EDITORIAL Michael Moorcock (from NEW WORLDS #143, July/August 1964) BRITISH SCIENCE FICTION CONVENTION - 1964 As far as we know, there is no other branch of literature which has produced anything like Science Fiction ' fandom.' Apart from a great many local clubs throughout the world—mainly in the USA and Britain—there are various national organisations, made up of SF fans, writers, editors, publishers and artists, which hold yearly conventions and organise other events from time to time. The British Science Fiction Association was founded in 1960, publishes a regular journal, VECTOR, keeps its members in touch with " behind the scenes " information on the SF scene, what's being published, what's been published (there are several excellent checklists compiled for BSFA members) and organises a well-attended SF Convention every Easter. The mood of these conventions is informal—many of the attendees are not BSFA members—and the programme is designed to fit in with the social activities of the enthusiasts. Private and public discussions are always lively and range over all topics (as many fans agree, a four-day convention consisting of nothing but talk about SF might easily spoil the appetite for the stuff). Previous Guests of Honour have included novelists Kingsley Amis, Edmund Crispin and, this year, E. C. Tubb. There is ample opportunity for readers to meet their favourite SF writers and there is no barrier between professional and fan. This year's convention at Peterborough was particularly marked for the easy way in which the professional element mixed with the fan element. American writers Edmond Hamilton and Leigh Brackett turned up rather unexpectedly and were very welcome guests, speaking of their work in a session in the programme hall, answering questions about the US scene and chatting with the fans at room parties, in the hotel lounge and bar. Other writers included E. C. Tubb, Kenneth Bulmer, Lan Wright and J. Ramsey Campell, the fantasy author. Many of the regulars couldn't make it this year, but will undoubtedly make it next—Brian Aldiss is in Jugoslavia, Harry Harrison was tied up in Denmark, John Brunner, Kingsley Amis and Tom Boardman had other commitments. The Fancy Dress Ball was one of the best in years and the judges had difficulty in choosing the winners. There was a show of SF films—some professional, some amateur— two auctions where it was possible to bid for a wide selection of books, magazines, original manuscripts and art work—various discussions on different subjects, and lots of off-programme card games, parties and impromptu activities of a somewhat unrestrained nature... This year was also marked for its high proportion of younger BSFA members, many of whom had a Calvinistic zeal to " reform " the SF scene and make sure fans talked about SF and nothing but. Older members and professional writers were a trifle bewildered by these young reformers who granted them no mercy. In many ways this influx is a good thing— particularly for the BSFA—and the amateur magazines which the newer members are putting out with titles like ALIEN, BEYOND and ZENITH are serving as a testing ground for tomorrow's critics and writers. The BSFA can be proud of itself for the speed and ease with which it assimilates the new member. Since its formation, it has done a great deal to broaden the horizons of the SF fan world and produce conventions which are both enjoyable in a social way and stimulating in other ways. One of the main items on the programme was a tribute by the authors to John Carnell and Nova Publications. At the end of this, the BSFA presented a plaque expressing its appreciation to Mr. Carnell for his help and encouragement of the BSFA since its formation. Next year, it seems, there will probably be two major SF conventions held in Britain. The usual BSFA Easter Convention will take place at Birmingham and the World Science Fiction Convention (with attendees from all over the world, particularly from the USA—many big-name authors are expected to attend) will probably be held in London over August Bank Holiday week-end. Details of both, plus details of how to join the BSFA itself, can be obtained from the Hon. Secretary, 77 College Road North, Blundellsands, Liverpool 23. Maybe we'll see you at the next one?

