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HERE TO GO: PLANET R-101
(An excerpt from Here To Go: Planet R-101)

Terry Wilson


T: How did you get into tape recorders?
B: I heard of them at the end of World War II, before I went to 
Morocco in 1950, but unfortunately I never got hold of good 
machines to record even a part of the musical marvels I heard in 
Morocco. I recorded the music in my own place, The 1001 Nights, 
only when it was fading and even in later years I never was able to 
lay my hands on truly worthwhile machines to record sounds that 
will never be heard again, anywhere.

I took Brian Jones up to the mountain to record with Uhers, and 
Ornette Coleman to spend $25,000 in a week to record next to 
nothing on Nagras and Stellavox, but I have to admit that the most 
adventurous sounds we ever made were done with old Reveres and 
hundred dollar Japanese boxes we fucked around with, William and I 
and Ian Sommerville. I got hold of the BBC facilities for the series of 
sound poems I did with them in 1960, technically still the best, 
naturally. I had originally been led to believe that I would have a 
week and it turned out to be only three days that we had, so in a 
very hurried way at the end I started cutting up a spoken text-I 
think the illustration of how the Cut-ups work, "Cut-ups Self 
Explained"-and put it several times through their electronic 
equipment, and arrived at brand new words that had never been 
said, by me or by anybody necessarily, onto the tape. William had 
pushed things that far through the typewriter. I pushed them that 
far through the tapeworld. But the experiment was withdrawn very 
quickly there, I mean, it was . . . time was up and they were made 
rather nervous by it, they were quite shocked by the results that 
were coming back out of the speakers and were only too glad to 
bring the experiment to an end. ["Well, what did they expect? A 
chorus of angels with tips on the stock market?"-William Burroughs) 
"The Permutated Poems of Brion Gysin" (as put through a computer 
by Ian Sommerville) was broadcast by the BBC, produced by Douglas 
Cleverdon. ("Achieving the second lowest rating of audience approval 
registered by their poll of listeners"-BG) Some of the early cut-up 
tape experiments are now available: Nothing Here Now But The 
Recordings (1959-1980) LP (IR 0016) available on the Industrial 
Records label from Rough Trade, 137 Blenheim Crescent, London 
W11, England.]

What we did on our own was to play around with the very limited 
technology and wattage we had in the old Beat Hotel, 40-watts a 
room was all we were allowed. There is something to be said for 
poverty, it makes you more inventive, it's more fun and you get 
more mileage out of what you've got plus your own ingenuity. When 
you handle the stuff yourself, you get the feel of it. William loved the 
idea of getting his hands on his own words, branding them and 
rustling anyone else's he wanted. It's a real treat for the ears, too, the 
first time you hear it . . . made for dog whistles, after that. Hey Rube! 
- the old carny circus cry for men working the sideshows when they 
saw some ugly provincial customer coming up on them after they 
had rooked him . . . Hey Rube! - a cry to alert all the carny men to a 
possible rumble . . . Hey-ba    ba-Rube-ba! - Salt Peanuts and the 
rude sound coming back so insistent again and again that you know 
the first bar of Bebop when you hear it. Right or wrong, Burroughs 
was fascinated because he must have listened to plenty of bebop talk 
from Kerouac, whom I never met. He must have been a fascinating 
character, too bad to miss him like that, when I was thrown up 
against all the rest of this Beat Generation. Maybe I was lucky. I 
remember trying to avoid them all after Paul Bowles had written me: 
"I can't understand their interest in drugs and madness." Then, I dug 
that he meant just the contrary. Typical. He did also write me to get 
closer to Burroughs whom I had cold-shouldered . . . until he got off 
the junk in Paris.

