I wonder if I've written about this before... in the early 1980s there was a whole bunch of us who had been signed to record labels and who were kicking our heels waiting for things to happen: or 'between labels', as you might tactfully say.
Lester Square and myself had started a country and western band with Mike Slocombe as our drummer; this was the band that accidentally became Helen and the Horns, but that's another story. We decided to hire the London Musician's Collective building for an evening, for the princely sum of five quid plus light bulbs (someone always seemed to have stolen them). Mike did his drum kit up as a steam train and even had cotton wool smoke coming out of it's funnel; he dressed as Casey Jones with a little navy blue cap, a red neckerchief and striped dungarees. I made a cowboy shirt out of one of McDad's old shirts dyed blue, with sewn-on fringing and pink and red embroidered roses.
We learned the Marty Robbins song Big Iron On His Hip and also played an early version of Freight Train, Truckdrivin' Girl and I think Pioneer Town, which I'd sent a demo version of to Mike that had programmed drums on it, and that he said sounded like a drum kit falling downstairs. We invited King Kurt, who were suitably rude, along to play; and Igor's Night Off who did a hilarious song called Dead Man's Gulch sung by Suzanne who had a cushion up her dress; with child, you see. Aptly, the cushion had a life of its own and worked its way out as she sang.
The Simonics played too, all dressed up in Buckskins and calling themselves The Red River Mountain Boys, shrieking and booming their way through Family Reunion and Rose Marie in an assortment of false beards, semi acoustic basses and fiddles.
Lester Square bought a barrel of rough cider and an electric frying pan. I brought sausages. the venue wasn't licensed but for a nominal fee people could buy a little raffle ticket and then eat as many sausages and drink as much rough cider as they liked. They liked!
You didn't need the internet those days to pack a place out. I still don't know how we did it: bush telegraph, I suppose. We weren't organised enough to tell the music papers or make flyers; we just talked about the idea and then we did it.
I suppose people must have phoned each other up, passed it on at Kensington Market while chatting about clothes, talked about it in the pub. With quite a large cast of characters if everyone brings their one best pal you've still got a big audience.
My abiding memory of the night is of chaos and laughing. Chaos and laughing are the best things, sometimes.
Friday, May 29, 2015
Getting Ready for the Union Chapel
I know it, I know it... today I will have almost finished marking (three more things to do) and this evening I can indulge in a bit of rehearsing for the gig tomorrow night at the Union Chapel.
At home I have a Spanish guitar constantly on the go (I'm one of those annoying players who sits and mucks about with the guitar while the TV is on) but it's a different shape to the electric so I have to get used to that: the electric has a narrower neck, lower action (the strings are closer to the fretboard) and the frets are in different positions.
If you're not careful, you wildly overshoot where you're supposed to be and play a chord a tone or a semitone higher or lower. The electric guitar is also heavier and smaller; it's actually a completely different instrument even though you play the same songs on it.
Any requests for tomorrow night (within reason)?
I'm really excited about the gig because I love the Union Chapel. One gig I went to was entirely dry and we all had cups of tea and people came round and collected the cups in big basket afterwards.
Shall I crack open a ludicrously loud shirt? If it's not raining perhaps I shall. I'll get the butler to choose a selection and lay them out in the dressing room for me while I have my eyelashes curled.
Martin and his crew are driving down in convoy from Bedale tomorrow (they are playing a festival there tonight) and we'll then head down for the sound check. The Blinking' Buzzards are promoting the gig- they are the guys who run the Kalamazoo Klub and they will be playing too. Lots of music; where's me guitar?
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
Monday, May 25, 2015
Academic Day
At last, the thick felty fog has cleared from my head and I can get on with some research. I have waited weeks for this!
My first hour is to be spent on a 'pretentiousness sweep' of some of my writing. Academic writing is difficult because it's you who is doing it but you need to be as balanced as possible. This leads to archness sometimes; it's probably quite good that I've been busy with marking for the past three weeks because going back to my research it's easy to spot those clunky sentences. If I were a gardener, I would be pruning and deadheading the roses. But metaphor is forbidden in scholar land.
My first hour is to be spent on a 'pretentiousness sweep' of some of my writing. Academic writing is difficult because it's you who is doing it but you need to be as balanced as possible. This leads to archness sometimes; it's probably quite good that I've been busy with marking for the past three weeks because going back to my research it's easy to spot those clunky sentences. If I were a gardener, I would be pruning and deadheading the roses. But metaphor is forbidden in scholar land.
Sunday, May 24, 2015
Viv Albertine and Tracey Thorn in Greenwich Park
My Champagne Friend bought us tickets to this event-in-a-tent last night. Swallowing hard because it was Eurovision night, I realised that it was the right decision to go along because it was a thoroughly absorbing evening.
The interviewer was particularly good; he wasn't sycophantic and he joined the dots between the two women very skilfully, but Viv and Tracey duetted very well (it could so easily have been a duel rather than a duet, if egos had come between them).
Viv's humour pulled the talk away from the technicalities of writing and pulled Tracey into feeling quite comfortable talking anecdotally; on the other hand, Tracey's gravitas pulled Viv towards giving a broader context for her experiences.
