Words into the ether

Yesterday I went to see the London Improviser's Orchestra playing in the afternoon. It was so good that they are going to get their own separate posting rather than just a mention- a Sunday Special, when I have a bit more time.
Afterwards I went over to Tom's attic and Paul came over to play a little clarinet on the song I've written for my cousin's wedding. He and his wife-to-be have had more tragedy than is humanly bearable and it is so lovely that they are marrying each other. I have written one of my best ever songs for them but I'm not putting it on Myspace till they've heard it. Paul tried the soprano sax first but it sounded a bit too harsh; when the clarinet met the track it fitted perfectly and sounded jaunty and thirties-ish and it iced the cake a dream.
I'm going to bloody miss Tom when he goes to New York. Often, people in studios are very patronising to woman musicians, even if they don't mean to be. They treat us as though we have a disability that means everything needs to be explained to us extremely slowly, and they think we want to know everything about them, all the very important things they have done, so we know just how unimportant we are in the greater scheme of things. When we ask them to change something in the track, they don't, because they think we are too stupid to notice they haven't, and they are delighted when we realise that our most important contribution in the studio is to make them a cup of tea. Two sugars, please.
But not Tom. He listens to what you want, learns your foibles, and gets the very best out of your performance, being tactful when you have a bad day, editing like lightning, and accepting wacky ideas like a trouper. You don't have to be an extrovert, you don't have to pretend you're thick and flutter your elderly eyelashes; you go there, take off your coat, unpack your guitar, and create.
He also likes the musicians I invite in to work with me (apart from one surly chap who p*ssed the lot of us off), which really matters, as any musician will tell you.
Anyway, that's enough of that.
I was going to tell you about Nigel Kennedy. Helen and the Horns met him when we did Pebble Mill at One. We had a horrible time as they were so nasty to us (later, the Flying Pickets said they were horrible to them too, and they vowed never to play it again but then they did when they were asked; they were horrible to them the second time as well).
Nigel was nice, though. He was still a gleeb with a pale blue buttoned-up shirt and a side parting: it was in his pre-punk days, still post-punk. But he came over to chat and told us he used to go to Dingwalls in Camden to see the bands. He was great, and it was tempting just to let him tag along with us and join in whatever we were doing next; it is so rare to find such an open and friendly person in the music industry. He was totally agenda-free, probably because he is so talented that he doesn't need to try to impress people and he must have worked out at a really young age that being straightforward and honest scares off the creeps and ne'er-do-wells at lightning speed; it sort of turns them inside out so the bad bits decorate their horrid surfaces instead of being hidden behind artful smiles.
I've been going on for ages, haven't I? I meant to do a neat little posting that would fit into a thimble but instead I've created a ten-course dinner for a giant. Au Revoir till tomorrow, dear ether.