T: Who produced the "Poem of Poems" through the tape recorder? 
The text in The Third Mind is ambiguous.
B: I did. I made it to show Burroughs how, possibly, to use it. William 
did not yet have a tape recorder. First, I had "accidentally" used 
"pisspoor material,"fragments cut out of the press which I shored up 
to make new and original texts, unexpectedly. Then, William had 
used his own highly volatile material, his own inimitable texts which 
he submitted to cuts, unkind cuts, of the sort that Gregory Corso felt 
unacceptable to his own delicate "poesy." William was always the 
toughest of the lot. Nothing ever fazed him. So I suggested to William 
that we should use only the best, only the high-charged material: 
King James' translation of the Song of Songs of Solomon, Eliot's 
translation of Anabase by St. John Perse, Shakespeare's sugar'd 
Sonnets and a few lines from The Doors of Perception by Aldous 
Huxley about his mescaline experiences.

Very soon after that, Burroughs was busy punching to death a series 
of cheap Japanese plastic tape recorders, to which he applied himself 
with such force that he could punch one of them to death inside a 
matter of weeks, days even. At the same time he was punching his 
way through a number of equally cheap plastic typewriters, using 
two very stiff forefingers . . . with enormous force. He could punch a 
machine into oblivion. That period in the Beat Hotel is best illustrated 
by that photo of William, wearing a suit and tie as always, sitting 
back at this table in a very dingy room. On the wall hangs a nest of 
three wire trays for correspndence which I gave him to sort out his 
cut-up pages. Later, this proliferated into a maze of filing cases filling 
a room with manuscripts cross-referenced in a way only Burroughs 
could work his way through, more by magic dowsing than by any 
logical system. how could there be any? This was a magic practice he 
was up to, surprising the very springs of creative imagination at 
their source. I remember him muttering that his manuscripts were 
multiplying and reproducing themselves like virus at work. It was all 
he could do to keep up with them. Those years sloughed off one 
whole Burroughs archive whose catalogue alone is a volume of 350 
pages. Since then several tons of Burroughs papers have been moved 
to the Burroughs Communication Centre in Lawrence, Kansas. And he 
is still at it.

T: The cut-up techniques made very explicit a preoccupation with 
exorcism - William's texts became spells, for instance. How effective 
are methods such as street playback of tapes for dispersing 
parasites?
B: We-e-ell, you'd have to ask William about that, but I do seem to 
remember at least two occasions on whyich he claimed success . . .

Uh, the first was in the Beat Hotel still, therefore about 1961 or '2, 
and William decided (laughing) to "take care" of an old lady who sold 
newspapers in a kiosk, and this kiosk was rather dramatically and 
strategically placed at the end of the street leading out of the rue Git 
le Coeur toward the Place Saint Michel, and, uh, you whent up a flight 
of steps and then under an archway and as you came out you were 
spang! in front of this little old French lady who looked as if she'd 
been there since-at least since the French Revolution-when she had 
been knitting at the foot of the guillotine, and she lived in a layer of 
thickly matted, padded newspapers hanging around her piled very 
sloppily, and, uh, she was of absolutely incredible malevolence, and 
the only kiosk around there at that time that sold the Herald-
Tribune, so that William (chuckling) found that he was having to deal 
with her every day, and every day she would find some new way to 
aggravate him, some slight new improvement on her malevolent 
insolence and her disagreeable lack of . . . uh (chuckling) 
collaboration with William in the buying of his newspaper (laughter) 
. . .

So . .  one day the little old lady burnt up inside her kiosk. And we 
came out to find that there was just the pile of ashes on the ground. 
William was . . . slightly conscience-stricken, but nevertheless rather 
satisfied with the result (laughter) as it proved the efficacity of his 
methods, but a little taken aback, he didn't necessarily mean the old 
lady to burn up inside there . . . And we often talked about this as we 
sat in a cafe looking at the spot where the ashes still were, for many 
months later . . . and to our great surprise and chagrin one day we 
saw a very delighted Oriental boy-I think probably Vietnamese-
digging in these ashes with his hands and pulling out a whole hatful 
of money, of slightly blackened coins but a considerable sum, and 
(laughing) we would have been very glad to have it too - just hadn't 
thought of digging in the thing, so I said: "William, I don't think your 
operation was a complete success." And he said: "I am very glad that 
that beautiful young Oriental boy made this happy find at the end of 
the rainbow . . ."
T: She consummated her swell purpose . . .
B: (Laughing) Exactly . . . exactly . . . (chuckling)