There was a lot of laughter and a lot of passionate talk about music and the right to be heard the way they wanted to be heard. Both women are assertive in different ways, but also very clear about the self-sabotage and struggles with self-esteem that have beset them.
The audience were entirely drawn in. Although space was made for readings from their autobiographies, the real deal was the talking and the way the two listened to each other.
Being a powerful woman can be isolating and lonely. Over the tops of our motley heads and to a backdrop of noisy rock covers from a tent further down the Thames bank, the small gap in years, genre and experiences between the two (such a large gap too, in rock years), closed in front of our eyes and crystallised out our own lives for us. Both praised Patti Smith, and both criticised music today, saying rock's moment is over.
(I actually disagree with that because I work with young musicians; young people communicate in code and just because we don't understand it doesn't mean that it's meaningless, or inauthentic to them).
The evening was cathartic. Every time I see Champagne Friend I feel better, and to share such an interesting experience with her was better still.
Back home, it was time for the scores. No change there; politics and corruption that we all know about already were in full flow. I haven't even heard the British song and I realised that I've already listened to 45 student songs and judged them this week, so perhaps missing Eurovision wasn't such a bad thing.
It's back to the grindstone now, with a list of uphill struggles to struggle uphill with.
The interviewer was particularly good; he wasn't sycophantic and he joined the dots between the two women very skilfully, but Viv and Tracey duetted very well (it could so easily have been a duel rather than a duet, if egos had come between them).
Viv's humour pulled the talk away from the technicalities of writing and pulled Tracey into feeling quite comfortable talking anecdotally; on the other hand, Tracey's gravitas pulled Viv towards giving a broader context for her experiences.
There was a lot of laughter and a lot of passionate talk about music and the right to be heard the way they wanted to be heard. Both women are assertive in different ways, but also very clear about the self-sabotage and struggles with self-esteem that have beset them.
The audience were entirely drawn in. Although space was made for readings from their autobiographies, the real deal was the talking and the way the two listened to each other.
Being a powerful woman can be isolating and lonely. Over the tops of our motley heads and to a backdrop of noisy rock covers from a tent further down the Thames bank, the small gap in years, genre and experiences between the two (such a large gap too, in rock years), closed in front of our eyes and crystallised out our own lives for us. Both praised Patti Smith, and both criticised music today, saying rock's moment is over.
(I actually disagree with that because I work with young musicians; young people communicate in code and just because we don't understand it doesn't mean that it's meaningless, or inauthentic to them).
The evening was cathartic. Every time I see Champagne Friend I feel better, and to share such an interesting experience with her was better still.
Back home, it was time for the scores. No change there; politics and corruption that we all know about already were in full flow. I haven't even heard the British song and I realised that I've already listened to 45 student songs and judged them this week, so perhaps missing Eurovision wasn't such a bad thing.
It's back to the grindstone now, with a list of uphill struggles to struggle uphill with.
Saturday, May 23, 2015
Bleeding London
I have just donated a fresh recording of my song London to Mike Roberts, who is contributing photographs to the Bleeding London project which aims to photograph every street in London. Mike is walking the streets in aid of the Stroke Association and has contributed masses of photographs to the project while doing so.
It is a really interesting project and you can find out more about it here; there are still some gaps to be filled so if you know about hidden streets in your area you may be able to help:
http://www.bleedinglondon.co.uk
If you would like to contribute to Mike's own JustGiving project the link is here:
https://www.justgiving.com/Mike-Roberts-Bleeding-London
I shall be walking the streets today if the drizzle stops. Last Sunday was Hampstead Heath with my friend Jane who will shortly be emigrating and who I will write about when the marking fug has cleared out of my brain. I'd never explored the heath much and I loved it- especially the bit with all the blowsy and overblown rhododendrons and azaleas just beside Kenwood House. A few weeks ago I walked the canal towpath from Camden to Islington. The Bleeding London project is right up my street (ahem) and I'm doing a little sun dance as we speak to make the rain, rain go away so I can get my walking legs out of that door.
It is a really interesting project and you can find out more about it here; there are still some gaps to be filled so if you know about hidden streets in your area you may be able to help:
http://www.bleedinglondon.co.uk
If you would like to contribute to Mike's own JustGiving project the link is here:
https://www.justgiving.com/Mike-Roberts-Bleeding-London
I shall be walking the streets today if the drizzle stops. Last Sunday was Hampstead Heath with my friend Jane who will shortly be emigrating and who I will write about when the marking fug has cleared out of my brain. I'd never explored the heath much and I loved it- especially the bit with all the blowsy and overblown rhododendrons and azaleas just beside Kenwood House. A few weeks ago I walked the canal towpath from Camden to Islington. The Bleeding London project is right up my street (ahem) and I'm doing a little sun dance as we speak to make the rain, rain go away so I can get my walking legs out of that door.
Friday, May 22, 2015
Late Night Snack: Boiled Eggs
I can't tell you how to do this because I've never successfully boiled an egg, partly because I don't like them.
