Vlogger, Soho

 

Embroidery Finished

It was tempting to have a line of gold thread around the inner margin, but as soon as the needle was threaded the thread started to snag and tangle; it basically opted itself out of the process.

This is the artwork for my next (currently homeless) album, the embroidery finally finished today after months and months. It's inspired by a trip to Newcastle to write songs about the Brighton punk scene; a walk down Northumberland Street early one morning was illuminated by a Geordie chap in a white t-shirt braving the late winter chill and carrying a little cage with a cockatiel in it that looked very much like this one (maybe not so punky). Strange to write about Brighton while in Newcastle? It's a launchpad for ideas, that city. 

I've been sitting upstairs in the house while the kitchen and bathroom were being tiled. The intention was to replace some dodgy guitarring and add some bass to the tracks before mixing; and dropping a box of ceramic tiles on my finger was not part of the plan. But fate gave me the opportunity to complete this, at any rate. Daylight is remarkably motivating for stitching and working on colours, and so are the morning hours.

My ears are still working though. The tiler's drill is in the key of G, and the drum-like tension of the embroidery hoop means that even when I pull the thread through the calico, I can hear from the tone of the vibrating thread whether it has tangled itself up at the back of the tapestry; a shorter thread makes a different sound. 

There are several 'it's a shame about the...' sections in the work , but then there always are, and if I ever did a perfect one I'd stop. 

Years ago on Art Foundation at Sunderland Polytechnic, one of the tutors expressed frustration at the fact that none of the art that I did had any sort of statement attached to it. It's only today that I realised that everything I make is an experiment, whether art, music, or for that matter writing. I sit and think 'What if somebody did this?' and they don't, so I do it. I haven't built the huge direction system for the London Underground but I did actually apply for funding to make that as an installation. 

Something like this is much easier in comparison, even though it was difficult in terms of patience!

At The End Of The Day

No drawing tonight, I am weary. I've spent roughly four hours embroidering a piece that has threatened never to be finished, but I think it probably will. It's hard to be patient, but probably good therapy, or meditation, or something.

What else? Blocking three trolls, which was necessary but depressing. Playing through my set for Saturday's gig supporting Caroline Trettine at The Waiting Room (fingers complaining but working). 

Feeling rueful that a banjo part has a very flat-looking sound wave which will make editing and automation difficult, despite being told how to raise the actual volume. A pancake part is a pancake part, although it sounds lovely. I just want the picture that goes with the sound, that's all.

Apart from that, I didn't do much with the music. I'm waiting for myself, actually. The kitchen will be back in order on Wednesday; there are two more bass contributions to come, and I must re-play some dodgy guitar and contribute my own bass to a song: then it's mixing time!

Interlude

Today, by rights, I should be charging around the village making up for all the not-walking that I haven't done for a week. It's not that I've become slothful, it's just that life's been limited so I've been doing more cerebral things than physical things.

Everyone makes lists, don't they? 

I suspect that everyone doesn't do the things on their lists, too. 

I looked through my diary of personal must-do-this-today orders and shook my head in mock despair. I've done the spaces between the lists instead. 

While clearing out papers and old bills, I found a letter that I wrote to an ex-partner and never sent. Often you don't need to send these missives, because they are about expressing how you feel to yourself rather than communicating those feelings to anyone else. I have also developed a habit of keeping rolls of masking tape, sellotape, gaffa tape and so on that have only about a centimetre of tape left on the roll. I suddenly realised that I could throw away four or five spent rolls of tape that I'd been effectively hoarding for months.

The hardest thing for arty-farty people is the quantity of drawings that you accumulate. I'd meant to set up an Etsy shop this week but became absorbed in other things and didn't. It's something I should really do, as a punishment, perhaps, for being over-productive. Thank God I haven't got a studio! There would be twice as much stuff wallpapering my life. Every time I try to exercise a bit of quality control and throw something away, a little detail winks at me and I have to keep it. For instance, I think I must have about 300 drawings done while listening to Riley and Coe's shows on BBC6. There is something complete about listening to their bantz and the music they play, and choosing a photograph to draw. Even the bad drawings are a record of a particular playlist. I can see the worst one in my mind's eye. Maybe I'll find that one and throw just that one away.