Now the other case was some years later in London when he had 
perfected the method and, uh, went about with at least one I think 
sometimes two tape recorders, one in each hand, with prerecorded, 
um-runes-what did you call them? You said William's things-
T: Spells.
B: Spells, okay, spells.
T: Like-
B: (chanting)
Lock them out and bar the door,
Lock them out for e-v-e-rmore.
Nook and cranny windo door
Seal them out for e-v-e-rmore
Lock them out and block the rout
Shut them scan them flack them out.
Lock is mine and door is mine
Three times three to make up nine . . . 
Curse go back curse go back
Back with double pain and lack
Curse go back - back

Et cetera . . . yeah . . . pow . . . "Shift, cut, tangle word lines" . . . sure . . 
. 

Well, that was for the Virus Board, wasn't it, that he was gonna 
destroy the Virus Board . . .


~ HERE TO GO: PLANET R-101 ~
An Excerpt from Here to Go: Planet R-101, Brion Gysin interviewed 
by Terry Wilson (with original writing and an introduction by W.S. 
Burroughs), available July 1982 from Re/Search Publications . . .

- Who Runs May Read

"May Massa Brahim leave this house as the smoke leaves this fire, 
never to return . . ."

. . . Never went back to live, and I've only been back there even to 
visit only very briefly . . .

And then it was back to Paris for a year or so, 1949-50, and then in 
1950 I went to Morocco with Paul Bowles, who had taken, bought a 
little house there, and I stayed there really, or felt that I was 
domiciled there, uh, although I was really only a sort of terminal 
tourist, from 1950 till 1973 . . .

"Magic, practiced more assiduously than hygiene in Morocco, through 
ecstatic dancing to the music of the secret brotherhoods, is, there, a 
form of psychic hygiene. You know your music when you hear it, one 
day. You fall into line and dance until you pay the piper."

BG "CUT-UPS:
A Project for Disastrous Success"
in Brion Gysin Let The Mice In

B: Yeah . . . what a tale . . . what a tale . . . yeah, I met John Cooke in 
Morocco uuummm but, uh . . . I don't know what to say about all 
that, really . . .
T: He designed tarot cards . . . ?
B: Yeah . . .
T: A new set of tarot card . . . 
B: Yeah, so he did. How did you even know that?
T: I saw them the other day.
B: Oh really? . . . No kidding? They're still around eh? Well well . . .
T: Is he still alive?
B: Yes, I imagine he's still alive, I think living in Mexico [John Cooke 
died sometime after this was recorded.] . . . and he comes from one of 
those very rich and powerful families who were the Five Founding 
Families of Hawaii . . . who own the island, did own the island of 
Molokai . . . and, uh, many people in his family have been interested 
in mystic things, and he was particularly interested in magic all his 
life . . . early connection with . . . what do they call it, kaluhas or 
something, the Hawaiian shamanistic magic men? . . . Kahunas, yeah . 
. .
T: Yeah. So tell me about Morocco . . . you got more and more 
immersed into Islam, or, uh-
B: Not really, no, I never was much immersed truly into Islam, or I 
would've become a Moslem, and probably still be there . . . uh, it was 
most particularly the music that interested me. I went with Paul 
Bowles, who was a composer long before he was a writer, and, uh, he 
had perfect pitch, an unusual thing even among composers, and he 
taught me how to use my ears a great deal during the years we'd 
known each other in New York, but when he'd taken this house, 
bought this house in Tangier, he suggested that I go and spend a 
summer there living in the house and he was on his way to America, 
he was just going to leave me in the house . . . but it turned out 
rather differently . . . he was goin to New York to write the music for 
his wife's play, Jane Bowles' In The Summerhouse, and he had 
written a great deal of theatrical music for Broadway, all the 
Tennessee Williams plays, all of the plays by Saroyan, and many 
other productions of that time . . . and was a great expert on that . . . 
but he also had very, very extraordinary ears, and, uh, he taught me 
a lot of things, I owe him a tremendous amount, I owe him my years 
in Morocco really because I wouldn't've gone there if he hadn't 
suggested it at that particular time . . . I might have gone back to 
Algeria, which isn't nearly as interesting a country, never was . . .

