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He is one of a few talents "to successfully breach the chasm that keeps DJ culture from more tangible, organic realms. He is a self-taught musician, singing and playing trumpet, bass guitar, piano and is a producer with numerous releases, contributions and co-productions. Ian spent part of his childhood following his trumpet-playing dad around the world. When he turned 18, he moved to London and formed a collective called Sandals with three other friends.

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This collective came together in the late s to start a club in London Soho called "Violets", a response to the emerging acid house scene and early rave culture. Events in several other clubs followed. In the onset of the s the "Sandals" were formed in that humus and became a little success, suddenly publishing for London Records. Ian Simmonds started publishing his own deep, vibrant music in first under his pseudonym Juryman, later on under his real name Ian Simmonds.

In the mids, Ian Simmonds began recording a series of EPs. In addition he produced his own tracks for the then totally unknown Leftfield and Pressure Drop, which were to influence his later productions. During these recordings he met musician Luke Gordon aka Spacer. K7 Ian Simmonds: Last States of Nature was well perceived and consolidated his reputation as an innovative producer. Since the midst of the s, he worked with several other artists Leftfield , Goldfrapp , pressure drop on various collaborations, remixes, accompanied by appearances on dozens of compilations.

Just where they ought to be covered! There were hollows in his cheeks, his dark hair looked damp; around his neck he wore a bandage. The commercial traveller on Mr. My hat! Bosengate pretended not to hear—he could not bear that fellow! Well, he looked it—not at all an English face. Attempted suicide—not at all an English crime! Suicide implied surrender, a putting-up of hands to Fate—to say nothing of the religious aspect of the matter.

And suicide in khaki seemed to Mr.

Bosengate particularly abhorrent; like turning tail in face of the enemy; almost meriting the fate of a deserter. He looked at the prisoner, trying not to give way to this prejudice. And the prisoner seemed to look at him, though this, perhaps, was fancy. The Counsel for the prosecution, a little, alert, grey, decided man, above military age, began detailing the circumstances of the crime. Bosengate, though not particularly sensitive to atmosphere, could perceive a sort of current running through the Court.

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It was as if jury and public were thinking rhythmically in obedience to the same unexpressed prejudice of which he himself was conscious. Even the Caesar-like pale face up there, presiding, seemed in its ironic serenity responding to that current. He gave himself this wound with his Army razor, adding, if I may say so, insult to the injury he was inflicting on his country.

The evidence of the first witness, a room-mate who had caught the prisoner's hand, and of the sergeant, who had at once been summoned, was conclusive and he began to cherish a hope that they would get through without withdrawing, and he would be home before five. But then a hitch occurred. The regimental doctor failed to respond when his name was called; and the judge having for the first time that day showed himself capable of human emotion, intimated that he would adjourn until the morrow.

Bosengate received the announcement with equanimity. He would be home even earlier! And gathering up the sheets of paper he had scribbled on, he put them in his pocket and got up. The would-be suicide was being taken out of the court—a shambling drab figure with shoulders hunched. What good were men like that in these days! What good! The prisoner looked up. Bosengate encountered in full the gaze of those large brown eyes, with the white showing underneath.

THE JURYMAN WHO FELT LIKE FORTY WINKS by Henry Mayo Bateman on artnet

What a suffering, wretched, pitiful face! A man had no business to give you a look like that!


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The prisoner passed on down the stairs, and vanished. Bosengate went out and across the market place to the garage of the hotel where he had left his car. The sun shone fiercely and he thought: 'I must do some watering in the garden. Seedy-lookin' beggar that last prisoner, ain't he?

We don't want men of that stamp. Bosengate started the car with unnecessary clamour. But as if brought back to life by the commercial traveller's remark, the prisoner's figure seemed to speed along too, turning up at Mr. Bosengate his pitifully unhappy eyes. Want of his wife! Half a loaf, even a slice, was better than no bread. Not many of that neurotic type in the Army—thank Heaven! The lugubrious figure vanished, and Mr. He saw her, as often he had seen her, raise herself and stand, head to one side, a gloved hand on her slender hip, gazing as it were ironically from under drooped lids at buds which did not come out fast enough.

And the word 'Caline,' for he was something of a French scholar, shot through his mind: 'Kathleen—Caline! The car, returning faster than it had come down that morning, had already passed the outskirt villas, and was breasting the hill to where, among fields and the old trees, Charmleigh lay apart from commoner life. Turning into his drive, Mr. Bosengate thought with a certain surprise: 'I wonder what she does think of!

I wonder! She scrambled on to them and came sliding down, her frock up to her eyes, and her holland knickers to her middle.

Juryman - Belle's Poem

Bosengate said mildly:. With her hand in his, Mr.


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Bosengate went on, through the drawing-room, long and cool, with sun-blinds down, through the billiard-room, high and cool, through the conservatory, green and sweet-smelling, out on to the terrace and the upper lawn. He had never felt such sheer exhilarated joy in his home surroundings, so cool, glistening and green under the July sun; and he said:. And we've been making swabs—I made seventeen, Mummy made thirty-three, and then she went to the hospital. Did you put many men in prison? They were passing under a young oak tree, where the path wound round to the rosery and summer-house.

Something shot down and clawed Mr. Bosengate's neck. His little daughter began to hop and suffocate with laughter. Looking up, Mr.

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Bosengate saw his small son lying along a low branch above him—like the leopard he was declaring himself to be for fear of error , and thought blithely: 'What an active little chap it is! Bosengate did not see being a deer; his hair had just been brushed. But he entered the rosery buoyantly between his offspring. His wife was standing precisely as he had imagined her, in a pale blue frock open at the neck, with a narrow black band round the waist, and little accordion pleats below.

banchencytouwa.tk She looked her coolest. Her smile, when she turned her head, hardly seemed to take Mr. Bosengate seriously enough. He placed his lips below one of her half-drooped eyelids. She even smelled of roses. His children began to dance round their mother, and Mr.