A Tempo Thing

I thought the song was far too fast, especially as it's bumped itself up to the possible opening track. I played along to the metronome at 96 BPM and it sounded fine... then I listened to the original this morning at 110 BPM and it sounded so perky and fresh. What a dilemma! My hands have cramped up anyway this morning, so there's nothing that I can do about it at the moment.

Oh, these times: everyone is convinced that everyone else is an idiot who simply doesn't understand what the clever, in-the-know people understand. I had a really interesting conversation with a chap on Wednesday last week when I went to deliver the little horse; it was very intense for a chilly Wednesday in the basement of a coffee shop. But he was much-travelled, and I told him that although I'm not so well-travelled myself, I don't feel as though I belong anywhere. I'm culturally stateless, which at times has felt like a problem but at the present moment feels like a blessing. I literally feel as though I have no identity at all, which is quite weird in a time of such intense identity politics. The thing is, endless creativity helps to ameliorate this problem. I can not see or feel 'me', but I can make things and write things that prove that I exist.

He liked the idea of that, and described it back to me as 'floating' which is exactly how it feels. This may also be the reason why I've been prey to a lot of manipulative people in the past- but also to how it's been possible to escape from their grasp. I sit at home and wait for 'myself' to arrive, which rarely happens unless I'm drawing, playing guitar or singing: at that point everything whooshes into my head and body, and I feel a total sense of concentration and calm. 

It's probably akin to meditation, isn't it? The only problem is that in formal meditation sessions it's always been impossible to get the shopping list out of my head; visualising all those packets with their colourful branding and maybe even their merry little jingles from the TV ads, that's what slips in as the drony voice of the meditation person tells us all to relax... 

DON'T DO IT, WHEN YOU WANT TO GET TO IT! 

See what I mean?

While writing this, I think I've decided to take the middle path and go for 100 BPM, which should be playable and still have the requisite amount of energy. On someone's social media posting the other day I saw a term that perfectly describes this current music, so I've filed that in my head for the future.

Of course, lots has happened this weekend; all I will say is that it was really enjoyable watching differently-garbed hen parties filing into Leicester Square from various directions and meeting in the middle, dressed in the white, the pink, the black, some sparkling, some not. It was charming seeing them acknowledging each other from near and afar. Bless their marabou bunny-ears!

More Pruning of Words, and Self-Doubt Sets In

After another hour, I've managed to get the article down to less than 6000 words, which feels like a miracle. Tomorrow after a read-through I'll send it to the editor to see what she thinks: it's cross-referencing within a written piece that can catch you out. Me out. You know what I mean. 

Meanwhile, I've reached the self-doubt stage of recording. Everything is very rough and I have to decide how smoove to make it. I've not been caring what people might think and now I realise that you have to, otherwise people won't listen. It's the musician's nightmare, to release music to an audience with their hands over their ears!

Anyway I have to drop off my little clay horsy now. I hope to get some better guitar parts down over the next couple of days and one of the things that will help that is re-stringing my guitar. Ouch.

Man Directs Traffic, Rothesay Ferry

 

A Tidy Mess

I spent much of this morning working on editing the academic article that needs to be converted from a (more than) 8000-word previously published academic journal submission, into a 5000-word book chapter. I've managed to get it down to just over 6000 words, using a complete slash and burn mentality. I think if I can lose another 500 words from the main thing, editing down the bibliography with its leaner list of sources should bring me into a reasonable word limit. It's definitely a morning-brain activity and has taken a surprisingly long time. I've given up being grumpy about not being paid and it being too late to affect my CV and have just got into the craft of it all, which was perhaps inevitable.

Dispiritedly, I sat down at the computer and started to work on my album. But I managed to finish a song that I started the other day and quite unbelievably, write and record a whole other one. They are so rough around the edges, and one of them probably needs to be zeroed and re-started, but I've just put them into a narrative order and they do make sense both lyrically and musically. Now I need to do a hell of a lot of guitar rehearsing (they are so difficult to play) and a lot of singing too, because my voice is rather raspy because of the quantity of pollen in the air.

I have to pack up Hors D'Hoovers now because he's going to Fringe Arts Bath to be exhibited and I've got to drop him off with the curator tomorrow lunch time. I didn't realise he'd be accepted. He's delighted and can't stop whinnying, which is definitely preferable to the dog next door yapping in the garden.

Man In Tweed Suit on Tube, London

 

Five Thousand Emails

Over the past ten days I've deleted five thousand emails because the service provider threatened to bounce-back future emails if I didn't.

It felt like clearing out the attic, or throwing away redundant photographs. It was also a revelation; there were situations that I thought I'd imagined that were clearly laid out in email chains, and a clear 'guilty' verdict for a person who'd claimed that I short-changed them emotionally. 

I couldn't delete emails from McDad, my brother James, nor from Ari or Poly Styrene. For some reason that seemed a step too far. 

I still should get rid of more of them- I've only got to the letter 'E' in the alphabet (I became more methodical after realising the sheer weight of numbers that I needed to plough through).