But, uh, in 1950 we went to a festival outside of Tangier on the 
beach, on the Atlantic shore, at a spot which was previously a small 
harbour, 2000 years ago in Phoenician times, and must've marked 
one of the first landfalls that any boat coming out of the 
Mediterranean via the Straits of Gibraltar would make as soon as the 
boat entered the Atlantic, the first landfall would be at this little 
place not very far from Cape Spartel . . . and, uh, the Phoenician habit 
was always to establish a center of religion, I mean a thanks offering 
for getting them safely over the dangerous sea, one supposes, and a 
marking of the spot which eventually became a center of their 
religious cult, presumably a college of priestesses . . . two or three 
more landfalls further down the Atlantic coast is what used to be the 
great harbour of Larache . . . 

All these harbours are now silted up completely . . . Larache was the 
site of the Golden Apples of the Hesperides, where Hercules went to 
get away from the demonic . . . the orgiastic priestesses, who were 
guardians in a sacred grove surrounded by a serpent if you 
remember, a dragon - well the dragon is the river, in each case there 
are these winding rivers that go back up into the country; only one of 
them still exists, the Lixos. Well the Lixos was presumably the 
dragon in the mythological tale and there was an island in the 
harbour, and this spot that we went to had been on the same 
geographic and even religious plan, as it were, and the festival was 
given there, which doesn't correspond to the Lunar Calendar but to 
the Solar Calendar, and has to do with the harvest and actual cycle of 
agricultural life of the people there . . . And I heard some music at 
that festival about which I said: "I just want to hear that music for 
the rest of my life. I wanna here it everyday all day." And, uh, there 
were a great many other kinds of extraordinary music offered to one, 
mostly of the Ecstatic Brotherhood who enter into trance, so that in 
itself-it was the first time I'd seen large groups of people going into 
trance-was enough to have kept my attention, but beyond and above 
all of that somewhere I heard this funny little music, and I said "Ah! 
That's my music! And I must find out where it comes from." So I 
stayed and withing a year I found that it came from Jajouka . . .
(LOUD CRASHES, TAPE STOPS)
B: Your question . . . ?!
T: You found that your music was at Jajouka . . . The purpose of the 
Rites of Jajouka is to preserve the balance of Male-Female forces, is 
that correct?
B: Yes, in a very strange way I think it's a very pertinent question 
that you ask. Uh, when I met them finally, it took about a year to 
find them, and went up to the mountain village, I recognized very 
quickly that what they were performing was the Roman Lupercal, 
and the Roman Lupercalia was a race run from one part of Rome, a 
cave under the Capitoline Hill, which Mussolini claimed to have 
discovered, but is now generally conceded to be some 10 or 15 
meters further down . . . and in this cave goats were killed and 
skinned and a young man of a certain tribe was sown up in them, 
and one of these young men was Mark Antony, and when in the 
beginning of Julius Caesar, when they meet, he was actually running 
this race of Lupercalia through Rome on the 15.March, the Ides of 
March . . . and the point was to go out to the gates of Rome and 
contact Pan, the God of the Forests, the little Goat God, who was 
Sexuality itself, and to run back through the streets with the news 
that Pan was still out there fucking as he flailed the women in the 