Today's Recipe: Beans on Toast
Preparation time: 7.5 minutes
You Will Need
One can of baked beans
Two slices of bread
Some butter
Method
Open the can of baked beans and tip them into a pan.
Put this pan on the cooker and heat thoroughly, stirring from time to time with a spoon.
Meanwhile, put the bread into the toaster if you have one, or under the grill to brown on both sides.
When the toast is ready, place the slices on to a plate and spread butter on them with a knife.
When this task is complete, carefully tip the beans on to the toast.
Your meal is now ready to eat.
Variations
You could try grating some black pepper on top, to taste.
You Will Need
One can of baked beans
Two slices of bread
Some butter
Method
Open the can of baked beans and tip them into a pan.
Put this pan on the cooker and heat thoroughly, stirring from time to time with a spoon.
Meanwhile, put the bread into the toaster if you have one, or under the grill to brown on both sides.
When the toast is ready, place the slices on to a plate and spread butter on them with a knife.
When this task is complete, carefully tip the beans on to the toast.
Your meal is now ready to eat.
Variations
You could try grating some black pepper on top, to taste.
Thursday, May 21, 2015
The Computer Said No
But only after I'd spent an hour inputting 90 marks. It pretended it had saved them, and then thumbed its nose and said it hadn't. I'd waited two hours for someone to help before a kind chap sat on the other end of the phone with me chanting strings of code; I typed away, but we couldn't make it say 'Yes'.
I fell asleep standing up on the tube on the way home and was woken by the smell of paper from a commuting fellow's brand new paperback book.
It was a rather gorgeous smell actually, but I'm so glad to be home.
I fell asleep standing up on the tube on the way home and was woken by the smell of paper from a commuting fellow's brand new paperback book.
It was a rather gorgeous smell actually, but I'm so glad to be home.
Thankful for Large Mercies
I managed all day yesterday not to fret; I managed not to race to work and I managed to control my trembling fingers as I unlocked the office today.
Yesss! The USB drive with all my research on it was still plugged into the back of the computer. Can't remember when I last backed it up, you see.
Praise the Lord, I will not have to excavate the recycling bin full of smelly rocket wrappers (I buy it and don't eat it), and I won't have to try to re-write it all from the last saved version.
What a relief.
Now I just have to work out a way to hide the unavoidably feminist conclusions so that potential readers can see beyond that to a very interesting discourse.
After marking the last fifteen pieces of work and doing one more day's data inputting, of course.
Yesss! The USB drive with all my research on it was still plugged into the back of the computer. Can't remember when I last backed it up, you see.
Praise the Lord, I will not have to excavate the recycling bin full of smelly rocket wrappers (I buy it and don't eat it), and I won't have to try to re-write it all from the last saved version.
What a relief.
Now I just have to work out a way to hide the unavoidably feminist conclusions so that potential readers can see beyond that to a very interesting discourse.
After marking the last fifteen pieces of work and doing one more day's data inputting, of course.
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Sun/Glasses
I went to meet a friend this afternoon. It was lovely to see her; on the way there I walked through town.
The sun was shining into my eyes so I decided to put my sunglasses on.
It wasn't until five minutes later with the sun still shining in my eyes, and when I became irritated by not being able to see anything further than a metre from my face, that I realised I'd put my normal glasses on instead.
Doh.
That's what Tuesday's day of data inputting did for the brain.
When the marking mountain has disappeared, you will hear me whooping from the rooftops!
The sun was shining into my eyes so I decided to put my sunglasses on.
It wasn't until five minutes later with the sun still shining in my eyes, and when I became irritated by not being able to see anything further than a metre from my face, that I realised I'd put my normal glasses on instead.
Doh.
That's what Tuesday's day of data inputting did for the brain.
When the marking mountain has disappeared, you will hear me whooping from the rooftops!
Listening to BBC Radio One
To alleviate the tedium of the deadly task of washing the winter jumpers to put into the loft, I tuned into Fearne Cotton on Radio One for an energy boost while I kneaded and scrubbed the knitwear at the kitchen sink.
I rarely listen to the radio, but I have enjoyed today's adventure.
Amongst a tangled skein of processed vocals, Lianne La Havas stood out a mile. I have recently had an overwhelming impression of tracks sung by women being invaded by male rappers, but that doesn't seem so bad at the moment. It used to sound as though we weren't allowed to express anything private without a bloke being there to comment and monitor. Bursting through the doors of the song, the guy boomed out an assertive message that reduced the female singer to decorative hummings and twitterings, her own message superseded by Mister.
I also enjoyed Courtney Barnett's Dead Fox, despite it sounding bit Brit School round the edges.
There are quite a lot of London accents about on the airwaves (Tinie Tempah was there too); but where are the regional accents from other parts of the UK? Urban music must surely strike a chord (sic) in Birmingham, Glasgow, Liverpool, Newcastle, Manchester, Bristol and Cardiff. If I was an A&R person (which thankfully I'm not, if being one is anything like the 'listening to 45 songs on Monday' experience) I would trawl round the regions to find out who young people are listening to. Does LIPA encourage young northern acts to northernise their output? They definitely should.