In a similar fashion, I've been having a slash'n'burn clear-out of clothing that I've kept since I was in my twenties and thirties, the trousers laughing at me as I struggled to get into them. They have become breeding grounds for moths, who then proceed to eat their way through newer clothes. It's not so much the body size that I feel nostalgic about, but more the sense of style that I once had. I literally didn't care what anyone else was wearing, I would strut around in a drape suit and brothel creepers when floaty dresses were de rigeur. 

I have got a floaty dress or two nowadays but I draw the line at pussy-bows (how Thatcher!!!) and ruched necklines that make me feel as though my head is going to fall off even when I just look at them. 

Three cheers for trousers! Marvellous things!

Thirty Seven Minutes

I've only managed 37 minutes of recording today. I'd practiced the guitar part earlier on; it's very hard because it involves hammering-on with my left pinky which is double-jointed, and I have to send the brain signal to it every time I use it: 'Do not bend in the wrong direction!'. I'm getting the hang of it, and thought it was worth recording the clumsy riff just so it feels as though I've achieved something today.

Alas, next door's yappy dog started yapping in a chaotic counter-rhythm as soon as I pressed 'record', and although it's stopped now, I've been thrown off my stride by the disruption. It barks at the squirrel, which seems to enjoy baiting the dog when it's not nicking the bird seed from my back yard. Oh, the adventures!

Today's song has worried me because I think I've gone Ordinary. Quite often, bands and artists that I like Go Ordinary and then I don't like them any more. I had to get off the bus three stops early this morning because it wasn't coming all the way up the hill, and while I was walking to the next bus stop, I hit on a plan to de-Ordinarify this song. I can't do that until I finish the lyrics, which are Not Good Enough. 

As you can see, there are a lot of things I need to work on with this one, but it's actually quite thrilling to have a challenge. I know I can't rush it, but I need to work it when I can. The weekend and a lot of next week are going to be jammed up with life's practicalities so I'll have to work round the edges of all that. To me that's normal, after doing a PhD/holding down a job/being a mum. 

Those times when I go away to start a project in my head, oh what a luxury that is!

Anyway. I think I'll listen to yesterday's song, put away the guitar (guitar leads are a trip hazard in a small kitchen) and watch TV this evening. What's on?

Fringe Arts Bath 1

Gisele Pelicot, the Girl Guide we all need, is about to be framed and sent to FaB (Fringe Arts Bath) to be exhibited there.
Many thanks to @chloesavageartist and @katarina_orolinova_art for choosing her!
22nd May to 6th June
https://www.fringeartsbath.co.uk/

On The Golden Hinde

I'm delighted to be supporting Pauline Murray on Sunday 14th June at the Golden Hinde, a ship moored on the River Thames not far from London Bridge. What an amazing venue!

Tickets here: https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/pauline-murray-penetration-helen-mccookerybook-live-on-the-golden-hinde-tickets-1984895127759

Window Cleaner, Charity Shop

 

Weirdness, and Practicality

I had an old-fashioned deadline to revise an academic article in order for it to become a book chapter, which was OK until I learned that I'd need to edit out 3000 words. It's in PDF format, almost impossible to change without conversion software, and I don't even have an up-to-date version of Word any more. I respectfully wrote to the editors yesterday saying that I would not be able to do it; I also no longer have any sort of institutional support. This morning, they offered me a person to help- so it will happen. 

Clunky ancient laptop on the point of dying, I'm dependin' on you son.

I shouldn't be procrastinating at this point but actually I'm taking a breather. I listened to yesterday's song and I'm actually jealous of it! How stupid is that? But it just came rolling out like a steam train. In my night time song terrors, I decided the song that it sounds like is too similar (it's not, really), and that I should revise the original one. This is not a bad thing. I started to write another song today, mostly words with just air where the music should be, so I'm taking that out with me for a walk this afternoon to see what happens.

I'm agitated because of the local elections. There has never been a political party that aligns with what I believe, so I've always voted for the people that I think will work for people who most need to be noticed and helped. This time around, it is hard to see which party this is. All of them are making a noise, and none of the noises are music to my ears. What is most exhausting is the assumptions and declarations made by people in power about what people with left-wing politics believe. This is often infuriating. I think I have probably been braver in challenging unfairness in workplaces and other situations than many of those politicians who have been surrounded by support for their whole lives. There is no point in broadcasting this fact here or anywhere else; it is private information that the internet would love to have so it can twist it and turn it and make it come out bad. Sanctimony is not a good look, and one party lost my vote in one fell swoop this week, because of just that.

So it's time for a last visit to academic writing, which I'd call slow politics. It feels like planting a root for future solidity, good for the soul if not for the bank balance. After tomorrow's inevitable horrors, I feel that the engine of life will start revving again. This weekend I will be making a pineapple upside-down cake for Offsprog Two's birthday complete with glacé cherries in the middle of the pineapple rings. I can't find Angelica unfortunately, so the lurid 1970s elements will be a mite turned down, but I don't think that will matter too much.