crowds, which is why Julius Caesar asked him to be sure to hit 
Calpurnia, because his wife Calpurnia was barren . . . Forget not in 
thy haste, Antonius, to touch Calpurnia, for the Ancients say that in 
this holy course the barren are rendered fruitful, or something like 
that, are the lines from Shakespeare on the subject . . . Shakespeare 
dug right away that's what it was, the point of the sexual balance of 
nature which was in question . . . And up there on the mountain 
another element is added, inasmuch as the women, who live apart 
from the men, whose private lives are apart from the men's lives to a 
point where even women's language isn't immediately understood by 
men-women can say things to each other in front of men that men 
don'ts understand, or care to be bothered with, it's just women's 
nonsense, y'see . . . and they sing sort of secret little songs enticing 
Bou Jeloud the Father of Skins, who is Pan, to come to the hills, 
saying that . . . We will give you the prettiest girls in the village, we 
will give you Crosseyed Aisha, we will give you Humpbacked- . . . 
naming the names of the different types of undesirable non-beauties 
in the village, like that, and, uh, Pan is supposed to be so dumb that 
he falls for this, because he will fuck anything, and he comes up to 
the village where he meets the Woman-Force of teh village who is 
called Crazy Aisha-Aisha Homolka . . . well Aisha is of course an Arab 
name, but it's derived from an earlier original, which would be 
Asherat, the name of Astarte or any one of these Venus-type lady 
sex-goddesses like that . . . And, uh, Bou Jeloud, the leader of the 
festival, his role is to marry Aisha, but in actual fact women do not 
dance in front of any but their own husbands, the women in Arab 
life, all belly-dancing movies to the contrary, do not dance in public, 
or never did, and most certainly don't in villages, ever dance where 
they're seen by men any more than men dance in front of women . . . 
so that Crazy Aisha is danced by little boys who are dressed as girls, 
and because her spirit is so powerful-
(TAPE STOPS)
" . . . a faint breath of panic borne on the wind. Below the rough 
palisade of giant blue cactus surrounding the village on its hilltop, 
the music flows in streams to nourish and fructify the terraced fields 
below.
"Inside the village the thatched houses crouch low in their gardens to 
hide in the deep cactus-lined lanes. You come through their maze to 
the broad village green where the pipers are piping; fifty raitas 
banked against a crumbling wall blow sheet lightning to shatter the 
sky. Fifty wild flutes blow up a storm in front of them, while a 
platoon of small boys in long belted white robes and brown wool 
turbans drum like young thunder. All the villagers, dressed in best 
white, swirl in great circles and coils around one wildman in skins.
"Bou Jeloud leaps high in the air on the music, races after the women 
again and again, lashing at them fiercely with his flails-'Forget not in 
your speed, Antonius, to touch Calpurnia'-He is wild. He is mad. 
Sowing panic. Lashing at anyone; striking real terror into the crowd. 
Women scatter like white marabout birds all aflutter and settle on 
one little hillock for safety, all huddled in one quivering lump. They 
throw back their heads to the moon and scream with throats open to 
the gullet, lolling their tongues around in their heads like the clapper 
in a bell. Every mouth is wide open, frozen into an O. Head back and 
hot narrow eyes brimming with dangerous baby.
"Bou Jeloud is after you. Running. Over-run. Laughter and someone is 
