Formed in 2013 post-punk / spoken wave combo MAP 71 are: Lisa Jayne – vocals, lyrics, art, and Andy Pyne – drums, sounds, production.
Hypnotic drum rhythms build an environment for stories told by a restless observer. Ritual pulses, angular grooves and metallic clatter woven with a dialogue of pagan surrealism, existential social observation and abstract verse.
Hear them at map71.bandcamp.com
Check the facebook page for updates on gigs and releases.
Video credits
Concept and art: Lisa Jayne
Animation: Al Strachan
Music: MAP 71
Red Mass (from the album Gloriosa)
Out of isolation trip the ex-goddess screams like holy relief now she knows there is no god. In the workhouse with witchy Ellen she hand marks the walls and smiles her arse cheeks at anyone who can’t stand her face. They think it’s the moon getting brighter, but no it was only someone sparking the light while the wall irons shoulder it like a marriage. And the blackbird flies corner to corner, berry blood wet on his beak
We’ll leave our leathers off for this one and call the waif home, with her cheek bones that cut whatever you want to a shag stamp on her neck. In this room speaks a giant language, now there’s three of them, one with mad young skin dead leaves gone copper on the live side. The blackbird whips them to a shiver cut to an ex-goddess throat, but she’s only acting and spits blood alive from her belly, now everyone needs feeding. The waif is first to the table lies her back down and uncrosses her girdle now the bolts are drawn and the play can truly begin
Blackbird drops her a still beating heart and she bites like she’s never eaten before. Throwing scraps to the men whose tankards beat down tasty rhythms, “come over ‘ere cherub”, “don’t call me cherub”. The wall irons need turning so blackbird cleans berry blood off his claws with a lizard’s tongue he’s grown for the night
Ghosts are awake, the wall irons hiss, “it’s a shame Maria didn’t make it, no one’s seen her since May”. But we’re here in this workhouse for witchy Ellen to slow wailing caverns, now she’s made the bones strong holding irons. A mouth of salty red and lick scented she shakes herself out as she pleases death watch beetle out on a stag. His fur coat makes him look rich, he crawls over the piano for a feeler around. He’s alright just his owner is lethal, a dealer in sighing morgue organs
A touch of the old one his tree roots make cracks in the floor and eel round the room. A fine perch for blackbird he’s our lordy, pulls our heads open route open. Witchy Ellen and ex-goddess draw out let’s call it a vévé. Though the waif says it’s strappy end up Billy and laughs when death watch drops his own signing their work. Then he has her turn over and signs himself again on her back