No Mow May

I found myself with the responsibility of a huge lawn; I had to sell the house and if it had been up to me I would have left it to grow into a lovely meadow, but house-buyers in the 'burbs like 'neat and tidy'. It was exasperating to have to decapitate all the little flowers every weekend. One Friday morning I went out there and this song showed up in my head to explain how I felt:

https://helenmccookerybook.bandcamp.com/track/daisies

Rock on, No Mow May!

Man With Gigantic Plant At Tube Station

 

Twangling

I've had another one of those days where it's literally taken all day to be able to play the guitar part even semi-correctly. I simply couldn't work out what was going wrong. I doubled the BPMs, halved them, doubled them, went out for a walk. When I got back, I speeded the metronome up by five beats per minute and voila! I could play it well enough to sing over.

The only problem is that it sounds extremely similar to one of the other songs, but that might actually be quite a nice challenge to overcome because it's nothing to do with fingers. But its a whole song, and the other one's only half a song at the moment, so let's see.

Someone knocked at the door yesterday and I was sure it was a Liberal Democrat, but it wasn't: it was a Jehova's Witness, all clad in pale brown and embarrassed. 

I was expecting a delivery (I've ordered a Carlton and his Shoes LP), so the next time someone knocked I thought it would be Royal Male (that's what I'll call him, even though he's too normal to be regal). Nope: it was the Liberal Democrats. 

It's all go in High Barnet, I tell you! 

I've folded up the laptop and wrapped the microphone in its sleeping-cloth. That was enough recording for one day; now it's quiz-show-avoidance time. I know somewhere in the world a lot of people like quizzes but they're keeping quiet about it, rather like (I suspect) Liberal Democrats.

Music Of All Sorts, At All Times

With Holly Cook's lovely voice still ringing in my ears, it was back to Camden on Friday for Gina Birch's concert at The Electric Ballroom. It's an infinitely nicer venue than it used to be, much sparklier and airier.

Mike, Gina's partner, was already busy at the merch stall, and much to my surprise my ex-husband's former law college friend Nick was there, now tour managing the whole Gina Birch/Lesley Woods tour.

After a quick chat to Simon Bazalgette (it was one of those 'everybody's here' nights), Lily Wolter (replacing Marie) and Jenny Green appeared on the stage, closely followed by Gina.

There followed a majestic set of songs re-worked to shake off the heavy reverbs of the album track production, refreshed and with entirely new dynamics. I have seen Gina play countless times, and this was definitely the best. She was confident, committed, and in excellent voice despite telling us that her Mum had just hours to live. There was no self-deprecation: just pure, powerful music that had the crowd in raptures. I Play My Bass Loud was especially strong, as were Feminist Song and Live Forever. The whole set was fascinating musically, listening out for what has changed and what has been consolidated: the sound of the night was the closer to Gina's original song demos than it has ever been. Absolutely brilliant. This was the last date of a tour that sounds as though it has probably been one of the most fulfilling periods in Gina's life.

Afterwards, I had a lovely chat about harmonies and other things with Charley Stone, Miki Beryeni, Kat Five, and a quick hello to Jerry Thackray, who I'll catch up with in Brighton when I support Pauline Murray there next month. I missed Lesley's set, although I heard from Gina that the band play really well, which isn't surprising given that they have Estella Adeyeri on bass.

This afternoon's musical offering was entirely different: two community choirs in Brockwell Park in their community greenhouse area. The Dulwich Folk Choir has been put together by Aimée Leonard, an Orcadian woman who collects 'lost' songs and shares them with a non-auditioned, non gender specific choir who clearly love what they do. They were crisp and well rehearsed, and sang so beautifully that the park blackbird couldn't resist joining in. It was a lovely moment. They were followed by The Carnegie Library Hub Choir, whose repertoire was more varied and complex, including South African songs. They sang heartily, even though only half of the regulars were there. Unmediated voices in the sunshine: what an absolute luxury for the ears.

In the garden there were beehives humming with bees, and a greenhouse full of spectacular cacti and succulents, drunk on happiness and wellbeing. Through the opening of a small, high shed, I could see an elderly man of Caribbean heritage proudly arranging scores of small plastic plant pots, a critique on the lack of sustainability in some gardening practices. 

We ate nectarine cake and thought it was going to rain (it didn't). I came home with a small tomato plant and a pot of sempervivums to insert into my tiny back yard. 

Within two days, I've experienced two musical events at polar opposites of the spectrum of what humans can do with their voices; they were both mesmerising in utterly different ways. What a wonderful world we inhabit, despite the cold cruelty of the people who would like to ruin it for us. It's going to be very hard to vote on Thursday choosing between bad people and bad people and bad people. I would like to vote for the Green Party, but up here they are literally knitted and crocheted, and seem terribly feeble in their crocs. I wish there was a wholesome version of testosterone that could power us into a kinder world where people didn't weaponise religion and heritage and make wars out of it all. If I was God, I'd send all the arms manufacturers and their 'hardware' into deep space in one of Elon's manrockets and tell them not to come home to Earth ever again. But I'm not. I wish I was.