Gaye Black and Stories from the She-Punks at The John Peel Centre

I'll post some photos tomorrow when I'm home

I got to the centre around lunchtime and helped (a bit) in finishing the setting-up of the punk art exhibition, mainly by having a lateral brainwave that hair-grips would be the way to anchor Pauline Murray's large photographs to the broad weave canvas display screens in a way that would prevent them from curling up. The work looks absolutely great- there are even painted drum skins, and of course Pauline's painted shirts.

Later on the volunteers at the centre, led by Nick Jepson, set up the stage so I could interview Gaye. There was a very decent crowd and I was delighted to see Foolish Girl again- it's been such a long time! Gaye Black has been doing a lot of interviews recently, and I thought that most of them had probably concentrated on her involvement with the original punk movement, so tonight I asked her about her own collage artwork and about being a curator, because in the UK she really is at the forefront of curating exhibitions by punk musicians who make art in various forms. We also talked about her support for hunt saboteurs and her fostering of fox cubs. I thought it would be interesting to see the ways that she has carried punk's generosity of spirit and campaigning on from the original movement up to the present day. She delivered a magnificent one-liner at the end which I can't get exactly right so I won't write it here- but the event was filmed, so it will probably appear online at some point. She got a massive round of applause at the end.

Then Bobby the venue manager showed the film, and again it got a really good reception. We were sitting close to the front, but behind us you could literally feel people getting really engaged with it. Because it's been dormant for a while, it's easy to forget just how well the women that Gina and me interviewed come over: funny, in the prime of life and definitely thriving despite some of the fairly gruesome things that happened in their careers as punk musicians. Afterwards there were lots of positive conversations, signing of CDs and albums, and selfies. The best thing was the people who worked at the venue being so delighted by the way the evening went down.

It was an extra bonus to see Sheila Ravenscroft, John Peel's wife, after so many years. We had a really nice chat and I think we will keep in touch now.

I'm just resting before going back. Charlie is going to sound-check around 5, then the evening will start at about 7.45 with an interview with him, my set at 8.30, his at 9.15. I hope it's as good as last night! I even sold a framed print of Poly Styrene.

John Peel Centre This Week

 Who's coming to the John Peel Centre in Stowmarket on Tuesday?

I'll be showing 'Stories from the She-Punks' after interviewing Gaye Black of the Adverts.

Who's coming to the John Peel Centre in Stowmarket on Wednesday?

I'll be supporting Charlie Harper there (UK Subs) after interviewing him about his autobiography.

The Royal Festival Hall, London

Yesterday a bunch of us met up at the RFH on the South Bank. When my siblings and their partners' children and our children were small, we all used to meet there regularly. It's a cavernous space with long sightlines. The six children we had between us could potter about without us breathing down their necks, and we could sit and sip coffee and be adults together. Often there would be a band playing; the sound would float around and disappear into the roof. People would walk past, often with black violin-cases to join an orchestra that would be setting up for the night. Nobody ever moved us on, and it was a boon to have the space to congregate especially in hot weather with the cool of the River Thames nearby, rushing past and ignoring us all.

It's still like that, a big communal area that you don't need a lot of money to enjoy. We took a picnic, and realised we'd inadvertently arranged to meet on the day of the hip hop dance competition. We threatened to sign each other up for it. Seventy two (at least) competitors took part, one after the other: 'Three, two, one...'. My favourite was a South Asian woman who danced a hybrid of Bollywood (hands) and hip hop (body), but there were also some phenomenal child dancers. Some of the dancers were very audience-conscious, and they were the better ones. Around the edges, young men practiced their moves, and downstairs we could see couples dancing Salsa to the music- I'm not sure whether that was just an anarchic pop-up thing happening.

I felt a flood of emotions, not just because of James but also because of the South London estate music projects that I used to work on all the time, writing songs for and with community groups. Some of those estates have been demolished and replaced by private housing; the Elephant and Castle is so close to Central London that the developers must be able to make a lot of money. Back in the day, the children I worked with were experienced in doing TV work, for instance: they were so close to where the shows were made (London Weekend Television had studios along by the river). It was a natural way of being inclusive: everything was just on the doorstep. Even the people with learning disabilities that I worked with had been on lots of TV shows, and mentioned it casually sometimes.

The dance competition on Saturday had that same focus on fun and community. Who cares what the toxic racists are up to? Their posturing means nothing when there is so much creativity and energy being created by groups of people who naturally integrate with each other. The competitors weren't even stars for a Warhol-15-minutes-of-fame; it was more like 45 seconds per person. But everyone was watching raptly and cheering the really exceptional dancers. It made my heart happy to see it. I live in a different musical world, but sitting with my family and friends- choir singers, a successful covers-band sax player, an indie guitarist, a brand video production person, a fashion shop manager, an embroiderer and knitter, a photographer- we were immersed in a world of positivity and creativity. As the lid of negativity and hopelessness is nailed down, we pop the nails out and bust our way out of it all the time: we can't help it.

And upstairs, downstairs, round the corner in different bits of the Royal Festival Hall, other people were doing the same: more formally (the classical music programming) and more informally (the skateboarders in the Undercroft). None of it was online: it was all Real.

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!

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