CONVENTION: ‘64 Charles Platt (from BEYOND #5, April 1964): This is hardly a Convention Report, since there will be enough of those in other magazines. It is more a personal reaction; a reaction that I think is shared to some extent by several other people I know for whom , also, this was their first sf Convention. My trip to the Convention was preceded by a visit to the Birmingham Area. First I called in at Beryl Henley's house, and, fending off her two children, enjoyed long conversations from Scientology to the second World War. Then to Peter Weston's house, where the Zeniths come from. God knows haw he manages to produce his fanzine; he's so short of space the duplicator has to stand in the passage. While in Brum we visited Cliff Teague, who's collection has got so much out of hand I doubt if he is really aware of what is in it. Boxes of magazines and piles of fanzines litter the floor and help to support his bed, giant bookshelves sagging with sf line the walls. And so to Peterborough. The Bull Hotel is a large, modern place and I was surprised that they'd agreed to have a Convention held there - especially after previous experience. Friday was a day in which there was little organised, and what there was I found disappointing. In a way this set the tone of the rest of the Convention. Having spent the afternoon meeting people and talking, at 8:00 pm fans congregated in the main hall to be welcomed officially to the Con. Following this welcome was a chaotic and seemingly pointless succession of introductions; one by one members of the audience were brought up front and asked rather pointless questions. The whole thing would have been like a quiz programme apart from the unruly and uninterested audience and the lack of a few well-placed "well, how about that!" interjections from the interviewer. "And here is... (looks at programme notes) ...ah ... Peter Weston, from Birmingham. You're from Birmingham, Pete?" "Yes" "And you're a new fan?" "yes, that's right"… "and you run a fanzine?" "Yes, it's called Zenith and it costs only 1/- at the moment, but the sub rates are going up next issue so subscribe to it now." "well thank you, Pete, and now let's have..." and so on, ad infinitum. So many people were brought up out of the audience I was wondering where it would stop; soon everyone would have been introduced. Unfortunately the answers could not be heard a lot of the time because the audience insisted on cutting in, talking, and shouting funny comments. It was a bemusing first taste of the Con.; surely, one felt, it can't all be like this? The question-and-answer session that was last on the programme suffered from an unstable audience that kept wandering in and out, a lack of prepared or coherent questions, and from the fact that most of the time Ken Slater didn't know the answers to the questions put to him. Even when he did, people chipped in ahead of him. Finally it all broke up and people were left to themselves for the rest of the evening; all right for older fans reunited with their companions of earlier Cons, but discouraging and boring for newcomers who could find little to do. Saturday saw a better-organised discussion, on 'Does Fandom Need Sf'. The more pertinent question of whether sf-reading fans needed fandom was only hinted at. The panel was two-fifths asleep, judging from the small amount Terry Bull and Wally Weber had to say; in fact since Wally Weber openly stated he didn't want to say anything one wonders why he took on the job. Panel members managed to say the same thing but make it sound different each time, and most of the relevant discussion points raised in the audience (there were many irrelevant points) followed the same theme. High spot in the discussion was when the panel was found to be composed of 3 people who were not regular readers of sf; and the other two didn't seem too sure about it. After some beautifully incomprehensible remarks from the audience, with no summing up from the chairman or the panel the conclusion was reached that there was no conclusion. In a way the most successful part of the Convention was the Saturday Afternoon Filmshow. The first film on Astronomy was at a Juvenile level, but the shots of Mars, Jupiter and Saturn, showing the planets' rotation, were fascinating, as were the pictures of the flaring solar prominences. I wonder whether the 'surprise item' at 4pm had been planned in advance, or was simply an unfilled space on the original programme to be filled up with anything that happened to show up. The anythings that showed up turned out to be Edmond Hamilton and Leigh Brackett . It was a pity that the questions posed to them continued for quite so long, but considering it was all unprepared the husband-wife team made some very interesting and absorbing comments. It is strange that this interest and intelligence does not show up in most of the stories they write. There was a surprisingly large number of good costumes at the Fancy Dress Ball on Saturday evening. Eddie Jones should have got a prize for his: "The Original Kelly Freas", a reconstruction of what Freas used to dress his swashbuckling characters in when he was illustrating Astounding. The execution was perfect, and Eddie fitted the part so well... The award for 'most beautiful costume' I regret was influenced by the inherent cuteness of a small child; it would have been better if the costume rather than the person involved had been considered. After the party, probably the most successful social occasion during the whole Convention, cliques gathered in the downstair-lounge, parties