Thursday Round-up

Tuesday was a bugger of a day. I had to get up at 5.45 to negotiate the tube strike and make sure I could get to Paddington to do a stint as an invigilator at the FAB exhibitions. Even on the mainline a train was cancelled- because it was raining! Four hours later, the train to Bath Spa was just pulling into the station and I got a message from the curator of the bit where I was supposed to be saying that the venue had flooded, though none of the work was damaged. The organisers were hoping the invigilators would mop up the water.

I imagined a six hour day of mopping followed by a four hour journey home, or the gallery not even opening after a three-quarter-mile walk up there, and decided to get the next train straight home. In mitigation, I'm on heavy-duty antibiotics and my actual body said 'no'. I had to buy a whole new ticket because my ticket couldn't be changed.

Later I found out it was a puddle- or at least that's what I was told!

It had been impossible to face the idea of being with the family at James's house. There are simply too many awful recollections of that time, watching him fighting his illness: there are no good memories there to dwell on at the moment. We are meeting up on Saturday somewhere else, and that will not be so poignant.

I've immersed myself in music. Yesterday was spent editing guitar parts to the point where I realised I'd have to re-do the guide vocals, which were out of time. Editing is really, really absorbing; actually, I'll replay most of them now I've done proper guide vocals, because seeing the sound-waves helps to show what's been wrong with the guitar playing. I've sung till there's no voice left today.

Next week, I'll be in Stowmarket at The John Peel Centre interviewing Gaye Black on Tuesday before showing Stories from the She-Punks, and then Charlie Harper on Wednesday. I'm just finishing reading his autobiography; his childhood was absolutely extraordinary, and I'll mainly be asking him about that.

Meanwhile, the ironing is piled high on a chair, there are sharp invisible little bits on the floor, guitars all over the place, and badges, embroidery thread, pens and post-it notes all over the sofa. Gina phoned earlier to ask if I'd be able to play a gig and a radio show in Manchester in a couple of weeks' time, but I'll be on my way over to two-buses-a-day Gatehouse of Fleet where our Grandpappy was born and brought up, to play a festival there. 

Two buses came along at once that weekend. Bah! Just be happy with what you've got, and drink out of that half-full glass etc etc etc!

At The John Peel Centre Next Week

 

Woman Yawning At The Cheese Stall

 

Man Enjoys Sun, Whitby

 

James Ian McCallum, Left A Year Ago Today

 

Man With Berimbau

 

Theremin at Jack White's Art Exhibition

There's an exhibition of Jack White's art ( which he describes as 'hardware store' work) at the Newport Street Gallery in Vauxhall. The best bit is the music room where you can play all sorts of electronic instruments through amplifiers, including this Theremin. I wonder how long before they turn them off to preserve the shattered nerves of the staff? Video by Naimad.

Fringe Arts Bath

I've got two things in the Fringe Arts Bath festival: Gisele Pelicot in the The Stitch That Bit Back exhibition in the Newark Works, and Horse D'Hoovers in The Motive of the Puppeteer exhibition in the Old Glassworks. 

Until Wednesday- it's a fantastic day out if you get the chance! There is so much to see.

Ugh 4U!

 

Station Staff

 

Drawing Book

I wonder if people buy books of drawings? I must have 250 or more drawings now, with notes of the music that I was listening to when I drew each one. I try to imagine how it would work. The paper would have to be of very good quality, and I don't know how or where I would put the notes about the music. The music is really important; it's tied in with the drawings. Online would not be the same. I have noticed when the prints are made that you can see the texture of the pencil-meets-paper dynamic. One woman in Valencia contacted me to say she was concerned that she had bought the original, but I keep them separate from each other for just that reason.

John and Gabi from Tiny Global took the exhibition down last night, which was very kind of them. I have asked them to donate any remaining clip-frames to a charity that they support, and they will bring the unsold prints to the UK next time they come over.

The air is not so thick and soupy today, but I'm still disinclined to do much recording. I did a bit of editing earlier on, but mostly I will be playing guitar to keep my grip strong and my fingers calloused. I feel a bit as though I'm in suspended animation. Next Tuesday is the anniversary of James's death, and images of that time are intruding whether I want them to or not. On the day itself, I'll be in Bath invigilating at the Fringe Arts Bath exhibition, which will be a good place to be.

We all experienced that moment in different ways, and some family members will be having a get-together which will be very sad but also very supportive. It's comforting to feel that he must have known how much he was loved during those last days and hours in the hospital. It was powerful: so many of us there, talking to him and looking after him alongside the medical staff who were keeping him comfortable and calm. We were supporting each other, too, sitting in the café downstairs and chatting in between stints of sitting in his room with him.

When the day passes, will things feel different? I don't know. A wave of sadness came at the funeral, and then afterwards there was the feeling of a huge vacancy. We spent the first seven years of James's life as siblings, and we can't check in on each other with micro memories about that time any more. The difference between photographs and reality has never seemed more stark. He was a solid little chap who soon grew taller and stronger than me, and we were constantly trying to outwit each other. Siblings who are close in age have a particular sort of friendship whose intensity is watered down by rivalry, but simultaneously the urge to defend each other from external challenges and aggressions is incredibly strong. Simply, there was nothing in the world as good as having a pal to climb trees with, completely fearlessly and thoughtlessly. Our parents were the opposite of helicopter parents; forty days at sea parents. The two of us scrapped, shouted, ran, climbed and eventually were in a band together. No wonder I still miss him.

Woman Photographs Dried Fish in Valencia

 

Boiling in Barnet

Somehow it doesn't seem so hot today, but that's probably because I haven't been wandering around much. I went for coffee with my neighbour Keith and came back to do a little bit of recording. 

I remember that from last time, working in fits and starts to get things sounding right. Because I'm playing guitar in so many different ways on these songs, I'm a bit shaky and I'm having to try all sorts of tricks to get the music out of my hands. I only did an hour, a combo of playing and editing, and will wait till tomorrow to see how it sounds.

There are three flies the size of helicopters flying circuits between the kitchen and here. Every time one of them goes outside, it seems as though it's replaced by another. Thankfully, they are not in landing mode at the moment and I don't have to worry about their horrid little poisonous feet. What with them and the tiny ants coming in looking for whatever they can get their claws on, it's busy round here. Oh yes, and the baby rat in the compost bin! I gave that a wide berth, because of being bitten by a baby rat that I thought was a mouse a few years go. Trusty thick garden gloves the next time I open it to fling in the scraps. 

Oh yes, yes too: the poor drowned snail in the watering can that I mistook for a stone, and picked out with my fingers, pinching a shockingly slimy cold splodge between finger and thumb, and shuddering when I realised what it was. 

It's like being in the jungle, except the creatures are miniscule. There's nothing to interest David Attenbrough here; there are no hedgehogs or frogs, though I heard a fox singing an entire opera two nights ago,  condensed into five minutes of yowling and screaming. A foxera. I'm sure other foxes knew what it meant, but I couldn't understand it no matter how hard I tried. I was glad of the distraction: it's so hard to get to sleep on these hot nights; a bit of small-hours entertainment breaks the tedium.

Couple With Vintage Morris WIP

 

And The Bloody Thing Just Lay There And Did Nothing To Help!

 

What they don't tell you at the time.