crying. Wild dogs at your heels. Swirling around in one ring-a-rosy, 
around and around and around. Go! Forever! Stop! Never! More and 
No More and No! More! Pipes crack in your head. Ears popped away 
at barrier sound and you deaf. Or dead! Swirling around in cold 
moonlight, surrounded by wildmen or ghosts. Bou Jeloud is on you, 
butting you, beating you, taking you, leaving you. Gone! The great 
wind drops out of your head and you hear the heavenly music again. 
You feel sorry and loving and tender to that poor animal 
whimpering, grizzling, laughing and sobbing there beside you like 
somebody out of ether. Who is that? That is you.
"Who is Bou Jeloud? Who is he? The shivering boy who was chosen to 
be stripped naked in a cave and sewn into the bloody warm skins 
and masked with an old straw hat tied over his face, HE is Bou Jeloud 
when he dances and runs. Not Ali, not Mohamed, then he is Bou 
Jeloud. He will be somewhat taboo in his village the rest of his life.
"When he dances alone, his musicians blow a sound like the earth 
sloughing off its skin. He is the Father of Fear. He is, too, the Father of 
Flocks. The Good Shepherd works for him. When the goats, gently 
grazing, brusquely frisk and skitter away, he is counting his flock. 
When you shiver like someone just walked on your grave-that's him; 
that's Pan, the Father of Skins. Have you jumped out of your skin 
lately? I've got you under my skin . . .
"Blue kif smoke drops in veils from Jajouka at nightfall. The music 
picks up like a current turned on . . . On the third night he meets 
Aisha Homolka who drifts around after dark, cool and casual, near 
springs and running water. She unveils her beautiful blue-glittering 
face and breasts and coos.
"And he who stammers out an answer is lost. he is lost unless he 
touches the blade of his knife or, better still, plucks it out and 
plunges the blade of it into the ground between her goatish legs and 
forked hooves. Then Aisha Homolka, Aisha Kandisha, alias Asherat, 
Astarte, Diana in the Leaves Greene, Blest Virgin Miriam bar Levy, 
the White Goddess, in short, will be his. She must be a heavy Stone 
Age Matriarch whose power he cuts off with his Iron Age knife-
magic.
"The music grooves into hysteria, fear and fornication. A ball of 
laughter and tears in the throat gristle. Tickle of panic between the 
legs. Gripe of slapstick cuts loose in the bowels. The Three Hadji. Man 
with Monkey. More characters coming on stage. The Hadji joggle 
around under their crowns like Three Wise Kings. Monkey Man 
comes on hugely pregnant with a live boy in his baggy pants. 
Monkey Man goes into birth pangs and the Hadji deliver him of a 
naked boy with an umbilical halter around his neck. Man leads 
Monkey around, beating him and screwing him for hours to the 
music. Monkey jumps on Man's back and screws him to the music for 
hours. Pipers pipe higher into the air and panic screams off like the 
wind into the woods of silver olive and black oak, on into the Rif 
mountains swimming up under the moonlight.
"Pan leaps back on the gaggle of women with his flails. The women 
scream and deliver one tiny boy, wriggling and stumbling as he 
dances out in white drag and veil. Another bloodcurdling birth-yodel 
and they throw up another small boy. Pan flails them as they push 
out another and another until there are ten or more little boy-girls 
out there with Pan, shaking that thing in the moonlight. Bigger 
village dragstars slither out on the village green and shake it up 
night after night. Pan kings them all until dawn. He is the God Pan. 
They are, all of them, Aisha Homolka."

