, or more likely Guernica, as Erol, the lead singer of that headlining band, is friendly with James Dean Bradfield among many other London-based indie names. Indeed, James came to Guernica’s first gig, when they supported Orlando at the Water Rats in 1996. I doubt he liked Orlando very much. James has always scared me the few times I’ve bumped into him. I have met Nicky Wire once, and found him charming.

But Kendall isn’t quite Nicky Wire…. there’s bits of my own face there too. It’s a weird feeling… perhaps we are related distantly. I certainly have lots of Welsh relatives. He also likes Fosca, and has come all the way from Wales just to see us play. He’s also dressed immaculately, in a dapper suit and tie.

Kendall is a real tonic.

Thursday January 1st 1998

I did in fact manage to go to a party last night, at Club V, the queer indie disco night that takes place Upstairs at The Garage, a darkened cave where Fosca played their first gig last September. Charley was there, her hair now an even shorter crop, as were her friends in the band Linus, Andy and Mike from the band Mouthfull, as well as Becky Craig, a Manics obsessive that I hadn’t seen for ages. I generally had a good time in the end, giving up to the effects of the alcohol… the queerest as well as the cruelest drug, perhaps, as it tends to blur the genders and weaker people can suddenly find themselves in bed with those they’d otherwise not look twice at. I do my best to succumb to the enforced hedonism of the night, and am even on the receiving end of a few offers (for once) but manage to leave at 3am by myself, thank goodness. Mainly because my room’s such a state. Getting home isn’t at all a problem, though. Not only is public transport in London free on New Year’s Eve, but there seems to be plenty of nightbuses about. I catch one home within seconds of leaving the club, and manage to sit next to George from the band Jack, whose eyes betray a successful night’s drinking without him having to say a word.

Fosca played Blow Up last Saturday. The newest number we did, “Half-Life”, came together so well it seemed to be playing itself. And we milked “Girl Selfish” to new heights of dynamic noise terroism… I managed to fall on my arse at one point. Must remember to do that again.

No other gigs booked as yet. But we now have four songs recorded for release soon. It looks like most people like “Limbo” enough for it to be the main song on the EP. Sav thinks we should hang on to “Leopard of Lime Street” as a separate single. But this is not our priority… we have to wait for the word from Geoff Travis, the kind man who paid for the studio time. He’s got a few label MDs to play the tape to first. So in the meantime we’re seeking out management and future gigs…

Studio memories… my own brother Tom coming down on the train from Ipswich to add a few guitar parts… the warm vintage Telecaster sound bursting out on the choruses to “Limbo”… the out-of-control noises in “Girl Selfish”.. the garage punk of “Action!”… Sav’s impromptu Hammond organ solo on “Leopard of Lime Street”… I still prefer playing live than making records, but the EP is a pretty decent start.

Here’s what I know so far. My name is Richard Edwards. My friends and family call me Dickon, but these days I tend to proffer myself to strangers as Richard, in an attempt to be helpful. I live in one room in Highgate, a leafy area of North London populated for the most part by squirrels, polite middle class families, and like much of London, unemployable dreamers who never really fitted in elsewhere. So they came here.

I currently write songs for and play in the new musical combo Fosca. We’re in Wavelength studios in Chelsea next week to finish off tracks that will hopefully be released as an EP. The songs are “Girl Selfish”, “Action!”, “Leopard Of Lime Street”, and “Limbo”. I’m not sure which label they’re appear on: the aim is to record them first and find the right label later.

Our next gig is on Saturday December 27th, supporting Guernica at the club Blow Up, which takes place at The Wag at 35 Wardour Street, London W1.

We’re going to be onstage quite late, sometime after 11pm, which hopefully means I’ll be also able to catch Disco Pistol and Salad beforehand at their gig the same night. My little friend Charley plays guitar for Salad, but I’ve still yet to see her in concert with them. Having seen her tread the boards with Linus last week, I’m looking forward to seeing her cool, babyfaced androgyny onstage again. I’ve always maintained that I don’t have any real friends, more people who tolerate my presence. Or mistake me for someone else. But Charley’s one of these naturally friendly, gregarious creatures about town that is happy just to be with people, trading off each others personas alone rather than presenting the mercenary sheen of networking. It IS possible to be friendly in London and mean it, you just have to look a little harder.

There are four people in Fosca: David, Sav, Pete, and myself. I hope to get them to write a little about themselves for “6”, so you’ll have a less one-sided view of the group. There is, however, an unofficial homepage set up by Kate Dornan here, so do take a look at that too. I’m looking forward to others taking hold of the non-creative reigns as soon as possible. Although I have a publishing deal with Geoff Travis’s imprint of Polygram Island, Trade Publishing, I badly need management. I so hate organising things myself. The aspect I most like about Fosca is playing onstage, but at the moment my sifling passivity and fear of phoning people means that we only play gigs when we’re invited. Roll on the manager, and roll on touring everywhere forever. I’m rarely happy doing anything else.

As well as continuing the autobiographic themes of innate loneliness, unease, misfitdom and self-hatred touched on in the songs I wrote in the band Orlando, which I left in October 1997; I’m now also writing tales about other characters, dysfunctional persona sketches and songs about modern London, inspired by films like Patrick Keiller’s London and Ian Sinclair’s book Lights Out For The Territories. The house I live in is located halfway between Archway Bridge, the favourite London suicide spot, and Highgate Cemetery, with its gothic tombs and famous graves.

Today my room is a complete shambles. I have a large amount of overdue paperwork to sort out, concerning my severing of the cord with Orlando. I’m proud of just how civilized my leaving was, sad but matter-of-fact. No bitter animosites and legal wranglings, life’s too short. It’s a constant mystery to me why so many people run screaming to lawyers for the slightest quarrel or financial hurt. Lawyers are not exactly a breed well known for solving disputes quickly and cheaply: they can put whole lives on hold for months, even years, draining thousands in fees, and still the hint is not taken. I’m anti-legal. “If in doubt, sue” seems to be an American catchphrase that, like most things American, is beginning to catch on over here, and we shall soon be at the stage where one will not be able to leave the house every morning without first issuing the postman a writ. The lesson of Oscar Wilde (and, indeed, Jonathan Aitken) is that getting legal is only, in the end, going to make lawyers happy, not yourself. All you are actually achieving is adding to the amount of nastiness in the world. As if there wasn’t enough of that already.

As well as boring paperwork, I also have a huge pile of handwritten letters from around the world that really must be attended to. Not writing back to people is a terrible thing to do, and I’m afraid I have only pure listlessness as a defence. I tend to prefer e-mail these days, partly because it doesn’t involve anything tangible like paper, envelopes and stamps, but also because it means I can write to American heroes of mine like Peter Bagge, Maureen Tucker, Kramer and The Magnetic Fields, and get a reply by the next day.

Best get on, then.