started in various rooms, drunkards roamed the corridors, rooms were broken into by a phantom inebriate with a master key. The white glare of flashbulbs successfully blinded several fans. While neofen grumbled morosely about the lack of organisation and the lack of sf interest in older fans, the older ones smoked pipes and played cards on the landing and in the lounge. Michael Moorcock assisted as always by his London group of hangers-on, spent the evening crooning and bellowing into a microphone, revising the bible, climbing over the roofs, and generally making a nuisance of himself. The parties were fun... yes. But there was a continual feeling that the Fun was a trifle unnatural or forced. I wonder how many people enter fandom as in escape; correspondence can so easily and successfully disguise the social outcast or introvert, enabling him to become whatever sort of person he pleases, until his correspondents meet him — and so often find that the person they have been writing to is not what his letters sounded like at all. I would guess that in most cases the image of himself that a letter-writer builds up is more glamorous than he really his; consequently it is hardly surprising that the social atmosphere was 'forced' on Saturday night, with natural introverts trying hard to be extraverts. There was a slight feeling of 'why I am I staying up for this?' and indeed it seemed the main reason was, 'because everyone else is'. Transition from Saturday Night to Sunday Morning passed unnoticed; until the time arrived to get up, followed by the horrible ordeal of breakfast, followed by the Annual General Meeting. Buoyed up by two Alka Seltzers I descended and was one of the few people at the AGM on time. I don't know whether holding the AGM on Sunday morning was a deliberate move directed at cutting down the number of attendees and hence the length of the meeting, but that's certainly how it worked out. Phil Rogers as chairman contributed to the process by cutting short any reports the committee members had to give; and God knows they didn't have much. Librarian Joe Navin said most, and he wasn't even on the Committee. It's all very well to make the meeting informal, but as E.C. 'Ted' Tubb pointed out, there were a lot of non members present, and the BSFA should have had an image to present to them. There was no attempt made in this direction. I personally would have very much liked to hear a full report from each Committee member of what had happened during their term of office, why, and what they hoped would happen in the future. Ron Bennett had lost his voice, but Ken Slater certainly hadn't, and provided most of the intelligent suggestions. It's a pity he hasn't time to be a Committee member. There was general approval of the idea that more money should be spent on advertising the BSFA, but this was more an agreement in principle than an assurance that everyone would do his best to make it happen. The immediate reaction was that in future advertising would be impossible, since New Worlds and Science Fantasy, when they change publishers, will no longer carry advertisements. This spontaneous lack of thought in the face of a difficulty, combined with natural lethargy and pessimism, is to a large extent symptomatic of what is wrong with the BSFA. Ken Slater was immediately able to provide two imaginative alternatives for advertising; and Willing's Press Guide surely should provide some others. There was no justification for defeatism. Ted Tubb' s buffoonery in joining the BSFA and 'recruiting' new members has a serious aspect that most people missed. Although his act was in fun, it is, all the same, the attitude that should be prevalent in the BSFA recruiting; people won't join by themselves, they need inducement. The BSFA must have an image to sell, it can't expect people to join just because it is there "Free drinks tonight for all new members!" cried Mr Tubb. He should be taken a bit more seriously! Archie Mercer turned the donation of the Doc Weir award from something that could have been horribly embarrassing into an amusing-but-serious occasion that went down very well. The main reason that the amateur films on Sunday afternoon were so well thought of was that the majority of the audience had never seen any serious amateur films before (and I'm not talking about 'home movies' of drooling babies). To someone who had, the programme was rather amateurish; this is hardly surprising since the films were the first venture of the Alien group in the medium, and first ventures are inevitably amateurish. The lampoon of Frankenstein was easily the best; the acting was good, and only a little more discriminating film splicing could have made an improvement. The rest of the programme was very bad in comparison. Toy tanks, fireworks, burning paper and whooshing flash powder just do not look like the real thing; Son of Godzilla was neither funny nor entertaining; I