The last drawing that I posted on Instagram was of two portrait artists drawing Adam Blake and Errol Linton's blues band, and a photographer too. The two artists recognised themselves, which is a very weird coincidence. The last time that happened was the bicycle ambulance man in Bloomsbury, who was recognised by another bicycle ambulance man, and who was apparently rather chuffed to have become, in his own words, a 'pin-up'.

I just sat down to say that I've played the nylon-strung guitar for 35 minutes today. That feels like excellent progress and I'll do the same tomorrow before moving on to the electric on Tuesday, which is much more hurty-fingers. It's helping me to learn the words of the new songs too. The urge to burble took over, and now I need to get on with doing nothing. 

Sean McClusky Interviews Terry Edwards

There was a festival in Denmark Street this avo and after a curry with Offsprog Two in Charlotte Street, I headed on down to Regent Sounds to hear Sean interviewing Terry about his 33 1/3 book on Madness' One Step Beyond album. They went through it song by song, and it became apparent that Dave Robinson of Stiff Records had overruled the band on several occasions- possibly because they were so young. I think Terry said that Mark Bedford was only seventeen. All of the band were songwriters- all seven of them- something that I didn't know. 

Something I did know (and it's hearsay, so may not be true) was that the young band used to go to see Brighton's Piranhas play in London a lot. By then, the Piranhas had developed beyond punk and were incorporating a lot of reggae rhythms and humour into their songs. The budding Madness used to beg the Piranhas' manager for a support gig, but he always refused. Eventually, they developed just that raw, humorous and fast-paced punky reggae into a winning formula- and they lived in The Smoke so they were able to build an audience quite quickly. This could be an apocryphal tale, but it's interesting anyway.

There was something quite New York about being in a guitar shop and listening to a musician being interviewed by another musician. Out in the street, musicians dawdled and posed, and other music shops were rammed with bands and audiences.

I wanted a cardamom bun from Buns At Home, but they must have been Instagrammed. The queue snaked down the street. 

Bah! 

I came home and had tomato soup instead.

Work On The House, Work On The Album

Downstairs, the kitchen and bathroom floors are being replaced; upstairs I'm working, editing the songs and working on the artwork for the cover. Hours go past. A friend kindly pointed out that I'd omitted the little first 'c' of McCookerybook in the artwork. When I'd coloured it, I'd been concentrating so hard I'd gone over the faint guidelines I'd written, so luckily there was enough space to fix it.

I tried to play the nylon strung guitar last night but the fingers still said no- quite indignantly, actually. They can have another couple of days- then that's it guys, OK?

The kitchen will sound different with a different floor but I'm quite looking forward to setting up the mic next week to see what transpires.

Meanwhile, audio contributions are gradually being sent in. One of today's was so good it sent shivers up my spine. Regardless of the music, songs, production, and all that there is something about this project that feels exactly right emotionally. I'm not trying to write great songs: the songs have written themselves. It's their fault if they're crap!  And for all I feel sad for the label Tiny Global ceasing to trade (how mortifying to give up such a worthy and eclectic company), because there is nothing but space ahead of me, no route, no railway track, I'm making wild decisions and sticking with them. I'm not thinking about who might play it, who might buy it, or who might review it. It's a bunch of dammed up stories and feelings that are bursting to be expressed and can not be contained. 

I almost forgot to post about the book launch on Tuesday at The Boogaloo in Highgate. Travis Elborough has written a small but perfectly-formed tome on the Philosophy of Vinyl (published by the British Library), and although I am exhausted by listening to the builder work so hard downstairs, I couldn't resist the short tube ride to the occasion. Richard Boon was there, as was Daniel Rachel, Cathi Unsworth, Paul Kelly, various journalists including Helen Barrett (just finishing a book on the Beatles). I believe I saw Emma Tricca in the distance too. 

Travis signed a book, taking a break from deejaying in order to do so. It was fun to be there especially since I'm confined to home in the daytimes. 

The photo shows Travis reading from the book, watched from behind by a sinister-looking Elvis, and from the front by Cathi Unsworth. Maybe Elvis is jealous of Cathi's beautiful hair.