In amongst the backing track undergrowth, I heard echoes of early Depeche Mode (or 'Depressed Mood' as their publicist Claudine used to call them, when I worked for her in the 1980s), with a strong Vince Clarke influence, and swooping through the vocal mixes I heard the Bee Gees, no less!
Pop music hasn't changed that much, I don't think.
If you look back at old Top of the Pops episodes, you can see and hear just how dire it used to be; some of it is rubbish (and always will be), but there's some great stuff out there too. For every clumsy rapper who can't fit in the bars there's a hilarious wordsmith, and for every over-manipulated (sic, sorry) young female vocalist signed for the looks we can't hear on the radio (meow, sorry again), there's a genuinely beautiful voice that authenticates meaningful lyrics with its loveliness.
It has been a very interesting listening morning.
I rarely listen to the radio, but I have enjoyed today's adventure.
Amongst a tangled skein of processed vocals, Lianne La Havas stood out a mile. I have recently had an overwhelming impression of tracks sung by women being invaded by male rappers, but that doesn't seem so bad at the moment. It used to sound as though we weren't allowed to express anything private without a bloke being there to comment and monitor. Bursting through the doors of the song, the guy boomed out an assertive message that reduced the female singer to decorative hummings and twitterings, her own message superseded by Mister.
I also enjoyed Courtney Barnett's Dead Fox, despite it sounding bit Brit School round the edges.
There are quite a lot of London accents about on the airwaves (Tinie Tempah was there too); but where are the regional accents from other parts of the UK? Urban music must surely strike a chord (sic) in Birmingham, Glasgow, Liverpool, Newcastle, Manchester, Bristol and Cardiff. If I was an A&R person (which thankfully I'm not, if being one is anything like the 'listening to 45 songs on Monday' experience) I would trawl round the regions to find out who young people are listening to. Does LIPA encourage young northern acts to northernise their output? They definitely should.
In amongst the backing track undergrowth, I heard echoes of early Depeche Mode (or 'Depressed Mood' as their publicist Claudine used to call them, when I worked for her in the 1980s), with a strong Vince Clarke influence, and swooping through the vocal mixes I heard the Bee Gees, no less!
Pop music hasn't changed that much, I don't think.
If you look back at old Top of the Pops episodes, you can see and hear just how dire it used to be; some of it is rubbish (and always will be), but there's some great stuff out there too. For every clumsy rapper who can't fit in the bars there's a hilarious wordsmith, and for every over-manipulated (sic, sorry) young female vocalist signed for the looks we can't hear on the radio (meow, sorry again), there's a genuinely beautiful voice that authenticates meaningful lyrics with its loveliness.
It has been a very interesting listening morning.
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
Cutting Vinyl
A few weeks ago, Martin went off to cut a track the old-fashioned way, on a lathe while playing live.
I wish I could have been there to see it; they made a little film.
Over there stand Martin, Jim and Frankie (who is playing double bass). In the foreground, Lorna bends over the machine, rapidly brushing the debris off the black lacquer as it revolves, with a tiny white long-haired brush. You can see the grooves being cut, and under the machine is an ever-growing pile of shredded lacquer that has tumbled off the disc.
We were talking about this at work today: about the sculpture cut into lacquer by amplified sound waves directed on to it by a microphone, from a band of musicians playing live. They have to get it right; they only have one chance, and the song has to be roughly three minutes long or it won't fit on to the disc.
Musing on the train on the way home from work, I wondered what would happen if you reconstructed the spiral of lacquer that fell to the floor and tried to play that. Would you get a negative image of the music on the disc? What would that sound like, I wonder?
How very Georges Perec! Pretentious, moi?
I wish I could have been there to see it; they made a little film.
Over there stand Martin, Jim and Frankie (who is playing double bass). In the foreground, Lorna bends over the machine, rapidly brushing the debris off the black lacquer as it revolves, with a tiny white long-haired brush. You can see the grooves being cut, and under the machine is an ever-growing pile of shredded lacquer that has tumbled off the disc.
We were talking about this at work today: about the sculpture cut into lacquer by amplified sound waves directed on to it by a microphone, from a band of musicians playing live. They have to get it right; they only have one chance, and the song has to be roughly three minutes long or it won't fit on to the disc.
Musing on the train on the way home from work, I wondered what would happen if you reconstructed the spiral of lacquer that fell to the floor and tried to play that. Would you get a negative image of the music on the disc? What would that sound like, I wonder?
How very Georges Perec! Pretentious, moi?
Monday, May 18, 2015
Marking
I'm so tired that I can't even move. I've marked and given feedback on something like 36 songs today, and my ears are ringing. Last week I marked 49 websites, 20 one thousand word essays and 20 three thousand word essays, and there is more of the same to do this week. Then there is the data inputting, for three lots of 40, and two lots of 55 students. Then I have to re-write an academic article, apply for funding for a research project, write an academic paper for a conference in June and if I'm lucky, start recording an album. One day at a time, I think.