found it a little embarassing, as was "I was a teenage birdman". The take-off of H.G.Wells' "First men in the moon" was more amusing; the best part was the animation of the moon creatures. The other film on the subject of a moon rocket launching was unfortunately marred by memory of how well this humour can be put over, by Michael Bentine, or as in the "Running Jumping and Standing Still" film, itself almost in the amateur class, shown the previous afternoon. In general, the films did not deserve the praise that was showered upon them by some people (Ella Parker in particular). With the exception of Frankenstein, judged by standards of serious amateur film making the films were not very good, nor was there any real attempt to make them serious sf; they were either humorous monster or serious monster films. But to an older fan, unused to seeing invention or initiative in fandom, which is, after all, the same now as it was 20 years ago, the very idea that someone would have shown so much initiative must in itself have been astounding. So the Alien group walked off with one third of the Convention profits and sold vast quantities of their magazines to unsuspecting buyers thinking it would be as funny as the films. In a way, the two were similar. Why is it that people who are so much concerned with imagination and the future so enjoy re-living the past? We have a continual sentimentalism about the 'good old days of stf' (and crud), a continual reminiscing over the work of Walt Willis or John Berry or other Grand Old Fen, and the stories that they wrote which now seem so much better in retrospect. There is a current project to compile a history of fandom; and on Sunday yet another example of looking backwards was the slide show that helped people remember last year's Convention which, of course, a lot of people seemed to think was much better than this year's, just as next year's will not seem so good, when it arrives, as this year's was. Such a glorification of the past and a tendency to look backwards instead of forwards I find depressing; to see the audience happily reliving last year's activities instead of living this year's was sad. I was not among them. Ted Tubb is one of those gifted people who can deliver an unprepared speech and make it as grammatically and structurally perfect as if it were read out of a book. His 'guest of honour' speech was marred only by the fact that he forgot the last point he had to make. The questions that followed produced, for me, far more interesting answers than those asked of Edmund Hamilton and his wife. This was the official end of the Convention; but past 11.00 the Alien films were still being shown again. This was enthusiasm gone mad; a professional film is liable to suffer if shown through twice; amateur films of this class obviously just won't take it. Devoid of the impact of originality that they possessed on first showing they also lost most of their humorous appeal. But the spectacle that followed the films in the hall possessed both originality and appeal. Led by Michael Moorcock, E.C. Tubb and Kenneth Bulmer, a humming and swaying session took place. It was, as Mr Tubb explained, an attempt to reach back into the past, far back to the primitive rites of our ancestors; the free wine was not to get drunk on, it was to be considered a libation. In the dim glow from one ceiling light, the audience hummed and swayed in a circle about mysterious gowned figures, until at the sound of a horn they were commanded to drink. At the climax of the ceremony a 'young and virginal girl' was brought forth, slain, and then through the psychic presence of the humming and swaying audience, resurrected. At least, that's what should have happened; in practice the audience was too large and any atmosphere that gathered was repeatedly destroyed by funny comments from people who didn't take it seriously. Mike Moorcock didn't help when he staggered, lurched, slipped and fell over amidst the sound of breaking glass, and E.C. Tubb in shirt sleeves, a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other, did not exactly add. to the tone of the ceremony. With a smaller and more cooperative audience, and better rehearsed organisation, this could have been a great success. I felt sorry for the hotel staff, some of whom stayed up till 4-am; but I felt much sorrier for myself when I awoke on Monday morning at 7.30 to the rhythmic pounding of fists on my door. Had it all been worth it? It had been worth meeting Beryl Henley and Pete Weston two days before the Convention; there had been so much to talk about, then. But somehow when over 100 other fans are present, not just one other, the magic of conversation is lost, and uncertain boredom takes over. This is what happened for me at the Con.; perhaps no one enjoys it at first, or perhaps I was somehow at fault. Either way, it was a bit of a disappointment. But... see you at Birmingham, next Easter?