Anyway, that's it for now. Back to arting and musicking.

Drawing And Photographing The Blues Band

 

Editing Vocals

I've begun to edit vocal contributions from people who came to see Joby and the Hooligans in Brighton in 1977. There are more to come, but because everyone's recorded their part themselves, there is a bit of tidying up to do to match them up. I'm taking a break- it's been two hours so far, and my ears and eyes need a rest. It's a good thing to do because when the last few come in I'll be ready to include them.

I do need to replay the guitar part, and that's a case of waiting until my poor sore finger has recovered enough to do it. It's been strapped up very tightly to stop me from moving it, and that seems to be quite an effective way of getting it to mend, but you have to be careful not to start again too early.

If I was feeling mega-reflective I'd wonder if this was a mad thing to do this album, but there are a lot of driving factors contributing to making it. One is the ring-fencing of punk memories as being just 'a London thing' even now, a million years later. Another is the directing by Gisele Pelicot of the blame for terrible things at perpetrators, not survivors of their miscreance. 

Probably most important to me, though, is the autobiographical aspect of it all. I've read a lot of autobiographies and they are fascinating. Is there room for another book? I think not. I do think there is room for a songwriter to write an account of their life in song. Is there poetry in the lyrics, or just nuts-and-bolts description? I can't even tell. All I can say is that there are feelings and memories (and some dark humour) amongst the ups and downs of the narrative.

Back to work in a bit.

Clerkenwell, And Short Films

O Northern Line! Where are you when we need you! A convoluted route took us to the Clerkenwell Festival, which feels more like an open air members-of-bands party than a festival. We missed the Dog Show (oh how I loved last year's lookalike competition, with the sad bulldog and the sad bulldog owner!).

Everyone was in the distance or close-up: I chatted to Ruth Tidmarsh, Peter Momtchiloff and Mike Slocombe, and traded waves and smiles with almost everyone else. We'd missed some of the jumble although I was tempted by an enormous Hawaiian shirt with colourful vinyl records printed all over it, but decided to savour the memory of last year's Cowboy shirt instead.

Everything was running a bit late and I missed Swell Maps' set as I headed over to Hoxton on the bus to the Art 'Otel (awful name) that's built on the grave of that superb pub, The Foundry. Oh, it tries very hard to be hip but ends up being more like Elon Musk's enormous echoing tin bowel. 

It was hosting the Kino Festival of Short Films, and my friend Valerie's son had produced one of them. All of last night's films were under the umbrella of Is This Where I Belong? and were documentaries about displaced people. I don't know how long this link will be active but here they are: https://dice.fm/partner/tickets/event/wwmk6n-kino-london-short-film-festival-where-i-belong-30th-aug-artotel-london-hoxton-london-tickets

They were all very, very different and were incredibly moving. Daniel's film In The Clouds tells the story of a little Iranian girl whose imaginary playmate is an older sister who has perished at sea (you don't discover this until the end of the film). Some of the films were utterly chilling (The Long Spring, about a group of people trafficked in a container, which was based on a true story), some heartwarming (Karim, about a Syrian boy who finally makes friends with a fellow football fanatic in the Netherlands), and some angering (a beautifully-shot film, We're All Black Down Here, about the consequences of racism towards a Caribbean miner in a coal mine in the 1950s). 

In The Clouds was touching, sad and charming in equal measure. Beautiful.

The films had a very deep emotional effect on me and I left feeling the seriousness of the terrible imbalances of power we have as humans. Documentaries are really important: the people who make them spend time thinking about constructing a reality out of an unreal format, film, that conveys the intensity of human situations. Things we see out of the corners of our eyes are brought into full focus so we can't ignore them. 

Strangely, the night before I'd watched Wham! Ten Days In China and there was a very odd disjunction between that and the content of short films- especially knowing what eventually happened to George Michael. Life turns some people into stars and some people into victims of terrible people and terrible circumstances. It's probably best (a) never to compare your circumstances to anyone elses, and (b) enjoy every second you possibly can, because every second matters.

The journey home by tube was populated by people returning from Notting Hill Carnival, many of them very sparkly, and some of them clearly having imbibed a jolly amount of booze.

Nothing to report on the recording front, apart from some fiddly editing in passing this afternoon...