Sunday, May 17, 2015
Saturday, May 16, 2015
Killer Whale
Have you noticed that George Osborne dresses as a Killer Whale?
That dark, dark suit and that white, white shirt.
That dark, dark hair and that white, white skin.
Read The Psychopath Test by Jon Ronson and draw some conclusions of your own; it gives a new meaning to 'Eat Your Greens'.
That dark, dark suit and that white, white shirt.
That dark, dark hair and that white, white skin.
Read The Psychopath Test by Jon Ronson and draw some conclusions of your own; it gives a new meaning to 'Eat Your Greens'.
Recording Again
It's been a long time, been a long lonely, lonely lonely, lonely time.
Hello Logic, hello interface, how are you? Both looking fine!
As usual, I myself am the hurdle that I have to get over.
First of all, when I use the tuner on my Spanish guitar, no signal comes out of the jack socket.
That was the first sound of silence; I finally realised when I'd switched everything on, off, re-booted the computer, had a tea break and sat staring into space for ten minutes.
Then the interface didn't seem to work, so I tried a different one, then a different guitar lead, then a direct line in (am I boring you?), tried mono, tried stereo, before consulting the internet forums and raising that I'd selected the wrong input and I should have been using Input 2 and not Input 1.
I played the song again and again and got fret buzz, distortion, this that and the other.
By the time I'd stopped recording I could play it perfectly in time with the click. Two hours after, I have a recording but as everyone knows, you can't listen to it directly after recording it because your ears are f*cked and you need a little time to be an objective listener.
So there was only one thing to do: go out and buy chocolate.
And that is what I did.
Hello Logic, hello interface, how are you? Both looking fine!
As usual, I myself am the hurdle that I have to get over.
First of all, when I use the tuner on my Spanish guitar, no signal comes out of the jack socket.
That was the first sound of silence; I finally realised when I'd switched everything on, off, re-booted the computer, had a tea break and sat staring into space for ten minutes.
Then the interface didn't seem to work, so I tried a different one, then a different guitar lead, then a direct line in (am I boring you?), tried mono, tried stereo, before consulting the internet forums and raising that I'd selected the wrong input and I should have been using Input 2 and not Input 1.
I played the song again and again and got fret buzz, distortion, this that and the other.
By the time I'd stopped recording I could play it perfectly in time with the click. Two hours after, I have a recording but as everyone knows, you can't listen to it directly after recording it because your ears are f*cked and you need a little time to be an objective listener.
So there was only one thing to do: go out and buy chocolate.
And that is what I did.
Friday, May 15, 2015
Martin Stephenson at The Union Chapel
Sunday, May 10, 2015
Disability Rocks in Matlock
After the shock of realising the scheduled time for my bit was actually 12.20 and not 3.30 and a pressurised dash up the M1, the sound of the DMU Gospel Choir was a welcome relief from the dire political news of Friday morning. Swaying in their red robes, they tagged each other for lead voice or conductor roles, singing beautiful harmonies with a signer at the side. I had a quick tune up and then followed them after an intro by Paul Cookson whose witty and perceptive poetry introduced the different artists. I've got used to playing with cold fingers and it was a joy to play another gig for Disability Rocks, an amazing organisation that welcomes all people to their events, regardless of ability, race, age, sexuality or anything else you can think of. Later, we watched Brooks Williams' crafted guitar playing; I particularly enjoyed the blues he played on the resonator guitar; Sam Hill Jnr player a set of strongly emotional songs dedicated to his family that struck a pensive chord with the audience. Then Martin got everyone dancing with a set of fingerpicking' tunes, slipping The Lilac Tree in there alongside Charlie Poole. A chap in a white t-shirt became entranced and leapt to his feet in excitement, throwing poses; even I got up and danced to Leonard Cohen's Suzanne which somehow didn't seem out of place: somehow even that one had a dance groove on Saturday. A little face-painted pirate swung her feet on a hay bale while a couple of green tigers looked on. It was a fab day out for everyone, performers and audience alike: roll on the next one!
Friday, May 08, 2015
The Precipice
I have been at Gina's this morning; we are planning to make a documentary together, and there is a lot to talk about. For artists, musicians, writers and so on, the future is always built on a bridge made of cards balanced by tricksters; it fades into an uncertain distance with no promise not to collapse at any moment. So no change there; what feels disturbing is the idea of a permanent underclass being the norm, and approved by three quarters of the people you walk past in the street.
Yes, that is disturbing.
We were talking about protest songs, and how perhaps they work better delivered via dance music rather than what I call 'E moaners' who drone on with their guitars at people who aren't listening.
The other day I learned that the 'inclusion' part of teacher training has shrunk to three hours over their entire course. I do feel that I work in the right place; there are so many negative conversations about Universities that say that they-we- are a waste of time and money. We work so hard with our students to be 'worth it', to make them employable (I run the Employability module), encourage them to be conscientious with their (usually excellent) skills and tolerant of each others differences.
That being said, we too are teetering on a frail precipice.
Who cares about music when there are banks to be schmoozed?
Yes, that is disturbing.
