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.

Whistler at Tate Britain

Whistler was a quirky artist, and probably quite an unpleasant man. In this exhibition there are at least three incidences of him falling out with friends or fellow artists dramatically badly and one of his portraits, of a teenage girl, gives the game away because she looks utterly miserable. 

Yet there are some beautiful works in this exhibition. By far the best are the copious tiny sketches he did as he travelled around Europe, having sued Ruskin (also seemingly a horrible man) for defamation after Ruskin said his work was akin to him chucking paint in people's faces, and being awarded a pitiful amount and going bankrupt. There are also some wonderful etchings, a medium of which he was an absolute master; although critics rave about his use of colour, it's the black and white work that appealed the most. There are several self-portraits, and we see him ageing like a rock star, clearly a vain man. His interests, though, were wide and well, interesting: he loved Japanoiserie and collected blue and white china. Somewhat out of character, he could paint very Japanese-looking peacocks. This exhibition demonstrates  his love of experimentation and his dislike of the finished article; he's very much a man after my own heart in that respect. My favourite painting is this one, Chelsea Girl. I just love it: she is the coolest little girl ever, and I wish we saw more tough little working class children in the work of famous painters.

My verdict is that it's well worth a visit but wait till it's been around for a while and is less crowded. There are a lot of 'splainers there at the moment, and getting close enough to the little artworks to appreciate them properly can be a trial. Ding dong, over and out.

Helen and the Horns on Pebble Mill at One

 Helen and the Horns on Pebble Mill at One. We never got on Top of the Pops, but Pebble Mill was just as cool: everyone watched it. 

We were terrified.

Riposte

 https://helenmccookerybook.bandcamp.com/track/the-sea

Beach Seller, Valencia

 

In June At The John Peel Centre In Stowmarket

 

Delete Junk

I think I might be about to ditch another song. It was to be the last one, but the last song on the last album didn't attract any attention at all, and I don't want a 'disappearing back' on this album. I will give it a bit of time to see what else turns up.

Not much progress was made today apart from a bit of re-familiarisation with Logic.  I'm not sure if I'm getting better at stuff, or just more critical of what I'm doing: it's hard to tell.

The problem with not much recording progress today is that the whole house need to be cleaned, and I don't want to do it!

Woman with Flower Stall

 

Book Talk, Picture Delivery And Recording

Yesterday evening I went to a book talk by Matt Worley, with Cathi Unsworth and Paul Morley also on the panel. They were promoting Matt's book, No Future which is being republished to coincide with the 50th anniversary of punk. There were a lot of 50- and 60-something white chaps in big black coats, with a smattering of women, including Liz Naylor, who Matt interviewed for the book. Liz is always wonderfully blunt and truthful, and she drew the conversation towards Manchester, where it was generally acknowledged that Richard Boon is the unsung hero of that city. It was an interesting panel of three writers, each of whom has a different approach to punk. Matt reminded us that he was six or seven at the time, and his major lightbulb moment came when he saw Adam and the Ants on Top of the Pops; Paul Morley recalled going to see The Sex Pistols in Wolverhampton on a specially-hired coach. Cathi, who has written extensively on the Goth subculture, talked about outsider groups and their creativity, and a recent meeting with young people who had totally rejected the internet and were making old-school fanzines the traditional way.

At some points I wanted to shout out- the Buzzcocks' guitar solo in Boredom was two notes, not one, for instance: but I breathed deeply and absorbed it all. The idea of the virtue signalling associated with Live Aid was very pertinent, and the general awareness of the panel that they might be glossing over some of the more unsavoury parts of punk. I think having just massively edited the article on reggae and women punks recently, I was primed for a fight, but I managed to not. It was actually very interesting, particularly when a member of the audience wondered why nobody in the media was making any noise about the anniversary. Do you think punk was much less important than those of us who were involved in it think? Was it just one little tadpole in the giant river of culture?

Afterwards, I had a quick chat with Daniel Rachel, who has recently published a book on the swastika, nazi imagery and rock'n'roll which definitely fills a gap on the bookshelves; it's just been one of those things that people mutter beneath their breath so it's good to turn the stone over and see what's underneath it. Travis Elborough was also there just finishing a book about vinyl records, and I'm looking forward to that being published in September. Roll on Zoe Howe's republished The Story of The Slits, too!

This morning, I took four framed prints over to Gaye Black in West London for the exhibition at the John Peel Centre in Stowmarket in June. Gaye herself, Pauline Murray, Charlie Harper and Youth are also exhibiting (and more people). My drawings are of Ari, Poly, Tina Weymouth and Neil Young, the odd-one-out that's included because it's one of my best drawings. Gaye showed me the collages she's exhibiting, and also the poster that she has made for Celeste Bell's Queens of Punk event at Camden Art Centre (we think in August), where the She-Punks film will also be shown.

I've finished re-recording the demo that was at the wrong tempo. At least that's not going to keep me awake tonight.

Matt's book: https://www.waterstones.com/book/no-future-anniversary-edition/matthew-worley/paul-morley/9781009661287

Daniel's book: https://www.waterstones.com/book/this-aint-rock-n-roll/daniel-rachel/9781399635721

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.