Singing

This morning I woke up determined to manage everything a bit better. My finger is strapped up tightly and I'm not even going to think about it- the main thing was to see if I could get better vocals on some of the tracks.

I did three takes on one of them. When you get to know the song properly you can 'live' the singing while you're doing it, and that has started to happen. I won't listen back again today, I'll leave the different versions to rest for a while.

What made me really happy and optimistic is that there was flexibility in my voice which I thought I'd lost. Simply by standing up to sing, everything changed. I might have to wait ten days before I can do more but there are other things to get on with (that means you, finger: get better!). Full of energy, I started another song- then next door put poor lonely doggy Arfur outside to bark. 

'Arf, Arf, I'm bored, take me for a walk!!' he pleaded.

Oh dear, or rather oh dog.

I did a couple of takes then started to get hoarse. Or horse (sorry).

I'm resting now: time for tea and a read through the day's actual newspapers, the rustling sort that you don't have to scroll through. After that, one more take then furniture moving to prepare for the builder next week.

Finger

Guess who dropped a box of ceramic floor tiles on their finger. 

Looks like it's going to be vocals and editing next week!

Contributions

Today is very much working around the edges, because I've had to pack everything up for a bit. I did some useful editing yesterday (oh what a difference it makes!), but just now I had a go at adding some contributors' stuff to one of the tracks and I got a big lump in my throat. 

It's just the spirit: people have not been beaten down by life, I can hear it, and that is fantastically hopeful .

The overarching psychopathy of global politics is to make people feel powerless, hopeless and small. When you get together with a bunch of fighty people, whether on- or offline, you remember that you are not alone. The Venn diagram of what musicians have in common is sometimes chaotic and illegible- but it's there nonetheless whether overt or symbolic. 

Long live the way we organise our sound and resistance!

Countermetronome

All set up for an early start! Vocals first, or so I thought.

Next door has the builders in. The hammer is thumping a counter-rhythm to the metronome, occasionally punctured by a musical drill that vibrates the floor. 

So it's guitar: headphones on, concentrating on the click and not the thump. I think I got a first take that I won't have to Flextime: it drifts, but in an appropriate way. Doo-dee-doo, dum-dee dum.

The page of notes (blue for what needs to be done, red for when it's done or who needs to do it) looks like a Bayeaux Tapestry of woven scribbled writing.

Shall I do another guitar re-play or move to bass and replace some of those awkwardly-played lines?

First I'll cross out some 'done' tasks.

The Adventures Of Recording At Home

A poor pigeon was wedged next to the bin. I suspect Cowcat (a local Tomcat with Friesian cow markings). I lifted the unfortunate bird into the garden behind a plant pot, and gave it some water to drink.

Then I had to do the housework. The floor was a gritty/sticky combo that was no longer bearable. The vacuum cleaner smells, because it was second hand (environment, etc etc). I discovered that a brand new one would have been the same price; polishing my halo has become tedious as the odours of many student bedrooms permeates the house. Horrible.

Just as I set up to do the vocals, next door's dog Arfur (he barks like this: arf! arf!) started up randomly.

As soon as Arfur stopped barking, a loud fly came in the back door and started Exploring All Areas of the house. 

Zoooom! Into the living room. 

Zooom! Past the microphone. 

Living room again? Yes! Zoooom! 

Microphone! Sure thing! Zoooom!

Why oh why oh why, ad infinitum.

I think my voice is good today now that it's stopped being dry roasted by the heatwave, but I've only managed to sing fragments as the distractions and interruptions pile up. Thunderstorm this afternoon, I believe.

The thing is that on every vocal track there is the sound of the big kitchen clock regularly clanking past the seconds, but I like that: a bit of roughage. I know it's there, but nobody else does. It's these random things that disrupt the serenity.

Nothing else to do now but watch Bargain Hunt.

Later...

No, my voice still has a way to go, but it's better than last week. 

I know that some of my fellow-songwriters have embraced Artificial Intelligence in their songwriting; not even the production, but the songwriting. I can hear it. It's making me feel that I should keep the rough edges in the music I'm making. And have even more clock!

Shoe Shine Man Waits For Customers In The Arcade