We were talking about protest songs, and how perhaps they work better delivered via dance music rather than what I call 'E moaners' who drone on with their guitars at people who aren't listening.
The other day I learned that the 'inclusion' part of teacher training has shrunk to three hours over their entire course. I do feel that I work in the right place; there are so many negative conversations about Universities that say that they-we- are a waste of time and money. We work so hard with our students to be 'worth it', to make them employable (I run the Employability module), encourage them to be conscientious with their (usually excellent) skills and tolerant of each others differences.
That being said, we too are teetering on a frail precipice.
Who cares about music when there are banks to be schmoozed?
Wednesday, May 06, 2015
On The Train Home
I sat next to a young man on the train home who subjected me to a rant that included his voting intentions being UKIP and his sympathies being with the EDL. He was articulate but had a tendency to want to shout me down even though I wasn't shouting; he decided to follow me off the train to continue the one-sided argument.
He was just telling me what a wonderful man Farage is and I was just responding with the story of my foster-cousin being physically manhandled by UKIP's evil cohorts in Margate, when he rapidly disappeared up the stairs at the station in a flap and flurry of free London evening newspaper that I don't read any more because of its politics.
There at the bottom of the stairs stood three community policemen.
Maybe I had a lucky escape.
He was just telling me what a wonderful man Farage is and I was just responding with the story of my foster-cousin being physically manhandled by UKIP's evil cohorts in Margate, when he rapidly disappeared up the stairs at the station in a flap and flurry of free London evening newspaper that I don't read any more because of its politics.
There at the bottom of the stairs stood three community policemen.
Maybe I had a lucky escape.
Monday, May 04, 2015
Ladybird By Design at the De La Warr Pavilion, Bexhill-on-Sea
I woke up yesterday to rain and a possible day of grazing through Facebook, watching a black-and-white 1950s war film on TV or marking more than a hundred essays. None of those options appealed and on a whim I bought a ticket to Bexhill-on-Sea, on the principle that I'd feel terrible if I didn't see this exhibition.
It being a Sunday, the journey had it's gruelling aspects; the train was late out from Victoria, and to pass time I sampled a sandwich that was so disgusting (a cold sliced wool blanket) that I tweeted about it and got a reply from M&S that offered me a refund too late.
Bexhill was windy, white-skied and delivered a gusty, hefty sock in the jaw. It also appeared to be deserted until you actually got inside the De La Warr, where it was thronging with people of all shapes and sizes.
'Bloody hell, we had that book!' roared a middle-aged chap. He was articulating what we were all thinking.
As soon as you get in, you're presented with the sight of an unfolded book layout and a video which I couldn't look at because the room was so busy. I passed through into the next room where the whole of Shopping With Mother's original artwork lined the walls. It was amazing to see the delicate brushwork and the flicks of paint and little notes off-image, 'buttons on girlscoat belt', neatly written in pencil. I had this book as a child, yes, and was fascinated by this parallel family who also had a Golden Retriever.
The pictures provoked memories of being brought up on buns, bacon and jam; yet Mother glided through its pages in a trim, neat brown tailored suit, and was remarkably slender and shapely. The paintings are oversized and give you the opportunity to investigate the painter's technique: so much care has gone into the colours of the shadows and indeed the colours in general, which are bright, optimistic and a nod in the direction of technicolour, surely influenced by American films of the 1950s. They are utterly beautiful, and slightly Pollyanna-ish; the little boy looks unusually excited by the daffodils in the flower-shop, for instance, and there are no mis-spellings in the greengrocer's shop.
In the next room, Ladybird became a bit more ruffty-tuffty. Here is what dad did, all those years ago: there is artwork from books on Miners and Roadmakers with an appropriately darker palette of colours, but just as much detail, from the People at Work series. A picture of chefs in kitchen is a masterpiece of miniature photo-realism, as is the painting of seamstresses sitting round a table doing instant alterations. There is a political story being told through this history, in all its detail and colour that you don't find in black and white photos from the era. Although they are idealised snapshots, the whole narrative is really carefully told and full of talking points. I've used some of the science series in lectures to illustrate girls note-taking while boys actively experiment, but actually you can see just how occupied and busy everyone was. Consumerism is there, but so is the industry that feeds the consumers. Nature is present too, in detail and for posterity, record-keeping carefully blended with aesthetics and educational value.
As the narrative drifts towards the seventies, we see cultural variety; there are young black children on the bus, and the ubiquity of quilted anoraks strikes a chord of uncool nostalgia. Some of the later artwork has lost its vitality, possibly as the publishers lost direction. There is one particularly dynamic picture, though, in which a grey-haired man appears to be falling backwards in a cardboard cannon factory, that made me want to write an alternative story, not quite so subversive as Miriam Elias, perhaps, more along the lines of The Magic Roundabout.
I thought there was too much- but of course, that's not right. There is something for everybody here. It's a fantastic exhibition of British culture. More of that in a minute.