BG "The Pipes of Pan"
Gnaoua 1, 1964


. . . It would be very difficult to say just what they are aware of and 
what they are not aware of, I have known them for more than 30 
years now, 20, more than 20 of them in very intimate daily contact, 
with some of them at any rate, and for the period that I knew them 
the most . . .

. . . Obviously they know so much more than I ever thought in the 
beginning; I think of course they realize that their name has to do 
with the whole history of Sufi thought, because the family name of 
the musicians is Attar . . . uh, it was after knowing them well for 20 
years and then getting into some kind of legal difficulty and 
attempting to help them with their documents that I found this out . . 
. uummm really the longer I knew them the less I knew about them, 
is almost a way of phrasing it . . . they, uh, know a great deal more 
than they let on, of course . . . I don't know how much, how much do 
you want to know, because I could go on for booklength about 
whatever I have learned about them which is curious . . .
"I kept some notes and drawings, meaning to write a recipe book of 
magic. My Pan people were furious when they found this out. They 
poisoned my food twice and then, apparently, resorted to more 
efficacious means to get rid of me . . . "

BG Let the Mice In


T: Your restaurant . . .
B: Oh the restaurant came about entirely becaue of them . . .
(CHANT BECOMING OBVIOUS ON TAPE)
I said, "I would like to hear your music every day" and, uh, they said, 
"Well, why don't you just stick around and live in the village?" And I 
said, "No, that isn't possible, I have to go back and earn my living" . . . 
and they said, "Well, then why don't you open a little cafe, a little 
joint, some place in Tangier, and we'll come down and make the 
music, and, uh, we'll split the money?" And, uh, their idea was a very 
simple one, I think, which got blown up into . . . palatial size, because 
of the fact that I found a wing of a palace that belonged to some 
Moroccan friends of mine, where I set up the restaurant and, uh, it 
turned out to be a very expensive and very . . . as I had no previous 
experience in such matters, it turned out to be a very expensive 
venture (laughing) . . . I'd always been at most a customer in such 
places, and to learn how to run it . . . I had many other things to do 
which kept my mind off the musicians, although the rest of the staff 
were always complaining that the musicians were being favored, and 
I said yes, the restaurant existed entirely for the music, and it was 
literally true . . .

A group of them came down from the mountain and stayed a period 
of time, living in the house with me, and so I heard them practising, I 
heard them teaching the younger children how to play, and learned 
more and more about the intricacies of the music . . . I found out 
various interesting things about them, first of all that they had a 
secret language, that they can talk through the music, they can direct 
a dancing boy, for example, to go from . . . they can give him all his 
instructions simply musically . . . but that they also have a language 
of which I really learned nothing, I didn't have the time to, but I 
think that at that point they would have been willing to teach me a 
great deal about it, even to start writing a vocabulary to find out 
what it was, which language it was that they speak in private . . . but, 
uh, the restaurant folded with Moroccan Independence, a very 
difficult moment, when all of my clientele disappeared overnight, 
inasmuch as Tangier had been a small country of its own, with 
embassies, and ambassadors and their staffs and their visitors and 
everything connected with them, which was the backbone of my 
clientele . . . and they all left, and Tangier lost its independence and 
became part of Morocco . . . so the restaurant folded up and they 
went back to their hills . . .

And then I saw them later as friends, went back to the village 
several times for the festival, and, uh, then the Rolling Stones came 
to stay in Morocco, brought along Robert Frazer, who was an art 
dealer in London at that time, and he knew them and brought them 
to visit me and we made trips together through Morocco, and Brian 
Jones later came back, he wanted very much to go up to the 
mountain, and although he never got there during the festival time 
he did bring a sound engineer with him and recorded the music 
which appears on that record [Brian Jones Presents The Pipes of Pan 
at Joujouka, Rolling Stones Records, 1971.], which is now out of print 
I'm sure . . . about which there was an enormous amount of legal 
difficulties over trying to get money to the musicians, for all of the 
usual recording company reasons, and naturally complicated by the 
fact that Brian had died and that the other Stones were not terribly 
interested in the record, probably because it reminded them too 
much of things that they preferred to leave in the past, partly on the 
musical level, because Brian had wanted to take the Stone's music 
rather more toward the openings that Moroccan music made 
possible, and, uh, which have appealed to other musicians since and I 
think will have even more and more effect in the future . . . but Mick 
was very determined to keep it right down to that R&B which they 
had ripped off the American Black music, which he found a perfectly 
good product to last for the next 20 years, and has lasted 10, at any 
rate . . .
T: So a different type of relationship with the Jajouka musicians after 
the restaurant folded?
B: Well, I might say about it, from the beginning, uh, that I got to 
know them much better than most people ever would because of the 
fact that we were in business together, whether we were first in 
business around the restaurant, or later around one or other records 
that they'd made, uh, you really get to know people only when you 
do business with them, and we got to know each other very well, for 
good and for ill, for reasons of business . . .
T: There was some difficulty, wasn't there . . .
B: Plenty . . .
T: Involved you losing the restaurant . . . ?
B: Plenty, yeah, plenty . . . hhmmm . . .
(TAPE STOPS)



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