I went to the cafe. Where were the pink buns with a cherry on top, the iced fingers and the sausage rolls? They had missed a trick (wouldn't it have bene wonderful if they'd thought it through and we could choose from some of those colourful selections at the 1960s bakers?) and I decided to give it a miss and went to the fish and chip shop instead, scoffing the food on a bench on the seafront in the cold wind and being stalked by a very persistent seagull.
One final thought: Britain of the 1960s and 1970s was never the country that UKIP is trying to steer us back towards. You can see where the idea comes from but the Ladybird reality, in spite of its primary colours and never-was nostalgia, was exceptionally nuanced and had built into it the concept of change, dynamics, and an appreciation for every different aspect of society, from industrialisation to ruralism. I found this to be uplifting and in spite of the round trip taking seven hours door-to-door, it was a grand day out (see what I did just there?).
Go: next Sunday is the last day... and all this is free! http://www.dlwp.com/event/ladybird-by-design
It being a Sunday, the journey had it's gruelling aspects; the train was late out from Victoria, and to pass time I sampled a sandwich that was so disgusting (a cold sliced wool blanket) that I tweeted about it and got a reply from M&S that offered me a refund too late.
Bexhill was windy, white-skied and delivered a gusty, hefty sock in the jaw. It also appeared to be deserted until you actually got inside the De La Warr, where it was thronging with people of all shapes and sizes.
'Bloody hell, we had that book!' roared a middle-aged chap. He was articulating what we were all thinking.
As soon as you get in, you're presented with the sight of an unfolded book layout and a video which I couldn't look at because the room was so busy. I passed through into the next room where the whole of Shopping With Mother's original artwork lined the walls. It was amazing to see the delicate brushwork and the flicks of paint and little notes off-image, 'buttons on girls
The pictures provoked memories of being brought up on buns, bacon and jam; yet Mother glided through its pages in a trim, neat brown tailored suit, and was remarkably slender and shapely. The paintings are oversized and give you the opportunity to investigate the painter's technique: so much care has gone into the colours of the shadows and indeed the colours in general, which are bright, optimistic and a nod in the direction of technicolour, surely influenced by American films of the 1950s. They are utterly beautiful, and slightly Pollyanna-ish; the little boy looks unusually excited by the daffodils in the flower-shop, for instance, and there are no mis-spellings in the greengrocer's shop.
In the next room, Ladybird became a bit more ruffty-tuffty. Here is what dad did, all those years ago: there is artwork from books on Miners and Roadmakers with an appropriately darker palette of colours, but just as much detail, from the People at Work series. A picture of chefs in kitchen is a masterpiece of miniature photo-realism, as is the painting of seamstresses sitting round a table doing instant alterations. There is a political story being told through this history, in all its detail and colour that you don't find in black and white photos from the era. Although they are idealised snapshots, the whole narrative is really carefully told and full of talking points. I've used some of the science series in lectures to illustrate girls note-taking while boys actively experiment, but actually you can see just how occupied and busy everyone was. Consumerism is there, but so is the industry that feeds the consumers. Nature is present too, in detail and for posterity, record-keeping carefully blended with aesthetics and educational value.
As the narrative drifts towards the seventies, we see cultural variety; there are young black children on the bus, and the ubiquity of quilted anoraks strikes a chord of uncool nostalgia. Some of the later artwork has lost its vitality, possibly as the publishers lost direction. There is one particularly dynamic picture, though, in which a grey-haired man appears to be falling backwards in a cardboard cannon factory, that made me want to write an alternative story, not quite so subversive as Miriam Elias, perhaps, more along the lines of The Magic Roundabout.
I thought there was too much- but of course, that's not right. There is something for everybody here. It's a fantastic exhibition of British culture. More of that in a minute.
I went to the cafe. Where were the pink buns with a cherry on top, the iced fingers and the sausage rolls? They had missed a trick (wouldn't it have bene wonderful if they'd thought it through and we could choose from some of those colourful selections at the 1960s bakers?) and I decided to give it a miss and went to the fish and chip shop instead, scoffing the food on a bench on the seafront in the cold wind and being stalked by a very persistent seagull.
One final thought: Britain of the 1960s and 1970s was never the country that UKIP is trying to steer us back towards. You can see where the idea comes from but the Ladybird reality, in spite of its primary colours and never-was nostalgia, was exceptionally nuanced and had built into it the concept of change, dynamics, and an appreciation for every different aspect of society, from industrialisation to ruralism. I found this to be uplifting and in spite of the round trip taking seven hours door-to-door, it was a grand day out (see what I did just there?).
Go: next Sunday is the last day... and all this is free! http://www.dlwp.com/event/ladybird-by-design
Saturday, May 02, 2015
Come Dine With Me
I'm a total sucker for the Saturday omnibus of Come Dine With Me. Sometimes I just slob out with a bag of mini-poppadoms after a morning of housework. Today, I've spent the day reading academic books and taking notes, so it was case of getting out the ironing board, dashing away with the smoothing iron, and guffawing at it all.
Today's weirdo was an extremely narcissistic fingerprint expert and fitness entrepreneur who was a really bad loser. If he hadn't got his victims, I mean guests, to do an endurance competition where they had to see who could hold the 'plank' yoga pose for longest in between the main course and dessert, he would have won.
They were a good-natured bunch (compared to some) and at the end, they all chanted 'Loo-zerrrrr' at him (good-naturedly). Sounds mean but if you'd seen the huge blown-up black and white semi-nude photo that he had hung above the bed in the guest room, you might have laughed too. Not quite down to the low standard of the meanie participant who cut off the heads of the tined asparagus and threw them away, but almost!
Students play this game. They turn their beds upside down, use a sheet for the tablecloth, and actually by all accounts they are rather good at it; they completely 'get' the idea of cooking according to their cultural background, whether that be India or Scotland, and it makes a lot of sense to cook for a crowd of seven once a week. Roll on communality (said the recluse!).
Today's weirdo was an extremely narcissistic fingerprint expert and fitness entrepreneur who was a really bad loser. If he hadn't got his victims, I mean guests, to do an endurance competition where they had to see who could hold the 'plank' yoga pose for longest in between the main course and dessert, he would have won.
They were a good-natured bunch (compared to some) and at the end, they all chanted 'Loo-zerrrrr' at him (good-naturedly). Sounds mean but if you'd seen the huge blown-up black and white semi-nude photo that he had hung above the bed in the guest room, you might have laughed too. Not quite down to the low standard of the meanie participant who cut off the heads of the tined asparagus and threw them away, but almost!
Students play this game. They turn their beds upside down, use a sheet for the tablecloth, and actually by all accounts they are rather good at it; they completely 'get' the idea of cooking according to their cultural background, whether that be India or Scotland, and it makes a lot of sense to cook for a crowd of seven once a week. Roll on communality (said the recluse!).
Meanwhile in Matlock...
On the same day (9th May) there is another Disability Rocks festival. Details here:
http://disabilityrocks.org/product/lea-green-centre-matlock-derbyshire
http://disabilityrocks.org/product/lea-green-centre-matlock-derbyshire
Not Wallpaper Stripping
I should make a start at stripping the wallpaper (the plaster is full of holes behind it) but I don't know what to do with the enormous piles of books in that room. Is there such a thing as fostering-families for books? If there were less of them I'd take them to work, but I honestly think it will take a bulldozer to shift them.
Friday, May 01, 2015
The Hustings
I have never been to a hustings before so this was a new departure.
They were held in St John's Church and it was very odd to walk past tables of wine after doing a gig in a church in Manchester the other week, where drinkers weren't allowed into the church at all from the bar area.
The proceedings started with a prayer from the vicar: quite a brave thing to do I thought, and (oddly) a reminder that we are all human beings regardless of our political persuasion.
The candidates had drawn lots to determine in which order they were due to speak.
First up was the Green candidate, who delivered an impassioned declaration of her beliefs.
At heart I am green, but I am also practical; we all believe things but from politicians we need strategies and policies, and I didn't hear any at all unfortunately. From where I stand, the UK is in a dire state. You could put it this way: the world is full of sharks, and saying 'I'm a nice fish, don't eat me!' is not the way to see them off.
Then Mr UKIP got up. He was once the maths tutor for one of my daughters, and used to kiss my hand rather creepily every time he came round. You might wonder how he managed to do this, and so do I; that's what I mean by creepy. People who do that have a plan before the door opens.
We were treated to a description of his multicultural background, not unusual in a Londoner, I have to say. At the point at which he claimed that UKIP was an internationalist party, I had to leave the hustings. The only international engagement that I've seen them make is with far-right (i.e. Fascist) parties in Brussels. I felt sick and left before I heard anyone else.
Sorry others, but I honestly don't think I'd be able to share a platform with a UKIP candidate if I was a politician, which may well be why I'm not one!
They were held in St John's Church and it was very odd to walk past tables of wine after doing a gig in a church in Manchester the other week, where drinkers weren't allowed into the church at all from the bar area.
The proceedings started with a prayer from the vicar: quite a brave thing to do I thought, and (oddly) a reminder that we are all human beings regardless of our political persuasion.
The candidates had drawn lots to determine in which order they were due to speak.
First up was the Green candidate, who delivered an impassioned declaration of her beliefs.
At heart I am green, but I am also practical; we all believe things but from politicians we need strategies and policies, and I didn't hear any at all unfortunately. From where I stand, the UK is in a dire state. You could put it this way: the world is full of sharks, and saying 'I'm a nice fish, don't eat me!' is not the way to see them off.
Then Mr UKIP got up. He was once the maths tutor for one of my daughters, and used to kiss my hand rather creepily every time he came round. You might wonder how he managed to do this, and so do I; that's what I mean by creepy. People who do that have a plan before the door opens.
We were treated to a description of his multicultural background, not unusual in a Londoner, I have to say. At the point at which he claimed that UKIP was an internationalist party, I had to leave the hustings. The only international engagement that I've seen them make is with far-right (i.e. Fascist) parties in Brussels. I felt sick and left before I heard anyone else.
Sorry others, but I honestly don't think I'd be able to share a platform with a UKIP candidate if I was a politician, which may well be why I'm not one!